How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas

by Fiona Gibson

  How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas

  Fiona Gibson

  Copyright

  Published by Avon

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014

  Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2014

  Cover design © Emma Rogers 2014

  Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © November 2014 ISBN: 9780008124717

  Version: 2014-11-20

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas

  Read on for an exclusive extract from As Good As It Gets?

  About the Author

  Also by Fiona Gibson

  About the Publisher

  We are driving through a perfect village. I mean it: if you were to imagine the prettiest of English villages, this is how it would look. Thatched pub, hanging baskets filled with winter pansies, a boutique window hand-painted with the white silhouettes of Christmas trees.

  ‘It’s so … perfect,’ I marvel, realising I sound like someone who’s never been let out of the city before.

  Ben chuckles. ‘It is, I guess. It’s all very tidy and well-behaved.’

  ‘There’s no litter,’ I add. ‘Not one bit of it.’

  ‘No, well, there are committees that patrol that kind of thing. A dropped fag end and you’re looking at two years. A take-away carton and you’ll be shot …’

  I smile, wondering how it was to grow up around here. The only teenagers I’ve spotted were hanging out in a good-natured group. There were hugs and laughter and girls tossing their hair about, photogenically, as if in a film. I haven’t noticed any aimless loitering. It’s the kind of village where you might expect to see a young, attractive couple laughingly carrying a real Christmas tree through the streets.

  We drive past an old-fashioned butcher’s, a cheese shop and a shop selling ‘curios and collectables’. The shops are subtly decorated for Christmas with artful arrangements of natural foliage. No fake snow or tinsel. There’s nothing as brash as the six-foot flashing plastic Santa – I mean flashing in both senses of the word, i.e. he opens his red coat to expose a furry reindeer G-String – which currently fills the window of the 99p shop round the corner from my house. There’s been a little snow this morning. When we left my South London street where I live it had already turned to grey mush; here it has speckled the slate-tiled rooftops and pavements in icing-sugar white.

  ‘Are you sure your parents are okay about me coming?’ I ask, with a twinge of anxiety.

  Ben glances at me from the driver’s seat. ‘’Course they are. You keep asking me that. There’s plenty of room, there’ll be tons to eat …’

  He’s just not getting it. It’s not space I’m worried about, or going hungry; Ben’s parents have a vast country home with turrets and topiary and sweeping grounds tended by a gaggle of staff. I can’t imagine we’ll be left to forage for a packet of crisps. In fact, Ben has already filled me in on his mother’s dedication to creating the perfect Christmas, kicking off sometime around March: the turkey personally selected from some rare-breed farm – when it’s still in the egg, probably – and the cake made and laid down (or whatever you do with fruit cake) many months before Christmas. I am intimidated by Clara’s Christmas cake and I haven’t even met her yet.

  ‘I just wish I knew them a little bit,’ I explain. ‘Christmas feels like a big deal, you know? It’s pretty intimate. They might prefer it just to be family—’

  ‘They love having people to stay,’ Ben says firmly. ‘They’re very sociable.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not just people, Ben …’ We have left the village now. I gaze out at undulating snow-dusted fields.

  ‘Look,’ he cuts in, a trace of exasperation in his voice, ‘they’re a bit batty – I’ve already told you that – but they’re generous people and they’re going to love you. I mean, how could they not?’ He reaches out to squeeze my hand.

  I mull this over. Maybe he’s right, and my edginess is more to do with my own, rather pathetic hang-ups – specifically, never having spent any significant amount of time with properly posh types before. The past three years, I’ve spent Christmas with my housemates, Kate, Jamie and Tom; we’ve cobbled together a ramshackle lunch involving much shrieking and sloshing of wine. We’ve spent the day dancing and drinking and playing pop quizzes with the aid of Jamie-compiled playlists. I’ve loved them. They’ve reminded me of my own family Christmases when my own parents were alive: cheap and cheerful affairs, all Buck’s Fizz, Woolworth’s tinsel and a supermarket bird. One year we didn’t have a bird at all. Dad bought a gammon joint from Iceland.

