OUR HOUSE SMELLS LIKE pine boughs, mulled wine and woodsmoke (Vic forgot to open the flue again). Candles flicker inside their hurricane jars and the tree twinkles, resplendent with fairy lights. Maeve and Jules — who I've been introduced to as her girlfriend/not-girlfriend/they're not ready to put a name on it yet and, I've now learned, was the actual sender of those mystery flowers that caused so much consternation in our household — are laughing in the kitchen as they attempt to build a tall, sticky croquembouche tower (Margolie's recipe). To Vic's dismay, the normally orderly kitchen is an absolute disaster of used pots and caramel splatters. Fortunately, he's taken two muscle relaxants for his back and is easily persuaded to let the girls clean up after themselves (which they will never accomplish to his exacting standards) and join me in the living room, where we are watching snow swirl in the darkening sky.

It's Christmas Eve. Finally.

Soon, our friends and family will descend on our cozy little house and bring with them the chaos and babble of the outside world. But for a minute or two longer, Vic and I can stand with our arms snugly around each other and enjoy the silence.

"Are we ready for this?" he murmurs into my hair.

"As ready as we'll ever be."

He gives my arm a gentle squeeze and moves placidly away to put the Bing Crosby on.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimes.

My mother is the first to arrive, full of excited energy and wearing, inexplicably, her knee-high go-go boots. Her hair has been teased and sprayed into a genuine 1960's beehive, and her lips are alarmingly frosted.

My son, somewhat subdued due to being heartbroken but nevertheless having agreed to play butler this evening, greets her rudely, "Why is your mouth white, Grandma? Are you sick?"

"Tim!" I shout.

"-othy!" corrects Vivian, who, despite having unwittingly broken my son's heart, is still adorably willing to defend his new identity.

"Oh, Alice," my mother tuts as she throws off her fur jacket and passes it to the waiting arms of her grandson. "You're so out of touch. 'Sick' means 'ring-a-ding-ding' nowadays. It's a whole new language. You should really spend more time on urban dictionary dot com."

I shake my head imperceptibly at my son, who looks to be on the verge of correcting her. Let her have it; it's Christmas, I implore him with my widened eyes.

He dutifully carts her heavy coat up the stairs and into Vic's tv room which, after tonight and to my husband's immense satisfaction, will no longer be doubling as Vivian's bedroom. She is moving back home with Leslie. While Leslie still wants to get married and Vivian still doesn't, they have, at least, come to the mature agreement to simply ignore their differences in favour of loving each other; a time-tested recipe for a happy relationship, if you ask me.

Relieved of her coat, Mum rubs her hands together and looks around the decorated living room.

"Did you run out of fairy lights? A bit dark in here."

Vic steps smoothly between us, all serene magnanimity thanks to his back pills and offers to get my mother a drink.

Next to arrive are Buddy, his husband James and Angel, who greets me with a sly giggle.

"Awice! Eye-bow," she points at my forehead.

I surreptitiously check in the mirror over the fireplace.

Dammit.

WHILE I'M UPSTAIRS (REMEMBERING to darken both eyebrows this time), Vic's parents arrive, bearing, as they always do, shopping bags full of treats.

By the time I come back down, Vic's dad has already cleared himself a caramel-free zone in the kitchen and is mixing a large batch of something he calls Rudolph's Regret.

"Gin, Campari, vermouth and a splash of cranberry," Bill explains as he mixes the batch of threateningly red cocktail in our punchbowl.

"Well, that sounds festive," I say, gleefully dipping a cup in and taking a big greedy sip. Immediately, I splutter and exhale what feels like actual fire across the kitchen.

"Oh my god," I breathe, waving a hand in front of my face.

Elaine whacks Bill in the chest. "Bill! I told you to go light on the Campari. It's not to everyone's taste."

"Sorry. I'll add more vermouth," Bill replies.

If my mother drinks any of that, there's going to be real trouble, I think to myself, tasting it again tentatively, then gulping it down for fortification.

The bell rings again.

I dip my cup back into the bowl and head off to see who's arriving.

TIM SEEMS TO HAVE disappeared, tired of his role as coat carrier, so I pull the front door open myself. Leslie stands on the other side with a polite but still wary smile.

"Alice, thanks for inviting me."

"Of course!" I say, pulling her inside and trying to hug her without spilling viscous red cocktail on her perfectly white parka. "I'm so glad you're here, Leslie. And I'm so glad you and Viv are back together! Honestly. It's a Christmas miracle!" I add with a slightly hysterical pitch to my voice, already feeling the glow of Rudolph's Regret loosening my tongue.

"Yeah, uh..." she says, looking for somewhere to put her coat. "I guess so."

"Here, I'll take it," I offer graciously. "You go on through. Vivian's in the living room."

