I never put up with my motherinlaws whims at the New Years feast, so I slipped away to my friends flat.
Whos chopping the salad like that? Margaret Hargreaves snapped, eyeing the huge cubes of ham on the platter. Theyre as big as a pigs chewsticks! I told you a hundred times the pieces should be dainty, so the flavours can shine, not look as if a lumberjack had hacked them. Her voice drowned out even the chatter of the telly, where Nigel Parker was once more preparing to head to the local spa.
Emily stood frozen, knife poised over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock read four oclock on the thirtyfirst of December. Her back ached as if she had been shovelling coal all night rather than standing at the kitchen counter since dawn. Her feet throbbed in the worn slippers, and a fresh cut on her finger pulsed.
Mrs Hargreaves, Emily breathed, trying to keep the tremor from her voice, these are normal cubes, standard size. Thats how we always slice. If you dont like them you can skip the salad we have three other dishes.
Skip it? the motherinlaw flared, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this, a backhanded comment to my sons wife? I came here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and you give me a piece of stale bread to bite? Victor! Can you hear how shes speaking to me?
Victor, Emilys husband, sat in the lounge untangling a strand of fairy lights, sighing heavily. He despised conflict, preferring the ostrich method: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.
Emily, love, he shouted from the sofa, just cut them smaller, will you? Mums only trying to help, shes a former chef after all.
Former chef? Margaret puffed up, adjusting the heavy brooch on her chest. I ran the dining hall at the Grand Hotel! My hygiene standards were stricter than the health boards. And you, Emily, your kitchen looks like a battlefield. The towels stained, yet you wipe your hands on it. Absolutely unsanitary!
Emily set the knife down. A slow, steady heat of anger rose within her, the kind that usually ends in irreversible fallout. It wasnt the first New Years with Margaret, but it felt the heaviest. The matriarch had arrived two days earlier, claiming shed help, but in truth she inspected every corner, passing judgment: daughterinlaw a slob, son underfed, no grandchildren (as if Emily were selfish), and the flat décor as drab as a rainy London afternoon.
The towels clean, Emily replied calmly. I took it out this morning; a drop of beet juice fell on it. She turned to Margaret. Could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose its getting cramped in here.
A goose? Margaret narrowed her eyes. How did you marinate it? In mayo, like last year? Thats vulgar! A proper goose needs to soak in lingonberry sauce with 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 only what youve fed him! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hes pale as a ghost. In his childhood I made him steamed cutlets and thin soups Margaret jabbed, her voice cutting like a knife.
Emily felt the goose might fly out the window rather than into the oven, or perhaps straight into Margarets angry heart.
Right then, she said, wiping her hands on the apron, the goose goes into the oven, the salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and pull ourselves together.
Pull yourself together? Margaret inspected Emily with a critical stare. Your hair looks like straw, those circles under your eyes you ought to be using a cucumber mask, lest Victor lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Emily swallowed that barb for the sake of her husband, the holiday, and the hope of not starting the new year with a fight. She placed the heavy roasting tray in the oven, set the timer, and shuffled to the bathroom.
The hot water finally gave her permission to weep. For five minutes she sat on the edge of the tub, mascara streaking down her cheeks. She was thirtyfive, a department manager at a major logistics firm, leading twenty staff. She and Victor had bought the flat together, pouring in her inheritance. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice echoing her late mother seemed to whisper, you must be wiser, you must endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.
She rinsed her face, applied a cold compress, forced a smile at her reflection. All right. Six hours left. Well listen to the chimes, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill send them out for a walk by the Christmas tree, and Ill curl up with a book.
She emerged from the bathroom, hopeful for a truce. The flat smelled of pine and roasting meat; things seemed to be falling back into place.
In the bedroom lay her dress a dark navy velvet gown with a graceful back cut, bought especially for the night at half her bonus.
Emily, are you really going to wear that? Margarets voice floated from the hallway as she barged in without knocking.
Its my festive dress, Emily replied.
Good heavens the velvet will make you look like a teapot. The colour is as mournful as a funeral. New Years should be bright and sparkling! I have a sequined cardigan I could lend you, if you can squeeze into it.
Thanks, no need, Emily said. I like this dress, Victor does too.
Victor only cares that you dont chop him up. As a woman to a woman, I tell you: it doesnt suit you, it highlights every flaw. Youd be better off at the gym than feasting on midnight buns.
Emily began to dress, her hands trembling, the zipper catching.