  But perhaps it’s time to grow up – to discover what a lavish country Christmas is all about. I am 34 years old, and have been seeing Ben since the scorching hot August bank holiday when we fell into conversation outside a Soho pub. And I have to admit, I was flattered when he asked me to his parents’ for Christmas. ‘I think it’s time,’ he said, as if preparing to present me to royalty. And do I still want burnt roast potatoes and rowdy celebrations with housemates when I’m 40?

  ‘Daisy’s pleased you’re coming,’ Ben adds.

  ‘I’m glad she’s going to be there,’ I say truthfully, my spirits rising at the thought of spending time with his little girl.

  ‘Me too. You know she’s spent the last two Christmases with her mum. I really missed her. It was pretty bleak …’

  ‘Must’ve been,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t tell you how happy I was when Louisa said she was going to New York this Christmas …’

  I nod. ‘Is it weird for you, though? Her having a new boyfriend?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ben says with a snort. ‘It’s a bloody relief. He’ll keep her occupied. You know how difficult she’s been …’

  ‘Uh-huh …’ Ben has filled me in on the acrimonious divorce, the wrangling with Louisa over money and property and access to six-year-old Daisy, their only child. And to think, I’ve been withering on about being nervous of spending a few days with his parents … Grow up, I tell myself silently, taking in Ben’s handsome profile: the aquiline nose, fine cheekbones and full lips that I have an urge to kiss every time I look at them. His hair is dark and wavy, his eyes an intense shade of indigo I’ve never encountered before, and edged by the most luxurious lashes I’ve ever seen on a man. ‘He’s so good-looking it hurts my eyes to look at him,’ Kate teased, the first time he’d been round to our place.

  ‘You know Daisy loves you,’ Ben adds.

  I smile. ‘I’m really glad. She could have been difficult; I wouldn’t have blamed her …’
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  ‘She’s always asking about you. Wasn’t it great that day we took her to down to Sandwich Bay?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t she love the sea? I’ve never known anyone so desperate to run into the water.’

  ‘Louisa would’ve been horrified,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘By Daisy paddling?’

  ‘God, yeah, especially in October …’

  ‘But why?’ I ask. ‘It was a gorgeous day.’

  Ben smirks. ‘Oh, you know, the usual hazards – the sea being too cold and unhygienic and full of, I don’t know, jellyfish, seaweed, killer sharks …’

  We’re both sniggering now as Ben turns right into a long, narrow drive. Bright winter sunshine flickers through leafless trees as the house comes into view.

  ‘My God, Ben,’ I mutter as we park next to a gleaming dark green Bentley on the large, gravelled crescent. Although Ben has shown me pictures, none have conveyed the sheer size and grandeur of the place.

  We climb out of his car. ‘I know,’ he says with a trace of embarrassment. ‘Pretty impressive, isn’t it? Quite a pile …’

  ‘Just a bit,’ I chuckle.

  ‘Crazy really. Far too big for the two of them, but they both reckon the only way they’ll ever leave it is in their coffins.’ He squeezes my hand reassuringly as the glossy black front door opens. Daisy appears first, white-blonde hair flowing as she shrieks with joy and hurls herself at her father, then turns to envelop me in a shyer hug.

  ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you to come!’ she announces.

  Ben laughs. ‘I drove as fast as I could, sweetheart.’

  She grins as Ben’s parents step out to greet us: Clara, impossibly elegant in a cream shift, a pale grey cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders; Charles more rumpled in a huge, ratty-looking fisherman’s sweater and fawn corduroys with well-worn knees.

  Ben hugs them. ‘Mum, Dad, this is Anna …’

  Clara blinks at me. ‘Oh! Nice to meet you, Anna.’ She glances at Ben. ‘It’s just, we didn’t expect …’

  ‘Anna’s been looking forward to meeting you,’ Ben cuts in.