I'm just about to hang her coat up when the doorbell rings again. With one hand clutching my punch cup and the other full of coat, I call for Tim.

"Tim! Timotheeeee!" I call up the stairs, almost surprised when he appears.

"What?"

"Here, can you take this? It's Leslie's coat. Be careful with it," I thrust it toward him and he takes it, begrudgingly, up the stairs, leaving me to answer the door again.

This time, it's Justine (yay!). She's grinning from ear to ear, holding an absolutely massive Christmas basket full of champagne, chocolate, caviar and other unknowably expensive delights.

"Here!" She thrusts it toward me and I try to catch it with my free hand. "From my charming brother and me... only he doesn't know anything about it, so don't thank him," she announces airily. I look behind her and see Joss standing on the stoop, bent down and holding a woman's face against his own, kissing her in this black and white movie sort of way — snowflakes and scarves and twinkly street lamps making a romantic silhouette of them.

I'm caught in an awkward 'do I interrupt the kiss of the century to say thanks for the gift you didn't really buy me' conundrum until he finishes.

"Alice!" he hoots happily when he finally breaks lip contact. "Merry Christmas!"

I stand in stunned silence as I absorb Natalie's blushing face and slightly smeared lipstick.

Recovering, I wave them both inside. "Merry Christmas to you both! Come in! Come in!"

They leave their coats on a chair — Tim not having returned to his post yet — and Joss and Justine wander through to the living room. We can hear them jovially introducing themselves, careless of and unaffected by the fact that they are among, for the most part, complete strangers. Rich people, I marvel silently before turning back to Natalie with my eyebrows arched expectantly.

"That was some steamy kiss out there, young lady," I smirk.

She blushes fiercely, dark eyes blazing. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

I roll my eyes but let her have her moment.

"Go get a glass of this punch," I advise. "And have a good time."

AN HOUR OR SO later, the party has condensed in the living room. Small pockets of people stand around chatting, holding punch glasses and cocktail napkins full of puff pastry canapes. Angel leans against the coffee table, unsteady as a drunk at a bar, systematically shovelling pretzels into her mouth, occasionally missing and grinding them into the carpet with her shiny black patent mary-janes while Buddy and James look on adoringly.

My mother, who has been in deep conversation with Justine on the couch (I shudder to think what she's telling her), suddenly lurches up, teetering on her gogo heels as though she's had too much Rudolph's Regret (and probably has) and shouts over the music and conversation: "He's nearly here! Alice! He'll be here any minute!"

She totters around, trying, pointlessly, to straighten throw pillows and whisk away dirty glasses as though Mr. Hawaiian Shirt will judge us all on the disorderly state of her daughter's living room.

"Okay, Mum, just calm down," I try to still her frantic activity by grasping her arms and steering her back to the couch. "We've all promised to be on our best behaviour."

She grimaces as if that's exactly what she's afraid of and starts pacing like a caged tiger.

"I just want everything to be perfect," she moans, hands patting at her helmet of teased-up hair.

"Sorry, who are we expecting?" asks Justine. "Oh! Is it Hawaiian Shirt man?"

My mother looks at me stiffly, mortified that I've clearly been talking about her love life with this very beautiful stranger but also too nervous and agitated to waste energy being mad about it.

The doorbell chimes, and the whole room, but especially my mother, goes completely still.

"I'll get it," I say.

"No!" she screeches. "I want to open the door by myself. Give me a moment to make sure he's not some kind of lunatic before I bring him in to meet you all."

I shrug. "Just don't expect him to look like his picture, Mum. Not even Tom Selleck is that good looking anymore."

She hurries out of the living room and into the front hall. We all wait on pins and needles, ears straining to hear what might be said when my mother and her internet Romeo finally meet face to face.

Like a surprise party that's a had a false start, we're all disappointed when we hear her call back, "It's only your Dad. Late as usual!"

"Well, nice to see you too," my father's voice booms. "You'd think you were expecting someone else!"

"I am! Clear the doorway!" she says bossily.

My father appears in the living room a moment later, red-faced and overheating in a full Santa outfit: beard, red suit and all.

"Ho, ho, ho!" he announces himself to the room. "Merrrrrry Christmas!"

As I move toward him for a hug, he murmurs, "Your mother seems to be annoyed with me."

"Oh, don't mind her. She's expecting someone. A guest." I let my eyes linger on my Dad's face, looking for any sign that he is, in fact, Hawaiian Shirt man, but he just looks jovial and a little bit sweaty. Totally normal, in other words.

Hm. I guess we really are expecting to be visited by the ghost of Tom Selleck this evening. Okay. Maybe I should just tidy up a bit in here, I think.

