Letters From My Sister (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Did you really think you could keep her a secret for ever?’ asks Emma, grinding some pepper on to our hummus. Each Tuesday Emma and I go to a yoga class followed by supper. Sam plays poker with Maguire and a few of his other workmates.

Emma tilts her head sideways when she asks questions – she does it when she’s watching television too, her forehead furrowed in concentration. Emma and I know almost everything about each other. She was once my next-door neighbour. We went to school together, ballet classes together, until Emma was told she was too ‘big-boned’ to have a future in pirouetting. She’s tall and willowy now, but when she was little she was ‘partridge-shaped’ as my Dad used to say. She stole bags of crisps from the cardboard box in their kitchen and ate them at the bottom of the garden. I was the other way round; the teacher constantly asked me if I was eating properly.

We used to have a dressing-up box at home and we’d put on my mother’s old fur coats and stilettos and strut down to the shops together with Peggy, Mum’s dog, held tightly on the lead. Peggy would never walk with me, I had to drag her and she bumped along the pavement. I spent most of my time at Emma’s house. When things at home were difficult or if Mum and Dad were at the hospital visiting Bells, I stayed with Emma. Their family house became my second home. Emma is the only person I can talk to about Bells as she grew up with both of us.

Emma still has that psychologist’s expression on her face, which makes me feel unsettled. Of course this would be her reaction.

‘I knew Sam would meet her some day, if we were serious,’ I finally reply.

‘
Are
you serious?’ She dips her pitta into the hummus.

‘Yes, I think so.’

Emma is absent-mindedly coiling her dark brown hair but her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘Then in a way this is the perfect opportunity to tell him. It’s given you the push you need. Otherwise, when will you?’

‘It’s never been a conscious decision not to tell him about Bells.’ I fight my own corner. ‘He knows I have a sister, I haven’t told him much about her, that’s all. It hasn’t come up in conversation.’

‘You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I’m not embarrassed.’ I blush, feeling defenceless around her, as if she is peeling the protective layers away from me one by one.

Emma chooses not to hear. ‘You think the longer you don’t mention Bells, the harder it will be to drop her casually into conversation, don’t you?’

‘Sam’s not a curious person,’ I defend myself, ‘we don’t talk about family stuff.’ Since going out with Sam I have discovered little scraps of information about his parents. His father worked overseas when he was young. ‘Mum and I were fine,’ he insisted when I asked him if he’d missed his father. ‘We had a great time. Mum had a ball, in fact, when Dad left. Didn’t have to pick up his dry-cleaning or put his bloody supper on the table by seven on the dot. She could go out with her friends. Used to take me to all the parties,’ he recalled with a short laugh. ‘Yeah, we had a grand time, Mum and I. Turned out for the best, I’d say.’ Sam doesn’t like saying anything is wrong or that someone has hurt him. It’s a positive thing in that he doesn’t ever feel sorry for himself or harbour resentment. ‘Life is for living, not for dwelling on, Katie,’ he always says.

It’s not really as simple as Sam makes it sound. Yet I’ve never felt able to tell him about my family; about how much I hated not seeing more of Mum after Bells arrived. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because Sam doesn’t ask. That’s why I love going out with him. I don’t need to explain anything. I can be exactly who I want to be.

‘Eat some of this,’ Emma demands, pushing the plate of hummus and pitta bread in my direction. ‘You haven’t touched your food.’

I look at the plate dispassionately. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Instead I pour myself another glass of wine.

‘I think you’re overreacting to the whole situation,’ she says. ‘You’re not the only one to go through something like this, you know. Dad did exactly the same thing with Mum.’

‘Really?’ I look up.

‘Yes.’ Emma nods. ‘He didn’t introduce her to his brother, you know, Uncle Spencer? Big ears, plays the piano very badly, rides a motorbike and wears dodgy maroon shirts and purple ties?’

