It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend (23 page)

“Off you go,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Will you be okay? I’m sorry, but I need to be somewhere else.”

And she told the driver our address and slammed the door, and I craned my neck round as he was pulling off, to see if she’d gone back into the restaurant, but I couldn’t, she’d vanished. When I tried to call her, her phone went straight to voicemail, and so did Peter’s.

I said to the taxi driver, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Please could we go the
other way, to Highgate?”

It took almost half an hour to get to Peter’s flat, but it wasn’t long enough for me to decide what to say to him. When I rang his doorbell I was still unsure, and when he opened the door, wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts and looking cross and sleepy, I couldn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then I sort of gulped, “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better come in,” he said, and I stepped into the hallway and leaned against the door.

“I won’t stay,” I said. “I just thought I should say that you’re right, this isn’t going to work. I’ve been really unfair to you and I wanted to apologise. I hope we can still be friends.”

Peter gave a sort of crooked smile. “It’s not me, it’s you?” he said.

“That’s right.” I tried to laugh, and so did he. Then I gave him a hug, and said goodnight. The journey home on the night bus took even longer than it had taken to get there, I was cold and my shoes were mercilessly pinching my feet, but I didn’t care – I felt lightheaded with relief.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Question seven. Question seven, ladies and gents. The result of the annual prize for the most promising young British portrait painter is due to be announced in one month. Which great English artist does the prize commemorate?”

“Turner?” suggested Alex.

“What? No, you noodle, Turner painted landscapes, and anyway the Turner Prize is announced in March,” I said.

“Oh.” Alex looked a bit hurt. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Well, it was a better idea than I could have come up with – I haven’t the
foggiest. I could text Rose and ask her? It’s bound to be one of the ones whose stuff she values and sells all the time.”

“No texting,” Alex said. “Things may be bad, but they’re not bad enough for us to cheat.”

I’d forgotten that Alex shared Ben’s ideas about morality and liked to play by the rules – all that sport at university, I supposed. Although if you look at the Pakistanis, maybe it’s not such an ethical game after all.

We looked at each other glumly. Without Ben, our pub quiz team was looking rather threadbare. Alex is sound enough on questions about cricket and nature, and of course is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to
Star Wars
, but there hadn’t been any questions about that this week, and my expertise in Renaissance and Restoration drama hadn’t been called upon either, funnily enough. We were buggered, and we knew it.

“And now for our music round! I’m going to play you a short burst of six songs, each of which has been covered recently by a contestant on
The X Factor
. Name the original artist and the
X Factor
hopeful, for one point each.”

“Fuck,” I said. “This isn’t going to happen, is it?”

“Nope,” said Alex. “I think we can kiss that bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio goodbye this week.”

“Pint?”

“Go on.”

I made my way to the bar and ordered two Stellas and a packet of peanuts. I’d hoped that the Tuesday traditional quiz night at the Duchess would take my mind off Oliver, and work, and feeling guilty about Peter. But it wasn’t working. I felt depressed and preoccupied and I could tell Alex did too, so when I got back to our table and plonked down
our drinks, I said, “So. Nina?”

“Ben reckons she’s moving in with him,” Alex said.

“She’s what?”

“Moving into Ben’s flat. With the kid.”

“But… he’s only got one bedroom,” I said stupidly.

“Makes no difference to Nina,” said Alex.

“Hold on,” I said, “I know this track.” The wonky sound system in the Duchess was blaring out ‘Oooh, you make me live’. “It’s Queen, isn’t it?”

“Got it!” Alex scrawled on our answer sheet. “It’s ‘You’re My Best Friend’.”

“Top man!” I said. “Anyway, where were we?”

“Practicalities have never stopped Nina before,” Alex said. “Apparently the kid sleeps in bed with her anyway.”

“Eeuuw,” I said. I mean, really. Pers sleeps in with Claire, but she’s only tiny, and besides, she’s gorgeous, not like Nina’s horrible offspring. “But he’s, like, five or something.”

“Six,” Alex said. “Ben says Nina believes he’ll grow more independent when he’s ready.”

