One Night in Italy Read online

  Something snapped in Catherine. Happy families, my arse, she thought. She’d had enough.

  ‘Do you know what?’ she heard herself saying in a high-pitched voice. ‘This Christmas day is the worst one ever. You lazy lot don’t deserve any of this.’ And before she could stop herself, she raised the turkey platter above her head and hurled it at the wall.

  Emily screamed. Mike shouted. Shirley shrieked. Matthew gave a nervous laugh. ‘What the ruddy hell … ?’ cried Brian as the huge turkey splattered against a framed family photo, smearing it with grease.

  The turkey bounced off the radiator and down to the carpet where it landed inelegantly, feet sticking up in the air. Chipolatas rained like meaty bullets against the wallpaper, leaving oily blotches in their wake. The photo fell off its hook and down the back of the radiator with a muffled clang.

  ‘Catherine!’ Mike exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘She’s drunk,’ Shirley muttered to Brian, looking appalled.

  ‘She’s flipped,’ Brian murmured back, jaw sagging.

  They were all staring at her in astonishment. Now she’d got their attention at least. Now they’d bothered to look at her. The worm turns, she thought, clenching her fists. ‘I’m not drunk or mad or flaming menopausal, thank you very much,’ she snapped. ‘But I’ve had enough, do you hear me? Enough. Make your own bloody Christmas dinner, I’m off to Penny’s. At least I might get some respect over there.’

  ‘But Mum!’ Emily protested, eyes suddenly swimming with tears. ‘It’s Christmas Day! You can’t go!’

  ‘Mum, we’re sorry,’ Matthew said. ‘Sit down, let me sort out the turkey.’

  Too late. Too bloody late. Catherine was hardened to any tears or protestations. ‘Don’t worry, Daddy will sort it out,’ she sneered. ‘He’s good with birds, isn’t that right, Mike?’

  Mike had gone very white. ‘Catherine …’ he implored.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Shirley spluttered.

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Mike,’ Catherine replied, ripping off her apron. ‘And you,’ she added to her motherin-law. She threw the apron on the table where it landed on the roast potatoes. ‘Happy fucking Christmas,’ she said, then turned on her heel and left them to it.

  Penny answered the door in a purple party hat and gold lamé dress. ‘Oh, love,’ she said in alarm. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I just threw the turkey at the wall,’ Catherine sobbed. ‘And told Shirley to fuck off. Worst Christmas Day EVER!’

  Penny pulled her in for a massive perfumed hug. ‘Well, that’s bogging Christmas for you,’ she said, patting Catherine’s back soothingly. ‘Come and have some of ours. We were just about to start and there’s enough food here to sink the Titanic.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ The realization of what she’d just done hit her. Oh my God. All she could think of was the turkey’s little legs sticking up, that oily splotch on the wallpaper, the shocked faces around the table. Happy fucking Christmas. SLAM.

  ‘Course I don’t mind, Cath, the more the merrier. Now then, what are you drinking, hon?’

  ‘Large amounts.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  Half an hour later, the doorbell went again and Emily appeared, white-faced and tear-stricken. ‘Just in time for the Christmas pud, love,’ Penny said, not batting an eyelid. ‘Have a glass of wine and give your mum a cuddle, for goodness sake.’

  ‘Are you all right, Em?’ Catherine asked, hugging her tipsily. Christ, that brandy chaser and then the Pinot Grigio had gone straight to her head. ‘I’m sorry about the turkey, and … well, everything.’

  ‘There’s a drumstick or two left here if you’re peckish, Emily,’ said Penny, whose party hat had slipped rakishly over one eye. ‘Or you can go straight to the pudding. Dazza’s just heating up the custard now.’

  ‘What’s happening at home?’ Catherine asked. ‘Is it okay? Are Shirley and Brian still there?’

  Emily looked dazed. ‘Dad told us everything,’ she said, her voice catching on a sob. ‘About this Rebecca woman. He said he’s in love with her and you two are splitting up.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Why did you have to tell us this on Christmas Day? You’ve ruined everything!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said, wanting to cry herself. ‘We didn’t mean you to find out like this.’

  ‘What did she just say?’ asked Janice, Penny’s mum, cupping an ear. ‘That nice Mike’s left you? On Christmas flipping Day? What a tosser.’