‘I know Uncle Spencer.’ I smile. ‘He’s the one who can tell you what day of the week you were born from the date of your birthday, can’t he? I used to love that game,’ I reminisce. ‘I was born on a Friday. I always wanted him to be just one day out but he didn’t slip up, not once. I remember his wobbly “Für Elise” too.’ I grin. ‘Which came out especially at Christmas, along with a few hymns. “Hark the Herald” was particularly painful.’

‘Exactly.’ Emma laughs. ‘He’s wonderful, but he lives on another planet. Dad thought Mum might call off the engagement if she met him. So he was wily and arranged that Mum’s visits never coincided with Uncle Spencer’s. They “courted” for eight months, were engaged, and Mum finally met Uncle Spencer for the first time at the wedding.’

‘In one of his dodgy suits?’ For a moment I am forgetting my own dilemma and enjoying the world of Uncle Spencer.

‘No, even worse, he arrived on his motorbike wearing a black shirt with a gold tiger on it.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Totally inappropriate but it didn’t surprise anyone.’

‘Well, there you go!’ I top up my glass of wine. ‘Your dad would understand then.
You
should too.’ I feel like I have earned back a few points.

‘I do understand. But I asked Mum if it would have made any difference had she met Uncle Spencer before they married, and she said no. She was adamant. She would have married Dad anyway. He was a silly old fool who worried too much. She adores Uncle Spencer. We all do. He’s entertaining. She finds his sister, Esther, boring and straight.’

‘Ems, I do see what you’re saying, I just feel Sam has to seriously … I mean, seriously,’ I emphasize, widening my eyes, ‘fall in love with me before I introduce him to Bells. It’s only been nine months and they have been fantastic. I’m happy. I don’t want to risk Bells meeting him and whacking him hard in the balls.’

Emma’s face dissolves into a smile. ‘She doesn’t do that any more though, does she?’

When Emma and I were at school we used to meet boys in our lunch hour and clumsily snog them behind school fences and gates. I remember fancying two boys, Toby and Ben, but not being able to choose which one to go out with. So I decided to put them both to ‘The Bells Test’. In the past, boys had met Bells and ten times out of ten left the house vowing never to return. To begin with I had been mortified, but then I started to turn the situation around. There had to be one boy, surely, who could stand up to the test?

I took Toby home first and watched Bells charge at him full tilt and butt him in the balls. You might wonder where the fun was in that, but the best part lay in studying their reaction. When Bells belted Toby I watched him as he clutched his balls in agony. Then he pretended it hadn’t happened at all and asked me what was for tea. Bells started to howl with laughter and Toby said he had forgotten his mum wanted him back for tea after all.

Ben was different. He rugby-tackled Bells and she liked that and kept on asking when he was coming round again. And he did come back! Ben at least had risen to the challenge. Was I scared that Sam wouldn’t?

‘Come off it, that was when we were … what? Fourteen? Fifteen?’ Emma continues. ‘And we are talking Toby, the prick who wore tight leather jackets and thought he was in
Grease
and Ben who drew phallic diagrams all over your pencil case and files? What a loss!’ she laughs. ‘Bells did you a favour.’

‘I know,’ I concede. ‘But, Emma, it’s two whole weeks. It’s not a weekend, a few days, it’s a whole fortnight.’

Emma shakes her head. ‘Katie, this is ridiculous. Bells is not your average sister, but so what? She wants you to be a part of her life, is that so scary? Just this evening I had to see a young girl from a broken home, self-harming …’ Emma stops, knowing the information on her patients is strictly confidential. ‘You need to put it in perspective’

The waiter takes our plates away. ‘You’re right,’ I say, hanging my head with shame. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, your job must be difficult sometimes.’

She shrugs. ‘Bells gets on with it. You need to as well. When did you last see her? I mean, properly?’

‘Last Christmas. I went home for a night.’

‘You never know, you might actually enjoy her company. Things always come along to test us,’ Emma continues. ‘Life never stays on a nice even keel, it doesn’t work like that.’ As she is saying this half of me wants to reply, ‘What’s ever tested you?’ Emma’s life is perfect. She gets on with her family, her brother is her best friend, she has a close relationship with her parents, Jonnie adores her, they were
made
for each other, and now she has a large diamond on her finger.

