The Little Christmas Kitchen (21 page)

‘I’d see dolphins in the bay and you’d have seen them the week before. I’d point out a sunrise and Maddy would say she liked it better in the winter. I’d struggle to walk barefoot over the pebbles and Maddy would be able to sprint over them like she could barely feel them. She could drive the boats, fix the engines, tie the bloody things up for Christ’s sake. You could windsurf, you could scuba dive, you could do everything and I would come and be able to do nothing.’

‘That’s only because you weren’t here all the time, Ella. You had a whole life that Maddy was so envious of. You had the city, you had all those prizes, you were so clever, you did so well.’

‘Yeah whatever.’ Ella waved it away. ‘I didn’t want any of that. Do you know I used to sit on my bed at school and I’d have this fantasy that you would just appear at the door, take my hand and say,
“
You’re coming home with me”
and without even waiting for my answer you’d drag me out the bloody building.’

‘Oh Ella.’ Her mum shook her head and gave a sigh that seemed half frustration, half pity.

‘You know once when I was here I went and sat on those rocks over there…’ Ella turned and pointed to a promontory. ‘And I sat for the whole day waiting to see if you or Maddy would come and find me. I hid myself behind an olive tree and I waited. And no one came.’ She laughed at how pathetic she sounded. ‘And then in the end I got cold so I came back and Maddy was watching TV and you were tutoring some little kid English and you just looked up and said
“Did you have a good day, honey?”
and Maddy said,
“Shit Mum, she’s just killed him”
because she was watching Eastenders – which I also didn’t watch – and that was it! That was my great protest, over. And no one even knew it had happened.’ She ran a hand over her mouth and laughed again. ‘What a doofus.’

Sophie took another sip of wine, watching her silently and the quiet made Ella carry on talking.

‘I felt like an outsider. And all I wanted was to be wanted, I suppose.’

‘I wanted you.’

‘Maybe.’ Ella shrugged, looked down at her lap and watched a watermark from a drop of red wine spread on the thigh of her beautiful silk trousers. Usually she’d be jumping up and sponging it off with boiling water but instead she just watched as the circle grew, threads of stain bleeding into the fabric.

‘And then I suppose there was the funeral…’ her mum said.

Ella glanced up without moving her head. ‘Yeah.’ She nodded.

Her mum took a breath in that wavered slightly, ‘And we never really talked about it.’

‘No.’ Ella shook her head.

It was less than a year after the divorce that Ella’s mum’s sister died. Sophie had just bought the taverna and Ella remembered sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchen in Greece for the holidays, the fire smoking because no one was quite sure how to light it and the chimney hadn’t been swept. It was the first Christmas that they weren’t spending with their dad and she’d stood in the phone box, her and Maddy squeezed in together, the phone between them, as their dad told them he was watching
White Christmas
and wrapping their presents. Maddy had cried.

As soon as they’d put the phone down it had rung again. And when Ella had heard her grandmother Julie’s voice on the phone something inside of her switched, like she knew that Christmas would never be the same again.

She remembered her mum walking back from the phone box, remembered seeing her fumble to put the phone back on the hook, dropping it twice and slamming it down in the end to make sure it stayed in place.

Her sister had been ill for a while she told them, she hadn’t wanted Sophie to know because she had too much to worry about what with the divorce and their dad’s relationship with Veronica.

When her mum had dropped into a chair opposite Ella and asked the table top why no one had warned her, Ella, completely out of her depth, had leant forward, put her hand on her mum’s and said that she supposed it was because we were all always waiting for a miracle. She’d heard it said on
Sunset Beach
or
The Bold and the Beautiful
– one of the dreadful American soaps that they all watched at school that Ella would devour for its glittering, melodramatic escapism – but her mum had looked at her like it was completely inappropriate and gone upstairs to start packing on her own.

They’d all flown back on Christmas Day.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ her mum asked, standing up from the table and going over to the fridge to pull out some bowls of olives, sundried tomatoes and artichoke hearts in olive oil without waiting for an answer.

As she started to cut great chunks of white bread, it felt like she was buying them both some time. Like some memories were so precious, so rarely touched, it was like they were made of eggshell and you had to lift the lid off really gently.

