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‘I don’t mean to be rude, Sam, but how are you here?’ Nerves tend to make me blunt and I’ve never been mistress of flirtatious small talk. I was struggling to hold a whole host of memories at bay and bluntness is one of my coping mechanisms.
He cast me a sideways glance as we crunched across the gravel towards the backdoor. ‘Karl invited me. He said it would do me and the kids good to get away.’
Kids? A dagger pierced my thundering heart. He was married, of course he was, and he’d gone on to have children. I remembered Karl gently telling me that he was going to Sam’s wedding a few years back. No wait, it must have been more like seven or eight years ago. I’d swallowed hard and acted like I didn’t give a damn then drunk a whole bottle of wine and cried into my pillow. The next day I’d had a sore head but I’d got up, got dressed, gone to Waterstone’s and bought a new cookery book, then baked like a woman possessed. Kneading at bread dough and beating cake mixes had always been therapeutic for me, like a form of self-hypnosis that somehow separates me from the world and my pain.
So Christmas was going to be different to the version I’d imagined when Karl had first suggested it. A happily married couple and their children would be joining us over the festive period. Unfortunately, the husband happened to be the man I’d once loved with all my heart. The pleasant warmth of the lust I’d experienced at seeing Sam so big and brawny had now completely melted away and the biting chill of the air that swirled around the house made me shiver.
‘You’re cold,’ Sam said. ‘It’s warm and cosy inside, come on.’ Had it really been nine years since I’d last seen him, when I’d told him that it wouldn’t work between us? And all because I’d thought that we wanted different things from life and that I had something to prove to myself. I’d thought that I was doing the best thing for both of us; helping us to leave a terrible experience behind. How could we have continued, moved on and loved each other, after what we’d been through? And what if it had happened again, if I’d ever had the courage to try to get pregnant after our loss, that was. No. I’d done the right thing at the time, for sure.
Sam opened the door and the heat coming from the large brightly lit kitchen literally hit me in a wave, along with the delicious aromas of roast chicken, thyme and potatoes. My stomach grumbled automatically. My mother had clearly been busy and the woman sure could cook. Sam stood back to allow me to enter first and I walked into the room.
‘There you are. At last!’ My mother’s clipped tones stopped me in my tracks. Back out…go back through the door. Leave now before she says anything else. I shrugged the traitorous voice away. As if I could actually walk away from Esther once she got going. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pursued me, just like that time when I was seven and I told her she reminded me of Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show. She’d chased me around the streets and confiscated my favourite Barbie doll for a week as punishment. Even then, I hadn’t meant that she resembled the puppet pig physically, just that she had the same snooty self-important air and that she treated my dad a bit like Kermit.
Sam placed the box of cakes on the counter and held out a hand. ‘I’ll take your bag through to the hallway if you like. I bet you and your mum have lots to discuss.’
I allowed myself one last perusal of his lovely face with its shadow of stubble and full sensual lips and smiled. ‘Yeah. I bet we have.’
‘See you at dinner.’ He grinned at me and, in spite of my disappointment, I grinned back as I handed him my holdall. Even if he was here with his wife and kids, it would still be nice to catch up. I hadn’t seen him in such a long time and we’d once been so close.
A flush stole over my chest. At the height of my teenage crush on Sam, he’d seen me as little more than his friend’s younger sister. Yet he was always really kind, polite and considerate. He’d been bright and mature, nothing like the boys in my year at school who only ever spoke to me to comment on my big jugs. That was until I’d gotten a bit older and one night, when Sam was home from university, we’d ended up alone and realised that there was more than just friendship between us. Six years later, we’d seemed to have it all but then it had turned sour and we’d parted ways. Amicably, though it had broken my heart at the time. So yes, it would be good to hear what he’d been up to and to see how the years had treated him.
But now I had to deal with Esther and it was an experience that called for a stiff drink. I grabbed the single malt off the counter and a crystal tumbler from the tray on the side then poured a generous measure.
Here I go! Merry Christmas…
Chapter 2 (#ulink_fb1faf99-daf8-5abf-823a-6b774774404c)
Esther Marie Warham. Sixty-two. Five foot eight. One hundred and twenty-four pounds. Shoulder-length platinum-blonde hair. Wife of Charles Michael Warham. Mother of Karl Lewis Warham and Katie Alice Warham. Currently clothed in a fawn silk gypsy-style blouse and fitted black trousers which showed off her pert gym-toned bottom and nude heels.
