Page 11 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
‘Thedog? Can’t she go in the garage?’
‘Afraid not. Arrie says Maud’s sensitive due to her pregnancy. She’ll bark and urinate. And she doesn’t like the whining noise of the freezer.’
‘Gosh.’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Not just last born. I really am bottom of the pile.’
‘Until you’re a mother, Alice, you’ve no idea what bottom of the pile is. Stop moaning. Get up and dressed and get downstairs.’
I huffed and decided on an old baggy Christmas sweater from sixth form with a picture of puppies in Santa hats, which I pulled on crossly, but for some reason, it was horribly tight and I heard a rip under the armpit as it strained against my chest.
‘What have you done to my top, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Washed it? Ironed it? Bought it?’
‘Actually,Ibought this sweater.’ (I didn’t. Hugh Winnington of Hugh and Annabel train ghastliness bought it for me when we were dating briefly, but that’s not the moral point.) ‘And it seems to have been ruined.’
‘What’s been ruined?’ Astrid poked her head round the door, looking clear-eyed and sprightly. She’d probably been out for a run, written thirty emails and done an hour of yoga already. She’s infuriatingly disciplined.
‘My sweater. It’s shrunk. Mum’s clearly used that eco stuff again.’
‘Maybe it’s you.’ Astrid looked at my chest pointedly. She withdrew her head and I heard her running down the stairs. ‘You’ve missed breakfast by the way,’ she called out. ‘Dad’s clearing it away.’
‘What?’ I shrieked, coming out of the bedroom sharpish. ‘He can’t clear away breakfast. It’s Christmas bloody Day!’
‘All gone,’ said Astrid from below, slamming the kitchen door behind her.
I stomped down the stairs, calling, ‘Dad? Dad! You know I like Christmas breakfast,’ and yanked open the kitchen door, all ready to fight my corner, to find him still at the Aga, his Christmas apron on, humming along to the King’s College Choir’s carol service.
‘Good morning, Alice,’ said Dad, smiling at me, ‘what’s all the shouting about?’
‘Nothing.’ I was too relieved by the smells of sizzling bacon and warm bread to bother rising to Astrid’s smirk, as she sat curled on the sagging sofa, crossword in one hand, a steaming mug of coffee in the other. ‘Just hungry. Where’s Aziz?’
‘Out,’ said Astrid shortly, not looking up.
‘On Christmas morning? What’s he doing?’
‘Looking for the cat,’ said Dad. ‘Your mum’s worried. You know Mitzy doesn’t like loud noises and there was rather a lot of noise last night, wasn’t there?’ he added reproachfully.
I’d forgotten that I’d gone a bit high-pitched when we got home after the wedding and it became apparent that Astrid had told the rest of the family about the Monty thing. ‘Just us three’ indeed. Funny how she managed to share all that aboutme with the family, but failed to share withmethat Matthew Lloyd had gone and bought the Lamb Hotel. I was under the impression he had some dull consultancy company that sort of ticked over; you’d think someone might have mentioned he’d become Mr Monopoly.
‘Yes, well, sorry about that, Dad.’ I gave his cheek a kiss. ‘But Mitzy wanders off at least once a week – it’s hardly going missing. Besides it’s Christmas Day, so hurrah, fresh start and all that.’
‘Merry Christmas, my darling,’ said Dad. ‘Would you like everything?’
‘And more.’ I settled on the kitchen chair closest to the radiator, and watched Dad piling up my plate. ‘When’s Arrie’s lot arriving?’
‘Any moment,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure the twins will have been up early with the excitement and you know poor Arrie’s always up at the crack of dawn with the animals.’
‘Yes, about that,’ I said, taking advantage of Mum’s absence. ‘Did you know I’ve got to sleep in the garage because of Maud? What if it gives me asthma, Dad?’ I gave a small cough. ‘Could you tell Arrie that’s not okay?’
Dad’s forehead creased into its well-worn concern mode as he drizzled some maple syrup on my berries, trying to ascertain the lesser of two evils. ‘We certainly don’t want any asthma, Alice, but, well, your mother is usually in charge of that sort of thing… ’
‘What sort of thing?’ said Mum briskly, coming into the room.
‘The rooms,’ said Dad. ‘Poor Alice is asking nicely if Maud could have the—’
‘Poor Alice?’ said Mum crossly. ‘Maud’s pedigree and pregnant. And what about poor Arrie. She’ll have been up at the crack of dawn.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dad, shaking his head sadly. ‘She will have. The crack of dawn.’
