How to Stuff Up Christmas Read online

  Their new flat was gorgeous; airy, light rooms, huge Victorian sash windows. Their bedroom even had a window seat where she imagined herself sketching pictures or writing a journal or something as Liam cooked her favourite meal on the range cooker (it had five hobs – Eve didn’t have a clue what they could all be used for, but Liam had insisted). And now she was painting the bathroom this heavenly duck-egg blue so that people would sit on her ceramic loo seat and admire her moulding.

  She’d had no idea that a month later she would find herself painting over every inch of that duck-egg blue in thick, dripping stripes of magnolia, the very sight of that colour causing her fists to clench, her heart to race and her spine to tingle. No one would admire her bathroom now. It was featureless and dull. Like she felt. She’d donated the dungarees to Oxfam, chopped her dark-brown hair into a shapeless bob which even her dad had noticed and her mum had described as ‘very Puritan’.

  But she had been painting and it had been raining and they’d just come back from their new sandwich shop that did the most amazing chicken and mayo baguettes and gooey brownies with walnuts, and they’d been arguing about whether brownies were better with or without walnuts (with, surely?), but arguing in that cute ‘you’re right, no you’re right, oh okay, squeeze on the nose, we’ll agree to disagree’, and they’d stood in the doorway and laughed at their bedraggled, rain-soaked selves and then they’d kissed like they were that couple in The bloody Notebook. Unbelievable.

  With the warmth of the flat and the memory of the kiss still on her lips, she remembered she’d been smiling as she threw the keys on the kitchen table. Then she’d heard Liam shout from the living room, holler her name, loudly, urgently, and she’d jumped, a quick patter of fear as she rushed through to him.

  He was looking up in horror at the ceiling that was leaking, water running down the inside of the wall as if it were a posh feature wall in a five-star hotel. Only it wasn’t a five-star hotel and they didn’t have a feature wall.

  ‘Shit, Eve – ring the builders.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The water, the fucking… I knew they hadn’t secured the flashing.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Phone, Eve, phone…’

  She’d nodded quickly. Rushing back to the kitchen, she’d quickly grabbed his phone.

  ‘What are they under?’

  ‘B for Builders.’

  ‘B,’ she muttered. ‘Cryptic.’

  And as she was still smiling over his logical, obvious phone-log cataloguing, as she typed in his password ‘ilovearsenal’, it had slapped her there, right between the eyes, ‘you have 1 picture message’. She wasn’t sure what made her do it. She’d never felt the urge before, or maybe she didn’t decide to do it, it just clicked up, but it was then, as she read the words ‘Wish you were here’, she realised she was staring at someone’s impeccably groomed vagina.

  Greg had packed a flask of tea and was moving towards the door. Karen, vet nurse-cum-receptionist-cum-all-round-star was eyeing him with her usual curiosity, removing the badge from her sizeable chest so that Greg felt the need to look away.

  ‘Heading home?’ she asked, leaning to switch off the computer and almost toppling head first over the desk. She craned to look up at Greg’s face.

  ‘I thought I’d take a walk first,’ he said, holding up his flask of tea.

  ‘A walk.’ Karen’s face wrinkled as it always did when anyone mentioned exercise. Karen drove everywhere. She’d walked down the aisle to Joe at their wedding, twenty years ago, as she would tell anyone who asked, and that was the most she was planning to do, thank you very much.

  ‘It’s really mild,’ Greg said, missing the point deliberately.

  ‘Perfect for an evening in the garden with a glass of wine.’ Karen nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Or a walk.’

  She shivered and shrugged on her coat, nearly knocking over the pumpkin they’d placed there in a nod to Halloween.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Karen,’ he said, laughing and moving to the door.

  He walked by the poster for their latest deal – half-price vaccinations for any new client, a massive St Bernard dog with his tongue out enticing the customers in – as she called goodnight.

