I cant put up with my motherinlaws whims at the New Year table any longer, so I slip out to my friends flat.
Who cut the salad like that? Look at those cubes theyre the size of pig feed! They wont fit in a mouth. Ive told you a hundred times the pieces should be neat and tiny so the flavours can shine, not hacked off with an axe, Margaret Clarkes voice drowns out even the telly where Dan Brown is trying, once again, to sort out the heating.
Charlotte pauses, knife hovering over a bowl of boiled carrots. The clock reads fourthirty on 31December. Her back aches as if shes unloaded a freight wagon of coal, not been at the stove since dawn. Her feet are swollen in house slippers, and a fresh cut on her finger throbs.
MrsClarke, Charlotte takes a deep breath, fighting the tremor that threatens a fullblown hysteria, these are normal, standard cubes. We always cut them like this. If you dont like them, you can skip the salad. We have three other dishes.
Skip it? Margaret flings her hands, nearly toppling the gravy boat. What is this, talking to my sons wife? Ive come here to celebrate, to bring the family together, and youre giving me a piece of bread to bite at? Dan! Do you hear how your wife is speaking to me?
Dan, seated in the lounge untangling a string of fairy lights, sighs heavily. He hates conflict, so he adopts the ostrich tactic: head in the sand, waiting for the storm to pass.
Oi, Mum, he calls from the sofa, cut it finer, will you? Shes just trying to help. She used to be a professional chef, she knows best.
I ran the mess hall for years! Margaret declares proudly, adjusting a massive brooch on her chest. My hygiene standards were off the charts. And you, Charlotte, have a kitchen disaster. Your towel is stained, and you wipe your hands on it. Thats unsanitary!
Charlotte puts the knife down. Inside her, a slow but steady boil of anger rises, the kind that usually ends in irreversible fallout. This isnt her first New Year with Margaret, but it feels the toughest yet. Margaret arrived two days ago, ostensibly to help, but in reality to inspect every corner and issue a verdict: daughterinlaw is sloppy, son is underfed, no grandchildren (because the daughterinlaw must be selfish or ill), and the flat is tasteless.
The towels clean, Charlotte replies calmly. I took it out this morning; a splash of beet juice landed on it. MrsClarke, could you leave the kitchen? I need to roast the goose, its getting hot and cramped in here.
A goose? Margaret squints. How did you marinate it? In mayo, like last year? Thats vulgar! It should soak in a lingonberryjuniper sauce for two days. I sent you the recipe on Facebook. Did you not read it?
I used my own recipe apples and honey. Dan loves it.
Dan only likes what you make him like! Youve ruined his stomach with your cooking. Hell have gastritis, look at how pale he sits. I used to make him steamed meatballs as a child, thin soups
Charlotte feels the goose about to fly out the window or straight into her motherinlaws face.
Alright, thats it, she wipes her hands on her apron. The goose goes in the oven. Salads are ready. All thats left is to set the table and straighten ourselves up.
Straighten up? Margaret eyes her with a judges stare. You could at least do a cucumber mask. Dan will look at you and lose his appetite. A man should see a queen, not a kitchen maid.
Charlotte swallows the rebuke for the sake of her husband, for the sake of the holiday, for the sake of not starting the year with a fight. She slides the heavy roasting tray into the oven, sets the timer, and retreats to 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. Shes thirtyfive, a department manager at a major logistics firm, responsible for twenty staff. She and Dan bought the flat with the inheritance she received. Why should she endure humiliation in her own home?
Because family, a voice inside whispers, sounding like her own mothers, you must be wiser, you must endure. A thin peace is better than a fierce quarrel.
She washes her face, applies patches, forces a smile at her reflection. Okay. Six hours left. Well sit, listen to the chimes, eat, and shell fall asleep. Tomorrow Ill take Dan and the kids out to see the Christmas lights, 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, bought specially for the occasion with half her bonus, hangs on the bed. Oh, Charlotte, are you really going to wear that? Margaret calls from the doorway, slipping in without knocking.
Yes, its my festive dress.
Good grief Margaret purses her lips. The velvet is heavy. Youll look like a teapot lady. The colour is mournful. New Year should be bright and sparkly! I have a glittery cardigan you could borrow if you fit into it.
Thanks, no thanks. I like this dress, and Dan does too.
Dan doesnt care, as long as you dont shred him. Im telling you straight: it doesnt work. It highlights every flaw. Youd be better off hitting the gym than stuffing yourself with midnight buns.
Charlotte begins to dress, her hands shaking, the zipper catching. Let me help, or youll rip it its expensive, even if its useless, Margaret tugs the zipper, making Charlotte lurch. There, see? I warned you. Dont complain later that Dans eyes wander to younger women.
