Please tell me youre joking, Greg. Please, said Helen, her brow furrowed so deeply only a tenacious kiwi might have nested there. This is a terrible joke, right? Or maybe I misheard you over the tap running.
She flicked the tap off, dried her hands on the tea towel, and slowly turned to face her husband. The kitchen was filled with the scent of boiling root veg, cut grass from fresh parsley, and, most of all, the heady tang of clementinesunmistakably Christmas. Six hours to go until the New Year. On the worktop, peaks of potato salad and sausage rolls rose beside the pyramid of chocolate eclairs. In the oven, a golden roast goose crackled away; in the fridge, the trifle set like a hopeful dream.
Greg stood in the doorway, looking especially guilty as he fiddled with a button on his old rugby shirta well-known sign that even he suspected he was clutching at straws, but was prepared to be thoroughly stubborn.
Helen, dont start, please, he pleaded, his voice as syrupy as brandy sauce. Sarahs pipes burst. Well, not burst, but the waters been cut off, and no heating. Can you imagine her and the kids sitting there in the cold on New Years Eve? I couldnt say no. And… well, theyre my kids, after all.
The kids are, yes, Helen replied, trying to keep her composure, even as her insides did the can-can of indignation. But Sarah? Shes not your child, last I checked. She doesnt have any friends? Hotels also exist, you know. Or she could go to her mothers. You pay enough maintenance, she could afford a room at The Ritz.
Her mums at a spa in Bath. Friends all away for the holidays, Greg muttered, staring at his shoes. And, its a family occasion, you know? The boys would love to see in the New Year with their dad. Well just have tea together, watch the fireworks, thats all! The flat is big enough.
Helen glanced around. Yes, technically, it was a generous flat, but this was *their* flat. Their safe haven, forged by her steady hands. Shed spent the week laundering everything in reach, ordering sparkling fairy lights, choosing napkins to match the curtains, and buying that expensive aftershave Greg had been hinting at for months. Her vision: flickering candlelight, gentle playlists, the luxury of nothing but each others company. Their first New Year in three years spent alone, not as mobile caterers to everyone elses happiness. And now? The vision crumbled like a cheap cracker.
Greg, we agreed, she reminded him, voice quiet. This ones just for us. Im never against the boys, you *know* that. Of course theyre welcome at weekends. But Sarah… inviting your ex-wife to our table? Are you mad? Hows this supposed to look?
Youre blowing it up, he said, with a hopeful sweep of the hand. Were all adults here. Sarahs okay just the boys mum. Dont be selfish, Helen. Its Christmas, for heavens sake! Theyll be here in an hour.
He bolted before Helen could test the aerodynamics of a potato masher. She stood alone, hands braced on the worktop, the gooses crackling suddenly nauseating. Dont be selfish, hed said. The sting was worse than an onion in the eye. Three years of trying to be an outstanding wife: running a home, never blocking out Gregs kids, tolerating Sarahs endless texts about plumbing, cat-sitting, and mysterious emergencies. And her reward?
Helen resumed peeling potatoes, hoping the dull rhythm would help her calm down. Maybejust maybeit wouldnt be so bad. Maybe Sarah would be bearable. Surely, if theres ever a time for peace and miracles, its New Years Eve.
No miracles materialised. At precisely ten past six, the buzzer went. Helen had only just swapped her faded pyjamas for a little black dress and dabbed on a cheerful bit of mascara. Greg dashed to the door, shining like the iconic British Rail kettle (the train, not the teapot).
A procession barreled into the hallway in a wave of giggles and wet welly boots. The boysSam, ten, and Ben, sevenshot past, launching muddy footprints onto Helens prized parquet without so much as a how-dyou-do. Then in came Sarah, adorned in a dazzling red dress with a neckline that had opinions of its own, hauling enough bags to survive an arctic expedition. The expensive perfume shed marinated herself in smothered everything, including the clementines.
Oh thank God! Sarah announced, shaking melting snow onto the carpet. Traffic was hell. Had to beg the cabbie to put his foot down. Greg, grab these. Thats presents for the boys, and Champagne. Half decent Champagne too, not the plonk you usually buy.
Helen forced her warmest customer service smile.
Evening, Sarah. Boys, hello.
Sarah gave her a once-over, pausing on Helens understated dress. Evening, Helen, she chirped, then frowned, Bit stuffy in here though, isnt it? Ever opened a window in this place? And where are my slippers? The pink ones I left last time I popped in for the maintenance money?
Ill find them, love, dont worry, Greg said, vanishing into the under-stairs cupboard.
“Love.” There was a marked pause in Helens brain. Sarah has dedicated slippers here? And Greg knows where they are.
The parade marched to the sitting room. The boys cranked the TV to full volume and began bouncing on Helens new cream sofaa sofa she had spent three days fussing over with lint rollers.
