I could no longer endure my motherinlaws whims at the New Years table, so I slipped away to my friends flat.
Whos slicing the salad like that? Margaret Whitfield barked, eyeing the enormous cubes of carrot in the bowl. Those pieces are fit for a pig! Ive told you a hundred times the dice must be dainty, elegant, so the flavours can shine, not as if theyd been hacked with an axe. Her voice drowned out even the chatter of the telly where Victor Smith was once more trying to sort out the logfire.
Emily Clarke frozen, knife poised over the carrot mash, glanced at the clock: four oclock on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as if shed been shovelling coal all night, not standing at the stove since dawn. Her feet throbbed in houseslippers, a fresh cut on her finger still weeping.
Margaret, these are ordinary cubes, Emily inhaled deeply, fighting the tremor of rising hysteria. Thats the way we always cut them. If you dont like them, you can skip the salad. We have three other dishes.
Skip? Margarets hands flailed, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this, talking back to my sons wife? I came here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and you give me a piece of stale bread? Victor! Do you hear how your wife is speaking to me?
Victor, seated in the lounge untangling a string of fairy lights, let out a weary sigh. He despised conflict, so he adopted the ostrich method: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.
Motherinlaw, dear, he called from the sofa, just cut a bit smaller, will you? She means well. Shes a former professional chef, she knows best.
I used to run a canteen! Margaret puffed, adjusting a heavy brooch on her chest. My sanitation standards were stricter than a dentists. And look at you, Emily, with your kitchen in chaos. Your towels stained, yet you wipe your hands on it. Gross!
Emily set the knife down. Inside her, a slow, steady boil of anger began to rise the sort that usually ends in irrevocable fallout. It wasnt the first New Year with Margaret, but it felt the heaviest. Margaret had arrived two days earlier, claiming shed help, but really she inspected every corner and passed judgement: daughterinlaw a slob, son underfed, no grandchildren (as if Emily were selfish), and the flat decor tasteless.
My towels clean, Emily replied calmly. I took it out this morning; a drop of beet juice landed on it. Margaret, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose; its crowded in here.
The goose? Margaret narrowed her eyes. How did you marinate it? In mayo again, like last year? Thats vulgar! It should soak in cranberry sauce with a hint of juniper for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Didnt you read it?
I used my own recipe: apples and honey. Victor loves that.
Victor loves what youve taught him! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hell have gastritis, look at how pale he sits. I used to make him steamed meatballs as a child, soup
Emily felt the goose might fly out the window any second, or head straight for her motherinlaws throat.
Enough, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. The goose goes into the oven. Salads are done. All thats left is to set the table and compose ourselves.
Compose? Margaret surveyed her with a critical glance. Your hair looks like sackcloth, circles under your eyes. At least put on a cucumber mask. Victor will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Emily swallowed the bite, for her husbands sake, for the holiday, for not starting the year with a fight. She placed the heavy roasting tray in the oven, set the timer, and slipped into the bathroom.
Turning on the tap, she finally let the tears flow. For five minutes she sat on the edge of the tub, wailing, mascara smeared. She was thirtyfive, department head at a large logistics firm, responsible for twenty staff. She and Victor had bought the flat together, using the inheritance shed received. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice in her head whispered, sounding like her own mothers. You must be wise. Bear it. A cold peace is better than a heated quarrel.
She washed her face, applied patches, forced a smile at her reflection. Right. Six hours left. Well listen to the bells, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to see the Christmas tree, and Ill curl up with a book.
She emerged from the bath, hoping for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat. Things seemed to be settling.
In the bedroom, her darkblue velvet dress, bought especially for the holiday with half her bonus, lay on the bed. Emily, are you really going to wear that? Margarets voice floated from the doorway as she entered without knocking.
Yes, its my party dress.
Margaret pursed her lips. Its too heavy, youll look like a boiled dumpling. The colour is mournful. New Year should be joy, sparkle! You need something bright, airy. I have a sequined cardigan you could borrow, if youll fit into it.
Thanks, but I like this dress. Victor likes it.
Victor doesnt mind as long as you dont chop him up. As a woman to another woman, I say: it doesnt work. It highlights every flaw. Youd be better off hitting the gym than stuffing yourself with nighttime buns.
Emily began dressing in silence; her hands trembled, the zipper jammed.
Let me help, or youll rip it its an expensive piece, even if its useless, Margaret tugged the zipper, sending Emily stumbling. There, see? I warned you. Dont complain later that Victor is eyeing younger women.