I sipped my Jura and held the fiery amber liquid in my mouth as I waited for my mother to begin talking herself in circles.
And waited.
‘How are things at the shop, Katie? Were you busy today?’
I swallowed the whisky and stared at my mother. What, no reprimand for being late?
‘Good thanks. We’ve been really busy.’
‘Will Ann be all right there tomorrow without you?’
I took another swig from my glass. ‘Uh, yeah, her boyfriend’s helping her out.’
This wasn’t my mother; it must be an imposter, a dopplegänger arrived to lure me into a false sense of security so it could dash my confidence to the ground once more.
‘Ah there you are, my favourite girls!’ My father crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of my head. ‘How was your journey, Katie?’
I snuggled against his chest and breathed in his familiar and lovely Dad smell of pine aftershave, washing powder and cigars. Despite Esther’s protests, my dad still indulged in an evening cigar or two; it was a habit I doubted he’d ever quit. I gazed up at him, grateful for his arrival, yet wondering if he’d noticed this strangely altered version of my mother. In the past, he’d often rescued me from Esther’s tirades before I completely crumbled into a blubbering heap or snapped and gave her a tongue lashing in return. I hadn’t really done the latter since I was about twenty-three and I was proud of my self-control. I loathed confrontation of any kind and had always been keen to avoid it. ‘Hey, Dad. There were a few delays along the way but it wasn’t too bad, thanks. How’re you?’
With his thick white hair combed back with pomade, his naturally jet-black eyebrows and his year-round tan, Dad reminded me of Blake Carrington from 80s TV series Dynasty. Of course, he could have been said to resemble Alistair Darling, but Blake Carrington was a preferable comparison in my mind. Dad was handsome in that traditional way, like the movie stars of the thirties. Somehow, the white hair and black eyebrow combo suited him. He had charisma, strength, self-confidence and that old-school British charm.
‘I’m very well thank you, angel. Thoroughly enjoying my retirement, actually. Plenty of golf, tennis and time with my wife.’ He squeezed my shoulders and winked at me conspiratorially, then crossed the kitchen to my mother’s side. She was mashing potatoes and her powerful movements had caused her well-maintained blonde waves to fall over her face. I watched as Dad tenderly pushed her hair behind her ears then kissed her cheek. She immediately coloured and stopped punishing the spuds before turning slightly to allow my father to kiss her on the lips. I’d never understand my parents. They were such a strange combination. I seemed to have come out somewhere in the middle – I had some of Dad’s business sense and drive, yet I also occasionally suffered from Mum’s neuroses. But no one’s perfect, right?
Just then my Aunty Gina floated into the kitchen. Gina is Dad’s younger sister. She’s ten years his junior. Granny and Granddad had a surprise arrival, as they liked to call her. Knowing my aunt as I do, I bet she was a surprise.
‘Ooohhh! Hello, Katie. So good to see you, darling.’ She drifted over to me. Gina doesn’t walk, she floats and drifts. She always dresses in brightly coloured billowing materials and refers to herself as a spirit of the revolution, even though she would only have been a child during the sixties. But she constantly plays The Mamas and the Papas, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and when she gets drunk, which she does all too often, she rants about capitalism and her time on a Kibbutz and how we’ll all be sorry one day.
‘Hello, Aunty Gina.’ I proffered a hand to shake but she swatted it aside and enveloped me in a bear hug, forcing the air from my lungs. Her perfume of choice was a heady mix of patchouli and rose which I could taste as I sucked in a breath when she released me. Suddenly aware of a cold feeling in my groin, I glanced down to see that the wet patch spreading over the crotch of my jeans and the hem of my jumper was the remains of my whisky.
Gina followed my eyes. ‘Oopsy!’ She shrugged and smacked her scarlet-painted lips together. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’ She patted my shoulder, then saluted me as if we were rebels sharing a secret solidarity before drifting over to the fridge where she helped herself to a G and T.
Thanks, Gina.
Dad smiled as I stood up and attempted to dust myself off with a tea towel. ‘Why don’t you get changed and I’ll help your mother finish dinner. I hope you’ve brought some of those fancy cakes of yours because I can’t stop thinking about the ones you made for Granny’s birthday.’ I watched as his face fell for a moment but he quickly concealed his grief.