  He loved Pangbourne in the evenings, but the days were getting shorter and it was often dark when he finished work. He missed walking across the meadows at the back of the village or ambling next to the river, sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water. Mondays they closed the practice early, though, and Greg was able to take a flask of tea and a book and roam where he wanted. This afternoon he was planning to skirt the back of the village, through to the allotments and over the fields to the woods at the back.

  He chuckled to himself as he walked along the high street. Greg Burrows, you playboy, you with your tea and your book – what happened, mate? But before he could pursue that line of thought, and take himself to a place he didn’t want to be, he had pulled out his mobile and checked his messages, laughing at one from his brother and tapping a reply. Turning down an alley lined with ivy, he skirted puddles, the mud churned up, swatting at a cloud of insects. The high street disappeared the further he walked away and he felt that he was letting go of the hub and noise, the shop bells, the familiar faces, the questions: escaping to the open space outside the small cluster of buildings.

  He loved the allotment even at this time of year when people were mostly clearing their patch, turning the soil. He moved down a narrow grass path, neat rectangles of soil on either side, some far more cultivated than others, boxed in with wooden planks. Early leeks and some swede were already pushing through in regimented lines, others still containing the rotting remnants of the summer, dried-out sweetpeas, wilting courgette plants. The air smelt of the soil, heightened by the rain shower that morning, and he moved through, nodding at an elderly man who was slowly raking his patch.

  He knew where he was headed, a bench in the meadow next door, with the woods in the distance and a field to the left that held two brown cows who were always walking together. At this time of year the cows were inside: he missed their gentle company. Animals were so straightforward and unassuming. He sometimes missed working with farm animals, the chance to get outside, meet with farmers; working on small animals meant a lot of the work was done indoors. He usually loved the consultations, catching up with clients and their animals. Recently, though, he had craved peace, the same conversations on a loop, struggling to retain his smile. He blinked, determined not to be dragged down today, settling on the bench and opening his e-reader cover.

  He loved his e-reader, mostly because he read door-stopper books that were tedious to carry around but also, if he had to admit it, so that people could assume he was busy reading some worthy classic when, in fact, he was mostly reading books about magic and other worlds and hard men with swords felling other hard men with swords. He had always loved heroic fantasy novels since he was young and his little brother had been a very willing participant in his games, often allowing him to tie him up and stick him in the attic or cellar before getting some of his friends round to try and slay the dragon (Mum) to release him from his prison. The trouble was, the dragon made really good snacks and on more than one occasion they all forgot about the lost prince in the attic and ended up eating chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. The older his brother got, the more he’d refused to play, as young princes like chocolate chip cookies too.

  He stayed for a while on the bench, lost in the story, roaming a far-off land that was in the middle of a great battle with the kingdom next door. The sun had dropped beneath the treeline in the distance and the shadows were lengthening, birds nesting in the trees above him. Behind him the train sounded, bringing commuters back to the village. He knew he couldn’t stay there much longer; she would wonder where he had got to.

  He walked slowly back to his car, stopping in the small supermarket to buy the dinner. He had promised he would make something that night. As he drove to the house he t
ried to ready himself as he always did now. He hadn’t used to, used to turn the key in the front door and already be calling out questions, ready to tease, ready to sweep in and wrap her in a hug. Now he found himself nervous almost, both hands tight on the top of the steering wheel as he drove the familiar route, the radio presenters’ voices buzzing in his ear.

  He stopped outside the house and stared at the building. He needed to tidy up the front garden, cut back some of the branches and clear away things for compost. He’d been promising to do it for weeks, not that she ever nagged him. It was the least he could do, he thought guiltily. He saw that the light was on in the living room downstairs, the curtains already closed but a glow emanating from the edges. He pictured her sitting by the reading lamp, lost in a book or watching the television. Go in, Greg, get out of the car.

  He unfolded himself, opening the door and stepping outside, standing in the road still staring, while the shopping bag in one hand hung by his side. He slammed the door and stepped round the car, pausing for one more moment to plaster a smile on his face, to make sure she thought everything was normal. As he turned the key in the lock, he heard her call his name and he closed his eyes and then stepped inside.

