Cooking Up Christmas

‘What are you going to do?’ He turned to face her, his expression tense.

Esme feigned a hopefulness she didn’t feel. ‘I’m sure I’ll pick something else up quickly, in a few months; or worst-case scenario, I’ll go freelance.’ Suddenly, Leo took her hand and led her to the table.

‘Esme, can you come and sit down, please? I need to talk to you.’ Esme paused. His face was serious as he placed his wine glass down, and her heart thudded in her chest. For the last few months he’d been secretive and she and her friends thought maybe he was going to propose. Was this the moment? Sat on the chair, next to their tiny dining table, he knelt down in front of her and Esme’s heart rocketed up into her throat. She took a big breath in and bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself grinning like a fool.

‘Esme, I’m sorry, I should have done this weeks ago, the timing is terrible.’ She wanted to shout that it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was perfect timing. Leo raked a hand through his hair and she watched, hoping his hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a tiny box. ‘I know today’s been difficult for you and I …’ He shook his head. ‘I should’ve done this before now.’

Esme bit her lip. She was going to get married!

‘I think we should break up,’ Leo announced.

Her mouth opened then closed again as she stared at him in disbelief. What? What had just happened? Everything fell silent except for the blood pounding in her ears and her short gasps of breath as she tried to control her emotions. Leo’s eyes dropped and he stood up.

‘I just feel we’ve become friends more than husband-and-wife material, don’t you? And I think it’d be the best thing for both of us if we just moved on. Don’t you think so?’

If he’d hoped for some kind of agreement from Esme, he was going to be disappointed. ‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s not even mid-November, Esme. It’s nowhere near Christmas.’ Leo went to the window. His slightly curmudgeonly attitude to Christmas suddenly seemed far less endearing and much more Scrooge-like, and as if to confirm it, he said, ‘I can give you a few days to move your stuff out, you don’t have to go right now. I’m not a monster.’

Dazed, Esme tried to think but she couldn’t, she could only feel – and all she felt was that she had to get out. She stood and placed her wine glass on the table, then went and picked up her handbag from the sofa. As she retrieved her coat from the rack, Leo said, ‘Esme, where are you going? We can still have dinner and—’

She closed the door softly behind her.

Esme trudged through the rain to the Singapore Sling, ignoring it soaking her hair and running down her face, mixing with her tears. She’d left her hat and scarf at the flat, but wasn’t going back for them. She’d rather get wet. Every fibre of her being felt crushed. As she descended the steps to the cellar bar, leaving the world behind, a drop of rain fell from the sign and trickled down the back of her neck. She wanted to hide. To hibernate below ground and never come out.

After an emergency call to Helena, her friends were with her in half an hour. Esme’s heart, pounded and punched by the day’s events, felt broken and bruised. When she thought of Leo, the last thread of love snapped and her heart deflated like a burst balloon. She could even picture it in her chest all floppy, sad and wrinkled.

Mark, Lola and Helena gathered around Esme, open-mouthed and with drinks untouched as she told them all the details of her day from hell. Dance music thumped in the background and harsh neon lights lit their usual table in the corner. At least the DJ wasn’t playing Christmas songs. The last thing Esme wanted right now was Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ blasting out while her life hit an all-time low. Having finished, Esme couldn’t stop the great sob that emerged in a high-pitched puff of air, making Mark and Helena jump.

‘Christ, sweetie,’ said Mark, ‘you need more than just a drink after all that.’

‘I don’t think I can stomach one right now.’

‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘What you need is an enormous cocktail with a little umbrella in.’ His bright blue eyes popped against his dark hair and olive skin. ‘And as for that witch, well—’

Esme sobbed.

‘And Leo is a complete knob,’ said Lola. ‘I can’t believe after five years together this is how he treats you.’

‘What will you do now?’ Helena asked sympathetically. Esme simply shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you need to go out and register with agencies,’ she commanded. Helena was scarily matter-of-fact and dealt with everything with an almost military attitude. Esme watched the bubbles fizz in her glass. She had no idea what life beyond today would look like. She didn’t yet know if she’d make it to tomorrow. ‘You can stay with us as long as you need to,’ Helena added, glancing at Mark as they were housemates. But Esme didn’t fancy sleeping on their sofa for the foreseeable future. And Eric, Lola’s other half, worked from home so their spare room had been turned into an office. She let out a giant sigh.

