Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson
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looks like icing on her cheekbone and I notice as she gets closer that one of her socks has a big hole in it, letting a pink-painted nail pop through.
Despite the disaster zone that is her outfit, she has never looked more radiant.
Her green eyes are bright and clear, her skin is smooth beneath her still-clinging summer tan and she literally can’t get the grin off her face. She is sparkling, from the inside out, like Edward Cullen in sunlight.
She looks like the old Laura. The Laura who was happy. The Laura I knew before the imposter came, the fake Laura who was so smashed up by grief and longing that she was like a mutant, a hollow shell wearing a pale imitation of my sister’s face.
I don’t know whether it is the healing power of time, or her new job, or her new friends, or her new man, or just the sea air down in Dorset, but something has changed in her. It’s been a long time coming, and it fills me with joy.
I pause, and say a little prayer of thanks to whoever the Supreme Commander in the Sky may be. I also throw up a little hello to David, the husband she lost. Because he, of all people, would be pleased to see this transformation – he would want her to be happy, I know he would.
Almost without me noticing, my eyes have filled up with tears, and I’m only alerted to the fact when a couple of them blob their way down my cheeks. An inappropriate response, I know – but that’s kind of my speciality subject.
‘You okay?’ she asks, stepping back and giving me some room. As I said, she knows me too well.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Just a bit freaked out. I’ve not inhaled traffic fumes for over an hour now. I think I’m going into some kind of detox.’
‘Yeah. It gets you like that. Don’t worry if you hear some strange noises, either. There’s a cow near here that sounds like it’s having a rave every night.’
‘That sounds udderly terrifying,’ I reply, giving her a wink. She groans, which is totally fair.
‘Come on. The kids are about to explode.’
I retrieve the Krispy Kremes and follow her through, down the path, past the other cottages. I glance across as we near Black Rose, the big house on the corner where Matt the Hot Vet lives, and I see lights on in his windows. I imagine he is sitting inside, looking like Han Solo, playing the guitar while he single-handedly saves the lives of a litter of pug puppies.
‘Is Matt in?’ I ask, already knowing the answer. ‘I should take him a doughnut and give him that Princess Leia outfit. There’s nothing that says Christmas quite like a bit of sordid cosplay.’
It has been a standing joke between us since the two of them met that Laura should dress up in Leia’s famous slave-girl costume. When I suggested this, months ago, I was simply being rude and provocative, which is often the case with me. But since their relationship took off, I got a bit more serious about it and ordered her one off eBay. It will be an amusing Christmas gift, if nothing else.
She glances at me over her shoulder and I see that she is smiling. Good, I think. Not only is it all still going well, she’s not even embarrassed about it.
‘Maybe later,’ she says. ‘For the time being, you have to help the kids do the tree.’
I nod, but as soon as she turns away from me, pull a face that reflects my true feelings: I’d rather have a threesome with the Chuckle Brothers and a vat of olive oil than engage in such a horrendously festive act.
‘And stop pulling a face,’ she says, without even looking back. ‘Christmas is all about the little ones.’
I resist the urge to point out that her kids aren’t so little any more, as to mothers – including our own – we simply always are, no matter what physical evidence there is to the contrary. Lizzie is fifteen now, and Nate is thirteen. They are terrible teens, I think, as we approach Laura’s cottage – Hyacinth House, named after a Doors track. They are probably only pretending to still be into Christmas to keep their mum happy.
As I walk through the cottage door, I am almost deafened by the sound of Christmas crackers being pulled, party poppers going off, and two excited children screaming in unison. I am immediately showered in bits of silly string, glittery streamers and handfuls of foil confetti.
‘Happy Christmas, Auntie Becca!’ they shout, rushing towards me and forcing a bright green paper hat onto my head.
Hmmm. So much for that idea. I am clearly alone in my hatred of all things mistletoe and wine.
I try to smile, because that seems like the proper thing to do in the circumstances, but I feel my face almost cracking in half with the effort.
I rub my eyes clear of the confetti, pull the thickest strands of silly string out of my hair, and look up at my niece and nephew and sister.
All three of them are also now wearing paper party hats and all three of them are creased up in hysterical laughter. Lizzie is holding her stomach, pointing at me and giggling so much she can hardly breathe. Nate is waving another party popper around like a machete and Laura is leaning against the wall, choking on her own guffaws. It would serve her right if she did.
‘Oh gosh,’ says Lizzie, straightening up and wiping tears from her eyes. ‘The look on your face! Brilliant!’
‘You are all,’ I say, standing tall and using my very best Haughty Queen of Hearts accent, ‘a frightful shower of bastards. Off with your heads!’
This provokes another round of laughter and it is so infectious that I am forced to join in. It might take me half an hour in the shower to get rid of all the crap I am now coated in, but I suppose, from their perspective – at a push and if I’m feeling generous – that their Christmas ambush was pretty funny.
In an act of mean-spirited but necessary revenge, I open the lid of the box of Krispy Kremes and proceed to take one big bite from every single one of the cakes. This is both childish and extremely satisfying, and by the time I dodge their attempts to grab them off me and flee with my mouth stuffed full of icing into the living room, I am feeling much better. A tiny bit sick, but much better.
The living room, I realise as I look around, is again both familiar and strange. Familiar, because Lizzie’s summertime photos had already revealed it in all its chintzy, uber-floral, beamed ceiling glory. Strange because literally every available surface is now covered in Christmas decorations.
There are angels and snowmen dangling on strings from the beams, as well as a reindeer mobile where all the little plastic animals have flashing red noses. The glittery confetti in the shapes of trumpets and stars is strewn across the TV stand, the coffee table and the bookcase, and even in the strands of the fluffy rug.
The mantelpiece over the open fire is draped with fake holly boughs and fairy lights, and the whole room is dominated by the ridiculously large Christmas tree in the corner. It’s a real one, not like the fake green thing we had as kids, and it looks like it’s been donated by the King of Norway.
I feel my eyes widen as I look it up and down, and wonder if there are furry rodents nesting in there. It is, I see gratefully, already decorated, and that Laura had only been winding me up when she said the kids wanted me to do it with them.
The tree is a huge, messy confection of tinsel and baubles and lights and chocolates on strings, although only on the upper branches, which I suspect is down to the frequent visits of a Labrador puppy.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Nate, sidling up to me and nudging me. I’m sure he actually wants a big cuddle, but is too cool to initiate contact. I’ll get him later, catch him unawares when his guard is down. ‘It’s the biggest tree we’ve ever had.’
‘That’s because Matt chopped it down for us,’ adds Lizzie, rolling her eyes, and adopting a sing-song Disney Princess voice. ‘And Matt is the biggest strongest man in the whole wide world! And he has a magical axe! And he went into the haunted forest all alone, just for us, so we could have the most special Christmas ever!’
Laura