Page 113 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Meanwhile, the men—SJ included—buggered off to do the “last-minute shop,” which apparently involved an hour in John Lewis and then a three-hour pub lunch.
Now it’s nearly eight, the heating is set to tropical rainforest, I’m in a party dress that’s more ambitious than my mood, and I’m standing next to the buffet table trying to remember how to breathe whilst wearing Spanx.
“Miranda.”
I glance up. Sim-Sim appears beside me, holding two glasses of Prosecco.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, offering me one of the glasses. There is definitely longing in his voice. He is not just saying it.
“Thank you,” I say, a bit too quickly, taking the glass from him. The fizz tickles my nose as I raise it, mostly for something to do with my hands. “I, um… can’t decide what to eat. It’s all a bit—” I gesture vaguely at the mountain of sausage rolls, cold salmon, and festive quiche, “—much.”
Before he can reply, his mum swoops in like she’s been waiting for a cue.
“Oh, salad’s probably the safest,” Irene says, plucking an olive off the buffet and popping it into her mouth. “You know how heavy Christmas Day can be, all that roast and pudding.”
I nod, offering a polite smile. I already had some salad, actually.
“And now that things are looking up with Sim-Sim,” she continues, voice low and conspiratorial, “you’ll want to shift that little bit of Kummerspeck, hmm?”
She says it like it’s an endearment. A cheerful pat on the arm follows. “Emotional eating weight,” she adds, like I might not know what the word means. “Very common after a breakup. I read it inGrazia.” Then she stalks off.
My mouth opens, then shuts.
Sim-Sim gives an awkward chuckle. “Oh, you know how she is.”
Do I? Because she just called me emotionally bloated with a smile and a sprig of holly.
He turns to me, softening. “Anyway... thanks again for coming. Really. I’m glad you’re here.”
I offer him a tight smile. “Of course.”
But something prickles—under my skin, under the party dress, under the carefully balanced good behaviour. Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the subtle way everyone keeps treating me like I’ve already come back, full circle, no questions asked.
I excuse myself before I say something regrettable. “I just need a moment. Back in a bit.”
He nods, distracted by a cousin calling his name across the room.
Upstairs, the house is quieter. Still smells like potpourri and that expensive hand soap his mum keeps in ceramic dispensers shaped like geese.
I let myself into the guest room—the one she offered with great reluctance after I made it extremely clear I wouldn’t be sharing with Sim-Sim.
The bedding is crisp. There’s a Christmas-themed cushion that saysLet it Snowin gold sequins. I sit down on the edge of the bed and exhale, finally, my fingers digging into the edge of the mattress.
I sit there for a while, smoothing down the front of my dress like that might somehow make it feel less tight, less deliberate.
Alright, yes. I’ve put on a little weight since the divorce. Wine and toast and occasional rage-baking will do that. But I’m still a size twelve, not that it should matter either way.
And yet.
The moment Irene said Kummerspeck, it was like a switch flipped. Like everything I’ve been holding together with politeness and seasonal cheer suddenly felt a bit flimsy.
I frown at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Still me. Still standing. Slightly shinier version, tonight. Lipstick, party dress, shoes I regret. But not unrecognisable.
Irene’s comment shouldn’t have got under my skin.
But maybe it wasn’t just what she said.
Maybe it was the fact that Sim-Sim didn’t say anything at all.
