Why I’m spending Christmas apart from my husband… again
Juliette Wills has chosen a very British celebration over eating caviar in France with her partner
As I type, my husband is packing his suitcase for the 6.10am flight to Limoges. He’ll be back just in time for New Year’s Eve. We have been married for 12 years, and this will be our fourth Christmas apart. Why? Because he is French, and I am not.
We didn’t even manage our first as a married couple together: three months after our wedding, a homesick Gautier went back to France for the festivities, and I hunkered down with my parents. In the years that followed, we’ve done our best to keep his mum and stepdad, and my parents, happy – and that can mean sacrificing Christmas together.
Gautier’s mother doesn’t see him as much as she’d like; when he goes back to France it’s usually to stay with his father (his parents are amicably divorced). As an only child, there’s even more pressure on him to be there, although this year his dad – who has been unwell – is joining them.
So where does that leave me? On my own until December 24 when I shove the cat and my own body weight in cheese in the car and battle my way down the M11 to my parents’ house.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why doesn’t she go with him?” and it’s not because I’m on a no-fly list. There are several reasons why I’m staying behind, not least of all because I don’t want to spend £250 on flights and deal with the French train strikes; it takes 16 hours door-to-door – and that’s when they’re running. Plus, the town goes into total shutdown and it’s just the four of us, with no other relatives.
Gautier and I don’t have children, but my brother and his wife have a seven-month-old girl who I want to see on her first Christmas. Plus, if I went to France, my mum and dad would have huge chunks of time on their own, which wouldn’t be much fun for them.
There’s also the jewel in the crown, Boxing Day, when we all gather at my sister-in-law’s family home, where the champagne flows like tap water and we play games until my dad falls asleep. Bliss.
I have spent two Christmases in France, and it couldn’t be more different. It’s just a bit prim and proper for me, and I am anything but. My husband’s mum, Monique, and stepdad, Christophe, are fantastic cooks, and will spend hours in the kitchen perfecting a five-course Christmas Eve feast that wouldn’t look out of place in a Michelin-star restaurant. One year, we had canapés with caviar – also known as the most revolting food in the world.
There were linen napkins, antique silverware and priceless wine glasses – not that Gautier’s parents drink. On Christmas Day itself, we had goose. It was, in short, exquisite, but there was something missing: in essence, fun.
The first time we hosted at our own house, in Brighton, it was chaos. I did three courses in a kitchen the size of a changing-room cubicle. I overcooked the venison, forgot the mayonnaise for the coleslaw and had to send Gautier out in the snow, before serving a Cointreau trifle that got us so drunk we didn’t need to open the dessert wine.
Three years later I fared better with a bigger kitchen, but it was still more like Stressmas. And since moving to East Anglia and tearing our house to pieces, we’ve been unable to invite anyone in for a cup of tea, let alone host festivities.
So this year I’m having a British Christmas. The Tia Maria will come out at 10.30am when we open our presents. Mum and I will enjoy smoked salmon with champagne at midday, while Dad will work his way through a mound of wonky sausage rolls. I’ll probably drop the turkey (it wouldn’t be the first time), forget to put the potatoes on and scream at Dad not to play Cliff Richard.
I’ll change into my monkey onesie and leave them snoring on the sofa after the Queen’s speech, and there’ll be turkey sandwiches at midnight.
Of course, I’ll miss Gautier, but I know where I’d rather be – and that’s eating Celebrations, not caviar.