The Little Christmas Kitchen

by Jenny Oliver

  Sitting forward she slathered a piece of pitta bread with taramasalata and took a bite, involuntarily closing her eyes as she savoured every second – the warm, freshly made bread, the sharp tang of the pale pink paste. Then she was popping an olive into her mouth, shovelling some peppers onto her fork, mixing humous with tzatziki and seeing how many little garlic cloves and bits of feta from the salad she could balance on the strip of bread and still cram into her mouth.

  Dimitri sat back, his arms folded across his chest and watched, a smile twitching the corners of his lips.

  When Ella had taken the edge off her immediate hunger, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and said, ‘Why do you think she’s testing me?’

  ‘Well.’ A look of smug satisfaction at her question played across Dimitri’s face, ‘As far as I can tell, Ella, you haven’t exactly been that present in her life. The stories I heard always involved you jetting in on a speedboat and leaving half an hour later after a cursory chat with the family.’

  Ella took a sip of water and let the comments hang in the air for a moment before saying, ‘Go on.’ Her spine tingling, defensive.

  ‘And then you appear out of the blue just before Christmas having clearly had a row with your husband.’

  ‘We have not had a row.’

  Dimitri just laughed. Then spread his arms wide like he couldn’t care less either way. ‘All I can say is, if I was her, I would be wondering why you were here. Whether you were just using the place to run away. And if that was the case, well, I’d feel maybe a little put out.’

  ‘Well it’s lucky that isn’t the case isn’t it?’ Ella said quickly. Then got annoyed with herself because her guards were so clearly up. Annoyed because she hadn’t realised quite how obvious she was nor how blind she had been about her mother.

  ‘Isn’t it just.’ Dimitri said, eyes amused. Then after a pause where he stared straight at her and she had to look away, he stood up and said, ‘I have to go to work. Enjoy your break.’

  She watched him lope across the concourse. Remembered how she used to watch him as a teenager, desperate for him to notice her. How she’d make Maddy turn around and walk back the way they’d just come if she happened to see his scooter whizz past them. There had been photos of his wedding on Maddy’s Facebook page and Ella had zoomed right in on them, studying one in particular of the bride, her back to the camera, her dress hitched as she walked up the hill to the church and Dimitri, waiting for her, staring down in an open-collared shirt and trousers, a grin splitting his mouth in two.

  She had stared for ages, enough time for someone at work to come out and tell her she was late for a meeting, absorbing the expression on his face, inspecting the girl walking. Could she just see the side of her face? If she zoomed in far enough it did look like she was laughing. Ella had felt jealous of women in magazines before; at their perfection, but she’d never before felt jealous of a photograph. Never of an expression.

  CHAPTER 12

  MADDY

  The lost luggage had tipped Maddy over the edge. She’d held it together while filling in the form but then cried all the way in the taxi to Ella’s flat. There she had sat down on the sofa in the dark, pulled a blanket soft as fur over her and gone to sleep.

