Cutting herself off from Wickerman’s, she had also inadvertently cut herself off from her social life. She no longer wanted to be with the mutual friends she’d shared with Gareth, and because her absolute best friend and sister, Zoe, was as far away from Maisie as she could geographically be, she had no one to discuss her Christmas wish list with or share a laugh about her unrealistic New Year’s resolutions. As if in response to her thoughts, there was a scuffling from the corner of the room. At least she had Nigel.
An expensive Merlot breathed next to the hob, where she steamed a single portion of vegetables. A chicken breast fillet wrapped in maple-cured bacon – like an oversized pig in a blanket – roasted merrily in the oven with four crispy roast potatoes. There was already a half-drunk glass of pale cream sherry on the go and, as she sipped it, the leathery fruitiness added to the festive aromas swirling around the room.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have family. Goodness – she had more than enough to go around. Both parents were still alive and kicking, although should they ever find themselves alone in the same room, the kicking would be seven shades of something unpleasant out of each other. And she also had three older siblings. Problem was, she couldn’t even remember the last time they were all together. Part of it was logistics – they were scattered across the globe – but most of it was more … complicated.
Several years ago, she received separate Christmas dinner invitations from her parents. Not prepared to undertake the forty-mile round trip to keep them both happy, nor to accept one and refuse the other, an amicable solution was reached that had endured ever since. Christmas Eve with Mum (because she did the most fabulous stockings and even at twenty-five Maisie refused to relinquish the tradition) and Boxing Day with Dad and whichever lady happened to be hanging adoringly off his jaunty elbow at the time.
Her smart strawberry kitchen timer buzzed to announce her Mini-Me banquet was ready, so she stood it back on the worktop in a line of matching red appliances. (The kitchen was the first room she’d painted when she moved in the previous year; a study in monochrome with accents of scarlet – she’d even persuaded the landlord to go halves on a beautiful black and white chequerboard floor.) Ten minutes later, she sat down to her seasonal feast, flicked out the pure white linen napkin and let it drift gently down to her knees. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she toasted into the air as she sipped the sweet, plum-flavoured wine and then promptly burst into tears. There’s only so much positivity a person can muster in the face of such life-changing circumstances, especially when emotionally lubricated with a couple of glasses of sherry.
In recent weeks, the television had bombarded her with images of picture-perfect, happy families gathering to share banquet-sized meals of gastronomic perfection. The culinary aspect she could do standing on her wavy blonde head, but where were all the people she cared about? Because there had been a time, many moons ago, when her life had mirrored these saccharine adverts, long before the Meadows family members were scattered to the four winds.
The last family Christmas she could remember, Maisie had been six. Mum had woken at silly o’clock because the ostrich-sized turkey had to go in at half five and then she’d busied herself with table-laying, present adjustment and tree titivation. She always maintained once she was up, she was up. With all the crashing and banging drifting up the stairs, a bleary-eyed Maisie stirred to find Father Christmas had been. Her pillowcase was stuffed with exciting, oddly shaped parcels and the pine-green fabric stocking at the end of her bed was overflowing with sweets and treats. She stumbled her slippered feet downstairs to show everyone her Sylvanian Rose Cottage – which proved what she’d said all along – she had been a good girl this year. (No one knew about the hair-pulling incident at school. Not even Santa, apparently.)
Everywhere she looked there were delicious piles of food. The sideboard was covered in bowls of nuts and crisps, the fridge was bursting at the hinges, saucepans overflowed with pre-prepared veg, and the whole back worktop was loaded with bottles of wine and spirits. But most exciting of all, presents cascaded from underneath the Christmas tree like a waterfall of cheery wrapping paper. (This year, she’d only poked exploratory holes in a couple because she was a big girl now and had learned through bitter experience that anticipation was part of the fun.)
Dad was doing silly dances in a Santa hat and naked-lady apron to the loud music throbbing from the kitchen. Lisa, her eldest sibling, who had been her usual sarcastic and grumpy teenage self all morning, was unusually human by lunchtime – having found some festive joy from somewhere. Her brother, Ben, sat upstairs, contentedly bashing away at his drums. The beats echoed through the house, and even though they weren’t in time to Mum’s cheesy Christmas CD, it was all happy noises and general jollity. Maisie’s morning was spent either sneaking small fistfuls of salted peanuts from the sideboard or flat on her tummy arranging and rearranging Rose Cottage, only getting shouted at once by Lisa, who tripped over her sprawled legs when she came through to flop in front of the television.
Both sets of grandparents arrived in time for lunch, showed great interest in all Maisie’s presents (Granddad even playing board games with her) and then fell asleep en masse in the armchairs after the Queen’s speech – the only truly boring bit of the whole day. Later, the elderly contingent was roused for tea but decided to go home early. Maisie guessed all the excitement and post-dinner brandies were too much for them. Daylight ebbed away, and Zoe, older than her by five years, played with her instead – which was a first as she usually whined that Maisie was too babyish to play with. As Mum laid out another magnificent spread of food that everyone was too full to eat but still managed to devour, Dad took his parents home. Granddad had given up driving when his eyesight started to deteriorate but they lived locally and her dad told Maisie to save him a caramel square as he winked and slipped out the front door. Two hours later, he burst back into the house, laden with surprise presents for everyone and a huge bunch of flowers for Mum. The day was so full on that it seemed to Maisie it had ended almost as soon as it had begun. Lisa disappeared to bed uncharacteristically early, shortly followed by Maisie, who was full of delicious food and totally content. It was, she fondly recalled, how a Christmas Day should be …
Pulled out of her reverie by the buzzing of her mobile on the kitchen worktop, Maisie put down her nearly empty wine glass and walked over to the counter.
‘Merry Christmas, baby doll.’ It was Zoe Skyping across a vast expanse of ocean and continents.
‘Merry Christmas.’ Maisie leaned her bottom on the edge of the worktop, her heart temporarily lifted by Zoe’s beaming face. ‘What are you still doing up? It must be midnight there?’
‘I suddenly realised I hadn’t spoken to you, but now that I come to think of the time zones, you’re probably in the middle of a romantic Christmas dinner with that hot bloke of yours.’
‘Not at all. I’ve always got time for you.’ It wasn’t necessary to bring the mood down with Gareth’s tongue-thrusting exploits.
‘I miss you.’ Zoe reached a hand out to the screen and Maisie mirrored it with her own. ‘It seems ages since your visit.’
The three-week trip to South Australia was one Maisie would never forget even though it nearly bankrupted her. Despite the memorable art gallery, the adorable pandas at Adelaide Zoo and the winery tour in the Barossa Valley, spending intensive, quality time with her sister had only made her miss Zoe all the more upon her return.
‘Who are you chatting to?’ There was a chirpy voice in the background and a man’s mid-section appeared in front of the screen; the yellow cotton T-shirt and dark shorts of her favourite non-family member. The figure bent down and a beaming upside-down face appeared.
‘Cheers.’ A glass of red was waved in her direction. ‘How’s it going?’ Oliver was like a second brother