by Natalie Cox
What in God’s name will I wear?
After breakfast, and a quick sprint round the paddock with the dogs, I raid Jez’s wardrobe. I plunge deep into the back, pulling out items I’ve never clapped eyes on before, and strewing them all over the bed. Among other things, I find a pair of silky magenta trousers circa 2010 (all pleated front and gathered legs), a slinky off-the-shoulder dress in black-and-white stripes (perhaps a little too va-va-voom for a day honoring the birth of Christ) and a pair of dark blue corduroy culottes that must date from Jez’s uni days. In the end I settle on black tights, a simple A-line charcoal wool skirt (cut well above the knee but not indecent, bless you, Jez) and an emerald green crop top that feels vaguely seasonal but does not scream Good Tidings!
* * *
When I get back downstairs my phone lights up with a text. I see, with a sickening gut-lurch, that it’s from Lionel. The message contains only two words:
Happy Christmas.
I stare down at the screen and feel myself yanked back in time. Suddenly I am back in Nunhead, confronting Lionel across the kitchen table; he is red-faced, earnest, and not quite contrite, and I am reeling with pain, shock, and indignation. It is not a happy memory, and certainly not one I care to revisit on Christmas morning. What is he doing, texting me out of the blue? Perhaps he is just being considerate, concerned that the holidays might be weighing heavily upon me? But knowing Lionel, this seems unlikely. What seems far more likely is that his new relationship has gone awry and he has begun to reconsider.
As if all that has transpired between us can be erased with a few keystrokes.
I contemplate this for a few moments. If I could undo all that went wrong between Lionel and me, with the mere press of a button, would I choose to do so? My mind flicks back through the memories: Lionel and I on a ski holiday that first winter, we spent more time horizontal than on the slopes; Lionel and I both sick with flu over the holidays, when we missed our family celebrations and ended up toasting each other with mugs of Lemsip on Christmas morning; Lionel organizing a surprise anniversary picnic in Battersea Park, when after sinking two bottles of champagne, he insisted we re-create the egg-and-spoon race, with predictable consequences.
These happy memories flicker like decades-old home movies: they are faded, crackling, fuzzy. And not surprisingly, they end abruptly, swallowed by a host of more recent, painful ones—casually disapproving remarks, caustic retorts, abrupt arguments that bloomed out of nowhere, lonely evenings spent texting to no avail, and grudging sex. These later memories loom all too large and, unlike the earlier ones, they are crystal clear, like watching big-screen telly, with surround sound.
It does not take long to reach a verdict, and the answer is definitely no.
So that leaves only the question of how to respond to his text. I could oh so easily ignore it, especially given the timing—most people would be midway through their Christmas-morning festivities. How irritating that I am not; almost as if he knew I was on my own. I could send a heavily barbed reply, replete with expletives—a very tempting prospect indeed. Or I could pretend it is nothing more than an ordinary holiday greeting and return it in kind. This is by far the most civilized response, so in an effort to seize the moral high ground, I opt for number three.
You too, I type.
After a moment he pings back a reply.
I miss you.
I stare down at the gray bubble of letters, and as I do another gray bubble appears beneath it.
xx
And in the space of an instant, I swan dive off the moral high ground. No, sir! He does not get to xx me after all this time! What about the broken kettle? What about the rowing machine? These things cannot be undone with a few character strokes. I type a furious reply.
You LEFT me! Remember? You said our relationship had run its course.
In a matter of moments another gray bubble appears.
Not the first time I’ve been wrong!
I stare down at it. It’s the exclamation point that wrangles most.
I quickly type:
Has it occurred to you that this is yet another instance when you are wrong?
His answer comes with lightening swiftness:
No.
That’s the thing about Lionel: always so sure of himself. Even now.
So I do the only sensible thing I can think of. I turn off my phone.
And cuddle a puppy.
* * *
By lunchtime there is almost an inch of snow on the ground. It is the wet, cloying variety, with great big flakes that flutter down like damp butterflies. I don Wellingtons (country chic!) and an array of outer garments, then trudge outside to clear off the Škoda. But when I climb inside and turn the key, the engine coughs weakly, then refuses to turn over.
Nooooo.
I rest my head on the steering wheel in despair for a moment, then gather my wits and consider my options. There is no chance of a cab in this part of the world on Christmas Day. I could walk, but it will take me at least forty-five minutes, by which time I will be more than fashionably late, and my newly blow-dried hair will be ruined. I could ring Cal and ask him to collect me, but somehow that feels a little too damsel-in-distress.
So there really is only one option remaining.
I grin madly as I trudge behind the house to the run. Cal will go mental if I arrive in the sulky, but it will be worth it to see the look on his face. I grab the harnesses out of the shed and call to the twins, who as usual are more than eager to oblige. After they’ve relieved themselves, I hook them up and climb inside the sulky—the only trick will be getting them to go in the right direction. The good news is that, between the weather and the holiday, there will be virtually no traffic on the roads, so we should have a clear run into the village. I release the brake and let the dogs go, pulling hard on the reins to steer them left out of the drive rather than right, and the sulky careers out onto the lane. In fact, it handles beautifully on the snow, better than I could have hoped for, and arguably much better than the Škoda would have done. Hurrah!