Sam, Ben, ease up on the sofa, please, Helen sang out.
Oh, let them be, Sarah cut in, flopping into the armchair like the Queen on the throne. They need to burn off energy. Greg, get me some water, my throats parched.
It only took an hour for Sarah to launch her one-woman show: inspecting Helens Christmas tree (Bit dull. We used to do tinsel everywhere in my day), debating the cutlery (Why so many forks? Expecting the Windsor family?), loudly scolding then instantly clucking over her boys. Greg scurried after her, ferrying cushions, fiddling with the TV volume, plugging in her phone. He studiously avoided Helens gaze.
Helen worked in silence, setting out plates, arranging prosecco glasses, feeling utterly like the hired help at her own party.
Hel-eeen! Sarah hollered from the lounge, Oh, you did the potato salad with *ham*? No, darling, thats terribly passé. Greg prefers it with beef. Didnt you know? We always did it with beef.
Gregs been happily demolishing my potato salad for three years, Helen called sweetly, noisily plonking the bowl down.
Well, hes just very polite, then! Sarah snorted. Poor Gregchokes it down for the sake of manners.
Greg, hovering by the lounge door, gave a nervous weak smile. No support, no Shes a fabulous cook, actually. Just silence, in case Sarahs mood, like a Christmas pudding, caught fire.
First alarm bell: ignored. The second came when Helen served the piece de resistance: roast goose, glistening under a sprig of rosemary. She set it before them, beaming.
Help yourselvesgoose with Bramley apple and prunes.
The boys wrinkled their noses.
Yuk! Its burnt! Ben declared. We want pizza, Dad!
Its not burnt, its the glaze, Helen tried.
Oh honestly, kids hate this sort of thing, Sarah sniffed, prodding a leg like she was at a livestock auction. All that fat… And prunes, really? Who puts fruit with meat? Greg, order pizza for the boys. And for me tooIve got a delicate stomach.
Greg shot Helen an apologetic look.
Helen, maybe its for the best? Its meant to be a party for them too. Pizzall be here in a blink.
Are you serious? Helens voice trembled. I made this from scratchsoaked it overnight. This is my signature dish.
Dont be upset, Greg tried, moving closer. Just different tastes, thats all. Well have both. More of a feast, right?
He grabbed his phone and double-checked Sarahs preferred pizza toppings. Mushrooms or pepperoni, Sarah?
Helen sat down, feeling like shed entered some kind of Kafkaesque panto: her home, her kitchen, her partywhile her husband placed a pizza order for his ex as she shredded Helens cooking for sport.
Oh! Greg, remember 2015 at that B&B in Cornwall? Sarah suddenly said, pouring herself Champagne without so much as an anyone else? You played Father Christmas, and your beard fell off just as you came in! We laughed for hours!
Ha! You were the fairy, and your shoe snapped in a snowdrift! Greg grinned, face softening in nostalgia.
They reminisced, tumbling down memory lane about holidays, their first car, when Sam took his first steps. They laughed, steamrolling each other’s storieseyes sparkling. Their shared past, into which Helen simply didnt fit. She sat at her beautifully laid table, feeling less than invisibleshe felt like a footstool.
The boys careered around the room, and Sams elbow hit a glass of red wine. It teetered, toppled, and bled across the crisp white tableclothso recently ironed to within an inch of its life. The stain spread, grotesque and dramatic.
Oh, Greg, mop it up! Sarah snapped. Why put wine near the edge? Helen, get some saltmight save it, though for this cloth, does it really matter?
Helen stood, gaze unblinking. She watched her husband rush off, eyes wide with panic and obedience for Sarah as she commanded the cleanup. He didnt spare Helen a glance, nor register the partys hostess had turned into a set piece.
It was at that moment Helen understood: she was here in body only. For Greg, only Sarah and the boys existed, all wrapped up in some tangled thread of guilt and obligation. Helen? She was the domestic backdrop: responsible for warmth, snacks, and, ideally, silence.
She slipped out, unheard, as Sarah launched into a new anecdote and the boys chanted for pizza. In their bedroom, she packed a small holdall with all the mechanical efficiency brought by raw, icy clarity: jeans, a woolly jumper, clean socks, the essentials. The party dress tumbled to the duvet.
She changed into boots, checked the mirrormet the gaze of a tired but freshly formidable woman.
Down the corridor, Greg paid the pizza man, Sarah barked about change, and the kids sang Hallelujah!. Helen seized her moment, quietly unlocked the door, and slipped into the dusky chill. By the time the lift reached the pavement, she finally exhaled.
Thick, fat snowflakes drifted from the black London sky. Down alleyways, fireworks fizzed, car horns blared joyfully. Helen dialled her best friend.
Maggie? Sorry, are you awake?