‘I’ll have to move back home for a bit, won’t I? I can’t rent in London without a job and I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get another one. I haven’t got any savings and I can’t scrounge off you guys indefinitely.’ She leaned forward and rested her head on the table as a raindrop dripped from her soaking wet hair onto her nose.

‘It wouldn’t be scrounging, you’re our friend,’ replied Lola. ‘If Felicity Fenchurch walked in here right now, I’d punch her on the nose.’

Helena rubbed Esme’s back. ‘From what you’ve said, back home isn’t exactly—’

‘London?’ offered Esme. ‘No, it’s not. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘Could you freelance and commute in?’ asked Mark.

‘Too far and too expensive.’

‘What about some catering work? You know, weddings and stuff?’ suggested Helena.

Esme hesitated. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’d still need a good reference and I don’t think I’m going to get one of those now.’

‘I know,’ said Lola. ‘You could write that cookery book you’re always talking about.’

Lola had been Esme’s best friend since school and knew her inside out. They came from the same town, went to the same university and had moved to London when they’d finished their studies, living together in a grotty two-bedroom flat above a kebab shop. She was also eternally optimistic, which was both helpful and, at times, annoying. ‘You need to see this as an opportunity, not a setback. Okay, so you move back home for a bit. Without having to pay stupidly high London rent, and without your time being taken up by Felicity, you could write your cookbook and get it published. This is your chance to focus on it.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked Esme, who felt a tiny spark of hope in the darkness of the last few hours.

‘Of course you could,’ agreed Helena. ‘You’re the best food tech around. Not only that, you’re great at creating recipes too.’

Mark nodded. ‘You look at this mess. Felicity thought your recipes were so good she wanted to steal them. And when I think about all the dinner parties where you’ve cooked for us, OMG! That salmon thing you made when I split up with Andrew? Trust me, it made it all worthwhile.’

Esme smiled and nudged Mark with her shoulder. ‘What would I do without you guys?’

‘Die of thirst, probably. I’m going to get another round.’

‘Where will you stay tonight?’ asked Helena, taking Esme’s hand. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go back to the flat.’

‘She’s staying with me and Eric, aren’t you?’ said Lola. ‘But you’re not borrowing my pants like you did at university.’

‘I had an excuse then,’ Esme replied. ‘I didn’t know how to do washing.’ But suddenly her face clouded in concern. ‘There is one thing.’

‘What?’ asked Mark, pausing on his way to get more drinks. ‘After everything you’ve been though today, I can’t believe there’s anything worse to deal with.’

‘Oh yes there is,’ replied Esme, resting her head on the table and speaking from under her arms. ‘I still have to tell my mother.’

‘Well, you’re on your own there, love,’ said Helena, smiling. ‘I’ve met your mum and she is batshit crazy.’

Chapter 2

Sandchester

Joe Holloway made a Herculean effort to laugh at his friend Danny’s joke. It wasn’t that the joke wasn’t funny – Danny’s jokes were always funny – but laughing felt unnatural to Joe and had done for a long time.

He stared into his pint glass and swilled the liquid around, then drained it in one big gulp. Even though it was only a normal Wednesday night, the pub was full of his friends and the people he’d known all his life, laughing and chatting. He’d been back for a few years now and everyone in the small town had welcomed him with soothing noises, but it was the pity he couldn’t stand. It still came out in the nervous glances directed his way and the gentle, careful conversation.

Their usual pub hadn’t changed since he was a teenager, drinking underage. The only thing that was different was the music. The Britpop of the Nineties had been replaced by warbling women singing with fake husky voices, or middle-aged rock pop that made him want to grab the controls and turn it over. Danny’s hand hit his shoulder and squeezed. A squeeze that signified he was becoming morbid again. Introverted and, as Danny so kindly put it, a killjoy.

