I frown, not sure if she’s referring to my phantom cold or not. ‘Yeah, I guess so. And how are you?’
She opens her mouth to reply but is instantly cut off by Annette who barges between us, a strange, almost gloating, smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. The rain has flattened her normally short, frizzy hair, causing it to hang down on either side of her face like a judge’s wig. ‘Oh, Louisa… how are you?’ She leans in and pecks me on the cheek, her lips feeling like sandpaper against my skin. ‘So sorry I had to dash the other day. Came over a bit queasy.’
‘Oh… right.’ My planned rebuke melts on my tongue. ‘But you’re all right now?’
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ interrupts Magda, gesturing over to the doorway where a small scrap of a woman with greasy hair and misshapen Ugg boots hovers. ‘Helen, come on in and meet Louisa.’
‘Hi, Helen,’ I shout over to her, something about her appearance familiar even though I can’t quite place her. ‘Just stick your coat anywhere and please do come on through.’
‘She’s feeling it more than ever today,’ whispers Magda into my ear. ‘Obviously with it being Christmas.’
I nod, a surge of sympathy for Helen swelling my chest. Perhaps my heightened emotions are another side effect of the antidepressants, or perhaps it’s because I understand what it feels like to lose somebody you love.
‘Look, come on through to the lounge, everyone,’ I say, my voice more confident than I feel. ‘Dinner won’t be too long but I think I can find some Christmassy snacks to be going on with.’
‘Well, it certainly all smells beautiful,’ beams Annette, her happiness so out of character it’s almost concerning. ‘I think today is going to be just wonderful.’
I look over at Magda who raises her eyebrows. ‘I guess it is the season for miracles,’ she says.
‘Absolutely impeccable, my dear Louisa!’ Ron’s knife and fork clatter against his empty plate. ‘The turkey was as succulent as Mary Magdalene’s bosom.’
‘Don’t be crude, Ron,’ says Annette through a mouthful of sweet potato. ‘Especially not on Christmas Day.’
I glance over at James who rolls his eyes at me, seemingly at his wits’ end.
‘Well, she was a hooker, wasn’t she?’ barks Ron, his empty wine glass worryingly balanced between his thumb and forefinger. ‘All the disciples would have had a right good old suckle on those titties, isn’t that right?’ He nudges James in the ribs, his expression one of permanent delight, like a ventriloquist’s hand is stuffed up his arse.
Annette sighs. ‘Ron, please… the Lord Jesus will be turning in his grave!’
I cough awkwardly into my fist, my face flushing with heat for the millionth time today. Cory, having woken up the moment I sat down to eat, is currently propped up on my knee, staring intently at the colourful array of food which remains virtually untouched in the middle of the table. I seriously wouldn’t have gone to so much effort if I’d known nobody, bar Ron and James, would be eating. Magda, being a vegetarian (something she failed to mention until today), heaved as I brought in the turkey, claiming the accompanying ‘pigs in blankets’ reminded her of her childhood sausage dog, Bindy. ‘I’ll just make do with a few carrots and a pickled walnut,’ she insisted, fanning herself with a Christmas cracker. Her sister, Helen, who has barely spoken a word since she arrived, is so skinny that she declared herself ‘full to the brim’ after a forkful of stuffing and a roasted parsnip. Then there was Annette who yet again complained of ‘feeling queasy’, and by that point I was too stressed to swallow my own saliva never mind a Christmas dinner!
‘I’m sorry, will you excuse me a moment while I top up the water jug?’ I pass Cory over the table to James before making a swift exit, sure I’ll physically combust if I have to listen to Ron’s vulgar comments for a second longer.
The kitchen is in a state of disarray; pans, plates and chopping boards all littering the worktop, the normally bright white tiles splattered with gravy and sausage fat. The heat from the oven, which still clings to the air despite its now being turned off, causes another surge of dizziness to wash over me, so much so that I have to lean against the work surface for support, terrified I might actually faint. ‘Come on, you can do it, just get through today.’ I take a deep breath before steadying myself, proceed to fill up a glass of freezing cold water straight from the tap, guzzling it down in one. It’s of little use though. My skin remains hot and itchy, like somebody has infected me with the menopause.
Opening the back door, I step outside, inhaling a chilly lungful of air as I do. The pounding rain from earlier has reduced to a trickle, the snow all but gone, now nothing other than a sopping great puddle of sludge. Despite it only being 5 p.m., the sky is dark and dense, the rustling of the trees, which line the rear fence, making it sound like a storm isn’t far away. Hearing footsteps in the kitchen, I make my way back down the garden path, hoping James might have come out to check on me. Perhaps together we can hatch a plan to make everybody leave early.
Magda stands by the bin as I enter the kitchen, tipping what looks like a broken glass into it. ‘Sorry,’ she says, glancing at me over her shoulder. ‘Ron had a little accident with the wine glass.’
‘Is Cory all right?’ I ask, a surge of adrenaline pumping through me.
‘Yeah, James has taken him upstairs for a sleep. Are you feeling all right?’ she asks, her face scrunching up into a frown as she seemingly takes in my appearance. ‘Your aura is bright red!’
‘Not really,’ I reply, feeling the onset of tears. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
She turns to properly look at me. ‘Go on.’
‘I haven’t got a cold. That isn’t why I was at the doctor’s the other day. James, the doctor, they think I’m suffering with postnatal depression.’
Magda nods, an empathic smile following suit. ‘Look, I did guess as much. When you called me the other day and mentioned… you know.’
‘The donor?’
She purses her lips. ‘I take it you explained everything to James?’
‘He didn’t believe me. It’s a long story.’ I pause, not wanting to go into the details of how I supposedly hallucinated, feeling both embarrassed and scared at the memory. ‘I suppose I did just imagine it all,’ I say to Magda, hearing a little voice in the back of my mind telling me not to be so ridiculous. You didn’t imagine it, you’re not crazy.
‘It’s easily done, Lou. I see postnatal depression a lot in my counselling sessions. One big side effect is paranoia.’
‘But the antidepressants the doctor gave me…’ I say, feeling a sudden urge to offload. ‘Ron said they weren’t strong but they’re playing havoc with me. I’m burning and itching and my thoughts are racing. It’s like they’re trying to take over my body.’
‘Which ones did she prescribe?’
‘Fluoxetine.’
She frowns. ‘Well, I’m no doctor but they shouldn’t be affecting you that badly.’
‘Perhaps I should come off them?’
‘Seriously, what’s taking you so long?’ Annette bursts into the kitchen with what looks like another broken wine glass wrapped up in a napkin. ‘Sorry, Louisa, my Ron’s always suffered with butter fingers. It’s his nerves, you see.’
I refrain from rolling my eyes. ‘Just stick it in the bin with the other one.’
She narrows her eyes, first at Magda then at me. ‘What’s going on in here? You two are in cahoots about something.’