‘Oh shit . . . I mean, wow.’
I have no idea what you say to someone when they get their final divorce papers through.
‘Better than the matching Christmas jumpers then.’
But I’m pretty sure that’s not it.
‘Yes,’ he nods, but his expression is unfathomable.
‘Are you OK? That’s good – isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’m not sure you’d ever describe a divorce as good, not when there’re children involved.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’ I feel tactless. Told off. Stupid.
‘No, you’re right,’ he says quickly, seeing my expression. ‘It’s the right thing. I’m glad for both of us.’ He smiles, but I’m not sure for whose benefit. ‘We’re free to start our new lives now. Move on properly.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, and I wonder if he’s referring to the woman he’s been seeing. I want to ask but something stops me.
‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’
And now we’ve changed subjects.
‘My parents—’
‘Of course,’ he nods.
‘My brother and his wife are coming with the baby; it’s going to be quite a full house. I’m going to invite my friend Cricket too.’
‘I must meet this Cricket friend of yours one day,’ he says, emptying organic porridge into a pan and adding oat milk.
Edward really should be on Instagram.
‘Yes,’ I smile, ‘you must.’ And now I’m wondering if I should invite Edward too. I don’t want him to be on his own at Christmas.
‘I’m taking the boys skiing.’
‘Oh, that will be fun,’ I enthuse, ‘and it’s good you get to spend time with the boys.’
‘Yes, and their iPhones,’ he grins.
Lucky I didn’t invite him. That would have been embarrassing – asking him if he wants to kip on my parents’ sofa when he’s probably going to be staying in some fancy five-star resort.
‘Sophie’s going away with her boyfriend.’
‘Wow, that’s quick.’
‘It’s not really, though. We’ve been broken up for a long time.’ He’s not looking at me as he stirs the pan. ‘Both of us have wasted too much time. Life is short.’
Edward glances up at me now and a look passes between us. Since getting back to London, neither of us has spoken about what happened at the hospital. I’ve hardly seen him. I’ve been so busy and he’s been out at a slew of Christmas work things. But looking at him now, we don’t need to say anything. He was there. It’s like having an indelible marker scored across some hidden part of me that nobody else can see but him.
I think about Ethan. I think about that time in my brother’s old bedroom, when Edward said from now on we should always say what’s on our minds. I look at him next to me, only inches away, and think about all the stuff I want to talk to him about. Stuff I need to say.
‘Your coffee’s boiling—’
‘Oh, yes . . . thanks.’
But I don’t say any of it.
I’m grateful for:
The print shop on the corner, where I make my own Christmas cards with a selfie of Cricket and me on the front; the one taken on the beach in Spain this summer, where we’re both several negronis in and I’m grinning like a loon in a bikini. Inside there’s a little bit about what I’ve been up to this year, including news about my podcast, the play, and being disqualified from the school fun run, plus some nice photos of Arthur and a message wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas and a wonderfully messy and gloriously unfiltered New Year.
The news from friends in Houston saying everyone is happy and healthy, including the rabbit. Though I’m not sure an update on little Jimmy’s potty training was needed, it’s still good to hear he finally got there. Go Jimmy, and Happy Holidays!
Edward.
Frankenstein and Myrrh
If you don’t have children at Christmas it’s easy to feel like you’re missing out, so I’m really pleased when Fiona invites me to watch Izzy perform in her school nativity play. Apparently the new headmistress has introduced a gender-neutral policy and the nativity is to reflect that. Hence Izzy is one of the wise men and Lucas is one of the angels.
Which makes a change from my politically incorrect seventies school days, when only blonde, blue-eyed girls could be angels, so my best friend Sameena and I were relegated to being ‘travellers’. Little of which I remember, except that the costumes were very itchy and Mum said I picked my nose the whole time. Unlike Rich, of course, who in later years took the starring role as Joseph and positively nailed it.
Actually, thinking about it in context, that’s probably the wrong choice of words.
