Shopaholic & Sister (17 page)

Jess shrugs. I knew it. She just hates my taste. All that pretending she doesn’t need any clothes was just to be polite.

I mean, who doesn’t need a T-shirt?

Well, never mind. We’ll just have to find different shops. Shops that Jess likes. As we head down the sunny street, I’m thinking hard. Not skirts . . . not bracelets . . . Jeans! Everyone likes jeans. Perfect.

“I really need a new pair of jeans,” I say casually.

“Why?” Jess frowns. “What’s wrong with the jeans you’re wearing?”

“Well . . . nothing. But I need some more!” I say with a laugh. “I want some a bit longer than these, not
too
low-slung, maybe in a really dark inky blue. . . .”

I look at Jess expectantly, waiting for her to respond. But she just continues walking.

“So . . . do you need any jeans?” I feel like I’m pushing a heavy rock uphill.

“No,” says Jess. “But you go ahead.”

“Maybe another time.” I force a smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

By now we’ve reached the corner—and yes! L.K. Bennett is having a sale!

“Look at these!” I exclaim in excitement, hurrying to the big window filled with colorful strappy sandals. “Aren’t they gorgeous? What kind of shoes do you like?”

Jess runs her eyes over the display.

“I don’t really bother much with shoes,” she says. “No one ever notices shoes.”

For a moment my legs feel weak with shock.

No one ever notices shoes?

But . . . of course! She’s joking! I’m going to have to get used to her dry sense of humor.

“Ohhhh, you!” I say, and give her a friendly push. “Well . . . I might just pop in and try some on, if you don’t mind?”

If I try on enough pairs, I’m thinking, Jess is bound to join in too.

Except . . . she doesn’t. Not at the next shop, either. Nor does she try any of the perfumes or makeup at Space.NK. I’m laden with bags, but Jess still doesn’t have one thing. She can’t be enjoying herself. She must think I’m a rubbish sister.

“Do you need any . . . kitchenware?” I suggest in desperation.

We could buy cool aprons, or some chrome gadgety things. . . . But Jess is shaking her head.

“I get all mine from the discount warehouse. It’s much cheaper than the high street.”

“Well, what about . . . luggage!” I exclaim, suddenly inspired. “Luggage is one of those areas you can really forget about—”

“I don’t need any luggage,” says Jess. “I’ve got my rucksack.”

“Right.”

I’m totally running out of ideas. What else
is
there? Lamps, maybe? Or . . . rugs?

Suddenly Jess’s eyes light up.

“Hang on,” she says, sounding more animated than she has all day. “Do you mind if I go in here?”

I stop still. We’re outside a tiny, quite nondescript stationery shop, which I’ve never been into.

“Absolutely!” My words come tumbling out in a whoosh of relief. “Go ahead! Fantastic!”

Stationery! Of course! Why on earth didn’t I think of that before? She’s a student . . . she writes all the time . . . that must be her thing!

The shop is so narrow I’m not sure I’ll fit in with all my carrier bags, so I wait outside on the pavement, thrilled she’s finally shown an interest in something. I wonder what she’s buying. Gorgeous notebooks? Or handmade cards? Or maybe some beautiful fountain pen?

I mean, all kudos to her. I’d never even noticed this shop before!

“So, what did you buy?” I demand in excitement as soon as she comes out holding two bulging carrier bags. “Show! Show!”

Jess looks blank.

“I didn’t buy anything,” she says.

“But . . . your carrier bags! What’s in them?”

“Didn’t you see the sign?” She gestures at a handwritten postcard in the window. “They’re giving away used padded envelopes.”

She opens up her carriers to reveal a selection of battered Jiffy bags and a bundle of squashed-up, graying bubble wrap.

“I must have saved at least ten pounds,” she adds with satisfaction. “And they’ll always come in handy.”

I’m speechless.

“Er . . . fab!” I manage at last. “They’re really gorgeous! I love the . . . um . . . labels. So . . . we’ve both done really well! Let’s go and have a cappuccino!”

There’s a coffee shop round the corner, and as we approach it my spirits begin to rise again. So maybe the shopping hasn’t gone as I imagined, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, here we are, two sisters, coming for a cappuccino and a gossip together! We’ll sit at a lovely marble table, and sip our coffees, and tell each other all about ourselves. . . .

“I brought a flask,” comes Jess’s voice behind me.

