‘That was my choice,’ shouts Jacqui, her head practically swallowed by the oven. ‘Apparently it’s all the rage in Australia.’
‘So’s skin cancer.’ Noel’s voice lurks behind the kitchen door. I should probably peer round and offer some kind of festive pleasantry but I’m loath to wish him a Happy Anything.
‘Wrong actually,’ says Jacqui. ‘The Aussies are a lot more sun-savvy than us Brits.’
‘A white wine, please.’ I say to Dad, keeping it civil but clipped.
I follow the sounds of Finn whooping at Super Mario and find myself standing in the living room. It’s less stark in here than the rest of the flat and my face smiles down at me from every surface.
Soaked on the log flume at Alton Towers.
Decked out like a fat fairy for my Holy Communion – a pair of rosary beads in one hand, a packet of Haribo in the other.
Me and Jacqui dressed up as witches for Halloween.
That one kills me. We both look so happy and so, so pleased with ourselves in our cute little costumes that it makes me want to weep. It makes me want to go into the kitchen and tell her that I’m truly sorry I didn’t get here earlier like she wanted.
But I don’t. I’ve only got the strength for one argument today.
Jacqui’s done a stellar job, right down to the gingerbread men garnishes bobbing away at the top of our champagne flutes. Dad sits at the head of the table – perfectly decorated in reds, greens and golds – and I position myself two seats away. Ash stations himself in between, happy to play the human firewall.
And it’s OK for a while.
Tolerable, at least.
Ash keeps things interesting with a story about a colleague whose girlfriend jilted him at the altar twice, over two consecutive Christmases, and wonderful Finn acts like a prism, casting rainbows among the rumbling black clouds. The food’s complicated enough to warrant long, time-killing explanations from Jacqui about how it came to be on the table. And the crackers are fun, I suppose. I win a giant paperclip.
‘So you’re working on that case – the Doyle girl, right?’
It’s Noel that brings it up. Whatever happens now, I can always point to the fact that it was Noel, not me, who tore open the can of worms and dumped them all over the Christmas table.
‘There’s a lot of people working on it,’ I say, flatly.
‘Have you arrested anyone?’ he says, eyes glinting. ‘It’s usually the husband, isn’t it? Bet it’s the husband.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ I tap Jacqui with my foot under the table. ‘Hey, have you still got that Saturday girl in the shop, Jacqs, the one with the crazy eyebrows?’
She taps me back, a little harder. ‘Ah, come on, Cat, give us the scoop. We knew her, for God’s sake!’
Dad stares blankly but there’s a microscopic flutter in his eye – the kind of thing you only notice when you know someone inside out. When you’re alert to every slight mood shift.
‘Well, I suppose we didn’t know her.’ Jacqui loads more carrots onto Finn’s plate – a futile endeavour. ‘I remember her though, I hung about with her a few times. You probably don’t remember Cat, you were only a kid.’
‘I do, actually.’ I look straight at Dad. ‘She was gorgeous. You’d hardly forget her in a hurry.’
Jacqui laughs, elbows Noel. ‘Do you remember, Geri had just left the Spice Girls and Cat reckoned Maryanne was going to replace her, that’s why she’d disappeared.’
I don’t remember this at all, not one misty memory of ever saying that. And I’d have staked my life on being able to recount every single thing that happened that day.
What other details could I be missing?
Noel grunts. ‘Didn’t think she was that fit actually. Average, I’d say.’
Ash laughs. ‘Oh, you’ve turned down better, have you?’
‘Too right I have, mate. You want to see some of the Spanish women, some of the dancers at the club.’ He kisses the tips of his fat gnarly fingers. ‘Precioso.’
‘Very good, Noel’ I say, giving him a slow handclap. ‘That the sum of your Spanish? Not a lot of need for prolonged conversation where you work, I suppose.’
‘Oh, I get by,’ he says, smiling savagely. ‘How about Que te jodan? That means “Fuck you.”’
‘Noel!’ yelps Jacqui, looking at Finn.
‘That’s ENOUGH.’
It’s not Dad’s tone that shocks, it’s the fact he’s spoken at all. He hasn’t made a sound since we sat down other than to laugh half-heartedly at Finn’s cracker joke.
Noel plays the innocent. ‘Enough what? She said she didn’t want to talk about her job so I’m just telling her about mine.’
Finn asks to get down from the table. I wait until he’s out of earshot and safely goggle-eyed in front of Super Mario before I speak.
‘I’ll tell you something about my job, Noel. I’m going to Mulderrin on Monday. How’s about that?’ Dad puts his fork down, pushes his chair away from the table. For a second I think he’s going to walk out but he’s just lost his appetite. ‘I’m looking forward to it actually,’ I say, hitting my stride. ‘It’ll be nice to go back after all this time. Why did we never go back there, Dad?’
Dad tops up his wine-glass, avoiding my eyes. ‘On holiday, you mean? Wasn’t Florida good enough for you, sweetheart? Couldn’t the Maldives hold a candle to Mulderrin, no?’
Jacqui laughs, that shrill keep-the-peace laugh that’s become second nature.
I shrug. ‘Just always seemed a bit unfair to me. We saw Nan and Grandpa all the time. Why did you never take us back to see Gran again?’
He knows the subtext. He knows where this is heading but he’s not ready to draw weapons.
And so he tries humour.
‘Listen to her,’ he says, flicking his head towards me and smirking at Jacqui and Noel. ‘Always with the why, why, why. Same as when she was a kid, used to drive us all mad. “Why are flats called flats when they’re not flat, they’re high.”’
Jacqui laughs. ‘“Why do we have chins?”, “Why’s water wet?”’
I nudge the conversation back. It’s a sharp vicious nudge. ‘Auntie Carmel told me Mum wanted to be buried in Mulderrin but you wouldn’t have it. I doubt Hatfield Road Cemetery held a candle to Mum’s birthplace.’
‘Since when have you and Carmel been so pally?’ Dad sneers.
‘For years,’ I lie. ‘We’ve got similar interests. Similar likes and dislikes.’
We both like the act of disliking Dad.
He stiffens. ‘It’s none of Carmel’s business, anyway. I wanted your mum near me, Cat, not in another bloody country.’
Jacqui gives a small wistful mew, reaches across for Dad’s hand.
‘Shouldn’t it have been about Mum’s wishes though,’ I say, ‘not doing what suits you. I mean, when did you even last visit her grave?’
He meets my eyes for the first time. ‘Yesterday, actually. Tidying up the flowers I’d left earlier in the week. You?’
‘On her birthday.’
A tiny smile but there’s no satisfaction in it. ‘Right. So five months ago then.’
Jacqui cuts in, light and airy, wilfully ignoring the storm that’s brewing. ‘Lots of people don’t like the ritual, Dad. It’s a personal thing.’ She squeezes his hand tighter. ‘Although I’m with you, I like to visit Mum regularly. I think it’s a mark of respect. A mark of honour.’
Her cloying tone needles me. ‘I honoured Mum in life, Jacqs, I think that’s more important, don’t you?’ I tilt my head, mock inquisitive. ‘Dad, is that why you go to Mum’s grave so much? To make up for all the shit .?.?.’
His fist on the table is loud and final. A glass of wine topples and the dark ruby stain spreads ominously across the tablecloth. Jacqui jumps to attention, relieved to have something practical to focus on. Noel sits back and returns my slow handclap, barely concealed amusement dancing across his face.
Dad stands up, chin high, shoulders squared, and walks out of the kitchen.
Out of the flat.