“Well, I’m sure he will,” I said. I’m all in favour of attachment parenting and all that stuff, Claire explained it to me and it makes a lot of sense. “But in the meantime that doesn’t exactly help Ben. Or Winston.” I’m fiercely protective of Winston, whom I regard as a sort of god-cat (in the sense that I’m his godmother, obviously, like I am Pers’s, not in the Ancient Egyptian sense) and he’s always slept on Ben’s bed.

“What is the common name for the grey, dove-like bird of the species
Cuculidae
?” intoned the quizmaster.

“Hang on,” I said, “You know about birds, right? What was that?”

“Easy one, cuckoo,” said Alex, and filled it in on our answer sheet. “Anyway, yeah, Nina’s not keen on Winston. She reckons his fur aggravates the kid’s allergies.”

“What?” I fumed. “How dare she? What does Ben say about that?”

“Ben seems to have fuck-all choice in the matter,” said Alex. “The little git thinks it’s funny to pull his tail, and when he scratched him Nina went mental, and she’s talking about getting him rehomed.”

“No way!” I said. “Have you told Ben he needs to grow a pair?”

“Haven’t had the chance,” Alex said, “because he’s gone into silent mode again. Not answering calls, not posting on Facebook, nothing. The only reason I know about the kid and the cat is because I turned up on his doorstep and saw the whole thing play out. It was like something out of
Child’s Play
or
The Omen
.”

“I can’t believe he’s letting her do it,” I said. “Swan back into his life after all this time and just take over.”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “But remember, Mum brought Ben and me up on her own after Dad pushed off, and it was really tough for her. Ben’s always had a thing about absent fathers.”

“And now, a film question.” I was interrupted again by the quizmaster’s mockney voice blaring out. “There’s been a recent surge of interest in the forgotten art of elocution. Which Oscar-winning motion picture is believed to have inspired it?”

“
The King’s Speech
,” Alex and I chorussed, and he wrote it down. “Anyway, what’s up with Ben and Claire?” I said. “I thought they were seeing each other, and that’s why Claire hasn’t been in touch for ages. I assumed she was doing that loved-up eye-staring thing with Ben that she did with Ty, and I was leaving them to get on with it.”

I knew when I said it that I sounded really resentful, and not happy for Ben and
Claire at all. I was, really, it just felt a bit shitty that the two of them, my best friends, had got together and left me out. I should have been happy for them, and I’m sure that given time I would have got over myself and learned to be, but in the meantime I just felt… jealous. There, I said it.

“I honestly haven’t a scooby, Ellie,” Alex said. “Ben never said anything to me about what was going on with him and Claire, he just mentioned a couple of times when I wanted to meet up that he was busy, and seeing her. But what’s with this bloke who changed his Facebook status to ‘in a relationship with Ellie Mottram’ a few weeks ago, then changed it back to ‘single’ on Sunday?”

“And now, a biblical question. Which of the twelve apostles mentioned in the New Testament was crucified under the emperor Nero, but at his own request had the cross placed upside down, because he didn’t deem himself worthy of the same death as Jesus Christ? Which of the twelve apostles…”

“Peter, wasn’t it?” said Alex.

“Of course it was,” I said impatiently. “But listen, what the fuck am I supposed to do about Claire?”

Did she know? Had Ben told her? Was Ben seeing Nina behind Claire’s back? Was Claire getting involved in some horribly messy menage à trois – or menage à six, I suppose it would be, if you counted Pers, Winston and Nina’s ghastly child.

“Where is London’s prestigious Guildhall school of music and drama located?”

“Barbican, isn’t it?” Alex said, and I agreed, but I had a niggling sense that the question ought to have rung some sort of bell somewhere in my head. Slippery as a freshly-peeled lychee, the thought slid away.

“What is the former name of Hampshire County’s cricket ground in Southampton,
now known as the Ageas Bowl?”

“One for you, I think,” I said.

It was the opening Alex had been looking for. “It’s the Rose Bowl,” he said, with a smug smile. “Which reminds me – tell me about your gorgeous sister. How is she? Come on, a nice, detailed description of her in her nightie would be great.” Alex has had a massive, unrequited crush on Rose for ages.

“Bleurgh, pervert!” I said. “I will not provide you with verbal wank fodder based on my own sister. Now focus, we’ve a quiz to lose.”

“What do the following words have in common: Reed, Stone and Twist?”

“Something about smoking spliffs?” Alex hazarded. “Inhale through a reed and you get stoned, or twisted?”

