Family Gatherings No Boundaries at the Door
So last night was one for the books. You know, one of those evenings that leaves your living room sparklingliterallyand your head hurting just a little bit. I was tidying up early this morning, shuffling about in my scruffy dressing gown with that hopeless little tassel dangling from the tie, a black bin bag in hand. Every step I took across the carpet was accompanied by the crinkle of sweet wrappers or the odd popped balloon. I paused to scoop up a piece of shattered porcelain from a blue-and-white vasemy Aunt Lindas old one. Couldnt bring myself to just chuck it in the bin right away, so I set it gently on the windowsill. Sorry Aunt Linda, I muttered to the empty flat.
The place smelt like a shampooed cat, Prosecco, and bizarrely, oranges, though Im sure we didnt touch an orange all night. Behind the sofa there was a sparkling plastic wreath lying crookedly, and in the drawer beneath the coffee table I found the remains of a Hen Do To Remember! silk scarf, all tied up as if the night had needed a souvenir. Near the radiator, there was a single pink rubber glove, looking as if it had tried to escape the mayhem but didnt get far.
On the windowsill, an empty wine glass with that crusted red puddle at the bottom stood beside three plastic straws stuck in a vase where the flowers should have been. There was a garland of paper hearts strung along the wallone of them with a suspicious bite mark. Honestly, if youd walked in, youd smell celebration and chaos.
But the kitchen now that was another battlefield. Half a triple-tiered cake dominated the table, frosting slumped off like a snowman thatd given up hope. There were haphazardly angled candles: a 3 and an 8. Never mind it wasnt anyones birthday, it was just an excuse for a girls night. The sink held wine glasses bearing lipstick stains, damp saucers with old hummus stuck fast, and on a chair, a well-thumbed deck of Tarot cards lay split, half face-up, half face-down, like a botched prophecy.
I picked up a card at randomthe King of Diamonds staring back at me with that weary, knowing expression. Last night, the girls used those very cards to lay out predictions: weddings, new homes, mysterious men from abroad. Wed started whispering, only to end up in howls of laughter, bolstered by bubbles.
Bending over to tidy up another glittery remnant, I tugged something lacy from beneath the sofaa strangers stocking, torn at the top, a casualty of stool-top dancing. I shook my head and sought refuge in my bedroom, where things, thank heavens, seemed moderately in order, aside from three pillows on the floor and the duvet twisted like an enormous snail. I straightened a pillow and found, tucked carefully underneath, a folded piece of pink paper. My heart squeezed a little. Not another forgotten note from some Luke from the pub to one of Chloes friends? But the handwriting was familiarChloe always drew little bubbles around her os.
Youre the best hostess in the world! Chloe.
I let my eyes linger on the exclamation mark. It really did look a bit wobbly. Somehow, it amused me. Best hostess, eh? With a shattered vase, glitter everywhere, and the shower now a firework display at every use.
How many times have I told myselfnever again I muttered, sinking onto the beds edge.
Something squished under my foot. I recoiled and peered into my slippera pristine, plump clementine stared back, a little scrap of paper attached with a rubber band: So your lifes always sweet. Wed laughed about that toast last night, but now it seemed like a bit of a dig.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table. Caller ID flashed: Chloe (our force of nature).
Of course. Hello? I croaked, clearing my throat.
Em!there was a racket on her end, like the party had simply migrated elsewhereYou actual goddess! The girls loved it. Even Kelly the nail artist hasnt left yet, and were all still laughing about how you scared the ghost in the wardrobe!
Someone shrieked, Tell Em Im only ever giving birth at her place from now on! and the noise doubled.
Thanks, Em Seriously. Youre well, you know. Its like coming home with you.
I glanced at the clementine in my slipper. Yeah, I managed. It is, a bit
Anyway! Wont keep you, Queen of the Buffet! Rest up! she sang, and the call ended, leaving behind blessed silence.
I slipped off my glasses and set them next to Chloes note. In my wardrobe mirror, I caught my own reflectiona woman touching fifty, tired lines but ridiculously bright green eyes, hair piled up in a messy bun with one lone glitter fleck refusing to budge, shining madly.
Another jinglevideo call this time. Sophie blinked on the screenmy daughter.
I sighed, smoothing my hair again, to no effect (that glitter can survive a pressure washer, I swear). Yes, darling? I answered, and Sophies mug of coffee bobbed onscreen.
Mum! She squinted, then teased, More glitter on the cat?
