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was it pouring with rain, but Harry had to cycle forty minutes with a slow puncture to get to his parents’ house.

      ‘Harry!’ His mum stood in the doorway wearing her apron, her black hair falling from its bun, her slippers on and her earrings shaped like Christmas wreaths, flashing green and red lights. He remembered her wearing them to his school play she’d had them so long.

      ‘Hey, Mum.’ Harry slicked his soaking hair back from his face. ‘Happy Christmas.’

      ‘It’s such a surprise. I didn’t even know you were here. Why didn’t you tell us you were here? Your sister had to find it on Twitter. You twittered it and you didn’t even tell us?’

      ‘I didn’t twitter it, Mum. Tweet it – it’s called tweeting. I didn’t tweet it, the restaurant tweeted it. If I’d known they were going to tweet it, I promise, I would have told you.’ Harry rested his bike against the porch wall.

      His mum frowned. ‘But that still means that you weren’t going to tell us you were back. You’re never back, Harry. We miss you.’

      Harry scratched his head. ‘Can I just come in?’

      His mum stood to one side and let him pass, trying to help him with his soaked leather jacket as he did and Harry batted away the fuss.

      ‘Let me put it on the radiator, here, give it to me.’

      ‘Mum, it’s fine.’

      ‘No, I’ll put it on the radiator.’

      In the end it was easier for him to hand her the jacket. Two of his nephews careered down the stairs as he edged his way into the living room, the whole house shaking as they swung from the banister.

      ‘Hello, Son.’ His dad looked up from over his reading glasses and put his paper down. He was wearing a paper hat and the sight of it – too small for his head – made Harry cringe.

      His sister was in the kitchen cutting vegetables and peeling potatoes. There were dancing Santas and flickering Christmas lights. Someone had opened the sherry. His grandmother was snoozing already in the corner, wearing her holey slippers and her polyester housecoat. His uncle was shaking all the presents with one of the nephews, deciding what was in what and there was Now That’s What I Call Christmas blasting out the tape deck on the stereo.

      Harry couldn’t bear Christmas. He couldn’t bear being trapped again in the confines of his house. The desperate need to breathe overtook him as the walls seemed to close in.

      ‘So you were going to ignore your old mum and dad, were you?’ His father sat up from the sofa, heaving himself to the edge so that he could then push himself to standing. ‘No, don’t explain, it’s fine with me. It’s just your mother I was worried about. Heartbroken. But I understand. Too old to be with us. Too old to come home.’

      Harry ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s not that I’m too old. I just– I’m here for work. It just so happens to be Christmas. Honestly, it just seemed easier not to make a fuss.’

      ‘Not make a fuss?’ his uncle said, looking up from where he was kneeling by the tree. ‘It’s Christmas. It is fuss!’

      ‘And your mother’s cooked enough for the bloody army, so…’

      ‘I haven’t got any presents,’ Harry said, when he saw a package wrapped under the tree with his name on the tag. Why hadn’t he brought any presents? There was nothing like coming home to remind one what a selfish bastard he’d become. But then, he rationalised, he hadn’t intended to be here until yesterday when some idiot at the restaurant had tweeted about him being in the UK.

      ‘Now here we go.’ His mum came bumbling through with a bottle of prosecco and a glass with holly leaves all over it. ‘Let’s have a toast to Harry.’

      His sister was standing in the alcove between the two rooms. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘What’s he done to have a toast?’

      ‘Silvia, ssh,’ hushed his mum. ‘To my lovely Harry, home for Christmas.’

      Harry held up his glass a fraction. Saw his dad give him the same look he used to give him as a boy – behave, his eyes said, don’t do anything to upset your mother. Silvia watched him warily from behind the sofa. His nephews came hurtling in and didn’t even pause to shout, ‘Hi, Harry, bye, Harry.’

      Then everyone huddled onto the two sofas together, squished close until his mum went and got a couple of dining chairs so they could sit, all of them in the lounge. His aunt appeared in her Christmas jumper and, sitting down next to Harry, made a big show of faux-scolding him about how upset his mum had been that he’d almost bypassed them all. Harry tried to smile.

      In the end, when the noise became too suffocating, and his dad had asked him every question there was about the restaurant, his finances, the rent on his apartment, the importance of the property ladder, whether he was making his money work as efficiently as he could, his pension, and his mum had asked him about his love life and his aunt had commented that he was never with anyone then asked if he was gay with a snort, adding that there was a new gay couple in Eastenders, and his nephews had asked if he’d got them presents, Harry had to stand up and say that the best thing he could do was help with the food.

      ‘Such a wonderful chef,’ his mum mused as he left. ‘Just wonderful. I don’t know where he gets it from. I’m bloody useless, aren’t I, Charlie?’

      ‘You’re the best cook in the world, Jan.’

      Harry closed his eyes as he walked away. His dad’s idea of being the best cook was having his set meals ready and on the table at seven. Same thing every Monday, every Tuesday, every day. When Tesco had started stocking fresh pasta as well as dried and his mum had given it a go, his dad had taken a couple of mouthfuls and said, ‘Not again, Jan. Let’s not have this again.’

      Harry remembered watching him from across the table, sipping on his orange squash, thinking, I love you but I never want to be like you. I never want to turn out like you. All those rules and structures and set ways to live. Veer off them in this household and everyone knew they’d done something wrong. Harry would sit in his dad’s chair to watch TV after school, but as soon as the key clicked in the lock his mum would poke her head into the room and say, ‘Out of there now, Harry.’

      Now, as he stood in the kitchen – same wallpaper, same cups, same tablecloth – he glanced over at his sister, who looked warily back at him.

      ‘Just be nice, yeah?’ Silvia said. ‘Just for a couple of hours, just be nice. OK? You’re here. Don’t mess it up.’

      Harry made a face. ‘I’m not going to mess it up.’

      Silvia just raised her brows and looked away.

      ‘What can I do?’ Harry asked, bending down to look at the shrivelling turkey in the oven.

      ‘Nothing, it’s all under control.’

      ‘Your turkey’s gonna be overdone.’

      ‘No it’s not.’

      ‘Yes it is.’

      ‘It’s not. Jamie said to do it like this.’

      Harry looked around. ‘Who the hell is Jamie?’

      ‘Oliver.’ Silvia stabbed the cookbook with her finger. ‘Jamie Oliver.’

      ‘Bloody Jamie Oliver.’ Harry shook his head and then went over and closed the book. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, opening the oven and finding some oven gloves so he could rescue the bird.

      ‘Do what you like, Harry, you always do,’ Silvia said, pushing the chair back and leaving the room.

      In the kitchen Harry felt a semblance of himself. Tea towel tucked into the pocket of his jeans, he dealt with the turkey, added spices and seasoning to the carrots, sprinkled the stewing red cabbage with sugar and apple slices, perked up the sprouts with some honey and bacon, and generally added some finesse to

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