  When she woke up, her first thought had been why was there a Christmas tree on the floor in front of the bookshelves. But that had only caught her attention for a second because, glancing round the rest of the apartment, she realised there was so much more be astounded by. In front of her was a TV the size of a cinema screen mounted on a pristine white wall. On her right were three windows, floor to ceiling, opening out onto a balcony that was at road level but set back from the pavement as, she noticed getting up and peering out and down, there was a basement flat below her that had a little courtyard garden. Behind the huge grey sofa, that was long enough and wide enough for her to have an incredibly comfortable night’s sleep, was a dining table to seat eight and chairs so gorgeously designed, the wood so soft that they made her need to run her hand along them. Apart from the tree lying on the floor the only nod to Christmas was in the corner, above the table, where a bunch of silver and gold tissue paper pompoms hung from a hook in the ceiling. A huge white rug covered great slabs of floorboard and as Maddy walked barefoot across the varnished boards she found herself in the wide open hallway, a bathroom that looked like it was from a hotel off to her left, the bedroom next to that, she deduced from the barely open door, and then in front of her was the kitchen. She took a couple of steps forward, almost unable to believe quite how stunning it was. Marble topped work surfaces hugged the walls and in the centre an island unit similar to her mum’s but still seemingly fresh out the box. The double oven sparkled, the huge industrial hobs glistened, the white porcelain sink with its fancy taps looked unused. Walking forward, Maddy ran her fingers over the marble, then the kettle that was all dials and lights and see-through, the Nespresso machine, the juicer, the pasta maker, the fish boiler, the bread maker, the Dualit toaster, the Phillipe Starck lemon squeezer, the Sabatier knives, the open shelves stacked with Sophie Conran bowls and plates, Tiffany wine glasses, a modern crystal decanter and matching tumblers. None of it, aside from perhaps the glasses, looked like it had ever been touched. She pulled open the huge Smeg fridge, empty apart from six bottles of Bollinger, a pint of milk, HP sauce and Chanel Rouge nail varnish. Maddy went over to the other side of the room and opened the cupboards behind the kitchen table, one after the other, finding beautifully folded sheets, towels, tea-towels. Then what looked like wedding presents still in boxes – more glasses, more china. The other cupboards were empty save for some Quaker oats and a half box of Alpen with no added sugar or salt. On the big glass table was a fruit bowl but in it was a collection of multi-coloured Christmas baubles and a bunch of fairy lights. She stood with her hands resting on the edge of the island and looked around, taking in this beautiful restaurant standard kitchen and almost felt sad for it, its complete and total lack of use.

  ‘I’ll use you.’ she said, looking at the oven and hob and all the other appliances. ‘Don’t worry, your existence won’t be totally in vain.’

  Then she battled for five minutes to work out how to turn the kettle on.

  Finally, cup of tea in hand, she wandered over to the large double doors on the wall adjacent to the fridge and stood looking out onto a communal patio at the back of the apartment block, the ground speckled with dewy frost and trails of bird footprints. Putting her tea down on a little cafe table and chairs that sat in the corner of the room, obviously set up to catch the morning sun, she turned the knob and threw the windows open, a gust of icy air streaming in.

  I made it she said to herself as she took in a great gulp of freezing air, felt it travel through her body, making her shiver. Wrapping her arms around her, she stepped out into the frost.

  I made it to London.

  The patio was stark, there were bins against the back wall and a recycling unit. The little section she stood in was backed onto by three other flats – one the curtains were drawn tight, in the other, she glanced to the right, she saw an old woman sitting at a bureau similar to the Chippendale her grandparents had stored in her room. Grey hair up in a chignon, glasses on the end of her nose, big white cardigan pulled tight around her waist, the woman was writing a letter Maddy thought, her fountain pen scratching furiously across the paper. She peered forward to see more, the dim room was lit only by the low tones of red and green from the Tiffany sidelight. She knew she shouldn’t be looking but she couldn’t resist.

  In the corner of the room was a Christmas tree, its spindly, half-dead branches draped with raggedy tinsel and old-fashioned decorations that would sell now as antiques, next to it the woman’s slippers sat side by side kicked neatly off perhaps as she’d curled up on the dark chintzy sofa. No, Maddy thought, she didn’t look the type to curl up. Along the mantle piece were ornaments dotted among sprigs of holly, a newspaper was folded on the marquetry coffee table, a pair of spectacles rested
on the sideboard. As Maddy was on her tiptoes trying to see more, the woman turned sharply in her seat and caught her snooping. The look of displeasure in her eyes made Maddy dive back into the flat, slam the French doors shut and dart into the bedroom.

  Leaning with her back against the closed bedroom door she took a couple of breaths to calm her beating heart. Her mum was always telling her not to be so nosy, but the lives of others had always been so fascinating. Like their grass was always greener than hers.

  As she opened her eyes she felt suddenly like she was standing in the middle of one of the Elle Decoration magazines that the tourists left behind at the taverna. Metres and metres of aquamarine silk cascaded like a waterfall along one wall of windows, the cream carpet was thick between her toes like squelching through mud, the bed was huge, bigger than any bed Maddy had seen before and piled high with cushions – silks and velvets, tasseled and sequinned – the bedding was the same cream as the carpet, the throw a waffle blanket of the same watery blue as the curtains. On Ella’s side was a book about marketing and on Max’s a car magazine with a Ferrari on the front.

