How to Stuff Up Christmas E-Book

Rosie Blake

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A hilarious and heart-warming novel about Christmas, catastrophes and cooking, containing exclusive Christmas recipes, from the talented Rosie Blake. **How to Stuff Up Christmas includes 14 fabulous, tasty Christmas recipes throughout** 'Tis the season to be jolly. Unless you've found an intimate picture of another woman on your fiance's phone... Eve is heartbroken after discovering her fiance is cheating on her. Being surrounded by the joys of Christmas is more than Eve can bear, so she chooses to avoid the festivities by spending Christmas alone on a houseboat in Pangbourne. Eve gets gets an unexpected seasonal surprise when handsome local vet Greg comes to her rescue one day, and continues to visit Eve's boat on a mission to transform her from Kitchen Disaster Zone to Culinary Queen. But where does Greg keep disappearing to? What does Eve's best friend Daisy know that she isn't telling? And why is there an angry goose stalking Eve's boat?

Leseprobe

To ‘Mama Christmas’ aka the legend that is Basia Martin.

You can find lovely Christmas goodies to buy at www.countrycottagechristmas.co.uk

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Acknowledgements

About the Author

‘Oh, Eve, this is very unbecoming.’

‘Don’t, Brenda, can’t you see it’s too soon?’

‘You could have stayed in the car, David.’

‘I needed to come to ensure you didn’t kill her.’

‘I’m not going to kill her.’

Sigh. ‘I know, it’s a turn of phrase.’

‘Just look at her.’

‘She’s fine. She’s a grown woman, Brenda.’

‘She’s not fine.’

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘You both know I can hear you? I’m sitting right here.’

‘Well, young lady, enough is enough. You need to get up right now.’

‘Brenda!’

‘Mum, I’m thirty-two years old. You can’t tell me to get up.’

‘I’m your mother, I can tell you anything, I carried you in my womb for nine months.’

‘I didn’t have a choice in the matter.’

‘Brenda, we should go, let her get on with things.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Get on with things! Look at her, she’s wearing pyjamas and it’s 3 p.m.’

‘They’re good pyjamas, love.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘They’re excellent pyjamas, I’ve always loved her in check, but it’s 3 p.m.’

‘It’s 7 a.m. somewhere in the world.’

‘David, you are not being helpful.’

‘You didn’t bring me to be helpful. You brought me because you don’t like driving in London in the day.’

‘I don’t. The roads are a nightmare now, INVADED by cyclists, do they think they own the place?’

‘Mum, I’m pretty sure they have as much right to cycle as you have to dri—’

‘You cannot have a sensible opinion wearing pyjamas.’

‘Fine, I’ll get up.’

‘Good. Now I brought you bananas. You need fruit, vitamins and – is that an ashtray? Are you smoking?’

‘Can I have a banana?’

‘No, they’re Eve’s – she needs her strength.’

‘Dad can have one.’

‘He has plenty at home. David, you have plenty at home.’

‘We’re not at home, though, and I need my strength too.’

‘Oh for goodness sake! Fine, take one, but woe betide you if you don’t eat my dinner.’

‘Christ, Brenda, it’s a banana not a Michelin-starred meal.’

‘Eve – where are you going?’

‘I’m going to get dressed.’

‘Oh that’s good, I am glad. David, isn’t that good?’

‘It’s marvellous. This is an excellent banana.’

‘I’ll tidy up in here while you change.’

‘Don’t, Mum, it’s a pigsty. I’ll do it later.’

‘It is rather unpleasant.’

‘I’m allowed to live like this, Mum. After what happened. Dad…? Dad?’

‘David, stop messing around.’

‘Mum, he’s not, he’s choking on the banana.’

‘Typical of him.’

‘Come on, Dad…’

‘Went… went down the wrong way.’

‘David, stop messing about. So, Eve, do you want to talk about what happened?’

‘No, Mum, I really don’t. I’m going to go and get dressed, though.’

‘Don’t push it, Brenda – you promised.’

‘I’m not pushing anything. He was just such a lovely boy, always wrote a thank-you letter. Always.’

‘I wouldn’t care if he had written a thousand letters.’

‘And he had trustworthy eyes. Pops always said you could tell if a man was honest by looking at his eyes and they were honest.’

‘I always thought they were never quite looking in the same direction.’

‘Nonsense, David. They were lovely eyes. What did she do, I wonder?’

