‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Ben.’
Ben waves his fingers at Penny over the top of the car. Something in his expression reveals that he has found the journey with Marge to be something of an ordeal. He’s not as used to her as Will is, after all.
‘Marge only wants to travel in Rolls-Royces from now on,’ Will announces with a smile and a raised eyebrow. Then he kisses Penny on both cheeks and says, warmly, intimately, ‘Hello, you.’
‘Hello, you,’ Penny replies.
Marge turns to the car and shakes her head. ‘How old is this wreck of yours, anyway?’
‘Erm, well, it’s younger than you, for starters,’ Will says.
‘Oh, you’re a cheeky one,’ Marge tells him. ‘He’s been cheeking me all the way down the motorway.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Penny says.
‘How are you, sweetie?’ Will asks.
‘Good,’ Penny replies, ‘What time did you set off?’
‘Two thirty-ish. I was a bit early. You know how excited I get about Christmas. And seeing my bestie, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Penny says. Then, realising that they will have left before three, she turns to Marge. ‘How was Vicky?’ she asks. ‘Was she OK?’
‘Fine,’ Marge says. ‘I mean, we left early, but she seemed fine. We had a lovely meal. From Harrods, it was. And some very expensive gifts. Bertie got an iPad and they gave me a lovely cashmere sweater and—’
‘You had dinner already?’ Penny interrupts.
‘Yes. Your sister’s so thoughtful,’ Marge says. ‘They had dinner early just so we could be together. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Yes,’ Penny says, thinking, Just to beat me to it, more like.
‘It was gorgeous. Rolled turkey and cranberry sauce, Yorkshire puddings and—’
‘God, I hope you saved some space for this evening.’
‘This evening? You’re not doing both meals again, are you?’ Marge asks.
‘Yes, Mum,’ Penny says. ‘Just like every year. Danish Christmas this evening, and normal Christmas tomorrow.’
‘Yess!’ Will exclaims, making a winning gesture with one fist and turning to Ben. ‘I told you. The only house in England where you get two full Christmas dinners.’
‘Or, in my case, three full Christmas dinners,’ Marge says mournfully. ‘What are you cooking, anyway?’
‘A roast,’ Penny says, taking her mother’s arm and leading her towards the house. ‘Well, two roasts. With all the trimmings.’
‘Turkey again?’ Marge asks.
‘No. Salmon today and chicken tomorrow. The salmon thing is quite ambitious, actually. It’s a whole one and I’m cooking it – or attempting to cook it – the Danish way. You cover it in rock salt. It keeps all the flavour in, apparently. Sander found me the recipe online.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ Marge says. ‘If it’s just a bit of fish and a bit of chicken, I’m sure I’ll manage.’
Penny frowns and wonders how her mother has managed to make both of her Christmas dinners sound like understated failures before they’re even cooked. ‘You know you said Harrods, Mum,’ she says. ‘Are we talking ready-meals here?’
‘Yes,’ Marge says. ‘But not like any ready-meal you’ve ever had. Some top chef – I’ve forgotten his name now – puts them together. Gorgeous, they were. Bloody gorgeous!’
When they enter the house, Chloe, Max and Sander have formed a welcome party at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hi, Gran,’ they say in unison. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘It’s not Christmas until tomorrow,’ Marge says, leaning in to kiss them, and for some reason pinching – painfully – Chloe’s cheek between finger and thumb as she does so.
‘Ouch!’ Chloe shrieks, rubbing her cheek.
‘It’s Bill and Ben the flowerpot men,’ Max announces as Will and his boyfriend arrive.
‘Don’t call them that!’ Penny snaps. ‘Sorry, Ben. You’ll have to forgive Max. He has absolutely no manners.’
Will and Ben just grin. ‘Hello, Little Weed,’ Will replies, which leaves Max looking confused.
‘He’s never even seen Bill and Ben,’ Penny tells them as they remove their coats and move to the lounge.
‘I have!’ Max says. ‘It’s on YouTube.’
‘Oh yes, everything’s on YouTube,’ Will agrees.
‘That’s quite good, actually,’ Ben says quietly. He has a soft West Country accent. ‘I never thought of us as Bill and Ben before. I quite like it.’
‘What time’s dinner, Mum?’ Max asks.
‘About six,’ Penny replies.
‘Which means, in reality, about eight,’ Sander adds.
