Antidote to Infidelity Read Free

two-bedroomed bungalow, she still manages
to dress like a star, spend like a sheik and speak like the Queen. Ninety-nine
per cent of the time that is, until she forgets herself and a rogue expletive
just rolls off the tongue. Like bollock. Or baar-staard. Or, my particular
favourite being last week, when she had me in stitches, innocently deeming the
new silver teapot she’d purchased ‘not worth a wank, dear’ before marching it
straight back to ‘John bloody Lewis’.
    I squirm uncomfortably, needing
to get off the phone. Twelve ‘dears’ in two minutes, it’s like being on safari.
    “Tomorrow’s fine, dear.” Grrr!
Thirteen. Now she’s got me at it.
    Exasperated, I wipe sticky
little finger marks off the tepid hall radiator, adding, “I mean Mary. Fine.
Lovely. The kids can’t wait. About twelve okay? Or come earlier and see them
open their pressies.”
    As we say our goodbyes, I know
my bubbly in-laws will be banging down the door at first light, unlike my
toffee-nosed parents, who’ll leave it right until the last minute before
setting off. My younger sister Amy, far too pissed to see morning, will pull up
as I dish up, along with Will’s burly brother Robert and his hot Goth
girlfriend, no doubt squeezing in a last-gasp shag before the inconvenience of
dinner.
    But I don’t mind. Well, maybe
just a little . . . but only ’cause I’m jealous.
    What I do mind though,
is that whilst I’m running around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly, wrapping,
zooing and preparing a three-course Christmas banquet for eleven, Will - caught
red-handed pissing it up the wall - is still unaccounted for.
    Suppressing a burning urge to
leave a strict ultimatum, like ‘be home in five minutes or bugger off back to
your mother’s’ on his answer machine, I make my way to the kitchen, willing
myself to focus on his good points, and, of course, my own culinary genius.
Pulling my frizzy brown waves into a bobble, I turn on the tap and begin
peeling a mountain of potatoes, carrots and parsnips so I won’t have to mess
about in the morning.
    This year, I’m determined
there’ll be no mistakes. This year, I trust no one and have shopped early - by
hand, not bloody Internet.
    ***
    I’ll never forget last year, my
first attempt at a Nigella Lawson-style Noel. Keen to impress, I decided on
three delicious courses: creamy garlic mushrooms, turkey and sticky caramel
profiteroles. Yum.
    Yum that is, if Sainsbury’s
Home Delivery hadn’t rolled up at 6pm on Christmas Eve and announced, seemingly
without a shred of concern, that the eight pots of double cream I’d ordered -
the main ingredient to my lovely starters and puddings - were ‘soz like, out of
stock duck’.
    But I didn’t panic, I simply
sent Will to Tesco’s. Who, it turned out, had also run out. As had Somerfield.
And Morrisons. And Asda. And the Co-op. And every other shop on the face
of the earth. Masterchef glory evaporating in potato steam, I sobbed a pan full
of tears, but hey - the outlaws had to settle for prawns, turkey and vanilla
ice cream . . . and like it, or else!
    This year there’s been no such
drama, thank God - so far, so good! I’ve surpassed myself with Brussels pate,
beef, turkey, pork, gammon, bacon-wrapped chipolatas and an abundance of tasty
trimmings. All set for an elegant Christmas carvery in the conservatory, my
pièce de résistance is a delicious, home-made tiramisu, with lashings of cream
and amaretto liqueur. Mmmm.
    The fact I’m just a big, fat
fraudster isn’t putting me off one bit. It is home-made, just not in my home and not by me . My good friend Liselle presented me with the posh
pud yesterday, quite by chance, just as I was screaming at egg whites for not
whipping into light, fluffy meringue. How the heck was I supposed to know you
need to add bloody sugar?
    Gazing at her heavenly Italian
indulgence like it was a mirage, I binned my shell-infested slop, begging
permission to pass it off as my own masterpiece. She agreed -