Page 12 of Christmas at the Movies

Present Day

With its original flagstone floors, bright copper pans hanging from the ceiling and a dresser crammed full of colourful, mismatched mugs and crockery, the kitchen was Sarah’s favourite room in the cottage.

An Aga kept the room warm, despite the cold outside.

But the kitchen’s cheer wasn’t doing much to lift Sarah’s mood as she sipped her coffee and gazed gloomily out of the window, its sill covered in plants and pots of herbs.

Outside, it was a grey, drizzly day, not that it had stopped James from disappearing on his usual long Saturday-morning cycle ride.

She poured herself another cup of coffee. She was going to need it, she hadn’t slept well for the past few days, replaying Holly’s hurtful words in her head.

‘Just because you regret giving up on your dream doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on mine!’

Holly’s words rankled because Sarah knew that there was some truth in them.

Ever since hanging up that movie poster – a reminder of what could have been, if she’d made different choices – Sarah had been wondering if she had given up on her writing too easily.

Sure, there had been reasons: she’d been busy raising the kids and helping to run the cinema.

She’d tried to make time – snatching moments here and there – but it hadn’t been easy.

So she’d given up, just like Holly had said.

She could hear her daughter singing along to the Wicked soundtrack in her bedroom.

Guilt prickled Sarah’s conscience as she listened to her daughter hit a high note.

Had she stopped her from going to the audition because she was jealous of her talent – and the fact that she still had her whole life ahead of her?

No, thought Sarah, tightening the belt of her dressing gown. I’d never do that. She wanted her daughter to act, if that’s what she wanted to do. Sarah would support Holly however she could. But she and James both wanted Holly to get the best education possible, as a strong foundation.

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ asked Nick.

Startled, Sarah turned around. She hadn’t heard her son come into the kitchen, his slippers silent on the flagstones, and wondered how long he had been observing her. He was wearing pyjamas with his favourite manga character on them that she’d ordered from Japan last Christmas.

‘I’m just feeling a bit down today,’ admitted Sarah. There was no point lying to her son; Nick could read her every mood.

He came over and put his arms around her. Sarah relished the fact that her youngest was still happy to give her a cuddle.

‘Thank you, my sweet, sweet boy,’ she said, stroking his sandy hair still tousled from sleep.

Sarah got a big bowl out of the cupboard and started mixing together ingredients for pancakes. Nick sat down at the scuffed oak table, reading one of his manga magazines.

Butter sizzled on the skillet as Sarah poured batter into the frying pan. She dropped in blueberries to make a smiley face.

As intended, the delicious smell of pancakes cooking lured Holly down to the kitchen.

‘Morning, Holly,’ Sarah said. ‘I made your favourite.’

Ignoring Sarah’s peace offering, Holly went to the cupboard and got out a box of cereal.

Great, thought Sarah. She’s still giving me the silent treatment.

‘I’ll have her pancake,’ said Nick.

Sarah slid it onto his plate. Twelve-year-old boys had bottomless appetites. No sooner had she restocked the fridge than it was empty again.

Just as Sarah was about to sit down and eat her own breakfast, a ginger cat came into the kitchen and meowed.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You want your breakfast too, Jonesy.’ She poured cat biscuits into his bowl.

The cat, named for the ship’s cat in Alien, nibbled his food.

‘His litter tray needs cleaning too,’ said Nick, his mouth full of pancake.

Ugh.

Sarah went into the tiny utility room and changed the cat litter.

While she was in there, the washing machine beeped.

She hung the damp clothes out on the old-fashioned wooden airing rack suspended from the ceiling.

When they’d bought the cottage, she’d thought it was a charming period feature.

That was before she’d dried hundreds of loads of laundry on the rickety device.

‘Is my PE kit clean?’ called Nick, just as she was raising the rack up again, to dangle overhead like a colourful chandelier of pants, T-shirts and socks.

‘Did you put it in the hamper?’ Sometimes Sarah suspected that the dirty socks and underwear spawned in the hamper – surely that was the only explanation for how there were always so many clothes to wash.

‘No, it was in my bag. Oh, and my trainers are getting tight.’

Sarah sighed. It looked like she’d be doing another load of washing tomorrow and somehow find time to take Nick shoe-shopping. How was it possible that he’d already outgrown the trainers she’d bought at the start of term?

