One Night in Italy (14 page)

‘Of course you are, Clive,’ Jim replied with a wink at Sophie.

After a humongous and raucous lunch, more visitors arrived: Sophie’s cousins Samantha and Richard with their respective families – four children, a babe in arms and an overexcited Yorkshire Terrier between them. The house was now bursting at the seams and getting a seat on the sofa was harder than securing a ticket for the Men’s Final at Wimbledon. The living room was a melee of chocolate-fuelled children and flying wrapping paper and the noise levels were firmly at ‘rowdy’ . . . and Sophie was having an utterly brilliant day. Forget Bondi Beach and Berlin, this was the real deal: playing charades with your grandma and cousins, pulling crackers, eating Roses by the handful and laughing like a drain as your uncle Clive fell asleep in front of the Queen’s speech and snored louder than a wild boar.

She looked round at her mum, whose turn it was to act something out in the highly competitive game of charades. Even Trish looked flushed and happy, in her best dress and a touch of make-up, making a rectangle shape in mid-air with her forefingers.

‘It’s a TV programme. One word.’

Nod. Trish counted on her fingers then held up four of them.

‘Four syllables.’

Nod.

‘First syllable.’

She pinched her earlobe then pointed at Sophie’s grandma.

‘Sounds like . . . grandma. Gran? Gran.’

‘Man.’

‘Ran.’

‘Tan.’

Headshakes to them all.

‘Ban?’

‘Can.’

‘Fan.’

More headshaking.

‘Give us another one, Trish.’

‘Third syllable. Arm? Arm!’

‘Nan something arm something.’

‘Second syllable. Sounds like . . . walk. Stroll.’

‘Flounce.’

‘Stride.’

‘Go.’

Vigorous nodding.

‘Go! Nan – go – arm – something. What the hell . . .?’

Jim jumped to his feet, eyes dancing. ‘
Panorama
!’ he yelled. ‘Got to be!’

‘Is correct!’ beamed Trish, applauding him. ‘Well done, Jim!’ Then her face fell. ‘Jim? Are you all right, Jim?’

Sophie turned in slow motion from her mother’s face to her dad as if in a bad dream. He was clutching his chest and gasping for breath, his mouth working but no sound coming out. ‘Oh Christ,’ she cried fearfully. ‘Call an ambulance. Somebody call an ambulance!’

Chapter Eleven

Riunione
– Reunion

Catherine had always loved Christmas: the tree, the presents, the excitement. But this year it was all overshadowed by the lies, the deceit, the ex-bloody-husband. Faking happy families with Mike was like starring in a very bad farce. It was the most enormous strain, having him back in the house.

How, for instance, had she put up with that throaty walrus snore night after night for their entire marriage? He was a duvet-hogger too, forever rolling over and pulling it with him so that she woke up several times a night freezing cold and had to yank it back. She’d forgotten his other little faults, too: the way he swallowed so loudly when eating a meal. How he’d never rinse the bath out after using it. The way he could see a stack of washing up or a heap of dirty clothes and not think for a second that it had any part in his world. As for the TV remote, you’d think it was surgically attached to his hand. He ruled the evening viewing like a tyrant, marking up the Christmas
Radio Times
and consulting it constantly.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. In fact, he didn’t seem bothered at all. It probably felt like a holiday to him after fending for himself in his rented flat for the last two months. There he was, lord and master, whistling in the shower, taking Matthew to the football and renewing his role as Emily’s personal taxi driver with annoying good humour. Every few days he would vanish for the evening, presumably to ravish wretched Rebecca on his rented sofa. When he came home and slipped into bed with her afterwards, Catherine could still smell the other woman’s perfume on him. It made her feel sick. Why had she ever thought this stupid charade was a good idea? There was no way the Catherine from her diary would have put up with this kind of shenanigans. She’d have poured a pint over his head and told him where to go.

Catherine was sorely tempted. She was
this
close. But she owed it to Matthew and Emily to give them one last perfect Christmas, didn’t she?

