I'll Be Home for Christmas Page 4

  AJ is too busy stuffing a ketchup-slathered bhaji in his mouth to respond. I smile politely and wonder if coming here was a mistake.

  The Annual Waifs and Strays Anti-Christmas Dinner. That’s what AJ said when he invited me. “At least, that’s what I call it, anyway.” He rolled his eyes like he thought it was stupid, which made me wonder why he would invite me to something he thought was stupid. He didn’t seem surprised when I said I already had plans on the Saturday before Christmas. He also didn’t seem surprised when I messaged him an hour ago to ask if it would be OK if I turned up after all. AJ seems like a pretty laidback sort of guy. He’s certainly laidback enough about the history assignment we’re working on together.

  Lionel isn’t eating bhajis and samosas like the rest of us. On his plate there’s what looks to be some sort of foil hedgehog, with the spikes made out of cocktail sticks. Each cocktail stick skewers a segment of pineapple and a cube of bright orange cheese. He offers the platter around (silently, of course) and I take one, just to be polite.

  AJ’s mums, Sarah and Priya, have been nothing but welcoming. They keep checking I’m OK, and that I don’t mind Rocky drooling on my Converse. I watch them joke and laugh with AJ and it hurts my heart a little. Things used to be like that with my parents. At least, I think they did.

  Priya takes the piss out of AJ’s new haircut and AJ insists she’s just jealous of his ‘fresh trim’. He looks to me for back-up and I say that I quite like it.

  The ‘quite’ sets Priya off laughing again for some reason.

  Marjorie tuts. “Leave the poor boy alone, Priya! I think his … um … trim looks very fresh indeed.”

  After the hilarity has died down a bit, Marjorie turns to me. “So what’s your story, Miss Effie?” Marjorie is seventy-six years old, a fact she’s mentioned at least five times since we sat down. She used to be a doctor, which she’s only mentioned once. She makes me nervous – old people sometimes do.

  “My what?”

  “Your story. What makes you you? Regale us with fascinating tales of adventure and mischief. Or debauchery. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that. The only debauchery I get these days is watching Jeremy Kyle.”

  My phone rings in my pocket.

  “Saved by the bell!” Marjorie laughs.

  My first thought is: Fran. But of course it’s not Fran, because it’s the wrong ring tone. And because she hates me now. At least, I assume she does.

  It’s my mother. I hit the button to end the call and put the phone on silent.

  Someone’s filled up my glass without me even noticing. I take a gulp of wine and turn to Marjorie. “I don’t have a story.”

  “Everyone has a story, dear.”

  Hmm. Girl Meets Girl. Girl comes out to parents who act totally cool about it, but are actually anything but. Parents are painfully uncomfortable and embarrassed whenever said Girlfriend is around. Girl eventually breaks up with Girlfriend out of sheer stupidity, parents act like douchebags, as if no real feelings could have possibly been involved in the relationship. Girl walks out of house an hour before eighteenth birthday party arranged by said douchebag parents for family who happen to be completely unaware of girl’s queerness. Girl goes to have dinner with a bunch of strangers instead.

  I don’t think that’s quite the kind of story Marjorie is after.

  *

  Main course

  Black bean tacos, AJ’s guacamole of wonder,

  pickled red onions and assorted bits and bobs

  I was expecting some kind of curry after that starter, but the weirdness continues. Rocky is at my feet, scarfing down a taco stuffed with dog food and cheese, and everyone is acting like this is a perfectly normal thing for a dog to eat.

  AJ’s guacamole is indeed a thing of wonder. All of the food is really good, actually. Much better than what I’d be getting at home. Mum went totally overboard – as usual. I’d have been happy with some sausage rolls and tortilla chips. Or proper food like this, made by someone who cares. I told her I didn’t want fancy canapés or whatever, but she wouldn’t listen. She was adamant that she wanted to get a caterer in – probably to impress her snobby sisters. She didn’t care what I wanted to eat at the party, or who I wanted to invite.

