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‘Bloody Jamie Oliver.’ Harry shook his head and then went over and closed the book. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, opening the oven and finding some oven gloves so he could rescue the bird.
‘Do what you like, Harry, you always do,’ Silvia said, pushing the chair back and leaving the room.
In the kitchen Harry felt a semblance of himself. Tea towel tucked into the pocket of his jeans, he dealt with the turkey, added spices and seasoning to the carrots, sprinkled the stewing red cabbage with sugar and apple slices, perked up the sprouts with some honey and bacon, and generally added some finesse to the whole package. He would have liked a few more ingredients to play with. A bit of kale maybe or some chestnuts, but he felt he’d done pretty well with what he’d had to work with.
He hadn’t brought any presents, the least he could do was sort out the dinner.
***
‘What the bloody hell’s on these sprouts?’
Everyone at the table turned to look at Harry’s dad, who had pierced a sprout on the end of his fork and was eyeing it with distaste.
Silvia sat forward, resting her chin on the palm of her hand and Harry could feel her watching him.
‘It’s er…’ he swallowed. At the restaurant his dad would be out on his ear by now. Harry never explained what he cooked. ‘Well, there’s a bit of marsala and…’ Harry coughed. Everyone was looking at him. He felt his cheeks begin to flame. ‘Bacon. There’s bacon in it, it er, it should be pancetta but bacon works. It brings out the taste.’
His dad narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t want bacon in my sprouts,’ he said. ‘I want sprouts in my sprouts.’
‘Well maybe give it a try, Charlie.’ His mum wiped her hands on her Christmas napkin and tried to smooth over the tension building in the air. ‘I think they’re very nice. Very different.’
‘Just smother it with gravy and you won’t notice, Dad,’ Silvia said, as she tried to stop her boys from kicking each other under the table.
‘I would, if someone hadn’t messed around with the gravy.’
‘Oh for god’s sake, Dad.’ Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not messed around with, it’s just different. Taste it. It doesn’t all have to taste the same, every day.’
‘It’s not every day, is it? It’s Christmas Day. I like things to taste like they should on Christmas Day.’
‘Urgh. That’s such an annoying thing to say.’ Harry shook his head. He saw Silvia giving him a warning glance across the table. His nephews had stopped kicking each other and were staring, entranced by what was about to ensue.
‘Harry.’ His dad raised his brows at him. ‘You may be some hotshot over there in New York, but here you are still my son and in my house you will respect me, your mother, all of us. You are not too big to be sent to your room.’
‘Yes I am, Dad.’ Harry bunched up his napkin. ‘That’s the thing, yes I am. I knew this was a bad idea.’
‘Harry—’ He felt his mum put her hand on his arm as he was just pushing back his chair. ‘Harry, please.’
Harry shut his eyes for a moment. He saw himself sitting on his bed alone practically every Christmas that he hadn’t been too old to be sent to his room. Banished for some reason or another. Sometimes completely deserving of the punishment, sometimes not, but lonely all the same. His mum would sneak up and give him a bowl of Christmas pudding and brandy butter and her little portable TV that she had in the kitchen. She’d wink and say, ‘Won’t be much longer.’ And he’d wonder why she made him stay there. Why she didn’t just override his dad. Why he got to be the leader.
Now, at the dining table, his unpulled cracker next to his plate, the rain hammering on the window, his dad picking the bits of bacon out of the sprouts, his sister watching warily, his mum’s hand on his arm – wrinklier than he remembered – he used every ounce of willpower that he possessed to force his bum back down on the seat. To focus on his food. To take a bite of beautiful, tender Brussels sprout with the sweet honey flavour of the bacon and try not to wish that his dad might have liked it just because he’d cooked it.
No one said any more about it. Gradually, the atmosphere relaxed. The boys, disappointed that the show was over, went back to their under-table kicking. They pulled their crackers. They wore their hats. Except Harry, who accidentally-on-purpose ripped his trying to get it on, and then they ate Christmas pudding which was faultless, in his dad’s opinion, because Tesco had made it and made it the same every year.
‘So you’re over for business?’ his dad said when the presents had been opened and the kids were playing with their new stuff and his mum was asleep on the sofa.
‘Yeah. It’s meetings with the owners. Looking at the future. What we’re going to do, how we might expand – what we can achieve with the brand. That kind of thing.’
‘Sounds very fancy.’
