‘Yeah, but what about Maya?’ She takes a glug of wine and glares at me. ‘Why aren’t you drinking?’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
My sister eyes me with curiosity, obviously finding it hard to believe my statement. I could always tell her the truth, I suppose, but I’m only six weeks’ pregnant. It’s too soon. Instead, I lean back in my chair and wish I hadn’t eaten that last mince pie. On top of a pile of turkey, sprouts and roast potatoes, not to mention the huge mound of Christmas pudding, it was definitely a step too far. I’m stuffed – fit to burst – and ready for a good lie-down. But there’s no chance of that because I’m stuck in the middle of Christmas Day, wedged at the dining table with Dan and Sara, enduring the traditional after-dinner game of Scrabble. And even when this yearly torture comes to an end, it won’t be over, not by a long shot.
‘I expect you’ll be going early,’ she grumps. ‘Leaving me with this lot. You’ll want to go back to your posh cottage.’
‘It’s not posh.’
In fact, it’s a tiny, cosy little place a few miles down the coast, complete with open fire and sea views – all we could manage to rent for a few days at short notice, but it’s perfect. We’ve already spent three days on our own, making love, taking walks, cuddling up in front of the fire. And right now, I’d love nothing more than to return to our hide-away, as compact and bijou as it is, and simply relax.
‘We’ve got to go over to Layla’s,’ I explain. ‘So take your turn. We can’t stay here all night.’
‘But I’m pissed. I can’t spell any more.’ Her head slumps to the table.
‘Then stop drinking. Come on.’
Raising her head again, she struggles to focus, examines her selection of letters and finally, with extremely wobbly hands, places out the pieces. My eyes expand as the word appears. I’m just glad Dad’s slipped upstairs for a while. When she’s done, she sits back, distinctly pleased with herself.
‘You can’t have that.’ I can barely believe what I’m seeing. ‘It’s filthy.’
‘I bet it’s in the dictionary.’
‘I don’t care if it is. What if those two see it?’
I nod towards the two boys. They’re busy arguing over the instructions to a Lego castle.
‘They’re not interested in Scrabble,’ Sara muses, slugging back more wine and helping herself to an after-dinner mint. ‘All they’re interested in is sodding presents and sodding arguments. Thank God they’re going to their dad’s tomorrow. At least I’ll get some peace.’
I look at her in astonishment. I might only be six weeks pregnant, but I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about my own child.
‘You need to cheer up. Get a bit of the festive spirit into you.’
‘Festive spirit?’ She raises her glass. ‘This spirit is good enough for me.’
Typical. She’s having a bad time and she wants the whole world to dance to her miserable tune.
‘You’re ruining Christmas Day.’
‘It’s already ruined. My marriage is a wreck. I’m living in a poky shithole down the road. My kids barely notice I’m alive.’ She takes another swig of wine before she delivers her final point with all the vitriol she can muster. ‘And I work in a chip shop.’
I roll my eyes.
‘There’s nothing wrong with working in a chip shop.’
The truth is Sara’s just not used to working at all. Reality’s hit her hard.
‘You must be getting maintenance from Geoff.’
She laughs. ‘Not much.’
‘Well, you should take him to court. What’s your new place like?’
‘Small and smelly. I suppose it’s karma. If you act like a shit, you end up in the shit.’
And now we’re truly descending into the realms of self-pity.
‘Bollocks,’ Dan interrupts. As the only sober person at the table with any grasp of maths, he’s been busy totting up the latest score. ‘Plenty of people act like shits and get away with it. There’s no such thing as karma. You’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all.’
‘So when’s it going to end?’
‘Probably sooner than you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shakes his head.
‘Eleven,’ he says, scribbling down the score. ‘You got eleven for that.’
‘And you need to take it off before Dad gets back.’ I tap the board.
‘Can’t.’
‘Well, haven’t you got an A?’
‘No.’
‘What’s going on?’ Mum demands from the sofa. Graciously giving up her Scrabble place for Dan, she settled down with her Christmas crossword a good half an hour ago.
‘Nothing.’ I wave a hand dismissively.
‘It’s staying,’ Sara insists. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Dan, she can’t have it, can she?’
‘Well …’ He rubs his chin, speaking quietly. ‘It probably is in the dictionary.’
‘Do you fancy explaining it to my dad?’
He pulls a face, as if I’m asking him to lick a gutter.
‘Because I’m not going to.’
‘Surely he knows what it means.’
‘It’s staying,’ Sara grunts, pushing herself up from the table, nearly upsetting the Scrabble board in the process. ‘I need more wine.’
I watch as she staggers over to the sideboard.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ I whisper to Dan.
‘Sorry about what?’
‘Christmas Day, Scotton style.’
‘I wouldn’t want it any other way.’ He twirls the biro in his fingers. ‘Hat included.’
Smiling like an idiot, I toy with the idea of smuggling the paper hat back to the cottage and forcing him to wear it … and nothing else.
‘Well, Sara’s getting on my nerves.’ And that’s only bound to get worse. She’s currently pouring herself yet another huge glass of Pinot Grigio. I turn to Dan. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘The last time you were here, it wasn’t exactly easy. Are you okay with her?’
‘The wine demon? Of course.’ He lowers his voice. ‘It’s
