by Emma Jackson
Whenever I was in the kitchen, grilling bacon and scrambling eggs, I was painfully aware there was no one in the dining room, seeing to the next lot of guests who came in, or bringing them tea. I had no need for coffee myself that morning; I was running on sheer nervous energy. When I was halfway through the service, I broke out complimentary champagne cocktails, just to try and keep them happy, and for the main part I think it worked.
The kitchen was lined with plates and greasy pans when breakfast was finally over, and even though I’d put off thinking about it for as long as I could, I knew I had to face it:
The dreaded goose.
Neeta’s note was taped to the top of the plastic wrap. A piece of lined A4 with three grease stains and three-quarters of a page worth of instructions that were largely illegible.
I dumped the goose on the island, ripped off the note and tried squinting at it in different lights; by the window, by the door, underneath the cooker hood – it didn’t matter. Even if Neeta hadn’t used an ink pen whose marks spidered out easily when they came into contact with grease, her handwriting was medical-degree-level messy. I couldn’t blame her. She was a chef and how many professions did you require neat handwriting for these days anyway? Plus, she’d been under immense pressure, getting everything else ready for me. Scruffy was understandable.
But I was up a certain creek without a paddle.
I flattened the sheet down on the stainless-steel counter and forced myself to read it slowly, taking a deep breath so there were no spots dancing before my eyes as I did so. I could make out some of it. Vitally, the numbers. The temperature for the oven. The amount of time it would need to be in it. Thank God. I squinted harder. There was something about pouring boiling water over the goose – and that came early in the instructions – so I figured I’d do that first and then shove it in the oven. It would be roasted. It wouldn’t be delicately seasoned or stuffed but it would technically be roast goose, as long as I put the carcass in the oven until it was no longer capable of causing botulism.
I put on the oven to preheat it and started boiling the kettle for the poor goose’s scalding. This was it. I was actually trying to do this. What was the worst that could happen? The worst was that the goose was inedible, and I’d have to tell the guests that there was no poultry on the menu. But there was a beef wellington and gammon and nut roast and salmon that Neeta had prepared yesterday, among other things. They wouldn’t be happy maybe – particularly the Hotel Hopper who had already voiced disappointment about my cooking – but they would be fed. I might as well give it a go.
The skin was rubbery and slid over the flesh beneath as I picked the raw goose up out of its packaging and put it in the sink. It was so gross, and I was such a hypocrite. I’d quite happily eat meat but give me the raw version for prepping and my stomach began churning. I could push myself through it though.
I poured the kettle of boiled water over the goose as it lay in the sink, clouds of steam rising up to give me a facial sauna that smelled of meat and then waited for it to cool before whacking it in the best-sized roasting tray I could find and shoving it in the oven.
There. Done.
Now I just had to figure out how to heat everything and cook the vegetables, so it was all ready to plate up on time. And set up the dining room with Mum’s special decorations.
There was no time like the present. I got myself busy rearranging the dining room in the big U-shape we always used at Christmas, finding the special cream tablecloths with gold embroidery, grabbing the box with all the centrepieces made of frosted glass and red berries, candles, little silver trays for condiments and salt and pepper shakers, place settings, glasses, cutlery, napkins, crackers.
A job that I’d thought would take me thirty minutes, had taken me over an hour – but it looked good. And when I went back into the kitchen, I could smell the goose cooking. I set about trying to find all Neeta’s other notes about reheating food and then frowned at them for so long, I gave myself a headache.
What had I been doing last Christmas Day? Sitting with Peter in his parents’ living room in Wales, eating too much Quality Street and talking to his dad about the influence of gospel music in pop while Peter’s Mum did all the cooking. I’d offered to help but she’d been happy enough out there. His dad I’d got on with but his mum never particularly warmed to me. I wondered what he was doing this year. Peter that is. Not his dad…although I kind of did wonder how they were too. I’d probably never see them again. The end of a relationship was always interesting. No matter how long it had lasted, there were always people you thought were your friends whose loyalty never actually lay with you, and sometimes whatever bond you may have developed with family was instantly cut off.