‘You don’t see enough of your mum either, Katie. You might regret it one day.’ She waits for my response. ‘What’s wrong? There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she probes. ‘Is it your mother?’

I tell Emma about my conversation with Dad. ‘It seems a bit sudden, that’s all. I can’t help wondering if he’s keeping something from me.’

‘Your dad wouldn’t lie,’ Emma says with conviction. ‘Look, I think all they want you to do is make more of an effort with Bells.’

‘Mum didn’t even ring to ask me how my show went,’ I tell her.

‘OK, but did she know about it? Did you ask her to be there?’ Emma’s patience is running out.

‘No, not really. Oh,’ I wave a hand dismissively, ‘I know. I’m nearly thirty, not sixteen. It shouldn’t get to me like this.’ I sink back into my chair and try to relax. ‘I wish I’d told Sam straight away about Bells, it would have made life a lot easier.’

‘Tell him your sister’s coming to stay. Describe her so he won’t be too surprised, and I bet you he’ll be fine about it.’

‘But …’

‘No buts.’

‘Yes, but what if …’

‘No buts. I know you would be saying the same thing to me if it were the other way around. And I know it’s easy, my sitting here giving you advice,’ she admits, ‘but tell Sam tonight. Don’t put it off any longer. He’s not a monster, he’s your boyfriend. I tell Jonnie everything, he would be hurt if I shut him out. Don’t we go out with people to feel supported? Isn’t that the whole point?’

‘Yes.’

‘You tell him,’ she says simply. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Katie,’ Dad says sternly, ‘don’t upset your mother.’

I can’t help it. I peer into the cot again. ‘But what’s wrong with her?’ I turn to look at Mum and Dad. ‘Why hasn’t my sister got a proper nose? And what’s that funny hole between her nose and lip?’ Mum is crying now, and Dad crouches down beside her, stroking her arm gently.

‘Why does she look so funny?’ I ask again. I can’t look at the baby any more. It’s scaring me.

‘Katie,’ Dad begins, ‘this is the way she was born. I’m afraid not all children are lucky enough to be born perfect.’

‘Why?’

Dad takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. ‘Just because. We’re going to have to help her. Your sister will have to see a doctor who will make her face better. It’s going to be all right. We’re …’

‘Stop!’ Mum sobs. ‘Nothing’s all right. How are we going to cope?’

‘We’ll manage. We’ll make sure we do,’ Dad reassures her. ‘Katie will help us, won’t you, darling?’ He looks at me as if to say, Don’t just stand there, come over and give your mother a hug.

Was this what Aunt Agnes meant by being brave? I walk over to Mum and put my arms around her.

*

The doctor is here and I am listening behind the kitchen door.

‘There’s an excellent local team of specialists in facial–oral problems. They’re highly experienced in treating children born with a cleft of the lip and palate,’ he says. ‘One child in approximately seven hundred and fifty births has this problem. We will also consult a plastic surgeon for advice. He’ll talk us through the reconstructive surgical procedures. With a series of operations, we can repair your daughter’s lip and palate.’

‘When can we start?’ Dad asks.

‘While she’s still a baby but a bit bigger and able to cope with the surgery.’

‘I don’t understand why this happened. I felt fine during the pregnancy, I had plenty of rest. What did I do wrong?’ Mum pleads for an explanation.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Dad tells her.

The doctor agrees. ‘There is no known cause. Is there any family history, do you know?’

‘Not that I’m aware. I was so sure I had done everything right,’ Mum continues, oblivious. ‘But I should have had a scan. I should have …’

‘Stop it.’ Dad raises his voice. ‘Stop blaming yourself.’

‘The specialists will go through everything with you. I know it’s hard to take in, but we are very experienced in this field.’ The doctor clears his throat. I can feel a terrible silence stretching out before he adds, ‘I am afraid there is a further problem. She could be brain-damaged, though to what extent precisely we do not know at the moment.’

‘Brain-damaged?’ Mum says numbly.