  Mum’s not going to forgive me for this in a hurry. Showing her up in front of her sisters. She’s only got herself to blame though – insisting on going ahead with the party when I’d said I couldn’t face it. I check the time on the tinsel-decked clock above the kitchen door: 6.07 p.m. The party officially starts in twenty-three minutes, although knowing my family, I bet people are already there.

  Lionel is tucking in with gusto, piling up his tacos with toppings. I want to tell him that I like his bowtie, but I don’t want to embarrass him. He still hasn’t said a word, but he looks perfectly content. Everyone else talks – a lot. So far topics have included: coriander and whether it is in fact the food of the devil (Sarah is not a fan, the rest of us love it); UKIP (no one is a fan, obviously); Marjorie’s son Harry who wants her to go and live in a care home (only marginally more popular than UKIP, except with Marjorie who says, “I do love him, though,” somewhat halfheartedly); tattoos.

  Priya has a full sleeve on each arm. The tattoos are incredible, but I suppose you’d expect nothing less on a tattoo artist. I ask her if it’s scary, trusting her skin to someone else.

  “Nah, I like having other people’s art on me.”

  “I’d like to get a tattoo,” I say. I’ve never even thought about it before, but suddenly, two glasses of wine down, it seems like the best idea in the world. “Would you do it for me?”

  Sarah puts her hand on top of Priya’s and says, “You’d have to join the waiting list. What is it now? Six months? Seven?”

  “Wow, you must be really good.”

  “She is,” says Sarah, and you can tell she’s so proud of Priya. I think about how proud I felt watching Fran up onstage and I wonder if it’s the same thing. Or is it different, what they’ve got? Is it deeper, truer, more?

  They make an odd-looking couple, Sarah and Priya. Sarah looks like a proper grown-up and has some serious job that apparently involves a lot of spreadsheets. Priya looks like a total badass. Tattoos, piercings and eyeliner skills that I can only dream of. I know opposites are meant to attract, but it never seems to be that way at school. The couples I know tend to look like matching sets. Even Fran and me.

  I didn’t even know AJ had two mums. He kept that little nugget of information to himself. Maybe he’s trying to make a point, like, “This is the future you could have had, if you hadn’t chosen to dump your perfect girlfriend.”

  “I’ve got a tattoo, you know,” says Marjorie with a sly smile.

  Even Priya looks shocked. They proceed to guess what – and where – it is. The only ones who say nothing are Lionel and me. He meets my eye and smiles, and there’s something about the kindness there that makes me want to cry.

  It’s on her boob. The tattoo is on her boob. Nobody guessed that. Probably because thinking about the boobs of a seventy-six-year-old woman seems a bit disrespectful. She had it done on her seventieth birthday. It’s a chaffinch.

  “Ron used to call me his little bird. I wanted to… Well, I suppose I just wanted to remember. What it was like to belong with someone. What it was like to be loved.”

  Suddenly the atmosphere is all melancholy, and I really do want to cry. I think I could cry among these people and they wouldn’t even blink. They wouldn’t tell me to plaster a smile on my face and pretend. They would let me be sad, because sometimes it’s OK to be sad. That’s what Mum doesn’t understand.

  “We love you, Marj,” says Sarah. “You know that.”

  “I know, dear. And I love you.”

  Then Lionel does something and I can’t decide if it’s the oddest thing he’s done since he got here, or the coolest. He puts his thumbs and forefingers together to make a heart sign. And Marjorie smiles and does exactly the same thing.

  “All right, all right, enough
of this feelings malarkey,” says Priya, earning a high five from AJ. “Effie, are you sure you’ve had enough to eat? There’s plenty more if you want it. And make sure you take some leftovers home with you. It always tastes better the next day anyway.”

  “Then why didn’t you make it yesterday?” Sarah laughs.

  “Smartarse.”

  Suddenly Sarah slaps her own forehead with such force it makes me wince. “Oh my God, we forgot about the toast!”

  AJ rolls his eyes. “It’s OK, Mum. I don’t think the world is going to end if you don’t make your little speech.”

  “It’s tradition!”

  “You hate tradition!”

  “I make an exception for this one.” Sarah sticks her tongue out at her son. “But I’ll keep it short.”

  “Thank God for that,” AJ murmurs, but he’s smiling.

