I cant stand my motherinlaws whims at the New Years table any longer, so I slip out and head to Sophies flat.
Whos cutting the salad like that? Look at those cubes theyre as big as a pigs snout! They wont fit in a mouth. Ive told you a hundred times the pieces should be tiny and elegant, so the flavour can shine, not chopped like a lumberjacks axe, Margaret Clarkes voice drowns out even the chatter of the television, where Victor Lukey is again trying to sort out the sauna schedule.
Olivia Bennett freezes, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock shows 4p.m. on 31December. Her back aches as if shed been hauling a coal wagon all night, not standing at the stove since sunrise. Her feet throb in house slippers, and a fresh cut on her finger protests.
MrsClarke, Olivia draws a deep breath, fighting to keep her voice steady, these are normal, standard cubes. Thats how we always cut them. If you dont like them, you can simply skip the salad. We have three other dishes coming.
Skip the salad? Margaret flings her hands, nearly toppling the gravy boat. Whats this, talking to my sons wife like that? Ive travelled all the way here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and you give me a piece of bread as a rebuke? Victor! Can you hear your wife speaking to me?
Victor, slumped on the sofa untangling a string of fairy lights, sighs heavily. He hates conflict, so he adopts the ostrich strategy: bury his head and wait for the storm to pass.
Olivia, Mum, he shouts from the armchair, just cut them a bit smaller, will you? Mum wants the best. Shes a former professional chef, she knows whats right.
I used to run a cafeteria! Margaret declares proudly, adjusting the heavy brooch on her chest. My hygiene standards were strict enough to make dental floss jealous. And you, Olivia, your kitchen is a disaster. The towels stained, yet you wipe your hands with it. Unsanitary!
Olivia puts the knife down. A slow, steady anger builds inside her, the kind that usually ends in irreversible fallout. It isnt her first New Years with Margaret, but it feels the toughest yet. Margaret arrived two days ago, claiming shed help, but in reality she inspects every corner and hands down verdicts: daughterinlaw a slob, son underfed, no grandchildren (because apparently the daughterinlaw is either ill or selfish), and the flat tastefully drab.
The towels clean. I took it out this morning; a splash of beet juice landed on it, Olivia replies calmly. MrsClarke, could you step out of the kitchen? I need to roast the goose its getting hot and cramped in here.
The goose? Margaret squints suspiciously. How did you marinate it? In mayo like last year? Thats vulgar! The goose should soak in cranberry sauce with juniper for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Did you even read it?
I used my own recipe apples and honey. Victor loves it.
Victor only likes what youve fed him! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. He must have gastritis already, look how pale he looks. I used to make him steamed meatballs and thin soups when he was a child
Olivia feels a second away the goose might fly out the window instead of into the oven, or straight at the second mother herself.
Alright, she says, wiping her hands on her apron. The goose goes in the oven. The salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and pull myself together.
Pull yourself together? Margaret eyes her like a judge. You could at least do a cucumber mask; your hair looks like straw and you have those dark circles. Victor will stare at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a dishwasher.
Olivia swallows the barb for the sake of her husband, the holiday, and not starting the year with a fight. She slides the heavy tray into the oven, sets the timer, and slips into the bathroom.
Turning the tap on, she finally lets the tears flow. She sits on the edge of the tub for five minutes, wailing, mascara running down her cheeks. Shes thirtyfive, a department manager at a major logistics firm, overseeing twenty staff. She and Victor bought the flat together, using the inheritance she received. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice inside whispers, sounding just like her own mothers, you must be wiser. You must endure. A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel.
Olivia washes her face, applies patches, forces a smile at her reflection. Right. Six hours left. Well sit, listen to the chimes, eat, and shell go to bed. Tomorrow Ill take Victor and the kids to look at the Christmas tree, and Ill curl up with a book.
She steps out of the bathroom, hoping for a truce. The flat smells of pine and roasting meat. Things seem to be settling.
In the bedroom, her darkblue velvet dress the one she bought especially for the night, spending half her bonus hangs on the bed.
Oh, Olivia, are you really going to wear that? Margarets voice rings just above her ear as the motherinlaw breezes in without knocking.
Yes, its my festive dress.
Honestly the velvet is bulkier than a teapot. Youll look like a dowdy housewife. And the colour is mournful. New Year should be bright and sparkling! I have a sequined top you could borrow if you want.
No, thank you. I like the dress, and Victor does too.
Victor doesnt mind as long as you dont ruin his appetite. As a woman to another woman, Ill tell you straight: it doesnt work. It highlights every flaw. Youd be better off hitting the gym than eating latenight buns.
