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‘Hi, Mom!’ I call, as the dog bounds up to me, wagging his tail furiously. I set my case down and fuss over him while he wriggles in absolute delight.
My mother 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 father 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?’
At the mention of wine, my stomach heaves slightly. I’ve still got the slight trace of a headache and don’t really fancy anything to drink, 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. Both of my parents have strong views about ‘people who drink too much’.
‘I see you’ve entered into the festive spirit already,’ I tease her. ‘I hope you haven’t been raiding Dad’s cellar. You know he’ll notice.’
‘Heavens no! I think your father has set aside a couple of bottles for Christmas Day, but I wouldn’t dare set foot down there. Apart from anything else, I wouldn’t have the first clue what I was looking at. No, I’ve got a bottle of Sancerre from Waitrose as it’s a special occasion.’
Dad’s wine cellar is a bit of a standing joke between Mom and me. He’s practically teetotal, but you’d never know from the size of it. Plenty of bottles seem to go down there, but very few ever come back up again. He told me once that he likes to buy fine wines young and then sell them on when they’ve matured and the price has risen, but I think he just likes looking at his collection and cataloguing it.
After bringing my bag up to my old room, 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’ve opened the bottle and poured us each a glass.’ I’m relieved to see that her idea of a glass of wine is still little more than a thimbleful, as that’s probably as much as I can cope with, even as hair of the dog.
‘Thanks, Mom.’
‘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.’
‘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?’
‘You would absolutely love her, but she’s 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.
‘I would so love to have given you a brother or sister,’ she sighs. ‘I always dreamed of a big family.’
‘I know, Mom,’ I tell her, pulling her into an awkward hug. ‘But it wasn’t to be, and you’re stuck with little old me.’
Thankfully, before she can go any further down into the rabbit hole of her inability to have any more children, 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 his 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 twenty-sixth, but I can do that from here.’
His eyes alight on me. ‘Madison!’ he exclaims. ‘How is my favourite 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 favourite 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 isgoing. 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.