By ten oclock the table was set. Crystal glittered, candles flickered, the goose, golden and fragrant, dominated the centre. Victor donned a smart shirt, Margaret swanned in her sequined festive dress and piled on gold jewellery, looking like a Christmas tree.
Emily felt like a squeezed lemon. She had neither mood nor appetite, only the desire for the night to end.
Lets toast the old year! Victor declared cheerily, pouring champagne. Its been a tough year, but we made it. The important thing is were together!
Indeed, a tough year, Margaret echoed, raising her glass. Especially for me. My health is shot, the pressure spikes. No help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness
Mother, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.
Calls once a week for the sake of appearances. Lets not dwell on sadness. Lets drink to better hosts in the new year, remembering a womans proper role.
Emily took a sip, feeling the champagnes bitterness.
Try the salad, she offered, pushing the herringandbeet shuba toward Margaret. Margaret speared a piece, sniffed, grimaced, and chewed deliberately, rolling her eyes.
Honestly the herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, crunchy as a stone. And the mayodid you drown it in vinegar? Its a milelong sourness.
Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Emily said quietly.
Lemon juice in a beet salad? Heaven help you! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest, wasnt a chef either. She fed you premade bits. No wonder youre a kitchen phantom.
The remark hit a raw nerve. Emilys mother had died three years before, a hardworking woman who juggled two jobs to raise her daughter. She never made juniper marinades, but their home was always warm.
Dont mention my mother, Emily whispered, blood hot in her face.
What did I say? Truth hurts. Victor, pass the bread, this salad is impossible to eat.
Victor handed her the loaf without looking at Emily, chewing silently, eyes fixed on his plate, trying to become invisible.
Then something clicked inside Emily. The anger, the hurt, the fatigue melted into a cold, steady calm. She looked at Victor, the man whod promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, now watching his mother trample her mothers memory and demean her effort.
Victor, is it tasty? she asked.
Eh okay enough. Emily, lets not fight at the table. Mother just voiced her opinion.
Opinion, right. Fine.
Emily rose slowly.
Where are you off to? For the hot dish? Sit a while longer, Margaret ordered.
No, Im not after the hot dish.
Emily stepped out of the lounge. In the bedroom she removed the velvet dress, hung it neatly, slipped into jeans and a cosy jumper, packed a small gym bag with toiletries, a change of nightwear, and a phone charger.
In the hallway she pulled on a padded coat, a knitted hat, sturdy boots.
Margarets voice drifted from the lounge: I told the neighbour why that multicookers useless, it cooks dead food! A proper pot over a coal stove does the trick Victor, wheres Emily? Shes been a long while. Is she upset? She seems nervous, maybe she needs a doctor.
Emily peeked into the doorway.
Im not upset, Margaret. Ive simply drawn my conclusions.
Victor dropped his fork.
Emily, where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor.
Going to the shop? Need anything? Ill run
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate. Eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so forgive it. Toss the salads if theyre that dreadful.
Emily, stop making a circus of this! Margaret snapped. Sit down! Guests are at the door, the bells will ring in an hour!
I have no guests, Emily replied evenly. Just two strangers in this house: one who hates me, and another who couldnt care less. Happy New Year to you both.
She turned and walked to the front door.
Emily! Emily, wait! Victor leapt up, overturning a chair, lunging after her. Are you mad? Its night! Where will you go?
To the one who values me.
She opened the door.
If you go now, Victor shouted, fear mixing with anger, Mother will be utterly hurt! Youll break the family!
The family was broken when you let her trample my mothers memory, Emily retorted, slamming the door.
Outside, soft snow fell, quiet except for distant fireworks. The cold air filled her lungs, yet she felt oddly warm, liberated.
She dialled a number.
Claire? You awake?
Emily? Whats up? Were in the middle of a party! You calling to wish me happy?
Claire, can I come over? Right now.
A pause, then Claires voice grew serious. Whats happened? Victor?
Ive left. Probably for good. Im at the flat entrance with my bag.
Come! Bring your feet and head over! Weve got plover, champagne galore! Do you remember the intercom code?
I do.
Emily hailed a cab. The fare was steepNew Years night always isbut she didnt mind. When the yellow cab pulled up, she climbed into the back seat and, for the first time all day, smiled.
Claires flat was cramped, noisy, and brimming with warmth. The hallway reeked of oranges and pilaf. Claire, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned jumper, hugged Emily so hard her knees clicked.
Come in, love! Youre freezing! Mick, pour us a penalty drink!