‘So can I get a snack?’ Max asks.
‘Sure,’ Sander says. ‘You can help me get snacks for everyone. We’ve got a load of mini-pizza things to heat up.’
‘And are we getting dressed up for dinner and stuff?’ Max asks hopefully. They always have to dress up when Victoria is here for Christmas, and Max rather likes the excuse.
‘I don’t care,’ Penny says. ‘Dress however you want, dear.’
‘I’m not dressing up,’ Sander declares.
‘No surprise there, Dad,’ Max says. ‘We’re all just praying there’s a new favourite jumper under that tree somewhere.’
Sander glances down at his chest, then turns to Penny, who shrugs. ‘You might want to put something else on,’ she says. ‘It is Christmas.’
‘Well, we’re dressing up, aren’t we, Ben?’ Will says, causing Ben to smile and blink in agreement. Will turns to Penny and wiggles his eyebrows. ‘I have a special Christmas jumper,’ he tells her.
Penny squints. ‘Ouch,’ she says. ‘Like, a proper one? With Father Christmas on it or something?’
‘Better than that,’ Will says. ‘You’ll love it, Pen.’
‘Right. So, what I suggest,’ Penny says, ‘is that you stick your bags upstairs – you’re in the top back bedroom, which has been repainted and everything. And then you can get changed into your Christmas garb, or your lairy jumpers or whatever, and we can get some gin and tonics served. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Will says.
‘I think I should phone Victoria,’ Marge says. ‘Just, you know, to check she’s all right.’
‘You were just there, Mum,’ Penny says.
Will and Ben squeeze past them and bustle their bags from the room, then start to make their way upstairs.
‘I just want to give her a quick call,’ Marge says.
‘Fine,’ Penny replies. ‘But do not pass me the phone, OK? I can’t be doing with it, not today.’ Penny has not spoken to Victoria since October.
Marge rolls her eyes. ‘You two!’ she says. ‘What are you like?’
Penny shrugs. ‘Like two sisters who have chosen not to spend Christmas together, I imagine. Anyway, I need to get back to that kitchen.’
But Marge grabs her arm to restrain her and nods towards the door. ‘Where did that one pop up from?’ she asks confidentially.
‘Ben?’
‘Yes. I thought he was with . . . what was his name? The tall one.’
‘Frank,’ Penny says. ‘But they split up in, oh, I don’t know . . . In March or something.’
‘Lord, he doesn’t hang around, does he?’
‘It’s not like Frank died or anything, Mum,’ Penny murmurs. ‘He just ran off with some air steward. There’s no official mourning period or anything. He doesn’t have to wear a veil.’
‘All the same,’ Marge says. ‘I think I preferred Frank. He was so much more chatty.’
‘Oh, Mum! Just give them a break. Anyway, I think Ben seems lovely,’ Penny says. And it’s true, she does think that. With his neat beard and brown eyes, with his long lashes and his short little legs, Ben reminds her of some friendly woodland elf.
‘You just think that Will can do no wrong,’ Marge says.
‘You’re right,’ Penny confirms. ‘That’s exactly what I think. Now, go and phone my
sister, and then we can settle into having our own Christmas, here. All right?’
Ten minutes later, Sander has returned with drinks and Will (complete with reindeer jumper) and Ben (dressed in a rather dandy waistcoat and purple tie) have added their gifts to the pile beneath the tree. It is finally starting to feel like Christmas.
‘I put some dodgy Christmas songs on my iPhone,’ Will says. ‘What do you think?’
‘Definitely,’ Sander tells him. ‘Go for it. There’s a speaker thingy in the corner. Chloe will show you.’
Chloe groans and hauls herself to her feet with all of the energy of an eighty-year-old. ‘I’m sure Will knows how to use an iPhone dock, Dad,’ she whines, leading the way all the same.
Max reappears wearing his floral shirt, which he has visibly ironed himself, badly. He looks at Will’s jumper and declares it: ‘Truly horrific.’
‘I know,’ Will replies, wide-eyed. ‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’
And then Max notices Ben’s outfit. ‘Wow!’ he declares. ‘So you finally found a boyfriend with some dress sense, Will.’
Ben grins broadly. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’ he says.
‘Ben’s a buyer for a clothes shop,’ Will explains. ‘He gets lots of freebies.’