‘They’re in there, Dad.’ Apart from the ones currently freezing out in the barn. I pointed at the box on the counter and cringed as the image of Sam trying to prise it from my hands popped into my mind. ‘Of course I’d bring cakes with me. It would be criminal not to.’
Dad smiled as he peered into the box, then nodded approvingly. ‘They look good.’
I crossed the kitchen to the open doorway then realised I had no idea where I was going. As if reading my mind, Esther said, ‘Take a left at the top of the staircase then you’re the third door along. We selected a lovely room for you.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I turned away quickly, not wanting her to see the surprise on my face at how pleasant she was being. It made me want more, yet simultaneously made me a bit uneasy, as if someone was playing a trick on me.
I left the kitchen and wandered into the hallway.
And stared.
I swear that my jaw actually fell so far open as I gazed around me, that it hit my chest.
A huge staircase with a polished oak banister and ornate iron spindles ran from the middle of the hall and branched off in two directions as it ascended. There were several rooms off the ground floor hallway, one of which I assumed must be the dining room as I could hear the clink of china and the tinkling of cutlery as someone laid the table. Music came from the room adjacent to it, which was just off the grand double-front door. I realised that it must be the drawing room or lounge, depending on which century you were from. I scanned the hallway to see more rooms on the other side of the staircase too. Obviously the building was enormous from the outside but the inside reminded me of a cathedral. No, make that two cathedrals combined.
This house would need some serious exploration. Once I’d got changed, of course. I dared not hold my family up any longer.
***
I kicked the door to my room open as I was juggling my holdall, my handbag and trying not to let the whisky on my jeans seep through into my M&S knickers. I flicked through my memory to my shower at the flat then recalled popping a white pair on. Great! If whisky soaked into them it would be hard to get out, which meant that I’d never be able to dry the stained pair on the washing line. I blamed Esther for my obsession with whiter-than-white-whites. Socks, knickers, bras and aprons all had to be blindingly clean and white or…or what? I didn’t know the answer to that one but it was just a fact I’d grown up knowing. What if you get knocked down by a bus today and you haven’t got your best knickers on? What if you want to try something on when you’re out shopping and there’s a communal changing room? What if the vicar comes for tea? (Strange that one, how would he know what state my knickers were in?) What if you meet the queen? (Did Elizabeth II have x-ray vision then?) But Esther’s convictions were so strong that they could actually assume the appearance of facts. I guess that’s a mother thing.
As the door to my room swung wide, my jaw went slack for the third time since I’d arrived.
‘WOW! WOW! WOW!’
The bedroom was dimly lit by two floor lamps that stood either side of the bed but I could see that the room was huge. I could have fitted our whole flat into it. There was a king-size four-poster bed with its head against the wall to my left, an enormous mahogany wardrobe on the wall behind the door, two long sash windows in front of me and a large antique dresser to my right. Next to that was another door.
I dumped my bag on an ornate and presumably antique ottoman at the foot of the bed, then crossed to the windows. They overlooked the gravel path at the side of the house and the barn where I’d parked my car. I was sure I could see a few Florentines glowing in the darkness as they froze solid. I gave my Beetle a little wave then pulled the curtains against the inky blackness of the night and crossed the room to the other door.
Behind it was an exquisite en suite that filled me with both joy and relief. There’s nothing worse than having to leave your room when you’re staying away from home just to go for a pee in the middle of the night. At least I’d be spared such indignity. Besides, a big old house like this would be a bit spooky once everyone had gone to bed, so I was glad I wouldn’t have to creep across the landing and risk bumping into a headless nun or something. If the manor house was haunted, of course. Which it probably wasn’t. And anyway, I don’t believe in ghosts. Or – and this thought was far more pleasant – I could be innocently walking along, wearing my best silky nightie which showed off my curves – but not my lumpy bits – and bump into Sam. Oh, to crash into that wall of chest then be scooped up into those bulging arms. I’d be faint obviously, so he’d have to take me back to my room and give me mouth to mouth as his huge body covered mine and then…
Nothing. He was married. He had kids. Forget it. Forget him. That was all in the past.
I eyed the deep white tub longingly. It would be wonderful to fill it with bubbles then sink beneath them. Maybe I could jump in later, or in the morning after breakfast. But I’d better get changed and go down before steam started whistling from Esther’s ears. She’d been reasonable so far but I didn’t want to push my luck.