I’d talked to plenty of people so far this Christmas, but no one I loved. I needed to try and phone my mum and grandad at some point. And find my mobile so I could contact my friends. I probably wouldn’t have the time, but it was Christmas Day and without speaking to any of them, it was starting to feel very lonely.
The door swung ajar, forcing my eyes up from my unseeing scrutiny of Neeta’s mysterious instructions. Nick poked his head around it.
‘Morning, is it okay to come in?’
‘Of course.’
He came straight over, cupped my cheek in his hand and laid the softest kiss right on my lips. My heart break-danced around my ribcage.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he murmured.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I sighed back at him. It didn’t matter that we’d already spent the early hours of Christmas morning wrapped around each other, that tenderness had my mind and heart reeling together. Seeing Nick instantly lifted me out of my melancholy about being lonely – vaporised it almost – but I didn’t understand why really. Of course, I didn’t love him. I barely knew him. It was just that this was actually something now. Not a fumble, or a distraction, or a fling. Something that could turn into everything.
The idea froze in my mind.
‘Are you all right?’ Nick pushed an escaping strand of my hair back from my face and it sprang straight back out again.
‘Yeah. Just tired.’ I told myself that I needed to detach from his embrace and carry on doing things, but I couldn’t quite muster the discipline. ‘You must be too after sleeping on the sofa? You could’ve—’ I broke off and bit my lip a little, then decided what the hell? ‘You could’ve joined me.’
He smiled but shook his head. ‘You were fast asleep. I couldn’t do that without knowing it was okay with you. The sofa was fine. I haven’t slept like that in ages.’
He did look more relaxed. Some of the tension he’d been carrying around, knotting up his broad shoulders, had eased out, so he seemed taller and more confident. His jawline was smoothly shaven and I pressed a kiss against it to test the velvety softness of his skin. He smelled divine; shower gel and aftershave mingling with total awareness of consent.
‘Sorry about passing out on you.’
‘You’re probably burned out.’
I smiled and threw an arched look at the oven behind me. ‘Just so long as that goose isn’t burned, it’s all good.’
‘It smells good.’
‘Excellent. I’m halfway there then.’ The turn of the conversation brought the anxiety threading through my veins again, and my eyes flicked to the clock for the millionth time that morning. ‘I really don’t know how I’m going to manage it all though. Cooking the bird is one thing. Doing all the other stuff too – the potatoes and the pigs in blankets and vegetables? How am I going to get it all on the plate and then serve it too?’
‘I can be another pair of hands—’
‘Nick, I wasn’t fishing. You need to be with your family. It’s Christmas Day.’
‘I doubt any of us really want to sit at a table and think about how Mum isn’t here with us.’ He spoke in one quick exhalation that used up all the oxygen in his chest. He took a deep breath to fill his lungs up again. ‘Let’s go find my nan and Stephen, and see if we can rope them in.
’
‘Okay.’ We headed up the staff staircase hand in hand. Nick seemed to be a hand-holder and I liked it. Peter had been more the type to sling his arm around my waist or shoulders, which was more awkward and made me feel either like I was being confined or shepherded along.
It was very quiet on the upper floor now and when we knocked on Dorie’s door there was no answer.
‘She must be downstairs,’ Nick said.
The lounge was full but she wasn’t in there. So, we checked the other communal rooms – I realised I’d accidentally left the bar unlocked when I whipped up the champagne cocktails earlier and had to remedy that – and then we went into the library. That was full too but no sign of Dorie, although Stephen was in there playing chess with Noelle. As soon as he saw us, he leaned over the board, whispering something to her, before standing up and coming over to the door.
‘So, you’ve finally crawled out of bed,’ he greeted Nick, but it was only a half-hearted jab; he was too busy assessing his brother. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ Nick gave him a hug and said something quietly in his brother’s ear, which made Stephen grip the back of Nick’s neck hard and squeeze him even harder. I looked around the room, trying to give them a bit of privacy but not catch any of the guests’ eyes, lest they started requesting things, like food or carols or more champagne cocktails. When the brothers disattached they cleared their throats. ‘Have you seen Nan?’
