When we arrived at the hotel, I prayed that I’d made a good choice this year. I wasn’t sure I could face one of Scott’s forensic investigations into why they’d run out of red cabbage today. Scott strode in, making himself known to the staff, booming a big Happy Christmas to all. Alicia was right behind, light on her feet in her silver sandals, as wispy and delicate as Adele was stocky and stout. Granddaughter and grandmother linked arms together, pointing out the tree covered in glittery hearts and crimson ribbons. I glanced around at the other families and wondered if any of their smiles camouflaged upset so intense that they could feel it trembling in their chests.
Staff in black and white uniforms offered us Buck’s Fizz at the door to the wood-panelled dining room. Scott picked two from the tray. As we sat down, he handed one to Alicia.
‘She’s under eighteen. She can’t drink that in here,’ I said.
‘Lighten up. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. Bloody British licensing laws. They’re not going to chuck us out. It’s only like a bit of lemonade and orange juice.’
Alicia looked at me, not knowing which way to jump. She’d been pretty subdued since my return from the police station and I hated her having to be the peacemaker, in the impossible position of trying to protect me without angering Scott. I put on a smile. ‘I’m sure Daddy’s right. Just don’t draw attention to it.’ She glanced round and took a big gulp.
Adele was cooing over the log fire. ‘In all these years I’ve never got used to Christmas in the sunshine.’ Off she went on her usual discussion about what it would mean to move back to Scotland now, but with all her brothers dead, and barely knowing her nieces and nephews, except that wee Caitlin who would keep coming out and staying for months on end …
Scott yawned and beckoned for some more drinks. Alicia started texting God knows who. Adele paused just long enough to order her meal then continued to reel off a never-ending list of relatives with respective geographical locations. ‘My cousin Archie is still in Aberdeen, but his wife, Siobhan, she passed away in 1999. No, let me think. Not 1999. It must have been 2000, because it was the year Sydney had the Olympics …’
My will to live was seeping away by the time the scallops on pea puree arrived. Scott raised his glass in a toast. Alicia’s glass was empty and two bright spots had appeared on her cheeks. I ordered her an orange juice. We drifted in and out of conversation, with Alicia quizzing Adele about whether you could tame a kangaroo while Scott quaffed the Châteauneuf he’d chosen.
Enormous platters of roast goose arrived. ‘I wonder how Octavia’s getting on cooking for her brood,’ I said. ‘It’s such a luxury to have it all done for you.’
Scott looked over at me. ‘She hasn’t trained Jonathan right, has she? Unlike you, who’s never cooked from day one.’
I put my mouth into a smile and kept my tone light. ‘That’s not true. I do cook, though I get a bit stressed if I’m catering for a lot of people or your business colleagues.’
Scott always liked to make out I was too idle to do anything myself, but the truth was he thought paying other people to clean, fix and garden was a sign that he’d arrived. He loved boasting that his wife didn’t have time to work because ‘managing the staff was a full-time job’. Despite Scott’s dismissive words, cooking was the one area where I still retained a little control.
Adele was brewing up opposite me, no doubt ready with some comment about how she always makes double the amount and freezes half of it, but Scott hadn’t finished.
‘Come off it. When did you last cook a proper meal? Something that wasn’t out of the freezer or the microwave?’ He stuck a whole potato in his mouth and sat back with his arms folded.
Alicia frowned and put her fork down. ‘Dad, that’s not true. Mum was cooking fish pie the other night when you called the police on her. And she’d made that asparagus quiche she’d seen in a magazine.’
Adele jerked round to face Scott. ‘Police? What police? Scotty?’
Scott ignored her. Everything in me tightened, ready for blast-off. Before I had time to think of a cover-up, if a cover-up were possible, Scott turned on Alicia. Bits of potato flew out of his mouth, sticking to his wine glass. ‘If you hadn’t gone out dressed like a little trollop then I wouldn’t have got angry with your mother.’
I put out a calming hand. ‘Anyway, that’s all over and done with. We were both a bit silly. Come on, let’s not spoil Christmas Day.’
I expected Alicia to back down and appease Scott as she usually did, but she surprised me. ‘I’m not spoiling it, Dad is. I wasn’t dressed like a trollop, was I, Mum?’ Alicia said.
‘I’m not going to discuss any of this now,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my voice low.
The Buck’s Fizz had unleashed a bravery in Alicia I’d never seen before. ‘There was nothing wrong with what I was wearing. It’s called fashion, Dad. You’re always ruining everything. Keira’s mother saw the police taking Mum away on Thursday night. All my class were asking me how many years she’d got and pretending to put handcuffs on me.’ Her bony shoulders were hunched up around her ears.
‘Why did the police take Roberta away?’ Adele was wide-eyed. ‘Scotty? You didn’t tell me that.’
I was just working out which words I was going to put together to form an explanation that wouldn’t wreck the whole day when Scott slammed down his knife and fork with such force it made the glasses chink together.
Scott scraped back his chair but didn’t get up. ‘Mum, shut up. It’s none of your bloody business.’ I had my hand on his arm to quieten him down, but it was too late. ‘Don’t you dare shush me. If you weren’t such a shit mother, I’d never have called the police in the first place.’
The silence in the dining room dominoed from table to table until the only noise was the laughing and banter from the customers by the window. I steeled myself to look round. The Maître d’ was bristling his way over.
‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ Scott didn’t sound contrite or conciliatory.
The Maître d’ didn’t go away. I was aware of the woman at the next table telling her children to be quiet and turning their heads away from us. I closed my eyes. I wanted to smile and pretend everything was OK. I looked down at my plate and picked up my fork. My stomach wouldn’t co-operate. It had shut down, closed over like a pair of lift doors. Alicia was huddled in her chair, tension radiating from every pore.
Adele stepped in. ‘Sorry for the noise. My son is a very passionate man and I think I may have spoken out of turn. That’s families for you. We know how to push each other’s buttons, don’t we, Scotty?’
Scott mumbled something and the Maître d’ offered a crisp, ‘Very well, sir,’ and clipped off again.
Nobody spoke. Not even Adele. Alicia sat opposite me with fat tears dropping onto her plate. I reached over for her hand. She gripped my fingers hard, like she used to when she was a toddler and a dog sniffed at her. ‘I can’t eat any more.’
Maybe it was the rasp in her voice. Or the whispers in the dining room. The heads craning round pretending to look for a waiter, but having a jolly good stare at the wife with the atrocious husband instead. Alicia’s humiliation was tangible, her whole body rigid. We were supposed to protect her, not invite ridicule. I looked at Scott. His jaw was set, that familiar look of self-justification clamped around his features. A hot rush of emotion coursed through me. Then a surge of release as though I’d removed a pair