‘Campbell’s my family tartan,’ she says.
‘It’s my dad who’s a McVey,’ Georgia interjects. ‘I looked him up, you know.’
Heather’s eyes speed across the room towards her daughter.
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. Flo from the Genealogy Society helped me track him down. He lives in Toronto.’ She grabs her new MacBook and opens the search engine. ‘Look, he’s even got his own Wiki page.’
Georgia taps a few times on her keyboard, then passes her laptop to Heather.
Douglas John McVey’s pompous smiling face flashes back at her.
“CEO of Davidson and Drummond Architects 2004 - 2006. Later re-branded as Apex Urban Designs Ltd. Now ManagingDirector of Apex International, Toronto,” she reads. Her jaw tightens. She hasn’t seen a new image of him for nineteen years.
‘Grandad worked in Davidson and Drummond,’ says Georgia, ‘didn’t he?’
Heather feels herself thrust into yet another conversation she’s avoided for years.
‘Your dad was your grandad’s boss,’ she says gently. ‘There was a bit of a falling out.’
She sees Scott pull his lips into a wince. He definitely understands the subtext, she decides.
Now, the manifestation of that drunken decision twenty years ago is playing out in front of their guests’ eyes.
‘Why don’t we see them?’
‘Your Grannie and Grandad?’ Georgia gives Heather a vulnerable nod. ‘Your Grandad said he didn’t want to see us anymore, honey. I’m sorry.’
Georgia frowns. ‘Uncle Fraser still sees them, though.’
There’s a plaintiff bleat in her daughter’s voice. Heather inclines her head.
‘Yes. Uncle Fraser does see them,’ she says quietly. Occasional updates from her brother are the only information Heather gleans about her parents these days. Despite the history, it’s contact she cherishes.
The conversation stalls for a few moments. and the Christmas music in the background suddenly sounds artificially upbeat.
Brianna breaks the silence.
‘My mum’s twin still lives in Stratford-Upon-Avon,’ she announces.
It’s now Scott’s turn to look perturbed.
‘I haven’t seen her, or my cousins, since Mum died, and we moved away. Seven years.’
‘Perhaps it’s time I put on the potatoes,’ says Heather.
‘I’ll help,’ shouts Scott and together, they stand and leave the room. ‘Bloody Genealogy Society,’ he mouths to Heather as they shut the door.
SCOTT
Is it just him or is there something oddly intimate about being in a woman’s kitchen on Christmas day, a sharp knife in one hand and a bag of carrots in the other? Scott’s instinct to leave the room when Brianna began exposing uncomfortable truths about the family was so automatic, he’d given the alternative no thought whatsoever. Only now he’s thrust into the alternative: cooking with Heather, him wearing a comic Christmas jumper and a lop-sided hat, her elegant and classy in a sheer satin dress. Despite their conflicting interpretation of today’s dress code, being here with her feels entirely natural. But also completely discombobulating. Because no matter how he looks at it, preparing vegetables for Christmas dinner alongside Heather is most definitely not protecting himself from becoming attached. It feels like the complete opposite. And the room is so quiet, it emphasises the fact it’s just the two of them in the kitchen.
Together.
‘So how do you normally do these?’ he asks, the potato peeler in his hand.
Heather looks over from the streaky bacon she’s wrapping around tiny butcher’s sausages. ‘Roasted,’ she says, ‘along with the parsnips, maybe?’