Let me help, before you tear it, Margaret tugged the zipper, making Emily sway. There, see? I told you. Dont complain later when Victor starts looking at younger women.
By ten oclock the table was set. Crystal glimmered, candles flickered, the goosegolden and fragrantstood proudly in the centre. Victor slipped on his shirt, Margaret donned the sequined cardigan, and piled on every gold bauble she owned, looking more like a Christmas tree than a guest.
Emily felt like a squeezed lemon. She had no appetite, no mood. She merely wanted the night to end.
Lets welcome the old year! Victor announced cheerfully, popping champagne. Its been a rough one, but weve made it through. The important thing is were together.
Indeed, a rough year, Margaret agreed, raising her glass. Especially for memy health is failing, my blood pressure spikes, no help at all. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness
Mom, we call, we visit, Victor tried to defend.
Calls once a week for the sake of appearances. Fine, lets not brood. Lets drink to those who will become better housewives and remember their feminine duties.
Emily took a sip, feeling the champagnes bitterness.
Try the salad, she offered, sliding a plate of herring and beet salad towards Margaret. Made with homemade mayo, just as you like.
Margaret speared a piece, sniffed, grimaced, and chewed slowly, eyes rolling.
Honestly the herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, it crunches. And the mayodid you pour a bottle of vinegar in there? Its as sour as a summer gooseberry.
Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Emily replied softly.
Lemon in a beet salad! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest, wasnt a chef either. She fed you processed foods, which explains your pale hands. Margarets words struck a raw nerve. Emilys own mother had died three years earlier; she had been a kind woman who worked two jobs to raise her daughter, never mastering exotic marinades, but always keeping a warm, welcoming home.
Dont insult my mother, Emily whispered, her face flushing.
What did I say? Im just telling the truth. Victor, pass me the bread; this salad is inedible.
Victor handed over the loaf without looking at his wife, chewing silently, as if trying to become invisible.
Then something shifted in Emily. As if a switch had been flicked, the anger, the hurt, the fatigue melted into a calm as cold as winter ice. She looked at Victor, the man who had promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, now watching his mother trample the memory of her own mother.
Victor, is it tasty? she asked.
Um okay, I suppose, he replied, startled. Emily, lets not argue at the table. Mums just voicing her opinion.
Opinion, indeed, Emily said, standing slowly.
Where are you off to? For the hot dish? Stay a bit longer, Margaret commanded.
No, Im not after the hot food. Emily replied, heading for the hallway.
She slipped into the bedroom, stripped off the velvet gown, hung it neatly in the wardrobe, and threw on jeans, a cosy sweater, and a light jacket. She packed a small sports bag with toiletries, a change of underwear, a charger, and a pair of slippers.
In the corridor she pulled on a coat, a hat, and sturdy boots. From the living room came Margarets voice:
I tell the neighbour why you need that multicooker, because the food in it is lifeless! The proper way is the pot over the open fire. Victor, wheres Emily? Shes been gone a while. Is she angry? She seems nervous. Maybe you should see a doctor for her.
Emily peeked into the doorway.
Im not angry, Mrs Hargreaves. Ive simply drawn some conclusions, she said.
Victor dropped his fork.
Emily, where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor.
Going to the shop? Need anything? Ill run ahead!
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so forgive me. Toss the salads if you find them disgusting.
Emily, stop making a circus of this! Margaret shrieked. Sit down now! Guests will be arriving, the chimes in an hour!
I have no guests, Emily replied calmly. I have two strangers in this house: one who hates me, and one who doesnt care. Happy New Year to you both.
She turned toward the front door.
Emily! Emily, stop! Victor leapt up, toppling a chair, chasing after her. Are you mad? Its night! Where will you go?
To someone who values me, she said, flinging the door open.
If you go now, Victor cried, fear mixing with anger, Mum will be utterly hurt! Youll break the family!
The family broke when you let her tread all over me, Emily snapped, slamming the door.
Outside, soft snow fell, muffling the world. Distant fireworks began to pop. Emily breathed in the crisp air; oddly, she felt no cold, only a lightness.
She dialed her friends number.
Sophie? Are you up?
Emily? Whats wrong? Were out there dancing! Need a drink?
Can I come over? Right now.
There was a pause, then Sophie’s tone grew serious.
What happened? Victor?
I left. Probably forever. Im at the flat entrance with my bag.
Come quick! Bring your boots, weve got a feast, plover roast, vats of champagne! Do you remember the gate code?