By tenp.m. the table is set. Crystal glitters, candles flicker, the goose, golden and fragrant, commands the centre. Dan slips on a crisp shirt, Margaret dons that glittery festive cardigan and piles on gold jewellery, looking like a Christmas tree.
Charlotte feels like a squeezed lemon. She has no appetite, no mood. She just wants the night to end.
Lets toast the old year! Dan announces cheerily, pouring champagne. Its been rough, but we made it. The important thing is were together!
Yes, especially for me, Margaret adds, lifting her glass. My health is terrible, blood pressure spikes, no help. My son works, my daughterinlaw is always busy with her career. No grandchildren. Loneliness
Mom, we call, we visit, Dan tries to defend.
Calls once a week just for the record. Lets not get sad. Lets drink to better housewives in the new year, to remembering their proper roles.
Charlotte takes a sip, the champagne biting her tongue.
Try the salad, she offers, sliding a herringandbeet huss towards Margaret. Margaret spears a piece, sniffs, grimaces, and pops it in her mouth, chewing deliberately, eyes rolling.
Well the herring is oversalted, the beet undercooked, it crunches. And the mayoCharlotte, did you drown it in vinegar? Its a milelong sourness.
Its lemon juice, as the recipe says, Charlotte whispers.
Lemon juice in a huss! Who taught you to cook? Your mother, may she rest, was never a chef either. Youre a halfcooked mess.
The remark lands like a punch below the belt. Charlottes mother died three years ago; she never got over it. Her mother was a kind woman who juggled two jobs to raise her, never had time for exotic marinades, but their home was always warm.
Dont mention my mother, Charlotte says, blood hot in her face.
What did I say? Im just being honest. Dan, pass the bread, this salad is inedible, Margaret demands.
Dan hands over the bread without looking at his wife, chewing mechanically, trying to disappear.
Then something flips in Charlotte. Anger, hurt, exhaustion melt into a cold calm. She looks at Dan, the man who promised to stand by her in joy and sorrow, who now watches his mother trample her mothers memory and demean her work.
Dan, is it tasty? she asks.
Uh okay, I guess. Lets not fight at the table. Mums just voicing an opinion, he replies.
Opinion, right. Fine, Charlotte says, standing slowly.
Where are you off to? For the hot dish? Not yet, sit down, Margaret commands.
No, Im not going for the hot dish, Charlotte says, heading for the hallway.
She strips the velvet dress, hangs it carefully, puts on jeans and a cosy sweater, grabs a small gym bag, tosses in her makeup kit, spare underwear, pajamas, phone charger. In the corridor she throws on a puffer jacket, hat, boots.
Margarets voice drifts from the living room: I told the neighbour why you need that multicooker, food in it is lifeless! A proper pot over a Russian stove Dan, wheres Charlotte? Shes taking forever. Is she upset? Shes nervous, you should get her to a doctor.
Charlotte peers into the doorway.
Im not upset, Margaret. Im just drawing conclusions, she replies.
Dan drops his fork.
Charlotte, what are you doing? Where are you going? In jeans?
Im leaving, Dan.
Going to the shop? Need something? Ill run!
No. Im leaving the house. Celebrate. Eat the goose. Its with apples, not juniper, so sorry. Toss the salads, theyre disgusting.
Charlotte, stop making a circus of this! Margaret snarls. What childish antics are these? Sit down now! Guests are at the door, the chimes are an hour away!
I have no guests, Charlotte says calmly. I have two strangers in this house. One who hates me, another who doesnt give a toss. Happy New Year.
She turns and walks to the front door.
Charlotte! Charlotte, stop! Dan leaps up, overturns a chair, and rushes after her. Are you crazy? Its night! Where will you go?
To someone who values me.
She flings the door open.
If you go now, Dan shouts, his voice half fear, half anger, Mum will be devastated! Youll break the family!
The family broke when you let her trample my mothers memory, Charlotte says, slamming the door shut.
Outside, soft fluffy snow falls. Its quiet, distant fireworks already start. Charlotte breathes the icy air. Strangely she does not feel cold; a lightness fills her.
She pulls out her phone and dials.
Sophie, you awake?
Charlotte? Whats up? Were in the middle of a party! Need a greeting?
Sophie, can I come over right now?
A pause, then Sophies voice steadies: Whats happened? Did Dan do something?
Im leaving. Probably forever. Im at the flat door with a bag.
Come on, hurry! Bring your boots, weve got plov, champagne galore! You know the code?
I remember it.
She orders a taxi. The fare is steep £45 on New Years Eve but she doesnt care. The yellow cab pulls up, she slides into the back seat and finally smiles for the first time all day.
Sophies flat is noisy, cramped, but warm. The hallway smells of mandarins and rice. Sophie, in a reindeerpatterned sweater, hugs Charlotte so hard her knees crack.
Come in, love! You look frozen! Misha, pour the drinks!
