I feel my own face start to flush. ‘I lovedThe Breakfast Club, andPretty in Pink.’
‘Me too! I’m kind of an eighties’ movie geek, you know, when I’m not ruining lunch and stuff.’
As he smiles, something in me just melts. I hand him the other half of my sandwich.
‘Kate,’ I tell him. ‘My name is Kate.’
December 24th– Christmas Eve
Ed
‘Breakfast in ten minutes! I hope you’re both hungry.’
I open one eye and glance at my phone. It’s nine-thirty but I didn’t get to bed until well after three. I feel a tad hungover. Dad gave me some of his favourite Scotch whisky, which really doesn’t affect him too much but has the tendency to knock me on my arse after more than two glasses. Thank god, he got some beers in; there’s no way I can drive to Kate’s parents’ tomorrow feeling like this.
I hear Kate stir beside me– that little morning moan she does when she’s far too comfortable to even consider getting up. She turns around and slips her arm through mine, letting it rest on my chest before nuzzling into my neck. She’s so warm. So soft. For a second my body wants to respond, but it passes as yesterday’s fight floods my brain.
You’re building a life that I don’t want.
I edge my body towards the side of the bed, moving her arm. ‘Probably not the best idea. I’m not in the mood.’
She sniffs and rubs her eyes. ‘Mood for what?’
‘Forget it,’ I reply, now wondering if she’d snuggled into me unintentionally. ‘I’m going to get dressed, breakfast is nearly ready.’
‘Yeah, fine,’ she replies, still half asleep. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’
I throw on some jogging trousers and yesterday’s jumper, following the smell of bacon and coffee until I reach the dining room. My dad’s already seated, wearing his overstretched elf again as Bing Crosby croons through the Bluetooth speakers I gave him last year.
‘Happy Christmas Eve, my love!’ Mum exclaims, placing a toast rack on the table.
‘Tea or coffee?’
I swear if Mum hadn’t spent all those years teaching piano, she’d have run a bed and breakfast. Every time I visit, she lays the table like I’m a paying guest, with miniature pots of jam and marmalade, individual butter portions, three different juices, cereal, pastries and, of course, her famous fry-up. Saying that, if she hadn’t taught piano, I’d probably never have got into music; but I’d know how to cook sausages without them exploding.
‘Tea, thanks,’ I reply, grabbing some toast and hoping it will soak up the remnants of last night’s booze. ‘And yes, Happy Christmas Eve. But this music. . . don’t we have anything a little less. . .’
‘Relaxing?’ she replies, her eyes narrowing. ‘Timeless?’
‘I was going for snooze-inducing,’ I say, smiling. ‘Maybe something a bit peppier to get into the festive mood?’
‘It’s ten in the morning, Eddie. I’ll whack on some Boney M later.’
Oh god, here it comes.
‘Do you remember when you were little, and you used to dance to “Mary’s Boy Child” in your Santa pyjamas? Aw, you were ever so sweet.’
Every year I’m reminded of this. Every bloody year.
‘How could I forget?’ I reply. ‘Pretty sure you videotaped it. Um, how’s that tea coming along?’
‘I’ll just bring the pot,’ she informs me. ‘Oh and I got those plant-based, meat-free thingamabobs for you. We did a shop atthe big Waitrose.’
‘I’ll never understand how they can make a sausage from a plant,’ dad interjects, rubbing his glasses on the elf’s face.
‘You’d be surprised what they can do these days,’ I inform him, not wanting to get into the whole plant-vs-pig debate yet again. Even in my teens, he was utterly confused as to why anyone would willingly give up meat.You should be eating nose to tail, son. You need that protein. We have incisors for a reason.
‘Not wearing your Elf jumper today, Mum?’ I ask, steering the conversation away from grass burgers or whatever my dad is currently rambling about.
