Page 24 of Just Date and See

‘You’re here from Matcher?’ I say to them, stating the facts, but my voice shoots up at the end like it’s more of a question.

‘Yeah, we’re on our first date,’ Alice replies. ‘But how do you know that?’

I take my phone from my bag and open the app. As I cast an eye over the event details, I see that it’s not being held here at all, it’s something they’re doing at a pub in town.

I glance around the room. This isn’t boozy bingo; this is just bingo-bingo. Oh no. Oh, God. How have I done this? I’ve crashed their date. I’m drinking their prosecco – that explains why there were only two glasses and I’m drinking from (what a quick glance around the room reveals to be) a pot for extra dabbers. I’m not only ruining their date but I’m ruining non-boozy bingo for everyone. I am absolutely mortified.

‘I am so sorry,’ I tell them, although I’m more embarrassed than I am self-aware, so I say this at a normal volume, which only angers the other bingo-goers.

‘Shh,’ I hear someone behind me tick me off.

‘Sorry,’ I say, turning round to face them. ‘So sorry.’

Someone else shushes me.

I bite my tongue. It’s probably best if I stop talking – even if it is to apologise profusely. Even if I knew what to say to explain this, I don’t think anyone would appreciate me saying another word.

I grab my bag and make a dash for the door.

So that’s why the whole thing felt awkward, like a first date, because it was a first date, and I’ve certainly given Callum and Alice one they can tell their grandkids about.

9

‘Were you always this good in the kitchen?’ mydadasks mymum.

Ew. For some reason, it makes me really uncomfortable. I say ‘for some reason’ like I can’t quite figure out why – it’s obvious why, it’s because it’s mydivorcedparents, and because my dad’s new wife is upstairs, working from home – well, from my spare bedroom, while my parents are down here, getting on like a house on fire. Setting the house on fire might actually be the only way to defuse this.

‘I was always great in the kitchen,’ Mum replies.

Please make it stop.

There are a few moments of silence. I’m sitting at the dining table, facing the TV above the fireplace. Last time I looked, Dad was sitting at the island and Mum was standing behind it, making French toast. I’m too scared to turn around, anything could be happening right now.

‘Billie, you need to try this,’ Dad insists.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve eaten Mum’s French toast a thousand times, because I’ve actually been around, unlike him. It’s not worth getting into at Christmas, is it? Or at all, to be honest, given how long ago it was. You don’t need to forgive, or forget, to keep a lid on things, even if it’s only for your own sanity.

I get up from my seat to join them at the island. Mum has stuffed slices of brioche bread with Nutella to make her French toast, served with fresh fruit and a dusting of icing sugar, best enjoyed by those who didn’t cheat on her.

‘That’s really good,’ I tell her after taking a bite. ‘I’m so glad you’re making Christmas dinner here. I live in fear of the year I’m expected to make my own, I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

Individually, it’s not that any one part of Christmas dinner seems difficult to make, it’s making all the parts of it, and trying to make them all be ready for the same time that overwhelms me. When I watch Mum do it, it’s like a military operation, if not an art form.

‘We were just talking about that,’ Dad tells me. ‘We’re going to do it together, like old times.’

I look at Mum. She gives me a smile as if to say, look, I know it’s weird, but it’s peaceful.

‘Cool,’ I reply. I chew my lip for a second. ‘I’ll go wake Jess up, see if she wants any breakfast.’

‘Okay, darling,’ Mum replies. ‘Just shout if you want me to make another batch.’

I hop down from my stool and head upstairs. As I pass the first guest room, I cross paths with Gail on her way back from the bathroom.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

‘Good afternoon,’ she replies.

‘Right, it’s after twelve,’ I say – not that I got to sleep in. ‘Did you sleep okay?’