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The Dash home was a 1920’s villa; originally three bedrooms, what had once been a sunporch was transformed into a room for the youngest, Margaret. The carpet soft beneath her feet, Alison felt the give of the floorboards as she walked down the main hallway past Margaret’s room.
She tapped on her other sister's bedroom door. “Mary-Anne? You need to get up.”
No answer. Mary-Anne had requested, but insisted she wouldn’t need, waking up in the morning when they had come home last night.
“Better you than me,” John had said as she’d left the kitchen and their morning coffee ritual. His words echoed in her head as, stifling her frustration, Alison pushed the door open.
“I’m coming in so you better hide any boys that are in there. Mare?” She snorted at her unintentional rhyme.
Mary-Anne’s room looked more like a teenagers’ than Margaret’s; posters on the wall, clothes on the floor, nail polishes littering the top of a set of drawers, the tiny iPod dock was silent for once. Mary-Anne had a sort of nervous energy which required almost constant stimulation.
A muffled voice came from beneath the covers. “Of course there aren’t any boys in here. Will and I haven’t—besides he’s busy.” Mary-Anne flipped the covers back and continued in a rush. “Speaking of boys, you and Eddie seemed pretty close last night.” She yawned and settled the duvet over her shoulder.
“He's our brother, Mary-Anne.” Alison grasped the duvet and attempted to pull it from her sister. It was a familiar game, perfected through years of high school, Alison hadn’t thought she’d have to play again.
“Our step brother, Alison,” she mocked. “That step is important.” Her fist clenched around the duvet edge, holding it in place.
“Yeah, cause it keeps you a step away from incest,” Margaret said from the doorway.
“Margaret!” Alison and Mary-Anne cried in unison. Both dropped the duvet, turning to their little sister who, although completely inappropriate, was at least able to get herself out of bed.
“What? It's true. If he was actually our brother boning him would be incest.” She said it as though this were the most reasonable thing.
“Boning?” Alison shifted, her eyes on the duvet, straightening the wrinkles. She wasn’t sure what kept her eyes down; her mind skittered away from imagining sex with Edward. She was just uncomfortable talking about sex, or talking about sex with her younger sisters. Surely she’d be fine if she were speaking to her friend Charlotte.
“Boning,” Margaret repeated with nod. “Like George was doing with Lydia.”
That brought her head up. Alison looked aghast at her youngest sister. She couldn’t believe that the second-most devastating event in her life could be dealt with so flippantly.
“Oh god, Marg, really? Just leave her alone, OK?” Mary-Anne threw the covers back and rose.
“I was only trying to help,” Margaret whined as Mary-Anne pushed her out of the room.
“Don't listen at doors.” Mary-Ann closed the door.
“I'm not a kid anymore.” Margaret’s petulant tone filtered through the wood, her thumping down the hall followed.
“I wish she hadn’t been here that day.” Alison shook her head. “I wish I hadn’t told her. I wish—God.” She buried her head in her hands.
“It’s not your fault, you were upset. It wasn’t anything that you did. How George behaved isn’t your responsibility. And...we’re happy to have you home.”
“Thanks, but moving home at 24 doesn’t feel so great. And I shouldn’t have said anything to Marg. She’s far too young.”
“You realise she can legally have sex in two years, right?”
Alison baulked at the idea of her baby sister turning sixteen, of her having sex, ever.
In a firmer tone Mary-Anne said; “I shouldn’t have let her drink last night, it gave her an inflated sense of her importance. Was I that bad at her age?”
“Worse.” Alison smiled. “I think you spent that entire year locked in your room listening to excessively loud music and wearing too much black eyeliner. You said music spoke to you and,” putting on a dramatic voice, “was the only true form of communication.”
“I was a delight.” Mary-Anne grinned and hugged herself. “I still am. Admit it,” flinging her arms wide, “you find me adorable.”
Alison arched an eyebrow. “I find it adorable how you try to change the subject.”
“We never did talk about it Ali.” She sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly earnest. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”
“No. I meant you getting out of bed and being a good girlfriend and meeting Will's sister. We managed the first part thanks to Margaret. Now on to the second. Well, third.”
Mary-Anne groaned in response and buried her face in the duvet.
“You aren’t hungover, are you?”
“No. I was keeping pace with Marg. I wasn’t about to let her get drunk. I just—” Mary-Anne took a breath and then burst out with “What if she doesn’t like me? What if Gina doesn’t think I’m good enough for her brother? What if I wear the wrong thing? What if I’m overdressed or worse, underdressed? What if Will decides he doesn’t like me anymore? What if—”
“What if you breathe? OK. Just breathe. Gina will like you, I’m sure, and I’ll help you find something to wear.” Alison opened the wardrobe door, reflecting that she wasn’t so bad at changing the subject herself. It never occurred to Mary-Anne to ask what Alison had been like at 14. Had she thought about it she may have realised that was the year their father died.
“But what if she doesn’t?” Mary-Anne whined.
“Mary-Anne Elizabeth Dash you are getting out of bed and you will meet Gina. Don’t think I don’t see you trying to creep back in. You will be perfectly nice and she will like you.”
“OK,” she grumbled then brightened. “I can tell you all about it at family dinner tonight. We can compare notes. You met her once, didn’t you?”
Alison didn’t turn around. She had, several months ago, then she’d broken up with George. “There isn’t family dinner tonight.” Coat hangers clacked against each other.
“What? Why not?”
It was an effort but she didn’t sigh. “Because we were all together last night. And Mum and John are leaving early in the morning. And I have to get up at 4am to drive them to the airport.”
“What about Eddie?”
“What about him? Here.” Alison dumped a pile of clothes on the bed next to Mary-Anne who picked up a dress and held it against herself, moving towards a mirror.
“What would I do without you?” Mary-Anne smoothed the skirt, her eyes on her reflection.