by Liz Eeles
Millicent, it seems, has no difficulty in being assertive.
‘Give the girl a break,’ says Phyllis, grabbing my other arm. ‘She’s got such a pretty face and a kind and gentle personality. All that’s needed are a few minor changes.’
‘Then we need to work out a plan,’ declares Stanley. ‘I have experience of becoming your best self and the Cosy Kettle Afternoon Book Club likes to get its teeth stuck into something.’ I give a wobbly smile, not sure that I want this lot sticking their teeth into me. But Stanley’s on a roll.
‘Right.’ He consults the calendar on his mobile phone. ‘I’ll draw up a meeting schedule’ – meeting schedule? – ‘and we’ll have an action plan in place by the beginning of next week. Don’t worry, Becca. Your personality is in safe hands.’
‘OK. Thank you,’ I say, very unassertively, before carrying the empty cups past the Christmas tree to the counter. My quest to make my wish come true just became a whole lot more complicated.
But looking on the bright side, at least I can’t back out now. It’s rather like telling everyone you’re on a diet so people will shout if you stuff your face with biscuits. Stanley and his gang will help to keep me on track when the going gets tough, and it’s kind of them to care. So it’s a good thing, really. Good for my Christmas wish, and good for me.
Seven
Zac takes his eyes off the road and snorts. ‘You’ve got the afternoon book club on the case? That is unreal! I mean, what could possibly go wrong?’
‘Do you think it’s going to be disastrous, then?’
‘Not disastrous, but definitely interesting.’ He laughs and turns left into my parents’ housing estate. ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Nervous, though I guess it’ll be fine as long as Stanley doesn’t go overboard on his action plan.’
‘He’s drawn up an action plan?’ When Zac snorts again, his battered Renault Clio swerves slightly and lightly clips the kerb.
‘Hey, watch where you’re going. If we don’t turn up in one piece, my mum will kill you.’
‘Is she fierce?’
‘Not usually, but she turns into a tigress when she’s protecting her cubs, me and Jasmine. The only time I ever saw her stand up to authority was when I got a detention for reading a book in class. I’d finished my work so it was either read or sit there doing nothing for ten minutes. Mum told the teacher he was a plonker drunk on power, then spent sleepless nights worrying about it.’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ murmurs Zac, turning into my parents’ road of suburban, featureless semis. ‘Which house is theirs?’
‘The one right at the end with the green door.’ I twist towards him in my seat. ‘Are you sure about coming with me to see them? You didn’t have to.’
‘I know, but I figured it was about time I met your family.’ He makes it sound like we’ve just got engaged or something. ‘Anyway, we’re here now. Whoah!’
He pulls up outside my childhood home and peers through the windscreen. Dad has turned on the Christmas lights early, in honour of our visit, and they’re shining at us through the gloom of a grey winter’s day. Though ‘shining’ isn’t really the right word for them – ‘glaring’, maybe. Or ‘blinding’.
Dad always goes overboard with the external decorations and he’s outdone himself this year. A huge plastic Father Christmas is waving at people from the garden. There’s a family of reindeer on the roof with bright red noses, and the walls of the house are hidden behind hanging strands of flashing multi-coloured lights. Millicent would have a fit.
Zac gets out of the car and stretches his long legs. ‘I get the feeling your family are quite keen on Christmas.’
‘My parents always make a bit of a fuss. Whatever you do, don’t criticise Dad’s display or he’ll go off on one and that’ll be it for the afternoon.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. They’re great, don’t you think? Maybe we should do something similar outside our place.’
‘Can you imagine the reaction of the Honeyford Heritage Trust if we besmirched their historic town with such a garish display?’
‘Alan would probably self-combust if we installed Rudolf on the roof.’ We both grin at the thought of Alan’s reaction. He heads the voluntary Trust and likes to think that nothing happens in Honeyford without his say-so.
‘Right. I’m going in.’ Zac opens the gate and heads for the front door.