The flight home had been horrendous. Her mum had leant her head against the window, her hair lank and greasy, her eyes hidden behind massive Deirdre Barlow sunglasses that she must had plucked out of a drawer from the eighties. Maddy had been snuggled up next to her, her face buried in her soft grey woollen jumper. Ella had sat in the aisle seat. Her fingers tapping restlessly on the armrest. Her teeth were clenched without her realising and the stewardess had leant down and asked if she was ok, whether she was afraid of flying.

Ella had shaken her head. She wasn’t afraid. The stewardess had smiled, stroked her hair with her hand and said, ‘Well Merry Christmas, then.’

But Ella wasn’t thinking about Christmas, or her aunt, or anything like that. She had been consumed by just one thought, that please, just please don’t let her dad come to the funeral.

CHAPTER 26

MADDY

The music kicked off again as Maddy slid down from the bar, wiping her sweaty, alcohol laced hair back from her face and awkwardly readjusting her boob tube as her mind ran through better scenarios for bumping into her father.

But if he cared about the setting he didn’t show it, bridging the gap between them he stepped forward to hug her, but as he did Maddy took an uncertain step back, bumping into the bar and holding out her hand to shake instead.

The perfect gentleman, her father just smoothly took hold of her hand, his fingers cool and his grip strong, and said, ‘It’s good to see you, honey.’

Maddy gave her boob tube another awkward tug and glanced at Veronica standing behind him dressed in what looked like Chanel.

Before she had a chance to say anything back, Mack appeared and slapped her dad on the shoulder saying, ‘Edward, good to see you old man. Maddy darling, get this man anything he wants.’ Then gesturing to one of the big crowds of suits in the middle of the room swigging champagne straight from the bottle and lining up the tequila, he added, ‘His lot have practically kept this place afloat.’

Maddy tucked her hair behind her ear, watching her dad laugh good naturally with Mack, Veronica standing back, her perfect hair, couture black dress and huge jewelled necklace seeming out of place in the chaos of the bar yet somehow she still managed to radiate an aloof magnetism that had every man in the place glancing her way. Unable to think of what was appropriate to say, Maddy found herself starting to ask what drinks they wanted.

‘Do you know, actually Mack–’ her dad held up a hand to stop her. ‘What I’d really appreciate is a couple of minutes just to chat to my daughter.’

Mack thought he was having a laugh. Then when her dad shrugged to show it was no joke, Mack turned to Maddy and said, ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘What, that he was your father?’

Maddy rolled her eyes, ‘No, that you knew him.’

‘Everyone round here knows Eddie. Christ, if you want to be a singer why haven’t you gone straight to him?’

Maddy scuffed the floor with her foot, mortified. Telling her dad she wanted to be a singer was like telling the Queen she wanted to own Buckingham Palace someday. It was his industry, his contacts, his business. Edward Davenport was CEO of one of the largest talent agencies in the UK. A business he’d scrabbled to grow from nothing, supported by Maddy’s mum who’d made sandwiches and cakes for local cafes and offices, taken in ironing and made curtains while their dad sat with the phone glued to his ear and Maddy and Ella had watched TV and lived off lentil soup in a house that had cracks in the windows and carpet repurposed from the closed-down department store up the road. Now her dad built megastars, branded icons, plucked boy bands from Butlins obscurity and made them global phenomenons.

He was the last person Maddy wanted to know about her tiny precious kernel of a dream.

As her dad took his usual confident control of the situation, ushering her to one of the empty booths at the front of the bar, Maddy remembered him leaning over, tucking her mum’s hair behind her ear and saying, ‘One day I’ll buy you a mansion.’ And her mum had held his hand and said, ‘I’m totally happy as I am, Ed. I don’t need a mansion.’ Maddy had thought that the most romantic thing she’d ever heard, without quite understanding that all it showed were two massively diverging dreams for the future.

When she’d reminded her mum of that moment, one day when she was too young still to realise that they didn’t really talk about her dad any more, her mum had paused, her hand resting on the neatly pressed shirt she was folding on the ironing board and sighed, ‘God, that was probably the exact moment where it all started to go wrong.’

Maddy couldn’t forget the feeling of not being able to put right something her dad had destroyed in his wake. Him bulldozing through life getting whatever he wanted no matter the cost, her mum the dreamer, the poppy getting crushed in the cornfield.