ANOTHER HALF-HOUR LATER, my mother is still lingering in the front hall, waiting. She has gone from nervous excitement to a sort of bleak hopelessness. She's slumped on the hall chair, nursing another Rudoloph's Regret and coming to terms with the fact that she's been stood up.

"Maybe he saw me through the door when your Dad showed up and thought I was too old," she whispered when I came through to check on her.

"No, I'm sure that's not it," I said. "Maybe he got lost?" Or maybe he never really existed, I thought and is sitting in his Delhi call centre, jeopardizing another mature woman's self-esteem and bank account.

She tosses her hair sprayed head and flashes her blue eyeshadowed eyes at me impatiently.

"Oh, Alice. Don't be naive. I think we both know he's not coming. But never mind," she sighs and tries to shrug off the disappointment, draining her punch glass and standing abruptly. "It's Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve is about family. Let's go be with them."

She slips her arm through mine, sets her jaw, and we go back into the living together.

My Dad is still ho-ho-hoing and digging through a bag of presents, passing them around.

"Ah, you're both back!" he rumbles. "Santa's almost come to the end of his magical bag, but there might still be something left in here."

His face is bright red as he leans over his Santa belly (real) in his (faux) fur-trimmed jacket and gropes around in his duffel-sized bag.

"Dad, take the costume off before you give yourself heat exhaustion," I say.

"Now... no, no, now just a minute," he says, ignoring me. "Santa's almost done. A-hah! Here it is, one last little present for a very special girl."

He holds the little wrapped square aloft, beaming.

"Oh, Dad — I mean, Santa," I say playfully, reaching for the present. "Thank you! You shouldn't have!"

He pulls his hand back out of my reach.

"Ho Ho Ho... not so fast, Alice. I think you'll find this one's for your mother."

Mum steps in front of me and takes the little gift from Santa's hand, still downcast but immensely cheered by the prospect of an unexpected present.

"Oh! What is it?" she asks delightedly, taking the gift over to the couch, then tugging carefully at the thin ribbon. The room watches in silent aggravation as she takes the time to carefully peel away the tape, piece by piece, trying not to damage the paper. Anyone watching my mother unwrap a gift would think she'd grown up during the Great Depression. She treats wrapping paper like a multi-use product, carefully folding and tucking it away for its inevitable second run next year. A little worse for wear with old fold marks and soft edges, and most often seasonally inappropriate.

As we all wait for her to painfully pick and peel her way toward the actual gift, I notice that my father is finally getting out of his Santa coat. He unbuttons the white collar, then starts working his way down the red mountain that is his middle, revealing the shirt underneath.

He stands there, grinning, waiting for Mum to look up in the most garish Hawaiian Shirt imaginable.

Having secured the carefully folded paper in her purse, she finally opens the little robin's egg blue box and gasps.

"It's a ring," she announces, looking up in surprise and seeing my Dad. Seeing his shirt. Putting the clues together.

The room holds its breath, having also put two and two together. We are silently willing Bing Crosby to shut up lest he ruin the moment.

To his credit, Dad says nothing. He stands and he waits. He has put his cards on the table, as it were, and knows enough to quietly await whatever's coming down the river.

"It was you?" Mum asks him.

He lifts an eyebrow but doesn't answer.

She purses her lips.

"It couldn't have been you," she says, refusing to accept the obvious.

He still doesn't say anything. But this time, he moves closer to her and, as awkwardly as a bear with a sore paw, gets himself down on one knee in front of her (leaning heavily on the coffee table to manage it).

"Stop it, Ed," she says, her voice shaking slightly. "You're making fun of me."

"He's not, Mum!" I say, unable to bear it.

"He is!" she counters, but looking uncertainly now between the ring (which is lovely, I must give him credit) and my father.

"You knew my favourite Beatle."

He nods.

"And you knew a lot of other things too. It seemed like we'd known each other in a past life. Because... of course, we had. All along." Her face is quivering now like she's caught between two realities and can't quite decide which she believes is real.

The room remains silent, breath bated. My dad, I can tell, is having a hard time balancing on one knee. I project he has less than a few minutes before he teeters over to one side and collapses in a heap on the floor.

The tension is a triple-layer chocolate cake that everyone wants a slice of.

"Oh, go on, say yes!" shouts Vic's Dad, Bill.

"Yes, say yes!" adds his mother, Elaine.

My mother looks over at them as though to say, 'keep out of it,' and then turns back to my Dad.

"Here," she thrusts the box toward him.

The room gasps. She's saying no! She's not accepting the ring!

Oh, poor Dad! I think.

"You're supposed to put it on my finger, you big oaf," she adds, breaking into a wide smile. "And you have to say the words."

He takes the box from her and, with clumsy fingers, pulls the glittering ring out of its case. Clearing his throat and steadying himself on the coffee table again, he says the words.

And she (finally) says yes.