  ‘I have,’ I say brightly. ‘What a lovely house …’ And what a dumb thing to say: like being shown a friend’s new mobile phone and remarking, ‘Wow, it can do so many things!’ I mean, ‘house’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s more like a stately home. I’ve never been in one before where I haven’t had to buy an admission ticket.

  We unload copious bags from the boot and all head into the enormous panelled hallway. Ben introduces me to Nell, an elderly golden retriever who presses, winningly, against my legs. I ruffle the soft, warm fur behind her ears, gazing around me in awe. Antlers are mounted on the wall beside the sweeping staircase; real antlers, from slain deer. There are gloomy oil paintings – portraits, mostly, of aristocratic types, plus the odd landscape in murky greens and browns. As I’m led through the house, I can’t help but wonder, what didn’t Clara expect? That I’d be coming for Christmas? Surely Ben hasn’t just sprung me on them …

  ‘Let’s have coffee in the drawing room,’ Charles suggests, leading us along the hallway to a room filled with chesterfield sofas and antique furniture. Drawing room. Again – and without wanting to sound as if I grew up regarding bread and dripping as a fantastic treat – I have never encountered anyone who has a drawing room before.

  As Clara glides off to fetch coffee, Ben and I arrange ourselves on one of the three sofas, while Charles occupies an armchair by the bay window which looks out on to the sweeping grounds. I sit bolt upright with my knees pressed together, hoping to convey the impression that I am utterly relaxed and find myself in rooms like this all the time.

  The dark, polished floorboards are scattered with faded rugs. There is a grand piano and shelves of leather-bound books and vases filled with red, velvety flowers I don’t know the name of. In pride of place, in front of the window, stands a Christmas tree: the biggest I have seen outside a department store – only, it’s real (of course), and bedecked in coordinated silver and purple decorations. Beautifully wrapped presents are stacked around it.

  ‘So,’ Charles says, as Nell settles into her basket in the corner, ‘good drive?’

  ‘Yes, no problems,’ Ben replies. They start discussing our journey, as if the route from South London to Little Winterden has changed beyond all recognition since Ben’s last visit. I look down at Daisy, who has squeezed on to the leather sofa between her father and me.

  ‘I like your shoes, Anna,’ she offers.

  ‘Oh, thank you. I bought them specially …’

  ‘Aren’t they lovely, Grandma?’ she says as Clara appears with a tray of coffees.

  ‘What’s that, darling?’ Clara asks.

  ‘Anna’s shoes. I love them!’

  ‘Er, yes,’ Clara says, eyeing them as if they were splattered in horse shit. She places the tray on the coffee table beside a stack of board games: Scrabble, Monopoly, Risk. I glance down at my shoes, and see them through Clara’s eyes: strappy heels, as red as the Christmas flowers in those huge vases – a bargain, I’d thought, my heart performing a little somersault of delight as I snatched them in New Look. Not especially comfortable, admittedly – but so festive. ‘Very sexy,’ Jamie had said when I’d brought them home. God, they look cheap in this room.

  ‘D’you know what I’m getting for Christmas?’ Daisy asks.

  I smile. ‘Lots, I expect. Did you write a list for Santa?’

  ‘Erm, yes, I asked Father Christmas for a musical box, a scooter and a bead-making thing …’ Whoops, they say Father Christmas here, not Santa.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘I wish I’d done a list …’

  ‘And I’m going to wake up very early tomorrow,’ she enthuses, ‘so I get to see Father Christmas. I want to see him in my room, so I’m not going to sleep at all …’

  ‘Oh, but you must!’ Clara exclaims, pouring our coffees from an ornate china pot. ‘Otherwise you’ll be exhausted. Mummy wouldn’t want you to be tired and crotchety and spoil the day …’

  I glance at Ben, whose expression is impassive. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he says, ‘won’t you, Daisy? But, yes, Grandma’s right. You should probably get a little sleep tonight …’

  ‘Can I stay up a bit later than normal? It’s Christmas Eve!’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Ben says, stroking her hair.

  Clara frowns. ‘But Louisa said Daisy’s bedtime is eight o’clock …’

  ‘We do let her stay up a bit later sometimes, Mum,’ Ben points out.