‘Not really. Just, you can’t stand still, can you?’
His dad sank back into the squashy cushions of his chair – perfectly moulded to his contours over the years. ‘I worked in the same company all my life. Never wanted to do anything different. Got a good pension. Good friends.’ He shrugged. ‘I think sometimes there’s too much weight put on moving on. Moving forward. Growth. Growth? How much can we grow? Economy flatlines and we’re all still trying to grow.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Harry’s uncle, who was opening another bottle of sherry.
Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not just about expanding for the sake of it, Dad, it’s meeting a demand. If a company is successful then they have the potential to grow. People want what we’re offering so, by expanding, we’re filling a need in the market.’
‘I just can’t believe there’s room for any more restaurants.’ His dad shook his head. ‘I was driving down the high street the other day and what do I see? Another coffee shop. How much coffee are people drinking? And the whole riverside’s been dug up and turned into restaurants. Everyone out there stuffing their faces.’ He folded his hands in his lap and did a sigh of distaste. Then he sat forward and pointed a finger at Harry. ‘It’s because they’ve got nothing else to do. No hobbies.’
Before Harry could reply, Silvia leant over the back of the sofa and said, ‘Not sure golf and watching the snooker count as hobbies, Dad.’
Harry knew she was trying to steer the conversation onto safer, jokier ground but he couldn’t let it lie. ‘Dad, you can’t compare what I do at The Bonfire with some mass-produced high-street chain restaurant. They’re two different things. We’ve won awards.’ He edged forward on the sofa, trying to emphasise his points by getting closer to his dad. ‘We’ve changed the way people cook. We have critics queuing up to eat there. I built that. You know? From nothing.’
His dad frowned. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s just food, Son.’
‘It’s not just food.’
‘I think it is.’ His dad did a half-laugh as if Harry was fighting the obvious. Harry felt the same frustration as he felt as a kid boil up inside himself. ‘I do see what you’re trying to say, Son, but it’s really just food. And what’s food? Fuel to get us to the end of the day. Admittedly yours is fancy food, but still food.’ His dad sat back and Harry noticed that his attention was being diverted to the sweet sherry his uncle was splashing generously into glasses. Clearly distracted by the fact the alcohol might be being wasted, he added, ‘No. I just can’t agree, I don’t think we need more of it,’ before getting up and retrieving the sherry bottle.
Harry saw Silvia wince out the corner of his eye.
It’s just food.
He felt like he’d been skewered on the sofa.
Three years ago he’d sent his parents the money for plane tickets to New York for the opening of the restaurant. His dad had said there was no way he’d be getting on a plane, not with all the terrorism in the world and his mum had said that there was no way she could come without his dad because she’d be completely out of her depth in such a big city. They’d given the money to Silvia and her husband, who had gladly accepted, left their kids with the grandparents, and come to New York for what had been one of the best weekends of Harry’s life. In his head his sister had always been this slightly annoying person who’d appeared in the world when he was about to turn eight, after years of his parents trying for another baby and never getting anywhere. But suddenly, in New York, after a good few years absence from each other, he’d seen her as the person she’d grown up to be. Funny, a bit snarky, beautiful, cool in her own way, and they’d had their time. Finally. It had almost made up for his parents not being there.
‘Don’t worry, he’s just pissed,’ Silvia said, coming round to sit next to him on the sofa. The problem with them knowing each other better was that she could now see how much his dad affected him, and Harry couldn’t just sulk silently in the corner.
Harry nodded and leant back against the cushions with a sigh. ‘I don’t think I ever knew he thought like that.’
‘Oh come on, you know he’s never got it.’
‘Yeah I’ve always known he didn’t really understand what I did. But, Christ, I always thought he respected it. What an idiot.’
‘Who? Him or you?’ Silvia asked, rolling her head to look at him with a half-smile.
‘Me,’ Harry said. ‘And him,’ he added. ‘And you as well if you want.’
She laughed then, patting him on the thigh, said, ‘Come on let’s put Lord of the Rings on and play Bananagrams.’
Harry closed his eyes. ‘That does not sound like it’s going to make things better.’
But, actually, for Harry, playing Bananagrams ended up being the most enjoyable part of the day, especially when he and his sister, and even his mum, kept winning and his dad, much to his seething annoyance, kept losing. He left when it seemed the politest possible opportunity to do so.
