Page 4 of The Village Christmas Party

Watching the daughter thread her arm through her mum’s and head off, the mum still smiling broadly, I think of my relationship with my own mum.

Mum has never been one for the girlie shopping and lunch thing, preferring to catch up at the green café for an oatmeal decaff, or at the local food bank where she volunteers. Occasionally, we will take a beach walk to look for driftwood that she fashions into all manner of things and sometimes sells to shops. I must admit it would be lovely to have a spa day together, lounging around and chatting in between some beauty treatments and sipping a glass of something, but that isn’t really Mum’s thing. Still, we are very close, and I have happy memories as a child, doing lots of family stuff, before she and Dad broke up.

Mum almost has a heart attack every time she calls in to Bentham’s to say hi, wondering how people can spend money onsuch luxuries, including some fancy Christmas crackers with an eye-watering hundred-pound price tag.

‘What’s inside?’ she had asked last time she was in the shop as she examined the box. ‘Gold jewellery?’

‘No, but there is a very expensive bottle opener. Oh, and a pair of nice cufflinks. None of your plastic frogs in there.’

‘I think I can live without those,’ she had said, placing them down and shaking her head. ‘And who would I give the cufflinks to? Maybe I will have a go at making my own crackers this year.’

‘You don’t need to do that, Mum. I’ll buy some good crackers, although maybe not quite so expensive,’ I reassure her.

Mum and Dad separated six years ago and, if I’m honest, I think towards the end of the marriage Dad got a bit fed up with getting a lecture every time he bought a new shirt instead of buying one from a charity shop. Not to mention being dragged to protests about the destruction of the planet. When Mum glanced through the window of a local restaurant and caught him furtively eating steak and chips, you would have thought poor Dad was single-handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. He told her he was sick of lentil stew and sleeping in recycled fabric bed sheets that felt like sleeping on a kitchen scourer and brought him out in a rash.

Looking back, I think the public row was the beginning of the end for them. Apparently, the poor waitress stood open-mouthed, unsure what to do with the impressive-looking ice cream sundae she was about to deposit at Dad’s table, that he told Mum was made with ‘proper milk and not that soya shite’.

Thankfully, I enjoy a pretty good relationship with both of my parents, and even though they can be in the same room together, I can’t imagine they will ever really see eye to eye, a fact they have come to accept.

Saying goodnight to everyone at the end of my shift, I head to the local Sainsbury’s to buy the ingredients I needfor the red velvet cake fromBake Off. I do sometimes like to bake a traditional Christmas cake, but with Christmas puddings already sorted, I do like to have an option for people who don’t want an alcohol-soaked dessert, so might decorate the red velvet cake with Christmas cake toppers instead.

I fall into step with Gemma as we leave the store and into the twinkling lights of the high street. Gemma keeps glancing at her watch, I can’t help noticing.

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ I ask her.

‘What? Oh yes, I’m meeting someone in the pub at eight,’ she says, not giving much away.

Gemma is a good friend and we have no secrets. Usually.

‘Who are you meeting?’ I ask as we walk.

‘Some bloke I met. I wasn’t going to say anything until I know how the date goes,’ she says casually.

‘It wouldn’t by any chance be the bloke you were talking to at the shop, would it?’

We have stopped outside Sainsbury’s.

‘Yes, as it happens.’ She smooths down her hair, something she always does when she’s nervous.

‘The one wearing the wedding ring?’ I raise an eyebrow.

‘Oh, Lauren, don’t judge me, please.’ She sighs. ‘He just seems nice. It’s a long time since I’ve been attracted to anyone.’ She looks down at the pavement.

‘Wait, you think I’m judging you?’ I tell her. ‘That’s not it at all. How about I’m a little concerned about you, that’s all. Is he at least separated?’

‘He says so, yes, although only recently. I’ve served him a few times now, and he seems genuine enough,’ she says, meeting my eyes.

‘Right.’

‘Right what?’ asks Gemma.

‘I was just wondering why he still wears his wedding ring if he is separated?’ I press.

I know she doesn’t want to hear it, but she’s my best friend and I do not want her getting hurt, or messed around by anyone.

‘I don’t know! Anyway, the truth is I’m getting a bit fed up staying in on a Saturday evening alone,’ she huffs. ‘I know that we go out sometimes’ – she holds her hands up – ‘so no offence, but I just want to have a little fun, that’s all.’

‘This is the second time you have told me I’m boring.’ I stick my nose in the air.

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