Today Isabelle is coming over, which is a real turning point. I told her I’d stopped working and she’s coming round earlier than planned, allowing herself time to get home and pick up the girls from school.
I’ve tidied up the house as best I can, vacuuming and polishing; even though it’s draining me. I don’t want the place to disappoint her.
She brings me a beautiful bunch of flowers. We exchange hugs and wander through into the living room. “Last time I was here was eons ago,” she says, giving everything a cursory glance, “I don’t remember it at all.” She goes to take her coat off, then changes her mind. “It’s bloody freezing in this house, Jen. Maybe that’s why you got ill.”
“I’ve not got the flu, Isabelle.”
“No,” she says. “Obviously not. Sorry. Listen, I don’t know whether I should say this, but are you aware your eyes are bloodshot?”
“Strain of vomiting.”
“Oh, Jennifer,” she says, failing to muffle a gag. “That’s awful. You poor, poor darling.” She shudders. “Sorry to be a pain, but have you got a hot water bottle? I’m not used to the chill and I can do without catching a cold.”
“Sure. That would be annoying.”
We stand in the kitchen and she chats away about nothing while the kettle boils. I’m making her a coffee with her hottie.
I peel some ginger. “You having ginger tea?” she says.
“Yeah. Want some?”
“I love ginger tea.”
“I don’t know you at all, do I?” I say.
In the living room, she sits huddled in the armchair with the hot water bottle stuffed inside her coat, cupping her mug close to her, warming her hands. “This is quite a lovely room, Jennifer,” she says, looking around.
“You’re being polite.”
“Maybe,” she says. “A little bit. But at least I’m trying.” We both laugh. “So how are you coping? I mean, how on earth can you be doing this on your own?”
“I’m not on my own anymore,” I say. “Harry and I are together again.” Her eyebrows strain upward. “I sent him a letter too. He’s been quite wonderful. He’s taking me to a spa tomorrow.”
“That’s so lovely,” she swoons. “I’m so pleased for you. You need someone. Everyone needs someone. I just hope he’s kinder to you this time.”
“Not much harm he can do in fifty-five days,” I say.
She chokes on some tea. “Are you counting down the days?”
“Yes.”
“Why? That’s awful. I mean that’s like . . . being on death row.”
“I am on death row.”
She looks away. “It just seems wrong,” she huffs. “Listen, I was going to suggest you come and stay with us. I’ll take care of you. Unless Harry’s living with you, of course?”
“That’s really kind. Thank you.”
“Well, it would be warmer.”
“But I’d rather stay here. Not that Harry’s living with me. His work takes him away a lot. He’s abroad more than he’s home and besides, he has a beautiful flat in the city. He has this amazing view of the Shard.”
“Gosh!” she says, as though she’s impressed. “Think of the pollution.”
I snort. “Yes. I’m sure he does.”
“Oh, well! The offer is definitely open should you change your mind. You ought to do something about your heating, though.”
“I’m fine, Isabelle. I’m used to it. Honestly, I don’t even notice the cold.”
“So who else did you write to then?”
“Just you, Harry, Andy and Elizabeth.”
“Andy and Elizabeth. Did you hear back?”
“Yes, actually. Andy sent a really lovely letter. In an Andy kind of way.”
“Can I see it?”
“No! It’s personal.”
“Oh, go on.”
“You can see it when I’m dead. If you can find it.”
“I’m not going to wade through your things. What about Elizabeth?”
“Nada.”
“Ah, well. Not much she can say really, is there?”
“You mean apart from sorry.”
She shrugs. “Maybe she’s not sorry.”
“Ouch.”
She picks at some ragged loose threads on the arm of the chair. “Not everyone’s kind like you, you know. In fact, I think you’re the exception that proves the rule. Most of the women I know are real bitches. I’m aware you think I am too, but some of the mothers at school are far worse than me. You’re lucky you’ve never had to deal with any of them.”