For God’s sake. It was a pub quiz conspiracy. “Oliver,” I spat.

The last thing I needed right then was to be reminded of him – but I didn’t need to, really, because he was in my head all the time like an annoying, posh, handsome ear worm, interrupting my thoughts and my dreams and making me do little dances on the Tube. However hard I could have tried to make things work with Peter, I would never have felt the kind of dizzy passion I imagined Ben and Claire sharing, or the helpless desire I felt for Oliver.

It was all heinously complicated, like something out of the plot of a Shakespearean comedy, about which I would have been able to answer quiz questions effortlessly, had the uncultured git of a quizmaster bothered to ask any.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” I said to Alex, “Claire’s the most gorgeous, fab person in the world, but if Nina’s decided she wants Ben back, she’s going to get him. It’s like she’s got some horrible power over him. I bet she keeps bits of his toenails and semen
and stuff in a little bottle and dances widdershins around it and does incantations by the full moon.”

“Don’t!” Alex shuddered. “That’s so gross. I don’t need to think about my brother’s spunk, thanks, never mind Nina harvesting it like something out of
Twilight
.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

There was a bit of a pause, and then Alex said, “I’ve been meaning to say, you’re looking pretty fit these days. Not that you didn’t always, of course.”

“Stop! You’re only digging yourself deeper.” I tried to sound severe, but of course I was quite flattered really.

“And finally, our literature round,” said the geezer.

“Go, Ellie!” Alex hooted.

“Which Hans Christian Andersen story inspired the musical ‘Honk’?”

“
The Ugly Duckling
,” I muttered, and Alex had the grace to look a bit embarrassed.

“In which Shakespearean comedy,” there was a chorus of ‘awww’ from the philistines in the pub, but I went ‘yessss!’ and did a little air-punch. “In which Shakespearean comedy does the low-born Helena seduce the noble Bertram through trickery?”

“ Easy, peasy,” I said, “It’s
All’s Well That Ends Well
.”

“Nice one, Ellie!” Alex said, and we high-fived each other across the table. But it was a lost cause – we only scored seventeen out of a possible forty points.

“When I see Claire on Saturday for Pers’s birthday party, I really am going to have to talk to her properly,” I said, as we shuffled out into the night, past the triumphant table of eight that had emerged victorious thanks to their superior grasp of the finer points of British art.

“If Ben and Nina end up together, we’ll need to find more people for the team,” Alex said, adding forlornly, “I don’t suppose Rose would come?”

I said, “No chance.” Then I saw my bus coming, and made a run for it.

Four days later, I was toiling up the grimy, narrow stairwell that led to Claire’s flat, laden with carrier bags from Waitrose and a separate bag of presents. Before I could knock, Claire opened the door, and Pers came running towards me and threw herself against my legs. I picked her up and held her, and then, to my total surprise, I started to cry great splatty tears all over her perfect little head.

“Ellie!” Claire said, “Sweetie, you poor thing. Bloody Peter, the bastard! Shall we sew prawns into the hems of his curtains? Itching powder in his pants? Change the ringtone on his mobile to Pers screaming, and change the password so he can’t change it back? Here, come in and sit down.”

I carried Pers into the squalid flat and we all plonked down on the sofa, and for a bit I just kind of snivelled, then I managed to compose myself enough to start laughing, and say to Claire, “It’s not Peter, not really. It’s just that everything’s so complicated. And Pers is one year old today, and she’s so beautiful, and I love her so much, and I’ve missed you, and it’s all just too much.”

Claire said, “Sometimes I cry too, when I’ve put her to bed and I look at her asleep. Although often that’s just relief that she’s finally conked out and I can hit the gin.”

“So,” I said, once I’d more or less composed myself, “what’s the plan then?”

“We’ve got about seven mums and babies coming,” Claire said, “and I told them all that if it was a nice day we could meet in the park, and it is, thank God, because having them here would be social death for Pers, almost as bad as going to MacDonalds.”

“Really?” I said. “Social death? But she’s only one.”

Claire looked darkly at me. “You won’t believe it,” she said. “The pressure’s incredible. It’s all about opportunity, you see – you might not necessarily want your child to be part of a particular circle, but you’ve got to put the effort in, otherwise you end up with the unter-mums.”