Page 2 of Christmas off Script
‘I’m making lebkuchen and limoncello with Leo later.’
‘So, you’re putting that posh twat before your own family?’
Ella bit the inside of her cheek as she internally screamed that Leo’s parents and siblings were more of a family to her than Michelle and her two daughters had ever been.
Taking a deep breath, she forced her voice to stay level. ‘I wrote in the calendar on the fridge that I would be here at eight, rather than eleven.’
Michelle sniffed. ‘I never look at that. Don’t know why you got it.’
The back of Ella’s jeans were now wet and clinging to her calves. At times like this, it felt like the last straws were being chucked casually onto her back.
‘I can come back next week if that’s better for you?’
Her stepmother’s bloodshot eyes flared with a brief look of panic. Then she smiled and tugged on Ella’s arm to bring her into the house. ‘No, my love. Now’s fine.’ Closing the door behind them, Michelle led Ella into the living room, her limp less pronounced than usual. ‘You get started and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Piece of cake?’
A lump formed in Ella’s throat at the unexpected kindness and she nodded, her heart grasping for the crumbs of affection. No matter how secure she was in her relationship with Oliver, nor how close she was to her best friend, Leo, and his family, inside she was still a little girl craving love from parents who rarely gave her any.
Michelle squeezed Ella’s arm. ‘You’re a good girl. You look after me, don’t you?’
Ella nodded again, all the earlier anger at her stepmother dissolving into guilt and compassion.
‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it.’ Michelle limped towards the door, her breath shortening each time she put weight on her right leg.
Grabbing one of the many walking sticks that littered the house, Ella dashed forward to pass it to her.
‘Thanks.’ Her stepmother paused, now breathing heavily. ‘I think I’d better get back upstairs. I ran for the door when you rang and my leg’s now screaming at me.’
A fresh wave of guilt rolled through Ella, washing away any doubts or questions about the truth of her stepmother’s statement. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No. Bastard GP won’t give me any decent painkillers. He doesn’t understand,’ she replied bitterly. ‘Nobody does.’
‘Can I at least help you back upstairs?’
Michelle shook her head. ‘I need you down here. I’ll be okay.’
Ella moved forward, wanting to assist.
Her stepmother scowled. ‘Leave it. I’m fine.’ Hobbling from the room, she made her way up the stairs, each thump of the stick on the tread feeling like a blow to Ella’s stomach.
Hearing the bathroom door close, Ella let out a held breath, quickly checked her phone to see if Oliver had been in touch, then surveyed the living room. It had only been a week since she’d last cleaned, but she couldn’t tell.
Overflowing ashtrays, discarded single-use vapes, glasses greasy with fingerprints, mugs with dirt-brown coffee dregs, half-empty takeaway boxes, and copies ofSoap Firstmagazine littered every available surface. The room smelled of vegetable oil, cigarette smoke, and chemical fruit. It made Ella’s skin itch.
Retying her long black hair into a bun, she took a pair of rubber gloves from her bag and went to work. She’d been cleaning for her stepmother since she was a teenager and was fast and efficient. If she wasn’t, then it would take all day to get the job done. Several times a year, Michelle went abroad on holiday, and Ella always took those opportunities to spend a weekend doing a deep clean. Her half-sisters never lifted a manicured finger to help their mother, so Ella did.
Oliver despised her family and resented the fact she spent every Saturday cleaning for Michelle. But it made sense to do it then, when she wasn’t working and he was teaching until early afternoon.
Wiping a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead, Ella pulled out her phone and stared once more at the string of unanswered messages she’d sent Oliver, her nerves jangling.
Don’t go there. Don’t go there.
Oliverwasher happy-ever-after. He was proof she’d dragged herself up two social classes and broken the familial cycle of entitled poverty. It didn’t matter what he or his parents thought of Ella’s family. With her politeness, kindness, and respectable job as an art teacher at Foxbrooke Secondary, she’d proven she was nothing like her mum, dad, or stepmother and half-sisters.
Then why don’t they ever invite you for Christmas?
Stop it!
Why are they so patronising and condescending and think you’re too thick to notice?
