By the time we’ve finished, it’s getting towards midday, and Laura has decided everyone needs ‘some snacks.’
This, in the Incredible World of Laura, can mean anything from opening a box of mint Matchmakers and passing them round to a full cheeseboard, home-made truffles and 15 different types of stuffed olives.
We usually eat our ‘proper’ dinner at about 4, which leaves us plenty of time to slump in front of the TV for an hour or so, clutching our stomachs and groaning, until someone – usually Dad – decides that ‘a bit of a sing-song’ might be called for.
In previous years, I’ve found a way to leave after dinner – at least until David died, that is. Since then, I’ve made a point of always sticking around, no matter how hard it’s been. I always felt I had to, because Laura and the kids needed me.
This year, I think, listening to her humming Christmas carols to herself in the kitchen, I’m not sure she needs me at all. I glance at Lizzie, and she is busy with her laptop. She’s doing intermittent typing, pausing, and smiling, which tells me she’s probably messaging Josh. Nate is immersed with his new guitar, strumming away in the window seat, watching out for Matt, his own personal guitar hero.
Mum and Dad are now playing each other on the FIFA game, which is hilarious. Neither of them knows what they’re doing, so the footballers are just running backwards and forwards and falling over, kicking chunks of grass instead of the ball.
I decide that I need to go and get dressed – I am the only adult still in nightwear – and to get my phone. I should text Sam, wish him a happy Christmas. Open the present he got me, which is still in my bag.
I’m feeling a little less deflated than I was last night, but still not good. Physically I’m not a hundred per cent, and emotionally I’m on the numb side. It’s as though a wall has gone up again, blocking me off from other people, from this blissful unreality of Budbury life. I know it’s almost time for me to go home anyway, so I need to stop being a big baby, get through the rest of the day and basically fake it till I make it.
I stand up from my perch on the arm of the sofa, just as Laura walks through with a big wooden platter full of minced pies and a jug of cream. She lays it down on the table, goes back to the kitchen, and brings over some lattice-topped pork pie and a small bowl of chilli chutney. Obviously, if this was my house, it would have been bought from Sainsbury’s. Well, even more obviously, if it was my house, none of it would be happening.
But as it’s Laura’s house, everything is home-made and perfect and looks divine. She’s sprinkled sugar on top of the still-warm pies, and the smell is wonderful.
I walk over to the table, ready to grab myself a small plate – by which I mean an enormous plate – full of yummy goodness, when suddenly I don’t feel so great. I’ve been a bit off all morning, and was putting it down to lack of sleep, the excitement of the wedding, or possibly the three bowls of chilli I ate during the course of the wedding.
Whatever it is, it’s bad. Wave after wave of nausea hits me, and I run to the downstairs loo, only just managing to make it before I fall to my knees and puke my guts up. I don’t even have time to pull my hair back properly, and I can’t say that I care.
I’m there for a good few minutes, wretching until there is nothing left in my stomach apart from watery bile. It’s utterly disgusting, and even worse, I seem to have done it all with an audience. And I don’t just mean the framed photo of Jim Morrison from The Doors that Cherie has on the wall in here.
Laura comes up behind me, kneeling next to me and putting her arm around my shoulders. I try to push her away – I don’t want her getting messed up, plus I’m actually a bit embarrassed.
I have no idea why – it’s not like these people haven’t see me vomiting before. It’s not like all of them, apart from the kids obviously, haven’t at some point or another looked on as I’ve collapsed in this exact same position, doing this exact same thing.
They’ve all held my hair back; they’ve all dabbed my clammy forehead with a damp cloth; they’ve all handed me wads of tissue to clean myself up with. My mum, I know, has probably also snuck into my room at night to check up on me, make sure I’m still alive.
Once you’ve been the daughter who gets brought home drunk by the police on Christmas Day, you’ve crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.
I look behind me, and see my mum and dad peering at me over Laura’s shoulder, Lizzie and Nate hovering somewhere in the background. Through my tear-blurred eyes, I instantly recognise the expression on my parents’ faces.
