‘I’ll sew it up at some point,’ he says, poking the lumpy piece of fabric into the wardrobe.
‘Sewing as well as cooking ... My, you are domestic,’ I remark, attempting to comb out my tangled hair using my fingers. In the end, I give up and tie it back in a bushy ponytail.
From behind me, Bailey says, ‘I think there’s still a feather in there.’
He fiddles with my ponytail, and I bat his hand away. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
Downstairs, someone strikes a gong; and the resonant tone reverberates up the stairs, causing my spine to tingle.
‘What the heck is that?’ I ask, startled.
‘Dinner,’ says Bailey. ‘The most efficient way of summoning the resident horde. We should go down, or we’ll miss out.’
The dry sandwich I sampled on the train is a mere memory and that pie smelled amazing. I’m famished.
As soon as we walk into the crowded dining room, Jennifer claps her hands together in delight. ‘Oh, you two look so cute in your matching green!’
I’m wearing a white T-shirt, black cardigan, and jeans. So I’m not sure what ‘green’ she’s referring to. I put my hand up to my ponytail and touch something springy. Bailey’s attached the green tinsel bow to my hair. Grrrr! I almost take it out and fling it at him, but Kirk is watching us again. So I lower my hand and manage a passable smile.
Bailey slings an arm around my shoulder amicably. ‘Green looks good on you, honey.’
I shrug it off when no one is watching.
‘Don’t call me ‘honey’,’ I hiss at him, but he just chuckles. Soooo annoying. If he doesn’t watch out, Rudolph’s eyes will be joining the gingerbread man’s in the snowdrifts.
I had visions of us all sitting round the dining table and making polite conversation by candlelight, but it doesn’t quite turn out like that. I quickly learn that the dining table is nothing more than a cornucopia where the hunger games begin.
Bailey doesn’t tell me the rules either. He simply hands me a plate from the pile, and I follow his lead, shyly observing the genial hubbub. Adults pass out cutlery and hand round condiments while kids whine that they don’t like this or that. Some seem to be under the table. My foot keeps getting tapped by unseen hands.
Sarah locks eyes with me across the table and gives me an encouraging thumbs up while one of her blonde, blue-eyed twins complains about the brussels sprouts. ‘Yes, you need to eat a few please, or there will be none of Uncle Bailey’s special dessert.’
In this household, it appears that if you’re late you miss out or if you’re fussy you don’t get pudding.
Once Bailey and I have helped ourselves from various serving dishes, I follow him into the substantial lounge.To my relief, the decorations in here are pared back. A log fire glows in the grate while the mantelpiece has a collection of Christmas cards arranged along the top and a row of small red Santa stockings dangle from inset hooks. It’s all very warm, pleasant and inviting. No Christmas tree though, which is odd.
Family members sit in small breakout groups, either on sofas or cross-legged on the soft grey rug, tending to their children. It’s like a yearly parent-child convention. Since we’re childless, we join Jennifer and Allan, who’ve set up in a couple of armchairs in the far corner opposite an old piano. Bailey and I perch awkwardly on the piano bench with our plates in our laps.
At this point, I just want to eat, sleep, and slink off to Inverness tomorrow without any fuss. Whatever Bailey tells his parents about ‘our relationship’ when I’ve gone is up to him.
But Jennifer is intent on getting to know me.
‘So, Holly,’ she says, ‘are your family originally from Scotland?’
She forks mashed potato into her mouth and chews slowly, waiting for my answer.
I swallow my mouthful of mushy peas. ‘Uh, not really, just my grandmother. My parents live in Cornwall, and my sister lives in London.’
She pounces on this.
‘Oh, lovely! Sarah and Mirabelle are in Bethnal Green. Where does your sister stay?’
‘Putney.’
‘Oh, right ... So why ...’ Her forehead creases, and I can see what she’s thinking: ‘Why aren’t you spending Christmas in London or Cornwall?’ I sigh inwardly. Might as well tell her. I’m not going to see her again after tonight.
‘They’re my foster family, and we don’t get on,’ I say flatly. ‘I’d rather spend Christmas with my biological grandmother.’