As we barrel down the road, the snow pelts my face and eyes, but the surrounding countryside is undeniably picturesque blanketed in white. In a grudging nod to my mum, as I flew out the door I grabbed the bobble hat she sent me and I have to admit that I’m grateful for it. The twins pull as if their lives depend on it, relishing the opportunity to run: clearly snow must be hardwired into their DNA. We reach the outskirts of Cross Bottomley quickly. As I navigate the sulky through the quiet lanes in my festive bobble hat (Ho ho ho!) I feel a vague sense of euphoria, which may or may not be the spirit of Christmas. By the time we reach Gerry’s, the twins and I are breathless from the ride. I pull on the brakes and the twins come to a halt, panting hard.
As we do, Cal appears from behind the house carrying a shovel. He freezes when he sees us, then shakes his head, glaring.
“I can explain,” I call out.
“You are certifiable!”
“The Škoda was dead!”
“So you risked your life instead of calling me?”
“We were fine. The roads were empty.” I grin at him. He looks at me and his expression eases. Perhaps I even detect a glint of grudging admiration in his eyes. I climb out of the sulky, and when I am finally standing in front of him, staring straight into the crevice of his gaze, I nearly tumble into it. How is it that I lose my bearing so quickly in his presence? A snowflake lands on his nose and I reach up with my mitten and dab at it lightly. Cal raises his face to the sky and laughs.
Just then Gerry opens the front door. “Happy Christmas!” she calls out. Her eyes sweep to the sulky. “How marvelous! And very eco!”
I shoot a smug glance at Cal and he raises a dubious eyebrow.
* * *
Once inside I see with relief that I am not the only guest. Dibber is standing by the fire chatting to a middle-aged man wearing a
clerical collar, and an elderly woman, wearing a pale pink wool suit worthy of the queen, rises at once from an armchair to greet us. Gerry shepherds me into the room and introduces me around, before placing a glass of something fizzy in my hands. The cleric is the local vicar, fresh from Christmas service, and the older woman is a well-to-do cousin who lives in a nearby village. Almost instantly Gerry marshals us into the dining room, where the table looks amazing. Fresh-cut holly has been artfully arranged down the center, and two silver candelabras with real candles throw a soft gold light around the room. A magnificently bronzed turkey rests on an enormous silver platter at one end, garnished with fresh orange slices and roasted chestnuts, and a large bowl of homemade cranberry sauce sparkles like rubies at the other. Other dishes festoon the table: caramelized Brussels sprouts, balls of sausage stuffing, roast parsnips, bread sauce, glazed carrots. My stomach genuinely gurgles at the sight of it all.
“You must have been cooking for days,” I say to Gerry. She scoffs.
“Me? I’m not allowed anywhere near the kitchen at Christmas.” She indicates Cal with a nod. I turn and see that Cal has donned a beige linen apron with a large stag’s head on the front and is carrying a jug of gravy to the table.
Dear God, how I love a man in an apron.
“Untrue,” Cal says to Gerry. “I let you peel the sprouts this year.”
She smiles. “Oh, and I had to stir something while you went and sorted out Stella’s sow,” she reminds him.
“Bread sauce. Which you managed to burn,” he says under his breath. “And I had to remake.” Cal returns to the kitchen while the rest of us take our seats.
“I can barely fry an egg,” confides Gerry. “My late husband did all the cooking. Cal learned from him.” Cal enters again and sits down at one end of the table beside me. He picks up a bottle of red wine and offers me some.
“Just to be clear, she’s lying. She can’t fry an egg,” he says. “She was living on Shreddies when I moved back.”
“Shreddies are a perfectly good food,” says Gerry staunchly.
Back from where? I wonder. I realize I know virtually nothing about this man, or his history.
“When was that?” I ask.
“Two years ago,” says Cal. “Just after Dad died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I turn to Gerry and offer her a sympathetic glance. She nods and gives a wave of her hand, while Cal continues pouring wine around the table.
“Where were you before that?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.
“London,” he says breezily. I nearly spit the wine across the table and his eyebrows shoot up with glee.
London! The rotter!
“Cal did his veterinary training at the Royal College,” says Gerry proudly. “Then stayed on to practice in London for several years.”
“Where were you based?”
“Clapham, for the first five years,” he says. “Then, later, Belsize Park.”
South to north. Interesting. I wonder why. Newcomers to London are quick to grow roots, and even quicker to defend their neighborhoods: crossing the river is tantamount to heresy. By now, Gerry has joined Dibber and the others in conversation; Cal and I are left alone at our end of the table and the room instantly feels more intimate.
“Do you miss it?” I ask. “The hurly-burly of the city?”
“Not really, no.”
There’s a note of challenge in his voice, as if to say: Should I?
“I thought I would,” he admits. “And was a little surprised when I didn’t. But in the end I decided that London’s something of a chimera. It’s what we project onto it. And often, the picture in our head doesn’t quite come together.” He takes a sip of wine and once again I wonder about the subtext. There’s a large chunk of this puzzle that I’m missing.