‘It wasn’t her.’

‘But he wouldn’t have dropped her.’

‘Mum, I can still hear you.’

‘It’s rude to eavesdrop.’

‘I’m not eavesdropping, Mum, you’re talking loudly, in my house.’

‘She has a point, Brenda.’

‘Well, I’ll drop, it but I… Oh, Eve, that really washes you out.’

‘Brenda.’

‘What? It does. I don’t know why she wears all that grey.’

‘Because I like grey, Mum.’

‘It’s nice, love.’

‘He didn’t shag someone else because I wore grey.’

‘Shag…’

‘Dad? Mum, he’s choking again. Mum?’

Eve had returned to work the day after it had happened with no ring and a blotchy face. She’d wanted to get on with things but found she couldn’t concentrate on anything, couldn’t rouse the energy to talk to potential buyers about beautiful new homes for their perfect family units. Where normally she’d have been gossiping with them, cooing over their excited ‘we need another bedroom, my wife’s expecting’, now she found their happiness too much to take.

Ed, the pernickety office manager, who spent most days whining that Eve never used hole-punch protector stickers, had skirted round her in those early weeks, warned off by her permanently red-rimmed eyes and Daisy’s quiet warnings. Daisy, Eve’s best friend, always watchful, brought her lattes and bacon butties, and allowed her to hide at her desk updating the details of new houses and flats while Daisy went out on viewings and talked to people on the phone.

‘Hey,’ she called, handing Eve a slice of chocolate biscuit cake as she walked past on her return from lunch, leaning over her desk to add, ‘Because I know you love it more than is normal.’

‘Ooh I do, you’re a goddess,’ Eve said, biting into it.

Daisy pulled up at her desk and started tapping as Eve made obscene noises finishing up her biscuit cake, crumbs sticking to her chest.

‘Oh hmm. You should make thish professionally, it ish soooo good,’ Eve said between mouthfuls.

Daisy looked up and smiled, her freckled face creasing. ‘I can give you the recipe if you like?’

Eve raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Why would I make it when I can wait here for you to bring it to me? Also, I would end up burning it…’

‘You can’t burn it.’

‘Well, melting it.’

‘You can’t melt it.’

‘Well, I would find a way to ruin it somehow,’ Eve said, staring wistfully at the empty plate.

‘You wouldn’t, you just need to follow the instructions, it’s easy,’ Daisy said, pushing a strand of ginger hair behind her ear.

‘I’m nearly done with these particulars. Do you want to… you know… it’s time,’ Eve whispered, leaning round the desk and indicating the screen with her head.

‘Okay, give me five minutes,’ Daisy said.

‘Yippee!’ Eve clapped. ‘No work, no work!’

‘Ssh…’ Daisy giggled as Ed looked up from his work­station, his beady eyes narrowing.

‘Yes, Daisy,’ Eve called out in a too-loud voice. ‘Good idea, we can work on it from my computer.’ Giving Daisy a discreet thumbs-up, she waited for her to finish the job she was working on. ‘Take your time, woman.’

‘I’m nearly done,’ Daisy said, the printer churning something out behind her. ‘Finished. Okay,’ she said, moving her chair round the desk to sit next to Eve.

‘How has Ed not worked this out yet?’ Eve grinned, tapping on the familiar website. ‘You’d think he’d block the website.’

‘Not sure, just pretend we are looking over the details of that new house in Islington.’

‘Deal… oh…’ Eve said, stuffing her hand over her mouth. Daisy rolled her eyes at her, accepting one of the headphones from Eve who took the other one and popped it in her ear.

The screen popped up and the opening credits to Deal or No Deal appeared online, their Monday ritual. They both looked at each other gleefully as the camera scanned the studio. Eve checked on Ed who had his back to them, probably Tipp-Exing something. Ed loved to Tipp-Ex stuff.

‘Love this show,’ Eve breathed.

Daisy nodded in agreement.

Eve enjoyed it because she liked to complain about the contestants and bemoan the fact that some of them talked about their ‘strategy’. When they did this it was her moment to squeal, to point at the screen, turn to Daisy and hiss, ‘Their strategy is to open fucking boxes,’ which always made her feel better. Daisy liked it because she liked Noel Edmonds; his neat, small frame, clipped beard, like a kindly uncle who’d lend you a book on the Battle of Waterloo and take you out for afternoon tea. A woman was in the chair today, showing Noel a photo of her three sons, and he was nodding at one of her holiday anecdotes in that lovely, understanding way of his.