  ‘You look better, less pasty.’

  Eve kissed her mum on the cheek proffered. ‘Thanks. I think.’

  ‘I’m making Yorkshire puddings so I need to get back. Oh dear, did you really have to bring him?’ She’d spotted Marmite peeking out from behind her legs. ‘Oh, I thought Liam might have taken him.’ Her mum’s face always had a wary look around Marmite.

  ‘There was no way.’

  ‘But you don’t like him either,’ Mum said, backing away.

  ‘I do.’ Eve said it in a too-loud voice. ‘I love him like my own flesh and blood.’

  ‘Well, he’s not your child.’

  ‘It’s a turn of phrase, Mum.’

  Dad emerged wearing a mustard tank-top and yellow cords. He looked like walking scrambled eggs. Perhaps it was that that set Marmite off, legs apart, head up, yap, yap, yap. Dad laughed and bent down to rub him behind his ears but he scampered around in a semi-circle and started yapping at his bottom. He was definitely more Yorkshire Terrier than Maltese, and Eve tugged him back.

  ‘Marmite,’ she called. He ignored her and jumped up again. ‘MARMITE,’ she shouted and that made him growl and spin round, almost choking himself on his own lead. She released him and he made a beeline for Mum in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Dad said, giving Eve a brief hug. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘Hey.’ Even his four words had made Eve glad to be home, bordering on tearful.

  ‘So how are you holding up?’ A question he’d been asking for two months now.

  At that moment Marmite returned, dragging a tea towel in his mouth, Mum shouting expletives after him.

  Dad grinned delightedly. ‘And how’s this fella, how are you?’ he cooed, chasing Marmite round the room, back bent, arms swaying. Marmite went completely mental; barking and diving forward, then racing back, tail high and wagging, before barking again. The noise rose.

  Mum came running back into the room. ‘David, really, David.’

  ‘Marmite, stop!’ Eve called with absolutely no effect.

  ‘DAVID!’ Mum shouted.

  Dad stopped mid-chase, then slowly straightened up before turning to face Mum, gaze averted, head lowered, as if he were about to be told off by the headmistress.

  Mum, fortunately, was so distracted by his outfit that she failed to fully launch into a tirade. ‘I told you to change that top, David, you look like a very withered sunflower.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Eve, don’t pretend he doesn’t look barking.’

  ‘He looks fine,’ Eve lied. ‘And Dad’s colour-blind, he can’t help it.’

  ‘I thought I had changed, have I not?’

  ‘You have not.’

  ‘Must have put the other one on.’ He chuckled, brushing both his hands over the mustard tank-top.

  Dad had this strange habit of buying two of everything that he liked. He had an underlying fear he might lose things ever since he left his favourite cashmere jumper in a student bar in the eighties.

  ‘Well, it’s lunch now, too late. I will just have to pretend you are a stranger and I never chose to marry you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Dad nodded, looking pleased with the outcome, or perhaps just the thought of lunch.

  Eve had already left them to it, Marmite scampering at her heels as she moved through to the kitchen.

  ‘He goes outside,’ Mum called behind her. Eve felt a tiny stab of guilt as she realised she was relieved. Marmite had been playing up ever since Liam left. Yesterday he had torn the backs of her favourite sandals and she’d had a dream the week before that he had trebled in size and was planning to eat her. She had given up shouting at him as he seemed oblivious to her voice.

  This morning he’d been better, panting excitedly at the bottom of her bed, lead in his mouth. They’d had a brilliant walk across Primrose Hill, looking out over London sprawled before them. As she watched him trot happily next to her, his eyes glittering with this new adventure, his tail up, she’d felt a sudden flood of affection for him: he was her link to the past. But then he’d practically savaged another woman’s Shih Tzu, snarling and yapping despite Eve shouting at him to stop, and she’d trudged back despondent, wondering if he would ever do what she asked.

