Three’s a Crowd (14 page)

Lexie gave up. She'd never been combative, it just wasn't in her nature.

‘Okay, so I propose that we get into it straight after Christmas. We might even get you a date for New Year's, Rachel.'

Rachel blinked. ‘What, are you planning on advertising on a billboard or something?'

‘Virtually,' said Catherine with a self-satisfied little smile. ‘You see, that's a pun. We're going to find you someone over the internet.'

‘Are you kidding me?' said Rachel. ‘You want me to go out with some internet loser who doesn't have a date on New Year's?'

‘Do you have a date on New Year's?' Catherine enquired archly.

‘No, but that's by choice,' she insisted. ‘I'm over the whole New Year's thing. There's all this pressure to celebrate and do something even if you don't feel like it. And if you don't have anything to do, that's even worse.'

‘Well, I wouldn't know about that,' said Catherine. ‘We always have several invitations on New Year's Eve.'

‘I'm with Rachel,' said Lexie. ‘We prefer to keep it quiet on New Year's. Scott usually has to work the next day, so he doesn't
want to have a big one. It's just too close to Christmas. It would be different if we could space it out.'

‘What are you suggesting, we celebrate the new financial year?' said Catherine.

‘I wonder if that's what accountants do?' Lexie mused.

‘God, could you imagine anything worse?' said Rachel. ‘Celebrating the new financial year in the middle of winter with a bunch of accountants?'

And finally, that raised a gentle laugh.

Catherine picked up the bottle of wine and went to pour herself a glass, till she discovered it was empty. ‘Oh. Shall we order another?'

Rachel tried to sleep in as long as she could on Christmas morning. Catherine would be here to pick her up around eleven and Rachel didn't like to have to fill in too much time before that. Although she had spent many Christmas mornings alone, she'd never got used to it. There was something inherently sad – why beat around the bush? – there was something
pathetic
about being alone on Christmas morning. Oh, she had places to go and people to be with, but she still had to get out of bed on her own in an empty flat.

She wouldn't admit it to another living soul, she could barely admit it to herself, but she always held on to a secret hope that one of her parents might remember to call on Christmas morning her time. But as it wasn't Christmas Day yet on their side of the world, they wouldn't think of it until this evening, Sydney time. And as Rachel was always still out, all she usually got were the forced festive messages on her answering machine.

The hamper had arrived as always a week ago. The same David Jones hamper her mother ordered for her every year. ‘Such a convenient service!' she would declare when Rachel rang to thank
her. The tradition had started at the end of her first year of uni; the hamper turned up the day before Tom set off up the coast to spend Christmas with his family. He had invited Rachel to come with him, but Catherine was expecting her, and it was Alice's first Christmas – at least the first one she was vaguely aware of, she'd still been a blob in a bassinette the previous year. The hamper had provided a great source of amusement for Tom. With them living on instant noodles most of the time, the basket full of gourmet delicacies was like something from another world – jars of pickled herrings and English marmalade, maraschino cherries and marinated goat's cheese. And then the more Christmassy fare: tinned ham and shortbread, a pudding, fruit mince in a jar, which Tom disgusted Rachel by tucking into with a spoon. ‘Well, it's not like you were going to make pies, is it?' he defended himself. She told him to go ahead and take whatever he fancied, except anything chocolate, and then she made up a smaller hamper to take with her to the Rourkes'. They were ever so grateful and did lots of oohing and aahing, but Rachel had the feeling they were probably no more likely to eat most of the stuff than she was.

Nevertheless, it had become a tradition to divvy up the hamper and bring a share to Catherine's every year. So Rachel had sorted the loot into a couple of baskets, wrapped them in cellophane and tied them with a big red bow. Then she wrapped all the presents for today and, in a rather lame attempt to kid herself, placed them under her very modest tree. She had gone without a tree once, to see if it made her feel a little less pathetic, but it didn't. So the tree was reinstated and the presents placed under it, though she stopped short of putting out sherry and Christmas cake for Santa.