Eve looked over at Daisy. ‘Are you fantasising about Noel Edmonds again?’

‘No, I’m not…’ Daisy went red. This didn’t mean much; Daisy always went red.

‘You wuv him…’ Eve laughed. ‘You want him to open your box.’

‘Eugh.’ Daisy was red again. ‘And shh!’ she said as Ed looked round, frowned and returned to a phone call.

Leaving her at the screen and getting up to make them coffee, Eve felt a swell of relief that she and Daisy seemed to be back to their usual state of affairs. Although she’d been wrapped up in her own drama during the past few weeks, Eve had still been worried about her friend. She’d been chewing her lip as she waited for the kettle to boil, seeming to be on the verge of saying something and then changing her mind. If Eve didn’t know Daisy better, she would think she was holding back some secret, but Daisy was the least-secretive person she knew and Eve had dismissed the thought the moment it entered her mind.

She waited for the water to boil, distracted by the corkboard in front of her, covered in adverts, messages and one cartoon she’d drawn of their small team. She’d made Ed look a lot thinner in it. She had drawn Daisy with large cartoon freckles and bunches in her hair, and made her own long, dark brown hair fall to her bottom. Touching the ends briefly, she wished it was long again. She was so engrossed that it was a few seconds before she realised that Ed had left his desk and was standing at their table, where Daisy was looking up at him, so red her cheeks clashed with her hair. Eve carried two mugs back to the table as they both turned.

‘Anything wrong?’ Eve asked, her eyes wide.

‘I was just reminding Daisy of the office regulations about internet usage.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Eve said, mouth in a thin line, a quick nod. ‘And I am sure Daisy will take heed of them.’ Eve thought ‘take heed’ sounded suitably solemn.

Ed looked at her quickly. ‘I have no doubt she will.’

Daisy was looking anywhere but at Eve as she set the coffee down in front of her. ‘Right, Daisy, well, it is probably best if we continue to sort out those files for archiving now.’

‘Good idea,’ she squeaked.

Ed stayed loitering above them, his chin wobbling with unsaid words, and then turned on his heel.

‘Right.’ Eve grinned, flopping into her chair. ‘Now, do you think she will deal?’

Daisy, determined not to be caught twice, picked up her coffee. ‘We can’t. Let’s archive those files.’

‘What files?’ Eve asked, eyebrows meeting.

‘The files you wanted archiving.’

‘Oh, that was a made-up thing, Dais’.’ Eve laughed. ‘You really need to get better at lying.’

Daisy’s eyes flicked left to right for a brief second. Then she laughed and picked up her coffee, taking a sip. ‘Oh I see.’

‘Now,’ Eve said, going to press ‘Play’ again. ‘Let’s find out what she has in her box.’

It had been the photograph that set her off. A friend had uploaded photos from her wedding in the summer on the coast of Devon and Eve was trawling through them as she sat on the floor, back against the sofa.

It had been a fabulous weekend. Liam and she had left London behind in a sticky haze and stuck the Best of the Beachboys album on the moment they were on the M4. They’d sung along to most of the songs, sunglasses on, sunroof down. By the Slough junction Liam had been grumbling about wearing a suit in July and Eve had tried to listen, but was really far too busy admiring herself in her new red fascinator that was so over the top it bent into the ceiling of the car. ‘Do you think Audrey Hepburn had a red fascinator? She did not,’ she’d answered herself happily.

In this photo they’d been sitting together in one of the pews of the church. Light crossed them in diagonal stripes, lighting their faces and making their eyes sparkle. Liam had his arm round her shoulders and she was smiling straight up at him, oozing happiness, her own engagement ring prominent as she clutched his arm in mirth. In the next photo they’d been sitting at the table, Eve mid-story, arms up, Liam smiling at her from his seat. In the next they were on the dance floor, Eve’s fascinator abandoned, heels kicked off, slow-dancing. Her eyes were closed, her head bent as his lips brushed her forehead. They were in a world of their own and the photographer had captured it.

Marmite padded over to look at what she was doing and she stared at him miserably, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair, before changing her mind. She had always felt he preferred Liam to her, Liam who would play with him, throw endless balls for him.

‘What happened, Marmite?’ she asked him.