I watch as he rolls up his sleeves and picks up a long knife in preparation for carving—at once my mouth begins to water, but it is more the sight of his naked forearms than the turkey that is responsible. Cal sees me staring and smiles a little mischievously. “Dark or light?” he asks quietly. I shoot him a glance; the question feels oddly loaded.
Whichever. Just keep carving!
“Dark, please,” I say politely. He nods assent.
“So . . . a thigh?” he says suggestively. I glance up at him and the corners of his mouth twitch.
“A thigh would be lovely, thank you,” I say demurely. I watch as he carefully slices and deposits a thigh on my plate.
“Help yourself to sides,” he says in a low voice, indicating the other dishes. “There’s plenty. So don’t hold back.” He shoots me a glance, then stands up to pass a platter of turkey down the table.
Don’t hold back? Am I imagining things? Or is he embarking on some sort of elaborate culinary foreplay here, right in front of the others? I help myself to potatoes and stuffing while he ensures that all the guests have been served turkey, then he sits back down beside me.
“Gravy?” he murmurs, picking up the jug.
“Yes, please,” I reply. He pauses, holding the jug out in front of me.
“Shall I . . . serve you?” he asks, his voice practically dripping with innuendo. I nearly laugh out loud.
“Please do.” I drop my eyes, trying not to smile.
“My pleasure,” he murmurs, drizzling gravy slowly but liberally all over my plate in a manner that is almost obscene. Then he picks up the bowl of cranberry sauce. “Cranberry sauce?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks slightly. A flush begins to seep slowly upward through my body, spreading to my neck and finally to my face.
“I think cranberry sauce is my favorite part of this meal,” he confides quietly, scooping a large dollop onto my plate. “It’s the perfect accompaniment. Sweet . . . but tart. Don’t you agree?”
I can only nod mutely. He has actually robbed me of speech.
Cal sets the bowl down, then picks up the caramelized sprouts, serving me some. “Sprouts, on the other hand,” he continues. “Earthy. Nutty. I like them with just that little bit of crunch. So that the flavor really bursts on your tongue when you bite down.” He picks up his wineglass and looks at me.
I literally think I will ignite.
Then he raises his glass, his lips curling upward in a smile.
“Bon appétit,” he says.
Enjoy.
* * *
And I do. It isn’t just the sheer fact of his physical presence a few inches away—I think I can smell his shampoo—because the meal itself is divine. Food I have disliked for decades, nay an entire lifetime, has suddenly been reborn. Brussels sprouts roasted with garlic and fresh chili are worthy of actual worship, and the bread sauce is so delicious he could have served it alone, like porridge, and I would have been happy.
“As a medic I should probably warn you, that dish contains very little nutritional value,” he says, pointing to the bread sauce. I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth.
“Nutrition is overrated,” I say.
Cal laughs.
I do not know how I manage to survive the meal. It is simultaneously the most intoxicating and frustrating experience of my life. Cal eats with gusto, as do I—as if we cannot get enough, as if we are starving. By the end of the meal I am stuffed to the brim, but still desperately unsated. And I strongly suspect he feels the same. Over the course of ninety minutes I have conversed on all manner of topics with the others (cheese-rolling with Cousin Viv, trends in male facial hair with Dibber, religion and science with the vicar, Brexit with Gerry), but I am barely cognizant of what has been said—by me or anyone else. When Cal finally stands to clear the plates, I leap to my feet and insist on helping.
He does not demur.
Once in the kitchen, our hands laden with plates, we are finally alone. Cal looks at me and I see at once in the glare of the lights that his face is flushed. He dumps his plates on the counter and I d
o the same, then he turns to me, but in that same instant, Gerry comes bursting through the door. “Don’t you dare touch those dishes,” she announces loudly. Cal takes a step back from me and turns to her. “I’ll do them later,” says Gerry in a no-nonsense tone. “You’ve done enough.”
“We’re on it, Mum,” he says weakly.
Boy, are we! We are so on it! If only she would leave.
“Absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head. “Your work is done here. Go sit and relax. Bond with Dibber,” she adds emphatically. Cal frowns and Gerry takes him by the shoulders, turns him round, and pushes him back into the dining room. After he’s gone, she turns to me and smiles.
“Sorry about the heavy-handed parenting. He really can be stubborn sometimes.” She begins rinsing and stacking the plates and I instantly move to her side to help, ever the well-trained guest.
“‘Stubborn’?” I ask casually.
Gerry sighs.
“He’s barely said three words to Dibber since he arrived,” she confides.
“Ah.”
“I can see that it’s difficult for him. But he needs to understand that people change. I’ve changed. And what was right for me forty years ago isn’t necessarily right for me now.”
“I see.” Do I see? I really do not see. Does this entire family speak in code?
“We both need to move on,” she says, almost to herself.
Wait. Cal needs to move on? From what? Or, more important, from who?
“I’m sorry, I’m oversharing,” she says with a laugh. “Sometimes your children tie you up in knots.”
“I think my mother would say the same.” Understatement of the year.