In My Sister's Shoes (14 page)

I could see Fiona from the corner of my eye, struggling not to cry.

The next morning Mark took Fiona to hospital and I took the boys to school. Mark was going to stay with her while she had her blood tests and I’d join her when the drugs were being administered. I’d called Derek to tell him to pop in and give Fiona some moral support and I’d asked Casanova to tear himself away from horizontal gym lessons with my old teacher and drop by too.

Dad arrived first, laden with flowers, chocolates and newspapers.

‘If it isn’t the Don Juan of Dublin,’ I said.

‘Hi, Dad,’ said Fiona. ‘I hear you’ve been working out lately.’

Ignoring us, and determined to change the subject, Dad asked, ‘How many times has Meryl Streep been nominated for an Oscar?’

Fiona looked at him blankly– she’d have preferred a chess question.

‘Thirteen nominations in twenty-six years,’ I answered. ‘Don’t tryto change the subject.’

Luckily for Dad, Derek chose that moment to stroll through the door, Roxanne in tow.

‘Ah, the lovely Roxanne,’ said Dad, thrilled to be off the hook.

‘Yo, sis, this is Roxanne. Roxanne, mysister Fiona,’ said Derek.

‘’Sup?’ said Roxanne plonking herself beside Fiona. Her extremely low-rise jeans exposed ninety per cent of her G-string to the room.

Dad didn’t know where to look. Now he knew how I’d felt when I saw his arse.

‘Roxanne’s cousin had cancer so she totally knows all about it. Any questions, just ask her,’ said Derek.

‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ said Dad. ‘An expert in the field of tattooism, a Latin scholar and now a cancer specialist. I must say I’m impressed.’

Roxanne twisted her nose-ring. ‘Some people just have what it takes.’

‘How’s business?’ asked Dad.

‘
Insane
. I barely have time to eat. Everyone wants a tattoo.’

‘I can see why. They really are very attractive,’ said Dad. ‘Lookit, Fiona, have you seen Roxanne’s lovely snake?’ he asked, as Fiona gazed in horror at Roxanne’s stomach.

‘You seem keen. Come down anytime. I’ll give you a discount cos of Derek being your son and all.’

‘What do you think I should get?’ said Dad, stirring it.

Roxanne looked him up and down. ‘For oldies, it’s best to get something where the skin isn’t so wrinkly. Maybe a skull on your forearm.’

‘Or you could get “Sheryl for ever”.’ I giggled.

‘I might go for something subtle like Derek has,’ said Dad.

‘Roxanne said to avoid wrinkly areas, and after my recent exposure to your backside, we can safely say it isn’t a runner.’ I sniggered.

‘It’s up to you. I’ve tattooed every part of clients’ bodies so nothing would shock me.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Dad, rolling his eyes.

‘How is your cousin now?’ Fiona asked, changing the subject and getting back to the reason Roxanne had graced us with her presence.

‘Actually, she’s, like, totally fucked. It came back and they said she’ll be lucky to get six months.’

We glared at Derek, who had gone white. ‘Roxanne! You told me your cousin was fine.’

‘Her boobs are fine, but she just found out that the cancer turned up in her liver or some shit, so it’s
bon voyage
for her.’

I leant over and whispered in Derek’s ear, ‘Get your fuck-buddy out of here before I strangle her.’

‘What cheery news. I must say, Derek, it was a stroke of genius bringing Roxanne to cheer Fiona up,’ snapped Dad, as Derek dragged the girl out the door.

He came straight back in, looking very sheepish. ‘Jeez, Fiona, I’m really sorry. She told me her cousin was fine – except when her hair fell out, but it grew back. I’m a knob, I should have checked the details. Are you freaked out now?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘It’s OK. People die every day of cancer. It’s a reality I have to face.’

‘But lots of people get better,’ I added.

‘You’ll be fine, pet. Nothing’s going to take you away from us,’ said Dad, putting his arm round her protectively.

‘I feel terrible, Fiona,’ said Derek, miserably.

‘Forget about it. It’s not your fault your friend’s a moron,’ said Fiona, smiling.

‘I’ve written a song for you,’ said Derek. ‘I’m going to showcase it at the gig I’m doing in two weeks. You all have to come. It’s going to be awesome.’

The door opened. ‘Yo, Derek, I’m late,’ called Roxanne.