Marmite tilted his head to one side as if he were listening. Liam always told her he was the cleverest Morkie that ever lived. Eve had disagreed after finding him eating her best bra. Now she felt he was looking at her, his eyes full of understanding. Then he made a dive for the half-empty bowl of Pot Noodles next to the laptop on the coffee table.

‘Marmite, NO! Don’t.’ It was too late. He had already sloshed it all over the surface, splattering the keyboard and pile of magazines as he legged it away, trailing noodles from his mouth.

‘Marmite.’

He sat up, swallowed, one noodle still dangling from his mouth. ‘Bad dog,’ she said half-heartedly. He wagged his tail.

She returned to the screen, feeling the familiar ache in her chest piercing her as she continued to click on them, staring at the photos until her eyes hurt. What had happened? It had all gone so wrong. They’d been great together. EVERYONE had told them so. They’d travelled to different cities in Europe doing those grinning selfies, cheeks pressed together, eyes crinkled in laughter, and uploaded them with attractive filters. They always got more than thirty likes and comments like ‘Soooooo jealous right now’ and ‘Awwwwwww’.

And they WERE cute, irritatingly so, it hadn’t all been in her head. He’d draped his DJ over her shoulders when she’d got cold at a friend’s thirtieth birthday, he’d brought her breakfast in bed when she was fluey, he’d held her hand in the street and called her his ‘woman’. Today was – would have been – their four-year anniversary. Four years! That was longer than a lot of things. Longer than the life of her favourite knee boots, longer than Steps were together. Long.

She couldn’t do it; she wouldn’t let herself think back to last Christmas. She blinked, a thin film of water blurring her eyes so that they were just a wash of green and yellow. Don’t, Eve. Don’t do it to yourself. She felt surprised as the first tears rolled. After a month you’d think her tear ducts would have ceased to function. No more! You’ve had your fill! They betrayed her now, fat droplets dripping off her chin. Pathetic. Don’t think about it, Eve. He doesn’t deserve it. Four years though!

Those four years seemed to play on an endless reel in her mind – hugging, laughing, arms wrapped round her, meals made, films watched, pub nights with friends, big double beds in plush hotels, listening to friends’ dating stories with a detached pathos. Poor you! Gosh! Squeeze his knee under the table as friend continues. How dreadful! Half-hearted plans to set them up with mutual friends. Four years. Jokes about what they’d call their children, where they’d live, the extension they’d build, the holiday home they’d buy and then last Christmas. It all seemed to come together so beautifully.

The tears had stopped, her face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed, her vest-top dotted with shed tears. She looked as she felt – drained, hopeless and beaten. She knew it was pathetic. She hated that he held such power, that memories of him could leave her in this way even after two months. But she still just missed him so bloody much.

What if she’d never found out? What if she’d never looked? She blamed the rain. Ridiculous to have that much rain in August.

It had been a flash flood, it had started early that morning and it had almost been romantic. Her in short dungarees, cute flecks of paint on her cheeks; she’d been wearing her hair in plaits too, like she was Pollyanna doing DIY for fuck’s sake. It was destined to go tits up – no one could look that smug for that long.

Their new flat was gorgeous; airy, light rooms, huge Victorian sash windows. Their bedroom even had a window seat where she imagined herself sketching pictures or writing a journal or something as Liam cooked her favourite meal on the range cooker (it had five hobs – Eve didn’t have a clue what they could all be used for, but Liam had insisted). And now she was painting the bathroom this heavenly duck-egg blue so that people would sit on her ceramic loo seat and admire her moulding.

She’d had no idea that a month later she would find herself painting over every inch of that duck-egg blue in thick, dripping stripes of magnolia, the very sight of that colour causing her fists to clench, her heart to race and her spine to tingle. No one would admire her bathroom now. It was featureless and dull. Like she felt. She’d donated the dungarees to Oxfam, chopped her dark-brown hair into a shapeless bob which even her dad had noticed and her mum had described as ‘very Puritan’.

But she had been painting and it had been raining and they’d just come back from their new sandwich shop that did the most amazing chicken and mayo baguettes and gooey brownies with walnuts, and they’d been arguing about whether brownies were better with or without walnuts (with, surely?), but arguing in that cute ‘you’re right, no you’re right, oh okay, squeeze on the nose, we’ll agree to disagree’, and they’d stood in the doorway and laughed at their bedraggled, rain-soaked selves and then they’d kissed like they were that couple in The bloody Notebook. Unbelievable.