“I don’t think you’re a bitch,” I say. “But I’d have quite liked to have been a mother. Even if it meant dealing with some bitchy ones at school.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I thought you never wanted kids. Shows how wrong you can be. And I’m so sorry that bugger cheated on you because of it. I guess we can’t always know what drives people into other people’s arms when everything seems fine on the surface.”
“Did it seem fine on the surface?”
“Always. I was shocked when you told me. Mum and Dad were shocked too. So upset for you.”
This is a revelation to me. “They never said as much. It was, like, move on. Let’s not discuss it. He’s not worthy.”
“Well, that’s classic Mum and Dad. They never liked discussing uncomfortable stuff. They probably thought they were being helpful by not bringing up the subject.”
“I know. But why? Look how long it’s taken us to have a real conversation. And look how good it feels. I loved them but seriously. They were hopeless at dealing with shit.”
I point to a black-and-white photo of them that sits on my sideboard, dancing together at some ball, happy and relaxed. “They were such a beautiful couple,” I say. “A shining example of a perfect marriage and that’s all they ever allowed anyone to see. Did they never falter? I certainly never heard them argue.”
“Nor me.”
“It was as though they didn’t want us to find out that life is messy and people screw up.”
“Damn! You found out!”
“I still miss them,” I say. “Do you ever think about them?”
“All the time. The fact they can’t see the girls growing up.”
“Yeah. That’s tough. But I’m glad they’re not here for this. I wouldn’t want them knowing about me.”
“They’d never have coped. Never!” She gives a little shiver. “Anyway. Let’s be more Mum and Dad. Talk about nice things. So where do you think Harry is going to take you for your spa weekend?”
“Not a clue. He wants it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, how lovely and romantic. Martin used to do that sort of thing for me. In the good old days! Before the kids. Gosh. You make me realize what we’ve allowed to let go. It’s so sad when you lose the magic.”
I want to say something encouraging, like the magic will return, but before I have a chance to say anything, she lets out a little mew and bursts into tears.
I’m thrown. It’s totally unexpected. From nowhere. I’m not sure what to do. I go over to the chair and place my arm around her shoulder. She fans her hand in front of her face. “Oh, don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Isn’t this precisely what we were talking about?”
She puts down the tea and grapples for her handbag, pulling out a tissue.
I dash into the kitchen and come back with a half-emptied box. “Here,” I say, putting it down next to her. She’s properly sobbing now. She leans over, grabs at another tissue, dabs her eyes, delicately blows her nose.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” she says. “I feel ridiculous. I’m sorry. It’s overwhelmed me. Maybe it’s talking about Mum and Dad. Maybe it’s knowing I’m going to lose you.” She lets out a plaintive wail and I kneel at her feet, resting my chin on her knees, and look into her pale wet eyes.
“But that’s not the only reason, is it?”
She glances down at me, then closes her eyes as if to say, don’t go there. “Oh, God, Jennifer,” she jibbers. “It’s so difficult. When you’ve got children, all the endless obligations. Always dashing from this activity to the next, worrying that you’re neglecting one child or favoring the other or neglecting your husband when really the only one you’re neglecting is you. I’ve forgotten the person I used to be.” She looks back at me. “And I have no romantic weekend to look forward to. Ever!” She throws her head over her knees and her hair flops forward. I massage the exposed nape of her neck, trying to calm her.
“Don’t be silly,” I say. “You’re amazing with the girls, and Martin merely needs a nudge. All men do. Look at me, I have to die in order to get a spa weekend.”
She snorts into her lap. “Not funny.”
“And I completely understand how difficult it is. Juggling the way you do. I admire you so much how you’ve kept everything together. Your children are adorable. A real credit to you.”
She composes herself. Her bottom lip trembles, her face is streaked with makeup. She hugs the hot water bottle like a child does their teddy bear.
“Shall I refill it? It must be cold now.”
“It’s fine . . . it’s fine . . . oh God!” she cries. “I really shouldn’t tell you this—I swore I wouldn’t but I can’t keep it to myself a moment longer. And I know I shouldn’t need to ask you to swear to secrecy but—”
“I swear I will take whatever secret you have to the grave.”