‘Happy holidays!’ says a tinny voice as he passes the Santa on the lawn. Dad has installed an actual talking Father Christmas in the garden! My anxiety levels shoot up as I wonder whether inviting Zac to meet my family was a good idea. It seemed sensible and mutually beneficial at the time – he provides me with moral support and, in return, enjoys one of Mum’s legendary roast dinners. It’s a win-win situation. But maybe he’ll think my family are totally over the top and odd.
Oh well, too late now.
Before I can fit my key into the lock, the front door is wrenched open and a huge dalmatian bowls past me and starts savaging Santa, shaking him from side to side.
‘Bad dog! Leave him alone or you’ll get electrocuted,’ shouts my dad, standing on the doorstep with his hands on his hips. ‘Bloody stupid animal,’ he mutters. ‘Hello, Beccs, long time no see. Go on through while I sort the mutt out.’
‘Hi, Dad. Can’t you keep that dog under control? He frightened the life out of me.’ I steal a glance at Zac, who’s watching the destruction of Santa with his mouth open. This is probably not the best introduction to my family. Taking his arm, I lead him past Dad into the hallway and hang up his coat.
‘That’s an enormous dog.’ Zac peers out of the hall window, into the front garden. ‘I had no idea your parents had a dog like that. You’ve never mentioned him.’
‘That’s ’cos he’s not ours. Dad looks after him for Sid, down the road, when Sid’s visiting his daughter or on holiday. Though it’s always Mum who ends up taking him for walks. Follow me.’
I lead Zac through the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house, where I know I’ll find Mum because the smell of roasting meat is wafting through the house. And there she is, at the sink, peeling carrots. Everything around her is neat and tidy, even though she’s in the throes of cooking for five adults.
‘Becca!’ she says, her face breaking into a huge grin. She wipes her hands on her apron before giving me a hug. She smells of lavender soap, as always, but she feels less cuddly than usual, as though she’s lost weight since I was last here. I give her an extra, anxious squeeze.
She releases me and smiles at Zac. ‘And you’ve brought your young man with you. How lovely.’
‘This is Zac, who’s the good friend I live with.’
‘Well, it’s about time you brought him around. We’ve heard enough about him.’
‘All good stuff, honestly,’ I tell Zac, who says hello and offers to help with the carrots. When Mum refuses, he wanders past me and stares at her paintings that are propped up drying in the utility room.
I don’t know where Mum finds the time to paint, and she didn’t for ages when Jasmine and I were growing up. But I’m glad she seems to have got her art mojo back recently. Dad thinks it’s a waste of time because her art doesn’t bring in any money, but she always seems more relaxed and happier with a paintbrush in her hand.
She spots Zac peering at the pictures and winces. ‘Ignore my dabblings, Zac. They’re not terribly good but they keep me out of mischief.’
‘They’re more than dabblings.’ He walks closer to Mum’s watercolour of the nearby canal. In the centre of the picture is a decaying houseboat whose blue paint is flaking into the murky brown water. ’This is really good,’ he says. ‘It’s very atmospheric. You’re very talented.’
Mum’s cheeks flush pink at the compliment.
‘Do you think so? That’s lovely of you to say so but Peter wouldn’t agree. He reckons my pictures are ugly because I like painting things that are old or broken down. But I find them more fascinating than pretty-pr
etty landscapes.’
‘Dad’s not an art critic, Mum, and Zac’s right – your paintings are really good and you should have more confidence in yourself.’ I pause for a moment to savour the irony of me telling someone else to be more confident. ‘Talking of Dad, how long has he said you’ll have the dog this time?’
‘Until Sid returns from skiing in Andorra with his new wife.’
‘Has Sid got married again?’ When Zac looks puzzled, I mouth at him, ‘Number four.’
Mum sighs. ‘What can I say? That man is addicted to love and romance… and divorce,’ she adds in an undertone. ’Anyway, while he’s off honeymooning once more, we get to look after Tiny.’ She rolls her eyes at Zac. ‘Sid likes to think he has a sense of humour. But believe me, it’s not funny when you’re yelling “Tiny” at a massive dalmatian in the park and everyone thinks you’re off your head.’