By the time she sat down to eat her pancake, it had gone cold.

‘You two need to give me your Christmas lists. And your birthday list, Holly.’ Sarah knew better than to try to choose things herself for her teenaged daughter.

She would only get it wrong. She hoped neither of the kids wanted anything big for Christmas.

There wasn’t a lot of spare money about this year, not with the cinema struggling.

‘I just want money,’ said Holly. ‘So I can get professional headshots done.’ She narrowed her eyes at her mother. ‘Or are you going to stop me from doing that, too.’

Don’t rise to the bait, Sarah told herself.

‘I just want art stuff and a new LEGO kit,’ said Nick.

‘“I just want art stuff,”’ mimicked Holly, in a perfect imitation of her brother. ‘God, you’re such a little goody two shoes. Aren’t you too old to play with LEGO?’

‘Ignore her, Nick,’ said Sarah. ‘You can build LEGO models as long as you like. Plenty of grown-ups love LEGO.’

‘Holly just feels frustrated,’ said Nick sagely.

‘Shut up,’ Holly told him. ‘I don’t need you telling me what I feel, you little weirdo.’

That was it – Sarah had had enough. It was one thing being horrible to her, but Holly didn’t need to be mean to her brother as well. ‘Holly – if you don’t drop the bad attitude, the only thing you can expect in your stocking is a lump of coal.’

Holly gave her mother a look of pure contempt. ‘I’m just trying to help. Can’t he at least try to act normal? He sits by himself in the canteen at lunchtime. It’s tragic.’

Nick bit his lip and Sarah knew he was trying not to cry.

‘If you can’t be civil, you can and go start on your chores,’ Sarah told her.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got far too much homework to do my chores,’ said Holly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I know how important my schoolwork is to you.’ She smirked triumphantly and went upstairs.

Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself not to scream in frustration.

Had she been so disrespectful at Holly’s age?

No, Geraldine would never have stood for it.

She knew she should force Holly to come back downstairs and clean the living room, but she didn’t have the energy for another battle.

‘I’ll do the breakfast dishes,’ said Nick.

‘Thanks, sweetie.’ Sarah tousled her son’s hair affectionately.

Sarah dragged the vacuum cleaner into a room with exposed oak beams and a big fireplace.

The living room was decorated with an eclectic mix of second-hand furniture from their friend Ian’s antique shop, movie posters, prints that they’d picked up on their travels and artwork by local artists who had displayed their work in the cinema café.

It was a wonderfully cosy room, but the downside to living in an old cottage was that it attracted dust and cobwebs.

Sarah hoovered up the cat hair, then dusted off the mantel, which was packed with framed photos, of Holly looking angelic in a primary school photo, her arms around her little brother protectively. How things had changed.

But Holly wasn’t the only one who had changed. Sarah picked up a picture of her and James on holiday in Hong Kong, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes on top of Victoria Peak. When was the last time they had looked at each other that way?

There was a clatter of cycling shoes on the kitchen’s flagstones and a moment later James came into the living room in his skintight cycling shorts and jersey.

Sarah averted her eyes. It was not a good look, despite the fact that James was still lean and fit.

Middle-aged men in spandex looked ridiculous.

‘Still in your pyjamas,’ said James cheerfully, leaving footprints on the carpet she’d just hoovered. ‘I’m glad you had a lie-in.’

‘I didn’t have a lie-in,’ snapped Sarah irritably. ‘I just haven’t had a chance to shower. I’ve been too busy.’

James crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her attack a cobweb in the corner of the room with unnecessary force. ‘Are you annoyed that I went for a bike ride?’

It wasn’t about the bike ride. She knew exercise was important for his mental health. But what about her mental health? Writing used to be her release. No wonder she’d been feeling so frustrated and angry. She had no outlet for her creativity. Unless you counted pancake art.

‘No. It’s just … everything,’ said Sarah, exasperated. ‘I never get any time to myself. And even if I did, I don’t have the brain space to do anything – I’m too busy worrying about Mum and the kids. Holly was right – I haven’t written a word in years.’

Maybe it was her own fault, for not claiming her space the way James had. Sarah had got so used to putting everyone else’s needs first, she had almost forgotten she even had her own needs.

‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ said James soothingly. ‘We’ll get a few days off soon. Maybe you can do some writing then?’