I’d refused to let Ella’s message sink in the night before. Instead, I’d bought another bottle of vodka to numb all the feelings I didn’t want to deal with.
Now, curled under my grubby duvet in the middle of the afternoon, I found myself crying for the sister I had lost – my real sister. The sister I’d loved and would never see again. I didn’t want another sister in my life, but there was no doubt Ella Matthews was who she said she was. She knew too much. She’d mentioned Reagan, and her mother’s name was Anna.
A flood of memory surged back; long forgotten, buried under so much shite. I’d heard the name Anna years before Celia’s shock revelation. I must have been about five when Celia had opened the door of our house in Cork.
‘Celia,’ the woman on the doorstep had said in a funny voice. She was tall, pretty, with dark curly hair.
I’d stared at her from where I was sitting in the hallway, setting out dolls and soft toys for a tea party. I remember them arguing. Celia threatening to call the Gardaí.
‘Please, I just want to see her, that’s all,’ the woman had cried, and I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my blue teddy and hugging it to me.
‘You signed her away,’ Celia had screamed, before the door slammed.
The knocking that followed made me cry. I’d thought it would never stop. Celia covered her ears, her own tears sliding down her pale cheeks. She scooped me up and raced up two flights of stairs.
‘Teddy!’ I called, as my soft toy dropped from my hand and bounced down the steps.
I’d asked Celia who the lady was, but she said it didn’t matter – that we wouldn’t be seeing her again.
As the memories dissolved, I buried myself deeper in the bed, my head throbbing, my throat sore and dry. She signed me away.
Later, I stuck my hand out and seized my phone. It was 3 p.m. Reluctantly, I emerged from under the duvet and dragged myself up. There was a carrier bag on the floor containing cleaning fluid, a pack of cheap cloths and an uneaten egg sandwich I’d bought the night before. With a surge of determination, I grabbed the cleaning stuff and headed for the filthy bathroom. I was used to cleaning, making everything shiny, although never with a hangover.
I knelt and squirted the liquid around the bath and began rubbing it in, my mind spinning. Ella had included her mobile number. Should I ring her? Meet her? Would it mess up everything with Reagan?
I almost laughed. Jake would have hated that I’d discovered two new relatives. It had suited him, having me to himself.
I rinsed the bath, put in the plug and ran the water. It was tepid, but I needed to feel clean.
When the water was deep enough, I undressed and stepped in. Taking a deep breath, I lowered myself under the water. I could hold my breath for ages. I’d taught myself how to after Bryony died.
As I lay there, submerged in the water, I wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to never come up again. Would it be a release?
An image of Jake swam into my head and my eyes sprang open. Someone was standing over the bath, his shape distorted by the water.
I shot up, gulping air, sending a tide of water splashing over the side.
‘Jesus, get out, get the fuck out!’ I screamed, recognising the landlord and covering my boobs with my arm. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I knocked,’ he said, not moving, eyes at chest level.
‘And did you hear me say come in?’ I was still yelling as I scrambled out, reaching for my towel and wrapping it around me. ‘Jesus! You could have given me a heart attack.’
He shrugged, and lowering his eyes at last, fiddled with the keys on his belt. ‘Somebody’s downstairs, asking for you.’ He took a handkerchief from his cardigan pocket and blew his nose. ‘Some bloke.’
My heart thumped. ‘What does he look like?’
Before he could reply, the door opened, and Alfie from the pub stepped inside. I couldn’t fathom what he was doing here. It was as though my bathroom had turned into Piccadilly Circus.
‘Is everything OK?’ he said. ‘I was downstairs, hoping to speak to you, and heard you yelling.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ I tightened my towel, wishing it was longer and covered my legs. ‘Why don’t you call some people in off the street, so everyone can see Colleen having a bloody bath?’
The landlord tore his gaze away and left, muttering under his breath, and Alfie shrugged and followed. As he closed the bathroom door, I heard him whisper, ‘Sorry.’
I got dressed and sat on the toilet seat, my head in my hands. I was already a wreck, and now the old git downstairs had seen me naked. Could things get any worse?
*
‘Hi,’ Alfie said, as I came out of the bathroom. He was sitting on my bed, feet up, as though I’d invited him to stay.
I opened my mouth to ask what the hell he was doing there and tell him to piss off, but before I could say anything, he smiled and said, ‘I thought you might fancy an all-day breakfast.’
‘I’m not hungry.’ Finding my comb, I dragged it through my short, wet hair.
‘But you have to eat, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I’m not being funny, but you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in ages.’
‘I eat.’ I looked at the sandwich on the floor. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘No, you’re right,’ he said, rising and backing towards the door, zipping up his chunky cardigan. ‘Sorry. I just … well, I thought as we’re going to be working together it might be nice to …’ His words trailed off, and he gave an apologetic smile.