  They’d bought Marmite together from a breeder in North London who had sent them photos of him after he was born. They cooed as they visited him after a couple of weeks, giggling as he fell around the pen, tiny yaps as he stepped on his siblings. Liam had always loved Marmite, smothering him in kisses, letting him scramble up his chest to lie there, looking at him fondly like the world’s hairiest baby. He hadn’t grown a great deal; his tiny body covered in grey curls, large doleful eyes allowing him to get away with murder.

  Liam had sent her texts, asking her to let him have Marmite. Saying she had never really liked him. There was no bloody way she was giving up the dog. She thought back to the picture message she’d seen. Liam clearly had everything he needed; she was damn well going to have Marmite. As she looked at him racing round her ankles, snapping and growling at imaginary things in the air, she took a breath. She’d learn to love him.

  On entering the kitchen she realised she wasn’t the only sibling who had descended for Sunday lunch. Harriet was already ensconced, mobile held in one hand, a spoon shaped like a strawberry in the other, spooning mushed-up something into Poppy’s mouth.

  ‘I told them that would be a terrible idea, now look where we are.’

  She nodded at Eve as she walked in, the brief smile on her coral lips instantly replaced by a snarl at either the person on the phone or the mush, Eve couldn’t be sure. Eve’s eleven-month-old niece seemed perfectly oblivious, making ‘nom, nom, nom’ noises every time the mush came her way. Eve mouthed a ‘Hello’ as she opened the back door to let Marmite outside. He ran gaily out of it, coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the garden as she closed it behind him. His little face filled with betrayal as he realised she had left him and he was alone. Then he quickly darted off to the right to dig up Mum’s flowerbeds.

  ‘Do they have ears? Are they even listening?’ Harriet gave her an apologetic wide-eyed look; Eve gave her an inadequate thumbs-up.

  Mum tiptoed past, panto-style, to the cooker, always terrified around Harriet, who was more domineering than she was and whose job she didn’t understand, so when Harriet talked about it she just stroked her chin and nodded.

  Harriet was a legend; three years older than Eve, who had worshipped her through childhood and beyond. She wore impeccable suits, produced beautiful children and still managed to do whatever high-powered job she did. It involved shares and property and margins. She had tried to explain it to Eve a few months ago using Poppy’s ABC building blocks, but they’d both got bored and drunk wine and then made a tower that spelt ‘PENIS’ instea
d, and Eve had never asked again.

  Gavin appeared in the doorway, holding a beaker of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. His striped rugby shirt had already got a wet patch on the shoulder which Eve could only assume was Poppy’s doing. ‘Hi, Eve,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek before turning to Harriet to kiss her on the head.

  ‘Accident?’ Eve nodded at the patch as he stood back up.

  ‘Poppy didn’t like her starter so she threw it up on me,’ Gavin explained. ‘At least I didn’t get it in my hair,’ he said, patting his bald head.

  ‘Ni—’

  ‘That is NOT what I said!’ Harriet shouted down the phone. Eve jumped and stopped talking. It didn’t appear to alarm Gavin, who smiled and took the strawberry spoon from Harriet’s hand.

  Harriet cupped her free hand over the mobile. ‘Hey, Eve, you look great, thin—’ She said this in admiring tones. ‘NO! Tell him NO.’

  The switch was terrifying. Eve’s mouth was left suspended in a response, not sure who or what she should tell no.

  ‘Ignore her, Eve,’ Gavin said, sitting down and taking over, trying to get Poppy to eat something. ‘She’s doing some deal or firing someone or stopping someone being fired or…’ He looked sideways at his wife, who poked her tongue out at him and turned her back. ‘She might be doing anything.’

  Mum was stirring gravy and looking worriedly over at Harriet. ‘I thought she was merging something.’

  Dad walked in, a purple knotted scarf at his throat, and sat at the head of the table. Mum refused to acknowledge him, muttering something into the gravy.

  ‘Nice, Dad.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Dad smiled, adjusting the knot.

  Gavin coughed and returned his attention to Eve. ‘You look well,’ he commented, sipping from Poppy’s beaker, which made her hold out two chubby hands for it immediately.