  ‘Mum! Don’t be rude. Drink your Babycham and shut up,’ Penny hissed.

  ‘Mum! Don’t understand it meself,’ said Darren, Penny’s boyfriend, coming into the room with a jug of custard and an aerosol of double cream. He shook up the aerosol and squirted two great clouds of cream straight into his mouth. ‘Quality-looking bird like you, Catherine. What’s the man thinking?’

  ‘Who’s for Christmas pudding then?’ Penny asked, trying to change the subject. ‘We’ve got custard and brandy butter and— Darren! Stop that! More wine, Cath?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ll have everything, please. I’ll die of a heart attack before the day’s over.’

  ‘And why the hell not?’ said Janice. ‘You bloody well tuck in, duck. Not every day you find out your bloke’s a scumbag, is it? Men!’

  ‘Oi,’ Darren said, good-naturedly. ‘We’re not all scumbags, Janice. In fact, I’ve got something to say. This’ll cheer everyone up.’ He fumbled in his pocket, then dropped into a kneeling position in front of Penny. ‘Penny, will you do me the honour of—’

  ‘YES!’ Penny screamed before he could finish his sentence. She dropped the serving spoon and grabbed the little box from his hand. ‘Yes, Dazza, I bloody well will!’

  ‘Here we go again,’ muttered Tanya, Penny’s eldest daughter.

  ‘Aww,’ sighed Janice. ‘Isn’t that romantic?’

  ‘Ooh, let’s see,’ Emily said, perking up a little.

  ‘It’s lovely, congratulations,’ Catherine said, trying to be pleased for her friend. She was pleased for her friend. Totally.

  Out of the window, she could see the front door of their house opening, and Shirley and Brian marching out huffily, followed by Mike in an apron looking contrite and harassed.

  This was one Christmas Day none of them would forget in a hurry.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emergenza – Emergency

  ‘Call an ambulance!’ Sophie screamed again, as Jim toppled to the carpet, clutching his chest. His face was frozen and an awful groaning sound gurgled up from his lungs. In a single moment, Christmas was over.

  There was a beat of stunned silence then the room erupted into full-blown chaos, voices rising in uncontrolled hysteria, the children bursting into frightened tears. Trish and Sophie rushed to Jim’s side. ‘He’s not breathing,’ Sophie cried urgently, putting a hand on his chest and finding it unmoving. Her dad’s face was shockingly white and lifeless. Had they lost him, just like that? Was it already too late?

  Trish looked terrified. ‘What should we do?’ she gulped. ‘Jim! Can you hear me, love? JIM!’

  Sophie thought frantically. Back when she’d worked at Val Thorens, the staff had all undergone an obligatory first aid course. She and her friends had been squeamish about it at the time, not wanting to try mouth-to-mouth on the course leader’s plastic dummy with the grotesque face; more interested in making plans for that evening’s drinking session. But thankfully – miraculously – some of the information had stuck, filed away in a crevice of her brain under ‘Might Come In Handy One Day’.

  She put a hand on her dad’s breastbone and pumped hard, twice, remembering that sometimes this was enough to start the heart beating again. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a cruel imitation – one, two, three … Nothing happened. Shit. ‘Make sure the paramedics know he’s not breathing,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she urged. ‘Come on.’

  There was still no flicker of life. Her own heart thumping, she knelt b
eside him, put her left hand over her right and laced her fingers together on his chest. Thirty compressions, firmly and quickly, she remembered the course instructor telling them. ‘One, two, three …’ she counted under her breath.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Trish cried. ‘Where’s the ambulance?’

  ‘Two minutes away, apparently,’ Richard said from somewhere behind her. ‘Let me know if you want me to take over, Soph.’

  Sophie had no intention of letting anyone take over. She would save her dad’s life or die trying. ‘Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …’ she puffed urgently, pushing hard and wishing she had concentrated better that day back in the French Alps. What next? You had to tip the head back when it came to the mouth-to-mouth, she recalled. Pinch the nose, then put your mouth on the other person’s and breathe into it, twice. Thirty compressions, then two breaths. Repeat until they started breathing independently. If they started breathing independently.