Joe glanced up from his stool and studied the scratched wooden bar before giving a weak smile. Danny nodded towards the two grinning ladies with a cheeky wink and Joe made an effort to smile at the taller woman. He recognised the signs. Her glances from under long eyelashes, eye contact that lingered a little too long. It was getting late, almost ten-thirty, and he should be thinking of heading off. He had work tomorrow, but that hadn’t stopped him before and wouldn’t now. That ‘one quick drink’ had ended up being two or three, then four or five, and now he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The two women Danny was chatting up were smiling and laughing, caressing wine glasses in long slim fingers. The tall blonde glanced at Joe again, cocking her head to the side so her hair fanned out. She swept it all back over one shoulder. What was her name again? She’d told him when Danny invited them over but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Did it start with an A? Annie? Amelia? Something like that. He frowned, trying to remember as she came closer and leaned against the bar. She wasn’t dressed in a short skirt or dress, or covered in make-up – the usual Saturday night get-ups. She wore jeans and a tight jumper. She was cute.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much?’

Joe glanced up and studied her face. She was pretty. At least, she was pretty after the few too many he’d had. Almond-shaped eyes, nice figure. Danny nudged him again and gave him a knowing look. Joe shook his head and returned to his drink. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

He didn’t feel like saying anything else right now so tapped his finger in time with the music playing in the background. The trouble was women often took his lack of chit chat as him playing the strong and silent type. It wasn’t. He wasn’t brooding either. He was just so bloody depressed he often didn’t speak at all, for hours, days if he could help it. From the corner of his eye he saw Angela, or whatever her name was, shuffling uncomfortably.

‘Do you still work at the estate agent’s in town?’ she asked, running her fingers down the stem of her empty wine glass.

Joe nodded at the barman and nudged his glass forward. Fred refilled it. He scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘Um, yeah. Do you want a drink?’He didn’t really want to buy her one, but he had that longing again. A longing to be held, a longing for physical contact, for intimacy. For sex.

A slow smile spread over her face. ‘I thought you’d never ask. Dry white wine please,’ she said to Fred. Her hair was just like Clara’s, the colour of straw. Joe turned away at the familiar surge of nausea that arose whenever he thought of her. His throat tightened. If only things had been different.

Fred delivered his drink and one for … Amy? Joe took his and gulped, numbing the pain. If he kept it locked away, he was able to make it through the day pretty much intact and in the evenings threw himself into video games. It was soothing entering another world where he didn’t have to be himself.

‘You’re not very talkative, are you? Just like when you were at school.’

‘We were at school together?’ he asked, not looking up.

That was the other shitty thing about coming back. He saw all these people he’d gone to school with. All those who’d thought he was cool. Joe scoffed to himself and felt Amanda glance at him. He wasn’t cool anymore. He was a loser, the biggest loser he knew, with a giant, steaming turd of a life.

The song had changed and the husky singer sang, ‘In the arms of the angels.’ Bollocks, thought Joe. Every song was about heartbreak or death these days, or something worse. He felt a sudden desire to leave but then that familiar urge for human contact pulled at him, sticking his butt to the seat. He didn’t want to talk though. He hated all the questions these women had, like they could fix him if they could just have a little chat about it all.

She giggled. ‘Danny remembered me, he told you when we came over. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?’ She wrapped her hair around her finger.

Joe tried to picture what she might have been like when they were at school but he soon gave up. It was so hard to concentrate sometimes. Somehow his mind always wandered back to Clara, as if she was sneaking around in his head, trying to make him deal with it all. He knew she wouldn’t want him to be like this, but he couldn’t break out of the deep, dark black hole he’d fallen into.

‘I’m Annabelle Crawley. I was three years below you at school.’

He nodded. ‘Oh yeah, I remember.’ He didn’t remember. Who remembered kids three years below you at school? You just ignored them, you didn’t acknowledge them, or worse, become friends with them.

Annabelle snuggled in closer. ‘It’s okay. I know you don’t have a clue who I am, but I forgive you. You can get to know me now.’

Joe glanced at his watch, knowing exactly how this night would end and, from the gleam in her eye, so did she. The feel of her body pressed into his arm was enough to convince them that another one-night stand was just what he wanted, even though he’d feel empty again in the morning. But swallowing his pint he knew it was pointless thinking any further ahead than the next day, and that was pushing it sometimes. He felt like his soul was lost, roaming somewhere outside his body, out there in the world. It would come back fleetingly during the reprieve of company, only to go missing again. He knew it wouldn’t stay this time, but he’d like to feel like himself again, even if it was only for a short while. Turning to Annabelle, he began talking a little more.

