And where am I supposed to put this dish of pork pie? The fridge is absolutely stuffed, every shelf crammed with your what is it carpaccio and avocados, Lord, my tongue nearly twists itself off, muttered Aunt Valerie, struggling to wedge her enormous enamel dish onto the bottom shelf, nudging aside neatly stacked containers.
Olivia, hovering by the stove as she stirred sauce for the roast, drew a deep, measured breath, counting silently to ten. It was only just beginning. The visitors had crossed the threshold a mere twenty minutes ago, but already the flat felt as though it had been invaded by a clamorous travelling fair, intent on reshaping the entire household to suit their own needs.
Aunt Valerie, would you mind putting it out on the balcony? It’s chilly out, glassed-in, nothing will happen to your pork pie, Olivia replied as calmly as possible, careful not to raise her voice. The fridge’s full of salad ingredients, they can’t be frozen.
The balcony! scoffed Aunt Valerie, a stout woman with a perm, hefty floral housecoat donned the minute she arrived. There’s dust and city muck flying about out there! And anyway, who leaves food on the floor? Oh, Ill move your tubs of grass, nobodys going to eat that stuff. Men want meat, not silage.
Olivia sent a pleading glance to her husband. Paul, tall and reserved, sat slicing a loaf of sourdough, making himself invisible. He knew full well what Aunt Valerie was like, as well as her daughter Olivias cousin Laura, who was currently inspecting the bathroom, loudly passing verdict on the tiles.
Paul, would you help Aunt Valerie? Take the pork pie to the conservatory, please, Olivia said firmly. I cleared a special cupboard just for it, wiped everything down. No dust, promise.
Paul obediently stood, retrieved the heavy dish from the protesting matriarch, and disappeared down the hall. Aunt Valerie, now unburdened, directed her critical gaze at Olivia.
You look terribly pale, dear. Let me guess starving yourself on diets again? Skin and bone, that’s what you are. Just look at my Laura rosy and robust, lovely to behold. But you, you just fade away. And this flat of yours all sterile. White and grey. Dreary! You should have gone for some gold wallpaper, they sell gorgeous ones now very posh.
We like minimalism, Aunt Valerie, Olivia replied curtly, sampling her sauce. Each to their own, I suppose.
At that moment, Laura swept into the kitchen, three years older than Olivia but always acting as if she were fifteen years her senior, forever lecturing her on the ways of life. Lauras two boys five and six, already chocolate-smeared trailed behind.
Olivia, do you only have a shower in the bathroom? Laura whined, perching cross-legged at the table. I expected a proper bath. How am I supposed to clean the lads tonight? They love to splash.
Laura, we renovated for ourselves. We prefer a shower. The boys are big enough to rinse off, not babies anymore, Olivia countered, irritation simmering.
This visit had been planned for ages, though Olivia clung to hope that her relatives from Birmingham might reconsider. Aunt Valerie and Laura, with her boys, had invited themselves to spend the holidays in London got to see family, enjoy the city for once. Olivia, ever the hospitable hostess, couldnt refuse, mindful of their last visit three years prior a week spent restoring her own nerves and scrubbing the battered old flat clean.
Back then, theyd lived in a humble two-bed with worn carpet. Now, Olivia and Paul had finally moved into a spacious three-bedroom, freshly refurbished to a designers specification only a month ago. It was their nest, their pride. Every detail had been meticulously planned, every inch argued over.
Olivias favourite room was the bedroom her sanctuary, the restful heart of the flat. Deep blue walls, blackout curtains, a luxury bed with a mattress worth more than a small car, and thick, cloud-like carpet to sink your feet into. She and Paul had set clear boundaries: the bedroom door stayed shut to guests. The living room with the generous pull-out sofa and, failing that, Pauls study with its cosy daybed those were the designated sleeping spaces.
Mum, I want a drink! whined Lauras younger son, tugging her sleeve.
Go ask Aunt Olivia for some juice, Laura waved him away. Olivia, please, give them something. Theyre worn out from the journey.
Olivia fetched a carton of apple juice from the fridge and poured two glasses.
Careful, now. Try not to spill, this is real wood flooring, she cautioned.
Oh, dont fuss so much about your precious flooring, sniffed Aunt Valerie. Things are meant to be used, not worshipped. Theyre just children. If it spills, you clean it up. Honestly, Olivia, youre becoming awfully stuck-up now you live in London.
Paul returned from the conservatory and, sensing tension, suggested:
Shall we move to the table? Its nearly five. Almost time to ring in the Old Year.
The meal began in a muddled rush. Children darted about, snatching up slices of sausage and cheddar, Laura gabbed loudly on her mobile describing their travels, while Aunt Valerie critiqued every course.