“Don’t keep saying things like that,” she says. She looks me in the eye and snivels. “You mustn’t talk that way. It’s awful.”
“Okay. I won’t. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Oh, Jennifer. I wish I didn’t have to involve you. Can you bear it?”
“Of course.”
She bites her lip. “No,” she says. “No . . . I mustn’t! I’m sorry. I’m being so selfish. You don’t need to be burdened with my pathetic story. You have quite enough worries of your own.”
I give an exasperated sigh. “Actually, I’d quite like to worry about something other than myself for a change.”
She looks at me imploringly. “Is it wine o’clock?” she says.
“Does it have to be?”
“No,” she says, smiling. “Not in my household.”
I go into my kitchen and scurry around trying to find a bottle of white wine, but I’ve only got a couple of bottles of red. I’ve hardly been intending to replenish my stock. “This is embarrassing,” I say from the kitchen. “I only have red wine. Or whiskey.”
“Red wine is fine,” she says. “And maybe some water.”
“What about your teeth?”
“That’s what the water’s for.”
“Of course,” I say.
I unscrew the bottle and pour her a large glass. I pour us both some water and wander back into the sitting room. She’s checking her face in a little mirror, removing the rivers of mascara. She quickly flips it shut and puts it back in her handbag. “Thanks,” she says, taking the glass of wine from the tray and I put the water down on the floor next to her.
“Who is he, then?”
She looks back at me, startled. “What makes you say that?” she asks, but her stunned expression has already told me everything I need to know.
“Because I’m not sure what else it could be. I don’t think you’ve got a rare blood disorder, have you?”
“No,” she says, sniveling. “No. Obviously I haven’t.” The glass of wine judders against her lips, and she takes a lingering breath followed by a long slow sip. “You’re right. You must have a sixth sense,” she says. “He’s a teacher at Cecily’s school. I don’t know what to do.”
“And you’re having an affair?”
“Yes,” she says, sniffing. “Don’t judge me. I know it’s your personal sore spot.”
I take stock. “So how long has it been going on?”
“Not long . . . a year, I guess. He was Cecily’s form teacher.”
I’m trying not to look too surprised but I think I’m failing. “Martin doesn’t suspect, does he?”
“No.” She thinks for a second. “Well, if he does, he’s keeping it very close to his chest.”
“The girls?”
“No. We’re very discreet. And if the school bitches suspected, I’d know because everyone would bloody know.”
I pull my knees up to my chest. “So, apart from the obvious, what’s the problem?”
Her face stretches into a silent scream. “He wants me to leave Martin.”
“Hmmmm . . . Do you want to leave Martin?”
“No . . . I mean, I’m not sure.” She throws her hand to her forehead. “It’s an impossible situation.”
“It’s far from impossible, Isabelle. Is he married?”
“No. He’s twenty-nine. Never been married.”
“Wow. Young!”
She tries to hide a coy smile.
“So it will probably fizzle out,” I encourage.
She looks horrified. “Why do you say that?” she says and I realize she’s serious about this man and fizzling out is definitely not a consideration.
“I don’t know,” I deliberate. “He’s young. He’ll probably want to settle down.”
“I told you! He does. With me.”
“And have children.”
“Yes! With me!”
“I hate to point this out, Isabelle, but you are nearly forty-eight. It’s hardly likely, is it?”
“It’s totally likely. Not by the normal route obviously. The menopause has done for that, but that’s not what I’m saying. I mean, he’ll have the girls. He loves Cecily. I’m sure he’ll love Sophia, too.”
“So you’re going to leave Martin?” I feel inordinately sorry for the geek.
“No. I couldn’t do that to Cecily and Sophia.”
“I’m confused then. What’s the issue?”
“I don’t want to leave Barry, either.”
The sound of my laughter surprises us both. “Isabelle! You cannot have an affair with someone called Barry. That goes against all the rules.”
She’s glaring at me. I can see she doesn’t see the funny side. “What’s the difference between Barry and Harry?” she snarls.
A consonant, I think. Oh, the power of a consonant. “You’re right,” I say.