  ‘We have movie nights,’ I explain. ‘We watch Aladdin, Snow White and Peter Pan – all her favourites …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Daisy enthuses, swinging her legs. ‘And Anna makes these special things with, um, little squares on them …’

  ‘Potato waffles,’ I explain. ‘Daisy loves them.’

  ‘Oh,’ Clara says, looking startled. ‘I didn’t realise you’d met Anna before, Daisy …’

  ‘Yeah, ’course I have,’ she retorts. ‘She’s my friend.’

  Clara turns to me. ‘So, er, you’re there sometimes, when Ben has Daisy at the weekends?’

  Yep, pushing my illicit Bird’s Eye waffles and youth-corrupting Disney movies. ‘Sometimes I’m around,’ I say lightly. ‘I enjoy it. I love children. I work in a nursery actually, in Brixton, five minutes away from my house …’ As I prattle on, conscious of Clara’s pale blue eyes upon me, and Charles’s baffled gaze from the armchair, I realise how wrong this must seem: their beloved son’s girlfriend living in Brixton rather than Belgravia, and having an ordinary job which involves wiping bottoms and making up industrial-sized jugs of Ribena. I catch Clara looking me up and down. I had highlights yesterday; they came out a bit brassy this time, although the hairdresser did say they’d ‘tone down’ in a week or so. I glance down at my H&M dress – black with tiny white flowers, maybe slightly too short for my age – and wonder if that looks cheap too.

  ‘Anna’s great with Daisy,’ Ben says firmly.

 
‘And where are you from, Anna?’ Clara wants to know.

  ‘Um, well, as I said, I live in Brixton, in a house share – there are four of us …’

  ‘You have flatmates?’ Charles exclaims, enunciating the last word as if to say, ‘You have scabies?’

  ‘Yes. Well, housemates actually. I mean, we have an upstairs.’ I emit an awkward, barky laugh. ‘We’re good friends,’ I plough on. ‘We’ve known each other for years, since our early twenties – since college – and it came to the point where we all wanted to buy places, but you know what it’s like, the prices …’ I grind to an abrupt halt. This house has eleven bedrooms. There’s a proper wine cellar, a scullery (whatever that is) and a separate cottage somewhere in the grounds, for guests. Of course they don’t know what it’s like. ‘So we, um, all chipped in and bought a place together,’ I finish, sensing sweat prickling at the underarms of my synthetic dress.

  ‘You’re not from London, though,’ Charles remarks, ‘originally?’

  ‘No, Yorkshire. Originally.’ I use the silver tongs to drop two sugar lumps into my coffee.

  He nods. ‘I thought I detected an accent …’

  ‘Anyway, Mum,’ Ben cuts in briskly, ‘tell us what you and Dad have been up to …’

  Clara’s expression brightens as she launches into what a triumph the Christmas dance was this year, and how she’s taken the helm of the Little Winterden In Bloom Society: ‘We’re sure to win next year. How could we not, when you see how little effort they make in Haverton Brook and Sorley-on-the-Marshes?’ Although in her late sixties, Clara could be a decade younger; she has the kind of finely honed bone structure which keeps everything perky. There is barely a line on her face. Charles possesses the distinguished features and deep, booming tones of an elderly stage actor; in fact, Ben has told me that he made his money in ‘investments’, although the house has been in the family for generations.

  As they fall into discussing Clara and Charles’s forthcoming skiing holiday, I glance at the framed photos arranged on the ornately carved table beside the tree. There’s a rather formal portrait of Daisy, hand propping up her chin, like a movie starlet, and Ben, at around seventeen years old in a regulation school photo, smiling crookedly with hair askew, no doubt the one all the girls fancied. There’s Charles in a tweed hat, clutching an enormous fish on a riverbank, plus wedding pictures, all of Clara and Charles and friends or relatives of a similar vintage … No, not all. There’s one at the back, by far the biggest picture, so it’s visible above all the others. It’s of Ben and Louisa, his ex.