Prawn salad? she poked the seafood with her fork, inspecting it as if it might bite. I dont see the appeal. Whats wrong with a nice bit of smoked herring pie? This is just frivolous greens and rubber. Olivia, you could at least boil a proper potato, some dill. This truffle mash smells odd, like its gone off.
Its a delicacy, Mum, Laura replied lazily, abandoning her phone. Though I do like real food. Olivia, pass those mushrooms. Homemade, or shop?
Farmers market, Olivia answered.
I see. Too much trouble to pickle your own, Aunt Valerie observed. I brought my own jar, lets open it, youll taste the real thing.
Olivia chewed quietly, staring at her plate. Beneath the table, Paul wrapped his hand consolingly around hers. Just three days, his eyes said.
By eight, once the champagne was gone and the children settled into their tablets, talk turned to sleeping arrangements.
My backs killing me, Aunt Valerie complained, rubbing her spine. Train journey shook me to bits. I need to lie down, stretch my legs.
Yes, Mum, you need proper rest, Laura echoed. Olivia, where have you set us up?
Olivia straightened, steeling herself for the moment shed prepared.
The living room. The sofa-beds very wide, easily fits two adults. Laura and the boys have the daybed in the study, it opens up to a full mattress. If it feels cramped, theres an inflatable bed very comfortable.
Silence hung in the air. Aunt Valerie stopped chewing; Laura raised her brows.
The sofa? Aunt Valerie repeated, incredulously. Olivia, are you joking? Ive got sciatica, slipped discs! I cant sleep on a sofa; I wont get up in the morning! I need a real bed. Soft, flat.
The sofa-bed is orthopaedic, specially chosen for guests. Firm, no dips, Olivia began.
A sofas a sofa! Aunt Valerie cut in. Meant for young people. Im a woman of age, not a spring chicken. I thought youd offer us your bedroom. I hear theres a magical mattress in there.
Olivia froze. Shed anticipated complaints, whims, but not this outright demand to invade their private space.
Our bedroom? Paul frowned. Valerie, thats our room. We sleep there.
And? Laura shrugged, unperturbed. You two are young, healthy. You can manage a couple nights on the sofa or floor, wont kill you. Mum needs comfort. And its easier for me and the boys to be with her the boys wake in the night, with a closed door you wont hear a thing.
Wait a minute, Olivia felt her cheeks flush. You want Paul and me to vacate our bedroom, give you our bed, and sleep in the living room?
Olivia, why dramatise? Aunt Valerie threw up her hands. Vacate, give up. We’re only asking for the holidays. Familys come to stay, visitors! You always give your guests the best. Thats how my mother taught me; yours too, Im sure. Clearly, youve gone off city ways, forgotten tradition.
Aunt Valerie, traditions are food and drink, Olivia replied, voice steady. A personal bed is a matter of hygiene, like a toothbrush. Thats our bed. Im sorry; its simply not possible.
Laura slammed her wineglass onto the table. Glass rattled.
Olivia, are you serious? You begrudge your own aunt and cousins a bed? We travelled two hundred miles, brought gifts, and you stick us on the sofa like stray dogs?
Why like dogs? Paul replied, surprised. That sofa cost a fortune and is extremely comfy. I sleep there for the football sometimes.
Spare me your prices! Aunt Valerie shrilled. Its not about money, its respect! Your poor mother, God rest her soul, would be mortified if she saw you treat family this way. Selfish, you are just like your father!
That was a sharp blow. Olivias mother kind, endlessly obliging had spent her life enduring Valeries demands, giving her her last penny, babysitting her children. Olivias childhood was stamped by Aunt Valeries visits taking the best, leaving headaches and an empty purse behind.
Leave Mum out of this, Olivia said quiet but firm. My mother was a saint, and you took advantage. Im not her. I know my boundaries. The bedroom stays closed. Issue settled. If youre unhappy with the sofa, there are hotels nearby; I can help book you a room.
Hotels?! Laura choked in disbelief. Youre throwing us out? Telling us to pay? Mum, do you hear this?
Loud and clear, darling, Aunt Valerie clutched theatrically at her chest. Oh, my heart My blood pressure quick, water!
Laura dashed to the carafe, handed pills to her mother. The children stilled, sensing drama, staring wide-eyed.
Right then, Laura barked once Valerie rallied. Heres the deal: either we sleep in the bedroom like decent folk, or we leave right now. Not another step in this house, and well tell the whole family how youve turned into a snobbish Londoner. Suit yourself.
Olivia looked at Paul. His face was stony, but his eyes radiated solidarity. He too had reached his limit with the rudeness and entitlement.