“Anyway, If you met him, you wouldn’t say that. He’s so handsome, the name becomes handsome too.”
“I’m sure. So, why do you have to do anything?”
She looks across at me, eyes narrowed. “Because he’s threatening to tell Martin if I don’t,” she hisses.
I feel the room shift. “Oh my God, Isabelle!” I say. “That’s awful. That’s blackmail. Doesn’t Barry realize how terrible that is? What that will do to the girls? Their schooling, their relationship with you, with their father? With him? That will ruin everything!”
“Oh God! Will it? You think?”
“Well . . . yes. Don’t you?”
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
You see, that’s the problem when you’ve led a charmed life. You simply don’t know how to deal with things when they don’t go your way.
“Do you think he’ll carry through with the threat?” I say. “He must surely be risking his job? You think he’s that reckless?”
“Oh God, Jennifer. You’re panicking me. I really don’t know. I’ve never even considered that. It’s all too awful. I want to curl up and die!”
“Want to swap?” I say.
She tuts. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”
“I know. I know.”
I draw my legs tighter to my chest. Isabelle drains her wine.
“Do you want a top-up?”
“No. I’m driving. Maybe I should have come by cab, but I have to pick the girls up from school, don’t I?”
“Is that when you see Barry?”
“No!” she says, with distaste, like it’s an unconscionable suggestion. “No! I told you. We’re very discreet.”
I just raise my eyebrows.
She puts down the wineglass and leans forward, taking a long sip of water. She fiddles with her perfectly highlighted hair, drawing it over her shoulder and twisting it into a plait. “There is something you could do to help, though,” she says.
I sense danger. I recognize that look. “There is? What?”
“You could meet Barry. With me obviously. Prove to him that you’re dying.”
“What?” I can’t believe she really said that. “What on earth for?”
“Oh, please don’t be upset with me, Jennifer. I don’t want you to be offended.” Her eyes tear up and she blots them with a fresh tissue.
“I’m not offended,” I say, which is the truth: I’m horrified. “But why on earth would you want me to prove I’m dying to Barry?”
“You promise you won’t get annoyed?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She looks nervous. “Well . . .” She winces as though I might hit her. “I told him I would agree to leave my husband, but that I had a sister who was dying and that I couldn’t possibly do anything so unsettling for the time being. Not under the circumstances. The girls and I would need to recover from our loss before I could bring any more changes into our lives.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Such a sweet thought.” I feel like I’m overhearing a conversation at my graveside.
“I hoped it might put him off doing anything for a while. I hoped then maybe he’d forget and we’d slip back into normality.”
“It has the ring of normal.”
“Only he doesn’t believe me.”
“I’m liking the sound of Barry a lot.”
“He says I’ve never even mentioned a sister before so why all of a sudden?”
“He has a point.”
“So I need you to go and see him. To prove that you exist.”
“What? And take my blood tests with me?”
“No, Jennifer. Don’t be ridiculous. Why are you making this so hard for me?”
I shake my head at her myopic pigheadedness. “I’m not. I’m trying to make it easy for you, Isabelle. How does no sound?”
She stares at me, checking I’m being serious. “No? You mean . . . you won’t?”
“That’s right. I won’t.”
She’s amazed. Amazed to hear me speak that way—to her, someone I’ve never said no to in my entire life. It’s a critical moment. Not one that makes me feel good because that would mean I have no feelings for Isabelle’s situation and I do. But I don’t want to be a pawn in her game anymore, and for once I’m not going to allow myself to be manipulated. For all her vulnerable beseeching.
“Look,” I say. “Either he believes you and trusts that you have a sister who’s dying or he doesn’t trust you, in which case the relationship is doomed anyway. But you’ve got yourself into this mess, Isabelle, and you’re going to have to be the one who gets yourself out of it.”
“Jennifer!” Her red raw eyes glower at me. “But I’ve been so supportive of you. Can’t you at least find it in your heart to be supportive of me?”
I gape at her with incredulity, realizing she genuinely believes what she’s saying.