I turn round to see Jess taking a white plastic flask out of her rucksack.

“What?” I say faintly.

“We don’t want that overpriced coffee.” She jabs a thumb at the café. “The markup at those places is appalling.”

“But . . .”

“We can sit on this bench. I’ll just wipe it clean.”

I gaze at her in rising dismay. I cannot have my first-ever coffee with my long-lost sister sitting on some grotty old bench, swigging out of a flask.

“But I want to go into a nice coffee shop!” The words rush out before I can stop them. “And sit at a marble table, and have a proper cappuccino!”

Jess is surveying me with pained disapproval, as though she can’t believe anyone would be so shallow.

“Please?” I say plaintively.

“Oh,” says Jess. “Well, OK.” She closes up her flask. “But you should get into the habit of making your own. You could save hundreds of pounds a year. Just buy a secondhand flask. And you can use coffee grounds at least twice. The flavor’s fine. . . .”

“I’ll . . . bear that in mind,” I say, barely listening. “Come on!”

The coffee shop is all warm and aromatic, with a fabulous smell of coffee. There are spotlights dancing on the marble tables, and music playing, and a happy, cheerful buzz.

“You see?” I beam at Jess. “Isn’t this nice? A table for me and my sister, please,” I add happily to a waiter standing by the door.

I so love saying that!
My sister
.

We sit down and I put all my shopping bags on the floor—and feel myself start to relax. This is better. In fact, this is what we should have done first of all.

A waitress who looks about twelve and is wearing a badge saying it’s my first day! approaches our table.

“Hi!” I greet her. “I’d like a cappuccino, please. We should be having champagne, really,” I can’t resist adding. “We’re long-lost sisters!”

“Wow!” says the waitress. “Cool!”

“I’ll just have some plain tap water, thanks,” says Jess, closing her menu.

“Don’t you want a nice frothy coffee?” I say in surprise.

“I don’t want to pay vastly inflated prices to a global moneymaking corporation.” She gives the waitress a severe look. “Do
you
think a 400 percent profit margin is ethical?”

“Um . . .” The waitress looks stumped. “Did you want ice in your water?” she says at last.

“Have a coffee too,” I say quickly. “Go on.” I look at the waitress. “She’ll have a cappuccino.” I turn to Jess. “You get a free chocolate in the saucer!”

As the waitress scuttles away, Jess frowns.

“Do you know the real cost of making a cappuccino? It’s a few pence. And we’re being charged nearly two pounds.”

God, Jess has a bit of a thing about coffee, doesn’t she? But never mind. I’ll just change the subject.

“So!” I lean back and spread my arms. “Tell me all about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” says Jess.

“Everything!” I say enthusiastically. “Like . . . what are your hobbies, apart from walking?”

She ponders for a few moments.

“I like caving,” she says at last, as the waitress puts two cappuccinos down in front of us.

“Caving!” I echo. “Is that where you . . . go into caves?”

Jess gives me a look over her cup.

“That’s basically it, yes.”

“Wow! That’s really . . .”

I’m struggling for words. What can I say about caves? Apart from they’re all dark and cold and slimy.

“That’s really interesting!” I say at last. “I’d love to go in a cave!”

“And of course rocks,” Jess adds. “That’s my main interest.”

“Me too! Especially great big shiny rocks from Tiffany’s!” I laugh, to show I’m joking, but Jess doesn’t react. I’m not entirely sure she got it.

“My Ph.D. is on the petrogenesis and geochemistry of fluorite-hematite deposits,” she says, showing more animation than she has all day.

I don’t think I understood one bit of that.

“Er . . . great!” I say. “So . . . how come you decided to study rocks?”

“My father got me into it,” says Jess, and her face relaxes into a smile. “It’s his passion too.”

“Dad?” I say in amazement. “I never knew he was into rocks!”

“Not your dad.” She gives me a scathing look. “
My
dad. My stepfather. The man who brought me up.”

Right.

Of course she didn’t mean Dad. That was really stupid.

Suddenly my head is full of questions.

“So . . . did your dad . . . did he always know that you . . .” I trail off, not quite knowing how to put it.

“My dad knew I wasn’t his, pretty much from the word
go
.” Jess is turning a spoon over and over in her fingers. “But he raised me all the same. He never treated me any different from my brothers.”

I dart a look at her averted face.

“Did
you
know?” I ask hesitantly. “That he wasn’t really your dad?”

