A Not Quite Perfect Family

by Claire Sandy

  ‘Let’s take it extremely fast,’ said Adam. ‘I’m home and I want to stay. This old house, with all its rotting windows and its uneven floors and its horrific tiles in the downstairs loo, is where I want to be. With you. And our children. And Amelie. And Nora. And Evka. And Patrik. How come everybody wants to live here?’

  ‘Because it’s bloody fabulous here. Even the tiles in the downstairs loo. They’re fashionably retro, Adam, not horrific. And you and me,’ she leaned in for a kiss just because she could, ‘we’re fashionably retro, too.’

  DJ Dirty Tequila’s chill-out playlist suited the mood as weary dancers flopped into chairs, coffee was drained, minicabs called by tipsy people trying to sound sober as they recited their addresses.

  Penny made unsteadily for the bar, which by now was running low.

  Hope she likes Cointreau and Tizer, thought Fern, making a mental note to assign Ollie to walking-Penny-home duty when he’d finished his set. If that’s the right word. Surveying the embers of the wedding from a bench at the dark end of the garden, beyond the lanterns’ reach, Fern and Adam sat side by side on a bench, sharing a half-full bottle of Dom Perignon. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it, a night like tonight?’

  ‘Yup.’ Adam tipped the bottle into his mouth. ‘Think what, exactly?’

  ‘About life. Love. Longevity.’

  ‘And other things beginning with L. All in all,’ said Adam, ‘we were good at splitting up.’

  ‘Not that good, thankfully.’

  ‘I didn’t get any cake.’ Adam pouted as he realized. ‘Is it all gone?’

  ‘Every last mouthful.’ Fern had been up half the night icing. Only at the last moment had she realized she didn’t have a plate big enough to hold the chocolate/vanilla colossus. Setting off grumpily to panic-buy a dish, she’d almost tripped over a brown-wrapped package on the front step.

  Curvaceous, pearly, the hand-made platter was enormous; a truly celebratory piece. She’d recognized the style. It was a sweet touch from Hal. A lasting memento.

  ‘What’s the sigh for?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Nothing. Everything. Oh God, I’m off again.’ Fern reached for the hanky in Adam’s pocket as a light went on up in the eaves. ‘Looks like Evka and Patrik have retired for the night.’ Fern dabbed her eyes. ‘Do you think they’ll ever move out?’

  ‘People don’t move out of Homestead House,’ said Adam, wryly.

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Not for long.’

  Fitting her cheek into the spot where it was meant to be, against Adam’s chest, Fern murmured, ‘If we just sit here perhaps the guests will let themselves out and the dishes will wash themselves.’

  A long, joyful note of laughter penetrated all the way to their hidey-hole at the end of the garden.

  ‘Layla!’ they smiled together.

  ‘She looks so well,’ said Adam. ‘Women are so cute when they’re pregnant.’

  ‘Don’t know about cute,’ said Fern. ‘We’re warriors when we’ve got a baby inside us. Especially when . . .’

  They both fell silent.

  ‘They’re strong,’ said Adam. ‘God knows what I’d do in their shoes.’

  The ground had tilted beneath Fern when Layla had Skyped to share the results of the amniocentesis. Fern had kept repeating, ‘They’re sure? They’re absolutely certain?’ until Layla had almost snapped, ‘Fern, they’re sure. It’s a girl and she’s tested positive for Down’s syndrome.’

  Furious with the uncaring universe, Fern had said, ‘What now?’

  ‘What else?’ Layla had shrugged. ‘We wait for our daughter to come out and say hello.’

  Fern had been struck dumb. By the courage and the love and, if she was honest, fear.

  ‘Will you be godmother?’ Layla had asked. There was defiance in her voice, and the tiniest hint of a tear.

  ‘Hell, yeah.’

  ‘You’re the perfect godmother,’ Layla had said, ‘for our perfect daughter.’ Then they’d both cried, but the tears hadn’t been desperate ones. They’d laughed too. ‘No wringing of hands, OK?’ Layla had warned. ‘Luc and I have longed for a baby, and now it’s happening. We’re going to love her.’

  ‘No, you’re going to lurve her!’

  ‘We’re going to la-la-la-LURVE her!’