‘And don’t forget to sort out your pension,’ his dad shouted from his chair as Harry walked towards the front door.
Harry shook his head. He felt his mum put her hand on his back. ‘It’s just his way of saying he loves you.’
Harry scoffed. ‘You really think that?’
‘I know that,’ she said.
‘Well I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think it’s the case at all,’ Harry said, his hand on the door latch. ‘Thanks for today, anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t, you know…’
His mum nodded with a smile.
‘And thanks for the present.’ He held up the white apron with “YES, CHEF!” printed on the front that he wouldn’t wear in a million years.
Then, suddenly, his mum threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight and said, ‘Oh, my boy. Why do you have to live so far away?’
‘It’s where the work is, Mum.’
She squeezed him tighter. ‘Sometimes I worry that it’s to get away from us.’
He laughed and, even to him, it sounded like a weird fake one. ‘No, of course not,’ he said and saw Silvia watching from the doorway, one brow raised.
His mum let him go, wiping a tear away with her apron.
‘Bye, Sis,’ he said with a quick salute. ‘Any time you want to pop to New York let me know.’
Silvia smiled. ‘I will. And any time you want to pop home,’ she said, with big eyes as if she was urging him to do so a bit more often. ‘Let us know! Maybe more than half a day in advance.’
‘Will do,’ he said, with no intention of doing so whatsoever, and headed out into the cloudy darkness, the rain still pouring and shaking the Christmas lights off the branches of the trees.
Chapter Five (#ulink_8855afb6-71f0-5092-be38-3a6e9125b8dc)
To Jemima’s delight, Boxing Day was spent in front of the television while everyone sewed. The fitting on Christmas Eve had proved that Annie had somehow lost weight over the festive period when everyone else put it on so, as well as finishing all the embroidery, doing the skirt, the sleeves, the neckline, Hannah also had to take it in a half inch. And so the day after Boxing Day was also spent in front of the television, again to Jemima’s delight, while everyone sewed.
‘So she’s invited me to the wedding,’ Hannah said, glancing up at Dylan as she pinned cream ruffles to the skirt.
‘And?’ Dylan was playing Top Trumps with Jemima.
Over at the living room table, her mum was embroidering peacock feathers to one end of the hot-pink overlay while her dad was beading the other end. They were like Lady and the Tramp with vibrant pink net. Lying in front of the TV, watching Frozen, Tony and Robyn were making more ruffles for Hannah to attach to the skirt.
‘Well,’ Hannah scratched her head. ‘Should I go?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t think it’s a sympathy invite? Just because I made the dress?’
Dylan frowned down at his Top Trump. ‘Of course it is. You haven’t been friends with them since school.’
‘So I shouldn’t go?’ she said, sitting crossed-legged on the floor.
‘Hannah, you don’t have time to stop,’ her mum called over from the table.
Hannah went back to pinning the ruffles.
‘Of course you should go. I’d go. All your old friends’ll be there. If anything, just go to get a peek at that Emily Hunter-Brown. She’s a bona fide famous person now. She was in your year, wasn’t she? From what I read in the paper, she’s engaged to Jack Neil now. Remember him from school. God he was a dish.’ Dylan sighed at the memory, then added, ‘Take it from me, Hannah, as your elder and wiser…’
Jemima giggled.
‘The older you get, the much smaller the opportunities to make new friends become. So when they do come up, you should pounce on them immediately.’
Hannah thought about when the last time she’d made a new friend was. She’d met people at college but they were all fifteen years younger than her and, while they’d been fun to hang out with, she’d felt a bit like their uncool mum, having to bite her tongue when they talked about all the drugs they were taking. There were her baby friends that she talked kid stuff with. Work friends that she bitched about her boss with. But new friends who just knew her as Hannah – not as crazy-busy ‘Jemima’s mum’ or the person who could never do the overtime that everyone else did because she had to pick up from nursery – she hadn’t made one of them in a while.
‘Always in life, Hannah,’ Dylan went on, ‘do what works for you.’
‘I think Uncle Dylan is cheating, Mummy.’ Jemima turned her head round to look at Hannah.
‘I am not, you little ratbag,’ Dylan said with a laugh and bashed Jemima with a sofa cushion, making her giggle.
‘I don’t know, Dyl. I’m going to be so tired once this is done.’ Hannah picked up another cream ruffle just as Tony came over and dumped a whole load more onto her pile. ‘And there’s Jemima.’