  ‘Come on, Jim,’ Trish sobbed, clutching his hand and weeping onto his shirt. ‘Please, Jim, come back. It’s Christmas,’ she added plaintively.

  ‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.’ Sophie took a deep breath. Ready, Dad? She tipped his head back, pinched his nose shut, then put her mouth to his and breathed out slowly, feeling his chest inflate. His stubble grated against her face; such intimacy felt horribly wrong. Any minute now, she thought, I’ll wake up and this will have all been a terrible nightmare.

  Two breaths, but still nothing. Please let me wake up now, please.

  She began the chest compressions again, shot through with adrenalin and anguish and desperation. Come ON, Dad. Stop messing around. PLEASE.

  ‘They’re here!’ came a shout from the window – Julian, Samantha’s husband – as the ambulance drew up. He ran to the front door and, seconds later, the paramedics were striding in, a man and a woman with bags of kit, immediately assessing the situation and taking control.

  ‘Well done, love,’ the man said to Sophie, kneeling on the other side of Jim. ‘I’m Will – let me take over here now.’

  ‘How long has he been out?’ the woman asked Trish, taking Jim’s wrist in her hand as Will began pumping his chest.

  Sophie sat back on her knees, watching helplessly as the paramedics got to work. She could hardly breathe herself, it was such agony. ‘Is he … ?’ she croaked. ‘Is he going to be … ?’

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. Trish was crying into her hands and Sophie went over and put her arm around her. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she said again, tears spilling from her eyes. ‘You never even had a slice of our …’ She could hardly speak, her throat felt so tight. ‘… of our Christmas cake.’

  Such a stupid, trivial thing to cry about. So pathetic. But all she could think about was that magnificent cake she and her mum had made together, still in the kitchen, uncut. Jim had been joking all week that he was going to start on it, that he couldn’t resist another day without a piece, until Trish had ended up hiding it from him. More tears fell. Dad made things so much easier in the house with his banter and teasing. And now … And now he …

  ‘Okay, I’ve got a pulse,’ said the woman just then. ‘He’s breathing.’

  Trish sobbed even harder and clung to Sophie.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Sophie gasped breathlessly through her tears.

  ‘You saved his life,’ Trish cried, choking on the words. ‘You did it, Sophie.’

  Jim was breathing but unconscious, and the paramedics announced they would take him into hospital. Trish immediately started flapping about the Christmas buffet tea, of all things, but Samantha put a calming hand on her arm and spoke, mother to fellow mother, one organizer of many buffet teas to another. ‘Now don’t you worry about anything except Jim,’ she ordered. ‘We’ll manage perfectly well here. Trish, you’re going in the ambulance with Jim, I take it? Sophie, I’ll drive you there – I haven’t had anything to drink so I’m perfectly safe. Why don’t you grab a few things for your dad then we’ll head off.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sophie said numbly as Jim was stretchered out to the ambulance. She leaned against the banister in the hall, feeling for a moment like collapsing herself, then managed to get upstairs to gather some toiletries and pyjamas for him. Once in her parents’ bedroom, she saw the remains of his Christmas stocking at the end of the bed where he’d unwrapped it that morning – a chocolate orange, a packet of luminous golf balls, a new diary, some ridiculous reindeer socks, a miniature of Famous Grouse … Tears stung her eyes. She loved that her parents still did each other stockings after all these years. How sweet was that?

  Sniffing, she packed a bag for Jim, adding the reindeer socks in the hope that they’d make him smile. If he ever came round, that was. If she ever saw him smile again.

  Jim was in the operating theatre when she arrived at A&E. There was tinsel draped across the computer screens and colourful cards pinned around the reception area, but Sophie felt completely detached from everyone else’s Christmas celebrations now, as if happiness was something that belonged to other people.

  Trish was in the waiting area, her face greenish-pale. She seemed to have shrunk since Sophie had seen her last: a small, scared woman in a navy-blue anorak who twitched whenever a doctor walked by. ‘He’s still unconscious,’ she told Sophie. Her voice shook. ‘They said something about putting him in a medically induced coma while they sort him out.’ She clutched at Sophie blindly. ‘A coma, Sophie. That’s bad, isn’t it? What if he doesn’t wake up?’