  A simple plan, but a foolproof one.

  Looking up at Adam, Fern said, ‘Let’s be really biased godparents. Let’s side with our goddaughter on everything, and give her sweets and let her stay up late.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Adam kissed her nose. His lips strayed down her face, then stopped short of her mouth. ‘Did Nora seem all right to you today? She kept yammering on about giving us a wedding present, as if it was us getting married.’

  ‘Kiss me!’ Fern was greedy about Adam’s kisses since she’d regained access to his erogenous zones. ‘Mmm. I think you’ve got better at kissing. To answer your question, Nora’s definitely OK, but for some reason she bought us a present. She’ll give it to us later, she said.’

  Another noise bit through the night: a reedy wail that could only be one member of the family.

  ‘Poor Amelie. It’s way past her bedtime.’

  ‘Spoken like a true grandma.’

  ‘Of all your pet names for me, that’s my least favourite.’ Something struck Fern and she said happily, ‘I never think of myself as a step-granny. She really is ours, isn’t she?’

  ‘In all the ways that matter, yes. DNA’s meaningless, I’ve decided. I think she’s going to be musical.’

  ‘Maz was at the door earlier.’

  ‘What?’ Adam sat up. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d react like that.’

  ‘Why can’t he stay away like he promised? The little sod abandoned poor Donna when she needed him.’

  ‘He’s young.’

  ‘We’ve all been young. It doesn’t excuse him.’

  ‘Better learn to tolerate him, Ads. He’ll be around forever. The kids bring people into our lives and we have to go with the flow. A few years from now we’ll be exchanging worried glances about Tallie’s boyfriends.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ve only just got used to her having teeth and forming whole sentences.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Fern sat up, peered down the lawn to the house. ‘The music’s stopped.’

  The guests were chattering like monkeys, and Fern heard Ollie say, ‘She’s down there, I think, at the end of the garden.’

  Fern stood up as a figure stole through the blackness, its outline firming up as it drew nearer.

  Stock still, Fern could only gape.

  ‘This must be Nora’s present,’ said Adam. ‘The clever old bat.’

  Fern’s mother, a little crumpled from her long journey, stood a little way away from her daughter. ‘Am I welcome, love?’

  Fern ran to her mum, and they were both sorry and they were both happy, and Adam left them to it.

  Homestead House was full once more.

  Up in the loft, Evka and Patrik were having audibly athletic sex: Fern insisted they were playing ‘indoor football’ to Tallulah and Carey, who were sleeping head-to-toe in Tallie’s bed.

  In the spare room, Fern’s mum was making herself comfortable, texting pictures of Amelie to Dave, and holding a framed photo of her deceased first husband to her heart while she had the good long cry she so sorely needed.

  Out in the garden, the lights had gone off in the annexe.

  A couple of streets away, still the Homestead empire, Ollie and Donna were crashed out with Amelie, who took up the lion’s share of the new Ikea bed.

  At the window of their bedroom, Fern and Adam drew the curtains and turned to each other.

  ‘It looks like a bomb site out there,’ murmured Fern against Adam’s lips.

  ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

  ‘How did I let you talk me into clearing up tomorrow?’ Fern cuffed him around the head, lovingly.

  ‘Everybody’ll help. We’ve got all day.’
/>   ‘I should just steep that lasagne dish.’ Fern turned away, but was twirled neatly back into Adam’s arms.

  ‘No,’ he said sternly, as if shooing Boudicca away from a delicious cowpat. ‘I don’t want to let you out of my sight.’ It felt a little like an affair, but with zero guilt.

  Like newlyweds themselves, they were being thoughtful, careful with each other. Secretly, Fern looked forward to when they’d be an old pair of slippers once more; she craved normality. There was a future to-do list already writing itself in her head.

  More lovemaking.

  Less criticism.

  More fun.

  Less time spent as CEO of Homestead Enterprises.

  More good old-fashioned togetherness.

  Adam’s kisses were intense, as if the months apart had scooped out a void that only Fern’s body could fill. As he led her to the bed – their bed – she remembered how he’d wordlessly handed her a letter out in the garden, as goodbyes were said and good luck wishes rained down on them from the departing guests. Now the note sat with its comrades in the faded box, but she could quote it already.

