Page 66 of Great Sexpectations
‘Well, I actually met Sinatra once…’
‘MUM, more gravy?’ Dad intervenes, knowing there is a point where her stories are going to carry great big plot holes.
‘SINATRA? FRANK SINATRA?’ Cameron cries out.
‘I served him a drink and he told me I had nice legs, and you know what I told him? I told him, you’re married and I don’t do that sort of thing, Frank.’
Dad flares his nostrils and takes a large sip of wine so he doesn’t laugh.
I look over the table at Mum. Please make her stop, I beg of you.
‘Good for you, Estella.’
Yes, Nan’s name has also been changed. If you want to know where Dad gets his playful streak from, then look no further.
I shake my head and stuff another potato in my mouth. Mainly to hold down my complete panic but also to try to soak up all the alcohol in my system. Since I knew Cameron was coming round, I’ve hit the booze supplies quite hard. From Buck’s Fizz to Baileys to red wine to white, waves of festive drinking swim around my stomach uneasily.
‘What’s up, Josie? You usually love your old nan’s stories,’ she says, winking at me.
I like the stories about how she beat up a milkman once for offering her milk for sexual favours, how she used to pour weedkiller in the noisy neighbour’s hanging baskets, how she still does open-water swimming and was once so cold, she thought she’d lost a toe.
‘Oh, I love them. Why don’t you tell Cameron about the time you auditioned to be a back-up singer for Cher? You’re still mates with her, aren’t you?’
The way I say this makes my dear grandmother narrow her eyes. Nan, I am slaughtered. If I can’t stop you, I may as well play along.
‘Oh, Cher and I fell out of touch. Sweet bird, though. Loved a buffet.’
I start to laugh at this point. She loved a what now? I’m beginning to wonder how and when this got so ridiculous. Everyone at the table looks over at me as I snort so attractively that a bit of carrot flies out my nose. Cameron can’t quite tell what’s happening. Look at you with your Christmas jumper with the detachable Santa legs. You showed up with flowers and a selection of chocolates and wine that I suspect you bought from a local petrol station but you’re here. In my house. At Christmas. And I want to snog your face off.
Mum tops my wine glass up again.
‘Why do you do that?’ I ask her. ‘It’s one of your worst habits.’
‘It’s called being a good hostess,’ she says, smiling at me.
‘It’s called being a sneaky bitch. It’s why I spend most Christmases under the table.’
Mum pauses for a moment to hear me swear as it’s unlike me. She looks to Dad, who does a good job of distracting Cameron by loading up his plate with ham.
‘The ham is all me. I cook it in ginger beer,’ Dad says, eyeballing me.
‘It’s amazing, Fabio – thanks.’
I giggle again to hear that name. He could have been Keith or Richard, but then he would have been Dick and that would have been super super funny. Mum glares at me as if to say stop it or this fella will dump you for thinking you’re some sort of cackling loon.
‘Anyone want stuffing?’ Cameron asks me, passing the bowl round.
It’s Nan’s turn to laugh now. Keep it together, Nan, if only to keep your teeth in.
‘So, tell us about your family, Cameron? Bet you’re missing them today?’ Nan says.
Cameron takes pause as he chews through my mum’s turkey. ‘Actually, this is far more refreshing. My family are a bit old-school, a bit traditional. Christmas is a bit of a stuck-up affair.’
‘Oh, how so?’ Nan asks.
‘There’s church in the morning. I have a sister obsessed with co-ordinating her whole family in tartan, my mother’s drier than dry turkey and there’s usually an epic fight by the time the pudding has come out. Normally involving me and my life choices.’
Mum pouts in her seat to hear this. I mean, she’s still topping up his glass, but I know she’ll hear that and some sense of maternal concern will come pouring out to look after him, to make things better for him.