“I’m hugely supportive of you, Isabelle. I’ve always been supportive. You know that. But you have a lovely family and I’m not going to help you destroy it. And it’s not because he’s called Barry. And it’s not because I disapprove. I think everyone is entitled to seek happiness in whatever form it takes, so long as they accept responsibility for the fallout. What I’m saying is, you can’t drag my dying into this. It’s absurd.”
We are both staring at each other, in uncharted territory. Her expression is that of a woman deeply misunderstood.
“Fine,” she says. “Fine! If that’s what you think.” She throws off the hot water bottle, stands up and shakes out her hair, pushing her chin forward with stubborn resolve. “In which case, Jennifer, I think it’s possibly best we go back to how things were. We have to accept we are different people with different lives. I hoped I’d get more compassion from you, but I was wrong. I thought you would understand my feelings, but you’re still that same Goody Two-shoes you always were.”
“Oh, I understand your feelings all too well, Isabelle. It’s a shame you can’t understand mine.” My mouth is dry. “I told you, I’m not judging you. And I mean it. I’m not. But I’m not going to collude with you in your deception. There will be somebody else out there who will happily do the job for you, but it’s not on my bucket list. Thank you all the same.”
She picks up her handbag, flounces toward the door, yanks it open, hesitates, slams it shut, then swivels round on her heels and collapses to the floor in a heap. Her coat pools round her like a protective moat.
I’m fixed to the spot. “You okay?”
She glares back at me. “What do you care?”
“Oh, stop it! Of course I care.”
She puts her head in her hands. “Damn you, Jennifer,” she says. “You’re so annoying I want to punch you. Why do you have to be so goddamn moral? Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?”
I can’t help myself any longer; it’s like a tornado that’s been whipping up inside of me for years.
“Do you have even the faintest idea how irritating it is for me to hear you say that?” I yell. She stares at me, openmouthed. “I’m fed up with that attitude. I’m bored with being labeled a Goody Two-shoes! I’m bored with having to be nice and sensible. What good did it ever do me?”
“God! You’re so angry.”
“Too right I’M ANGRY. Wouldn’t you be angry? Here you are with your whole gilded life ahead of you, willingly messing it up and God knows it will probably all go right for you in the end. And look at me. All I’ve ever wanted is to be decent and kind and fair and this happens. OF COURSE I’M ANGRY.”
Her face pales. “Hush, sis,” she says softly. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
“NO IT ISN’T.”
“You’re right,” she says, struggling to her feet. “It isn’t. But I’m still going to hug you whether you like it or not. Even if you kick and scream and try to get the fuck away!”
She walks toward me, arms flung wide, then envelops me inside her coat.
“You said the f word,” I say. “Mum and Dad would soap your mouth out for less than that.”
“I hate to remind you but they’re not here. You can say it now. You can say it as loud and as often as you like.”
I let go of her and scream “FUCK!” at the top of my lungs and she starts to scream with me.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!
We’re shouting with laughter, holding on to each other. Bouncing up and down like a couple of crazy kids.
I lean against the wall, holding my aching sides. “God, that felt good!” I say.
“It felt FUCKING GOOD,” she yells, getting her breath back, smiling. Her face changes. “Oh, why has it taken us so long to be sisters?” she says. “This is such fun.”
“I should have written that letter years ago,” I say.
“And now you have a damned illness. Go away, you parasite! Leave my sister alone!”
“Thanks, Isabelle! That’s worked.”
“Excellent. Then maybe you owe me one.” She simpers up to me and puts on a silly girl plaintive voice. “Would you see Barry for me?”
I gawp at her. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Kind of . . . Oh, don’t fret! Of course I’m joking. And, yes, I got myself into this mess blah blah blah. Point taken.”
I smile. Relieved. “But I’m here if you need someone to talk to. For the time being anyway.”
“I know,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Stick around, kiddo! And now I have to go and be a grown-up and collect some kids who call me Mummy. Let me know about your weekend. Hope it’s somewhere fabulous.”
I watch her leave. I’ve never been more sad to see her go.