It’s the one that I know so well. It’s full of pity and love and concern and also exasperation. Disappointment. Resignation. The sure knowledge that no matter how much they hope otherwise, Daughter Number Two will always be the one who screws up.
I use the tissue Laura passes me to wipe my mouth, and lean back, so I’m sitting on my heels. I feel dizzy and a bit spaced out, and like I might be sick again any second.
Usually, I know the drill. Paracetamol. Diet Coke. Bacon butty. Half a day in bed. But that’s the cure for my long-lost hangovers – and unless someone was slipping me secret vodkas in my cranberry last night, this isn’t a hangover. This is something entirely different.
The thing is, none of them know that, do they? My parents have no idea that I’m Sober Barbie not Party Barbie these days, and Laura’s only known for a little while. I can tell from the worried face she’s pulling, and the way she’s murmuring as she tries to console me, that she is probably assuming that I fell off the wagon last night. That I was so heartbroken at Sam leaving that I looked for relief at the bottom of a glass.
For the time being, it’s beyond me to try and convince them otherwise. The weight of their collective anxiety is too much for me. It was bad enough when my behaviour warranted it – now it’s even worse.
I use the sink to pull myself up to my feet, and splash my face with cold water. There’s not much room in the downstairs loo, and Laura backs out to give me more space.
‘You all right?’ she asks, quietly, reaching out to smooth down my tufty hair. Mum is chewing her lip, and Lizzie is frowning at me, looking possibly the most worried of the lot of them. Enough, I decide, is enough.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, as firmly as I can with my insides still feeling like rubber, ‘just an upset tummy. I feel much better now. I don’t know who cooked that chilli last night, but I may complain about the chef to the local council…’
Laura lets out a ‘ha!’ noise, and Lizzie laughs faintly, and my dad nudges my mum, as if to say ‘look, she’s all right – she’s making a joke!’
The tension falls down several notches after that. A joke is a joke, no matter how crap it might be. Once they all seem relieved that I’m not going to need a lift to A&E to get my stomach pumped or anything, I manage to escape their cloying concern, almost crawling up the stairs to get a shower. Nobody argues, as it is blatantly clear that I do, in fact, desperately need one. My dressing gown probably needs to be incinerated as well.
I bag all my yukky clothes up to get washed, or thrown away, and wait till the temperature is just right. I take my time, sitting down in the bath and letting the water pour over my head for a few blissful minutes. My stomach still feels crampy and even the thought of food is enough to make me gag, but at least I don’t have clumps of puke in my hair. Even I have standards.
After I’m as clean as it’s possible for a human being to be without isolating themselves in a sterile bubble, I wrap myself up in a towel and sit on the edge of Lizzie’s bed. I hear the door open downstairs and the sound of Matt arriving, shouting his greetings. He’s accompanied by Midgebo, who, guessing from the cries of the humans, proceeds to dive around the room rummaging in bin bags and trying to eat chocolates and generally causing all kinds of canine chaos.
I can picture it all: Matt and Laura on their best behaviour in front of Mum and Dad, but still catching a quick smooch under the mistletoe hanging from the kitchen ceiling; Nate playing his guitar; Mum and Dad
sucking at FIFA; Midgebo peeing on the Christmas tree; Lizzie taking photos of it all. And later, when Matt’s been to collect her, Edie May, my all-time hero, nibbling at her Christmas lunch and taking home an extra portion for ‘her fiancé’.
I’ll miss them all, I think, as I drag myself into clean clothes and stuff the few things I have with me into my backpack. The rest of my stuff and my laptop are still at Cherie’s place, so I’ll have to stop off there as well.
Still, I can be on the road within an hour or so, I think, glancing at my watch. I peer out of the window, and see that although the surrounding fields are still white with snow, it’s stopped falling at least.
I’m planning how best to say goodbye to everyone when there’s a small knock at the door. Laura pops half her head around, one eye wide as she sees me dressed and packed up. She walks in, and sits next to me on the bed. She’s brought all my Christmas presents up for me, and she lays them down on the pillow.