‘Yes. We’ll carry out more tests but she …’

‘Her name is Isabel,’ Dad says, on the verge of tears. ‘We’ve always loved that name.’

‘Isabel, right. That’s a lovely name. You have another girl too, don’t you?’ the doctor enquires.

‘Yes, Katie. Why?’

‘Nothing’s certain at this stage, but you may need help. Isabel will need constant attention.’

Poor Mum. This is so unfair. I will help. Let me help.

‘We’ll be fine.’ Dad speaks softly to her. ‘We’ll get through this together.’

I hear the doctor stand up to leave. I rush away from the door and run upstairs.

Mum doesn’t say goodnight to me like she usually does. Dad comes instead. It seems dark and cold in my bedroom and I feel very alone when I hear his heavy footsteps walk away from me.

CHAPTER SIX

I look at the picture of Sam in the silver frame by my bedside. He’s wearing the white cotton shirt that I bought him for his birthday, sunglasses perched on the top of his head. Sam is handsome and he knows it. Virtually every feature is symmetrical except for one of his nostrils, which is not as open as the other – he puts that down to his mother smoking when she was pregnant with him. ‘The moment Dad was out of the house, she smoked like a chimney. Fag in one hand, vodka in the other.’ The only other thing he is conscious of is his receding hairline, but I tell him it makes him look distinguished. Noble even. He tells me it makes him look like his father, as he takes a handful of his hair and tries to ruffle it up as much as he can.

I still haven’t told him about Bells. I’ve put it off for a week and now her train’s arriving in Paddington tomorrow. I don’t know why I believe the problem might go away if I don’t talk about it. The phone rings, it’s Dad. They’re leaving the next day. ‘Who are you staying with in France?’ I ask.

‘The Walters.’

I don’t recognize the name. ‘Who are they?’

‘Old friends. He used to work with me at Sotheby’s.’

‘I don’t remember them.’

‘They moved to France when you were about two.’ Dad changes the subject quickly. ‘Now, you’ve got my mobile …’

‘Actually, can I have the Waller’s number?’

‘Walters.’

‘Right. Can I have their number?’

‘You won’t need it.’

‘Well, you never know.’

‘We’ll call you.’

‘I think I ought to have it.’

‘Ring us on the mobile.’

‘What if there’s an emergency?’

‘There won’t be.’

‘Why are you being so funny about their number?’

‘Darling,’ Dad finally slows the pace of his answers, ‘it’s simply easier if you ring us on the mobile. That way you can call us any time.’

I agree to this, unwillingly. ‘Remember to turn it on then,’ I add.

Dad always says he bought the mobile ‘for emergency use only’, but fails to understand it’s useless in an emergency if it’s switched off.

‘Darling, I have to go now. Will you thank Sam very much?’

I put the phone down feeling uneasy. I have to tell Sam about Bells tonight. I rang him from the shop earlier, telling him not to work late this evening, that I was cooking him his favourite meal – steak with homemade chips, just like Aunt Agnes’s. I’ve even made him a pudding: orange ice-cream cake with dark chocolate sauce. It’s his mother’s recipe and easy, so even I can do it.

‘Not sure I can get away early, sweetheart. Busy day,’ he told me.

‘But I haven’t seen you all week.’

He seemed to be considering. ‘What have I done to deserve this, Katie?’ I could hear his chair swivelling around. ‘Are you feeling guilty about shagging someone behind my back?’ And then he crowed with incredulity, as if the very idea of someone cheating on him was impossible. Sam has enough arrogance to bottle up and sell internationally. Yet this is what I find most attractive about him. I always thought I would end up falling for an academic or maybe a writer. My last boyfriend was a composer who travelled the world creating soundtracks for television shows and films. I barely saw him, which was why it ended, I knew a relationship like that was heading nowhere. Yet I never thought I would go for someone like Sam. Then again, I fancy Simon Cowell, which says it all.