Did I imagine it or did she give me The Look when she said ‘off your head’? I’m never going to live down the months I spent hiding under my duvet in Birmingham, withdrawing from life.
Mum scoops up the scraped carrots and drops them into a pan of bubbling water. ‘Why don’t you take Zac into the sitting room and get him a drink before lunch? Jasmine will be down in a minute. She’s upstairs at the moment with another box of her stuff that she wants to store here. Honestly, I feel like I’m living in a storage facility sometimes.’
‘Why don’t we give you a hand, Mum? You look tired.’
Usually Mum’s skin is glowing and her thick brown hair is pulled into a bun. But today her hair is hanging loose to her shoulders and looks as though it’s hardly been brushed. And her blue eyes look less bright than usual, as though a light has gone out. Jasmine’s right. There’s something up with Mum.
‘I wouldn’t hear of it because it’s your job to look after our guest.’ She starts shooing me and Zac towards the door with a tea towel. ‘Everything’s organised in here and I’m fine.’
Zac follows me back into the hall, ducking under paper chains looped across the ceiling, and steps into the sitting room. A fire is burning in the grate and a few fat flakes of snow are drifting down outside the double-glazed doors that open out into the back garden.
The garden has been spared my parents’ enthusiasm for all things Christmas. But inside, it’s a different story. Every available surface is draped with tinsel or covered with festive ornaments – from a china Santa and his elves to a miniature crib surrounded by wooden animals. The walls are festooned with Christmas cards fastened to long strands of scarlet ribbon with tiny clothes pegs.
‘What’s this?’ asks Zac, picking up a tubular mass of red crepe paper with blobs of cotton wool randomly applied to it.
‘That’s Father Christmas, made by me from an empty toilet roll, circa the year 2000.’
‘It’s a shame you haven’t inherited your mother’s artistic talents,’ he snorts, which is rather uncalled for, seeing as I was only six at the time. He picks up a glitter-encrusted piece of card and waves it at me. ‘And what’s this masterpiece?’
‘Honestly, Zac. Don’t you know anything? That is obviously an advent calendar made by Jasmine from an old cornflakes box.’
‘Of course it is. So do your mum and dad bring this stuff out every year?’
‘Yep, every single year.’
‘Aw, I think it’s sweet.’
‘It is quite sweet, though it’s like our family Christmases have been frozen in time and Jasmine and I are still kids. I’ll be kicking off about eating broccoli before you know it.’
Zac grins as he carefully places Jasmine’s masterpiece back on the coffee table.
‘What about your parents, Zac? Do they go overboard at Christmas too?’
‘A bit, though they don’t have the same level of expertise, or vintage artwork.’ He nods at the snowman I made at school twenty years ago out of two ping-pong balls. Its eyes, drawn on with felt-tip pen, have smudged so it looks like its mascara has run. ‘It’s quite over the top, but it’s cheerful in here, isn’t it? More cheerful than our place.’
He’s got a point. The plastic mini-tree remains the only nod to Christmas in our cottage. But I’m getting a lovely full-on festive fix in The Cosy Kettle which twinkles all day with fairy lights and tinsel.
‘Your mum and dad seem nice,’ says Zac, wiping purple glitter from his hands.
‘They are, though Dad can be a bit overbearing at times. And I’m worried about Mum because there’s something wrong with her. Jasmine mentioned it when she came into The Cosy Kettle.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ Jasmine pokes her head around the door and smiles. ‘Hi, Becca. You managed to drag yourself out of Honeyford then. And who’s this?’
‘This is my friend Zac. He’s come for lunch.’
‘So you’re the elusive Zac.’ Jasmine walks into the room, all blonde and glowing, and holds out her hand. ‘How lovely to finally meet after I’ve heard such a lot about you. I’m Jasmine, Becca’s sister.’
Here it comes… I brace myself for the look of astonishment on Zac’s face. Even people who are expecting to meet my sister and know that we’re related can’t hide their surprise. But there’s not a flicker of emotion on Zac’s face.
‘It’s lovely to meet you too,’ he says, shaking her hand.
‘Likewise. I think Becca’s been hiding you away,’ she giggles.