That was one silver lining at least: having her children home again. Mind you, they didn’t seem quite the same teenagers who had left ten weeks earlier. Matthew now sported a tattoo on his forearm, a really horrible one, of a skull with flames bursting from its eye sockets. Meanwhile, Emily had had her beautiful hair peroxided white and cut very short, and a purple stud glittered in one nostril.

Catherine tried to hide her dismay, but it wasn’t easy. ‘They’re growing up, finding their own identities,’ Mike said impatiently when she raised the subject.

‘I liked their old identities though,’ she replied helplessly. ‘Now I feel as if I don’t even know them any more.’

In fact, Catherine thought, putting yet another load of laundry into the washing machine, she had barely seen them since they’d been home, let alone had the chance to indulge in the lovely, intimate mother-child chats she’d hoped for. They treated her just as Mike did: as a skivvy expected to clean up after them, keep the fridge well-stocked with their favourite treats, and provide dinner on the table at six o’clock every evening. Was that all she was to them?

Still, she reminded herself, they’d have a wonderful Christmas together. That was the main thing.

By eleven o’clock on Christmas morning, a hysterical scream was rising inside Catherine. She’d been up at the crack of dawn grappling with the turkey, then had peeled and chopped a mountain of potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts. She’d made a chestnut stuffing with her own bare hands, set the table with her best tablecloth and the nicest silver cutlery, and polished all the wine glasses. Meanwhile, Matthew and Emily battled on the Xbox and Mike got stuck into his new political biography, flanked by the tin of Celebrations and his trusty TV remote. Nobody lifted a finger to help her. Nobody even made her a cup of tea. But then again, she realized, they never had. For all these years, she’d allowed this to happen: she’d waited on them hand and foot as if that was all she was good for. To them, this was simply a perfectly ordinary Christmas Day.

Perfectly crap, more like, she thought darkly, pouring herself a large glass of wine.

When it came to present-opening, Matthew apologized sheepishly for not having bought her anything. ‘I haven’t had time,’ he said, even though he’d done nothing but slob around since he’d been home. Emily, meanwhile, gave her a granny-ish toiletries set which Catherine had seen on special offer in the village chemist. Mike, of course, hadn’t maintained the charade of happy families as far as actually shelling out and buying her anything. God, no. Catch Mike wasting any of his precious hard-earned money? That would be the day.

Shirley and Brian, Mike’s parents, arrived fresh from church. ‘Catherine, dear, you’re looking very pink,’ Shirley exclaimed, then bit her lip and asked, ‘Going through the change, are we? Hot flushes?’

Emily tittered, Matthew looked embarrassed and Mike popped another mini Mars bar in his mouth. I’ll flush you in a minute, Catherine thought savagely. ‘Just busy in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Mike, maybe you could get your parents a drink?’

‘Ooh, no, Mike, you stay where you are, I know how hard you’ve been working,’ Shirley said before he could move a muscle. Not that he looked as if he was about to move anything, except perhaps his hand back into the Celebrations tin.

‘Well, I’ll have a brandy,’ Brian said jovially. ‘Seeing as it’s Christmas.’

‘And I’ll have a sherry,’ Shirley said. ‘Just a little one. Seeing as it’s Christmas.’

And I’ll have a nervous breakdown, Catherine thought, whisking back into the kitchen before anyone else could put in an order. Seeing as it’s effing bloody Christmas.

Half an hour – and another glass of wine – later, the meal was ready. Catherine set out the dish of buttered vegetables, the crispy roast potatoes, the gravy boat, the bread sauce and the wine. Meanwhile, Mike, Emily, Matthew, Shirley and Brian sat around the table while she fetched and carried, none of them offering to help. Any minute now a chorus of ‘Why Are We Waiting?’ would go up, Catherine thought furiously.

‘Here it comes!’ cheered Emily, eyes lighting up as Catherine brought in the turkey, bronzed and glistening on its platter, with juicy, bacon-wrapped chipolatas nestling around it.

‘Come to papa,’ Matthew said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Best meal of the year,’ Mike said, licking his lips.

‘Oh,’ said Shirley, sounding puzzled. ‘Did I forget to mention we’ve become vegetarian?’

Something snapped in Catherine. Happy families, my arse, she thought. She’d had enough.

