I ring the doorbell of the new build. It’s four years old, so not exactly shiny new, but it always has that new smell, as if the paint never quite dried. Usually I’m armed with Prosecco, olives and crisps, ready for a night of board games that end dancing on the kitchen table to the Spice Girls. Today, however, it’s just me and my Thailand clothes.
‘Sis!’ Kit beams as he opens the door.
Throwing his arms around my neck, he plants a smacker on my cheek. It’s comforting that he’s barefoot, wearing shorts and an old Everton football shirt, the same attire he’s worn his whole life on lazy Saturdays. He swoops me up in what I’ve always called a ‘princess carry’, something he’s done for the best part of thirty years despite being both younger and smaller than me. ‘Gareth! Come and get Chloe’s suitcase, will you?’
I’m swept into their home and accidentally kick a topless Gareth in the head in the hallway. Kit’s fault, obviously. He chucks me onto the sofa and their pug, Mabel, jumps onto my lap and licks my hand. Kit chases Mabel into her basket under the stairs as I sink into the soft black cushions. The living room is all tones of grey. Splashes of bold colour spring from three similar framed posters promoting an annual music festival called Sonic on Sea. Gareth’s a graphic designer.
‘Coffee?’ Kit asks. ‘We’ve got a Nespresso, thanks to Gareth’s ma.’
I decline, feeling jittery enough. Kit offers me a range of teas from herbal to builder’s; Gareth suggests a glass of cold elderflower. I go with that. Kit’s unzipped my suitcase and found some pink slouch socks. He pulls my Converse off my feet without undoing the laces and chucks them into the hall, then slips my socks onto my feet. It’s one of those rainy summer days where you stay in wearing a hoody and catch up on crappy telly.
‘I hope these are clean?’ he asks, nodding at the socks, then at his fluffy white rug.
They are.
The downstairs of Kit and Gareth’s house is always spotless. Even after a gathering, one of them is up at the crack of dawn to Dyson the spilt nibbles and take out empty bottles to the recycling. Smoking is permitted, but only on the decking in the back garden using an ashtray. The upstairs, however, is another story. They eat pizza in bed hungover on Sundays and only change their bed sheets every other month. Kit’s promised my mum they’re working on it.
Gareth hands me a tall glass filled with ice and elderflower.
‘I’m so sorry about Jack, Chloe,’ he says, although there’s no need. He sent me some lovely texts when it happened. ‘And I’m so sorry Thailand didn’t work out for you.’
‘I went to Vietnam, too,’ I say.
‘Oh, I love Vietnam.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Bloody hell, Gareth,’ Kit says. ‘Kick her while she’s down, won’t you?’
Gareth blows me a kiss with both hands and then points upwards.
‘I’m just gonna …’ he says. And off he goes to the spare bedroom which is his office stroke studio stroke gym. Of course, it’s Kit’s too, but Kit doesn’t work from home or work out at home. He works for the Liverpool tourist board and plays footy twice a week.
‘How’s the wedding coming along?’ I ask, curling my feet beneath me.
Kit raises his eyebrows. ‘Let’s not talk about the wedding.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause we need to talk about you.’
His eyebrows return to their rightful place. They’re such a perfect shape and he insists he doesn’t pluck them. We share the exact same colouring except Kit doesn’t bleach his hair like I do. He leaves it au naturel, mousey working so much better on him than it does on me, perhaps due to the way he styles it; neatly shaved around the back with a lovely quiff on top that he washes and blow-dries every day.
‘Okay, well if you’re not gonna talk, Chlo, I will.’ Kit sits down cross-legged upon the white rug. ‘I’m mortified I never came to see you—’
‘No, Kit. Honest—’
‘Sis. Please. You know I haven’t got any annual leave left with the wedding and the honeymoon coming up, but I could’ve got the train down one weekend, stayed with you and made sure you were alright. Mum kept saying you were coming home and I shouldn’t’ve listened, shouldn’t’ve waited. I should’ve been there for you. And I’m dead sorry.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t want anyone coming to stay. No offence.’
‘Highly offended.’
‘Tough. I liked being on me own.’
‘You liked it?’ Kit asks, as if he’s just choked on one of Mabel’s dog biscuits.
I take a velvet cushion to my chest and hug it. ‘No. It was awful.’
Kit leans back on his hands, sighs. ‘I feel a thousand times more guilty now.’
‘Don’t feel guilty, hun. I’m the one who’s gonna be making a show of meself at your wedding, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, ’cause your plus-one is …’ and Kit pretends to slit his throat with his finger and sticks out his tongue, which I find very funny. Nobody else could ever make a joke like this, but Kit can. He always can.
‘Got any chocolate?’ I ask.
Kit grabs my hands, pulling me to standing.
‘Don’t tell Gareth,’ he whispers, leading me into the kitchen by my index finger.
I sit at the table and Mabel joins us, getting herself all cosy by the washing machine. Kit takes down a large Jacob’s cracker box from the tins cupboard and tells me to open it. Inside, it’s full of broken chocolate, all sorts, from white to milk to dark.
‘Easter eggs,’ Kit says without moving his lips. ‘Gareth thinks I took our eggs into work, you know, so we could kick start our wedding diet. But I lied. I bashed them all up and put them in here.’
