I woke with the heart-leaping panic of exam days. The room was dark, and I was still dressed in the clothes I’d worn the night before with the exception of my shoes.
The night before…
My head snapped around, looking for Nick. I was in my bedroom and he wasn’t with me. My stomach rolled over slowly as I thought of his lips travelling over my skin, the flood of pleasure that I’d drowned in before I passed out.
God, I’d basically fallen to sleep in the middle of foreplay. Hopefully he’d known it was nothing to do with how exciting I found him. That much should have been obvious. It was everything to do with how little sleep I was currently getting, running up and down the stairs of the hotel and the fact it had been the middle of the night.
I blinked my itchy eyes and focused on the clock: 5.45. I’d slept through my alarm but not by much. Actually, now I thought about it, I’d had no alarm to sleep through – my phone was still missing.
And just like that, a slew of worries rushed to clog up my already foggy brain, pushing out any of the warm, tingly feelings left over from what had happened with Nick.
I bumbled around my bedroom, trying to find clothes in the darkness because I couldn’t face the aggression of a light bulb just yet. It soon became obvious that I didn’t have much in the way of clean clothing. How on earth my mum found time to remember to do washing was beyond me. So, I was stuck with a red knit dress I hadn’t worn since I was twenty and a pair of novelty stripy tights. Not exactly the armour to make me channel my inner hotel manager but at least I would look festive.
A quick shower, hair styled, and novelty costume donned, and I was as ready as I would ever be. When I opened the door to the living room, I was surprised to find Nick, asleep on the sofa.
I’d assumed he’d go down to his bed. The one with the brushed cotton sheets, sprung mattress and ample room for his long body. I wasn’t sure why he’d chosen to crash on our cramped little sofa – unless he’d been completely exhausted too. That was not that unrealistic actually. He’d said he’d been having trouble sleeping and then he’d kind of purged himself talking to me, so he was probably emotionally and physically drained.
His arm was thrown over his face so all I could see was his mouth – lips parted as he breathed quiet and even – as I crept by him. He needed to sleep for as long as he could. I considered leaving him a note – but he’d know where to find me when he woke up.
The first thing I noticed as I descended the stairs was the unnaturally high level of noise for that time in the morning. When I got to the ground floor, I peeked into the lounge where the squeals and fast-paced chatter were coming from.
The kids were all in the midst of unwrapping presents, some on the carpet, some at the sofa or armchairs with their parents who were grinning back at their children’s faces, despite obvious bags under their eyes. And I realised I was grinning too because that was the other side of the Christmas coin. When some people were missing lost loved ones – or even at the same time – there was such unadulterated excitement and joy.
Mrs Henderson looked up and spotted me, quickly mouthing ‘thank you’ and then wished me a Merry Christmas out loud. The littlest girl, her daughter, alerted to my presence, came running over to show me what she’d got from Santa and then I lost half an hour I couldn’t really afford to lose, when all the other kids joined in too. It felt worth it, getting to sit amid the peaks of shiny, glittery paper like a hamster, while they paraded books and dolls and Lego and slime and craft kits and chocolate selections boxes.
At least until all the other guests starting arriving downstairs and I came to my senses. I hadn’t even laid out the buffet table. Luckily, no one seemed too put out that breakfast was running a little late. I could only hope their goodwill extended to dinner time.
There was lots of wishing each other – and me – a Merry Christmas before ordering slap-up English breakfasts. I needn’t have put out the cereal or fruit at all. Anyone who was on a diet had thrown that out the window. They were all planning to eat and eat and eat, and I was supposed to provide thousands of delicious calories for them to gorge on.
Whenever I was in the kitchen, grilling bacon and scrambling eggs, I was painfully aware there was no one in the dining room, seeing to the next lot of guests who came in, or bringing them tea. I had no need for coffee myself that morning; I was running on sheer nervous energy. When I was halfway through the service, I broke out complimentary champagne cocktails, just to try and keep them happy, and for the main part I think it worked.
The kitchen was lined with plates and greasy pans when breakfast was finally over, and even though I’d put off thinking about it for as long as I could, I knew I had to face it:
The dreaded goose.
Neeta’s note was taped to the top of the plastic wrap. A piece of lined A4 with three grease stains and three-quarters of a page worth of instructions that were largely illegible.
I dumped the goose on the island, ripped off the note and tried squinting at it in different lights; by the window, by the door, underneath the cooker hood – it didn’t matter. Even if Neeta hadn’t used an ink pen whose marks spidered out easily when they came into contact with grease, her handwriting was medical-degree-level messy. I couldn’t blame her. She was a chef and how many professions did you require neat handwriting for these days anyway? Plus, she’d been under immense pressure, getting everything else ready for me. Scruffy was understandable.
But I was up a certain creek without a paddle.
I flattened the sheet down on the stainless-steel counter and forced myself to read it slowly, taking a deep breath so there were no spots dancing before my eyes as I did so. I could make out some of it. Vitally, the numbers. The temperature for the oven. The amount of time it would need to be in it. Thank God. I squinted harder. There was something about pouring boiling water over the goose – and that came early in the instructions – so I figured I’d do that first and then shove it in the oven. It would be roasted. It wouldn’t be delicately seasoned or stuffed but it would technically be roast goose, as long as I put the carcass in the oven until it was no longer capable of causing botulism.
I put on the oven to preheat it and started boiling the kettle for the poor goose’s scalding. This was it. I was actually trying to do this. What was the worst that could happen? The worst was that the goose was inedible, and I’d have to tell the guests that there was no poultry on the menu. But there was a beef wellington and gammon and nut roast and salmon that Neeta had prepared yesterday, among other things. They wouldn’t be happy maybe – particularly the Hotel Hopper who had already voiced disappointment about my cooking – but they would be fed. I might as well give it a go.
The skin was rubbery and slid over the flesh beneath as I picked the raw goose up out of its packaging and put it in the sink. It was so gross, and I was such a hypocrite. I’d quite happily eat meat but give me the raw version for prepping and my stomach began churning. I could push myself through it though.
I poured the kettle of boiled water over the goose as it lay in the sink, clouds of steam rising up to give me a facial sauna that smelled of meat and then waited for it to cool before whacking it in the best-sized roasting tray I could find and shoving it in the oven.
There. Done.
Now I just had to figure out how to heat everything and cook the vegetables, so it was all ready to plate up on time. And set up the dining room with Mum’s special decorations.
There was no time like the present. I got myself busy rearranging the dining room in the big U-shape we always used at Christmas, finding the special cream tablecloths with gold embroidery, grabbing the box with all the centrepieces made of frosted glass and red berries, candles, little silver trays for condiments and salt and pepper shakers, place settings, glasses, cutlery, napkins, crackers.
A job that I’d thought would take me thirty minutes, had taken me over an hour – but it looked good. And when I went back into the kitchen, I could smell the goose cooking. I set about trying to find all Neeta’s other notes about reheating food and then frowned at them for so long, I gave myself a headache.
What had I been doing last Christmas Day? Sitting with Peter in his parents’ living room in Wales, eating too much Quality Street and talking to his dad about the influence of gospel music in pop while Peter’s Mum did all the cooking. I’d offered to help but she’d been happy enough out there. His dad I’d got on with but his mum never particularly warmed to me. I wondered what he was doing this year. Peter that is. Not his dad…although I kind of did wonder how they were too. I’d probably never see them again. The end of a relationship was always interesting. No matter how long it had lasted, there were always people you thought were your friends whose loyalty never actually lay with you, and sometimes whatever bond you may have developed with family was instantly cut off.