‘No. She didn’t come down for breakfast.’ Stephen frowned. ‘I assumed she’d slept in.’
‘I knocked on her door but there was no answer…’ Nick chewed on his lip. ‘D’you think she’s all right?’
There was a beat of silence and then Stephen nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, of course she is. She was probably just in the bathroom when you knocked.’
‘Good point. I mean, where else would she be – it’s not like she can go for a walk in the snow. We’ll go try again.’
All three of us started for the doorway, shoulders jostling as Stephen and I both automatically tried to walk beside Nick.
‘Which “we” were you talking about?’ Stephen asked as we tumbled messily out into the lobby. ‘Me and you or you and Beth?’
Nick turned on his heel and raised his eyebrow at his brother. ‘Don’t be a dick, Stephen.’
I pressed my lips together at Stephen’s shocked expression. He rallied quickly, mumbling something to himself as we all headed for the stairs but I didn’t strain my hearing to figure out what it was.
‘Hang on a sec.’ I ran over to the lobby desk, unlocked the drawer and got out the universal card key that could override all the guest room doors. I didn’t want to think Dorie wasn’t capable of answering the door but if we did need to get in, it was better to go prepared.
We sounded like a SWAT team heading up the stairs ready to bust in on a drug deal. As soon as we got to Dorie’s door, Nick banged on it hard. He was breathing heavily, and I didn’t think it was from the exertion of running up the stairs.
‘Nan? Nan, are you in there?’ There was no answer. ‘Nan?’ He pressed his ear to the door and waited. When there was still no response, he started banging again.
‘Nick, take it easy.’ Stephen put his hand on Nick’s arm before he splintered the wood. Nick stared at him incredulously, arm still raised. The look in his blue eyes was a little wild and after what he told me last night about being with his mum, I wasn’t surprised it was stirring the panic inside him.
‘I can open the door, so we can check if she’s in there,’ I offered quickly, getting the card out to show them. Nick nodded and pulled gently free of Stephen’s grip. ‘Dorie,’ I called out as I squeezed in the space between them to reach the lock. ‘I’m going to open the door now, so we can make sure you’re okay.’
I only gave it a couple of seconds to see if there was a response and then slid the key in the slot at the top. When the light turned green, I went to step in, and Nick caught my hand.
‘Maybe I should go first.’
Before we could discuss it, the door swung open wider.
‘Hallo, what’s this? Are you here to sing me more Christmas carols?’ Dorie leaned heavily on the door handle. She was in a dark pink quilted dressing gown, but it was belted too far to one side, making one half touch her toes, and the other side ride up to her knees.
‘Nan.’ Stephen sighed. ‘Why didn’t you open the door, when we were knocking? We were worried.’
‘Were you now? Not worried enough to come and say Merry Christmas to me first thing this morning, were you?’ She turned her back, talking to us over her shoulder as she wandered back into her room. And wander she did. A little left and a little right, weaving her way over to the table and chairs by her window. ‘Well, no need to worry – I’ve not popped my clogs yet.’
I felt Nick wince beside me and squeezed his hand.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked her, following her into the room and towing me along with him. Stephen pushed the door over but didn’t shut it the whole way.
‘Oh, yes, I’m marvellous.’ She put her hands on the table to lower herself down, hung suspended for a minute, her bottom dangling over the chair and then fell down into it. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ She groped for a tall glass bottle, missing it twice before catching it around the neck. She waggled it at us. ‘Drink anyone?’
‘Nan, are you drunk?’ Stephen overtook us and swiped the bottle off her, looking at the label. It was gin, the same brand we carried in the bar.
‘What of it? It’s Christmas Day.’ She sounded as sullen as a teenager. The rounded shape of our hotel chairs engulfed her tiny frame and she appeared to be sliding down further and further into the seat.