With the warmth of the flat and the memory of the kiss still on her lips, she remembered she’d been smiling as she threw the keys on the kitchen table. Then she’d heard Liam shout from the living room, holler her name, loudly, urgently, and she’d jumped, a quick patter of fear as she rushed through to him.

He was looking up in horror at the ceiling that was leaking, water running down the inside of the wall as if it were a posh feature wall in a five-star hotel. Only it wasn’t a five-star hotel and they didn’t have a feature wall.

‘Shit, Eve – ring the builders.’

‘What?’

‘The water, the fucking… I knew they hadn’t secured the flashing.’

‘The what?’

‘Phone, Eve, phone…’

She’d nodded quickly. Rushing back to the kitchen, she’d quickly grabbed his phone.

‘What are they under?’

‘B for Builders.’

‘B,’ she muttered. ‘Cryptic.’

And as she was still smiling over his logical, obvious phone-log cataloguing, as she typed in his password ‘ilovearsenal’, it had slapped her there, right between the eyes, ‘you have 1 picture message’. She wasn’t sure what made her do it. She’d never felt the urge before, or maybe she didn’t decide to do it, it just clicked up, but it was then, as she read the words ‘Wish you were here’, she realised she was staring at someone’s impeccably groomed vagina.

Greg had packed a flask of tea and was moving towards the door. Karen, vet nurse-cum-receptionist-cum-all-round-star was eyeing him with her usual curiosity, removing the badge from her sizeable chest so that Greg felt the need to look away.

‘Heading home?’ she asked, leaning to switch off the computer and almost toppling head first over the desk. She craned to look up at Greg’s face.

‘I thought I’d take a walk first,’ he said, holding up his flask of tea.

‘A walk.’ Karen’s face wrinkled as it always did when anyone mentioned exercise. Karen drove everywhere. She’d walked down the aisle to Joe at their wedding, twenty years ago, as she would tell anyone who asked, and that was the most she was planning to do, thank you very much.

‘It’s really mild,’ Greg said, missing the point deliberately.

‘Perfect for an evening in the garden with a glass of wine.’ Karen nodded encouragingly.

‘Or a walk.’

She shivered and shrugged on her coat, nearly knocking over the pumpkin they’d placed there in a nod to Halloween.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Karen,’ he said, laughing and moving to the door.

He walked by the poster for their latest deal – half-price vaccinations for any new client, a massive St Bernard dog with his tongue out enticing the customers in – as she called goodnight.

He loved Pangbourne in the evenings, but the days were getting shorter and it was often dark when he finished work. He missed walking across the meadows at the back of the village or ambling next to the river, sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water. Mondays they closed the practice early, though, and Greg was able to take a flask of tea and a book and roam where he wanted. This afternoon he was planning to skirt the back of the village, through to the allotments and over the fields to the woods at the back.

He chuckled to himself as he walked along the high street. Greg Burrows, you playboy, you with your tea and your book – what happened, mate? But before he could pursue that line of thought, and take himself to a place he didn’t want to be, he had pulled out his mobile and checked his messages, laughing at one from his brother and tapping a reply. Turning down an alley lined with ivy, he skirted puddles, the mud churned up, swatting at a cloud of insects. The high street disappeared the further he walked away and he felt that he was letting go of the hub and noise, the shop bells, the familiar faces, the questions: escaping to the open space outside the small cluster of buildings.

He loved the allotment even at this time of year when people were mostly clearing their patch, turning the soil. He moved down a narrow grass path, neat rectangles of soil on either side, some far more cultivated than others, boxed in with wooden planks. Early leeks and some swede were already pushing through in regimented lines, others still containing the rotting remnants of the summer, dried-out sweetpeas, wilting courgette plants. The air smelt of the soil, heightened by the rain shower that morning, and he moved through, nodding at an elderly man who was slowly raking his patch.

He knew where he was headed, a bench in the meadow next door, with the woods in the distance and a field to the left that held two brown cows who were always walking together. At this time of year the cows were inside: he missed their gentle company. Animals were so straightforward and unassuming. He sometimes missed working with farm animals, the chance to get outside, meet with farmers; working on small animals meant a lot of the work was done indoors. He usually loved the consultations, catching up with clients and their animals. Recently, though, he had craved peace, the same conversations on a loop, struggling to retain his smile. He blinked, determined not to be dragged down today, settling on the bench and opening his e-reader cover.

