I bombard him with questions, before being told that Dad has a blocked artery and will need surgery.

‘When?’ asks Rose anxiously.

‘Sooner rather than later. We will take you to have a stent fitted for the time being.’ He turns to Dad. ‘You are okay for now, but you have a blocked heart valve so will need valve replacement surgery in the new year. You will be discharged with some medication in the meantime, but it would be wise not to overindulge over the festive period, as difficult as that might be.’ He glances between me and Rose and I nod.

I know it’s ultimately down to Dad to look after his own health, but can’t help thinking that Rose shouldn’t encourage him. He’s always been a lover of rich foods and red wine though, which is no doubt why he is counting the cost now. Christmas at our house growing up would have Dad rubbing his hands together at the sight of mine and Mum’s home-made bakes,and polishing off a cheeseboard in the evenings as we played board games. Remembering those evenings brings a lump to my throat. If only I could turn back time to enjoy one of those family evenings once more.

‘You might have to give all those mince pies away,’ Dad says to Rose with a sigh.

‘Or I could take them to the food bank?’ I suggest.

‘Maybe we could keep one box,’ says Rose and I throw her a look. What does she not understand about the fact that Dad has just had a heart attack?

‘Or maybe not, gosh, what am I thinking?’ she says apologetically.

‘I’m not stopping you from enjoying yourself,’ says Dad to Rose good-naturedly. ‘Maybe just eat things in secret, hey.’ He winks. ‘Keep temptation away from me.’

‘Oh, Dad,’ I say, taking him by the hand. ‘I’m so glad you are going to be alright. My heart sank when Rose phoned and I couldn’t help fearing the worst.’ I swallow down a lump in my throat. ‘And I’m sure after your surgery you will be as good as new.’

‘I’m alright.’ He smiles. ‘And maybe I ought to have looked after myself a bit more. I never was one for fruit and vegetables,’ he muses. ‘Perhaps there is something to be said for the plant-based diet your mother has.’

‘Everything in moderation, I say,’ sniffs Rose, clearly not pleased that Dad has brought Mum’s name into the conversation.

‘Well, yes, Dad, I guess it is your responsibility.’ I smile at Rose, feeling a little guilty that I may have blamed her a bit. ‘But we all need to be on board. We want you to stick around for a while yet, Dad.’

I squeeze his hand.

‘You know, maybe you ought to consider coming to the party at the community centre this year,’ I suggest, glancing from Dad to Rose. ‘It might be nice to have someone cook for you, what with you still working, Rose.’

‘Hmm, well maybe, although I always thought it was for people much older than us, or those who have lost partners,’ she says, unconvinced.

‘The majority are, I suppose. You know you are also both welcome to join Mum and me on Christmas Day,’ I offer, deciding to bite the bullet.

‘At your house? I’m not sure about that,’ says Rose, smoothing down her skirt before Dad has a chance to answer.

‘Well, the offer is there.’ I smile.

‘Thank you. I think we’ll be okay though,’ she says a little tightly.

‘Of course.’ I smile again. ‘But be sure to ask me if you need help with anything.’

I might be mistaken, but looking at Dad’s expression I get the feeling he would love for us all to spend Christmas Day together.

I grab some coffees and stay for a while chatting, feeling relieved that, hopefully, Dad is going to be okay.

‘Bye, Dad,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek before I eventually leave. ‘Bye, Rose, and remember give me a call if you need anything.’

‘Of course, thanks, Lauren,’ she says, but I don’t believe for a second that she will.

FIFTEEN

The day before the party, Sue and I take the boxes of decorations to the community centre. Mum has arrived to help and tells me she has just been to see Dad at the hospital.

‘Really?’ I ask, surprised. ‘What did Rose think about that?’

‘She was at work,’ says Mum, plonking a box down onto a table.

Rose works part-time at a health food shop in town, an irony not lost on either of us.