“Yes. But we didn’t talk about it. He was my real dad, as far as I was concerned. Still is.”

“Didn’t you ever want to go looking for your . . . biological father?”

“I might have done.” She stops rotating the spoon. “Once. But then Mum died and Dad was all I had left. I didn’t need another dad. It was only when I found out about this blood disorder. I realized there could be people related to me, not knowing they were at risk. I felt responsible. It would have preyed on my mind.” She looks up. “You should get yourself tested, Becky.”

“Oh, I’m going to,” I say quickly. “Dad already has been, but he’s OK. And . . . er . . . thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So . . . what’s your dad like?”

Jess deliberates for a while. “He’s great,” she says at last.

I wait for more details . . . but there don’t seem to be any. I don’t quite dare ask about her mum. Not until I know her better.

Jess sips her water and I fiddle with my chocolate wrapper, wondering what to talk about next. I’m slightly at a loss, which is ridiculous. This is my sister! Come on!

“So, are you going on holiday this year?” I ask at last. God, I must be desperate. I sound like a hairdresser.

“I don’t know yet,” says Jess. “It all depends.”

Suddenly I have the most marvelous idea.

“We could go on holiday together!” I say in excitement. “Wouldn’t that be great? We could get a villa in Italy or something . . . really get to know each other—”

“Rebecca, listen,” Jess interrupts flatly. “I’m not looking for another family.”

My face is suddenly hot.

“I—I know,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“I don’t
need
another family,” she presses on. “I said this to Jane and Graham in the summer. That’s not why I tracked you down. It was my duty to contact you about the medical situation. That’s all.”

“What do you mean by ‘that’s all’?” I falter.

“I mean it’s nice to meet you. And your mum and dad are great. But you’ve got your life”—she pauses—“and I’ve got mine.”

Is she saying she doesn’t want to get to know me?

Her own
sister
?

“But we’ve only just found each other!” I say in a rush. “After all these years! Don’t you find it amazing?” I lean forward and put my hand next to hers. “Look! We have the same blood!”

“So what?” Jess looks unmoved. “It’s just a biological fact.”

“But . . . haven’t you always wanted a sister? Haven’t you always wondered what it would be like?”

“Not particularly.” She must see the hurt on my face. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s been interesting to meet you.”

Interesting? It’s been
interesting
?

I push the froth around the cappuccino with my spoon. She doesn’t want to get to know me. My own sister doesn’t want to get to know me. What’s wrong with me?

Nothing’s going the way I planned. I thought today would be one of the best days of my life. I thought shopping with my sister would be
fun
. I thought we’d be bonded by now. I thought we’d be having coffee, surrounded by all our fab new things, laughing and teasing each other. . . .

“So, shall we go back to your mum’s?” says Jess, draining her cup.

“What . . . already?” I say, startled. “But . . . we’ve got hours left. You haven’t even bought anything yet!”

Jess sighs impatiently.

“Look, Becky. I wanted to be polite, so I came along today. But the truth is, I really can’t stand shopping.”

My heart sinks. I knew she wasn’t having a good time. I knew she hated my taste. I have to salvage this.

“I know we haven’t found the right shops yet.” I lean forward eagerly. “But there are more. We can go into different ones—”

“No,” Jess interrupts. “You don’t get it. I don’t like shopping. Full stop.”

“Catalogs!” I say, suddenly inspired. “We could go home, get a load of catalogs . . . it’d be fun!”

“Can’t you get this through your head?” Jess exclaims in exasperation. “Read my lips very carefully. I. Hate. Shopping.”

When we arrive home, Luke is in the front garden, talking to Dad. As he sees us pulling into the drive he looks stunned.

“What are you doing back so soon?” he says, hurrying over to the car. “Is anything wrong?”

“Everything’s fine!” I say. My brain still feels like it’s short-circuited. “We were just . . . quicker than I thought we’d be.”

“Thanks,” says Jess, getting out.

“It was a pleasure.”

As Jess heads toward Dad, Luke gets into the car beside me and closes the door.

“Becky, are you OK?”

“I’m . . . fine. I think.”

I can’t quite get my head round the day. My mind keeps replaying the way I fantasized it would be. The two of us sauntering along, swinging our bags, laughing happily . . . trying on each other’s things . . . buying each other friendship bracelets . . . calling each other by little nicknames. . . .