I am partly expecting a lecture, or at least an attempt to persuade me to stay, but instead, she just takes one of my hands in hers and gives my fingers a squeeze.
‘Just to Cherie’s, or all the way to Manchester?’ she asks, quietly.
‘All the way, I think…I’m sorry…’
‘It’s okay,’ she says, smiling. ‘I understand. I’m amazed you’ve lasted this long!’
‘I know, right?’ I reply, feeling pathetically grateful for her understanding. ‘I did good. Almost a whole month. I just… I just need to go home. I need to be on my own for a bit.’
‘I get it,’ she answers, pulling me in for a proper cuddle. ‘There’s no need to explain. It’s been brilliant having you here, and I know you’ll be back.’
She’s taking this so calmly, so well. It makes me realise that I was a hundred per cent right earlier – she doesn’t need me any more. She’ll never forget David, but the days of her living in the land of the nervous breakdown are well and truly gone. She’s not even the ‘old’ Laura – she’s a new, improved Laura; stronger than ever.
‘I love you so much,’ I say, when she finally lets go of me. ‘I don’t say it often enough.’
‘I don’t know… I think maybe you said it in 2010?’
‘Was that during my home-brew phase?’
‘I think it was.’
‘That explains it, then… anyway. I do. Thanks for having me, sis. Thanks for letting me into this lovely world of yours. I’m so happy you came here, and met Matt, and all of the people here. The kids are doing so well, aren’t they?’
She nods, beaming with pride. She’s right to be proud, I think. Not just of them – but of herself as well.
‘Do you want to sneak off?’ she asks. ‘I’ll say you went to the drop-in centre, or got eaten by Godzilla or something?’
‘I think the Godzilla story will go down better… but, yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ll give you all a bell when I get back up North, and Mum and Dad will be home later in the week anyway. Plus, you know, it’s not like anybody expects me to be anything other than bonkers, is it?’
I’m getting dressed as we speak and pull on the Bah Humbug! T-shirt with my jeans. It seems super appropriate right now, as I’m about to bunk off Christmas.
‘Well, you never let us down on that front, Becca,’ says Laura, standing up and wiping a sneaky tear from her eye. ‘On any front, actually – don’t write yourself off as the crazy one all the time. You’ve got me through more rough patches than you know. I couldn’t have done this – made this move, started this new life – without you. You’re my sister, and you’re ace, so stop slagging yourself off. I just won’t have it.’
‘Aye aye captain,’ I say, giving her a little salute as I pack my gifts up. ‘And make sure you give Edie a big hug for me, will you? Tell her I’ll be in touch.’
She nods, and I turn to leave, jogging quietly down the stairs. I pause and look through into the living room for a moment, smiling at what I see. Everyone looks happy. They’ll barely even notice I’m gone.
I’m just about to make my dramatic escape when Midgebo gallops through, and sticks his muzzle up my bum. Because dogs are nice like that. Luckily I’m wearing jeans, so it’s not quite as invasive as it could be.
Matt follows the dog through, and I see that he has fallen foul of the Paper Hat Fairy already. His chestnut brown hair is poking out of the sides of it, and he’s looking at me quizzically. If he really was Han Solo, this might be one of those times he says ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this…’
‘Shhh!’ I say, holding one finger to my mouth. ‘I’m running away! Laura knows – she’s upstairs. She might need a cuddle. Oh, and if you look in the carrier bag second drawer down, you’ll find something special. Call it a Christmas present to both of you…’
Matt nods, and gives me a very brief hug. He’s not a touchy-feely kind of man with anyone other than my sister, so I appreciate the gesture.
‘Okay. Right. Come back soon. I expect you will. Laura didn’t even make it past the M5 when she tried to leave…’
‘Well,’ I say, standing on tippy-toes and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, ‘that’s because she had you waiting for her back here, isn’t it? She’s not daft, you know. Look after her for me, won’t you?’
‘I’ll look after all of them, don’t worry,’ he says, and I believe him.