But anyway, I was really looking forward to the nativity, and when I walk into the large assembly hall it couldn’t feel more Christmassy. It’s all been decorated by the children; colourful paper garlands are strung across the vaulted ceiling, there are displays of Christmas artwork, and a huge tree covered in tinsel and paper stars takes pride of place by the piano.
‘You look fab, I love that dress!’
Fiona clocks me and races over, arms flung wide.
‘EBay, only a tenner. You look great too!’
Seriously, Fiona looks amazing. But it’s more than that . . . invigorated, that’s the right word.
‘I look like a woman who hasn’t slept for weeks since starting her new job because it’s all I can think about.’
‘Oh, wow, how’s it all going?’
She can’t stop grinning.
‘Bloody brilliant. I should’ve done it years ago.’
‘That’s so great, I’m so pleased.’
‘I know, right? I was so worried about it all, but it couldn’t have worked out better. And it’s not just me – David has cut back on his hours now I’m working, so he gets to come home while the kids are still up and spend more time with them.’
‘See,’ I say, ‘I knew it would all work out.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she laughs, ‘but I appreciate you telling me to go for it.’
‘Any time,’ I grin.
We go to find our seats and run into Annabel.
‘Hi,’ she smiles, looking perfect as always in a white trouser suit.
Only Annabel could wear that; if it was me, it would be covered in coffee dribbles and dog hair in two minutes.
‘Hey,’ I smile, as we do the double-cheek kiss and Fiona chats away about school stuff; the decision to ban plastic in the canteen, the use of a drone to do some of the overhead nativity shots, Clementine’s part as Mary (or ‘the lead role’, as Annabel keeps calling it). There’s also mention of Clive; he’s moved out and is renting close by, he’s giving her the house, he’s got a new girlfriend already. But instead of being upset, Annabel seems mostly relieved and unscathed by it all. It’s business as usual.
That said, while her hair is blow-dried poker straight and her lips and nails are both painted a matching festive red, it’s as if the gloss has worn off a little.
‘You know, I listened to your podcast,’ she says to me, as Fiona nips to the loo before the performance starts.
I brace myself.
‘Motherfucking Monday.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You were talking about Throwback Thursday and Flashback Friday, and I wanted to tell you I’m totally embracing Motherfucking Monday.’
I smile. ‘I like that.’
‘Me too,’ she grins, before turning and finding her seat on the front row.
Of course.
As for the nativity play, it was everything it should be. Baby Jesus’s head fell off and rolled off the stage. One of the angels wet himself. Clementine did a wonderful Mary, no doubt one that will be talked about for many years to come, but she did fall foul to my nativity faux pas by deciding to pick her nose all the way through it. While the finale saw the drone crashing into the velvet curtains and having to be rescued by one of the dads who, it turns out, is divorced and made the headmistress blush bright red wh
en they got tangled up together in the aforementioned curtains.
And as the immensely proud godmother, I can state that Izzy and Lucas were both wonderful. Of course. I particularly loved that Izzy mispronounced frankincense and ended up giving a gift of Frankenstein to Baby Jesus instead.
And I cried a bit at ‘Silent Night’. Of course.
I’m grateful for:
My gorgeous goddaughter Izzy, who made me smile and laugh and swell with pride and fear my heart would burst when she sang her solo.
My recent haircut, highlights and very flattering dress, when I bumped into Johnny who was at the nativity to watch his nephew Oliver.
My extremely witty comeback when he told me I looked great and asked me how I was doing.* *
My ability to re-do conversations in my head and make them better the second time round.
Annabel, who later mentioned at the mulled wine stall that it was in fact Johnny who had made a move on her, not the other way around, thus adding proof that he did me a huge favour by ghosting me. #luckyescape #noproofisneeded
The Nightmare Before Christmas
Otherwise known as Christmas shopping.
In an attempt to support local businesses, I decide not to do it online and instead brave the high street. It’s mayhem. Stores are awash with sequins and frazzled shoppers and heated to about a hundred degrees, so I’m forever taking my coat on and off as I dive in and out of different stores trying to tick anything off my list.
