Carolyn for Christmas Read online

  The performance was note-perfect, intoxicating, and soothing, cutting through the fog of Carolyn’s hangover, and Carolyn was sorry when Saoirse came to the end of it. She never got tired of hearing Saoirse sing. Not that she would ever tell Saoirse that. The girl had a big enough head without encouragement.

  There was another reason why Carolyn always closed her eyes when Saoirse sang. Ordinarily, Carolyn could acknowledge that Saoirse was objectively attractive. She was tall and blonde with these lovely long legs that went on forever. She always smelled gorgeous, too—some expensive perfume that no doubt cost half a week’s wages. All objectively nice—if you liked that sort of thing.

  But when Saoirse sang, she was the most beautiful person Carolyn had ever seen. All of the poutiness left her lips and her face relaxed, so that she looked serene and delicate as an angel. The last time Carolyn had dared to watch her perform, she’d felt a tell-tale flutter in her stomach that betrayed what her head told her was true about Saoirse. So now she refused to watch her at all.

  That was difficult, since they’d been competing against each other in singing for a long time. They were about even on wins in singing competitions, and neither could quite get the edge on the other. But Carolyn wanted this solo. Needed it. None of the previous competitions mattered. This was the one she really cared about. She had to excel.

  Damien gave her the nod and she took a deep breath before standing up. You can do it, Carolyn. You’ve practised this. You’ve got it.

  Saoirse gave her a half-smile as she walked to the seats and it wrong-footed Carolyn for a second.

  What was that? Is she being sarcastic? Cocky?

  Damn it. Now Saoirse was all up in Carolyn’s head. I bet she did that on purpose.

  Carolyn’s stomach lurched and her breathing started to come in ragged, heavy bursts. She willed herself to calm down, took a few soothing breaths to try to slow her breathing, but the damage was done. She’d just have to hope that it would sort itself out when she started singing.

  Her mouth was dry again—her tongue tacking to the roof of her mouth. She wished she had some water. She wished she’d had more sleep the night before. She wished she could call a do-over on today.

  But she couldn’t do any of those things and Damien was sitting watching her now, his foot bouncing impatiently on the floor.

  “Start, Carolyn. I have things to do.”

  Okay, she told herself. You’re okay. You’ve done this song a hundred times by now. Breathe in and out…in and out. There’s no need to panic. You’re doing fine.

  She planted her feet hip distance apart and put a hand on her diaphragm. When she opened her mouth to sing, she was elated to hear her voice come out in steady, perfectly toned notes, the sounds reaching all the way up to the high ceilings of the hall.

  She closed her eyes and felt her stress drifting away on the stream of the music, and her voice dancing deftly over the changing melody. Up her voice rose, up, up, to meet the rising pitch of the song. Her spirit rose with it, as she clambered closer and closer to the highest notes of the song.

  But she never arrived at the top notes. With horror, her voice cracked and faltered as she attempted the highest notes, the notes coming out in a hoarse, strangled croak. She had to keep going—Damien had warned them they could only sing the song once through—so she screwed her eyes shut tighter and just kept singing to the end.

  Nobody spoke for a few moments when she’d finished, and she opened her eyes with hesitation. Damien was making an expression he’d never made at her before—a kind of awkward disappointment. Bad news was coming. She’d only seen him use that expression before on people who were about to get cut.

  Why had she drank so much last night? Why hadn’t she got the sleep she needed? She’d fucked it up—wrecked her chance at the solo.

  “Safe to say that wasn’t one of your best. I think—” Damien started, but Carolyn didn’t give him the chance to finish the thought. Tears swam in front of her eyes and she blinked them back before cutting him off.

  “I know, Damien. I know. I’m sorry.”

  She grabbed her things before he could say anything more and barrelled towards the steps to the stage.

  As she passed Saoirse, Carolyn could see through the haze of her tears that she was looking at her in a strange way.