I close the door quietly behind me, and hope they enjoy the Princess Leia costume.
Chapter 24
I am sitting at the nearest decent-sized service station, sipping coffee and looking out at an especially un-festive scene. It’s surprisingly busy here, maybe with people visiting relatives or possibly running away from relatives.
The pure, dazzling white snow on the fields around Budbury is just a fading memory now – the snow here has been driven over, had oil dripped on it, dogs peeing on it, and hundreds of trudging feet kicking it about. It’s a grey and yellow slush, which is just about perfect for my state of mind.
I’d called in at Cherie’s and packed up all my stuff, hastily scribbling her a note saying thank you and trying not to cry as I said my farewells to her attic sanctuary. I’d miss all the crazy decorations and the posters and the amazing view down to the bay.
It was quite melancholy, locking the café back up again, dark, completely empty, and still in chaos from the wedding.
There’s a Boxing Day clean-up planned, but for the time being, the room still looks sad. The leftover food has been thrown away or taken home by guests, but the place is still strewn with decorations, wilting paper plates, half-full glasses, stray confetti and the coloured stuff from inside party poppers.
Outside, all the electrical gear and the heaters and the extra chairs have been collected by the hire company, and there are numerous bin bags full of rubbish tied up and placed under tables, the plastic making ruffling noises in the breeze.
The inflatable snowmen are looking a bit worse for wear, sagging in the middle as though they have a tummy bug, and the flower garlands around their necks are hanging off and blowing around. There are several random white wellies scattered around, as though someone threw a load of them in the air and they landed at odd angles in odd places. It’s the Party That Time Forgot.
I escaped as quickly and as painlessly as I could, texting Laura to let her know I was on my way back home and would speak to her when I landed. ‘All good here’, she texted back, ‘Mum and Dad drunk and singing ‘Footloose’.’
I respond with a smiley face. By which I mean a smiley face emoji, obviously, as my real face, the one on the front of my head, isn’t feeling quite so smiley.
I go back to my coffee, and try to dredge up the will to do what I need to do. I am feeling very sick, in all kinds of ways. And I’m not stupid. Well, not entirely stupid. I have, at least, watched lots of TV shows and films with women in them.
And in those films and TV shows, as soon as a woman is sick – especially in the morning – it means they’re pregnant. It’s one of those signifiers, isn’t it? I m
ean, the woman is never sick because she ate a dodgy kebab, is she? Or drank a whole bottle of Jack Daniels? It always means she’s up the duff.
Of course, I could just have a tummy bug, like the inflatable snowmen. That would be a normal thing to happen – and as I am not a woman from a film, that’s far more likely. But at the back of my mind are a few doubts, niggling away at me.
Like that first night with Sam, where we used the prehistoric condom from my bag. And the fact that as well as feeling sick, I’ve been so very, very tired, and extremely emotional. Seriously emotional – like, enough to make Gwyneth Paltrow’s Oscar speech look heartless.
It was one of the reasons I needed to get away – to have some time to myself to find out the truth. Laura didn’t seem angry with me anyway, but at least I can, at some point, explain to her what was going on, so she knows that I had a good reason to be doing a runner.
I’d called at an open pharmacy on the way here, and am now all set to resort to everyone’s modern day GP – Dr Google. I quickly type in the words ‘morning sickness’, and get about six million hits. I click on the first one that doesn’t look as though it’s been written by morons, and my mind is immediately put at rest by the first sentence.
Morning sickness usually comes on at about week six of a pregnancy, I read. Which is something of a relief, as that can’t be the case with me – I hadn’t even met Sam in the flesh six weeks ago. Virile a man as he is, there’s no way I could have got preggers by looking at a photo of him.
The second sentence, though, is a bit more slippery. It stresses that every woman is different, and in some cases, it can start as early as a few weeks in. Hmmm. Feeling a bit less relieved now.
I sip some of my coffee, which tastes like I’m drinking lighter fluid, and decide that there’s only one way to find out for sure. I’m also dying for a wee, so at least the coffee was good for something.
Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 17