  Dear Fern

  Two Great Rifts are enough for any couple. Let’s keep talking to each other, and snogging each other, and being each other’s best friend. We almost threw a diamond in the trash but now we can spend the rest of our lives making up for it.

  I want to empty your bins forever, mum of my kids, maker of my cuppas, sexiest thing ever.

  A xxx

  Lying together on the rumpled bed, messily entwined and perfectly comfortable, Fern listened to the house ticking and shifting in the dark. All the people she loved – and that figure had expanded in the past year – were within cuddling range.

  ‘How poor are we?’ whispered Fern, hoping Adam wouldn’t move.

  ‘Not really poor. The same as we were before Roomies with a bit extra. We’re fine.’

  ‘But we’re not wealthy any more, thanks to Lincoln Speed’s offensive meltdown?’

  ‘Nope. Sorry, Fernie.’

  No doubt Lincoln Speed would go on to star in his own rehab reality programme, but Roomies was dead in the water.

  ‘For richer, for poorer, remember?’ Fern played with Adam’s chest hair. He had just the right amount; not enough to remind her of the filter in the dryer; not so little that her thoughts turned to raw chicken.

  ‘The money just complicated everything. Now it’s just you and me and, well, the fifty other people in this house. We can have the perfect marriage.’

  ‘Perfect?’ Fern curled her lip. ‘I’ve gone off that word.’ The wedding had gone to plan, yet had been only a blurred copy of the image in her head, an image placed there by the countless magazine articles and TV programmes and Instagram images she’d gulped down unthinkingly over the years.

  The pristine cloths on each table were spotted with Ribena smears and red wine. The delicate flower arrangements wilted. Binkie had thrown up a furball on the cake. Tallie had mangled her divine but simple head dress. Nora had proudly told the congregation she wasn’t a virgin.

  ‘Today was perfect,’ said Adam.

  ‘Actually, yes, it was.’ Fern might have to redefine the word.

  ‘I’ve had an offer for the penthouse, or, as you prefer to call it, my mid-life crisis den.’

  ‘Good.’ The sooner that flat was off their hands, the better. Fern had plans to spend the profit on Homestead House. The roof needed attention, and the gutters were full of moss. Now, more than ever, the house represented Adam and Fern; she’d give it some TLC, tidy the roof, paint the shed. ‘You are . . .’ She blinked hard. ‘You are glad to be back in this house, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’ Adam sounded as upset as he was surprised. ‘Are you seriously asking me that?’ He squeezed her hard. ‘This place is the centre of the universe.’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  This book wouldn’t be in your hands right now if it wasn’t for my brilliant editor Caroline Hogg, and the rest of the team at Pan Macmillan. Thank you for your insight, dedication and breezy professionalism.

  Thank you also, Matthew and Niamh, for allowing me to lock myself away and write.

  Dinner Party Recipes and Tips

  by Claire Sandy

  The first tip about having a dinner party is don’t, under any circumstances, call it a dinner party. ‘Come round for a bite to eat!’ is the best way to phrase it. Lower expectations, and then surpass them. You needn’t produce a towering pyramid of profiteroles, just feed them well, treat them kindly, and get them a wee bit squiffy. Below are my rules. This is hard-won advice, people: I suffered so you don’t have to.

  1. Choose your guests with care. Invite people you like. Sounds simple, but I’ve often deviated from this cardinal rule and I’ve lived to regret it. If the people you like are also chatty, greedy and appreciative, so much the better. They’ll forgive your little mistakes. Never throw a grudge dinner; cooking an elaborate meal in order to impress (and thereby somehow demolish) a love/work rival, your horrible ma-in-law, or that couple across the road who cast sniffy looks at your window boxes does. Not. Work.

  2. Don’t overdo it. Three courses? Are you kidding? When every plate, spoon and pot in the house is already in use? I’ve never offered a proper starter and I’ve had no complaints. A meal, especially with coffee and all the lovely chocolatey treats the guests bring (if you’ve abided by rule one, above), entails long hours sitting on one’s bum, so stand your guests up for nibbles, and let them roam.

