Hill. The streets were really pretty here and we were round the corner from Portobello market and an easy walk from Kensington Gardens. Loads of our friends lived nearby.
I wondered where Nico lived. Had he gone home to Italy for Christmas?
I hoped he didn’t need his jacket.
‘Hey, wake up. It’s been snowing all night.’
I burrowed under the covers, resenting my sister’s energy levels. ‘It’s too early.’
‘It’s Christmas. We have to open our stockings and there’s loads to do.’
‘Only because you insist on inviting half the world to lunch.’ I emerged from under the covers and looked out of my attic window.
London was covered in another deep coating of sparkling snow. It almost was a fairy tale, except I had to get up and cook Christmas lunch for a bunch of people I’d probably never met before when all I wanted to do was lie in a heap, watch back-to-back TV and try to forget about the disastrous wedding.
Rosie sprang onto the bed and crossed her legs, her daisy pajamas a cheerful, springlike rebellion against the winter weather. ‘Do you mind? Would you rather I didn’t do this?’
I was about to confess that one year it might be nice to just eat turkey sandwiches and flop in front of the TV when I saw the look of excitement in her eyes and knew I would never, ever, stop her doing this. And anyway, I understood why she did it. We couldn’t have a proper ‘family Christmas’ so she had a ‘friend Christmas’ instead.
Rosie was determined to create the life she wanted to live and I admired that.
‘I think it’s great.’ And I did. Because of my sister, no one we knew spent Christmas on their own. Everyone with nowhere to go was invited, which meant that some years our apartment was pretty crowded, but I didn’t really have a problem with that.
‘Are you sure?’ She dragged the stockings onto the bed. ‘I wondered whether you wouldn’t rather just have a quiet day.’
‘Not in a million years.’
Don’t get me wrong—my sister and I fought, but it was always over the small things. When it was anything to do with our past, we were a united front.
We opened the ‘stockings’ we’d laid out the night before (she filled mine and I filled hers. Last year we’d bumped heads stuffing stockings at the same time). Each was full of funny low-priced gifts. Thanks to the stress of the wedding, I’d bought all mine on the internet. I had no idea when Rosie had done her shopping. Soon my bed was covered in ripped paper and in amongst chocolates, a notebook, an exceptionally cute stuffed llama, and a festive bra and panty set in red with white faux fur trim, there was a packet of condoms with ‘not to be used until the New Year’ on them.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t remember mentioning those when I wrote to Santa.’
‘He knows you’ve been a good girl this year but he also knows you’re going to be a bad girl very soon.’ She winked at me. ‘And he wants you to be prepared.’
Rosie was as subtle as a kick in the stomach from a reindeer.
I was pretty pleased with the presents I’d chosen for her, and as well as the small things I gave her my main gift—a leather handbag in a soft shade of cappuccino she’d admired in the market back in November.
‘I love it.’ She cooed over it and then threw me an enigmatic look. ‘Your big present is coming later.’
I wondered how my present could be coming later when there were no deliveries on Christmas Day, but I had no time to dwell on it because we were expecting a load of people and we had to produce food.
Surrendering to the inevitable cooking marathon, I showered quickly and teamed my favorite skinny jeans with thigh-length boots and a cute shirt with shell buttons. Underneath I was wearing my new festive underwear (including the bra, in case you were wondering. Never let it be said I don’t learn from my mistakes).
I reported for duty in the kitchen just as Rosie staggered through the door carrying the turkey. It had spent the night in our hallway, apparently reaching ‘room temperature’.
‘This needs a bit of attention. Can you do that while I make the stuffing?’
I looked at it doubtfully because I wasn’t much of a cook. ‘What sort of attention?’
‘There are some stray feathers. Pluck them out.’
She wanted me to pluck the turkey?
‘Poultry hair removal isn’t exactly my specialty,’ I began, but I was talking to myself. Rosie had already left the room, whirling through the flat singing Christmas carols. I wouldn’t have minded, but my sister was a much better dancer than she was a singer.
I stared gloomily at the turkey. It had dark stubble on one leg. Clearly the person who had prepared this turkey for the oven had been anxious to leave work early. I looked at the stubby ends poking out of the plump pale skin and sympathized. It wasn’t easy keeping yourself smooth. What the hell was I supposed to do?
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked my texts and emails but there was still nothing from Nico. Not that I was expecting ‘Merry Christmas’, but I thought he might at least have demanded his jacket back.
‘Stop looking at your phone.’ Rosie was back in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice into a bowl of cranberries. ‘He isn’t going to call you.’
‘I have no idea what you mean. I was checking my work emails.’
‘On Christmas Day?’
I wondered why she was so sure he wouldn’t call me. I had his jacket. It was Tom Ford. If nothing else, he should want it back. A guy like him was bound to be going to lots of smart dinners over the holidays. ‘This project is important. And you’ll be busy once Christmas is over.’ Rosie’s phone never stopped ringing with people wanting her to help them get into shape. Usually I didn’t see her until February when everyone went back to being inactive slobs.
The doorbell rang. We were nowhere near ready for guests and I looked at her in horror but Rosie smiled, which I thought was a very odd reaction. Given the hairy turkey and the state of our kitchen I would have anticipated screaming.
She vanished to answer the door and I decided life was too short to pluck a turkey. And anyway, I needed rapid results.
I formulated a plan, congratulating myself on my ingenuity. Behind me I could hear our apartment slowly filling up with people and it was quite a few minutes before Rosie came back into our pretty country-style kitchen. ‘Hayley, you need to—’ She broke off and stared at me in disbelief. ‘You’re waxing the turkey?’
‘You told me to remove the stray feathers.’ I ripped the strip, removing feathers and most of the skin. ‘Oops. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to turn out.’
‘You were supposed to pluck it!’
‘There was no time to pluck each feather individually.’ We both stared at the skinless leg of the turkey, me with morbid fascination and Rosie with horror.
‘I