‘Right,’ Max says. He feels suddenly self-conscious. ‘Um. Is this all right, Ben?’ he asks. ‘It’s just that this is the only decent shirt I have. But I’m not sure if it’s still fashionable or anything.’
Ben laughs. ‘It’s nice,’ he tells him. ‘Very cool. And still very much “in”.’
Max blushes deeply but looks pleased with himself all the same.
‘Compliments from the homos,’ Sander jokes. ‘You know you’ve got something right when that happens.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Will says, tweaking the pompom nose of his reindeer jumper. ‘We homos are right at the cutting edge of fashion!’
‘He is,’ Max says, nodding at Ben. ‘Your jumper is only vaguely better than Dad’s.’
‘All right, all right,’ Sander concedes. ‘I’ll change it. OK? I’ll change the bloody jumper, and then everyone can just stop bitching.’
Gin and tonics are served, quickly followed by refills, and soon everyone has migrated through to the kitchen, purportedly to help Penny.
‘We’ll be your kitchen slaves,’ Will tells her, but all any of them really achieve is to distract her from the task at hand.
So it’s almost 9 p.m. by the time they finally sit down to dinner, and so many snacks have been eaten, so many drinks have been drunk, that no one is even hungry any more.
But the salmon, once broken from its rock-salt envelope, is succulent and delicious, the vegetables crispy and brown. With the exception of the hollandaise sauce, which is so lumpy that Penny has to pour it through a strainer, the meal is as good as she had hoped it would be. And, hungry or not, everyone digs in. Even Marge, for once, smiles, albeit lopsidedly, through the whole affair.
Solomon, the cat, summoned by the smell of salmon, jumps up on to the table. After much begging by Chloe, he’s even allowed to remain. It’s Christmas for cats, too, Chloe insists, as she feeds him scraps of salmon from her plate.
Marge isn’t happy about it, but at least Penny draws a line when Chloe suggests that her guinea pig should join them, too.
Chloe provokes some hilarity by announcing that she’s going to become a vegetarian in the new year, and Penny has to remind her that she doesn’t like vegetables. ‘Maybe I’ll like them in the new year,’ Chloe declares.
‘You could start now,’ Penny suggests, nodding at her plate. ‘You could start right now with those sprouts on your plate.’
‘Sprouts are rank,’ Chloe says. ‘Even Solomon won’t touch them, look!’
‘Apparently, they taste different until adolescence,’ Will says. ‘I read a thing about it.’
‘OK, forget the sprouts, Chloe,’ Penny says. ‘How about you eat that parsnip?’
Chloe pulls a face.
‘No,’ Penny says. ‘I thought not. Not quite ready to be a vegetarian, are you?’
‘She likes chocolate,’ Max says. ‘That’s veggie. Maybe she could live off Mars Bars. Then she could be a fat chav instead of just a chav.’
‘Oh, shut it, you,’ Chloe tells him. ‘You think you’re so funny.’
The three-course meal meanders slowly on, woven around random phone calls from various friends, and long, slightly drunken conversations about Will and Ben’s lives in London. Regularly, someone vanishes to the lounge and returns with a gift to be opened as well, so it’s almost midnight by the time they leave the dining room.
Marge makes her excuses and heads upstairs, and Sander puts music on and starts to dance with Penny. Both Chloe and Max express their disapproval of their parents’ embarrassing behaviour, and yet neither of them leave the room.
‘You two need to loosen up,’ Sander tells them. ‘Or you’ll never have any fun.’
‘If you mean the “dancing to the Bee-Gees like a knob” kind of fun,’ Chloe says, ‘then you’re right. It’s never gonna happen, Dad.’
But then Ben, who she secretly thinks is sexy, begins to dance, too, and then Will joins in as well, so she starts, poutingly, to move her hips in time with the music.
‘See, she’s good!’ Ben shouts to Sander. ‘The girl’s got rhythm.’
And Chloe, still pouting, but now blushing as well, starts to dance properly, just to show Ben what she’s capable of.
The next morning, Penny wakes up late. She has a hangover, and the idea of cleaning up the kitchen and dining room only to make them dirty again leaves her feeling dispirited. It’s almost eleven by the time she heads downstairs.
She finds her mother in the lounge watching television. ‘Morning, Mum,’ she says.
Marge turns to look at her. ‘So you are here, after all,’ she says. ‘I was beginning to think you’d all run off on me. The house is so quiet.’