  “So this is what, the fifth time we’ve hosted this little gathering? I know that this time of year can be tough for various reasons – for each and every one of us. But this always turns out to be one of the highlights of my year, and I’m so happy to be able to share it with you. There may be a couple of people missing today, but I’m delighted to welcome Effie into the fold—”

  “Sounds a bit like a cult, doesn’t it?” Priya quips, topping up everyone’s glasses.

  “Anywaaaaay, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted… I’d like to make a toast. To friends – the family you choose.”

  Everyone raises their glass and clinks them together in the middle of the table. “To friends!” we all echo. Except Lionel.

  I take another swig of my wine and decide that this will be my last glass. It’s going to my head, softening me into a marshmallow-mushy idiot who’s happy to be here and grateful to these strangers for treating me better than my own family.

  The front door slams open and someone stumbles in. It takes me a second or two to recognize him. Like when you see your English teacher at the cinema. There’s no way Serge Black belongs here. Onstage in some sweaty club, guitar slung low, singing my favourite song? Yes. Crouched on the floor in AJ’s living room, being slobbered on by Rocky the dog? No.

  But he is here. Wearing a hoodie, tracksuit bottoms and questionable trainers – the sort of clothes you’d never see him wearing onstage. I should know – I’ve seen him play four times in the past year. Well, three and a half. Fran and I missed a fair bit of the last gig. (Her fault, not mine.)

  Maybe the clothes are some kind of disguise? Seems a bit excessive – he’s not exactly famous. Not yet anyway. He’s teetering on the edge of fame. Word has it that several major labels want to sign him, but he’s biding his time, weighing up his options.

  “Rocky, mate, we made a deal! Kisses are fine, but I draw the line at your tongue entering my mouth, OK?”

  AJ sees me gawping and laughs. “Told you you’d want to come.”

  Part of me wishes Fran were here to see this. But AJ probably wouldn’t have invited me if he hadn’t found me crying in the American History section of the library, and I wouldn’t have been crying in the American History section of the library if I wasn’t already regretting breaking up with Fran. Fran couldn’t possibly be here, so I should just stop thinking about her. I can try, anyway.

  Serge kisses Priya, Sarah and Marjorie on the cheeks, nods at Lionel and grabs AJ in some sort of headlock that I think is meant to be affectionate. AJ shuffles along on the bench to make space.

  “Did I miss the toast? Shit, I love the toast.” He reaches across the table and grabs Priya’s glass and holds it up. “To friends! Friends who are there for you when your family – and your entire life, in fact – is an utter shitshow. Cheers, big ears!” He downs the drink in one, then grimaces. “Gah! That was not wine.” He turns to me, says “Do you mind?” and takes my glass before I can answer. He downs it. “That’s better.”

  Serge Black just nicked my drink. I can only conclude that he is drunk and/or high. Or possibly just a bit of a dick.

  *

  Pudding

  Lionel’s Sachertorte

  Five missed calls from Mum, seven texts. I sit on the loo listening to her voicemails. The bathroom walls are covered with sheet music instead of wallpaper. I don’t recognize any of the songs.

  Your aunt Denise is already here and Maggie won’t be far behind. Do you know how embarrassing this is?

  You’d better call me back, Effie.

  I’m serious. Effie, where ARE YOU? I can’t believe you’re doing this – today of all days. This is so—

  Delete. Delete. Sigh and then delete.

  Are you at Fran’s? Is that where you are? OK … that’s it. I’m coming to get you. If you don’t call me back in the next ten minutes I swear I’m getting in that car and I will drag you out of that house if I have to.

  Shit. I check the time. The message was left eight minutes ago. On the surface of it, it doesn’t seem that bad. It’s not like she’s threatening to call the police or anything. But her turning up at Fran’s place? Talking to her, asking her questions. I can’t let that happen.

  I phone her after I’ve washed my hands. Just within the ten-minute deadline, but I bet she’s already sitting in the car with the engine revving.

  It is not a pleasant conversation. I tell her where I am. (But who ARE these people?) I make a deal with her. It’s my only option.

