Eventually, Something Falls

The email subject line read Re: Christmas Dinner, which was how Marianne knew her life was about to be audited.

Eight confirmations sat beneath it, decisive and unflinching, belonging to professionals who owned good coats, strong opinions, and at least one friend who made sourdough recreationally. These were people who read menus before choosing restaurants, who asked questions about provenance, who could tell when wine had been opened too long before it reached the table.

At some point, she had said, “Christmas at mine,” like it was a casual suggestion rather than a binding agreement, forgetting that professionals RSVP with terrifying efficiency and very little hesitation.

Eight colleagues meant eight reputations, eight quiet judgements, eight people who could spot a limp roast potato from across a dining table and would absolutely know if gravy came from granules. There was no pressure at all, just Christmas, standing patiently in the corner of her calendar and tapping its foot.

She opened a fresh notebook, the good one reserved for serious thinking and emotional support lists, and wrote a single word at the top of the page.

Menu

The page stared back at her with the confidence of something that had never failed publicly.

Turkey was traditional, which also made it dangerous. Beef felt bold in a way that left no room for error. A ham would be festive but suspiciously easy, and easy was not the message she wanted to send. Vegetarian options were essential unless she wanted to be discussed delicately in kitchens well into January, described as kind but unprepared, generous but careless.

She scribbled, crossed things out, sighed, then circled a turkey crown as a sensible compromise that offered less judgement and less commitment than a full bird. The relief was brief but genuine.

Honey-glazed carrots followed, then roasted parsnips with thyme, and goose-fat crispy potatoes that were entirely non-negotiable since they needed to crunch in a way that made conversation stop mid-sentence. Sprouts earned a place too, done properly with bacon and chestnuts so nobody could complain without sounding unreasonable. Stuffing had to be homemade, written twice and underlined once to make it official, as though repetition might ward off disaster.

Dessert required diplomacy. One chocolate and one fruit-based option to avoid favouritism. The yule log was dependable, familiar, safe. The spiced orange pavlova felt more dangerous, airy and precise, the sort of thing that collapsed if you looked at it wrong. She crossed it out once, rewrote it more confidently, and underlined it as if daring herself to follow through.

She leaned back, satisfied, until the cat jumped onto the table and sat directly on the notebook.

“Arthur,” she said, “you are not invited.”

Arthur blinked slowly, the sort of blink that suggested this information was new and deeply flawed. This was his house. She was simply occupying it, moving things around and making smells without asking permission.

The shopping list stretched across three pages and included meat, carrots, parsnips, sprouts with bacon and chestnuts, thyme and sage, butter, cranberries, cream, eggs, flour, sugar, chocolate, goose fat, wine, spirits, mixers, lemons, and limes, all needed in copious amounts that spoke more toward ambition than skill.

Table decorations came last, like a hopeful afterthought. Candles. Napkins that were not paper. A table runner she did not strictly need but suddenly felt essential to her emotional stability and sense of having her life together.

Her calendar offered no sympathy as meetings stacked tightly and deadlines remained unmoved by festive intent. December did not care about roast times or prep schedules. Only one lunch break and one late evening remained free, both circled in pen like escape routes.

The first trip was tactical. She moved through the supermarket with the focus of someone who had rehearsed this while half listening to conference calls. A basket became a trolley almost immediately. Cold fingers dug deep into the vegetable aisle. Potatoes landed with a reassuring thud that felt like progress rather than panic.

The turkey crown came last. She inspected it carefully, reading labels, checking dates, weighing it in her hands as if it might betray her later. It went into the trolley with a sense of commitment she tried not to dwell on, followed by a moment of standing still and breathing through the consequences.

The second trip was for decorations and forgotten items, which turned out to be most of the list. Candles that smelled faintly of pine and optimism went in first. Napkins with small gold stars followed. Crackers joined them, despite the jokes being universally dreadful. Christmas demanded participation.

Unpacking at home required strategy. Vegetables first. Pantry items stacked neatly. The turkey placed on the highest fridge shelf and wrapped like a secret.

Arthur appeared without a sound.