  Chapter Two

  Things never changed in this house, Saoirse thought, as she sat down to dinner. From as long as she could remember, everything had remained the same. The expensive couches in the drawing room, sitting room, and lounge—luxurious and probably soft to the touch—were still sheathed in a protective plastic cover after more than two decades. The sumptuous carpets in those “good rooms” were still preserved to look as well as they had when they were first bought—a result of seldom having been walked on. Saoirse and her brothers had never been allowed in those rooms as children; even now, though Saoirse was twenty-seven, her parents were reluctant to let her use them.

  Sitting in the dining room, she marvelled at how little it had changed in years. Just like a thousand Sundays before, on the table there was a crisp, freshly ironed, white tablecloth. The same antique silverware—a salad fork, dinner fork, soup spoon, bread knife, and dinner knife included—were carefully set on granite placemats. A candelabra with three lit candles sat in the centre of the table.

  Even the places where they all sat at the long table were much the same. Saoirse sat in the same spot she had done for twenty-five years, adjacent to her mother at the end of the table. Her father sat at the head of the table. Her two brothers sat where they’d always sat, too, only these days Tom had his wife, Suzanne, beside him.

  Saoirse was doing her best to talk to her mother, Clare, though experience should have told her it was likely to be a one-sided conversation.

  “The business is going really well, Mum,” she said with as much energy as she could muster. “There’s so much happening before Christmas, but it’s great to be so busy.”

  Her mother smiled without looking at her—without really looking at anything. Her stare grew more and more vacant by the day.

  “That’s nice, poppet. Really nice.”

  Saoirse pursed her lips before pasting on a wide smile. She beamed at her mother.

  “And the choir is going really well. I think I’m in with a great shot of getting the solo. It’s O Holy Night this year.”

  Her mother chewed slowly, still staring into nothingness. She didn’t seem to register what Saoirse had said, so Saoirse jumped a little as Clare suddenly turned to fix her with an anxious look.

  “This chicken is too dry. I’m so sorry, Saoirse, I left it on too long. Now it’s gotten all dried out.”

  She clasped Saoirse’s hand.

  “You’ll have to put gravy on it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it so dry.”

  Her voice was rising to a panicked point and Saoirse stroked her hand gently.

  “It’s okay, Mum.” She took a big bite of the chicken and chewed enthusiastically. “It’s delicious. So nice. Not too dry at all.”

  Her mother grinned at her, a grin that had all the pleading and innocence of an anxious child’s, and Saoirse tamped down her own panic.

  “It’s great, Mum. Thank you so much.”

  Her mother grinned at her a few moments more, the intensity of the smile unsettling Saoirse. Her father’s booming voice cut across the moment.

  “So enough about your little business and all that choir lark. What I want to know is, do you have a fella on the go? Are we going to have to make a space for a nice young man at Christmas dinner this year?”

  Saoirse resisted the urge to sigh, since it would only cause an argument, and pasted on a smaller smile this time.

  “Daddy, remember we spoke about this? I told you, I’m gay. I won’t be bringing guys to any dinners, unless they’re coming as friends.”

  He tutted loudly and spread his hands theatrically.

  “Did you ever hear the likes of it, Suzanne? All this gay stuff
.” Suzanne shook her head solemnly. Her dad turned his attention back to Saoirse. “Is that phase not over yet? I thought you’d get over that when you finished college.”

  He looked to the table for approval and Suzanne grinned at him while Tom shook his head in joint exasperation with his father. Treacherous arseholes. At least her other brother, Fintan, had the loyalty to just keep eating his dinner and not get involved.

  Saoirse cleared her throat. “It’s not a phase,” she said with as much patience as she could manage. “It’s who I am. I can’t change that for anyone.”

  He shovelled some mashed potatoes into his mouth; some of it didn’t make it all the way and stuck to the corners of his lips.

  “You wouldn’t get the likes of that when I was growing up,” he said through half-chewed mash. “At least when your mother and I were growing up, people had the decency to be ashamed of their perversions—not that I’m calling you perverted before you start, Saoirse. Now you can’t say anything, or some PC do-gooder, feminist-type will shout you down.”