Still, there are pluses. You don’t get all that festive buzz if you’re at home ordering online, do you? Though truth be told, I’m not encountering much festive buzz in the aisles of our local department store. Though I do encounter quite a few worried-looking men as they hear a salesperson breaking it to them in hushed tones that they’ve sold out of scented candles.
I’m sympathetic. I’m not having it easy either, but husbands and boyfriends seem to have it much harder when it comes to knowing what to buy at Christmas. Upstairs I spot someone’s husband looking at a set of pans and know there is going to be an extremely disappointed wife out there somewhere. No woman, however practical they might be, wants to wake up to a gift-wrapped frying pan on Christmas morning. I think it was Liza who always used to say that presents should come in small packages.
I sidle over and guide him towards the Le Creuset. Well, if it’s going to be pans, it might as well be expensive ones.
Every year I try to be imaginative with my Christmas presents. Unlike Rich, who always does vouchers and always seems to get away with it. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t help thinking vouchers are a last resort. Last year I got the whole family those DNA tests, which I thought was really cool, until I read an article about all these people discovering more than they bargained for. Less ‘ten per cent Iberian Peninsula’ and more ‘my mother had an affair with the postman and he’s my real dad’.
I had a bit of a wobble. ‘Are you serious?’ laughed my brother, pointing to our noses when I mentioned it to him. ‘Sis, I don’t think we have to worry about DNA.’ There’s no denying we have both inherited what is known in the family as ‘The Stevens Nose’, and he argued that we didn’t need a test to prove it.
Though it did, of course. Together with the fact my mother is one per cent Neanderthal, which my father has never let her live down.
However, this year is proving a bit more difficult. Mum and Dad buy everything they want as soon as they want it, and I’ve racked my brain for what to get Freddy, my godson. What on earth do ten-year-old boys like these days? Other than terrorizing babysitters, and I’m not sure you can find that in a size small. Plus, I can’t find all the other stuff on my list.
I wonder if they sell vouchers?
I’m grateful for:
Amazon Prime.
Being single; at least there’s one less gift to buy.
Christmas Eve
I rent a car and drive up to my parents’ with Cricket in the passenger seat and Arthur in the back. It seemed easier (and cheaper) than catching the train. We sing along to Christmas songs on the radio, encounter tailbacks, and eat too many things wrapped in plastic from service stations. Edward would kill me.
We finally turn off the motorway and begin our drive through some of my favourite bits of the Lake District as dusk falls. Just in time to catch the light off Lake Windermere and the colours of the fells as we weave our way through a patchwork of bracken and moss. Snow is forecast, but for now it’s just damp and cold, with spires of smoke rising up from the slate chimneys.
Christmas never felt like Christmas in California. At first I loved the novelty of it all. Spending Christmas Eve on the beach, sunbathing on stripy towels, and Christmas Day eating sushi. But the novelty quickly wore off and I was soon spending a fortune to fly home for the holidays.
Ethan came with me the first time. He said he wanted us to be together and it would be fun. Mum made a big fuss. Dad took him to the pub. Rich got him a spare ticket to the match. He seemed to love it, when he wasn’t shivering or struggling to get 4G (it’s the middle of the countryside; frankly you’re lucky if you get a phone signal) or trying to find a soy chai latte.
It wasn’t his fault. We might speak the same language (though he found it quite hard to understand a word any of the locals said), but you only have to try and explain our very peculiar British tradition of panto to a bemused American and you’ll see how different we really are. I think quaint wore off quite quickly.
Oh no it didn’t!
Anyway, it was a first and last time. Ethan never came again; from then on we spent Christmas separately, him with his family in California and me here. Except for last year, which I spent alone in the apartment packing up the last of my things. But this year we’re both on this side of the Atlantic for New Year’s Eve. The London restaurant has a big event planned and he’s helping with preparations. He’s flying back over in a few days’ time—
‘Oh, isn’t this charming?’ Cricket exclaims as I turn down the drive. The house is decorated in twinkling lights and Mum’s already at the window waving. I give a little toot of my horn as we pull up, and Arthur starts barking. Dad appears on his crutches and opens a window, and I hear the TV blasting and Mum yelling not to let the cold air in.
