Alphabet Weekends - Elizabeth Noble [5]
Patrick went into the front room. How long had he been upstairs with the kids? Their living room was transformed. She must have gone round like a dervish. The newspapers, which had previously been strewn across the floor, were neatly piled on the coffee-table. The kids’ toys had been returned to the boxes behind the sofa, and the pine needles had disappeared from under the tree, which had been up for three weeks and was practically bald. That was how Patrick felt. Used up. Worn out by the festive season. His parents and her mother and a seemingly endless parade of friends, relatives and what he referred to silently as ‘miscellaneous’ had paraded through and been fed, watered and cleaned-up-after. Lucy was like Delia Smith on speed. Practically every other morning he and Ed had been despatched to Tesco with a scrawled list of obscure ingredients like saffron, vanilla sugar and goose fat, and every evening he had washed and dried the same saucepans and baffling food-processor attachments and put them away in readiness for the next day’s onslaught. He had fallen into bed and into a coma every night. He’d be lucky to make it to midnight. New Year’s Eve should be in March. Who the hell could be bothered now? Clearly, Lucy. She’d laid the table, two places, real napkins, candles, and put on a CD, which she almost never did.
Patrick stared at himself, pale and baggy-eyed, in the mirror above the mantelpiece and wondered if he should have tidied himself up.
‘Patrick?’ He grabbed a glass, one of the eight crystal flutes they had received as a wedding gift, and went back to the kitchen.
It smelt great. Lucy was stirring something on the hob, and her face was a little flushed from the heat. Two plates of gravadlax were waiting on the counter.
‘This’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. Give it here.’ She filled the glass, then raised her own to clink against his. ‘Happy New Year, darling,’ she said.
‘Happy New Year.’ She kissed him. A kiss full of needs and promises. ‘I can’t believe you’ve still got the energy to cook, after the fortnight you’ve had.’
‘I am pretty knackered,’ she confessed, adding, ‘but you’re the most important. And tonight is just for us. And,’ she smiled, ‘it is from 10-minute Feasts!’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘And tomorrow Marianne’s cooking for us, so I’ll get a day off.’
‘Is it just us?’
‘Think so. Why?’
‘I’d prefer it, that’s all. If any more parents from Bella’s class are there it’ll turn into the same old thing. Teachers, curriculum, car park, cake sale…’
‘Welcome to my world, honey!’
‘I know… but it can get a bit tedious. It’ll be more relaxed if it’s just Alec and Marianne.’
Lucy didn’t answer.
He drained his glass, poured more for himself and topped hers up. Then sat in a chair and watched her quietly. She didn’t look different at all. Not older, or bigger, more tired or more staid. Just exactly like the girl he’d first met.
He’d followed her up and down three aisles of a supermarket. Fruit and veg. Tinned goods. Baking. She had a great wiggle. A happy walk. From a distance, filling his trolley with whatever he grabbed from left and right, he watched her talk to a couple of old ladies and a spotty youth stacking shelves, her auburn hair bouncing and shiny. He watched her take an inordinately long time to choose a handful of plums. Ludicrous though it sounded, even to him, he had pretty much fallen for her back view before he’d overtaken her on the corner of Toiletries and seen her lovely face, then Bella, strapped to her chest in one of those origami-like slings.
Lucy and Tom liked to joke that Patrick had invented supermarket cruising.
‘Wish you were at the pub with Tom?’ She was looking at him quizzically. His brother had called earlier in the week and invited them.
‘No. Way too old for all that nonsense, aren’t we?’
‘Speak for yourself.