Rachel had been awake for some time before she finally dragged herself out of bed and headed for the shower. She had just enough time to get ready without rushing, but without having to wait around filling in time either.

As she emerged from the shower twenty minutes later, she thought she might have heard the ringtone on her mobile announcing a text message had arrived. Although it was probably only Catherine confirming times, she couldn't help feeling a tiny measure of excitement. Just maybe her dad had thought to
message. She flipped open her phone, but she didn't recognise the number as she clicked to select the message.

How's the hamper this year?
Save me something.
Merry xmas, tom and the girls xxx

Rachel smiled. She quickly replied, wishing them a merry Christmas in return, before storing his number into her phone. Although Tom had been her friend originally, she'd never had his mobile number. They didn't have mobile phones back in the day, and when she returned from her travels he was with Annie, and things were different then. It would have been somehow inappropriate to have his number, to call him about social arrangements and the like. Rachel had come back home preparing herself to meet Tom's new wife, but somewhere along the way, Tom had become just Annie's husband.

Rachel was about to give up on drying her hair when she heard the doorbell. Blowdrying bored her senseless, she could never persevere till her hair was completely dry. She went to answer the door and was surprised to see Martin standing on the threshold.

‘What are you doing here? Aren't you the cook?' Rachel asked as she accepted his Merry Christmas kiss on the cheek.

‘Ah, but you see I'm all organised, it's cooking itself right now,' he explained. ‘And you know what Catherine's like when her parents come, let alone Andrew as well. I thought it was best if I just ducked out to get you.'

Which was a discreet way of saying that Catherine had already downed enough champers and orange to make driving inadvisable, if not illegal. Rachel wasn't surprised. It had slipped her mind that Catherine's brother would be there as well, and she had to admit, spending the best part of a day in his company was hardly a drawcard. He was a strange, disappointed, prematurely middle-aged man who felt that life should have given him a far better deal, despite the fact that he had done nothing much to deserve it. He'd married a mousy, whiny woman, but even she
had got sick of him and left him for the proprietor of their local video store. Andrew had moved back down from Queensland to live with his parents, claiming the bitch was bleeding him dry and he couldn't afford to do otherwise. He'd probably drink himself stupid today, give Catherine a run for her money. Deck the halls.

‘So, are you going to astound us with yet another amazing stuffing recipe this year?' Rachel asked when they were in the car and on their way. Martin was a nice man, a really nice man, he was just a tad . . . well, single-issue. The only thing that really got him going was food: preparing it, cooking it, talking about it. So that was what Rachel talked about with Martin, though she usually regretted it before long.

‘Oh, no, no, no,' he said in a mischievous tone, ‘there's not going to be any turkey this year.'

‘No turkey?'

‘It's supposed to be a surprise, but what the hell,' he said happily. ‘We're going . . . Scandinavian!'

‘Scandinavian?'

‘It's one of the most traditional Christmas cuisines,' he informed her. ‘The British and their turkey roasts came much later, you know.'

No, she didn't.

‘Just wait till you taste my pièce de résistance this year,' Martin went on.

‘Wow, what is it?' she said.

‘Traditional gravlax,' he announced. ‘I had to cure a whole salmon, first time I've ever done anything like it. Did you know, the process takes three days . . .'

Oh no, and he was going to take her, painstakingly, step by step, hour by hour, through all seventy-two of them. Rachel did her best to pay attention for the remainder of the trip. Mercifully it was a short drive and the traffic wasn't too bad, so it didn't feel too interminable by the time they pulled into the driveway.

Catherine must have been watching out for them because she threw open the door as they walked up the front steps.

‘Merry Christmas, darling Rachel!' she said expansively, before throwing her arms around her.

Yeesh, how much champagne had she polished off so far?

‘Thank God you're here,' Catherine said into her ear. Then she
drew back, still holding her hands. ‘Well, don't you look nice,' she said in an encouraging tone, as though Rachel was someone getting over a brain injury and re-entering society. Then she touched her hand to Rachel's barely damp hair. ‘Hmm, didn't have quite enough time to dry your hair? Never mind,' she went on without waiting for an answer. ‘What do you think?' she gushed, stepping back and performing a little pirouette.

