Always, in December(96)
Beth glanced down at Josie’s left hand, almost like a reflex, and seemed a little disappointed. “Well, that’s OK,” she said reassuringly, “there’s still time to meet someone.”
“Actually,” said Max, speaking for the first time, “they’re trying to stop you doing that now—they don’t want you to meet anyone new after you turn thirty.”
Josie and Beth both frowned at him. “They?” Beth asked.
“The government,” Max said promptly. “They did some research on it—turns out it’s bad for our mental health, meeting someone so late in life, so they’re introducing all these measures to encourage everyone to settle down in their twenties.” His face was deadly serious, even as Josie stared at him incredulously. “It’s supposed to increase social cohesion and lead to fewer mental health problems, especially depression, meaning we can divert funding elsewhere. It’s all going back to Durkheim’s original research on suicide, you know.”
Beth’s frown only deepened, while Josie shook her head at him, amazed that he could say it all so convincingly. “I didn’t see that anywhere,” Beth said. “Was it on the news?”
Josie elbowed Max hard enough in the ribs to make him wince. “He’s being an idiot, Beth, ignore him—it’s his idea of a joke.”
Beth had a half smile on her face as her eyes flicked between Josie and Max, like she was trying to figure out the punchline. “Anyway, we’re doing gingerbread-making now at my mum’s house—you should come! Unless you have plans right now?”
“Oh, I don’t—”
But Max cut Josie off. “That sounds amazing. I love gingerbread.” He settled the matter by taking Beth’s shopping bag from her to carry, then gesturing for her to lead the way.
Josie remembered Beth’s house from her teenage years, when she’d spent a few group sleepovers there, but she wasn’t prepared for the wave of familiarity that hit her when she stepped into the warmth. They stripped off hats and coats and Beth’s parents came out from the kitchen, both of them wearing matching aprons.
“Josie Morgan, that isn’t you?” Beth’s mum exclaimed, coming up to her with sparkling, delighted eyes.
“I bumped into her on the way,” Beth said. “Thought we could use a hand.”
“Oh, we certainly could. We were so worried when we heard your grandmother was being taken to hospital last night, weren’t we, Simon?” Beth’s dad, completely bald now, nodded obediently. “That’s why you’re here?” Josie nodded, getting the distinct impression that this was the reason she and Max had been brought along for gingerbread-making at eleven in the morning. “Well, try not to worry, distraction is the best thing, I’d say. Beth was right to bring you along.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Cope.”
“Oh, come now, Josie, you’re not a child anymore—you go ahead and call me Pippa.” She brought her into a hug, then pulled back, and to Josie’s surprise those sparkling eyes looked a little tearful. “You look so much like your mother, do you know that?” She’d been told that before, of course, mainly by Memo, but it always gave her a little jolt, hearing it. “She used to do all this, you know,” said Pippa as she led them into the kitchen, where there were a few racks of gingerbread men already cooling, the kitchen pleasantly steamy, smelling of cinnamon, ginger, and spices, flour on every surface as far as Josie could tell.
“The gingerbread, you mean?” Josie asked, glancing back at Max to check he was OK. He was already in conversation with Beth’s dad, nodding along to something.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Pippa. “It’s for the Christmas tree, you know—decorations, but we always put them on last minute, because obviously they all get eaten. And for the annual bake sale to raise money for the homeless—you remember that, of course?”
“Right. Yes, I do.” Her grandparents had taken her along as a child, though they’d stopped making her come as a teenager, when she insisted she’d be happier at home reading. They’d brought her something back from it every year though, and Josie felt a slight tightening in her stomach at the thought, at how she’d so adamantly refused to get involved in any of the traditions after her parents had gone. And there was another flash of memory now, one she’d forgotten or buried, of her mum in their orange-tiled kitchen, with trays and trays of gingerbread surrounding her. Her hair tied back in a bun, wearing a red polka-dot apron covered in flour, telling Josie she was only allowed to sneak away the misshapen biscuits to eat. It was nice, she realized, to get that back, to know that she still had those memories tucked away somewhere, just waiting for the right trigger.
A few more helpers arrived over the course of the morning, and together they mixed the batter, rolled it out, cut it into shapes, set the timer, and put the biscuits on racks to cool, like a little, very relaxed, assembly line. She was laughing along as Max got dough stuck all over his hand, as Beth’s dad—Simon—nearly burned his fingers because he wouldn’t listen to Pippa, as Pippa told her stories of people sneaking out at midnight to get the gingerbread off the tree because it was just so damn good. Pippa put Christmas songs on in the background, and though Josie exchanged a grin with Max at that, for once she didn’t hate the sound of the music, rather found herself humming along with the tunes.