Laura, thats no choice at all, Olivia replied, rising. Ive offered hospitality, good food, places to sleep. You demand my private bed and issue ultimatums. If your priority is our mattress, not our company, then perhaps were at an impasse.
Is that so?! Aunt Valerie sprang up, forgetting her ailments. Get your things, Laura! Dress the boys! Were not staying a single minute in this pigsty! Better a railway station than under your roof!
Mum, its dark out, trains have stopped! Laura protested, shocked she hadnt thought Olivia would stick to her word, expecting her to cave to scandal.
Taxi, then! Or to Zees place she might live in a council flat buts got a proper heart, would give her last shirt if needed! Let these two choke on their fancy truffles!
Chaos erupted. Laura, glaring daggers, started shoving belongings into bags. Aunt Valerie paraded about, moaning loudly to imaginary confidantes about her hard lot.
And hand our gifts back! she snapped, pausing in the hallway. I brought linen towels! You dont deserve them. Zee will appreciate proper things.
Olivia fetched the scratchy towels (ones shed no intention of using anyway), brought them to the hall.
Here, take them. And your mushrooms, too.
Oh, and we want the chocolates we brought for the kids! Laura snapped, snatching the pack.
Paul watched quietly, leaning against the doorway ashamed by grown adults outshining small children in petulance.
Packing took fifteen minutes as Aunt Valerie spat vitriol, dredging up grievances, cursing Olivia and Paul with lonely futures, no one to fetch you a glass of water.
Have you called a cab? Paul asked as they laced up shoes.
Wont take your handouts! Well do it ourselves! Laura retorted, jabbing angrily at her smartphone. Mum, outside, itll be here in five. Better breathe street air than choke on bitterness.
They clattered onto the landing in a noisy, furious flock. Aunt Valerie slammed the new front door so hard dust tumbled from the ceiling.
Inside, quiet reigned. Only the fridges hum and clocks tick sliced through the hush. On the table, prawn salad sat untouched, napkins strewn everywhere, sticky juice stains blotted the cloth.
Olivia slumped into a chair, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook.
Paul joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, kissing her crown.
Its over, Livvy. They’re gone.
Olivia lifted her head. No tears she was laughing. An exhausted but liberating laugh.
Did you hear that, Paul? Better a train station than our place! Oh, thank heavens!
Couldnt agree more, Paul grinned. And you know, they forgot the pork pie! Left it on the balcony!
Olivia broke into hysterics.
The pork pie! That was the holy grail! And imagine Zees flats a twelve-metre box with her drunken husband. I bet shell be thrilled to host that landing party for New Year’s Eve.
No longer our problem, Paul observed, pouring more champagne. I was uneasy at first, but when she brought up your mum nearly threw them out myself. You did grandly. So brave.
I just adore our bedroom, Olivia confessed, sipping from Pauls glass. And you. And our peace. I reckon thisll be the best New Years ever just us, food for an army, and nobody whining about my wrong salad.
They started clearing plates and gathering up mess. Olivia stacked the dirty crockery, Paul loaded the dishwasher. The air felt new, fresh all the old bitterness vanished.
Olivia lingered at the window. Fat snowflakes tumbled past, erasing any trace of the departing cab. The city glittered. Somewhere out in that wintry swirl, her relatives clung to their grievances, carrying them into the night. Olivia pitied them a little. Living with such weight inside must be so much worse than sleeping on a sofa.
Paul, she called, shall we put on some music? Light some candles? Its still a celebration.
Thats the spirit, came Pauls reply from the kitchen. The roast duck will be ready soon. The one they missed out on.
An hour later, the table was reset. Candles flickered, jazz drifted low, roast duck with apples glistened, all golden crisp and fragrant.
Cheers, Paul toasted. To us. To our home. And may it always have room only for those who truly respect us.
And to boundaries, Olivia clinked glasses. Which we now know how to guard.
Late at night, nestled in her beloved bedroom, on the so-called forbidden mattress, Olivia felt bliss. Silence enveloped her, sheets smelled of lavender, not someone elses perfume. She mused, her relatives most likely squashed at Zees or shivering at a station. For once, she felt no guilt.
She understood a vital truth: you cant please everyone, especially if it costs you your sanity. And if the price of peace is offending a pushy family, well she could live with that.
Next morning, Olivias phone vibrated incessantly. Other relations, fed a warbled version of events, messaged in droves about her throwing a poor sick aunt into the cold. Olivia ignored it all, flicked her phone to airplane mode, stretched in bed and smiled at the day.
Paul and Olivia fed the pork pie to the local dogs. The dogs were grateful, never complained about the amount of garlic, nor the texture. Unlike some, animals truly know how to appreciate kindness.