He loved his e-reader, mostly because he read door-stopper books that were tedious to carry around but also, if he had to admit it, so that people could assume he was busy reading some worthy classic when, in fact, he was mostly reading books about magic and other worlds and hard men with swords felling other hard men with swords. He had always loved heroic fantasy novels since he was young and his little brother had been a very willing participant in his games, often allowing him to tie him up and stick him in the attic or cellar before getting some of his friends round to try and slay the dragon (Mum) to release him from his prison. The trouble was, the dragon made really good snacks and on more than one occasion they all forgot about the lost prince in the attic and ended up eating chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen. The older his brother got, the more he’d refused to play, as young princes like chocolate chip cookies too.

He stayed for a while on the bench, lost in the story, roaming a far-off land that was in the middle of a great battle with the kingdom next door. The sun had dropped beneath the treeline in the distance and the shadows were lengthening, birds nesting in the trees above him. Behind him the train sounded, bringing commuters back to the village. He knew he couldn’t stay there much longer; she would wonder where he had got to.

He walked slowly back to his car, stopping in the small supermarket to buy the dinner. He had promised he would make something that night. As he drove to the house he tried to ready himself as he always did now. He hadn’t used to, used to turn the key in the front door and already be calling out questions, ready to tease, ready to sweep in and wrap her in a hug. Now he found himself nervous almost, both hands tight on the top of the steering wheel as he drove the familiar route, the radio presenters’ voices buzzing in his ear.

He stopped outside the house and stared at the building. He needed to tidy up the front garden, cut back some of the branches and clear away things for compost. He’d been promising to do it for weeks, not that she ever nagged him. It was the least he could do, he thought guiltily. He saw that the light was on in the living room downstairs, the curtains already closed but a glow emanating from the edges. He pictured her sitting by the reading lamp, lost in a book or watching the television. Go in, Greg, get out of the car.

He unfolded himself, opening the door and stepping outside, standing in the road still staring, while the shopping bag in one hand hung by his side. He slammed the door and stepped round the car, pausing for one more moment to plaster a smile on his face, to make sure she thought everything was normal. As he turned the key in the lock, he heard her call his name and he closed his eyes and then stepped inside.

‘You look better, less pasty.’

Eve kissed her mum on the cheek proffered. ‘Thanks. I think.’

‘I’m making Yorkshire puddings so I need to get back. Oh dear, did you really have to bring him?’ She’d spotted Marmite peeking out from behind her legs. ‘Oh, I thought Liam might have taken him.’ Her mum’s face always had a wary look around Marmite.

‘There was no way.’

‘But you don’t like him either,’ Mum said, backing away.

‘I do.’ Eve said it in a too-loud voice. ‘I love him like my own flesh and blood.’

‘Well, he’s not your child.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase, Mum.’

Dad emerged wearing a mustard tank-top and yellow cords. He looked like walking scrambled eggs. Perhaps it was that that set Marmite off, legs apart, head up, yap, yap, yap. Dad laughed and bent down to rub him behind his ears but he scampered around in a semi-circle and started yapping at his bottom. He was definitely more Yorkshire Terrier than Maltese, and Eve tugged him back.

‘Marmite,’ she called. He ignored her and jumped up again. ‘MARMITE,’ she shouted and that made him growl and spin round, almost choking himself on his own lead. She released him and he made a beeline for Mum in the kitchen.

‘Hello, love,’ Dad said, giving Eve a brief hug. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Hey.’ Even his four words had made Eve glad to be home, bordering on tearful.

‘So how are you holding up?’ A question he’d been asking for two months now.

At that moment Marmite returned, dragging a tea towel in his mouth, Mum shouting expletives after him.

Dad grinned delightedly. ‘And how’s this fella, how are you?’ he cooed, chasing Marmite round the room, back bent, arms swaying. Marmite went completely mental; barking and diving forward, then racing back, tail high and wagging, before barking again. The noise rose.

Mum came running back into the room. ‘David, really, David.’

‘Marmite, stop!’ Eve called with absolutely no effect.

‘DAVID!’ Mum shouted.

Dad stopped mid-chase, then slowly straightened up before turning to face Mum, gaze averted, head lowered, as if he were about to be told off by the headmistress.