  ‘He will, Mum. He will wake up.’ If she kept saying it, she might be able to convince herself, too. ‘We’ve just got to wait it out. You know Dad. Strong as an ox.’

  ‘But what if he dies? What will I do? I won’t be any good on my own.’ Fresh tears welled in her eyes. ‘What am I going to do without him?’

  Sophie eased Trish into one of the chairs and took her hands. ‘Don’t think about that now,’ she said. ‘Let’s wait and see what the doctors say. Come on, Mum, we have to stay positive. He wouldn’t want us sitting here upset.’

  ‘I should have been stricter with him,’ Trish said, not seeming to hear. ‘All that booze he was necking today! I did tell him he shouldn’t. I kept telling him! What was I supposed to do, snatch the bottle away from him?’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mum, nobody’s to blame.’ She felt a pang of guilt, remembering how she’d clinked her glass against her dad’s over lunch. Cheers! Why hadn’t she thought to police his behaviour better as well? ‘You did tell him, I heard you. He just got overexcited, didn’t he? Couldn’t help himself. Bloody big kid, that’s what he is.’

  They sat there together in silence, both still in their coats. Cliff Richard warbled from the radio and Sophie, who’d never been remotely religious, found herself praying for a Christmas miracle. Please let him live, she thought desperately. I’ll do anything. I just want more time with my dad. I want him to see me make a go of something for once, to be proud of me. Is that too much to ask?

  Hours later, the two of them were still in the same seats with only a collection of ghastly half-drunk machine teas and coffees to show for themselves. Samantha, bless her, reappeared with a Tupperware box of turkey sandwiches, Twiglets, scotch eggs and two slabs of the Christmas cake. ‘Everyone sends their love,’ she informed them, getting a thermos flask from her bag and then, after a furtive glance up and down the corridor, a bottle of brandy. ‘Any news?’

  Trish shook her head wearily. ‘Not really. He’s in surgery now. Nobody’s telling us anything.’

  ‘Are you going to stay here for the night? I can bring you toothbrushes and things if you want?’ Samantha offered.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Trish said. ‘We’ll stay but there’s no need to come back. You’ve got your kiddies, and it’s Christmas after all.’

  ‘They’re fine. I’ll come back when they’re in bed. Text me if you think of anything else.’

  Sophie felt bad now for ever turning her nose up at Sam, calling her a goody two-shoes in private. She’d never criticize h
er again, not after so much kindness. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, hugging her. ‘That’s really thoughtful. You’re a star.’

  Then there was just her and Trish, and the interminable waiting once again. They munched their turkey sandwiches together, both suddenly hungry, although neither of them could face the Christmas cake. ‘It doesn’t feel right having it without him,’ Sophie said.

  Trish surreptitiously poured them each a tot of brandy in plastic cups from the coffee machine. ‘Sophie,’ she said suddenly. ‘I want to say I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For … You know. For what I did. The Drama School thing. I shouldn’t have done it. I really regret it.’ Her eyes leaked with fresh tears. ‘I’ve not been the best mother I could be, I know that.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ The brandy surged around Sophie’s bloodstream like an electric current and she shut her eyes for a moment, unsure if she was up to this conversation in a dismal hospital waiting area, of all places. ‘You don’t need to say this. Really. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘But I do need to say it. I should have said it back then. I know you’ve never forgiven me.’

  Sophie realized she was gripping the plastic cup so tightly the thin sides were crackling. It looked as though they were finally going to have the Big Chat, then. She’d thought about it enough times, fired herself up with rage and incredulity. Who wouldn’t?

  The whole toxic row had centred on her second year of sixth-form college, when she and her parents had undergone an epic saga of disagreement over ‘What Sophie Should Do Next’. Against their wishes she’d applied to study drama in Manchester. Against her wishes (and completely unknown to her), they had filled out application forms for her to take a business studies course in Sheffield, so they could keep her where they wanted. Increased job prospects, they said. More options. Well, bollocks to that.

  The interview and audition at Manchester went better than she could have wished for, and she returned home triumphant and excited about the direction her life would (hopefully) take. Unfortunately, to her great disappointment, no offer of a place arrived. They didn’t even bother sending her a rejection. Had she really been that bad?