I put the photograph frame back down on the bedside table and open the sliding doors to our wardrobe, clothes neatly folded into different compartments. What shall I wear? I go for the dark red lace top with the velvet trim around the neck. I’ll wear my black lacy bra underneath. Bottom half will be jeans with black boots. Sam loves those boots. I peel off my oyster pink shirt and toss it into the laundry basket, unzip my skirt and look at myself in the long mirror. My hair, now dyed back to its original dark brown, hangs loose around my face. It’s getting long. I pin it up with a clip. I have my father’s fine hair. In fact, I have inherited most of my features from Dad; the long Fletcher nose, the wide mouth and my dimple.

I open one of the mirrored cupboards in our bathroom to find some cotton wool pads and cleanser. Sam gets infuriated with me if I leave my toothpaste or cotton wool pads lying around in the bathroom – everything has to be packed neatly into the mirrored cupboards. I like it that he is tidy. If he wasn’t, his place would look like it had been burgled.

I wipe the day’s make-up off my face. From Mum I’ve inherited a splattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks, and my green eyes. Dad always says he fell for her eyes straight away. They were the colour of olives, and Dad loves olives. When I first met Sam he told me I had ‘come to bed eyes’. Wait till he sees Bells’ eyes, which are far more beautiful. They’re a vivid green with no sludgy grey in them at all. I sit on the edge of the bath and run the water, pouring in a capful of neroli oil, and finally I step into the sweet-scented water. It’s been a long day. Tonight will be fine. Sam will be cool about Bells and everything will be OK, I reassure myself for what must be the hundredth time.

Later I finish laying the table, placing the new napkins I made out of muslin by each plate. Mum could turn her napkins into the shape of lilies. I used to try and copy her as a child. Now I simply fold mine in two. I open the fridge and pour myself a second glass of white wine. Sam should be here any minute now. I hear a key turn in the front door and something jolts sharply inside me. I breathe deeply, I think about Emma’s advice to come clean.

‘Hi, honey,’ I call. The room smells of scented candles and chips frying in golden oil. Music plays softly in the background.

Sam enters the kitchen, hands me a bunch of scarlet and orange tulips. I thank him with a kiss and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close to him. ‘Kitty-kins.’ He rubs his nose against mine. ‘I’m a lucky boy. I raced home. Not too late, am I?’

‘Perfect timing. Good day?’

‘Great day in the markets. Fabulous. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’ He winks. ‘And now I’m all yours.’

‘That’s brilliant, Sam.’ When he’s excited about closing a deal I have tried to ask him in the past about it, but he always says, ‘Top-secret, babe, confidential,’ and taps his nose. So I rarely bother now, just make encouraging noises.

‘Smells fab, I’m starving.’

‘Sit down,’ I instruct, leading him to a chair. ‘You need to relax.’

‘Are you softening me up for something?’ Sam murmurs with pleasure when I massage his shoulders.

‘Can’t a girl spoil her boy?’ I run a hand over his back. ‘Right, what do you want to drink? Beer or wine?’

*

We have just finished our first course. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t said a word about Bells. Instead, I’m listening to Sam tell me that Maguire has bought a Mini Cooper and plans to go racing at the weekend, and would I mind if he goes too?

He leans across the table and strokes my cheek. ‘Enough of me, how’s the old soak in the corner? Has she been in lately?’

‘No, annoyingly not.’ I tell him about Eve instead as I clear the plates. ‘She ought to be the size of an elephant, not a mouse,’ he chuckles.

I open the fridge, telling myself that when I put the pudding on the table, that’s when I’ll say something. It’s not so hard to say, is it?
‘Sam, my sister’s coming to stay tomorrow, is that OK? She’s not quite what you’d expect, you might be a bit taken aback …’
I’m going to scare the living daylights out of him, aren’t I?

The pudding sits in front of him. Sam rubs his stomach and smiles. ‘I could get used to this star treatment.’

‘Sam, there’s something I need to … oh my God! Is that
the
watch?’ I stare at his wrist. ‘You actually bought it?’

