Reece offers her the roses, and Mum beams, inhaling the scent and then bundling us both into a hug. ‘These are gorgeous. Come in, come in!’
Reece sniffs the air, and I see him register the aromas of cooking apples and fresh-cut pine with a barely perceptible nod; as much as he plays it cool, he loves this sort of curated domestic bliss. The entrance hall is orchestrated for maximum seasonal effect. The traditional ten-foot tree stands to the left of the central staircase, decorated with tasteful cream and gold ornaments, and topped with the cracked angel I made in year 4 art class. A collection of winter blooms sits on the console table, and a low hum of classical music plays from hidden speakers.
‘Tree looks great, Penni,’ Reece comments, shrugging off his coat and handing it to Mum, who takes it along with mine and hangs them in the cloakroom.
‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I had to badger Paul into getting it up in time for today’s lunch. We’re so late organising everything this year.’
‘Christmas is still a few weeks away, Mum. Plenty of time.’
She kisses my cheek, and I catch the scent of her Jo Malone perfume. ‘You say that, but it all goes by so quickly. We seem to have even less time now we’re retired.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Cooking, obviously.’ Mum rolls her eyes, but you can hear the pride underneath. ‘He’s been fussing over the roast like it’s aNasalaunch. Come through to the drawing room. We’ll have a glass of something in the meantime. Reece, did you drive? Are you drinking? You should both stay the night in the cottage, head back in the morning.’
Reece turns to me, and I shrug my agreement. ‘Great.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘What have you got behind the bar, Mrs N?’
Mum giggles and leads him into the lounge, where they head over to the drinks cabinet.
‘Just going to say hi to Dad,’ I call through the door. I drift past the staircase, breathing in the layers of wax polish, woodsmoke, and citrus cleaner, the smells of a house that I can’t imagine ever belonging to anyone but my parents. I run my fingers along the banister, then head for the kitchen.
Dad is exactly where he always is on a Sunday – in front of the range, sleeves rolled, face ruddy from the heat, glasses steamed. The kitchen is big enough to stage a musical, all exposed beams linked to a wooden-framed conservatory that overlooks the river. He looks up, sees me, and smiles.
‘Munchkin!’ Dad shuts the range door, sets down the oven gloves, and engulfs me in a hug that is all shoulders and wool jumper and the faint scent of cologne. Dad was ruthless in business, but always gentle at home.
His arms make me feel safe and loved, and for an instant, I relax, remembering how he used to lift me on to the worktop to ‘help’ peel carrots or stir soup. The memory makes me wishI could rewind the past twenty years and go back to being that cherished little girl without a care in the world. I picture summer mornings having breakfast at the oak table in the conservatory, the French doors wide open to the lawns and river beyond. Fishing and boating with Dad, making daisy chains in the garden with Mum. Although I realise I’m romanticising quite a bit – we were always ridiculously busy, often apart, and the magic was patchy at best. But sitting here now, smelling my father’s cooking, I almost believe in it again.
‘Taste this,’ Dad insists, turning back to the hob and tapping the edge of a small orange Le Creuset pan. He stabs something on to a fork, blows on it, and offers it to me.
I chew thoughtfully. ‘Chestnut?’
He grins, delighted. ‘With mushrooms and a hint of sage. I’ll add sprouts for Christmas lunch. You two are coming, right?’
‘Of course. But we’re doing Boxing Day at Reece’s parents’.’ I try to sound upbeat, but already feel the scheduling headache blossoming behind my eyes. ‘Do you want a drink?’
Dad raises a glass of sherry. ‘Way ahead of you.’
‘Need a hand?’ I ask the question, but I already know the answer.
‘No, all under control.’
I stand by the French doors for a moment, enjoying the feel of weak sunlight on my face. I catch Dad glancing over at me, like he’s trying to gauge my emotional temperature. I try to project an air of serenity, but the pressure of the week – of the year – is coiled in my chest like an unpopped balloon.
‘Get yourself a drink, Munchkin,’ Dad says.
I turn and smile. ‘Good idea.’
I wander back to the lounge, where Mum and Reece are deep in debate about the merits of sherry versus vermouth, each defending their choice with the intensity of a seasoned barrister.
They both look up when I enter, and Mum beckons me over with the old conspiratorial smile. ‘Bee, you’ll back me up, won’t you? Sherry or vermouth?’
I point to a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and she crows in triumph.
‘Traitor.’ Reece smiles.
Mum pours a measure of sherry into a thimble-sized glass and hands it to me.
There’s a kind of agreeable hush in the room – not silence, but a lull between punchlines, punctuated by the snap of the wood-burning stove and the soft Christmas playlist. The room is a nest of comfort. The deep-blue velvet chairs are as ancient as the house. The Persian rug is faded along the main walking paths. The Tiffany lamps throw out a warm, forgiving light, like permanent golden hour. On the sideboard, a bowl of clementines sits next to a tray of mince pies under a glass dome, and the chessboard by the hearth is already set up for a new game.