Chapter 3

Sandchester

Carol, Esme’s mum, sat opposite her at the large kitchen table. From the strange expressions she was making, Esme knew she was fantasising about ways to harm Leo Chalmers. Stephen, Esme’s father, sat quietly listening.

‘So that’s why I’m here, at half past eight on a Thursday morning,’ said Esme, examining her mum’s floral bathrobe tied around her waist. ‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

‘No, dear,’ replied Carol. ‘We were just having sex—’

‘Some tea,’ interrupted Stephen, glaring at his wife. ‘We were just having some tea. In bed. Watching telly.’ He scratched his head and a redness crept out of his stripy pyjama top.

Esme shuddered. Since she had left home after finishing university, and her younger sister had moved out eight years ago, her parents had very much enjoyed a more active sex life. More than once when she’d been home for Christmas, or down for some family occasion, Esme would hear them and bury her head under the pillow. After last Christmas, Leo had insisted they stay at the hotel outside town, even though it would cost them more money to get taxis to and fro. But that wasn’t going to happen now, she thought sadly. They wouldn’t relish the prospect of having their daughter back home anymore than she wanted to be there, but they were always supportive and just what Esme needed right now. Stephen cocked his head to one side and smiled at his daughter.

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said her mum. ‘You’ll get back on your feet and if that Leo turns up here, I shall … I shall …’ She grabbed a dinner knife, covered in marmalade. ‘I shall stab him in the back for stabbing you in the back. I can’t believe his name’s Chalmers. Charm, my arse.’

Esme tried to smile, but tears were forming in her eyes again, even though she was sick of crying. That morning, climbing into the taxi at Sandchester Station, which was unstaffed because no one ever wanted to visit the boring little town, Esme had rubbed at her tired eyes. Turning up at her mum and dad’s house, at the age of 33, with all her belongings crammed into one suitcase, and a Christmas pudding under her arm, was thoroughly depressing. At least it hadn’t been raining. ‘He didn’t stab me in the back, Mum. And he didn’t say there was anyone else. He just said we were more like friends than, you know.’ She blushed and stared down at the table with its red check tablecloth.

‘Well, darling,’ Carol replied, taking her cup. ‘Your room is all yours until you find somewhere else.’

‘I don’t know how I’ll find somewhere else. I need a job first.’ She ran a hand through her un-brushed hair and her fingers caught in the knots. She’d never felt so low.

‘About that,’ said Stephen, pouring another cup of tea. ‘We were saving up some money for your wedding.’

‘Wedding,’ repeated her mother, nodding. She’d always had this weird habit of randomly repeating the last word of other people’s sentences.

‘But as things have changed, you could use it to put down a deposit on a rental if you like. I’m sure you’ll find some work soon, you’re so good at your job. But just remember one thing, Esme.’ She paused at her dad’s sincere expression. ‘Don’t ever go backwards. Always move forwards. Going back never helps.’

‘Never helps,’ repeated Carol. ‘That means no going back to that scumbag. Even if he comes crawling on bended knee with the biggest diamond you’ve ever seen. Men like that don’t change.’

‘How much do you have saved?’ asked Esme.

‘About three thousand pounds,’ Stephen answered.

Esme raised her head. ‘Really? Thank you. Thank you so much. ‘It was more than generous and enough to cover not just a deposit but the first few months’ rent too. Tears escaped from her eyes and she studied her parents. The wrinkles on her mum’s kind, round face crinkled and her dad’s mouth lifted into a grin. They were always so kind and supportive. Even if her mum did have homicidal tendencies and her father was now talking in pop-psychology book clichés, they were great parents.

‘Have you told your sister yet?’ asked Stephen.

‘No.’ Esme dipped her eyes as if she was six and had been told off.

‘Why not?’

‘She’ll be upset with me for losing my job. She’ll think I should’ve—’

‘She will not,’ interrupted Carol, now waving the marmalade knife at Esme. ‘Alice will be pleased you’re home and proud that you stood up for yourself, just like I am. We’ll go and see her after breakfast. Little Daniel will be so happy to see his Aunty Ezzy.’

