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As I prepare to pull out of the parking space, I glance automatically in the mirror. Fuck. Who the hell is that? The face staring back at me looks nothing like me. My eyes are red and puffy. My cheeks are shining where the tears have been running down them and there are tracks where my make-up has run. There’s also a nasty river of snot between my nose and my top lip. I reach into the glovebox for a tissue to wipe away the worst of the damage, and then I set off for my parents’ house.
As I drive, I realise that I need to do something about my face. If I pitch up looking like I do now, I’ll terrify my nieces and face a full-scale interrogation from my mum, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough for that right now. On any other day I’d stop at a supermarket and avail myself of their loo to fix myself up, but it’s Christmas Day and they’re all shut. After a few miles I see a garage and, joy of joys, it’s open. I pull onto the forecourt, stick ten pounds’ worth of fuel into the Micra (well, it’s rude to use their facilities and not buyanything, isn’t it?), and dash into the grimy loo clutching my bag. What is it about garage loos, especially unisex ones? If I wasn’t desperate, the smell alone would drive me away, and that’s before we get to the suspicious wet patches on the floor with bits of loo roll floating in them. I take a piece of clean loo roll from the holder and use it to turn on the tap; I don’t want to touch anything in here if I don’t have to. After carefully splashing some water on my face, patting it dry with yet more loo roll and redoing my make-up, I’m starting to look slightly more human, even if I still feel terrible. My toothbrush is deep in one of the bags in the car, so I grab a bottle of water and some extra strong mints on my way to the till. Hopefully between them they’ll get rid of the lingering taste of vomit in my mouth.
My parents live in Sevenoaks, in one of those houses where you need a code to open the gate. Dad is what they call a ‘self-made man’; he worked for several years as a long-distance lorry driver before starting his own haulage business some twenty years ago. Over the years he’s built it up and he now has over fifty trucks in the fleet. In the early days my mum worked with him as his administrator/assistant/dogsbody but when the business took off she ‘retired’, and for the last few years her life has revolved around her home, her friends, and her various yoga classes. As I pull onto the drive the front door opens and there stand my two nieces, Grace and Bella. They aren’t twins but they may as well be; Grace is seven and Bella is one year younger. As soon as I shut off the engine and open the door, they charge across to me, yelling ‘Auntie Lottie!!!’ I’m barely out of the car before they’ve entwined themselves around me.
‘Girls, let your auntie get inside at least before you mob her! Hi, Lots.’ My brother, Simon, strides out of the house. He’s five years older than me, but the gap seems much bigger. He’s married, with his two gorgeous daughters, has his own house and works for my dad. Dad’s grooming him to take over when he retires.
The girls retreat into the house and he gives me a hug. ‘How are you? Can I carry anything?’ He peers inside the car and exclaims, ‘Jesus, Lots, are youlivingin here?’
‘It’s a long story that I don’t want to get into right now, Si. The presents are in the boot – hang on.’
As I fiddle with the boot – there’s a trick to opening it – I can see Simon trying to work something out.
‘Does the story have anything to do with the fact that Josh doesn’t appear to be here?’
‘Just leave it, please, Si. How’s Emma?’
The opportunity to talk about his wife and family proves just the distraction I hoped it would. ‘Oh, she’s on good form, thanks. Talking about getting a puppy, would you believe? As if the girls aren’t enough to cope with!’
He smiles indulgently and I hand him the bag of presents to carry in and place under the tree. The boot creaks ominously as I close it.
‘This car really is knackered, Lots. It’s practically held together by the rust. Are you sure you can’t afford a new one?’
This is an argument Josh and I have had several times recently, and I’ve always lost it as Josh has overruled me with his facts and figures about the wastefulness of new cars. If he were here, he’d wade in and give Simon the lecture, but as he’s not I just smile and shrug. The car is the least of my worries right now.
My parents’ house looks like it’s come straight out of one of those homes and interiors magazines. All the walls are painted in muted shades of creams and greys, and there are tasteful pictures and knick-knacks dotted about. As I walk into the living room, I spot the girls lying on the carpet, glued to some cartoon on the television, the excitement of my arrival already a thing of the past. My dad is in his favourite chair just behind them, a glass of champagne already in his hand. He leaps up to hug me.
‘Charlotte, Happy Christmas! Lovely to see you – how was the drive over?’
‘Hi, Dad. Happy Christmas!’ My parents are the only people who call me by my full name. Everyone else abbreviates it in some way. My dad is a big man and I feel a little bit like I’m trying to wrap my arms round one of those Pilates balls when I hug him, but he’s a gentle giant and, when he squeezes me in his embrace, I usually feel that nothing can hurt me as long as he’s around. I can sense him looking over my shoulder, searching for Josh.
‘Where’s the weirdo?’
‘Josh wasn’t able to make it. Something came up at the last minute. He sends his apologies – sorry, Dad.’
He releases me from the bear hug and smiles at me. ‘Shame, I was looking forward to a repeat of his lecture on how my lorries are killing the dolphins. Has he worked out how his lentils, or whatever that shit is that you both eat, gets to the shops yet?’
As you can imagine, since Josh has worked at Earthkind and embraced his new eco-friendly lifestyle, his relationship with my parents has gone sharply downhill. They tolerate him fairly good-naturedly for my sake, but they make no bones about the fact that they think most of what he says is nonsense.
‘Mind your language in front of the children, John! Hello, darling, how are you?’ Mum walks into the room from the kitchen. She’s the opposite of my dad. Where he is tall and rotund, she is small and delicate. I can feel her bones as I hug her.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’
‘Happy Christmas! So, no Josh? That’s a shame. I got some of that vegan nut-roast thing you both like. Still, extra helpings for you, eh? John, get Charlotte a drink – she looks parched.’
She takes in my face. Although it’s a lot better since my impromptu garage stop, it’s obviously still a bit puffy and, if anyone is going to notice, it’s my mum.
‘Are you OK, love? You look like you’ve been crying. You two haven’t had a bust-up, have you?’
I can feel the tears bubbling up again and swallow hard to suppress them. I’m determined not to spoil Christmas for my family by sobbing all over the place.
‘I’m fine, Mum, don’t worry. Josh just had something that he had to deal with urgently. He sends his apologies.’
‘It had better be life-threateningly urgent to make him abandon his girlfriend on Christmas Day,’ Dad remarks as he hands me a glass of champagne.
‘The important thing is that you’re here,’ Mum says. ‘Come through into the kitchen and say hello to Emma when you’re ready. She’s been helping with the turkey – some new Nigella recipe she found on the internet, apparently.’
I take the glass from my dad and follow Mum into the kitchen, just as Emma is taking an enormous turkey out of the Aga.