  Suzanne nodded again and Saoirse wished fervently that her sister-in-law would choke on a chicken bone.

  “That’s right, Trevor,” Suzanne said. “If you say anything those PC people disagree with, they’ll say you’re the intolerant one. When really, it’s people like us—people with sense—who are being oppressed. You can’t say anything in case you offend them.”

  She turned briefly to Saoirse and gave her a benevolent smile.

  “Not talking about you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Saoirse said, her voice hot with sarcasm, her fingers tightening around her dinner knife. Her hand shook so much with the tension of her grip, the knife clacked against her dinner plate. She bored a glare into Suzanne’s head as Suzanne turned back to Saoirse’s father.

  “See, you get it,” Trevor boomed. “I always told Tom he’d found himself a good one when he married you. Speaking of, do you see now, they’re letting the queers get married—and even letting them adopt kids? It’s just not natural.”

  Saoirse could feel her temper bubbling to explode, but if she let loose, it wouldn’t end well—especially not for her mother once Saoirse and her brothers had left.

  She decided to change the subject.

  “Hey, Mum, are you going to come see the Christmas show? It’s going to be really nice this year. We’ll have mulled wine and mince pies, and any money raised is going to the local cancer support unit. It’s a great cause.”

  Saoirse had suggested to Damien, after hearing about June, they change to that this year instead of the usual performing arts fund they donated to. She’d made him promise not to tell Carolyn that it was her idea; if she even got a hint that Saoirse was involved in the decision, she’d think she was pitying her.

  Her mother flushed a moment and put down her knife and fork. She’d barely touched her dinner. The chicken was untouched on her plate. She hadn’t even tasted it before declaring it dry.

  “Hmm? Oh yes. That sounds just lovely. Lovely,” she said. “I’ll wear my new Christmas dress for it.”

  Saoirse smiled warmly at her.

  “I’m sure you’ll look wonderful, Mum. You always do.”

  Her father’s voice cut across the gentle moment and Saoirse gripped her knife tightly again.

  “So, did you get that solo yet? The one you were going on and on about last week? I hope so.”

  Saoirse bristled. She took a moment to ensure her tone was even before she answered.

  “Not yet, Dad. There’s some competition for the part. Hopefully I’ll know soon.”

  Fintan raised his wine glass to her.

  “Good luck, sis. I’m sure you’ll get it. You’ve a great voice.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her gratitude so strong she was sure it was radiating from her.

  “Competition?” her dad said, with more than a touch of disbelief. “Sure, what were we doing paying for all those singing lessons if you can’t even get a solo at the local Christmas concert? It’s hardly the RTÉ Concert Hall now, is it?”

  Saoirse started counting to ten mentally, like her counsellor had taught her to do in these situations.

  “Money well spent, those,” her father continued. “You were meant to be this big star.” He sighed. “It’s my fault really. We shouldn’t have got your hopes up the way we did. It wasn’t fair, letting you think you could be singing with all the best up in Dublin. We should have managed your expectations.”

  Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  “Well, the standard is pretty high. And it’s important to me, wherever the venue is. We’ve put a lot of work into it.”

  Trevor held up his hands with a look of mock defeat on his face.

  “All right, all right, I’m just saying, don’t get your hopes up too much. I wouldn’t want to see you disappointed.”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  It was enough to make her vow again to win that solo spot. She was not putting up with her dad’s less-than-quiet disapproval and disappointment for the whole of Christmas Day.

  It wasn’t often that Saoirse was glad of Suzanne’s conversation, but mercifully, she changed the subject.

  “So the kids are just so excited about Christmas. My parents are bringing them to Santa’s grotto over in the shopping centre today. They were bursting with excitement to go see him.”

  As intolerable as Saoirse found her eldest brother and her sister-in-law, they had somehow managed to make a couple of super cute kids. She and Fintan often marvelled about how charming those children were in spite of their parents whenever they were sure they were out of earshot.

