Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets

Emma couldn’t stop her eyes brimming over. How she wished she was with Pete now, laughing with the rest of the Sheridans as they stood around in the kitchen, chatting and generally hindering Mrs Sheridan with her dinner preparations. They usually sat down at around half five after an afternoon playing Scrabble or charades. There was rarely any alcohol at the Sheridans’, but their Christmas party didn’t suffer because of the lack of it. The small, close-knit family got on so well that they didn’t need anaesthetizing. They didn’t need to watch TV to enjoy themselves, either. Emma’s favourite part of Christmas Day in her parents’ was when dinner was over and they all sat down to watch whatever big movie was on the box. With nobody given the opportunity to argue with anybody else, and with a few glasses of wine inside them, peace reigned briefly. Jimmy loved the telly and loved films and, while he was watching one, he managed to keep his temper under control.

It was no accident that Emma had bought him four classic videos for Christmas. If there was nothing good on after lunch, she’d stick on Dr Zhivago. He loved that and it was at least three hours long. She yearned for those three hours of peace, but first, they had to get through dinner.

Having said a tearful goodbye to Pete, Emma dialled her sister’s house. Patrick answered.

‘You sound miserable,’ Emma remarked.

‘I am. Madam is in bed with a brutal hangover and there’s nothing in the house for Christmas dinner,’ her brother-in-law said gloomily. ‘I’m having four sausage rolls, a pizza and oven chips. She’s not eating anything because she says every time she opens her eyes, her head spins.’

‘I’d make her head spin if I was anywhere near her,’ Emma said crossly. ‘I’ll throttle her for wriggling out of dinner here. It’s like Chateau Despair. The turkey would kill itself if it wasn’t already dead.’

‘Happy days, as usual?’ Patrick asked.

‘You said it. I’m worried that Mum will have another turn and I don’t know if I can cope on my own, that’s why I wanted Kirsten here.’

‘What sort of “turn”?’ Patrick asked, sounding puzzled.

‘You know, like in Laura Ashley’s.’

‘I don’t want to sound dense, Em, but I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You mean, Kirsten never told you!’ Emma was utterly shocked. She couldn’t believe her sister hadn’t mentioned their mother’s problem. Kirsten was unbelievable. ‘I can’t talk now,’ Emma whispered, ‘but ask Kirsten to tell you what happened earlier this month when I brought Mum out shopping. I’m worried about her – really worried…’

Dinner was hellish. Great-Aunt Petra dubbed the turkey too tough, the sprouts inedible and the gravy lumpier than an old mattress. Jimmy agreed, conveniently deciding that it was all Emma’s fault. Anne-Marie had listlessly picked at her food, more interested in chasing sprouts round her plate with the knife than actually eating any of them. Only Uncle Eugene had eaten everything uncomplainingly, with the delight of a bachelor who rarely had home-cooked meals.

‘You’re a great oul’ cook, Emma,’ he said gratefully as he shovelled another forkful of mushy peas into his mouth.

At least she could get mushy peas right, Emma thought, with gritted teeth. She brought all the dishes out to the kitchen and couldn’t help noticing that, for all her aunt’s protests about rubbery turkey, she’d managed to eat enough of it.

She loaded the dishwasher on her own, made tea, custard for the pudding, and delivered the next course into the dining room in time to hear her father talking about Kirsten as though he was discussing the Second Coming.

‘She’s a great girl,’ he said fondly. ‘Did that Ballymaloe cookery course with Darina Allen and, boy, can she cook. She’s something of a whizz in the kitchen, all right. What was that thing she made last time we were in Kirsten’s house, the dinner she learned how to make?’ he asked his wife.

Anne-Marie shrugged blankly.

I’m surprised he can remember that far back, Emma growled, putting the teacups down with a clatter. Kirsten wasn’t known for the regularity of her family dinners. She wasn’t known for the regularity of any dinners for that matter. Poor Patrick was never in any danger of putting on weight from his wife’s cuisine.

Thanks to that two-day course in the famed Ballymaloe House, which she’d only gone on because some of her charity lunch pals were organizing it, Kirsten could conjure up a roasted pepper salad, make organic boeuf en croute and whip up a nice frozen yoghurt dessert. But there was no point asking her to roast a chicken, cook an omelette or prepare any sort of vegetable that didn’t come washed and trimmed in supermarket packaging with instructions on how to microwave it.

‘Fish thing, was it?’ her mother was saying, her face puzzled. ‘No, not fish but, that thing, you must know what I’m talking about!’ She turned in frustration to Emma. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Emma. I can’t think of it…’

‘Beef, that was it. You should have tasted it,’ said Jimmy, waxing lyrical. ‘Pity she wasn’t here today.’

Emma wasn’t listening. She was staring sadly at her mother’s baffled face. She knew that her mother could remember what Kirsten had cooked, she remembered everything her darling Kirsten had ever done. Yet it was as if she couldn’t find the words for it. They were lost in her head. She tried to smile bravely and encouragingly at her mother, but Anne-Marie was staring into her plate, silent and confused.

‘Emma has made us a great dinner,’ said Uncle Eugene loyally.

‘Well, yes,’ Jimmy said. Then catching sight of his daughter’s tired face and the apron she wore over her new lilac jumper, he seemed to relent. ‘She’s a good girl, aren’t you, Emma. Now, I hope this custard isn’t too lumpy and not out of a packet. You know I like proper custard.’

