“I just thought it would be fun to have it at my house for a change. It’s been ages since I’ve had you all round.”
“You’re, erm, going to cook?” Deacon asks dubiously.
“Yeah, why not?”
He rubs his chin. “Can you… cook?”
“Of course I can!” I say with indignation. “I just don’t do it very often.”
“That sounds lovely,” says Rhett, ever the diplomat. “How about I bring the pudding?”
“That would be great.”
Next morning, I try once more to get Bernie Greengrass on the phone to apologise for missing my interview, but his assistant refuses to put me through.
“I’m sorry, but Mr Greengrass is a very busy man. He doesn’t have time to reschedule your appointment.”
“I understand. Please let me know if an appointment becomes available.”
I put down the phone.
Damn Alicia, she’s ruined everything.
I see Stu coming my way and hurriedly disappear into the shoe aisle, the memory of his repulsive Christmas kiss still fresh in my mind. I wait until the coast is clear, then hot-foot it back to the office, where I pull up the personnel files on the computer.
McBride, Alicia. No middle name.
I flick through her details. Her age, date of birth and national insurance number all look completely normal. I scroll down the page. No work history and the only person listed as a reference is me. I’m also her next of kin. Not much to go on. I press print anyway.
“Hi Isabel.”
I jump as Alicia herself appears in the doorway, her eyes impossibly wide and childlike.
“Alicia! What are you doing here?”
“Sonya asked me to put the kettle on. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” She seems to look right through me. “I could read your tea leaves for you?”
“No, that’s fine,” I say sharply. Some of her last predictions were a little close to the mark.
The room is filled with a droning sound as the ancient printer bashes out her file, line by agonising line. Sonya’s been on at Stu for a new printer for ages but he insists we can make this one last a little longer. It screeches in protest.
“I think it’s stuck,” Alicia says, walking over to investigate. She peers down at the printer.
“I can handle it, thanks,” I tell her. I rip the page from the printer and stuff it into my pocket.
Alicia smiles knowingly.
“Just trying to help.”
I get up early to go shopping. I shop not just for food and drink but also for extra pots and pans and an apron. Good thing Robertson’s is open 24 hours a day or I’d be in trouble. My friends didn’t look particularly impressed when I offered to cook Christmas dinner, but I’m going to prove them all wrong. Even if this is the first time I’ve used all four rings on my cooker. I fill a glass with sherry and pore over the cookbook, frowning with concentration.
Wow, turkey takes bloody ages, I’d better put it on first.
Rhett and Kate both ring at various intervals to ask if I need any help but I insist I can handle it on my own. They don’t have to know that I had to ring mum four separate times, one of which was to find out what I’m supposed to do with the turkey baster.
By the time my friends arrive – a polite fifteen minutes late – there is cranberry sauce in my hair and my top is covered in flour. My apron, I am proud to say, remains spotless.
“I’ll just pop this in the kitchen,” says Rhett, staggering in with what looks like a very heavy plum pudding. He puts it down on the side and opens the oven to check the turkey.
“Beautiful!” he says, approvingly. Then he lifts the lid off the saucepan. “These carrots look done. I’ll take them off the heat, shall I?”
Rhett is my saviour. He puts on a Christmas CD and hands out glasses of sherry and mince pies while I dash upstairs to change into my glamorous green dress. Well, where else am I going to wear it?
“You look fabulous, darling!” he says, as I re-emerge. “Where do you want us to sit?”
I shoot him a grateful smile. He has even laid the table for me and folded the napkins into little swans. But even his efforts don’t make up for the fact that my dining table is meant for four. Five is a bit too much of a squeeze.
Why did Alicia have to come?
Thanks to her, I have to go next door to Mr Krinkle’s to borrow an extra chair and he keeps me talking for ages before he finally condescends to lend me one. Luckily, Rhett has the sense to turn down the oven so the turkey doesn’t burn.
“Well, Isabel, this all looks surprisingly good,” Deacon says when we’re finally seated at the table. I suppose that’s as close as I’m going to get to a compliment.
“Shall I carve?”
I smile smugly as he doles out wafer-thin slices of turkey and try to ignore the fact that he and Alicia are probably playing footsie under the table. My cooking may not be in Rhett’s league, but this is definitely edible.
After we’ve eaten our fill of turkey, I warm up the pudding in the microwave and pour warm brandy over it, ready to light.
“Wait!”
Rhett gets up and turns out the lights.
“OK, go ahead.”
I feel in my pocket for a lighter.
“Here, let me do it,” Alicia offers, picking one up from the table. Her eyes gleam dangerously.
“No!” I cry. I try to grab the lighter from her hand, but with a flick of her thumb, the flame ignites and I can only stare in horror as it dances up my sleeve.
For a second, I can’t move.
“Isabel, you’re on fire!” Alicia shrieks in delight.
“Ahh!”
She leans over and makes a big show of swatting the flames with a tea towel, which only makes it worse.
“Get off me!” I yell.
“Let me help you!”
“You? Help me?”
I push her away, and dash into the kitchen, where I plunge my arm into the washing up water, quenching the flames.
Deacon rushes after me.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” I withdraw my arm from the murky water and examine the scorched fabric of my sleeve.
“Have you hurt yourself? Let me see.”
He takes my arm and holds it under the cold tap.
“My arm’s fine. It’s my dress that’s ruined.”
“What on earth was all that about?” he asks, as I towel myself off.
“Why did you grab the lighter from Alicia’s hand like that?”
“She could have set the house on fire,” I mumble. But even as I’m saying this, I can hear how stupid it sounds.
“What do you have against Alicia?” he asks with frustration. “You’ve been funny about her from the start.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, it is, Isabel. I’ve seen the way you look at her. I thought she was supposed to be your friend?”
Over my shoulder, I can sense the presence of someone else. Someone whose eyes bore into me so deeply, I feel their heat on my shoulders.
“It’s nothing. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going upstairs to get changed. Start on the pudding without me, before it gets cold.”
Deacon shakes his head, but allows me to slip upstairs to my room.
I sit down on the bed. My eyes feel hot and heavy with tears. I don’t know if it’s the shock of what just happened, or the fear of what’s to come, but I can’t let Alicia see me like this. With determination, I discard my ruined dress and pull on jeans and a jumper. I am just coming back downstairs when the doorbell rings.
That’ll probably be Mr Krinkle wanting to know if he can have his chair back.
The bell rings again.
“Wow, he’s impatient.”
Kate, who’s nearest, jumps up and answers it.
“Isabel!”