You mad woman, its ten oclock, New Years Eve! Im two Proseccos down with Tom. You soundwellhomicidally calm. Spill.
Ive left Greg. Can I come over?
Oh, bloody hell. Of course! Tom, set out an extra forkHelens coming! Where exactly are you? Hang onIll ping you a cab.
Forty minutes later, Helen sat in Maggies kitchen, which smelt serenely like cinnamon and closure. Tom vanished to sort the telly, leaving them with mugs of proper tea.
What on earth did that fool do this time? Maggie asked, sliding over a biscuit.
Helen spilled everythingburst pipes, pristine potato salad, party ruination, all of it.
You see, Mags, its not even them turning up. Its himI was the furniture while they played happy families. Why am I even there if he still orbits her?
Maggie took a long, solemn sip.
Classic Nice Guy syndrome. Desperate for everyones approval, leaving his real team to fend for themselves. You did right. Stay, breathe. If youd sucked it up this time, hed never have stoppedyour feelings would always be at the bottom of the oven.
Helens phone finally buzzed an hour after departure. Only now, it seemed, Greg and Co. had noticed shed vanished.
First call: Helen declined.
Another, again. Then a flood of messages.
Helen, where are you? We cant find you!
Did you pop to Tesco? Pizzas getting cold.
Helen, pick up, this isnt funny. The guests want to know where the hostess is.
Are you sulking? Have you gone? Helen, this is ridiculous! Come back now, youre embarrassing me in front of Sarah!
Helen read the last one and laugheda dark, bubbly, delighted sound. Embarrassing in front of Sarah. Not, you know, hurting your wife, just a social faux pas with the ex.
Dont answer, Maggie counselled. Let him marinate in it. Let him do all the pizza-slicing and sofa-scrubbing for a change.
Helen turned off her phone.
On that New Years Eve, she didnt make grand resolutions. She just sipped prosecco with her best friend and Tom, and watched Four Weddings and a Funeral, feeling suddenly, magically weightlesslike a heavy knapsack shed worn for years had thudded to the floor.
New Years Day dawned clear and cold. Helen stirred to the smell of proper coffee. Fifty missed calls. Two dozen messages, the tone swinging from urgent to remorseful to faintly tragic.
The boys broke your favourite vase. Sorry.
Sarah had a meltdown over the sofa. Says its too hard.
Theyve gone. The flats a disaster. I dont know where to start.
Helen, my darling, my love, Im an idiot. Please call me.
Around noon, a knock at Maggies door revealed Greg. He looked like hed spent the night in a wind tunnel: hair wild, shirt wrinkled, a wine splash on the front. He clutched an oversized, apologetic bouquet hed likely bought for a kings ransom at the 24-hour petrol station.
Maggie glared, arms folded, and didnt move out of the doorway.
Well, well, Prince Charming himself. What do you want?
Maggie, please, let me talk to Helen. I know shes here. Please.
Helen stepped into the hall, face unreadable. Seeing Greg in that state didnt move her. Just tired resignation.
Helen! He moved towards her, but her frozen stare stopped him. Helen, Im sorry. I get it now. It was hell after you left. Sarah bossed everyone about, the boys rioted, the trees history. Sarah said I was a rubbish dad and ruined their night. We argued. I put them all in a cab at three a.m.
He took a shaky breath, searching for her eyes.
I know I was a complete prat. I let you down. I was so worried about being the perfect ex and the perfect dad that I became the worst husband imaginable. Youre my family. Please, Helen, come home. Its empty without you. Ive done most of the tidying…nearly.
Helen glanced at the rosespetals dripping onto Maggies welcome mat.
Im not just upset, Greg. You showed me my place. Somewhere between housekeeper and hat-stand. You let someone else take over my house, insult me, and run you ragged.
I swear on everything, never again! Greg burst out. Sarahs blocked on everything now. Ill only see the boys on neutral ground. No guests, no midnight phone calls, I promise. Ill change.
Helen was silent. He meant it, she could tell. The chaos had genuinely scared him. But could she forget that feeling of being utterly alone at her own table?
Im not coming back today, she said at last. I need a few nights to think. Ill stay with Maggie. You go home, and really thinknot just about fixing this, but about how you let it happen. Why her feelings mattered more to you than mine.
Ill wait. As long as it takes. I love you, Helen. I really do.
He put down the clumsy bouquet, andwith a final sad glancelet Maggie close the door in his face.
Back in the kitchen, Maggie topped up the tea. Well? Will you forgive him?
I dont know, Mags. Maybe. In time. Hes a decent blokejust… lost. But if I go back, it wont be to the same marriage. Second place isnt on the menu for me anymore. Ever.
She went to the window. Outside, the city was wrapped in pure white, a blank canvas. Life would march onand this time, Helen was certain: the pen that wrote her story belonged in her hand, not in the grip of bygone ghosts.
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