Olivia starts dressing, hands trembling, the zipper catching.
Let me help, or youll tear the fabric, Margaret tugs the zipper, causing Olivia to lurch. See? I warned you. Dont complain later that Victor keeps looking at younger women.
By ten oclock the table is set. Crystal glints, candles flicker, the goose rosy and fragrant commands the centre. Victor dons a smart shirt, Margaret drapes herself in the sequined dress, all her gold jewellery flashing like a Christmas tree.
Olivia feels like a squeezed lemon. She has neither mood nor appetite; she just wants the night to end.
Lets toast the old year! Victor announces cheerily, pouring champagne. Its been a tough year, but weve made it. The important thing is were together!
Indeed, a tough one, Margaret adds, lifting her glass. Especially for me. My health is terrible, my blood pressure spikes, and theres no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandkids. Loneliness
Mom, we call, we visit, Victor tries to defend.
Calls once a week for the sake of tradition. Lets not dwell on the sad. Heres to hoping next year some women remember their proper domestic duties, Margaret declares.
Olivia takes a sip, feeling the champagnes bitterness.
Try the salad, she offers, pushing a portion of herring under a beet mash toward Margaret. I made it with homemade mayo, just as you like.
Margaret spears a forkful, sniffs, grimaces, and chews deliberately, rolling her eyes.
Well the herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, it crunches. And the mayo Olivia, did you drown it in vinegar? Its as sour as a lemon farm, she says.
Its lemon juice, per the recipe, Olivia whispers.
Lemon juice in the beet salad! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest in peace, wasnt a chef either. She fed you premade stuff, which is why youre such a kitchen disaster, Margaret snaps.
The remark hits a raw nerve. Olivias mother died three years ago, a hardworking woman who juggled two jobs to raise her. She never made junipermarinated goose, but her home was always warm.
Dont mention my mother, Olivia whispers, blood rushing to her face.
What did I say? Just speaking the truth. Victor, pass me the bread; this salad is inedible, Margaret demands.
Victor silently hands her a slice, eyes fixed on his plate, trying to disappear.
Then something clicks in Olivia. The anger, the hurt, the exhaustion melt into a cold calm. She looks at Victor the man who promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy, now silently allowing his mother to trample her mothers memory and demean her work.
Victor, does it taste alright? she asks.
Uh okay, he mutters. Olivia, lets not fight at the table. Mums just giving her opinion.
Opinion, right, Olivia says, slowly rising.
Where are you going? For the hot dishes? Stay a bit longer, Margaret commands.
No, Im not after the hot food, Olivia replies.
She walks out of the living room, strips off the velvet dress, folds it neatly in the wardrobe, puts on jeans, a cosy sweater, grabs a small gym bag, stuffs in her toiletries, a fresh set of underwear, pajamas, and her phone charger.
In the hallway she pulls on her coat, hat, and boots. Margarets voice drifts from the lounge:
I told the neighbour why you need that slow cooker the food in it is dead! A proper pot on a coal fire is what you need. Victor, wheres Olivia? Shes been quiet too long. Is she upset? She seems nervous, maybe she needs a doctor.
Olivia peers into the doorway.
Im not upset, MrsClarke. Ive just made my conclusions, she says.
Victor drops his fork.
Olivia, where are you off to? In jeans?
Im leaving, Victor.
Going to the shop? Need something? Ill run with you!
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate, eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so apologies. Toss the salads if you find them disgusting.
Olivia, stop making a circus of this! Margaret yells. Sit down now! Guests will be at the door, the chimes in an hour!
I have no guests, Olivia says calmly. In my house there are two strangers: one who hates me and one who doesnt give a damn. Happy New Year to you both.
She turns and heads for the front door.
Olivia! Olivia, stop! Victor leaps up, overturns a chair, and rushes after her. Are you out of your mind? Its night! Where will you go?
To someone who values me, she replies.
She flings the door open.
If you go now, Victor shouts, fear and anger mixing, Mum will be devastated! Youll tear this family apart!
The family fell apart when you let her trample me, Olivia says, slamming the door.
Outside, soft snow falls, muffling the world. Distant firecrackers pop. Olivia inhales the crisp air, oddly unfreezing. She feels light.
She dials her friend.
Emma? Are you up?
Olivia? Whats happening? Were middance here! Need a lift?
Can I crash at yours? Right now.
A pause, then Emmas voice steadies: Whats wrong? Victor gave you a hard time?
Ive walked out. Probably for good. Im standing outside my block.
Ill be waiting. Bring your bag, weve got mulled wine, a huge pot of pilaf, champagne galore! Door code?
Got it.
