‘I did. They were perfect, thank you.’
Nan nodded her approval and the little vein that was pulsing above Mum’s right eye disappeared.
‘All right then. Now, since it’s Christmas, I’ll have a drop of sherry if you’ve a bottle open,’ she declared, taking herself off to the living room and leaving the rest of us to breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Gwen, come and sit with me and Manny,’ Nan ordered, holding her hand out for the extremely generous drink we watched my dad pour with a shaky hand. Even at eighty-three my nan was one of the most intimidating women to have ever set foot on this earth. Five foot two, pure white hair and sharper than those knives they sell on TV at three in the morning, she was my absolute hero. Maybe she wasn’t quite as energetic as she used to be but she still drove her own car, always had at least three different books on the go and most importantly, took zero guff from anyone. When I was little, I used to tell people I wanted to be exactly like her when I grew up. All these years later and that was still the dream.
‘Stand up, let me see that dress,’ she ordered as Dad scuttled back into the kitchen and out of the way.
‘Do you like it?’ I asked. I gave her a dutiful twirl before smoothing down the soft, deep red velvet of my brand-new frock, one of the few late-night misery purchases I’d actually loved and kept. The high neck and long skirt felt formal enough for a family Christmas but the deep V in the back, cut just above my bra line, stopped it from feeling too matronly. Most importantly, the empire-line cut meant it was roomy enough to strap seventeen boxes of Jaffa Cakes around my midriff should the need arise and I very much hoped it would. Aside from the fact I’d stabbed myself with a little gold safety pin when I took the price tag off earlier, it really was the perfect dress.
Nan screwed up her face with distaste.
‘It’s awful.’
Or maybe it wasn’t.
‘What?’
‘It’s awful,’ Nan repeated, as though it were an inarguable fact. ‘It’s hanging off you. Why would you buy something three sizes too big?’
‘It’s empire line, it’s supposed to be loose.’ I pulled lightly at the fabric I’d been completely in love with ten seconds earlier. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘It looks like a tent,’ she declared. ‘I could get an entire circus under that thing, elephants and all. If you throw a dozen tables and chairs under it, we could rent it out for weddings.’
I fell back onto the settee. ‘This style is very popular, Nan, it’s sold out everywhere, it’s meant to be loose. I wanted something that would be comfortable to eat in.’
‘How much are you planning to eat?’ she asked, incredulous as she unfastened the bottom button of her smart skirt suit jacket, a small snowflake brooch sparkling tastefully. ‘Do you want to end up with gout like your grandad? Popular doesn’t always equate to good, love. Smoking when you were pregnant was popular when I was your age.Mr Blobbywas popular.’
She despised Mr Blobby. No one could tell you why, but God help himandNoel Edmonds if they ever bumped into my nan down a dark alley of an evening.
‘Cerys is here!’ Mum sang out from the kitchen and everyone in the living room froze. ‘Someone get the door, I’ve got my hand up the turkey.’
Manny and Nan sat stock still, not moving a muscle.
‘I’ll go, shall I?’ I said, standing up slowly.
‘Get it and lock it,’ Manny replied. ‘What if I close the curtains and we’re all very quiet?’
Nan knocked back the rest of her glass in one gulp. ‘I know children are a blessing and I hate to say it, but I can’t stand those kids.’
I paused by the tree, one eyebrow raised. ‘You mean your beloved great-grandchildren?’
‘Go and let your sister in and I’ll have less of your cheek,’ she tutted loudly. ‘You’ve too much of me in you, Gwen Baker, that’s your problem.’
‘Biggest compliment ever,’ I replied as I closed the living-room door behind me.
When my parents told six-year-old Cerys she was getting a sibling, she asked if she could get a pony instead. When Dad said no, the baby was already on its way, she tried to negotiate down to a dog, and I’d been nothing but a disappointing substitute ever since. It was impossible for us to be in the same room for more than twenty minutes without coming to blows and it had been that way for so long, ever since teenaged Cerys decided she was far too cool to have anything to do with her little sister and her nerdy cousin. But I’d promised Mum I would try, and if a virgin could give birth to a baby deity, perhaps Cerys and I could find a way to get along for a couple of hours. Admittedly it would be a bigger miracle than the baby in the manger, but a promise was a promise.
With a deep breath, I turned the lock, put on a huge smile and—
‘Christ, it’s roasting in here.’ Cerys threw open the door and crushed me against the wall before I even had the chance to speak. ‘Is the thermostat broken?’
Easing out from behind the door, I rubbed my probably-not-broken wrist, wondering whether or not I had enough strength left in it for one good punch. People who said violence was never the answer didn’t have older siblings.
‘Merry Christmas, Cerys. Good drive?’
‘No such thing,’ she replied, her eyes darting all over the hallway as she fished around for something in her enormous handbag. ‘Have they painted in here? I told them to get a decorator to do it. I hope Mum hasn’t had Dad up that bloody stepladder again, he’s too old to be faffing about.’