Page 120 of Kiss Me at Christmas
Thirty-one
It was finally here, theday Harriet had been dreading, even more than putting on a play in front of the entire town. Christmas Day. And now that she was in it, she found she didn’t mind it all.
She had begun her morning early with a hot, deep bath heady with exquisite English rose bath oil and slathered herself afterward in the matching body butter; had there been anyone around to hug her she would have swished out of their embrace like a garden-scented soap bar.
When she was dressed—in her very favorite navy blue tunic dress with deep pockets and favorite cardigans one and two—she unboxed the orange-and-cinnamon candles and lit them in the sitting room. Then she warmed up a plate of raspberry-and-dark-chocolate rugelach that she’d stashed in the freezer after Josef’s Hanukkah feast and ate them for breakfast, feet up on the coffee table, a giant mug of coffee beside them while a black-and-white Alastair Sim Scrooged it up on the TV.
By eleven o’clock, the smallest turkey she could find—which would still feed her for a week—was stuffed and smothered in streaky bacon, butter, and sprigs of thyme. She covered it over with foil and had just slipped it into the oven when her phone rang with a FaceTime.
“Merry Christmas!” blared out when she answered it as Emma, Pete, and their three kids all yelled at once. Emma’s hair was a bird’s nest and all of them were still in their pajamas.
Harriet laughed. “Merry Christmas to you too!”
“Now you’ve proved that you can do Christmas all by your own self, will you please get your arse over here?” Emma begged. “I’ll come and get you.”
“She hasn’t hit the booze yet,” Pete chimed in. “But the clock is ticking.”
Emma elbowed him out of the frame only for Taylor to muscle in.
“Harriet, please don’t leave us here with Mum’s cooking!”
“Taylor! You traitor, what’s wrong with my cooking?” Emma addressed her daughter.
“It’s fine for everyday, but it’s not Christmas-worthy, not like Harriet’s. Harriet uses goose fat for the roast potatoes, you put yours in the air fryer.”
“Harriet, we miss you!” called Phoebe from under a blanket on the sofa.
“Yeah, come on, Harriet,” added Jordan. “It’s bad enough Maisy’s not here without you splitting the family up.”
“I’ll be with you all day tomorrow.” Harriet managed to get a word in edgewise.
“It’s not the same, we always have Christmas together!” whined Phoebe.
Emma put her face up close to the screen. “Can I come over to you, then? I’ll leave this lot here, just letmecome, as your faithful bestie.”
“If Mum ditches to go to Harriet’s, I’m going too!” shouted Taylor.
“Nobody’s ditching Christmas!” Pete called jovially,pouring himself a glass of Buck’s fizz. “You’re all stuck here for the duration, mwahahahaha!”
A small pang of longing tugged inside Harriet’s chest, which she acknowledged and then quieted. She needed this day to be hers alone. What had started as a glorified sulk had morphed into something she had planned for and looked forward to. Next year, like all the years before, and probably forever after, she would do the big family Christmas, with or without Maisy. But this Christmas Day was her gift to herself, and she deserved every moment of it to be her own version of perfection.
“Seriously, though.” Emma cocked her head to one side. “If you want to join us, any time of the day, just get in a taxi and come on over.”
“Thanks, Em. But I won’t. I think I really need this.”
Her friend smiled at her. “I think you do too. Enjoy your day and we’ll catch up tomorrow. I love you.”
“I love you too.” It was a good feeling, to know that she was loved enough that she could be alone and never be lonely.
A loud unharmonious chorus went up of “We love you, Harriet!” from her family on the screen. “And your goose-fat roast potatoes!” yelled Taylor.
Harriet laughed when Emma’s face loomed up close again and whispered, “Give me strength!” before the screen went black and the call ended.
She looked with satisfaction at her neat piles of vegetables for one, ready to be prepped—plus extra for bubble and squeak to go with the leftovers, of course—and got to work.
At midday, just as she’d tipped the parboiled potatoes, hissing and spitting, into a tray of hot goose fat, her phone rang again. She pressed answer as she slid the tray into the hot oven.
Hic—“Merry”—sniff—“Christmas”—sob—“Mum.”