The flat is a merry chaos of kids, a dog, a couple of friends. No crystal, just paper napkins, a huge pot of plov, towers of buttered toast with caviar, a bucket of mandarins.
Charlotte, right on time! Misha shouts. Were about to make wishes! Sit!
They hand her a glass and a steaming plate of plov.
Eat! You must be starving, Sophie whispers. You never get a bite while youre cooking.
Charlotte tucks into the plov. Its divine no sanitary standards or juniper, just love.
What happened? Sophie asks as the clock strikes twelve and everyone shouts Happy New Year! while popping champagne.
Charlotte recounts the goose, the oversalad, the rag on the head and Dans silence.
Blimey, what a goat, Sophie jokes. Your mums a witch. You did right leaving. Dont waste your life on them. Youre gorgeous, clever youll find a proper man wholl carry you in his arms and actually love his mum.
Charlottes phone, set to silent, flashes like a Christmas tree: twenty missed calls from Dan, five from Mum, WhatsApp messages: Charlotte, bring back the corkscrew!, Where are the napkins?, Mums pressure is through the roof!, Youre selfish, leaving us on New Years! She reads them, laughing hysterically, tears of release spilling.
The corkscrew they cant find she mutters, wiping her eyes. Two adults cant open a bottle and find napkins? Pathetic.
Shoot, thats enough, Sophie snatches the phone. Tonights yours. Lets dance!
They dance until three in the morning. Charlotte forgets her sore back, the grievances, the fatigue. She feels alive.
On the first of January she wakes on Sophies sofa, head a little fuzzy, but spirits high. She knows she must go home, not to apologise, but to put a full stop on the saga.
She arrives back at the flat around noon. The hallway is dim, reeking of stale smoke and something burnt. The corkscrew they lost lies on the floor. The living room is a mess: dishes piled, crumbs everywhere, the goose untouched except for a single wing. Dan sleeps on the couch, the motherinlaw nowhere in sight, the guest room door shut.
Charlotte stomps to the kitchen, heels clicking, throws open a window and lets the crisp air rush in. She starts the coffee grinder; its roar sounds like a cannon in the quiet.
A minute later Dan shuffles in, hair rumpled, guilt and frustration mingling on his face.
Show up? he croaks. Thanks for the party. Mum drank all nights valerian.
Youre welcome, Charlotte says, pouring coffee into her favourite mug. Did you like the goose?
We didnt eat it. No mood. Charlotte, do you realise what youve done? You embarrassed me in front of my mother. Shes thinking of leaving.
Thats the best news of the year, Dan, Charlotte replies.
Youre a stranger now. Mean.
Im myself, Dan. I wont be a doormat any longer. I want to be happy.
At that moment the guestroom door bursts open and Margaret storms out, hand on her chest, a damp towel on her forehead.
There she is, the monster! she hisses. Shes back after making my mum have a fit! Dan, Im calling a cab. I cant stay in the same room as this woman.
MrsClarke, Charlotte says, meeting her gaze, a cab sounds great. Just take your recipes, advice, and complaints with you. Next time you come, be a guest, not a health inspector. Otherwise the door stays shut.
Margaret gapes, sucking in air like a fish.
Dan! Do you hear? Shes kicking me out!
Dan looks at Charlotte, illuminated by the winter sun through the window, calm, beautiful, untouchable. He recalls the nights complaints, the bitter dinner, the feeling that something vital was lost. He realises if he doesnt choose a side, hell lose Charlotte forever. She isnt threatening him; shes stating facts.
Mum, youve gone too far, he whispers. Charlottes right.
What? You too? Traitor! Margaret shrieks.
Mum, Im taking you to the station.
No, Ill go myself! My legs
The packing is noisy. Margaret throws belongings, slams cupboards, curses the bloody house. Charlotte does nothing, sipping coffee, watching the snow fall.
When Margarets door finally slams, Dan returns to the kitchen, sits, rests his head on his hands.
Im sorry, Charlotte. Im an idiot. I just got used to obeying her, feared hurting you, but I hurt you.
Charlotte places a hand on his shoulder.
Youre an idiot, Dan, but you can still fix this.
How?
Get up. Grab the rubbish bags. Well clean this mess. Then well eat the goose with our hands and watch Harry Potter. If I hear a single word about dust, youll hop on the next train with Mum.
Dan lifts his head; hope flickers in his eyes.
I get it. No dust, just goose and Potter and you.
They clean in silence, efficiently. They toss the wilted salads, wash the mountain of dishes. By evening the flat gleams. They curl on the couch under one blanket, munching cold goose (surprisingly delicious) and laughing at the Weasley twins antics.
Charlottes phone buzzes again: a message from Margaret, Arrived. My heart hurts. God judge you.
As the first sunrise of the new year painted the sky, Charlotte finally feels the peace she has been fighting for.