  I have half an hour before she comes to get me. I will go home and I will apologize to everyone. I will smile as they sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me and I will open my presents and act suitably grateful for them, and especially grateful for whatever hideous thing Denise has got for me. (And don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you for this. As soon as everyone’s gone we are going to have a serious chat, young lady.) OK, so she didn’t actually say ‘young lady’, but she may as well have done.

  Everyone looks at me when I emerge from the bathroom. Everyone except Serge, who’s gone for a nap in AJ’s room in an attempt to sober up before tonight. He’s supposed to be interviewed live on Radio 6 Music.

  “Sorry … I was on the phone. My mum…” I can’t bring myself to complete the sentence.

  AJ saves me. “You’re just in time for the grand finale. Lionel?”

  Lionel clambers out of his seat and takes the mystery box off the mantelpiece. He places it on the table and lifts the lid.

  Everyone (including me) ooohs and aaahs and just looks.

  It’s the most perfect cake I’ve ever seen. The top is so glossy I can see my reflection in it. ‘Sachertorte’ is written on it in impossibly dainty icing.

  “Oh, Lionel!” says Marjorie. “Dare I say it – even more magnificent than last year!”

  Lionel smiles shyly.

  I get my phone out to take a picture but AJ shakes his head. “No photos. Lionel’s rules. We look, we eat, and then it’s gone. Come help me with the plates?”

  I follow AJ into the tiny kitchen and Rocky follows me. It’s carnage – pots and pans and bowls and chopping boards and baking trays everywhere.

  “Having fun?” AJ asks as he stretches to reach for some plates on a high shelf.

  I nod. “It’s…”

  “Weird?”

  “No!” Because none of it feels weird any more. Not even Lionel’s no-pictures rule. “It’s brilliant.”

  “Really?” he asks. “I was a bit worried you might not enjoy it. And that you thought it was weird that I invited you in the first place. I mean, I knew you’d get a kick out of Serge turning up, but it’s not like we’re really friends or anything, so I wasn’t sure if…?”

  “I love it. Can I come again next year?”

  He laughs. I think he’s relieved. “Oh yeah, you’ve been officially inducted into the Waifs and Strays Hall of Fame now. Attendance is mandatory.”

  “Suits me just fine.”

  I don’t understand how this boy that I don’t even know very well – and these people I’ve only just met – can make me feel so comfortable. Everything’s just easier here. AJ may not thin
k that we’re friends yet, but I would definitely like to be.

  He hands me the plates and directs me to the right drawer for the forks.

  I check my watch. “I’m going to have to leave soon… My mum’s coming to pick me up. It’s so embarrassing.”

  “As long as you’ve got time for cake, it’s all good.”

  I look over my shoulder to check that no one’s listening. “Does he ever speak?”

  “He speaks to Marjorie, sometimes.”

  “What’s his deal?”

  AJ shrugs. “He’s just Lionel.”

  A shout comes through from the living room. “Enough dallying in there! It’s cake o’clock!” Rocky thumps his tail on the floor in agreement.

  There are so many more questions I want to ask AJ. I want to know about Serge and why he’s here and what he meant earlier about his life being awful. I want to know more about Marjorie and Lionel and AJ’s mums. But my questions will have to wait. Cake comes first.

  Lionel cuts the cake and Priya takes a slice through to the bedroom for Serge. “He’s doing better,” she says when she sits back down again.

  The Sachertorte is ridiculously good. I have two helpings and tell Lionel it’s the most delicious cake I have ever tasted. He beams.

  Marjorie says that she keeps trying to persuade him to enter The Great British Bake Off. Lionel shakes his head and flaps his hand, swatting the idea away.

  The doorbell rings and the spell is broken. I jump up to get to the door first and find Mum standing there, car keys in hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I turn back to the room and see it through her eyes. Yellow walls, electric blue fireplace, books piled up into precarious towers. The Christmas tree laden with baubles that most definitely do not match, with a grinning Day of the Dead skull on top. This room and the people in it are everything she’s not.

  “Why don’t you come in for a second?” I’m not entirely sure why I say it. To see the look on her face? To delay the inevitably frosty car journey? Or maybe just because I’m not quite ready to leave yet.