Page 26 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

There it is – the inevitable catch.

‘This isn’t a game of crazy golf, Mum! And how are we meant to hear what he’s saying? What if we accidentally pick something poisonous?’

‘Here she goes,’ said Anneka, folding her arms in annoyance. ‘Flo, it’s fine. Look, I have a plant-identifying app on my phone as a back-up in case we’re unsure about anything.’

‘And does your phone even have the right roaming settings to work without Wi-Fi over here, Anneka? Because mine doesn’t.’

She fiddled around with it for a few moments before glancing at Mum.

‘Like I said, we’ll be fine,’ she said, re-pocketing her phone as if she’d never even mentioned the app.

We hovered awkwardly on the other side of the road until the foraging guide was satisfied all his actual paying customers had arrived and the group of about a dozen people moved further into the park, out of our eyeline.

We crossed the road, Mum and Anneka behaving like kooky, fictional sleuths on a mission to track down a cheating husband, crouching down behind low walls and peeking around sticker-covered lampposts. Paradoxically, they looked more conspicuous than if we were just strolling into the park like a regular family on holiday. But, as I’d come to accept over the years, our family was anything but ‘regular’, with their play-acting and tomfoolery always a non-negotiable part of our unconventional excursions.

Years ago, my university counsellor had helped me to understand that their more playful approach to life wasn’t intended to make me feel stressed. They simply found being silly and taking risks fun, whereas I was wired in completely the opposite way. I’d always felt like a glitch in their otherwise joyful system – one they’d tried repeatedly to hack into chaotic compliance, especially when I was younger and more impressionable. But their attempts to indoctrinate me had always failed, their disappointment when I always defaulted to my cautious programming written all over their faces every time. I knew they loved me – and I loved them. But the question of whether we ‘liked’ each other was much more complicated.

I finished my now-cold coffee and threw the cup in the nearest bin, urging myself to try and enjoy being in Central Park for the first time in my life, rather than defaulting to silent psychoanalysis mode.

They’re trying their best, Flora. They’re allowed to have fun.

What about my fun, though?

The group slowed to a halt about ten metres in front of us, and Mum and Anneka dragged me to sit on the nearest bench.

‘Flo, we need to send you on a mission,’ Mum said, her glee making her voice trill.

‘Mission denied.’

‘You don’t even know what it is yet!’ Anneka said, nudging me.

‘Still denied.’

My refusal was ignored.

‘We need you to head over towards the foraging group and then stop to re-tie your shoelaces,’ my sister said.

‘But my shoelaces aren’t un—’

My words were interrupted by a tugging sensation on my left shoe. I looked down to see Mum on the ground untying it with a mischievous glint in her eye. She then undid the other one for good measure.

‘Jesus, why can’t one of you do this since you’re so keen on espionage?’

‘We’re both wearing lace-less shoes! You’re the only woman for this job. While you’re retying your laces, listen to what the guide is saying, look at what they’re picking, then report back. Got it?’ Mum pulled me up and practically shoved me towards the group. I could feel the coldness of her hands, even through my multiple layers.

How is this real?

I growled briefly, then wandered over towards them in what I hoped was a casual fashion, suddenly getting flashbacks to the time Mum and Anneka had taken me to a field of wheat in the middle of the night so they could make a crop circle. That was the night I’d had to pretend to the torch-bearing farmer that I – an anxious seventeen-year-old who wanted nothing more than to be in her bed and fast asleep – had somehow got lost on his land, while my so-called caregivers lay down among their unfinished swirling creation of flattened crops. To be fair to the farmer and his wife, they had driven me home and I’d ended up back in the warmth of my duvet sooner than I otherwise would have done.

As I neared the flock of foragers – or whatever the appropriate collective noun was – the guide said something that made my ears prick up.

‘Now, before we pick anything, I’m legally obliged to warn you that I had someone on the tour who died once.’

I crouched down and began the performance of shoelace-tying while he continued speaking.

‘Despite my clear warning, she accidentally put some toxic Star of Bethlehem in her purse, which bears a striking resemblance to field garlic…’

Finally, vindication about my foraging safety concerns!