I opened my bag and pulled out a black shift dress made of that fabulous crinkle material that you don’t need to iron. I love this dress. It’s so easy to wear because it’s loose and flattering. I rummaged around until I found my black cork wedge espadrilles then dressed quickly.
There, that would have to do. But what about a bit of make-up? Not much but something to give me a bit of a glow. After all, I was feeling tired and some bronzer and lippie always made me look more human. We did have guests and really I didn’t want to scare them. You know, appear downstairs like Bob Marley in A Christmas Carol. I mean Jacob Marley. Bob Marley appearing would have a completely different effect now, wouldn’t it? More Could You Be Loved than you must change your ways. Although a visitation of the latter kind might make my mother a nicer person.
I placed my make-up bag on the dressing table and took out my bronzer, then flicked the thick brush over my cheeks. Hmmm. My forehead was a bit shiny, especially the bruise where I’d bumped my head on the steering wheel, so I whisked the brush over that too. And my neck for good measure. A slick of red lip-gloss, a finger comb of my mousey-brown curls and I was done. I smiled at my reflection. Not bad. Not great either but, hey, after a glass of wine, I’d feel more comfortable with myself and Esther’s inevitable critique would drift over my head like wood smoke on the breeze.
I hoped.
Well, maybe after two glasses.
***
Descending the stairs, the murmur of voices from the dining room made me smile. It was Christmas and I was lucky. Some people didn’t have anyone in their lives. I shouldn’t be ungrateful. Admittedly, sometimes I’d like to alter my family. Well, my mother. Just a bit. So that it would be easier to spend time with her. But at least I had a family.
But not a grandmother.
The thought jabbed me like a blow to my gut and I bent over for a moment as I tried to dispel the pain. It was early days, Granny had been dead for less than two months. I had to allow myself to grieve her passing. But it was so hard. Keeping busy at the shop had helped to keep my mind off things, but I knew that being with my family would mean there was no escape. I would have to face up to the fact that she was gone.
I took a few deep breaths then headed for the kitchen to check if Mum needed any help but it was empty. My stomach crashed to the parquet flooring. Uh oh! I hurried back through the hallway and through the open door of the dining room.
The talking stopped. A glass crashed to the floor and shattered. Someone sneezed. I stared at the familiar faces and they stared back at me.
‘Katie!’ My mother smiled at me. ‘There you are.’
I frowned. Where was the expected criticism or reprimand?
‘You look lovely, darling.’ I met my Dad’s twinkly eyes and smiled my gratitude. I walked around the table, nodding a very quick hello at everyone then sat next to Karl.
‘Hi, Sis.’
‘Hey, Karl. Sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘Just glad you could make it, Katie. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’ He squeezed my hand and I glanced at him. We were both thinking about how it wouldn’t be the same without Granny but neither of us could vocalize it at that moment.
‘This is Angelo, Katie.’ Karl leant backwards so I could see his lover properly and the gorgeous model grinned at me.
‘Hello, Katie. I am so pleased to meet you. Karl never stops talking about you.’
I smiled. ‘It’s wonderful to finally meet you too, Angelo. I hope that my brother hasn’t told you anything I should worry about.’
He laughed and waved at me. ‘Not at all. He tells me how sweet and kind you are and how you work too hard but never anything bad. Karl adores his baby sister.’
I flushed with pleasure. I really did love my brother a lot too.
‘I wanted to tell you also that I am very sorry for the loss of your grandmother.’
I flinched and Karl took hold of my hand again. ‘Thank you, Angelo.’ I ground my teeth together. I had to stay strong. I couldn’t lose it in front of everyone.
‘I was unable to make the funeral because my own grandmother is unwell. But I wanted you to know that I am sorry. Karl said that you were particularly close to her.’
I glanced at Karl and he nodded. I straightened in my chair and swallowed hard. ‘How is your grandmother now, Angelo?’
‘A battle-axe is the expression I think you Brits might use. She’s a tough old Italian lady and she will, I suspect, survive us all.’ He smiled and his whole face lit up. There was kindness in his gaze and I saw instantly why Karl loved him. Plus he was being very open considering that this was our first meeting and very honest. That would be a good thing for Karl. He needed a man with integrity and a big heart to love him.
As Angelo turned to talk to Sam, I said to Karl, ‘Is he always that forthright?’