  Maddy tiptoed to Ella’s side of the bed, irrationally checking behind her that no one was looking before she sat down on the soft duvet and leant forward to pull open the drawer of the bedside table. Paracetamol, ear plugs, an eye mask and a biro lay neatly side by side. But then she pulled the drawer out further and saw at the back what had once been a photograph but was now just scrunched cracked paper, the image of maybe three people, possibly two, faded and pale. There was just enough colour left to make out a cat. She held it close to her face – yep it was Suki, the cute kitten that had turned into a feral beast as they were growing up. She flattened out the picture, trying to make out what the rest of it, who was in it and why Ella would have kept it.

  As she switched on the bedside lamp and held it up against the light, a loud rap on the door made her jump. The photo fluttered out of her hand and she scrabbled to catch it as it fell like a feather back and forth in the air. Snatching it up, she stuffed it back in the drawer and walked tentatively over to the front door to peer through the spy hole.

  The woman from next door was peering back.

  ‘Hello.’ She heard her call. ‘Hello, I know you’re in there.’

  Silencing the part of her that wanted to run and hide in the bathroom, Maddy yanked open the door and said, ‘Hi,’ with a beaming smile, pretending that she’d been neither spying nor snooping.

  The woman looked at her over the top of her bifocals. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Maddy. Ella’s sister.’

  ‘The girl in the suits and the high heels?’

  Maddy frowned. ‘Yes. Ella, who lives here.’

  ‘I don’t know her name.’ The woman shrugged, her lip curled.

  ‘But she’s your neighbour.’

  ‘So?’

  Maddy, realising she hadn’t brushed her teeth and was still in yesterday’s clothes, took a step back and positioned herself half behind the door while she felt the woman scrutinise her.

  ‘I thought you were an intruder.’

  ‘No.’ Maddy shook her head, ‘I’m just staying here while she’s away. I’m Maddy.’

  The woman ignored her outstretched hand, kept her own gnarled fingers clasped tight in front of her, big diamonds winked in the low lobby light. ‘They had a row. I heard them,’ she said. ‘Did you know they’d had a row? I never normally see them at all – come in late, leave early – but I heard this.’ She pursed her lips as if annoyed that she’d said as much as she had. Displayed her interest. ‘Anyway. I have things to do. I’d rather you didn’t look into my flat. They usually keep the blind down.’

  ‘But then there’s no view.’

  The woman scoffed. ‘It’s an ugly space. It’s for the bins.’

  And when Maddy tried to disagree, the woman turned and disappeared back into her flat leaving her standing alone to consider the preposterous fact that none of the neighbours knew each other. At home Maddy knew the whole village, practically. There was one new family she was less familiar with but that was because they were Portuguese and the language barrier made it hard to chat, but the husband and wife had come into the bar a couple of times. Christ, she even knew the tourists. If someone was there for more than a week, Maddy knew them. That was half the fun of it. So many different stories, so many different lives.

  Yet this woman didn’t even know Ella’s name.

  The alarm on her phone beeped as she was still standing looking at the woman’s closed front door. The clock in the hallway said eleven o’clock. She vaguely remembered setting it last night so she could make sure she had enough time to call the airline and try and sort out her baggage before starting work.

  Five minutes on hold, transferred to three different departments, there was still no sign of it. No luggage. No clothes.

  I’m sorry madam but we are incredibly busy over the holiday period and staff shortages mean that some queries are experiencing unexpected delays.

  No presents. She glanced at the Christmas tree that lay across the floor.

  Going over to it she knelt down and ran her fingers through the branches, the scent of pine rising up through the air. So Ella and Max had had a row. Was that why the tree was discarded on the floor? Rubbing her hands together and smelling the Christmassy sap on her fingers, she pushed herself back up and padded back to the bedroom. It wasn’t so much the idea that perhaps Ella’s life wasn’t as perfect as Maddy always presumed it to be that she mulled over on the way, but the simple fact that at one time they would have confided in each other when things took a turn for the worst. They used to tell each other everything. Ella would sit on the bathroom floor reading magazine problem pages while Maddy was in the bath and she’d give Maddy the low down on everything that was happening with her friends – who was snogging who at school, who Ella wanted to snog but who she thought would never want to snog her. All Maddy wanted to be when she grew up was Ella. Except a bit cooler. If it was Sweet Valley High she wanted to be Jessica to Ella’s Elizabeth.

