‘Hmm?’
‘I haven’t brought any presents!’
He rolled his eyes. ‘And you’re telling me this because…?’
‘Because it suddenly feels like this is effectively our family Christmas. Can we say one of your gifts is from me, too, just for today?’
‘Sorry, won’t work – Saskia got our gift tags made up by a contact who does customised calligraphy so your name will stick out like a sore thumb.’
I rolled my eyes and muttered ‘Of course she did’ under my breath.
‘Listen, “Mally”…’
You could hear the inverted commas around my name as he said it.
‘…you can think what you want about me but please leave Saskia out of it, okay? You know nothing about her.’
Yeah, and that was the problem. Since they’d got together a couple of years ago, I’d barely had a conversation with her. It was obvious she felt superior to us and had no intention of wasting her time getting to know her extended family. In fact, the first time I’d ever heard about Saskia was when they’d announced their engagement.
I sighed.
‘Fine. Sorry. Can I at least have one of your bottles of wine to give them, then? Please? You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t feel so guilty about it.’
He thought for a few seconds before reaching a conclusion.
‘Okay, hang on.’ He took three bottles out of the bag one by one and inspected each label.
‘Right, you can give them this one. But you’ll need to pay me back for it. And it’s not cheap.’
‘Mum, this is really delicious. Where did you get this recipe from?’
Josh took a photo of his plate while asking the question and tapped his screen for a minute or so – audible keyboard clicks and all – before placing his phone back on the table. I assumed he’d cropped out the untouched – and unacknowledged – place at the table that Mum had set opposite him, as always. The presence of their best Portmeirion crockery – given to my parents when they got married – confirmed that this meal was indeed an early Christmas dinner.
‘Oh, it was one from that cookbook you gave us last Christmas,’ Mum replied.
Yeah, it was probably a gifted PR product – he’d given the same one to me.
‘The Jamie Chops book? Nice. Yeah, his recipes are great. Top guy, too.’
‘I forgot you knew him. Strange name, though –Jamie Chops,’ Mum said.
Josh cast a glance at me as if to say,Can you believe her?but I had no idea what she’d said wrong this time. I furrowed my brow and shrugged.
‘Mum, Jamie Chops isn’t his name! I mean, his first name is Jamie, but his surname isn’t Chops. It’s “Jamie chops”, as in, “Jamie chops vegetables”. That’s his username on Instagram and TikTok – Jamie, underscore, Chops.’
‘Oh, I see. That does make more sense, I suppose.’
This was a classic Mum gaffe. A bit like the time she thought the chicken chasseur recipe had called for 3or4 pints of water, rather than 3/4 pint. She’d opted for four, and we’d ended up with enough (tasteless) sauce to feed the entirety of Scarnbrook.
I helped Mum carry the dishes into the small but perfectly formed country kitchen – complete with Aga, Welsh dresser and original flagstone floor – and started loading the dishwasher.
‘Honestly, Amelia, you don’t have to do that.’
A chill shot down my spine. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had called me that. I’d never specifically told them that I’d chosen to go by Mally in an attempt to start afresh in London. But I’d never tried to hide it, either.
Elle had started calling me Mally – a mash-up of Milly and Allister – not long after she’d moved next door with her mum when her parents got messily divorced. My family and other friends at the time had been bemused by it, but the moniker had stuck. I used the name on all my greetings cards and had proudly given them my business card when I’d started working atThe Helix, which bore the name Mally Allister above my job title. But if they’d ever had any questions about my decision, they’d never asked them. Not in front of me, anyway.
‘It’s fine, Mum, I’d like to help. It’s a luxury being able to shove it all in a dishwasher, to be honest.’
