Smiling to myself, I strolled into the kitchen to put the kettle on, only to discover that Oliver had obviously been up and at ’em for quite a while.
‘Oliver, it’s a family lunch, not a state dinner for two hundred people!’ I exclaimed, gazing at the flour-covered worktops almost completely hidden by umpteen bowls and kitchen utensils. I moved a bag of carrots to get access to the kettle and he gave a little yelp.
‘Don’t touch anything! I have a system going here.’
‘A system? But I need coffee . . . what the hell . . . is that a power drill?!’
He placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me 180 degrees, pushing me back towards the hall. ‘I’ll bring you a coffee, go and shower or something. I’m busy. I’m creating.’
‘Damn, you’re bossy today,’ I replied, promptly turning myself back around. He looked flustered. He looked fucking sexy; his dark curly hair dishevelled, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and stomach. Even after all these years, he still does it for me. Big time. ‘Are you stressed? I mean, I could help with that . . .’
I opened my dressing gown and pushed my body against his, slowly moving a hand down towards his crotch. A hand that Oliver quickly stopped in its tracks. He shook his head. ‘I don’t have time, Phoebe.Wedon’t have time. Please just get dressed. Anyway, Molly will be through in a minute.’
‘Fuckssake Oliver, I wasn’t going to wank you off in the kitchen, I was just being affectionate.’
I took myself off to the bedroom before he could say anything else, but there was no response anyway. He continued chopping and peeling vegetables while I made our bed. Christ, I know we’re not love’s young dream anymore but I thought I might at least get felt up.
By half past twelve the kitchen was in better shape and lunch was cooking, filling the house with steak pie aroma. Molly had helped set the table, before announcing how boring it was and leaving us to get on with it. I was still peeved with Oliver but I understood his anxiety. When my parents came over from Canada in August, I took them out for dinner every night so they wouldn’t question why none of our cutlery or plates matched. However parents might claim not to judge us, they absolutely do. Luckily, my best mate Lucy had bought us new cutlery for Christmas, albeit reluctantly(‘Boo, you fucking bores. Take it quickly before I dismember you with it’) so at least that’s been rectified.
‘I need to go and pick everyone up from the hotel soon!’ Oliver called from the kitchen. ‘Can you keep an eye on the veg? It’ll only need another ten minutes.’
‘Yup,’ I replied, sticking my head around the kitchen door. I watched Oliver dry his hands on a tea towel.
‘Cheers,’ he replied, grabbing his car keys off the hook. ‘You look pretty, by the way.’
‘Pretty enough to ravage me later?’
‘God, what’s gotten into you?’
‘Well not you, for, oh,four weeks now! Maybe longer . . .’
He frowned. ‘It hasn’t been that long. Has it?’
I nodded while he racked his brains, trying to remember the last time we’d had sex before snapping himself out of it. ‘Look, we’ll talk later, I need to get going. Tell Molly not to demolish the chocolates on the coffee table before I get back.’ And with that he was off, leaving me wondering how we went from shagging ourselves senseless to only vaguely remembering what the other looks like naked. I think he might have gone off me.
Monday January 2nd
Yesterday’s lunch went well, I think, given that no one ended up in tears or being punched repeatedly in the face, which is the benchmark by which I measure most things.
I had just drained the carrots when Oliver arrived back with his family in tow. Megan was brushing down her backside, having just slipped and fallen on the ice.
‘Phoebe!’ she cried, stomping her boots on the doormat, ‘Happy New Year! I’ve just done myself an injury. Where is my beautiful niece then?’ She followed the sound of Molly’s voice into the living room while Louise and Brendan made their way up the stairs and into the flat.
‘I thought you’d have moved into a proper house by now,’ I heard Louise mumble to Oliver. ‘That wee girl should have a garden.’ Brendan silently followed behind like an undertaker.
Oliver sighed. ‘We live close to a huge park, Mam. It’s Glasgow, not the Sahara. She’s not grass-deprived.’
I smiled to myself, feeling somewhat vindicated. I had wanted to buy somewhere new with a garden when Molly was born, but Oliver convinced me that it’d be easier and cheaper if we all just lived in his flat. Although spacious, it still doesn’t exactly feel like a family home and having to ask his landlord for permission every time we want to paint a room is getting on my nerves.
I kissed Oliver’s parents hello, taking their jackets and inviting them to go on through to the living room. Throwing me a ‘Here we go’ look, Oliver shuffled behind them, like a seven-year-old who’d been bribed to attend his own party.
‘Haven’t you grown!’ I heard Brendan say to Molly, while Oliver proudly boasted that she was only four years old and already four feet five inches tall, ‘well above the national average’, like he had personally been cultivating her in his greenhouse. I returned to the kitchen and pretended to be busy, staring through the oven door at Oliver’s steak pie. Our shitty oven is capable of burning food that’s not even inside it and if the pie went wrong I feared Oliver would never recover. He appeared moments later with the same concerns.
‘Did the timer go off yet?’ he asked, bending down beside me.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, it went off ages ago. I’m just interested to see how long it’ll take to catch fire and kill us all.’
He scowled. ‘I hope you go up in flames first. Go and visit with my family. It’s my turn to hide.’