Inside, a motley crowd gathered: Claires kids, their dog, a couple of friends. No one sat with stonecold faces; laughter rang, music played. The table was simplepaper napkins, a huge pot of saffron rice, a tower of buttered toast with caviar, a bucket of mandarins.
Emily, right on time! Mick shouted. Were about to make wishes! Sit!
Claire handed her a glass and a steaming plate of pilaf.
Eat! You must be starving, Claire whispered. I know youve been trying to serve, but you never get a bite.
Emily tasted the rice. It was divineno sanitation standards or juniper, just love and spices.
What happened? Claire asked as the clock struck midnight and everyone shouted Hurrah! while popping champagne.
Emily recounted the goose, the oversalad, the sackcloth hair, Victors silence.
Bloody nightmare, Claire summed up. Your motherinlaws a witch. You did right leaving. Dont waste your life on them. Youre a beauty, a smart womanyoull find a proper man wholl carry you and love his mother.
Emilys phone, set to silent, blinked like a Christmas tree. Twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Margaret, messages: Emily, wheres the corkscrew?, Emily, wheres the napkins?, Mothers blood pressure is through the roof!, You selfish, leaving us at the feast!.
She read them and laughed, a hysterical, tearfilled laughfreedoms laugh.
The corkscrew, they cant even find it she muttered, wiping tears. Two adults cant open a bottle and locate a napkin. Pathetic.
Forget it, Claire snatched the phone. Tonight is yours. Lets dance!
They danced till three in the morning. Emily forgot fatigue, the aching back, the grievances. She felt alive.
On the first of January she awoke on Claires sofa, head a little fuzzy but spirits high. She knew she had to return homenot to apologise, but to close a chapter.
She arrived at her flat around midday. The hallway was dark, reeking of stale smoke and burnt things. On the floor lay the very corkscrew theyd claimed to lose.
The living room was chaos. The table was left untouched, leftovers scattered. The goose sat uncut, one wing dangling. Victor slept on the couch, hair a mess, Margaret nowhere in sight; the door to the spare room was shut.
Emily stalked into the kitchen, heels clicking. She flung the window open, letting the crisp air rush in, and started the kettle. The grinders whirr sounded like a cannon blast in the silent flat.
Victor shuffled in, hair rumpled, a guilty yet hurt expression.
Did you really? he croaked. Thanks for the show. Mother spent the night on sedatives.
Please, Emily replied calmly, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?
We didnt eat it. No appetite. Emily, do you understand what youve done? Youve embarrassed me before my mother. Shes thinking of leaving. She says she wont set foot here again.
Thats the best news Ive heard all year, Victor.
Youve become a stranger, cruel.
Ive become myself, Victor. Im done being convenient. I want happiness.
At that moment the spareroom door burst open and Margaret stormed in, hand over her heart, a damp towel on her forehead.
There she is, the disgrace! she snarled. Back after you gave mother a heart attack! Victor, Im calling a cab. I cant stay in the same room as this woman. Shes a monster!
Margaret, Emily turned, meeting her gaze. Calling a cab is fine. Please take your recipes, advice, and complaints with you. Next time you visit, do it by invitation and behave like a guest, not a health inspector, or the door stays shut.
Margaret choked, gasping like a fish out of water.
Victor! Hear me? Shes kicking me out!
Victor looked at his wife. Emily stood by the window, bathed in winter sunlight, composed, beautiful, untouchable. He recalled the nights lament, the tasteless dinner, the feeling of loss. He realised if he didnt choose a side, hed lose Emily forever. She wasnt fearing him; she was stating fact.
Mother, he said quietly, Emily is right. Youve overstepped.
What?! Margaret shrieked. And you! A lapdog! Traitor!
Mother, Ill take you to the station.
No, Ill go myself! My legs
The packing was loud. Margaret threw things, slammed cupboards, cursed the bloody house. Emily did nothing, sipping coffee, watching the snow fall.
When Margaret finally shut the door behind her, Victor returned to the kitchen, head bowed onto his hands.
Im sorry, Emily. Im an idiot. I was used to obeying her, scared to hurt her. I hurt you.
Emily placed a hand on his shoulder.
Youre an idiot, Victor, but you can change.
How?
Get up. Grab the rubbish bags. Lets clean this mess together. Then well eat the gooseby handwhile we watch Harry Potter. If I hear you mention dust again, youll go after Mother.
Victor lifted his chin. Hope flared in his eyes.
Got it. No dustTogether they cleaned the kitchen, ate the salvaged goose while laughing at the wizards antics, and finally felt the peace of a new year finally belonging to them.