“No,” she said, “that is not for you.”

Arthur sat down and waited, patience being his sharpest and longest practiced skill.

Arthur’s perspective:

The human believes height is a defence, which is charming. The meat smells important, which means it belongs to everyone, technically. Waiting has always worked for me. Eventually something falls, because something always does. This is not hope. This is experience.

Work continued regardless. Emails arrived. Calls ran long. Somewhere between a project update and a discussion about budgets, Marianne found herself searching cooking times with one hand while nodding thoughtfully with the other. Her notebook was filled with numbers that had nothing to do with profit margins.

She prepped wherever possible. Vegetables washed and boxed. Potatoes peeled and submerged like anxious submarines. Cranberries simmered into something glossy and sharp that made the kitchen smell like effort rather than panic.

Arthur supervised from a chair he was not meant to be on, occasionally repositioning himself closer to the counter as though proximity might summon opportunity.

The night before Christmas Eve, she found him on the counter with the turkey. It remained untouched, his nose hovering dangerously close.

“Arthur,” she said quietly, using her negotiation voice, “that is dinner for eight people.”

Arthur considered this carefully, decided eight was a respectable number, and left the room with a dignity that suggested the discussion was not over.

Christmas morning arrived sooner than expected. Marianne moved through the kitchen with purpose. Music played softly. Coffee did its job. Butter softened. The oven warmed. The turkey went in with confidence she felt only halfway.

She flipped through her notebook and came across a recipe that would work nicely for a bit of something sweet to nibble with a cup of tea in the evening:

Chocolate and Cherry Cookies

Makes: approximately 18–20 cookies

Prep time: 15 minutes

Bake time: 10–12 minutes per batch

Ingredients

125g unsalted butter, softened

100g light brown sugar

75g caster sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

180g plain flour

25g cocoa powder

1/2 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt

120g dark chocolate, roughly chopped

100g dried cherries, roughly chopped

Method

Preheat the oven to 180°C (160°C fan). Line two baking trays with parchment paper.

Cream the butter, brown sugar, and caster sugar together until pale and smooth.

Add the egg and vanilla extract, mixing until fully combined.

In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa powder, bicarbonate of soda, and salt. Add gradually to the wet ingredients, mixing gently until just combined.

Fold in the chopped chocolate and cherries, taking care not to overmix.

Scoop tablespoon sized portions of dough onto the prepared trays, leaving space between each cookie.

Bake for 10–12 minutes until the edges are set but the centres remain soft.

Leave on the tray for five minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool.

Notes

Do not over bake. These cookies are best when slightly underdone in the middle. Pairs well with strong tea and a quiet moment after a long day.

Arthur watched with interest, as if he were going to make them one day.

By midday, the house smelled right. Potatoes crackled. Carrots shone. Gravy behaved. The table was set carefully, candles adjusted until they looked intentional rather than nervous.

The doorbell rang.

Coats piled up. Glasses clinked. Laughter filled spaces she had been pacing for days. Compliments drifted in from the kitchen, warm and genuine.

She smiled, accepted help she did not need, and let the timing appear effortless.

Dinner landed. Plates emptied within seconds, the rest of the vegetables and meat was dished out for a second helping happily.

When the table loosened into mugs and mismatched cups, Marianne returned from the kitchen with a dented tin and set it down like an afterthought.

“These are the cookies. If you’d like one with your tea, please help yourself.” She said with a proud smile.

Inside were chocolate and cherry cookies, dark and cracked, soft in the middle and generous with their intentions. Silence followed the first bite, followed by low moans of enjoyment.

The cookies were never meant to impress anyone. They were proof that some things only worked when given time and left alone.

Arthur observed from beneath the table, having secured a small but morally flexible piece of turkey.

Later, warm and full and surrounded by voices that sounded less professional and more human, Marianne caught Arthur’s eye.

He blinked slowly.

She had done it. Christmas, it turned out, was not about perfection. It was about planning, persistence, and knowing when to guard the meat.

Arthur’s final note:

The leftovers have been hidden. I respect the effort. I will locate them eventually.