  It also amazed Saoirse how unalike her two brothers were. Tom was a crashing bore, like their father. Fintan, on the other hand, was good craic and easy to talk to—on those few occasions Saoirse saw him.

  Fintan had run far away from the family home as soon as he could—basically from the moment he had left for college, he’d barely returned. He had met a girl in college, had a couple of children, too, and did his best to stay away from his parents and home town.

  Once a month, guilt got the better of him, and he returned for Sunday dinner. His wife, Jen—someone Saoirse really liked—had more sense than to come down to the lion’s den. Saoirse respected her a little more for those scruples.

  There’d been no such luck with Tom and Suzanne—the two of them where never out of Saoirse’s parents’ house. They were deeply involved in family life and didn’t feel the need to wait for an invitation to show up. Tom, the elder of her two brothers, was becoming more and more a carbon copy of his father as the years went on. A few years into the comfort of married life, he even had the same jowls and spreading belly his dad had. He’d found his perfect match in Suzanne—superficial, gossipy, and always dressed like HELLO! magazine might be about to take her photo.

  On the bright side, it meant Tom, Suzanne, and her father mainly stuck to talking at each other about the gays and the migrants and the people on the dole, so that Saoirse could eat her dinner in peace and then leave.

  She was only really here for her mother. She’d stopped coming around for a few weeks at one point when her dad was really getting to be too much to bear, but he’d phoned to say her mother missed her terribly. Sure enough, when Saoirse had relented and come back for dinner, her mother was barely speaking a word. She’d almost fully retreated into herself.

  So, she kept the peace for the sake of her mother’s fragile mental health—as much as it pained her to do so.

  Confident that Tom, Suzanne, and her dad were deep in conversation, and that Fintan was busily ignoring everyone anyway, Saoirse turned back to her mother.

  “Are you all ready for Christmas, Mum?” she asked. “I can’t wait. I’ve been thinking of new recipes for this year for us to make. I was thinking of trying out a new stuffing—I saw a recipe for one with apricots and cranberries.”

  That rare, precious light that she sometimes saw in her mother’s eyes twi
nkled out, and Saoirse couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. Her mother loved to cook—cooking with Saoirse was one of the things she loved to do most.

  “Cranberries and apricot? In the stuffing?” her mother replied. “Oh, that sounds very nice. Very nice indeed. And you’ll bring the recipe?”

  Saoirse nodded.

  “I will, Mum. I’ll get all the ingredients, too.”

  Suzanne turned around to Saoirse, nudging Tom in the pink-shirted chest. “Oh, I don’t know if the kids will eat that, Saoirse.” The way she nasal-whined Saoirse’s name always made her want to shudder. “They’re very fussy eaters—delicate stomachs. It might be best to just stick to a basic stuffing.”

  Saoirse looked to her mother, then to Suzanne and Tom, and finally to her father.

  “What do you mean, ‘the kids’? What kids are coming?”

  Her father shook his head at her like she was ditzy. It did nothing to dislodge the dried mashed potato from the corners of his mouth.

  “Your brother and Suzanne are coming for dinner with the kids. Did your mother not tell you?”

  She looked at her mother—timid, afraid, and far older looking than her fifty-something years. Her once pretty hair was cut short, set in the style of the old ladies of the town. She and Saoirse used to talk a lot but Clare had given up on most things long ago—including talking to Saoirse on the phone. How would she have told her the kids where coming?

  “No, Dad, Mum didn’t say the kids were coming,” she said tightly. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  Tom and Suzanne didn’t even have the grace to look uncomfortable. Fintan looked awkward and embarrassed for both of them.

  Her father wiped his big, red jaw roughly with his napkin, spilling crumbs all over the crisp, clean tablecloth.

  “Well, your mother and I thought it would be nice for them to come over for a change,” he said. Saoirse almost snorted—her mother hadn’t had a thought independent of what her father wanted for decades now.

  He ignored—or didn’t notice—her sceptical expression.