On me, actually. The cat vanished after last nights Tarot dancingmight be hiding in the airing cupboard again
I told her everything.
Mumhonestly! The cats in hiding, the vase is in bits, clementines in slippers Can you say no to Chloe for once? There was that note of exasperated affection in Sophies voicea mothers old pendulum of care and concern.
She justshe needs it right now, you know that.
And you dont need peace? Sophie pressed. When did you last rest, not just play hostess?
I looked at the pink glove by the radiator, at the note beside me, and the quiet flat echoing with others leftover laughter. I dont know, I admitted, feels like Im hiding under the wardrobe too with the cat.
Sophie gave a soft huff, then an earnest smile: Love you, Mum. But reallynext time, just you and me. No fortunes, no glitter.
A beat of silence stretched between us.
Well see, I said.
And for the first time in ages, Well see didnt sound like a polite Of course, Chloe, but rather the beginnings of something different.
***
You know, it all started when Chloe rocked up one spring afternoon for no other reason than just because. Outside, the London drizzle was still mixed with scraps of old snow, but on my windowsill, my little seedlings were already stretching for the light.
Em, open up! I come in peace! And with pie! Chloes voice was in my doorway before shed even rung the bell.
In barrelled Chloe, trailing vanilla perfume and North Wind, proudly clutching a massive tin. Homemade cabbage pie, just like Nans, remember? she said, toeing off her boots and heading for the kitchen with barely a pause for breath. Honestly, your hallway looks like a magazine spread!
I flushed, fussing with my scarf. My two-bedroom flat is nothing posh, but my tiny point of pridecurtains matched the wallpaper, mums patchwork blanket on the settee, white kitchen cupboards, wooden worktops, windowsills filled with plants. Everyone always says, Its so cosy, and for me, that stuck.
Come in, have a seatIll take the pie. Blimey, its heavy.
Like my life! Chloe quipped, but her eyes were laughing. So, Em, I was thinkingmy place is basically a broom cupboard with a neighbour who drills at all hours. Here, though She spun around my kitchen-diner. Youve got air, Em! Its a crime to sit here alone. How about a little get-together? Just usplus two of my mates. Theyre lovely, promise.
Those words about it being a crime to sit alone pricked at me unexpectedly. I remembered too many evenings alone on the sofa, the telly droning quietly while Sophie was out. Family only ever seemed to pop round for holidays.
A gathering? I repeated. Well why not. I do have a pie
Chloe’s eyebrows shot up. Youre saying yes? I even brought the pie as a bribe, was ready to beg! RightSaturday, then? No reason at all, just a little hen do rehearsal!
I shoved the pie in the oven to warm up. Saturday felt like some distant maybe.
All right, I agreed. Ill whip something up.
Em, youre a saint! Chloe bear-hugged me hard enough to pop a rib. Just as well were almost sisters.
That almost caught in my throat, but I swallowed it with a bite of future pie.
***
That year, even Easter ended up at Emsas always, thanks to Chloe.
Its always a proper home at Ems! shed tell anyone listening. Her hot cross buns are straight out of Country Living. And the cat runs the place like a lord mayor.
In reality, the cata tabby called Tiddleslooked more like a frazzled security guard, but lord mayor certainly sounds more dignified.
Chloe turned up with three friends at once. I was used to neat, family-style roast dinners and found myself flustered by the arrival of a loud redhead in a canary mackintosh, a tall brunette in a leather jacket, and a tiny blonde with a laugh that shook the glassware.
This is Laura, Jess, and Molly, Chloe rattled off. Ladies, this is Em, keeper of the cosiest home on earth.
I rushed about, offering slippers, showing them where to hang their coats, all the while counting chairs, buns, eleven painted eggs, plenty of salad, and a bowl of trifle for good measure.
Turns out, thats never enough. Within the hour, Chloe was in the middle of an argument about whether icing should be runny or royal, and then she whipped out her phone. Wait! Katie and Julia are nearby. Mind if they come? Theyll bring their own eggs!
That was classic ChloeI barely got a word in before a timer beeped and I rushed off to check my buns. By the time I got back, it was sorted: Theyll be here in thirty.
Within no time the flat turned into a bustling fair: arguments about the right sort of dough, stories about Nans Aga, and in the midst of it, Laura slung chocolate icing straight across my white cloth. Oopsan omen for wealth, right?
Everyone burst out laughing. I grabbed a napkin but it was a lost cause. Never mind, I said, itll wash. And there was Chloe, giving me this looklike Id just rescued the entire world, not the table linen.