Mum, fortunately, was so distracted by his outfit that she failed to fully launch into a tirade. ‘I told you to change that top, David, you look like a very withered sunflower.’

‘Mum!’

‘Eve, don’t pretend he doesn’t look barking.’

‘He looks fine,’ Eve lied. ‘And Dad’s colour-blind, he can’t help it.’

‘I thought I had changed, have I not?’

‘You have not.’

‘Must have put the other one on.’ He chuckled, brushing both his hands over the mustard tank-top.

Dad had this strange habit of buying two of everything that he liked. He had an underlying fear he might lose things ever since he left his favourite cashmere jumper in a student bar in the eighties.

‘Well, it’s lunch now, too late. I will just have to pretend you are a stranger and I never chose to marry you.’

‘Fair enough.’ Dad nodded, looking pleased with the outcome, or perhaps just the thought of lunch.

Eve had already left them to it, Marmite scampering at her heels as she moved through to the kitchen.

‘He goes outside,’ Mum called behind her. Eve felt a tiny stab of guilt as she realised she was relieved. Marmite had been playing up ever since Liam left. Yesterday he had torn the backs of her favourite sandals and she’d had a dream the week before that he had trebled in size and was planning to eat her. She had given up shouting at him as he seemed oblivious to her voice.

This morning he’d been better, panting excitedly at the bottom of her bed, lead in his mouth. They’d had a brilliant walk across Primrose Hill, looking out over London sprawled before them. As she watched him trot happily next to her, his eyes glittering with this new adventure, his tail up, she’d felt a sudden flood of affection for him: he was her link to the past. But then he’d practically savaged another woman’s Shih Tzu, snarling and yapping despite Eve shouting at him to stop, and she’d trudged back despondent, wondering if he would ever do what she asked.

They’d bought Marmite together from a breeder in North London who had sent them photos of him after he was born. They cooed as they visited him after a couple of weeks, giggling as he fell around the pen, tiny yaps as he stepped on his siblings. Liam had always loved Marmite, smothering him in kisses, letting him scramble up his chest to lie there, looking at him fondly like the world’s hairiest baby. He hadn’t grown a great deal; his tiny body covered in grey curls, large doleful eyes allowing him to get away with murder.

Liam had sent her texts, asking her to let him have Marmite. Saying she had never really liked him. There was no bloody way she was giving up the dog. She thought back to the picture message she’d seen. Liam clearly had everything he needed; she was damn well going to have Marmite. As she looked at him racing round her ankles, snapping and growling at imaginary things in the air, she took a breath. She’d learn to love him.

On entering the kitchen she realised she wasn’t the only sibling who had descended for Sunday lunch. Harriet was already ensconced, mobile held in one hand, a spoon shaped like a strawberry in the other, spooning mushed-up something into Poppy’s mouth.

‘I told them that would be a terrible idea, now look where we are.’

She nodded at Eve as she walked in, the brief smile on her coral lips instantly replaced by a snarl at either the person on the phone or the mush, Eve couldn’t be sure. Eve’s eleven-month-old niece seemed perfectly oblivious, making ‘nom, nom, nom’ noises every time the mush came her way. Eve mouthed a ‘Hello’ as she opened the back door to let Marmite outside. He ran gaily out of it, coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the garden as she closed it behind him. His little face filled with betrayal as he realised she had left him and he was alone. Then he quickly darted off to the right to dig up Mum’s flowerbeds.

‘Do they have ears? Are they even listening?’ Harriet gave her an apologetic wide-eyed look; Eve gave her an inadequate thumbs-up.

Mum tiptoed past, panto-style, to the cooker, always terrified around Harriet, who was more domineering than she was and whose job she didn’t understand, so when Harriet talked about it she just stroked her chin and nodded.

Harriet was a legend; three years older than Eve, who had worshipped her through childhood and beyond. She wore impeccable suits, produced beautiful children and still managed to do whatever high-powered job she did. It involved shares and property and margins. She had tried to explain it to Eve a few months ago using Poppy’s ABC building blocks, but they’d both got bored and drunk wine and then made a tower that spelt ‘PENIS’ instead, and Eve had never asked again.

Gavin appeared in the doorway, holding a beaker of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. His striped rugby shirt had already got a wet patch on the shoulder which Eve could only assume was Poppy’s doing. ‘Hi, Eve,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek before turning to Harriet to kiss her on the head.

