‘Not to be rude, pet, but this is the first time any of you have ever asked what I need.’
The truth of it stung.
‘Don’t listen to me,’ she said, rising to her feet as soon as she saw the expression on my face. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink last night, then I had to be up at the crack of dawn to preheat the oven, and—’
‘Mum, no.’ I stood back, one hand held out in front of me as though I might burst into a chorus of ‘Stop’ by the Spice Girls at any moment. ‘I am going to make dinner.’
She sat back down slowly.
‘You’re going to what?’
‘I’m going to make dinner,’ I said, speaking firmly and clearly in my very best ‘I know what I’m doing, don’t question me’ voice, most commonly used when ordering doughnuts. ‘You’re going to sit there, I’m going to take care of the food. The turkey’s already in, isn’t it? You’ve done the hard bit, leave the rest of it to me.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, pet, but do you know how to cook a Christmas dinner?’
I was a renowned expert in corporate law, I routinely went into Superdrug and only came out with the thing I went in for and three years ago, I wore a jumpsuit to a festival, went to the toilet four times and didn’t even wee on myself once. I was a woman who could do difficult things. Compared to the jumpsuit thing, cooking a few vegetables and pulling a turkey out of the oven would be a piece of cake.
Mmm. Cake.
I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my dress and waved it in Mum’s concerned face. The sum total of humanity’s quest for knowledge in my hand and all I needed to know was how to cook some carrots. If the internet was going to take down civilization, the least I was owed was a decent recipe for root vegetables.
‘Just because you haven’t seen me cook, doesn’t mean I’m not any good at it,’ I replied, as much to myself as my mother. She hadn’t seen me cook because I didn’t cook, but I watched a lot of cooking programmes. Surely some skills had been transferred over by osmosis? All I needed was half an hour in the kitchen, some self-belief and, ifMasterChefwas to be believed, a good set of knives. It was all in the knives, they all said so.
‘I’ve got this,’ I said, brimming with unearned confidence. ‘You put your feet up and relax.’
‘I think I’ve forgotten how,’ Mum said, awkwardly patting the sofa cushions on either side of her, still for the first time in my entire life. ‘What should I do?’
‘Watch telly, read a book, get angry about theDaily Mailonline but read it anyway, fill an online shopping cart with things you’ve no intention of buying, the usual stuff,’ I suggested, turning on the radio and filling the room with soothing Christmas carols. ‘Try to relax. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘And if you need me, I’ll be right here,’ she called as I rolled up my sleeves, striding into the next room to make my mother’s wish come true. ‘And all I have to do is cook a meal,’ I said with a smile. ‘How hard can it be?’
‘Is everything all right, chicken? Oh, bloody hell.’
Dad entered the kitchen slowly, holding an arm acrosshis face to protect his eyes from the smoke that poured out of the oven and filled the room.
‘Everything is fine!’ I screamed as I flapped a tea towel at the screaming smoke alarm. ‘Absolutely fucking marvellous.’
‘I came to see if you needed any help?’ he said, opening the back door and wafting it back and forth, sending clouds of smoke out into the garden. It was everything I could do not to get in Manny’s car, drive down to London to hunt and kill Nigella Lawson. Easy Christmas dinner, my arse.
‘Thanks,’ I said, looking around the kitchen as plumes of thick black smoke continued to pour out of the oven. ‘I can’t imagine what set it off.’
‘Gwen, what is that?’ Dad asked. I saw him eyeing a bowl of lumpy white slop on the table, half of which was clinging to the front of my dress.
‘It’s the Yorkshire puddings,’ I explained, holding up a sieve. ‘The flour didn’t want to mix so I thought, you know …’ I mimed mashing the mixture through the sieve and the optimistic smile on his face dissolved to make way for a look of pure pity. ‘Everything’s good though. Completely on schedule, nothing to worry about. I wanted the oven to smoke like that, it was in the recipe.’
I grabbed the half-empty bottle of white wine that was sweating on the counter and took a deep swig.
‘Do you want a glass for that?’ Dad asked.
I shook my head as I put it back on the table with a heavy hand. ‘I’ve already broken two, best not to risk another.’
‘Right you are.’
If I could have read minds, I’d have sworn he was wondering whether or not Dominos delivered on Christmas.
‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ he said, sticking his hands in his pockets and backing up to the door. ‘As long as we’ve got pigs in blankets, I’m a happy camper. You know my mum always used to make them for me on Christmas Day, they’re the best bit of the meal as far as I’m concerned.’
‘The pigs in blankets are fine,’ I replied, edging over to the sink where twelve charred chipolatas wrapped in cremated bacon were welded to the bottom of a baking tray. ‘It’s all fine.’