By evening, the windowsill was lined with pastel eggs, the wall strung with a handmade chain of paper, and the floor littered with someones ballet flats. Chloe, raising her glass, declared: Officiallythe party always happens at Ems!
The whole lot applauded, and I went scarlet. But right then, it felt like my quiet little kitchen and tidy sofa really were a stage for something more than myself.
***
Funny thing is, it wasnt like that in childhood. Chloe was always the ringleaderthe lively one, a whirlwind everyone loved. The whole block would gather beneath her first-floor window. Shed organise fashion shows in her mums old dressing gown or secret clubs under the stairs. Even the oldies called her our little performer.
I was always the careful onebooks back to the library spotlessly, home by the right time, shoes wiped clean.
Em, youre my star pupil, Aunt Linda would say. Keep an eye on Chloe for me, will you?
As teens, we drifted apartChloe was off clubbing, I did college, then found work as a junior accountant and lived a quiet sort of life. Wed only cross paths at family Christmases, sat round the same table.
When Aunt Linda died, suddenly, it was a whirlwindfuneral, bickering over heirlooms, old wounds resurfacing. Chloe and I, up past midnight, washed down grief with mug after mug of sugary tea.
Feels like the house died with her, Chloe said then, staring into her cup. Hows one supposed to keep going?
By then, Id lost Mum toofour years previous.
It just works differently, I said quietly. Not better, not worse, just new.
After that, we started calling more oftenfirst, sorting out the details, then for no reason at all.
It wasnt long before Chloes chaotic life began to blend with mine, like a leaf caught in the tide.
What are we to dolive parallel lives as cousins? she huffed. No way! You come to me. Ill come to you.
It was always Chloe dropping by, though. My popping round never seemed to happen. Work, Sophie, tirednessan endless list of excuses. But Chloe came, over and over.
***
Eventually, at Ems became shorthand for any event.
Girls, obviously its at Ems, Chloe would say, flipping through her planner. Her kitchen-mates any bloggers dream. My owns barely a broom cupboard.
New Yearswhere? At Ems!
Easter? Ems, obviously!
Mollys birthday? Emsgotta show off that cake!
Girls night in with prosecco? Well, duh, Ems place is perfect.
At first, I was flattered.
My tidy home was the centre of someones worlda place people wanted to be. I loved buying new napkins, testing canapés, browsing BBC Good Food. The others would gush, Emma, your homes like something out of a magazine!
But it began to feel heavier. People started turning up not by Chloes invite but by their own.
Hi, Em? Laura here, we met at Chloes party yesterday? Jess and I were thinking to pop by for a quick natter, Chloe cant but she said youre in. You are, right?
Once, when the bell rang for the third time that week, I opened the door to Nadinean old friend from way back, with whom Id had a rather unpleasant run-in. Years ago she accused me of spreading rumours, right out in public; Id been mortified and kept my distance since.
Ohhi, she said uncertainly, fiddling with her hair. Chloe told me the partys at yours Hope its not too early to help set up?
I hovered, my mind screaming: Chloe made a mistake, Im not expecting anyone. But instead, I retreated.
Come in, I told her. Cup of tea?
I clenched the tea towel like a lifeline.
My first act of protest was laughably childish. Want to dampen the mood? Get bad biscuits, I thought. Usually Id grab top-notch scones from our little bakery. Instead, I bought the cheapest digestives, the sort that go soggy before you get the kettle on.
Lets see if theyll complain when its not all restaurant-standard round here, I muttered.
Didnt matter. The evening was a successthe girls paired bad biscuits with good chatter. Someone brought cheese, another olives, Chloe whipped up her Famous Tomatoes Under a Blanket starter.
That night, Molly left her ridiculously massive plastic beads dangling on the front door handle as decor. I was just about to unhook them for the lost property bag when the doorbell rang again.
Em! Chloe barreled inOh! Look at those beads. You even have a party on the doorknob!
I wanted to complainthis isnt a party, its a mess. But Chloes sheer delight made me sigh instead, A party, then
A party that would not pack up and leave.
***
That hen night was something else entirely. Chloe dubbed it Prophecies and Pink Fizz.
All right, girls: were looking to the future tonight! she declared in the group chat (which shed sneakily stuffed me into). Em, youre our oracle. Even your kettle whispers secrets!
The oracle bit made me snortI glanced at my crusty old kettle and wondered if it could even whistle, let alone divine the future.