‘No,’ Penny says flatly. ‘Still here. Tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ Marge says. ‘I just had one.’
Penny stares for a moment out at the beach. Everything this morning – the sea, the sky, the pebbles – is grey. She feels distinctly grey herself, actually. Too much gin will do that, she thinks. She sighs and shuffles down the hallway towards the kitchen, pausing to peer in at the dining room en route. Both rooms look horrific, and she fondly remembers coming downstairs to a spotless kitchen during Victoria’s last visit. She should, perhaps, have been more appreciative.
She decides that Sander is going to have to help out, that’s all. He’s perfectly capable of being efficient when pushed. So, today, she’ll just have to push.
She fills the kettle and then looks around at the disorder and wonders where to start. She crosses to the dishwasher and crouches down to begin emptying it. She wonders how many times, in a life, she’ll have to fill and empty the damned thing.
‘Hey, let me do that.’
She turns to see Sander standing in the doorway. ‘You must be exhausted,’ he says.
‘A bit hung over, that’s all,’ Penny says, ‘but I could do with a hand today.’
‘We’ll all chip in,’ Sander says. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
‘If we can just get the kitchen sorted out before Will and Ben get up,’ she says.
‘They are up. They’re out, actually,’ Sander says. ‘They went for a walk, I think.’
‘A walk?’ Penny says, feeling a brief pique of anger that they didn’t, like Vicky, choose to scrub the kitchen instead.
But then the front door opens and Will’s excitable voice rings out, somehow changing the entire atmosphere within the house. ‘Her boobs were so huge once she transitioned that it was a wonder of the modern world that she could still stand up,’ he’s saying. He peers into the lounge, says, ‘Hi, Marge! Merry Christmas!’ and then joins them in the kitchen.
‘So!’ he announces. ‘Ben and I have been talking, and we’re going to clear up and make breakfast for every
one so you get a break. How does that sound?’
‘We were just going to . . .’ Penny starts. But Will crosses the room to join her, and then steers her by the elbows from the room.
‘Step away from the dishwasher,’ he jokes.
By the time the kitchen has been cleaned and breakfast has been served and cleared away and the chicken has been stuffed and roasted it’s 5 p.m.
Christmas, everyone is realising, is messier, later and far less organised without the presence of the Cunningham family.
But it’s also, surprisingly, more fun.
Without Victoria’s moderating influence, they drink more than usual, they laugh at slightly ruder jokes and function less as a well-trained army and more like a well-meaning hippie commune. It’s less efficient, certainly, but it’s actually a rather nice change.
The final gifts are opened at the dinner table just before six: a new jumper for Sander, new shirts from Will to Max, make-up for Chloe and an M&S voucher from Marge to Penny.
‘Well, that was lovely,’ Marge says, as they clear the things from the table. ‘Proof, if ever there was, that you don’t need expensive iPads and emeralds to have a lovely time.’
‘No,’ Penny replies. ‘No, you don’t.’
She had been hoping, desperately, not for emeralds but for a contribution to a new washing machine. She had even dropped numerous hints to her mother about it. Still, at least, she consoles herself, she can use the £30 M&S voucher to buy food. What with all the Christmas food and gifts, their January budget has been all but spent. She just needs to find the right moment to tell Sander.
It’s the thirteenth of July. This means that tomorrow is the fourteenth – Victoria’s birthday. She’ll be forty-nine, but she feels more like a hundred. She’s never felt lower.
She’s had bad days before. Over the course of her life, she’s probably had almost as many bad days as good days. But today, she just feels empty. She feels hopeless. It’s the doctor’s fault – the Harley Street guy, not her regular NHS GP.
She had been about to embark on her first course of hormone replacement therapy to relieve her early menopausal symptoms, which, lately, have reached an almost unbearable crescendo.
For, on top of the dryness, which she had almost got used to, has come wetness, in the form of embarrassing, unpredictable leakage. And on top of the depression, which she’s had so long it feels like part of her, and on top of the anxiety, which, with Valium, she manages just about to control, have come bouts of fogginess when her mind is quite unable to concentrate on anything at all. It’s not a sensation that’s easy to explain, but it’s a bit like trying to think using someone else’s eyeglasses. Her mood swings, too, have been terrible, and she’s found herself shouting at Bertie, and then breaking out in a sweat, before crying in front of Martin.
The Bottle of Tears Page 9