Oh. My. God. Did Jasmine just give Zac her legendary head flick? There was definitely some head-shaking and tumbling hair going on. An unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness bubbles up inside me as Jasmine gazes around the sitting room.
‘Good grief. I can’t believe Mum’s still getting this old crap out of the loft every Christmas.’
‘I know. What did you think of the front garden?’
‘Dad’s excelled himself this year.’
‘Did Santa wish you a happy Christmas?’
‘Yeah, I almost had a heart attack. It must seem like a madhouse to you, Zac.’
‘Not at all. It’s just very… festive.’
‘It’s that all right.’ Jasmine gives Zac a sideways glance. ‘Has Becca offered you a drink?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Becca, you’re failing in your job as host.’ Jasmine crosses to the old-fashioned drinks cabinet and starts rooting around. ‘What can I get you? Whisky, gin or… yep, I thought as much… advocaat. Mum always gets a bottle in at this time of year though no one likes it. This is probably left over from last year, to be honest.’
‘Zac’s driving,’ I pipe up.
‘What are you, his mother? Zac, what’s your drink of choice?’
Zac sinks into one of Mum’s squashy armchairs and clears his throat. ‘I wouldn’t mind something soft, actually.’
‘Orange juice? There’s probably some in the fridge.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
As Jasmine sashays out of the room, I perch on the arm of Zac’s chair.
‘What do you think of Jasmine, then?’
He looks up at me and narrows his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said. What do you think of Jazz?’
‘She seems nice.’
‘Nice?’
‘Yeah, very nice.’
‘Very nice.’
Zac frowns. ‘Are you going to repeat everything I say? You’re being a bit odd.’
‘I am not,’ I tell him. Though I definitely am.
I’m not sure why I’m behaving strangely but my head feels out of sync. It’s being at home that does it. All this harking back to a past before life got tricky messes with my mind.
The clock ticks loudly on the mantelpiece as a strained silence stretches between me and Zac.
‘Here you go, Zac,’ trills Jasmine, bursting back into the room with a glass of orange juice in her hand. She places it on the side table next to his chair. ‘Zac, that’s a good strong name. Is it short for Zachariah?’
She is most definitely flirting.
‘It’s Zachary, actually, but no one ever calls me that except my mother, when I’ve done something wrong.’
‘Tell me about it. The only place I’m ever called Rebecca is in this house.’
‘Because that’s your name,’ says Dad, huffing into the room. He’s completely bald, and has been for as long as I can remember, but thick tufts of grey hair are poking out near the buttons of his pale blue polo shirt. ‘So this is your young man at last. It’s about time we met him.’
‘This is Zac, the friend I share a house with.’
‘So not your boyfriend, then?’ says Dad, upping the embarrassment a notch.
‘Nope, Zac is definitely a non-boyfriend.’
‘It’s good to meet you, sir,’ says Zac, standing up and shaking hands with Dad.
‘Sir?’ Dad smiles. ‘I like this one, Becca. He’s so much better than the last one you brought home. Charlie, was it? He was a bit of an idiot. It’s just as well he ditched you.’
Zac raises his eyebrows at me in sympathy. He knows all about good-looking Charlie, who broke my heart. Jasmine flirted with him too, if I remember rightly.
‘Lunch is ready,’ says Mum, sticking her head around the door, looking harassed and hot. ‘Come and sit down quickly or the food will get cold.’
‘Thank you, my sweet,’ says Dad, walking over to kiss her. But she moves before his lips can land on her cheek. Jasmine opens her eyes wide at me and hangs back as we head for the dining room.
‘Told you,’ she whispers, coming in close. ‘There’s definitely something weird going on. You’re the super-sensitive one so find out what it is. I’ll create a diversion.’
I’m so busy wondering what Jasmine’s diversion might entail, I’m sitting at the dining table before I fully take in my surroundings. Wow! I was worried I might have over-blinged The Cosy Kettle with our Christmas decorations. But the café, and my parents’ sitting room next door, are bastions of understatement compared to this room, which is a riot of colour.