ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s not that I’m too old. I just– I’m here for work. It just so happens to be Christmas. Honestly, it just seemed easier not to make a fuss.’
‘Not make a fuss?’ his uncle said, looking up from where he was kneeling by the tree. ‘It’s Christmas. It is fuss!’
‘And your mother’s cooked enough for the bloody army, so…’
‘I haven’t got any presents,’ Harry said, when he saw a package wrapped under the tree with his name on the tag. Why hadn’t he brought any presents? There was nothing like coming home to remind one what a selfish bastard he’d become. But then, he rationalised, he hadn’t intended to be here until yesterday when some idiot at the restaurant had tweeted about him being in the UK.
‘Now here we go.’ His mum came bumbling through with a bottle of prosecco and a glass with holly leaves all over it. ‘Let’s have a toast to Harry.’
His sister was standing in the alcove between the two rooms. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘What’s he done to have a toast?’
‘Silvia, ssh,’ hushed his mum. ‘To my lovely Harry, home for Christmas.’
Harry held up his glass a fraction. Saw his dad give him the same look he used to give him as a boy – behave, his eyes said, don’t do anything to upset your mother. Silvia watched him warily from behind the sofa. His nephews came hurtling in and didn’t even pause to shout, ‘Hi, Harry, bye, Harry.’
Then everyone huddled onto the two sofas together, squished close until his mum went and got a couple of dining chairs so they could sit, all of them in the lounge. His aunt appeared in her Christmas jumper and, sitting down next to Harry, made a big show of faux-scolding him about how upset his mum had been that he’d almost bypassed them all. Harry tried to smile.
In the end, when the noise became too suffocating, and his dad had asked him every question there was about the restaurant, his finances, the rent on his apartment, the importance of the property ladder, whether he was making his money work as efficiently as he could, his pension, and his mum had asked him about his love life and his aunt had commented that he was never with anyone then asked if he was gay with a snort, adding that there was a new gay couple in Eastenders, and his nephews had asked if he’d got them presents, Harry had to stand up and say that the best thing he could do was help with the food.
‘Such a wonderful chef,’ his mum mused as he left. ‘Just wonderful. I don’t know where he gets it from. I’m bloody useless, aren’t I, Charlie?’
‘You’re the best cook in the world, Jan.’
Harry closed his eyes as he walked away. His dad’s idea of being the best cook was having his set meals ready and on the table at seven. Same thing every Monday, every Tuesday, every day. When Tesco had started stocking fresh pasta as well as dried and his mum had given it a go, his dad had taken a couple of mouthfuls and said, ‘Not again, Jan. Let’s not have this again.’
Harry remembered watching him from across the table, sipping on his orange squash, thinking, I love you but I never want to be like you. I never want to turn out like you. All those rules and structures and set ways to live. Veer off them in this household and everyone knew they’d done something wrong. Harry would sit in his dad’s chair to watch TV after school, but as soon as the key clicked in the lock his mum would poke her head into the room and say, ‘Out of there now, Harry.’
Now, as he stood in the kitchen – same wallpaper, same cups, same tablecloth – he glanced over at his sister, who looked warily back at him.
‘Just be nice, yeah?’ Silvia said. ‘Just for a couple of hours, just be nice. OK? You’re here. Don’t mess it up.’
Harry made a face. ‘I’m not going to mess it up.’
Silvia just raised her brows and looked away.
‘What can I do?’ Harry asked, bending down to look at the shrivelling turkey in the oven.
‘Nothing, it’s all under control.’
‘Your turkey’s gonna be overdone.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘It’s not. Jamie said to do it like this.’
Harry looked around. ‘Who the hell is Jamie?’
‘Oliver.’ Silvia stabbed the cookbook with her finger. ‘Jamie Oliver.’
‘Bloody Jamie Oliver.’ Harry shook his head and then went over and closed the book. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, opening the oven and finding some oven gloves so he could rescue the bird.
‘Do what you like, Harry, you always do,’ Silvia said, pushing the chair back and leaving the room.
In the kitchen Harry felt a semblance of himself. Tea towel tucked into the pocket of his jeans, he dealt with the turkey, added spices and seasoning to the carrots, sprinkled the stewing red cabbage with sugar and apple slices, perked up the sprouts with some honey and bacon, and generally added some finesse to the whole package. He would have liked a few more ingredients to play with. A bit of kale maybe or some chestnuts, but he felt he’d done pretty well with what he’d had to work with.
He hadn’t brought any presents, the least he could do was sort out the dinner.
***
‘What the bloody hell’s on these sprouts?’
Everyone at the table turned to look at Harry’s dad, who had pierced a sprout on the end of his fork and was eyeing it with distaste.
Silvia sat forward, resting her chin on the palm of her hand and Harry could feel her watching him.
‘It’s er…’ he swallowed. At the restaurant his dad would be out on his ear by now. Harry never explained what he cooked. ‘Well, there’s a bit of marsala and…’ Harry coughed. Everyone was looking at him. He felt his cheeks begin to flame. ‘Bacon. There’s bacon in it, it er, it should be pancetta but bacon works. It brings out the taste.’
His dad narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t want bacon in my sprouts,’ he said. ‘I want sprouts in my sprouts.’
‘Well maybe give it a try, Charlie.’ His mum wiped her hands on her Christmas napkin and tried to smooth over the tension building in the air. ‘I think they’re very nice. Very different.’
‘Just smother it with gravy and you won’t notice, Dad,’ Silvia said, as she tried to stop her boys from kicking each other under the table.
‘I would, if someone hadn’t messed around with the gravy.’
‘Oh for god’s sake, Dad.’ Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not messed around with, it’s just different. Taste it. It doesn’t all have to taste the same, every day.’
‘It’s not every day, is it? It’s Christmas Day. I like things to taste like they should on Christmas Day.’
‘Urgh. That’s such an annoying thing to say.’ Harry shook his head. He saw Silvia giving him a warning glance across
