Chapter Twelve
The moment I’d finished my sliced apple surprise, I feigned a migraine, excused myself from the table and locked my bedroom door on the McClay clan.
Stationed in the comfy chair by the window, I tried to forget lunch and concentrate on my book, but instead of losing myself in the cosy ghost of Christmas past romance, my mind kept straying back to the events of the day so far and after every couple of pages, I found myself staring out at the mountains, wondering exactly what I’d done to offend Elsie McClay.
There were plenty of women out there who weren’t walking rays of sunshine, me included, so I never bought into the concept of a woman being a stone-cold bitch without grounds.
I was sure Elsie had her reasons for behaving like we were in the middle of a Real Housewives reunion rather than a friendly family meal but I’d have been much happier if someone had bothered to let me in on them before we met.
The fatal flaw in my ingenious plan to stay out of the way was revealed exactly one hour after I slammed my door shut. I was gasping for a cup of tea and there was no resisting the siren song once the thought had taken root.
After two wrong turns, I made it to the kitchen without encountering another living soul and after opening a million different cupboards, drawers and cabinets, managed to locate mugs, find the teabags and finally, the milk.
Everything in this house was an ordeal, I wasn’t surprised Callum preferred his tidy little flat.
Balmaclay was beautiful, no doubt, but this was altogether too much faffing around for a cup of tea.
Before my landlord so rudely evicted me, I had a travel kettle in the bedroom for emergency cuppas.
Between late nights and long shifts, sometimes it was too hard to roll all the way from my bed to the kitchen.
I’d even considered putting one in the bathroom so I could freshen up my drink while I took a bath but I settled for a giant insulated travel mug instead.
‘What are you doing?’
Lizzie McClay stood in the kitchen doorway, jumper, gilet, ever-present silk scarf, lips brought together as though she’d walked in on me masturbating with her rolling pin.
‘You could help me by wearing a bell,’ I gasped, pressing my hands to my chest to hold my thudding heart in place. ‘You scared the life out of me.’
‘You’re making tea?’
She set a basket down on the huge table, a solid block of wood that dominated the farmhouse-style kitchen. Only it wasn’t farmhouse-style, it was literally a farmhouse kitchen. Weird.
‘Is that all right?’ I asked before catching myself. Caroline wouldn’t ask permission. ‘Because, yes, that is what I am doing. Making tea. For myself.’
It took every ounce of strength in my body to prevent me from offering to make Lizzie a cup. Asking a Brit not to offer another Brit tea was like expecting Desi not to make snide comments during an episode of Love Island, denying a psychological imperative, and almost completely beyond our control.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was good for migraines,’ she said, breezing past me to take out her own mug and her own teabag. I tried not to stop breathing at the shame of it.
‘To the best of my knowledge, there hasn’t been a study that confirms a causal relationship between average tea consumption and migraines,’ I said, reacting as I always did, distracting myself with facts and stats.
‘Excess caffeine intake can cause them in some people, caffeine withdrawal can bring migraines on too. Some people think tea could actually help prevent them but there’s even less evidence to support that theory. Unfortunately.’
‘Sounds like you’ve done plenty of research.’
More research than the average massage therapist.
‘If you were a migraine sufferer, you would understand.’ I held the back of my hand against my migraine-less forehead and let my head loll back dramatically. ‘It’s a debilitating and often misunderstood illness. Nausea, vomiting, fatigue, numbness, visual disturbances, it goes on.’
‘I see.’ Lizzie loosened her scarf as she stared me down. ‘But you’re well enough to make tea.’
‘I suffer through it,’ I replied in a hero’s whisper.
This was my first real test. One on one with my fake boyfriend’s real mother, caught in her kitchen, hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and if she’d been three minutes earlier, it would’ve been the literal biscuit tin but thankfully I’d managed to stuff two non-vegan chocolate digestives into my mouth and three into the pocket of my hoodie before she appeared.
Other people’s mothers always made me anxious.
My personal experience was so minimal, I didn’t know what to expect.
Desi’s parents moved to New York with her dad’s job right after she started university, so she almost always went to them rather than the other way around, and Joel had almost as little to do with his family as I had with mine.
Attitudes towards queer kids might be changing by and large but not quickly enough when it came to his parents.
The thought of anyone rejecting my kind, generous, beloved best friend made me so mad.
But I’d heard other people’s mothers were their greatest champions.
Lionesses ready to fuck you up for looking at their cub the wrong way, mama bears just waiting for an excuse to claw you to death for mistreating their precious little baby.
I glanced down at Lizzie’s neat but sharp nails.
That wasn’t a farm manicure. She could do some damage there if she wanted to.
‘Where’s Callum?’ I asked, mashing my teabag against the side of the cup then dumping it in the sink.
The corner of Lizzie’s mouth twitched. The spent teabag had barely struck the stainless steel before she swept in, scooped it out and transferred it to the bin.
‘Down in the shed with his dad.’
‘The shed?’
‘Cattle shed,’ she clarified. ‘Elsie had it completely rebuilt over the summer, Cal hasn’t seen it yet since the two of you weren’t able to make it up for a visit. We’re planning on a new parlour next, milking parlour that is. Derek will be wanting Cal’s opinion, I’m sure.’
‘Does he have an opinion on milking parlours?’
‘Callum might not be working on the farm right now but he’s very familiar with it all. Yes, I imagine he’ll have opinions.’
She poured boiling water from the kettle into her cup and did not flinch when a few drops splashed out and hit the back of her hand. The woman was stone cold.