Olivia flags a taxi. The fare is steep New Years night pricing but she doesnt care. The yellow cab pulls up, she hops in the back seat and finally lets a genuine smile appear.
Emmas flat is noisy, cramped, and brimming with warmth. The hallway smells of mandarins and simmering rice. Emma, in a ridiculous reindeerpatterned sweater, gives Olivia a bearhug that sounds like bonecracking.
Come in, love! Youre freezing! Misha, pour the drink!
Emmas husband Misha, their kids, a dog, and a couple of friends are gathered. No crystal, no formal place settings paper napkins, a giant pot of pilaf, piles of buttered toast with caviar, a bucket of mandarins.
Olivia, right on time! Misha shouts. Were about to make wishes! Sit down!
They hand her a glass, a steaming plate of pilaf.
Eat! You must be starving, Emma whispers. I know you never snack when youre cooking.
Olivia tastes the pilaf its divine, no sanitary standards, no juniper, just love.
What happened? Emma asks as the clock strikes midnight, everyone shouting Happy New Year! and popping champagne.
Olivia gives a quick rundown of the goose, the salad, the straw hat, and Victors silence.
Wow, what a drama, Emma says. Your mum was a witch, wasnt she? Good call leaving. Dont waste your life on them. Youre beautiful and smart; youll find a proper man wholl treat you like a queen.
Olivias phone, set to silent, flashes like a Christmas tree: twenty missed calls from Victor, five from Mum, WhatsApp blips: Olivia, wheres the corkscrew?, Olivia, where are the napkins?, Mums blood pressure is through the roof!, Youre selfish, how could you ditch us on New Years?. She reads them and laughs, halfcrying, liberated.
The corkscrew they cant find she mutters, wiping tears. Two adults cant open a bottle or locate napkins. Pathetic.
Forget it, Emma snatches the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They dance until three in the morning. Olivia forgets her aching back, the grievances, the cold. She feels alive.
Morning dawns on 1January. Olivia wakes on Emmas sofa, head a little hazy but spirits high. She knows she must get home not to apologise, but to close the chapter.
She steps into her flat around noon. The hallway is dim, smelling of stale smoke and something burnt. On the floor lies the missing corkscrew they couldnt find.
The living room is chaotic. The table is still set, food remnants scattered. The goose sits untouched, one wing missing clearly, without the housewife appetite vanished.
Victor lies on the couch, curled under a blanket, the motherinlaw nowhere in sight, the guest room door shut.
Olivia storms into the kitchen, heels clacking, throws open a window, letting the frosty air rush in. She starts the coffee machine; the grinders roar sounds like a cannon in the silent flat.
Victor shuffles in, dishevelled, looking guilty and hurt.
Did you really come? he croaks. Thanks for the party, I guess. Mum spent the night on Valerian.
Please, Olivia says, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?
We didnt eat it. No appetite. Olivia, do you realise what youve done? Youve embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes ready to leave. She says she wont step foot in this house again.
Thats the best news of the year, Victor.
Youve become a stranger, a monster.
Ive become myself, Victor. Im done being the convenient one. I want happiness.
At that moment the guestroom door bursts open and Margaret storms in, hand over heart, towel damp on her forehead.
There she is, the nightmare! she shrieks. Back already! After I gave my mother a heart attack! Victor, Ill call a taxi. I cant stay in the same room with that woman. Shes a monster!
MrsClarke, Olivia says, meeting her gaze, a taxi sounds perfect. Please take all your advice, recipes, and complaints with you. Next time you visit, do it by invitation and behave like a guest, not a health inspector. Otherwise the door stays shut.
Margaret gapes, gulping air like a fish.
Victor! Do you hear? Shes kicking me out!
Victor looks at his wife. Olivia stands by the window, bathed in winter sunlight, calm, beautiful, untouchable. He recalls the previous night: the mothers nagging, the inedible dinner, the feeling of losing something vital. He realises that if he doesnt pick a side now, he may never see Olivia again. She isnt threatening; shes stating facts.
Mom, youve gone too far, he says quietly. Olivias right.
What?! Margaret shrieks. And youre siding with her? Traitor!
Mom, Ill take you to the station.
No, Ill go myself! My legs
The luggage is chaotic. Margaret hurls things, slams cupboard doors, curses the damned house. Olivia does nothing, sipping coffee, watching the snow fall.
When Margaret finally slams the door, Victor returns to the kitchen, sits, rests his head on his hands.
Im sorry, Olivia. Im an idiot. I just got used to listening to her, feared hurting her. Ive hurt you.
Olivia placesShe smiles, squeezes his hand, and declares that the new year will belong to them both, free from anyones meddling.