Something unfurled inside me. ‘Sure, why not?’ I grabbed my hoodie and disconnected my phone from where it had been charging, before shoving it in my pocket. ‘I guess I do need to eat.’ It would be good to know someone in Sligo besides Sandra.
‘So what are you doing in this part of the world?’ Alfie said, once we were seated opposite each other in a steamy café a couple of streets away. He was tucking into a fry-up, and I was pulling apart a bacon sandwich, trying to decide what to tell him. Part of me wanted to offload to this stranger with his quirky glasses and a smile that said he was a good guy, but something stopped me.
‘You go first,’ I said.
‘OK.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Well, I live in Drumcliff, not far from here.’
‘The final resting place of Yeats.’
‘Indeed.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You know your poets?’
‘Not really,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘But I have been to Drumcliff before, or the outskirts, anyway.’ I looked down, aware I’d said too much already. ‘It was a very long time ago. I barely remember.’ I took a bite of my sandwich and swallowed. ‘So do you live with your wife?’ I felt myself blush. I rarely blushed.
Alfie shook his head, a piece of sausage suspended on his fork. Not quite meeting my eyes, he said, ‘I’m not married.’
‘Do you work in the pub full time?’ I tried and failed to recall the last time I’d made small talk like this with a man. A good-looking man at that. Jake would never have allowed it.
‘I’m actually a freelance web designer,’ Alfie said, after taking a swig of builder’s strength tea. ‘But being my own boss is a bit hit and miss. That’s why I work at the pub.’ He paused, and put down his knife and fork. Counting on his fingers, he said, ‘I have one sister, two cats, a mum, a gran and a Fiat 500.’
I laughed; a sound I hadn’t heard in a while. There was something reassuring about Alfie, something that made me certain I was safe in his company.
‘So you’re married,’ he said, in a deliberately casual way.
I nodded. ‘His name’s Jake, we got married when I was eighteen.’
‘That’s very young,’ he said.
I didn’t want to go into all that. ‘Yeah, but it’s over now.’
‘He sounds like a bastard, if you don’t mind me saying.’ Alfie’s cheeks reddened. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear what you said to Sandra at the pub,’ he admitted. ‘Men should never hit women.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ I said, pushing my plate away. I rose. ‘Actually, I have to be somewhere.’
‘Was it something I said?’ He looked concerned. I felt bad.
‘Not at all, I’m fine, Alfie, honestly.’ But I was far from it. I should never have agreed to come out with him. I didn’t want to lie to him, but couldn’t face going into the truth. ‘I’ll see you later, yeah?’
‘Listen, if you ever need a friendly ear, I’m here.’
I could see he meant it. ‘Thanks,’ I said. First Sandra, and now Alfie. I wondered if everyone in Sligo was this kind. Maybe my luck was changing.
Alfie resumed his breakfast. ‘Quiz night tonight,’ he called, as I opened the door to leave. ‘Should be fun.’
‘See you later, then.’
Back at the flat I poured what was left of the vodka into a mug, and opened my phone.
I checked to see if Reagan had replied – he hadn’t – then I signed in to Facebook, my curiosity about Ella rising with every gulp. I took a deep breath and replied.
I can’t believe we’re sisters. That’s amazing. You look stunning in your picture, by the way. We have the same freckles. Did you notice?
I paused. If I said I was in Sligo, would she come over? She obviously wanted to meet me, but I needed time to think. I was in Sligo for Reagan. Did I really need the distraction of Ella?
I’m in America at the moment, I typed. If Reagan was in America, I could be too. I glanced at my watch, as I fiddled with my necklace, wondering about the time difference. Was it the middle of the night over there? Would Ella notice?
Oh God, I wasn’t thinking straight. I took another gulp of vodka, before continuing the message.
I’d love to hear more about you. I love travelling and I’m very sporty, a bit of an adrenalin junkie, to be honest. I’m always jumping out of aeroplanes. I had a happy childhood with my adoptive parents, and work as a film editor.
I laughed at my words, unsure where the lies were coming from. I’d never dreamed or wanted to be a film editor. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d ever had any dreams of my own. Was I inventing someone Ella might like and want as a sister? Someone far removed from who I really was? Or was I just playing games?
I’d love to hear more about Anna – particularly why she gave me up and kept you.
Too harsh. I deleted the last line.
I’d love to learn more about Anna, I began again. You talk about her in the past tense.
I smiled. I already knew her mother – our mother – was dead.
I’d love to get to know you better once I’m back. Are you married? Is he handsome? Do you have children? So many questions! I finished and found myself laughing. Your loving sister, Colleen x
I pressed Send.
‘Are you married?’ I whispered. ‘Is he handsome?’
Fifteen minutes passed as I stared at my phone, an unexpected feeling of anticipation creeping over me, as I realised I wanted her to reply.
I decided to text the number she’d sent me.
This is my number, Ella. I’ve messaged you on Facebook, but we can text too if you like. Colleen x