  When she got to the bedroom Maddy pulled open Ella’s wardrobe and all thoughts of anything flew straight out of her mind.

  ‘Oh my god.’ She held her hand in front of her mouth and stared. Before her were row upon row of the most gorgeous clothes she’d ever seen. Maddy actually gasped. Her fingers reached forward to stroke a soft pink cashmere sweater while her eyes had already moved onto a charcoal silk shift with antique lace trim and a pair of snakeskin cigarette pants with Gucci on the label. Flicking through the hangers she was dazzled by names she’d only ever seen in Grazia; Stella McCartney, Fendi, Cavalli, Max Mara, J Crew, Jil Sander. The fabrics rippled and swished, and in her hands had the satisfying weight of expense. Then there were the shoes. She had to bend down to fully absorb them. All lined up on the floor of the wardrobe, some so precious they were in little white bags. Boxes of Manolo stilettos were stacked next to buttery leather knee high boots and black suede pumps with the double T logo of Tory Burch on the toe.

  Maddy just wanted to climb inside the wardrobe and live there. Clothes had never been something she’d spent a lot of money on, but when she’d flicked through the tourists’ magazines, her feet up on the railing at the taverna, an ice cold Coke next to her, and imagined herself strutting through the streets of London, these were the clothes that she’d have worn in her fantasy.

  It was only as she was speeding through the items, wondering if any of it was actually appropriate for singing in a London bar, that she noticed it was all ranked in order of style. Cocktail dresses at one end, work wear in the middle, then casual clothes and lastly jackets and coats. The shoes she then realised were lined up in similar order. And the clothes folded on the shelves weren’t in piles per item but instead seemed to be arranged in outfits. Jeans with belt and t-shirt. Trousers, shirt and cardigan. Then she saw the polaroids stuck on the inside of the wardrobe door. Outfits, categorised. She poured over the pictures – 1. White trousers
, yellow shirt, gold loafers, red necktie. 2. Black dress, turquoise pashmina, silver stilettos.

  When they were kids Ella was a hopeless dresser. Her jeans were always too short and the waist too high. Her trainers were always super white and her jumpers shapeless. Maddy would pretend that she didn’t hear when people sniggered when she stood on stage in school assembly and was handed the poetry prize, then the maths prize, then a trophy for a national essay writing competition.

  She stared at the polaroids again. Was this how Ella was living? Not suddenly a successful, fashionable WAG but constructed like a paint by numbers. Maddy bit her lip, felt a small ache in her chest.

  From where she stood she could still see the Christmas tree on the floor in the living room and it all suddenly seemed just desperately sad.

  CHAPTER 13

  ELLA

  Lunchtime rolled into evening. The boat party seated themselves at the big long table they’d set up at the start of the shift. The artists sat on the promontory in their own little gang. Alexander, the usual evening waiter, in his mid-fifties with hair the same colour as his perfectly pressed white shirt, arrived and immediately allocated Ella and dreadfully moody Agatha the tables they’d be waiting while her mother and grandmother worked tirelessly in the kitchen.

  Ella was determined to do better than that morning. She’d gone up to her room after her lunch and changed out of her tight white jeans and into a looser black pair of trousers and a fitted black t-shirt. She’d given her hair a quick wash and plaited it neatly so it was away from her face. She’d looped a gold Chanel chain round her neck, just to add a touch of class and slipped on her Prada loafers. Then she had stood in front of the mirror and said, ‘It’s just a role, Ella. All you have to do is fit it.’ She thought of garden parties with Max and his friends, the girls’ insincere fawning while glancing over her shoulder to see who else was walking in. To fit in Max’s world she had learnt the laugh, the touch of the arm, the charming compliment, the immediate self-deprecation, the languid blink, the hierarchy.