‘Accident?’ Eve nodded at the patch as he stood back up.

‘Poppy didn’t like her starter so she threw it up on me,’ Gavin explained. ‘At least I didn’t get it in my hair,’ he said, patting his bald head.

‘Ni—’

‘That is NOT what I said!’ Harriet shouted down the phone. Eve jumped and stopped talking. It didn’t appear to alarm Gavin, who smiled and took the strawberry spoon from Harriet’s hand.

Harriet cupped her free hand over the mobile. ‘Hey, Eve, you look great, thin—’ She said this in admiring tones. ‘NO! Tell him NO.’

The switch was terrifying. Eve’s mouth was left suspended in a response, not sure who or what she should tell no.

‘Ignore her, Eve,’ Gavin said, sitting down and taking over, trying to get Poppy to eat something. ‘She’s doing some deal or firing someone or stopping someone being fired or…’ He looked sideways at his wife, who poked her tongue out at him and turned her back. ‘She might be doing anything.’

Mum was stirring gravy and looking worriedly over at Harriet. ‘I thought she was merging something.’

Dad walked in, a purple knotted scarf at his throat, and sat at the head of the table. Mum refused to acknowledge him, muttering something into the gravy.

‘Nice, Dad.’

‘Thanks,’ Dad smiled, adjusting the knot.

Gavin coughed and returned his attention to Eve. ‘You look well,’ he commented, sipping from Poppy’s beaker, which made her hold out two chubby hands for it immediately.

‘Too pale,’ Mum commented.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

Harriet put her hand over the receiver again, ‘She looks thin, Mum, good thin.’ Returning to the call, ‘Tell him if he thinks THAT, he can think again.’

‘Where’s Scarlet?’

‘She’s not allowed home until she takes it out,’ Mum called over her shoulder from the oven.

Eve frowned. ‘Takes what out?’

Dad grimaced at Eve. ‘She’d got another piercing. This one’s in her eyebrow. Your mother thinks it makes her look—’

‘Like a lesbian. Like an aggressive lesbian.’

Gavin was looking at his lap, flicking something imaginary off his jeans. Harriet cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Ridiculous.’

‘She’s twenty-five, Mum. Can you really ban her from home for that?’

‘If she wants to see me again, she’ll take it out,’ Mum huffed.

Eve nodded, frowning now with a new thought. ‘What does an aggressive lesbian look like compared to a normal lesbian?’

Dad shrugged.

‘And is she a lesbian now?’ Eve asked, curious. Her ethereal sister Scarlet could well be anything, floating around Newcastle in various ill-fitting pieces of cotton and loads of really meaningful tattoos scrawled in foreign languages. She was doing a photography course and most of her Instagram pictures were arty shots of food/her eye/the sky.

Dad shrugged.

‘She was sleeping with some bloke on her course, massive…’ said Harriet leaning across the table and cupping the phone again. ‘… beard. Er… do I have to be any clearer? I said no, he can’t have five per cent, it’s not bloody Christmas.’

Gavin looked at his wife with a raised eyebrow. ‘Swear jar.’

‘Blinkin’ Christmas, blinkin’,’ Harriet muttered, rolling her eyes at Eve who stifled a giggle.

Poppy seemed oblivious, bashing her beaker on the table of her high-chair, shouting, ‘Nom, nom, nom, nom!’

Dad poured Eve some water from the blue jug with the big fish on it. Mum was standing at his shoulder.

‘Sleeping with who?’ she asked, pointing the gravy spoon at Harriet. ‘Oh, and, Eve,’ she turned to focus on her, ‘Christmas reminds me, you’ll be coming here, won’t you?’

Eve shifted in her seat, wondering why she was taking time to reply. She wanted to agree immediately; she wanted to say, ‘Of course I will.’ But, as she looked around the crowded room – the mush-spattered floor, Gavin playing peek-a-boo with a tea towel on his head, her dad fiddling with the knot of his purple neck-tie, her mum holding a spoon up to the light, tutting and polishing it on her apron, Harriet still with mobile clamped to her ear – she realised with panic it would be like this, it would be like it was every year. And he wouldn’t be there with her.

‘Harriet and Gavin are here for three days, so I was thinking Scarlet and you could share a room rather than put Scarlet back on the sofa…’