All That and Then Some

ALICE - Bust a Move

OUR HOUSE SMELLS LIKE pine boughs, mulled wine and woodsmoke (Vic forgot to open the flue again). Candles flicker inside their hurricane jars and the tree twinkles, resplendent with fairy lights. Maeve and Jules — who I've been introduced to as her girlfriend/not-girlfriend/they're not ready to put a name on it yet and, I've now learned, was the actual sender of those mystery flowers that caused so much consternation in our household — are laughing in the kitchen as they attempt to build a tall, sticky croquembouche tower (Margolie's recipe). To Vic's dismay, the normally orderly kitchen is an absolute disaster of used pots and caramel splatters. Fortunately, he's taken two muscle relaxants for his back and is easily persuaded to let the girls clean up after themselves (which they will never accomplish to his exacting standards) and join me in the living room, where we are watching snow swirl in the darkening sky.

It's Christmas Eve. Finally.

Soon, our friends and family will descend on our cozy little house and bring with them the chaos and babble of the outside world. But for a minute or two longer, Vic and I can stand with our arms snugly around each other and enjoy the silence.

"Are we ready for this?" he murmurs into my hair.

"As ready as we'll ever be."

He gives my arm a gentle squeeze and moves placidly away to put the Bing Crosby on.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimes.

My mother is the first to arrive, full of excited energy and wearing, inexplicably, her knee-high go-go boots. Her hair has been teased and sprayed into a genuine 1960's beehive, and her lips are alarmingly frosted.

My son, somewhat subdued due to being heartbroken but nevertheless having agreed to play butler this evening, greets her rudely, "Why is your mouth white, Grandma? Are you sick?"

"Tim!" I shout.

"-othy!" corrects Vivian, who, despite having unwittingly broken my son's heart, is still adorably willing to defend his new identity.

"Oh, Alice," my mother tuts as she throws off her fur jacket and passes it to the waiting arms of her grandson. "You're so out of touch. 'Sick' means 'ring-a-ding-ding' nowadays. It's a whole new language. You should really spend more time on urban dictionary dot com."

I shake my head imperceptibly at my son, who looks to be on the verge of correcting her. Let her have it; it's Christmas, I implore him with my widened eyes.

He dutifully carts her heavy coat up the stairs and into Vic's tv room which, after tonight and to my husband's immense satisfaction, will no longer be doubling as Vivian's bedroom. She is moving back home with Leslie. While Leslie still wants to get married and Vivian still doesn't, they have, at least, come to the mature agreement to simply ignore their differences in favour of loving each other; a time-tested recipe for a happy relationship, if you ask me.

Relieved of her coat, Mum rubs her hands together and looks around the decorated living room.

"Did you run out of fairy lights? A bit dark in here."

Vic steps smoothly between us, all serene magnanimity thanks to his back pills and offers to get my mother a drink.

Next to arrive are Buddy, his husband James and Angel, who greets me with a sly giggle.

"Awice! Eye-bow," she points at my forehead.

I surreptitiously check in the mirror over the fireplace.

Dammit.

WHILE I'M UPSTAIRS (REMEMBERING to darken both eyebrows this time), Vic's parents arrive, bearing, as they always do, shopping bags full of treats.