I do.
She hailed a cab. The fare was steep New Years night, after all but she didnt care. When the yellow cab pulled up, she slipped into the back seat and, for the first time that night, smiled.
Sophie’s flat was a riot of noise, cramped warmth, and genuine cheer. The hallway smelled of mandarins and pilaf. Sophie, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned jumper, threw her arms around Emily, their bones audibly clacking.
Come in, love! Youve turned to ice! Sophie laughed, pouring a glass of something bubbly.
Inside, a motley crew gathered: Sophie’s husband Mark, their kids, a golden retriever, a couple of friends. No one sat at a table with stonecold faces. Laughter filled the rooms, music played, paper napkins and a massive pot of pilaf covered the table, alongside a mountain of sandwichsize blinis topped with smoked salmon and a bucket of tangerines.
Emily, just in time! Were about to make wishes! Mark shouted, handing her a glass.
She took a bite of the pilof; it was divine, made with love, no healthcode inspections or juniper.
Later, as the clock struck midnight and everyone shouted Happy New Year! Emily recounted the goose debacle, the salad insult, the strawhat comment, and Victors silence.
Sophie, what a nightmare, Emily said.
Ah, that old goat, Sophie replied. Your mums a witch, honestly. You did right walking out. Dont waste your life on them. Youre a beautiful, clever woman; youll find a proper man wholl carry you on his shoulders and actually respect your mother.
Emilys phone, set to silent, lit up like a Christmas tree. Twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Mum. WhatsApp messages pinged: Emily, wheres the corkscrew?, Emily, where are the napkins?, Mum, my pressures up!, Youre selfish, how could you abandon us on New Years!.
She read them and burst into a hysterical laugh, tears of release mixing with mirth.
They cant even find a corkscrew, she muttered, wiping her eyes. Two adults cant open a bottle of wine and locate a napkin. Pathetic.
Shoot it, Sophie said, snatching the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They danced until three in the morning. Emily forgot the aching back, the grievances, the cold. She felt alive.
On the first of January, she awoke on Sophies couch, head a little fuzzy, spirits high. She knew she had to return home, not to apologise, but to close the chapter.
She stepped back into her flat around noon. The hallway was dim, the smell of stale smoke lingered. On the floor lay the very corkscrew theyd claimed to lose.
The living room was a mess. The table was untouched, remnants of food scattered. The goose sat untouched, one wing ripped off, as if the housewife had drained everyones appetite.
Victor lay on the sofa, curled under a blanket, the motherinlaw nowhere in sight, the guestroom door shut.
Emily stalked into the kitchen, her heels clicking loudly. She flung the window open, letting in the frosty air, and set about making coffee. The grinders whirr sounded like a cannon blast in the quiet.
Victor appeared, dishevelled, guilty yet defensive.
Did you enjoy the party? he croaked. Thanks for the spectacle. Mum spent the night on herbal tonic.
Thanks, Emily replied, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did the goose suit you?
We didnt eat it. No mood. Emily, do you realise what youve done? Youve embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes now thinking of moving out. She says she wont set foot here again.
Thats the best news of the year, Victor, Emily said dryly.
Youve become a stranger, a monster, he accused.
Ive become myself, Victor. Im done being the convenient one. I want happiness.
At that moment the guestroom door burst open and Margaret Hargreaves stormed in, a damp towel clutched to her forehead, eyes wild.
Look whos back! After giving mother a heart attack! Victor, Im calling a cab. I cant stay in the same room with that woman. Shes a monster!
Emily turned to her, steady. A cab sounds fine. Please take with you all your recipes, your advice, and your complaints. And next time, if you ever feel the urge to visit, do so by invitation, not as a health inspector. Otherwise the door stays shut.
Margaret opened her mouth, gasping for breath like a fish out of water.
Victor! Do you hear? Shes kicking me out!
Victor stared at his wife, illuminated by the pale winter sun through the window, serene, almost regal. He recalled the nights tirade, the awful dinner, the feeling of losing something vital. He understood that if he didnt choose a side, he might never see Emily again.
Mum, he whispered, Emilys right. Youve gone too far.
What?! Margaret shrieked. And you youre a coward! A traitor!
Mum, lets go. Ill see you to the station.
No, Ill walk myself! My legs
The packing was noisy. Margaret hurled belongingsEmily closed the door, turned toward the flickering fire, and whispered that the new year would belong to her own quiet, unburdened happiness.