Laura, ever the enthusiast, turned up with Tarot cards, a fat candle, and a dainty, gilded mirror. This isnt a gathering, she said solemnly, this is a séance!
I snickered nervously. The only spirits in here are in last months trifle, Laura. And theyre still working.
Oh, pipe down and play along! Chloe chided.
So off went the lightsthey lit the candle. Shadows flickered gold across everyones faces, Tiddles fluffed up and perched on the windowsill, ready to bolt.
Laura laid out the cards, set up the mirror, and pronounced, Lets ask the universe our questions, in a hush.
Me? I sat on the edge of the couch, feeling oddly left out at my own party. These big questionslove, money, where nextseemed to swirl around all of them, not me.
Then, as if on cue, the lights flickered. Then blinked. Thenbang!everything was out.
Someone squealed.
Its a sign! Laura gaspedinstant screaming all round.
I fumbled for my phone torch, when suddenly a black streak darted between my legsTiddles, utterly fed up, vanished with a yowl into the wardrobe, door slamming behind.
Definitely a sign, I croaked. The spirits are done here.
The lights came back after a minute, turns out someone in the building was using an arc welder. But Tiddles didnt budge from her hidey-hole for a whole dayI only heard the faintest mrrr! from deep among the linens.
When she finally re-emerged, dusty and dignified, I patted her and murmured, Well, Tiddles, I reckon its us hiding now.
The cat flicked her tail and abandoned me for the kitchen, whereno surprisethere was still a sprinkle of stray glitter.
***
It took me a while to do it.
At first, Id just sit at the kitchen table, staring at the blinking cursor in an unsent text to Chloemy finger trembling over send.
Chloe, next time you host at yours.
I deleted it, tried again:
I cant anymore, not like this
Chloe, could we have a break from parties at mine for a bit?
Each attempt felt too soft, or too cruel. Chloes voice haunted me: Em, you get it, Youre a star, You dont mind, do you?
I took a deep breath, put the phone down, and went to my bedroom mirror. The bulb buzzed, casting weird shadows. I picked up my brush but instead looked myself straight in the eye. Chloe, next time, you host.
My voice wobbledlike when plucking a tight string.
No apologies, Sophies voice played in my mind. Youre allowed.
I straightened my shoulders. Chloe, I repeated aloud, I love our gatherings, but I cant host every week anymore. Next time, your place.
The your place came out almost apologetically. I scolded myselfno disclaimers! Im not the National Helpline.
I typed:
Chloe, Im really exhausted. Next time, can we celebrate at yours? I need a break from hosting.
Finger hovering above send, my stomach churned. What if she thinks Im boring, or loses her rag?
Still, I sent it. Then put the phone away. Right. Time to talk face-to-face, I whispered.
I practised in front of the mirror a few more times:
Chloe, its my home. Its hard having guests all the time
Chloe, I love you, but I dont have to be everyones home
Chloelets discuss boundaries.
Each time, boundaries stuck in my throat, this odd, foreign word I never quite learned how to say. Not angryjust determined, quietly so.
Well then, I told my reflection. Lets go to hers. Her place for once.
***
I showed up at Chloes deliberately unannounced. If she can burst in on me with pie and three friends, wellI can do the same, right?
Her building was one of those old battered terracesnot grand, just threadbare: faded paint, wobbly letterboxes, the faint whiff of last weeks soup.
Her door, the one with a crooked faux-laurel wreath and a plaque that read, Here Lives a Miracle, now struck me as more sad than sweet.
I knocked. Nothing. Pressed the buzzer. After an eternity, footsteps.
Who is it?
Its me. Emma.
The lock fumbled. Eventually, she opened the door a crack.
Em? she said, peering through, dishevelled in tracksuit bottoms and one sock, the other in her hand. Tired, muggy-eyed.
No warning?
Do you ever call ahead, Chloe? I asked lightly.
She shrugged but let me in.
The flat hit me, not with décor, but vacancy. The hallway: no welcome mat, no shoe rack, just a mop, odd trainers, an abandoned boot. Stale marks on the lino. I stepped in, my heart wilting.
Her living rooma sagging old green sofa, mountain of clothes, empty wine bottles, mugs gathering mould. Even the window ledge wasnt immuneno plants, just crisp bags and a shrivelled lemon by the radiator.
It wasnt just untidy. It was emptiness, gone to seed.
Dont look like that, Chloe snapped, catching my expression. I havent cleaned since well since, you know.
