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She emerges from the kitchen and wraps her arms around me. She’s wearing a dress and high heels, with an apron over the top, and she smells of her trademark Jo Malone scent.
“Hi, honey. You’re very late, I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry. I was a bit late leaving and then the traffic was awful.”
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Your Dad isn’t home yet. He rang earlier to say something had cropped up that he needed to deal with, but he hopes that he’ll be home in time for dinner. He’s looking forward to seeing you. Why don’t you take your stuff up to your room, freshen up, and then I think we can treat ourselves to a glass of wine, don’t you?”
My parents hardly ever drink, although my Dad has amassed a sizeable wine cellar over the years. I think he just likes looking at it and adding to it. Plenty of bottles seem to go down there, but very few ever come back up again. He told me once that he liked to buy fine wines young and then sell them on when they’d matured and the price had risen, but I’m not convinced he even does that. I’ve still got the faint vestige of a headache and don’t really fancy drinking again just yet, but Mom will think it odd if I don’t have a glass with her and I don’t want to admit to being hung-over. She and Dad both have very strong views about people who drink too much, and I’m in no mood for any more upset today.
I splash some water on my face and dry it, before changing out of my leggings and hoodie into a dress. My father stops short of dressing for dinner, but we are all expected to look smart. I put on some simple make-up, brush my hair and tie it back, give myself a quick spritz of scent, and wriggle my feet into a pair of black ballet pumps.
“Ah, there you are,” my Mom says, as I walk into the kitchen. “Your father just called from the car. He should be here in around an hour. I’m going to open a bottle of white, would you like a glass?”
“I would, thanks Mom.”
She chats away as she gets the bottle out of the fridge, opens it and pours two small glasses.
“I’m pretty much ready for tomorrow, I think. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited the Wheelers to join us for lunch. Their children live overseas, so it’s just the two of them, and I thought that sounded a bit sad. We’re going British on the main course, with turkey and roast potatoes, but I’m rebelling on the pudding because I can’t understand how anyone could like Christmas pudding, so I’ve made a pumpkin pie instead.”
My Mom is an excellent cook, and the kitchen is very much her domain. I’m not sure if my Dad even goes in there. They both have very traditional views where gender roles are concerned; he earns the money and she runs the house. It seems to work for them, but I would find it suffocating. Sometimes, in the summer, Dad invites a load of his business friends over and makes a big show of cooking large quantities of meat on his enormous, gas-fired barbecue, but all the hard work has already been done in the background by Mom, who has prepared all the salads, the marinades and so on.
“Tell me about you,” Mom is saying. “How’s work, and your homosexual friend? Tell me about Charley’s baby, she sounds completely adorable.”
My Mom has never made any secret of the fact that she would have loved to have had more kids. Unfortunately, there were some complications when I was born that led to her losing a lot of blood and nearly dying, and the doctors warned her that another birth might prove fatal. She makes up for it by showering every baby she comes across with love.
“Work is good. Toby and I won an award for the most innovative content at the Gala dinner last night,” I tell her. My gut wrenches slightly as I say Toby’s name, and I momentarily wonder what he’s doing now.
“And the baby?”
“Driving poor Charley round the bend. She’s still into everything, but she is the cutest thing. Charley and Ed completely adore her, and she’ll definitely have Ed wrapped around her little finger when she’s older.” I get out my phone to show Mom some pictures, and she coos with delight.
Just as we’re finishing our wine, the security lights come on again, indicating that my Dad has arrived home. The dog rushes off to grab a toy to present and he, Mom and I assemble in the hallway. Once more I’m reminded of a Jane Austen novel and, for a moment, I wonder whether I should stand behind my mother to indicate my lower rank as an unmarried daughter.
As my father comes through the door, the dog can contain himself no longer and launches himself at him. Dad makes a huge fuss of him, rubbing and patting his flanks and scratching his ears, before he turns his attention to us.
“Hi, honey,” he says to my Mom, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry I got held up. There was some paperwork missing on a deal we’re closing in Malaysia, and I had to track it down. It’s all under control now, so I’m ready for Christmas. I will have to do some work on the 26th, but I can do that from here.”
His eyes alight on me. “Madison!” he exclaims. “How is my favorite daughter?” This is a long-standing joke, dating back to a difficult time in our relationship when I was a teenager and he and I didn’t seem to agree on anything. “No matter what you think or say, you’ll always be my favorite daughter,” he used to say. In the years since, I’ve learned that it’s easier for everyone if I don’t contradict him and our relationship has improved, even if we’re not exactly close. He’s a slightly forbidding personality, and he’s never made any secret of the fact that he disapproves of my job.
I step forward to give him an awkward hug. “Hi, Daddy. Merry Christmas.”
Mom fusses over him, pouring him a glass of lemon barley water before he goes upstairs to change. Later, as we sit down to our dinner, he does at least make an effort to ask about my work, but it’s not long before he’s back on his hobby horse.
“What I don’t understand, Madison, is where this job is going. As a freelance writer you have zero job security, zero opportunity for promotion, no pension or medical benefits. You’re over thirty years old, for God’s sake! If you’re not going to marry, then you need a career that’s going someplace, not this piecemeal hand-to-mouth existence you’ve had going on for the last however many years. You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.”
“Madison won an award yesterday, didn’t you honey? Tell your father,” my Mom prompts, trying to help me out without appearing to take my side. “What was it? Most innovative content?”
“That’s great,” my father counters, “but awards don’t pay the mortgage, do they Madison?”
“No sir,” I concede.
It’s going to be a long Christmas.