‘Yo, Roxie,’ said Derek. He stood up and rapped: ‘It was fun while we lasted but now that you casted a shadow over my sista, I’m not gonna miss ya, so go to hell, you frickin cow, cos believe me when I tell you I ain’t interested now.’

‘Good on you,’ I said.

‘Well done, son,’ said Dad.

‘You’re well rid of her,’ said Fiona.

‘Get a move on,’ snapped Roxanne, as our hero shuffled out after her.

18

By the time we got back from the hospital, Fiona was feeling awful. I left her to go and pick the boys up from their friend Zach’s house, where they had spent the afternoon. Zach’s mother was mightily relieved to see me. Judging from the state of the house, the twins had spent the rainy afternoon trashing the place. I thanked her profusely and drove them home.

Before we got out of the car, I turned to face them. ‘Now, boys, Mummy’s feeling sick today because she was in hospital getting more of that nasty medicine, so you have to be very quiet and gentle. OK?’

Their little faces fell. Their mum was sick again and they were scared.

‘But she’ll be much better tomorrow and Daddy’ll be home soon to tuck you in and read you a story.’

Mark had promised to be back by six. I needed a few hours to get ready for my date and he needed to spend some time with his sick wife and kids.

We went in and the boys climbed the stairs to see their mum, who was in bed, trying not to throw up. I let them stay for a few minutes, then took them down to give them their dinner.

At six o’clock the twins were fed, the kitchen had been cleaned, I had laid their pyjamas on their beds and had two warm towels ready for their bath. I slung on my coat and looked out the window for Mark’s car.

At six thirty, nine chewed fingernails later and having snapped at the boys when they’d asked me why I was staring out the window, I called him, but his mobile was switched off. I left a terse message, took off my coat and gave the boys their bath.

Seven o’clock: still no sign. Fiona was asleep in bed while I was turning into the Incredible Hulk. I had never known anger like it.

I rang Mark’s phone again and spat out a message that left nothing to the imagination.

Seven thirty: the boys were in bed and I tried to read them a story.

‘Why is your voice all funny?’ asked Bobby, referring to the strangling sound my throat made as I tried desperately to keep my boiling rage under control.

‘This story’s boring. Read something else,’ grumbled Jack.

‘I want a glass of milk,’ said Bobby, and began to get out of bed.

‘Get back into that bloody bed and do not move,’ I growled, pinning him down as he stared up at me. ‘You’ve had milk. Now you will go to sleep, and I’m warning you both, don’t mess with me tonight. I am in a very, very bad mood.’

‘But you haven’t finished the story,’ whined Jack. ‘I want my mummy.’

‘Well, she’s not available right now and your father is a total wanker so you’re stuck with me.’

‘What’s a wanker?’ asked Bobby.

‘What a lovely scene to come home to,’ said Mark, walking through the door. ‘Don’t mind me. Carryon.’

I blushed. Granted I was furious with him, but I was ashamed at having slated him to his own children.

‘Daddy will be with you in a minute. I just have to talk to him downstairs,’ I said, and frogmarched him into the kitchen. I closed the door: I didn’t want Fiona or the kids to hear what I had to say.

‘How could you be so selfish? The one time in seven weeks I ask you to be home early because I’m going out and you can’t even be bothered to do that. I’m not some slave, Mark. I’m doing this for Fiona and the boys. I’ve given up everything to help out, but your life hasn’t skipped a beat. You just carryon as normal. Well, news flash Mark. I quit. You’re on your own. I won’t be here tomorrow.’

‘Yes, you will,’ said Mark, ‘because you’re not doing it for me, you’re doing it for Fiona. You owe her years of sacrifice and you know it. The only reason you came back is because you feel guilty about having disappeared to London, leaving her to look after Derek and your father. I’m not neglecting my family. I’m working. Who do you think pays for Fiona’s treatment, the boys’ schooling and this house?’

‘Don’t use your job as an excuse. You’re late every day because of that stupid project. You don’t have to enter that competition. It won’t make any difference to Fiona’s life – but it’ll make a big difference to Mark Kennedy’s already inflated ego. You’re doing this for yourself and the reflected glory that winning will give you. I hope it’s worth it, Mark.’

‘You went to London and ignored your family for eight years so don’t lecture me about ambition and ego.’

‘I came back when it mattered. You’re running away now at the most crucial time in Fiona’s life.’

‘Where have I run off to? The office. I’m here every night, as always. Nothing has changed.’

‘You’re emotionally detached.’

