“Love,” she said quietly, touching Vic’s elbow.
Vic turned, harried expression softening automaticallyat the sight of her. That reflex still made Julia’s heart squeeze.
“Tell me it’s good news,” Vic said. “Tell me the laundry has miraculously unflooded and Maureen has conjured ten new beds out of air.”
“I can’t tell you that,” Julia said. “I can tell you the reindeer have settled in well.”
“And?” Vic said, bracing herself.
Julia exhaled through her nose. “You should… take a breath,” she said. “I have an update from Patel.”
Vic’s eyes narrowed. “On the weather?”
“On the caterers,” Julia said.
All the colour drained from Vic’s face.
“No,” she said automatically. “Nope. Not listening. La la la.” She clapped her hands over her ears like a child, then dropped them a second later, because this was Vic and information was her drug of choice. “Okay, fine. Tell me. Slowly. Like you’re explaining a difficult concept to a skittish horse.”
“The lorries can’t get through,” Julia said. “They’re stuck south of Perth. The roads are closing as the snow picks up. The caterers say they can’t guarantee delivery of the main course meats in time.”
Vic stared at her, eyes huge. “The… meats,” she repeated faintly.
“The turkeys, yes,” Julia said. “And associated trimmings.”
There was a beat of absolute, stunned silence.
Then:
“THE TURKEYS AREN’T HERE,” Vic exploded, far louder than she’d intended. Her voice bounced off the stone, echoing down from the gallery. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?”
Half the room turned.
Alex looked up from helping Florence untangle a string of beads. Erin’s head whipped around. The equerry flinched. A page boy dropped a box of crackers, which burst open and showered the floor with tiny plastic toys.
Julia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. Too late for discretion now.
“Indoor voice,” she murmured. “Remember indoor voice?”
“This is an indoor emergency,” Vic said, backing toward a table as if she needed something to cling to. “We don’t have turkeys. We don’t have back-up turkeys. We have… I don’t even know what we have. Frozen peas and blind optimism. The Queen is going to have toast for Christmas dinner. There will be headlines. ‘QUEEN RUINS BRITISH CHRISTMAS.’ Piers Morgan will spontaneously combust on national television. We’ll cause an international incident with France over poultry.”
“France doesn’t care what we eat,” Julia said. “France thinks we’re culinary savages anyway.”
“That’s not helping,” Vic said. “We can’t not have turkeys, Julia. It’s… it’s Christmas. It’s tradition. It’s the one thing people expect us to get right.”
“People also expect the trains to run on time,” Julia said. “Have you been on a train recently?”
“This isn’t trains,” Vic said wildly. “This is the royal Christmas dinner. We made a promise to the nation.”
“To be visible and vaguely aspirational,” Julia said. “Not to ensure universal turkey availability.”
Vic was breathing fast, hands fisting and unfisting at her sides. Her eyes were shiny in that way that meant the panic was teetering on the edge of tears.
“It’s not just the nation,” she said, voice dropping. “It’s… them. The kids. Alex. Erin. This is their first proper Christmas here where something complicated and/or horrible isn’t hanging over their heads. No newborns, no pandemics, no funerals, no referendums. I wanted it to be… perfect.”
Julia’s anger at the universe softened. This was the raw centre of it, then. Not vanity. Not hunger for control for its own sake. Just Vic’s battered, stubborn heart, trying to give the people she loved a version of Christmas that wasn’t tinged with loss.
“It can still be wonderful without turkey,” Julia said. “We have ham. We have salmon. We have Mrs. MacLeod and three hundred years of Scottish starches.”