She looked like one of those highly stylised women in a 1950s movie or magazine – stunning, but a little surreal, like she was in technicolour. The dress had a tight-fitting bodice and a big full skirt, printed with oversized flowers in reds and greens. She wore exactly matching forest-green shoes, and her mouth was a slash of bright red lipstick.

‘It swishes when you move,' was all Rachel could think to say.

‘I know, isn't it gorgeous?' Catherine exclaimed. ‘I feel like Grace Kelly. Have you got a drink yet? Martin, Rachel doesn't have a drink!' she called.

‘Right here, dear,' he said, coming back from the kitchen with two glasses.

‘Oh, don't we usually start with champagne and orange?' said Rachel as he passed her a glass of neat champagne.

‘Nonsense,' said Catherine. ‘It must be at least eleven-thirty by now, and besides, it's Christmas Day! Loosen up, Rachel!' she added, clinking their glasses together and taking a good glug from hers, just as Rachel noticed Catherine's parents and Andrew watching from the sofa.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Rourke, Mr Rourke,' she said, hurrying over towards them. ‘Andrew . . . Merry Christmas everyone.' She set her glass down on the coffee table as they all got to their feet.

‘Merry Christmas to you, Rachel, dear,' said Catherine's mother, receiving her kiss.

‘You both look well,' said Rachel as she leaned over to kiss Mr Rourke on the cheek. She glanced at Andrew. Would she have to give him a kiss? He was making the decision for her, leaning in for the kill. Rachel performed a counterattack, leading with her cheek, so he had no choice but to plant his sloppy lips there. Ick, she wanted to wipe her face right away, but she'd have to wait a tactful moment till he wasn't watching.

‘Well you look great, Rachel, just great,' he said. ‘Doesn't Rachel look great, Mum?'

‘Yes, she looks great,' Catherine butted in. ‘And there'll be plenty of time to catch up later,' she added, shooing them along. ‘Go and help Martin in the kitchen, won't you lot? Rachel and I need ten minutes together to exchange gifts, okay? It's our tradition. Martin, bring the rest of that bottle in here so we don't have to come looking.'

‘Of course, dear,' he said, ushering the others out of the room.

This was the part Rachel always dreaded. It hadn't always been like this; it used to be fun, and sweet, even a little meaningful. Although Rachel always had plenty of pocket money when they were kids, she would never have dreamed of showing Catherine up by buying her expensive gifts. Instead they bought each other candles and cheap costume jewellery from the markets, sometimes a crazy piece of clothing from an op shop. They found secondhand books of their favourite authors, or made each other mixed tapes. Rachel even knitted Catherine a scarf one Christmas. It was pretty bodgy, she was a sloppy knitter, but Catherine wore it regardless.

But now Rachel spent more time looking for Catherine's gift than she did for anyone else's, she spent more money and she certainly expended more angst. Yet she rarely succeeded in finding something that met with Catherine's approval. Perhaps simple, inexpensive gifts were an uncomfortable reminder of a past life, now that she had reinvented herself into someone accustomed to designer labels and luxury brands. But it was more than that – Catherine seemed to take almost personal affront at what she deemed a less than perfect gift, as though it was proof the giver just wasn't trying hard enough. Rachel suspected it was her fragile ego again, needing reassurance that she was special, exceptional even. But forcing someone to buy you a gift seemed an odd way to prove it.

Rachel monitored Catherine's expression as she opened her present now, going into overdrive to explain that it was made from one hundred per cent cashmere, and that it was called a ‘shrug', and they were very popular, and you could wear it over almost anything.

Catherine fixed a smile on her face and finally spoke. ‘You shouldn't have, Rachel.'

It sounded more like a statement of fact than a declaration of gratitude.

‘I'm just not sure it's going to fit,' she went on. ‘You know I have very slender shoulders. But you kept the docket?'

Of course, Rachel always kept the docket; she'd known Catherine a long time.

‘Now, open yours!' Catherine said, thrusting a large parcel at her.