  3. Let your guests serve themselves. Personally, I eat like Henry VIII whenever I go out for dinner, but it’s kinder to let your friends pace themselves, and discreetly leave out the element of the meal they secretly loathe. Lay out the food in your prettiest (which doesn’t mean poshest) dishes, add serving spoons and let them graze. (And if you invite my husband, ensure he goes last or nobody else will have anything to eat.)

  4. Keep calm. This is a cliché, I know, but your visitors really are here to see you. The food is a bonus. If something goes wrong, look hard at it, swear to yourself (this helps) and think how it can be rescued. I once made a pavlova that looked like . . . well, let’s not go into that, but I smashed it up and laid it out with strawberries and cream and presented it as a do-it-yourself Eton Mess. I’ve had to stick slices of beef Wellington under the grill while diners sat salivating, knives and forks in their hands. If you overcook the carrots because you’ve been dousing yourself with Aperol spritzers, throw out the little buggers and declare that carrots are off the menu. Go with it.

  Below are three of my tried and trusted recipes. Like the magazines say, these are triple-tested. Dammit, they’re tested into double figures. With these in your repertoire, you can build a meal around them with confidence. So what are you waiting for? Look up ‘Nice People’ in your contacts, set a date, and get planning.

  A KILLER NIBBLE: Marinated Parmesan

  Yes, at first sight this looks like a heart attack-inducing bowl of cheese but oh, the taste. It’s divinely subtle and moreish, salty and spicy, and it will all disappear; there may even be fist fights at your kitchen island.

  Roughly chop your (rather pricey, sorry) 250g chunk of parmesan until it looks like rubble (not dust – this is a rubble situation, please). In a bowl, combine the cheese with one crushed clove of garlic, two finely chopped spring onions, one teaspoon of chilli flakes and 125ml of your favourite extra virgin olive oil (the one you’re a bit scared to use because it cost so much). Give it a stir, and leave the whole thing to its own devices for a couple of hours. Decant into another bowl and stir in finely chopped oregano. Guests just dip in with their fingers, invariably muttering about ‘dairy’ and ‘cholesterol’, and just as invariably eating it all.

  A KILLER SIDE: Baked Rice

  This bulks up a plate, looks delicate and tastes delicious. It has a delicate but definite savouriness, and is the recipe I’m most asked for when I ‘entertain’. This serves four normal people, or just me and my husband
.

  Whack on your oven to 190°C (170°C fan). In an ovenproof pan with a lid, melt some oil and butter and sauté six chopped shallots (I cheat and use frozen ones). When the shallots are soft, chuck in (over your shoulder, if you like) two teaspoons of cumin seeds. Add 250g basmati rice and 50g toasted almonds, and stir until the rice is coated with the lovely buttery sludge. Season well at this point. Pour in 550ml hot vegetable stock, add two lime leaves and bring to the boil. Lid on, and into the oven it goes for twenty minutes. This will keep warm-ish for a while, so no need to time it too carefully. It tastes just as good at room temperature, although remember to tease it a little with a fork before setting it out.

  KILLER DESSERT: Bark

  Yes, bark. I suppose it’s called that because it looks a little like the bark from a tree. Your dinner needs a swan-song to send your guests out into the cold feeling full and cared for; this indulgent, chocolatey, unthinkably calorific treat will do the trick. Combine with ice cream, or hand out with the coffee and those stupid fruit teas everybody’s so mad about these days.

  Line a baking tray with baking paper. In a medium saucepan, melt a generous knob of butter (generous knob! Made myself laugh!) and heat up 100g of unsalted cashews, a pinch of allspice and 1 tablespoon of maple syrup. Let this gooey mess cool.

  Separately, melt 200g milk chocolate and 200g dark chocolate. Pour them on to the baking tray and swirl them together in a carefree, arty way until you have a blobby chocolate shape. Roughly chop your cooled buttery nuts and scatter them over the chocolate. More melting – this time it’s 25g white chocolate, which you drizzle over the whole slab. If you like, use a toothpick to tease the white chocolate into feathery patterns. If you like the taste of chilli with chocolate, now’s the time to scatter a few flakes.

  Let it set, and then ease the whole abstract creation off the baking paper and on to a large platter. Allow your guests to break pieces off for themselves and expect conversation to slow down into a series of orgasmic grunts.

  What Would Mary Berry Do?