‘Oh, please spare me your cheesy psychobabble. If you want to talk about behaviour, I really don’t think telling two five-year-olds that their father is a wanker is very helpful.’

The kitchen clock chimed eight. I had to get out of there. I needed a stiff drink. I needed to see someone outside my family. I needed Sam. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and chat, I have to tryto salvage the only night out I’ve had in almost two months.’

With that I stormed out the door and drove home like a maniac to get changed. I sent Sam a text explaining I was running late and to order me a double vodka. Then I got changed – fifteen times. Nothing fitted. I couldn’t understand it. I knew I’d put on a few pounds but I’d been wearing the same clothes all the time so I hadn’t noticed just how much weight had crept on. Clearly my metabolism was messed up after all those years of starving myself and now I was eating normally – with the odd packet of chocolate biscuits for dinner – I’d whacked on the weight.

Eventually I squeezed myself into a black skirt and polo neck and tried to disguise my protruding stomach by tying a scarf round my waist. I threw on some makeup and tied up my hair – I had no time to wash it – then looked at myself in the mirror. Not good. Where the hell was the old Kate? I looked older than thirty-one, stressed and chubby. As I was contemplating cancelling the date, my phone buzzed:
Where the hell r u? Am half pissed already.

I hopped into the car and prayed silently that the bar would be dimlylit and that Sam wouldn’t take one look at me and run for the hills.

When I got there, he was sitting at the bar, reading the paper. He smiled when he saw me and didn’t seem repulsed. Things were looking up.

‘About bloody time,’ he said, handing me a double vodka and Diet Coke.

‘I’m sorry. Mark arrived home late and we got into this huge row and it was all a bit of a nightmare,’ I said, and suddenly began to cry. Once I’d started I couldn’t stop. I sobbed and sniffled in between gulping my drink. ‘God… sorry… just tired and emotional… long day.’ I tried to wipe my nose with a beer mat.

Sam handed me a tissue. ‘You’ve been through a lot.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, blowing my nose. ‘I’m just worn out.’

‘Well, you do look wrecked,’ Sam said, as I welled up again. Did he have to rub it in? I knew I looked like shit, but couldn’t he have lied and told me I looked fantastic?

Don’t men get it? We’re not complicated: we just want to be lied to. When your friend arrives out wearing a hideous dress and asks you what you think, you lie. She’s out, for God’s sake, it’s too late for her to get changed. Telling her she looks like a bag of hammers isn’t going to help. Does my bum look big in this?
No
! Jesus, it’s not rocket science.

‘Hey, there, come on, it’s not that bad. Fiona’ll be OK,’ said Sam, as I covered myface with the tissue, ashamed that I was crying because he’d told me I looked tired and because now my makeup was streaked and I knew I looked even worse. Maybe Mark was right: I was selfish and shallow.

‘How’s her chemo going?’

‘She had the second session today,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘It’s making her sick, but she recovered well after the first dose. I’m worried her hair will fall out this time and that that might push her over the edge. She’s pretending to cope well and that it doesn’t bother her, but it’s taking its toll and the fact that her husband is a tosser doesn’t help.’

‘Your relationship with Mark hasn’t improved over the years, then?’ asked Sam.

‘You can safely say it’s at an all-time low.’

‘Maybe he’s finding it hard to deal with. She’s his wife and the mother of his kids, after all.’

‘Exactly, and that’s why he should be a rock to her and not spend all his time at the bloody office avoiding his responsibilities. I’m like the father in the bloody family. He’s never there.’

‘Some guys fall apart when their wives get sick.’

‘Why are you defending him?’

‘I just think it must be hard for him – you know, frightening.’

‘What about me?’

‘You have another life in London. He doesn’t. If Fiona dies he has no wife and no mother for the boys.’

‘What about me, losing a sister?’

‘Of course that’d be awful, but still worse for Mark. He has more to lose.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder if she’d be better off without him.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m blowing off steam. Besides, I’m biased because I blame him for dragging me back. It does bother me that he isn’t more involved, though. He should be.’

‘I always thought they were well suited,’ said Sam.

‘I used to think so too, because they were both into maths and chess, but I don’t know anymore. His big ego has smothered his nicer side. Anyway, enough about Mark. Tell me about that cow you married,’ I said.

Sam groaned. ‘The lovely Nikki had an affair with her perma-tanned, sports-car driving, filthy-rich boss. When I found out, she said she was sorry but she wanted a big house, nice car and holidays in the Caribbean.’