After breakfast, Carol drove them to Alice’s house as if she were a Formula One driver in the last race of the season. Esme’s fingers ached and her knuckles were white from holding onto the seat. It had been like a terrifying ride at an amusement park. Her ears were ringing from the angry shouting Carol had given every other passing driver. The old Ford had taken ages to heat up as well. They’d sat on the driveway waiting for the windscreen to de-mist while rain began to pour. As November took hold, the weather was wet and cold but without the buzz that December brought. Christmas lights were on here too, but with far less glitz and pizzazz than London. The local radio station insisted on playing the odd Christmas song, and though Leo used to hate it, Esme didn’t. She loved Christmas and despite everything, this one at home with her family would be great. They’d eat, drink, laugh and just be together. She wouldn’t have to rush back early on Boxing Day morning because Leo couldn’t put up with her mum any longer.

Alice opened the front door and stared wide-eyed at her sister. They had the same red hair, inherited from their mother, though Carol now dyed hers platinum-blonde in an ill-advised attempt to reverse the aging process. If her hair had actually gone platinum-blonde it would have looked amazing, but it still went a bit orangey-yellow in places and no one was brave enough to tell her. Alice’s figure had grown plump since having Daniel, while Esme’s was slim and toned from regular trips the gym, but it was clear to anyone they were family. The London gym Esme and Leo had gone to had been swanky and exclusive – she’d have to start running again or something now she was home. She couldn’t afford a gym membership anymore. Yet Esme envied her sister for her absolute contentment with herself and her life.

‘Hello, sis,’ said Esme, as she approached.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Alice, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I didn’t think we’d see you till Christmas Eve.’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Aunty Ezzy!’ called a little voice from behind Alice’s legs.

‘Hello, little man,’ she replied, whisking her 4-year-old nephew up into a huge hug. Daniel was gorgeous, with red hair and large blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Esme squeezed him tight. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Me too. Are you staying here?’ he asked, staring up.

‘Not in your house, I’m with Granny and Grandpa for a bit.’

Alice frowned and peered at their mum. ‘You two better come in and tell me what’s going on.’

*

Three cups of tea later and everyone in Esme’s life was now up to speed on what a disaster it was. Esme stared around the kitchen where every cupboard door and each side of the fridge was covered in her nephew’s artwork.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Alice. ‘I just can’t believe it.’ She glanced from Esme to Carol, until she too began wielding sharp implements clearly imagining harm to Leo.

‘I know,’ said Carol, ‘that’s what I said.’

‘And we all thought he was getting ready to propose. You said he’d been secretly shopping and organising stuff. You said he’d been looking at jewellery. I just assumed—’

‘Me too,’ Esme replied. ‘And all the gang did as well.’

‘As well,’ Carol repeated. ‘Another woman,’ she said after a pause sitting back in her chair at the breakfast bar.

‘I don’t think there is, Mum,’ said Esme. ‘He told me he felt we’d just grown apart.’

Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you can stay here as long as you like, you know that. Though I can’t promise little man won’t wake you up at five-thirty every morning. Oh, and he likes to do that by jumping on your head.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Esme, grinning. The central heating was on and the house was lovely and warm. Being there with her mum and sister was like being given a great big hug. ‘Mum and Dad said they have some money I can use to get a little place while I find a new job.’

‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Taking on a place while you try and find work?’ Alice bustled around the kitchen cleaning the surfaces and loading the dishwasher.

‘Don’t worry, Alice, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m going to write my cookbook while I look for work. If I don’t try now, when will I ever have the chance again? I need a kitchen to work in and I can’t use Mum and Dad’s all day with them pottering around me. It’ll drive me crazy. And them,’ she added, smiling at her mum. ‘I was hoping I could pick up a cheap little flat and freelance while I write.’

Alice paused and checked on Daniel who, at that precise moment, was trying to fit the television remote control into his mouth. ‘Darling, please don’t put that in your mouth, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He put it down and picked up one of his dad’s video games. ‘And don’t play with that, please? It’s Daddy’s. Why don’t you draw Aunty Ezzy a picture?’