Since what? I asked quietly.
Since Mum, since the job, since all of this! she waved around her. Since life, basically.
She moved towards the kitchen. I followed, feeling the chasm widen between her world and minethe dinner parties, the glitter, and this hush.
I finally realisedfor Chloe, my flat wasnt just easy. My flat was the only place she could run from the emptiness of her own.
You here on business? she asked, facing the kettle.
Yes, I said. And yes, a bit of a check-in too.
She slumped into a chair.
I thought you were still cross with me.
I am, I said honestly. Im fed up with everyone using my place for get-togethers. Last night was the final straw.
I set my bag down, not bothering to clear space.
But also I wanted to understand.
Understand what? she rasped.
Why you live like this. And why everything homely has to happen at mine.
She gave a short, broken laugh.
Because your place feels like a real home, Em. Heres just leftovers. Im squatting in my own life. But yoursits sorted, warm, safe. I only ever feel not scared, not alone, at yours.
My heart ached. I remembered those first months alone after Mumnothing felt right until I changed things around, made it my own again.
And I Chloe tried to grin, I honestly thought you adored having people round, running the show. I didnt want to see this. I wanted to be where it felt like before Mum.
And meanwhile, I said softly, my home turned into a refuge from your chaos.
She closed her eyes. Im frightened of being alone, Em. At night, all I hear is mums old voice, nagging, judging. I turn up the telly, call in the girls, or run to yours. Because there, for a few hours, I feel safe.
I sat opposite her.
ChloeIm sorry you feel so alone. And it means a lot that you picture my home as a refuge. But I cant be everyones cushion forever.
Her gaze dropped.
Lets try something different, I suggested at last.
***
Different how? she sniffed.
Well, for a startnot every gathering at mine.
I eyed the sad mug on the floor, the collapsed sofa, the bin bag in the corner.
A homes not just where you entertain. Its where you can look yourself in the mirror and not feel ashamed.
Chloe managed a teary grin. I stopped being proud of myself a while ago.
Then lets start here, I said, standing. If we keep dragging your lot to mine, this place stays empty. Honestlyits too much for me.
I looked her straight in the eye. Lets take turns. One month mine, one month yours. Only a few friends. No circus acts.
You want people here? She gestured hopelessly.
I want you to turn it into somewhere you can feel proud of. Not just use my place as a temporary home.
She frowned. Start with what?
I pulled up my sleeves. We tidy up together. Bin the rubbish, scrub some mugs, wipe the table. Then pancakes for twojust us. No girls, no games, no glitter. Just you and me.
Pancakes? she asked, a hint of her old self sparking.
If youd rather do crumpetsbe my guest.
***
So we did.
It felt awkward at first. I found a bin liner, carried out the rubbish. Chloe, shamefaced, ferried mugs to the sink. I ran the tap, found a scrubber.
You know, I wasnt always a domestic goddess, I said. Mum taught me, and life did the rest. You coped differently.
She washed the mugs thoroughly, like a nervous student before an exam.
Soon, the kitchen smelt of melted butter. Chloe, flipping pancakes, looked suddenly young againthe girl from our old estate, now armed with burnt spuds and old regrets, but still here.
We sat side by side at her kitchen table, eating pancakes with sticky jam and laughing when she dropped icing sugar on her cheek.
The doorbell rang.
More guests? Chloe jumped, wide-eyed.
I peered out, then grinned. Its just family.
There was Sophie, backpack and a bag in hand. Smelled something good. Mum, you didnt answer my textso I just popped by.
Chloe straightened self-consciously.
Come on in, I said. Were test-driving a new family routine.
Sophie scanned the room, clocked the clean table, Chloe, me. She grinned. OohAunt Chloe, youve even got glitter now.
Pardon? Chloe asked, bewildered.
Lookon the light, Sophie pointed, and sure enough, one silver star, a stowaway, sparkled from the shade.
I laughed. Now were evenglitter for both of us.
Sophie winked: Just as long as you both agree to it!
I felt something inside unfurl. I was still annoyed at Chloe, still wary of endless hen nights. But now, something had shifted. Now we all had a choice.
The three of us perched in the small, battered kitchen, eating pancakes straight from the pan, giggling when Chloe got icing sugar in her hair.
For once, it didnt feel like anyone was taking advantage. It was just usme, Chloe, and Sophiehonestly, peacefully together. No hostess with the mostess, no flawless buffet, just a little, very real celebration.