‘Do you know what?’ she heard herself saying in a high-pitched voice. ‘This Christmas day is the worst one ever. You lazy lot don’t deserve any of this.’ And before she could stop herself, she raised the turkey platter above her head and hurled it at the wall.

Emily screamed. Mike shouted. Shirley shrieked. Matthew gave a nervous laugh. ‘What the ruddy hell . . . ?’ cried Brian as the huge turkey splattered against a framed family photo, smearing it with grease.

The turkey bounced off the radiator and down to the carpet where it landed inelegantly, feet sticking up in the air. Chipolatas rained like meaty bullets against the wallpaper, leaving oily blotches in their wake. The photo fell off its hook and down the back of the radiator with a muffled clang.

‘
Catherine!
’ Mike exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you
doing
?’

‘She’s drunk,’ Shirley muttered to Brian, looking appalled.

‘She’s flipped,’ Brian murmured back, jaw sagging.

They were all staring at her in astonishment. Now she’d got their attention at least. Now they’d bothered to look at her. The worm turns, she thought, clenching her fists. ‘I’m not drunk or mad or flaming menopausal, thank you very much,’ she snapped. ‘But I’ve had enough, do you hear me? Enough. Make your own bloody Christmas dinner, I’m off to Penny’s. At least I might get some respect over there.’

‘But Mum!’ Emily protested, eyes suddenly swimming with tears. ‘It’s Christmas
Day
! You can’t go!’

‘Mum, we’re sorry,’ Matthew said. ‘Sit down, let me sort out the turkey.’

Too late. Too bloody late. Catherine was hardened to any tears or protestations. ‘Don’t worry,
Daddy
will sort it out,’ she sneered. ‘He’s good with birds, isn’t that right, Mike?’

Mike had gone very white. ‘Catherine . . .’ he implored.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Shirley spluttered.

‘Oh, fuck off, Mike,’ Catherine replied, ripping off her apron. ‘And you,’ she added to her mother-in-law. She threw the apron on the table where it landed on the roast potatoes. ‘Happy fucking Christmas,’ she said, then turned on her heel and left them to it.

Penny answered the door in a purple party hat and gold lamé dress. ‘Oh, love,’ she said in alarm. ‘What
happened
?’

‘I just threw the turkey at the wall,’ Catherine sobbed. ‘And told Shirley to fuck off. Worst Christmas Day EVER!’

Penny pulled her in for a massive perfumed hug. ‘Well, that’s bogging Christmas for you,’ she said, patting Catherine’s back soothingly. ‘Come and have some of ours. We were just about to start and there’s enough food here to sink the
Titanic
.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ The realization of what she’d just done hit her. Oh my God. All she could think of was the turkey’s little legs sticking up, that oily splotch on the wallpaper, the shocked faces around the table.
Happy fucking Christmas.
SLAM.

‘Course I don’t mind, Cath, the more the merrier. Now then, what are you drinking, hon?’

‘Large amounts.’

‘I’m on it.’

Half an hour later, the doorbell went again and Emily appeared, white-faced and tear-stricken. ‘Just in time for the Christmas pud, love,’ Penny said, not batting an eyelid. ‘Have a glass of wine and give your mum a cuddle, for goodness sake.’

‘Are you all right, Em?’ Catherine asked, hugging her tipsily. Christ, that brandy chaser and then the Pinot Grigio had gone straight to her head. ‘I’m sorry about the turkey, and . . . well, everything.’

‘There’s a drumstick or two left here if you’re peckish, Emily,’ said Penny, whose party hat had slipped rakishly over one eye. ‘Or you can go straight to the pudding. Dazza’s just heating up the custard now.’

‘What’s happening at home?’ Catherine asked. ‘Is it okay? Are Shirley and Brian still there?’

Emily looked dazed. ‘Dad told us everything,’ she said, her voice catching on a sob. ‘About this Rebecca woman. He said he’s in love with her and you two are splitting up.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Why did you have to tell us this on Christmas Day? You’ve ruined everything!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said, wanting to cry herself. ‘We didn’t mean you to find out like this.’