It’s Christmas! We’re home.
I’m grateful for:
Mum’s mince pies.
Baileys.
Calories don’t count at Christmas.
Christmas Day
Christmas Day is spent in a haze of Baileys and stilton. As usual, Mum refuses to sit down and spends most of the day in the kitchen, conducting an orchestra of bubbling pans, while the rest of us pop in and out, offering to help while helping ourselves to more Baileys. Dad, on the other hand, spends most of the time sitting down on the sofa, with his leg stretched out on the coffee table. Raising it up and down like Tower Bridge when anyone wants to get past.
Evie, of course, is the star of the show. Still only a few weeks old, she has the complete attention of six adults. I never knew it would be impossible to tire of gazing at her tiny fingers or marvelling at all those funny facial expressions – which cause us all to stop whatever we’re doing and gather round to look and exclaim – or talking about whose ears she has or where her red hair has come from.
‘It must be Nathalie’s side,’ Rich says with conviction, until Mum produces a photo of our grandmother as a teenager with long auburn hair.
‘But I always remember her with curly blonde hair,’ he says, shocked.
‘Oh, that was a wig,’ interrupts Dad. ‘She said she always fancied herself a blonde.’
‘Go, Grandma,’ grins Nathalie, giving Evie a kiss as she finishes feeding her, before passing her to Rich to have her nappy changed.
I’ve never seen him look more delighted than he is to be changing a dirty nappy. As he dutifully takes her, she sicks up on his shoulder, all over his new shirt. He just laughs. I like this new brother of mine.
As is the tradition at our house, we exchange
gifts in the morning, gorge ourselves on all the liqueur chocolates by noon, and sit down to Christmas dinner in time for the Queen’s Speech. This year it’s a tight squeeze around the table, even with the extending leaves. Auntie Verity has flown back to Spain, but we have two extra people: Cricket and Nathalie. And baby Evie, of course. Plus Arthur, who gets in the way of everyone’s feet underneath the table, but refuses to come out in case a rogue piece of turkey should find itself there.
Mum finally agrees to sit down, while Dad carves. Rich makes a toast to families old and new, and I watch Cricket mentally disappear somewhere, then raise a toast to Monty too. We’re not into big emotional speeches in our family, but we’re all aware of Cricket’s loss. Mum passes her the roast potatoes and Cricket smiles gratefully. What can you do for someone who is spending their first Christmas without the love of their life but offer them roasted potatoes?
Later, after dinner, we break open the Terry’s Chocolate Orange and I FaceTime Liza. She’s spending Christmas with her family in Austin, Texas, and Tia has gone with her too. I know Liza was nervous about introducing them to her new girlfriend, but any fears she had were unfounded.
‘I can’t get her and Mom out of the kitchen,’ she beams, ‘and Uncle Frank is just totally in love with her . . . not that I blame him.’
It’s great to see my friend so relaxed and happy. Ever since we’ve known each other, her relationships have always been fraught with problems and misunderstandings. But with Tia all that’s changed. ‘There’s nothing to tell, it’s just easy,’ she’ll say whenever we WhatsApp, ‘we’re really boring.’ And then she’ll laugh and I know she’s not being serious, but seriously, I think that’s where so many of us go wrong. To make the mistake of thinking a relationship that’s easy is boring. That the ones with drama are exciting. When in fact, it’s the other way around.
Mum nods off in the armchair. I stack the dishwasher. Rinsing the dishes, I’m struck by the realization that there’s no Edward to tell me where to put the knives. I’m free to stack any way I want. Except the funny thing is, I find myself wanting to do it his way after all and it dawns on me that he’s rubbed off on me, in more ways than one.
Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up Page 35