‘You’re a machine, Hannah. You can keep going for another twelve hours just to drink champagne and eat little cakes. Even I could do that and I have the stamina of a dying fly. And your daughter has a rich, diverse and talented extended family who insist that she is left in their care so she can learn and develop into a thoroughly rounded human being. Hence why we are currently playing One Direction Top Trumps.’
Hannah looked from Dylan to the three-quarters finished dress that hung from the dressmaker’s dummy and was just beginning to look as good as it should. Behind it the Christmas tree twinkled and the fire crackled and she felt her mind and her body at war. Physically she was so exhausted that she wanted to fit Annie in the dress and then scurry home to the big sofa and eat a mince pie with a glass of wine. But that would be the same as Christmas last year and similar to the one the year before. Whereas her mind was quietly fizzing with excitement. With the possibility of the people. The life. Of going back again to Cherry Pie Island. It was like standing in front of a television screen and being invited to step inside to where the colours were brighter and the life richer. Where people married their childhood sweethearts, ran cute little cafés and dressed like hot-pink Christmas trees.
‘So, what do you think? Have I persuaded you to go?’ Dylan asked with a confident little smirk on his lips.
Hannah glanced back at him. ‘I think you might have done.’
‘Ha. Brilliant. I knew it. I’m a genius.’ He laughed and then made Jemima give him a high-five.
Chapter Six (#ulink_26d1a064-ca2c-553f-aad8-f1cd8de7dcfd)
‘Nah, mate. I’ll stay here, you’re alright. She doesn’t want me coming to her wedding. She doesn’t know me. And she sure as hell doesn’t like me,’ Harry said as he served up golden, buttery bacon sandwiches. He’d spent years tweaking his perfect method of making them. Sizzling streaky bacon pressed down in the pan with the base of another to make sure every inch was crispy, then lined up widthways on the bread to ensure even distribution when cutting. Next came the tiny, sweet cherry tomatoes grilled till they split. The whole sandwich then dipped in whisked egg and touched back down on the highest heat to hiss and pop and turn the bread a rich golden brown. All served with big mugs of stewed tea.
‘I have to have brown sauce,’ said Wilf as he pulled up a seat at the island unit in his sister Emily Hunter-Brown’s kitchen.
‘You can’t have brown sauce. It’ll ruin it. It’s perfect as it is. I promise.’
Wilf shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘God you’re a philistine. I don’t know how you own so many restaurants.’
‘I am a connoisseur of taste, my dear chap. But I also appreciate the little luxuries in life, such as a bit of HP sauce.’
As Wilf was talking, Emily appeared and slid onto the stool next to him. When Wilf had said Emily’d put Harry up as well as himself, Wilf’s fiancée Holly and their baby, Harry had tried to refuse, saying he’d check into a hotel, but then Wilf had emailed him a photo of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home, and said it practically was a hotel. He could have as much or as little privacy as he wanted. And Wilf had been right, but Harry felt as if he’d been here too long already. He was ready to go home, back to normality. But of course Wilf, having said ‘let’s discuss business over the holidays’, hadn’t wanted to talk business until Christmas was done, and then now till the wedding was done, and all Harry hoped was that he could get it all in the bag prior to New Year, be back in New York and back in the restaurant to make sure no one buggered up the eight course New Year’s Eve menu he’d spent months finalising.
‘What you have to understand about my brother, Harry…’ Emily drawled, her white-blonde hair all mussed-up on top of her head like a halo. ‘Is that he had a very dysfunctional childhood. His only comfort came from matron at boarding school – the big-bosomed provider of the HP sauce,’ she said with a smile, then picked up her sandwich and added, ‘This looks dreamy,’ before taking a giant bite.
Wilf scoffed. ‘Well, dear Sister, I’d take a bottle of HP over having my whole life catalogued in Hello! magazine. Or indeed hidden amongst redundant Blockbuster video stock. Which reminds me…’ He held up a hand. ‘Harry, have you had the pleasure of witnessing Emily’s fledgling film career? I can probably get my hands on a copy of When the Wind Blows, if not?’
‘Oh piss off, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows it was crap. It was a crap script and I was crap in it. So it’s pointless bringing it up.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re so lame at arguing.’
Wilf did a huge, guffawing laugh and then pulled Emily into a sideways hug which she did her best to bat away.
