‘It’s nature’s cruel trick, otherwise there’d be a hell of a lot of only children,’ Sarah had said, four months after the birth of her little Bertie, when she was still unable to sit down without the aid of a donut cushion.
Margot felt much the same way about her New Year’s Eve at-home. From 1 January to approximately 31 March, she swore that she’d never undertake such a Herculean endeavour ever again.
But from April to August, the horror began to recede so that only positive memories of happy faces and good times remained.
Then during the three-day heatwave that was the highpoint of the British summer, Margot would long for winter. As she got trapped underneath the armpit of someone who eschewed deodorant on a Central Line train, all she could think about was Jack Frost nipping at her nose. How much nicer autumn/winter clothes were – Margot wanted to be buried in a long-sleeved midi dress with pockets and a pair of her beloved black opaque tights. How much yummier the food was – salad wasn’t really dinner whereas shepherd’s pie and crumble for afters definitely was. Then she’d bypass thoughts of Christmas, because Christmas was problematic, and skip right to New Year’s Eve and how fantastic it would be to have an at-home once again.
‘Blossom, next year if I decide to throw a New Year’s Eve at-home, you’re going to have to stage an intervention,’ Margot told Blossom, who was sitting in the kitchen doorway, drooling. It was 8.30 a.m. on New Year’s Eve. There were already sausage rolls baking in the oven and Margot was currently grating a huge block of cheddar for her cheese straws. ‘Why do I have to make life so complicated?’
Blossom didn’t answer at first. Then she whined, but it was less an answer to Margot’s rhetorical question and more, ‘You have cheese. I love cheese.’
‘For a start, why do I have an at-home, like I’m some Victorian lady who receives visitors between the hours of three and five? I should just have a brunch or a tea party or an evening cocktail soirée, not some time-consuming, stressful combination of all three,’ Margot said, waving a piece of cheese about for emphasis, which made Blossom whine even more.
‘And why do I insist on baking from scratch when shops sell all these things for much less than the price it takes to make them and don’t use up every utensil I possess and every last ounce of my energy? Don’t even get me started on the tidying.’
Blossom wasn’t going to go there but she did take a couple of delicate steps into the kitchen. Her bravery was rewarded when Margot said, ‘Oh go on, then,’ and she was allowed to hoover up the cheese crumbs that had drifted down to the kitchen floor like a fine powdering of snow.
The day before had been spent in a frenzy of cleaning. Steaming her rugs, washing every piece of glassware, crockery and cutlery she possessed until they gleamed. Moving all her bulky items into Geoff and Daphne’s hall, as she did every year, while lamenting how small her flat was.
Now Margot was slaving over a hot stove and a hot oven and panicking because her Ocado delivery, with enough booze to sink a small flotilla, was running forty minutes late.
‘And I had to pay nine pounds ninety-nine for a New Year’s Eve delivery when normally it’s free,’ Margot complained, but Blossom had decided to retreat to her favourite spot on the living room sofa until the sausage rolls came out of the oven.
Margot had to stop wafting bad energy around the flat. ‘I am positive. I am calm. I am baking food with love. I am going to throw a great New Year’s Eve at-home.’
Three hours later, Margot was the consummate hostess; throwing open the doors and the windows (all that baking had turned the temperature up to tropical) of her little garden flat to her nearest and dearest.
The first wave of callers was mostly friends with kids, who’d had an enervating walk on the Heath first or a fractious drive across London. Margot was delighted to see all of her godchildren and assorted siblings, plus the children of friends who’d decided that they didn’t want Margot to help their offspring reject evil and turn away from sin. She was the happy recipient of many sticky kisses and grubby hugs before most of her small visitors hung out with Blossom in the sitting room, Mary Poppins on the TV, home-baked treats to munch on.
The second wave was the in-between crowd. Friends who had several places to be that evening but wanted to start at Margot’s where they knew there’d be food to line their stomachs and a gentle start to the proceedings.
By nine o’clock, it was the faithful. Those that were going to see in the New Year at Margot’s and even though all her homemade treats were gone, she’d done a run to Tesco Express and her bathtub was still full of ice and alcohol.
The party had spilled out on all sides, as it always did, into Margot’s courtyard garden and onto the Square, which was where Margot was with a gin and tonic in one hand and Blossom’s lead (with Blossom attached) in the other, talking to Jacques and Solange, when Tracy and her husband, Den, arrived.
‘There she is!’ Den said, greeting Margot with a hug, though with her hands full, he didn’t get much of one in return. ‘We have six bottles of Prosecco. Shall I put them in the bath?’
‘Yes, please.’ Margot wondered if she should switch from gin to Prosecco, then decided that mixing spirits and wine might harsh her pleasant buzz.
‘I’ll take one of them,’ Tracy said, pulling a bottle from the box and smiling at Jacques and Solange. ‘So, here we all are again! How you doing, Margs?’
Margot raised her glass. ‘Feeling no pain.’
They talked about Jacques and Solange’s Christmas with her family in Rennes and how they’d all been thoroughly repulsed by the mince pies Jacques had brought. ‘Even though they were the luxury ones with brandy in them!’
And then, because it was New Year’s Eve, talk turned to New Year’s resolutions.
Jacques was going on a digital detox. Solange was doing Dry January. Tracy was taking a crack at Veganuary, but Margot wasn’t having any of it. ‘January is depressing enough. All the parties are over, your credit card bill needs paying, it’s dark and cold, why deprive yourself of Instagram, alcohol and the odd bacon sarnie?’ she asked her friends, whose faces fell as they began to regret their parsimonious decisions. ‘Sorry, to piss on your chips.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Solange sounded as if she really wished Margot hadn’t mentioned it. She stared down at her empty glass. ‘If I do decide to do Dry January, then I really need to drink while I still can.’
‘And I can at least do no screen time after eight p.m., because then it interferes with my body’s natural circadian rhythms,’ Jacques said. ‘You know how I feel about the health benefits of a good night’s sleep. Though it is possible to have too much sleep, which can be as harmful as smoking.’
‘I definitely need a drink now,’ Solange said, and she and Jacques hurried back to the flat.
‘Was I a bit too strident?’ Margot asked Tracy, as she let Blossom drag her to the patch of grass that was her preferred wee spot.
‘Of course you weren’t,’ Tracy said. ‘Anyway, you don’t really need New Year’s resolutions because you do all your positive affirmations and whatnot every day. Do they really work?’