‘Yep.’ He beams, shaking his wrist at me. Sam has been going on about this watch for months. It’s a special ‘emergency’ model with an electronic device you can press to alert help in moments of crisis. One of his friends works in advertising and his company was involved in its promotion. Sam and I were so excited when we met Pierce Brosnan at the launch. ‘You know, I might buy one. Imagine if I were caught in an avalanche,’ I overheard Sam saying seriously to Tim, one of his friends at work. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Absolutely, mate,’ Tim replied. ‘Or when your canoe tips up while you’re white-water rafting?’ I suggested to them both, trying not to laugh. I didn’t remind Sam that he wasn’t exactly into extreme sports. Falling into a bunker playing a round of golf was about as dangerous as it got for him.

Now he looks at his watch proudly. ‘If you pull the emergency cord by mistake you’re fined thousands of pounds, Katie, so be careful,
capisce
? Anyway, what did you want to tell me?’ He slices the orange pudding, cream seeping out around the edges and making patterns in the chocolate sauce.

‘I should have asked you before but my sister’s coming to London.’

‘Really?’ He eats a spoonful. ‘Yum,’ he moans appreciatively. ‘
Delicioso
. Have you been secretly going to cooking lessons?’

‘I was hoping she could stay with us? My sister? Isabel?’ I remind him.

‘Sure. For how long?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘Right.’ Sam mulls this over, looking surprised that it’s for so long. ‘No, that’s OK, see no reason why not. Isabel’s younger than you, isn’t she? I could set Maguire up, he needs a bird.’

‘But he had a new “lady” only days ago.’

‘Nah, didn’t work out. Maguire likes it short and sweet. So Isabel’s coming up for two weeks? Perfect. Done and dusted.’

‘Sam! Don’t talk in clichés. Maguire will end up a sad lonely old bachelor if he carries on like that,’ I add.

‘Does she look like you?’ he goes on. ‘Just a younger, more wrinkle-free version?’

‘Sam,’ I say with some irritation. ‘Is that all you think about? Image?’

‘Yep. Well, it helps if she’s not a complete moose. Come on, girls are the same. Blokes are more honest, that’s all. Would you have fallen for me if I was ugly as sin?’

I pick up my plate and walk over to the sink.

He holds up his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘How old is she then?’

‘Twenty-two.’ I sit back down, stare at the candle I lit so hopefully. Pudding is over and I still haven’t told him the whole truth. By the time it burns out he will know everything about Bells, I vow.

‘What does she do? Is she a lap-dancer?’

‘Oh, Sam,’ I sigh.

‘Don’t tell me … she works for MI5 or something exciting like that? Seriously, why don’t I get Maguire over one night and introduce them?’

Bill Maguire. Tall, blonde hair the colour of egg yolk with eyebrows and lashes to match. Always wears a leather jacket, a predator when it comes to women and loves to tell dirty jokes. ‘Um, I don’t think so. I mean, Bill’s great, but …’

‘She is single, right?’

I nod. ‘Sam, there’s something I need to tell you about her, though.’ I stare at the candle, watching the flame glow in the dark.

Sam comes over to me.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting her, babe. Stop worrying. You stress too much.’ He kisses my neck before walking in front of me and kneeling down, putting his hands on my knees. I know that look. He’s about to break out into Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady In Red’ because he knows it makes me laugh. We tease Emma for liking Chris de Burgh, that’s how it started. In fact we have his CD too, but that’s our little secret.

Sam pulls me to my feet. We love dancing in the kitchen. It’s our time together, Sam and me. He spins me around, singing softly in my ear. We laugh.

Why does my family have to be different? I curse quietly to myself as Sam holds me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to say, ‘My sister’s a lawyer’? Or an architect, philosopher, psychologist, artist, writer, charity worker, hairdresser, chef, whatever. Why can’t we be normal, like every other family? Why do I care so much? Surely I should be past this stage? Shouldn’t I be mature enough to tell Sam? Like Emma says, if we are in a serious relationship …

Finally we stop dancing. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Katie.’ He takes my hand, gently kissing each finger in turn.

I don’t want to tell him, it doesn’t feel right to say anything now. He will meet Bells tomorrow.