‘Of course, Dad,’ Emma said automatically. In the kitchen, she tried to make sense of her mother’s problem. She knew what it was, what it had to be. But she hated to face up to it. How could Anne-Marie cope with the loss of her mind? How could anyone?

‘Have you got the pudding ready yet?’ roared her father. ‘Our stomachs think our throats have been cut!’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Emma gave the custard a vicious stir, relishing her small victory by virtue of the fact that it wasn’t real custard: it wasn’t even custard you had to add boiling milk to. It was instant – the just-add-water variety.

Tough bloody bananas, Dad. She’d poured a huge dollop of brandy into his bowl when she was dishing up the pudding earlier: she didn’t want to bring it in and light it in case anyone copped on that it was an M & S special instead of Anne-Marie’s own secret recipe. She gave everyone a bowl and they tucked in.

‘Lovely,’ Jimmy said as he dug in. ‘There’s nothing to beat your pudding, Anne-Marie,’ he said proudly. ‘I’d recognize it anywhere.’

The brandy had the desired effect. Emma shooed them all off into the sitting room afterwards, ostensibly to watch Dr Zhivago. ‘I’ll be in soon,’ she sang cheerily, having no intention of joining them. She was going to tidy up, scrub all the pots and pans, and then retire to the conservatory for a rest. Her relatives could pass out in front of the box without her.

However, the best-laid plans and all that…Jimmy found her sitting quietly in the conservatory and chivvied her back into the fold, like a bull driving a solitary cow into his herd. She quite liked Dr Zhivago but not when she was already feeling emotional and depressed. The haunting ‘Lara’s Theme’ echoed through her mind with each fresh tragedy. Only the knowledge that she had to drive soon and couldn’t drink kept Emma from diving into the sherry herself. She could barely watch the film any more when salvation came in the unlikely form of the doorbell.

‘I’ll get it.’ She leapt to her feet and ran into the hall. To her utter surprise, Patrick and a green-faced Kirsten stood outside.

‘We couldn’t leave you to face the whole day on your own,’ Patrick said grimly.

‘Oh yes we could have,’ grumbled Kirsten, pushing past her sister and hurrying into the kitchen to get a glass of water to slake the ever-present hangover thirst.

‘I got her to tell me what had happened to your mother,’ Patrick whispered to Emma. ‘It sounds terrible.’

‘You and Pete are the only people taking this seriously,’ Emma said, relieved Patrick was there. He was a very capable man. Her father never bullied him, although Kirsten did all the time. Still, having Patrick on her side was a bonus.

‘Where’s Pete?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I was supposed to go to his parents’ this Christmas but Dad insisted we come here. Under the circumstances, we decided to split the celebrations. I’m going to his house later.’

‘Why don’t you go now?’ Patrick said kindly. ‘We’ll stay here for the evening. And if your father wants to roll out the fatted calf for Kirsten, she can cook it herself!’

‘You can’t leave,’ hissed Kirsten, who’d emerged from the kitchen and had heard the last bit. ‘I’m not sitting here all night with bloody Great-Aunt Petra…Hello, Aunt Petra! How are you? I love your outfit,’ she cooed, straight-faced as Petra and their father appeared in the sitting-room doorway.

‘Kirsten, my love! Happy Christmas!’ said Jimmy O’Brien.

It was hugs and kisses all round. Even Anne-Marie seemed to come out of her trance-like state to greet the new arrivals.

‘I’ve got your presents under the tree,’ Anne-Marie told her daughter happily. ‘And I haven’t forgotten you, Patrick.’

Emma watched and wondered if her mother’s problem really existed except in her own imagination. Earlier, Anne-Marie had been sitting quietly, not really taking part in the conversation, merely nodding and saying ‘yes’ when her husband spoke to her. But now she was the life and soul of the party, happy and laughing. Did she enjoy Kirsten’s company so much that she only came to life when her younger daughter was around? Was Emma imagining some horrible illness purely because she couldn’t come to terms with the fact that both parents preferred her sister?

Confused and tired, Emma got her coat and handbag. ‘I’m going to Pete’s,’ she said quietly to Patrick.

He gave her a sympathetic hug before she slipped away without anyone really noticing. No doubt her parents would be angry that she hadn’t gone through the palaver of kissing everyone goodbye, but she couldn’t face it today. She’d played the dutiful daughter for most of the day. Now she wanted to be with her husband.

‘Is it me?’ she asked him an hour later when she’d been welcomed with open arms by his family and they’d exchanged more gifts and drunk yet another pot of tea. ‘Could I be imagining that Mum’s sick? She seemed OK today and when Kirsten arrived, she was absolutely normal. God, maybe I’m the one who’s losing my marbles.’

Pete scooched up closer to her on the bench seat in his mother’s kitchen. ‘Don’t be daft, love. You’re the sanest one in your family. And you said she tried to open a tin with the whisk. That’s not exactly normal behaviour, is it? The thing is, your mother adores Kirsten. She’d go to hell and back not to upset her. I think she’s trying very hard to cling to normality when Kirsten’s around and it’s only when she’s with you that she can lapse into how she’s really feeling.’

Emma didn’t think it could be that. ‘You don’t choose the times when you feel confused and when you don’t, do you?’ She rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘I wish I knew more about things like Alzheimer’s. Should we get a book on it? There’s bound to be one with a guide to what to do if someone you know has it. Or should we go to the doctor and talk to him?’