‘Always. He’s incredibly open, not like us English with our stiff upper lips. He wants to talk everything through and to find a solution that offers peace of mind.’
‘That must be nice,’ I replied, watching Karl’s face carefully.
‘Yes. It is, although it can be difficult when I just want to bury my head in the sand.’ He winked at me.
‘He’s lovely.’
‘I know.’
As Dad carved then dished out the chicken and potatoes, I took the opportunity to look around the table properly. There was Mum and Dad, Karl, Angelo, Aunty Gina and her Turkish boyfriend, Aunty Gina’s daughter Rebecca and…Sam. Big, brawny, handsome Sam. He was engaged in conversation with Angelo but he glanced up every now and then to check on the two small children to his right – a boy of about eight or nine and a little girl who looked about four. Both were his mirror image, but cuter and younger, of course. As I gazed at them, an old emotion swept through me and tugged at my heart. This wasn’t going to be easy.
There was no woman. I scanned the table again. Where was his wife? Had she feigned a headache and declined dinner? Had she excused herself to powder her nose? A pang of jealousy stung me and I shivered. Even after all this time, it was hard to accept that Sam had another woman, a wife no less, and that they had children. Children that could have been mine.
‘So what do you think, Katie?’
‘Sorry, Karl?’ I met his curious eyes as he placed a hand on my arm.
‘About going into town tomorrow. I have a few last-minute things that I need to get.’
‘Yes, great idea.’
I was about to ask him where Sam’s wife was but a clinking sound stopped everyone suddenly and all eyes turned to the head of the table where my Dad stood.
‘I’d just like to say a big thank-you to all of you for coming. Christmas is a special time for a family and it’s wonderful to see you all here. This year is particularly poignant and also important for us Warhams.’ I watched as he swallowed hard. ‘Losing my mother has been very difficult for us all…and I’m sure that we’ll all miss her regaling us with tales of Christmases past…but, uh, she would want, no make that expect us to carry on and have a bloody good Christmas.’ He paused and I watched anxiously as his Adam’s apple bobbed furiously above his shirt collar then he cleared his throat. ‘In the new year, there will be changes afoot as my beautiful wife and I leave these shores to spend our retirement in France. So next December, if you can all make it, you will be welcome to join us in our new home. But now, I’d like to raise a toast to absent friends.’ He raised his glass and we all stood up and followed suit. I forced the wine past the lump in my throat and blinked hard. ‘I would also like to toast you all,’ Dad continued. ‘My wife – who will rustle up the most delicious meals for us over the next few days – my dear sister and niece…and um…Turmeric…ah…Tanic…ah…’
‘It’s Tanberk, for goodness sake!’ Gina snarled at my father, dragging a hand across her mouth and smearing her bright-red lipstick in the process. I wondered how much wine she’d consumed already; the best part of a bottle I suspected just to keep the G and T company.
‘Yes, of course, Tanberk.’ Dad raised his eyebrows. ‘And to my wonderful children who have brought light into my life since they arrived as tiny pink scrunched-up little…’
‘Enough!’ Mum laughed. ‘No one wants a rendition of Yesterday, darling.’
‘Okay…um…and to Sam. We’re glad to have you join us this year with your two children Jack and Holly.’ Dad raised his Champagne flute and we all joined the toast before returning to our seats.
As we tucked into Esther’s delicious spread, I filled Karl in on the continuing success of our business and how busy we’d been over recent weeks, but I kept sneaking glances at Sam. When had he become so…Johnny Depp but the even better version? I bet his wife had to fight the admirers off with a broom. Attractive men were trouble – unless they were gay and your older brother. But I also found myself peering at Sam’s children. With their wide brown eyes surrounded by thick black lashes and ebony hair, they were beautiful. Something inside me threatened to unravel and I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced images of another child – a tiny, fragile baby who didn’t even have the chance to take a breath – out of my mind.
Following the main course, we had dessert and coffee then Sam stood. ‘Thank you all for the company and for the food. It was delightful, Mrs Warham.’
‘Oh, Sam!’ Mum blushed and waved a hand at him. ‘It’s Esther to you and thank you for the compliment but it was only roast chicken.’
Mum’s roasts were legendary in our house because they were just bloody brilliant and all of my friends who’d tried one when we were kids begged to come round again on a Sunday. I guess I inherited my cookery skills and enthusiasm for baking from her because Dad can’t open a tin of beans without turning the kitchen upside down.