Behind her she heard Mack say to Walter, ‘Now they say it, you know, there is a similarity there. In the eyes.’

The first thing her dad said when they sat down was, ‘Do you need money? If you need money I can give you money.’

Maddy shook her head. ‘I don’t need money. I have a job.’ she said, pointing back to the bar with a self-deprecating little laugh.

Her dad sat back, his fingers twirling a beer mat on the table, his black eyes watching her through the same thick dark lashes she’d inherited. ‘What are you doing working here?’ he said, incredulous, a slight smile on his lips, and she felt herself bristle.

‘I needed a job.’ she said, eyes narrowed, defensive. Wishing that this wasn’t how he’d seen her the first time. Wishing she’d been doing something more impressive.

‘Well why didn’t you come to me?’ He raised his hands wide in a gesture that implied that that would have been the most obvious course of action. Sweeping away years of no contact bar Christmas presents that arrived in the post, picked by his secretary or in a last minute dash to Selfridges. She hadn’t sent him anything.

Maddy didn’t answer. Felt herself retreating inwards. Any bravado and self-assuredness she had day to day just slithered to the ground now she was sitting here opposite her father, especially when the watchful eye of Veronica was thrown in as well. It was like she was nine again, wanting just to go home. Needing her mum standing between them like a shield, telling her she never had to go back. Fighting for her on the phone with the door shut so she wasn’t meant to hear. Ignoring Ella’s furious looks.

‘I should go back to work.’ Maddy said after a pause, glancing back towards the bar where Mack was now serving and a couple of drunk blokes had jumped up on the bar, shirtless and tinsel clad, to dance with Betty.

‘I think they’ll manage without you for a few minutes, Mads. I haven’t seen you for–’ He didn’t have the number of years off the top of his head and she could see him counting.

‘I’m going to go back.’ she said, sliding out of the booth.

‘Maddy, wait–’ He put his hand on hers. As she felt his palm on the back of her fingers she suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe. Remembering that this was her dad. That he would kiss her goodnight, hug her when it thunder-stormed, check behind the curtains that there were no monsters.

‘Edward.’ It was Veronica who put her hand on his sleeve and pulled his arm back. ‘We should go. Leave Maddy to her job.’

Maddy hated that she was grateful.

‘Maybe you could meet in the morning. Take Maddy for breakfast. Take her to The Ivy.’ The corners of Veronica’s mouth curled into what Maddy assumed was a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s leave her to it.’

Her dad’s lips had pulled into a thin line as he looked from Veronica back to Maddy and then across to the antics at the bar. ‘How are you getting home?’

‘On the bus.’ she said, not meeting his eye.

‘Oh for god’s sake.’ He shook his head.

Veronica unclipped her purse and pulled out a fifty, folding it in two and handing it to Maddy. ‘Take a cab. A black one.’

Maddy didn’t want to take Veronica’s money but her dad looked like he might settle in for the night otherwise and wait to drive her home himself.

‘So can I take you for breakfast?’ her dad asked, hopeful, as he unfolded his coat from where he’d had it draped over his arm and started to stand up.

Maddy nodded.

‘I can pick you up,’ he said quickly.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll meet you there. Where was it?’

‘The Ivy.’ Veronica said as she curled up the collar of her camel coat and knotted the belt. ‘Leicester Square tube.’

Maddy nodded, eyes trained on their collars rather than their faces as she backed away with a wave and then turned and headed towards the safety of the bar. She ignored Walter when he leant over and tapped her on the shoulder for the gossip, and refused the hand of one of the men dancing on the bar. The moment was past. She felt hollow, like her insides had been scooped out.

As she stood there, her feet sloshing in a river of beer and spirits, she realised that no, she wasn’t hollow, she was lopsided. And the half she’d convinced herself that she didn’t need, didn’t want, had just walked out the door.

She watched the back of her dad’s coat disappear as the door closed behind him with a feeling she hadn’t expected bubbling up within her. She put her hand on her chest. Felt the St Christopher that hung on a long, thin gold chain just above her breast bone. Felt a moment’s guilt when, against her better judgement, breakfast suddenly held as much excitement as the snow.