‘Did he tell you our family has been farming this land—’
‘He did,’ I cut in with a yawn. ‘I won’t lie, I’m not super into it. Isn’t dairy farming super cruel?’
‘Some people think that,’ Lizzie said as she poured milk into her tea with a pointed look. ‘But some people think massage parlours are knocking shops so it only goes to show people aren’t always correctly educated.’
Shots officially fired.
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ I said, clutching the scorching hot cup, not worrying about potential third-degree burns. ‘Thanks.’
‘Since you’re feeling better why don’t you stay?’
I froze.
‘Callum always loves my mince pies, I’d be more than happy to share the recipe with you,’ she said. ‘You can knead the pastry, show off some of your skills.’
‘They’re not necessarily transferrable,’ I demurred, eyes on the hallway. So close but so far. ‘And I think I can feel my migraine getting worse …’
‘If you feel any visual disturbances coming on, say the word and I’ll carry you back upstairs myself,’ Lizzie shot back. ‘You have my word.’
I turned to face her, eyes narrow slits. WWDKD? What would Desi Kaplan do?
‘I can’t touch the pastry. It’s not vegan.’
‘You can spoon in the mincemeat.’
‘Mincemeat isn’t vegan either.’
She pulled a glass jar from her basket and held it up for me to see.
‘Says it right here, suitable for vegetarians, vegans, people with gluten intolerances and nut allergy sufferers.’
‘Well, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’ I said with a very bright and very fake smile. ‘Let’s make some mince pies.’
Baking was not my forte. The kitchen was not my favourite place to spend time.
Get in, open the fridge, get out, that was my game plan.
And if I ordered takeaway or brought food home with me, the kitchen could usually be avoided altogether.
Coffee on the way to work, lunch in the canteen, dinner from the twenty-four-hour Sainsbury’s by the bus stop.
Why dirty plates when you didn’t have to?
Lizzie McClay clearly did not share my sentiment.
Her kitchen looked like something from a fancy cooking show.
She had everything, matching mixing bowls, appliances, baking trays, pastry cutters passed down through four generations.
Her kitchen scales were older than both of us combined but they were still accurate to the ounce.
Her well-practised pastry came together with ease, flour, water, a dash of salt, some cubes of butter, and even though she’d claimed to need my kneading expertise, the second she started baking, it became very clear I was there to look but not touch.
Not once did she have to search for a recipe on her phone, smearing the screen with greasy fingers, screeching at me to run out and buy bicarbonate of soda because all we had was baking powder and apparently they are not the same thing.
Desi and I had agreed never to speak of our attempt to bake Joel a birthday cake again.
Turned out it was essential to know the difference between tablespoons and teaspoons when it came to adding salt to a Victoria sponge.
‘And into the oven they go,’ Lizzie said, dusting off her hands with the same satisfaction as any surgeon who had perfectly executed a surgical procedure. And even though I had not tasted the goods (and never would), I felt confident saying she’d nailed it.
‘Callum said he used to bake with his grandmother,’ I said as she moved all the dirty dishes over to the sink. ‘Was that your mother?’
‘No, that was Derek’s mum,’ she replied with shake of her head. ‘Callum never knew his grandmother on my side. We lost her just before he was born.’
On the opposite side of the kitchen table, I felt a twinge. Lizzie had lost her mum, just like me. But I couldn’t say anything. Both of Caroline’s parents were alive and well and enjoying a Caribbean Christmas cruise, it had been established.
‘Does Elsie like to cook as well?’ I asked, leaving the grandparent situation well alone. There was no comfortable way to broach it.
‘Elsie likes to do what Elsie likes to do and you’ll be hard pressed to guess what that is even while it’s happening.’ She turned on the tap and blasted hot water into her mixing bowl. ‘I’d say you’ll get used to Elsie’s ways but I can’t guarantee it.’
While Lizzie still had her back turned, I swiped at the open jar of mincemeat and licked the sweet sticky stuff from my finger.
‘Because she’s unpredictable?’
‘Because it takes her a long time to warm up to people and who knows when we’ll see you again.’ She filled the bowl with soapy water, turned off the tap then came back to the table. ‘If we’ll see you again.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
‘Only that Callum’s been so intent on hiding you away,’ she replied, all innocence. ‘If I were a more suspicious woman, I might think he was ashamed of you.’
‘If I were a more suspicious woman, I might think he was ashamed of you.’
It was a stand-off. Lizzie McClay, lady of Balmaclay, baker of pies and queen of backhanded burns, versus me, the rookie bullshitter, who could hardly keep her lies straight, let alone rise to meet such a master of passive-aggressive insults.
‘Och, would you look at the time,’ Lizzie said without looking at the clock on the wall or the watch on her wrist. ‘Here I am talking your ear off when I’ve so much to do, the fun never stops around here.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ I replied, still sorting through the implications of her possible insults. ‘I’m sure Balmaclay is a demanding mistress.’
‘And I’m sure you’d know all about that. The mince pies need to come out of the oven in ten minutes. Do you think you could manage that, Caroline?’
My reply came through gritted teeth. ‘I should think so.’
‘Not as daeless as she looks,’ she said sweetly. ‘If you need any help, Fiona should be back in half an hour or so.’
‘But the mince pies will be done in ten minutes?’ I said as she removed her apron and hung it from the hook on the wall.
‘Better not need any help then, eh?’ she replied, vanishing out the back door and out of sight.
Alone in the kitchen, I pulled one of the slightly broken biscuits out from the pocket of my hoodie and munched angrily. So much for our plan to convince his parents they wanted nothing to do with Caroline.
It seemed to me that decision had already been made.