Stephen opened his mouth to say something but came up at a loss and looked over at Nick.
‘Nan.’ Nick let go of my hand and went over to crouch by Dorie’s chair. ‘Of course, it’s normal to have a drink at Christmas…but you’ve been on your own and it’s only just midday. Have you drunk all that by yourself this morning?’
‘No – I don’t think so anyway. I had a little nap, and then carried on. Surely it’s afternoon now?’ Nick and Stephen exchanged another look. ‘Oh, do stop that.’ She waved her hand over her head, like they were flies disturbing her.
‘Maybe we should make you some coffee and talk about this.’ Stephen went to put the bottle down on the table but Dorie immediately reached for it, so he snatched it back.
‘I don’t want to drink coffee, Stephen.’ She stood up suddenly and then lost her balance, her hand landing on top of Nick’s head, pressing down hard and messing up his curls further, as she steadied herself. She staggered past him and crawled up onto the bed, sprawling across it, one slipper falling off as her little legs jutted diagonally off the mattress.
This was not the elegant, sharp-eyed Dorie I’d come to know from her stay in the hotel…but I remembered that little silver flask she had last night, when she’d been talking to me. And I remembered the nights of endless sherry top-ups. And the bottle of wine she drank half of all to herself while Nick and I made mince pies. This drinking was not a new thing, and judging by the chagrined looks on both Nick’s and Stephen’s faces as they regarded one another, they were coming to similar conclusions as I was.
‘What do we do now?’ Nick stood up slowly and put his hands on his hips.
‘Why don’t I go get that coffee?’ I offered. They needed some family privacy – my presence was most definitely making an awkward moment even more awkward.
‘There’s coffee here—’ Nick started, looking at the tiny kettle and coffee sachets on the tray on the desk.
‘I think you may need something with a bit more kick than instant.’ I backed towards the door and he nodded reluctantly. ‘I’ll be back in ten.’
As I closed the door, I heard Nick and Stephen starting to debate where Dorie had even got a full bottle of alcohol from. I was pretty sure I knew, since I’d left the bar unlocked since breakfast time. Maybe I should have been
more concerned about her pilfering thirty pounds’ worth of booze but she clearly wasn’t thinking straight…
I paused on the landing at the thought. It had been that easy for me to dismiss Dorie stealing because of extenuating circumstances…I hadn’t been nearly so forgiving with Henry. I knew he was struggling for money, but I hadn’t let that be an excuse to him. Was that really fair? Why was I so willing to forgive Dorie and not him? Because Dorie was an old lady and the grandparent of the man I was kind of dating? I’d known Henry since I was a teenager – didn’t that deserve a little more loyalty? Was I really so shallow that I’d punished him because he’d accused me of being a spoiled princess? I hadn’t wanted to hear it, so as soon as I had an opportunity to turn the tables on him, I had.
I pushed my hair back from my face and started up the stairs, rather than go down to the kitchen, two floors below. I knew my mum had a stash of very strong ground coffee in our flat I could brew up. Now was not the time to start questioning my moral compass. There would be enough time for reflection when my mum got back and we could talk over what had happened with Henry. At the moment, I had a little old lady I needed to sober up. Not that any amount of coffee I could provide would make her capable of helping me out with Christmas dinner.
I was immediately ashamed of the thought. As if they all weren’t going through enough this Christmas; now they had to face the prospect that Dorie probably had a drinking problem. Still, as the kettle boiled and I rooted through the cupboards, telling myself that it put my problems into perspective wasn’t really working. It really was quite a big deal to my mum if I ruined the hotel. In fact, it would be quite a big deal to me too now. I knew these guests, and I’d put every ounce of energy I had into keeping the illusion going that everything was fine and trying to keep everyone happy.
I poured the near-boiled water into the cafetière and let it brew, setting the timer on the oven for five minutes. Maybe I could try and call my mum while I was waiting and wish her a Merry Christmas? I hadn’t wanted to do it first thing that morning in case I woke up my Grandad from his rest, and then there just hadn’t been time.