‘You do know marriage is based on trust?’
Kit wafts a hand in my face and pops a triangle of white chocolate into his mouth. Mabel jumps onto his knee and he kisses her and tickles her, whilst I dig in to the cracker box. Kit clears his throat, leans in and speaks with his mouth half full.
‘Guess who’s not coming the wedding?’
‘I thought we weren’t talking about the wedding.’
‘Hush. Guess.’
‘Erm. I give up.’
‘You’re no fun anymore.’
‘Glad you noticed.’ I bite into a long slab of dark chocolate. ‘Come on, who?
‘Gareth’s dad.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Pulled out “officially” a few weeks ago. Work commitments, apparently.’
‘What?!’
‘Gareth was devastated, but he’s kind of relieved now. Bastard.’
‘God. I got the feeling they weren’t best mates, but this.’
‘I know, it’s been quite the drama, sis.’
The bitter cocoa coats my back teeth and I lick it with my tongue. I had no idea about this situation. My mum hadn’t mentioned it, I don’t think. Kit’s rubbing the back of his neck, something he does to distract himself from biting the skin around his thumb when he’s anxious.
‘Sorry, Kit. I must’ve missed this, you know, with Jack dying.’
‘It was before then. Around the time you moved to London.’
‘Oh,’ I say, sensing the disappointment he’s trying to mask. ‘Ah, shit. Is this why you kept ringing me? I thought you were gonna try to persuade me not to move in with Jack.’
Kit puts the lid on the Jacob’s cracker box and snatches it away from me.
‘I’d never do that, sis. I’ve got me own life to worry about.’
I swallow, feel a burning in my cheeks. ‘I honestly didn’t have a clue.’
Kit rustles my already messy hair.
‘No probs, sis. You were in your little Chloe bubble.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, come on. You’ve always been all or nothing when it comes to men.’
‘Hardly. Jack was the first fella I’d ever moved in with. At my age!’ I push my chair back a little. ‘You saying Jack was just another fling?’
Kit slaps his hands over his eyes and shakes out his head.
‘Jeez, Louise. This has all got a bit …’ and he flashes his teeth, tensing the muscles in his neck, ever so Deirdre Barlow. ‘And anyway, I thought we were (or were not) talking about me wedding.’
We giggle a little. Kit slides the Jacob’s cracker box back towards us and flicks the lid off again. We’re both keen to keep eating chocolate rather than bicker. I go for a large slab of what looks like a decapitated Lindt bunny, but Kit gets there first and my hand lands upon his.
‘Snap!’ I say.
Kit squeezes my hand and yanks me into him, giving me a giant hug. My throat tightens and I don’t want to cry, not now, so I break away.
‘I’m such a dickhead,’ I say, stealing the broken bunny, ‘I’ve always thought of meself as carefree when it came to fellas, relationships.’
‘Remember the rotter who only ate Pot Noodles and smelt of soil?’
‘It wasn’t soil. It was weed.’
‘Like that makes it okay.’
‘You know, I thought I’d got me shit together in me thirties, but God, I hated dating. So forced. All that anticipation, then disappointment, and oh, the inevitable drunken sex. I’m not doing it again. No way. I can’t bear the thought of—’
I shut my eyes, shudder, the thought of Justin. What we did. Yeah, Kit’s just taken the piss out of me for flying into flings, but in my heart, in my gut, I always knew when they were over. Some were over after the first snog: a tongue too hard, too slimy, too long. But I’d go back for more, drag it out, give that tongue the benefit of the doubt. I went out with this fella a couple of years ago who was brilliant. Kind of a real-life Tom Hardy, just taller and skinnier. He cooked a prawn curry to perfection, he loved books about the universe, he was a drummer, he went rock-climbing and he was fucking good in bed. But I couldn’t laugh at his jokes. Not one. And I find most things pretty funny. Around the three-week mark, it was obvious we had no future. We called it a day about four months in. I can’t call it a day with Jack. I just can’t.
Kit’s squinting, his arms folded, and he’s sitting right back in his chair. ‘I’m envisioning you still shacked up with Pot-Noodle-pothead … Ugh. Nah. Much prefer grieving girlfriend. It’s an all-round better look for you.’
‘Thanks, hun.’ I put my feet up on another chair crossed at the ankles; I’m sugared out. ‘Can I ask … Did you like Jack?’
‘I only met him once, didn’t I? That night you brought him here. It was boss.’
‘When Gareth got his old karaoke machine out! Such a dark horse.’
‘I told you then and I’ll tell you now, sis: I loved Jack. Thought he was great.’
‘There’s a sort of sick part of me that wishes you’d hated him.’
‘I can lie, if you want? I’m dead good at lying. Tara McNulty still thinks I’m straight.’
‘You took her big V.’
‘Eh? Don’t you mean she took mine?’ Kit shivers at the memory. ‘Jack though.’
‘Jack though.’
‘I loved how I instantly felt like I knew him, five minutes after meeting him. He commanded a room, didn’t he? But also made everyone in the room feel at ease. And you suited him. He wasn’t your usual type and I was like, hallelujah!’
‘Makes me wonder. I think a lot of people have that opinion of Jack – not to belittle what you just said, but he had that gift. Warmth, familiarity. Maybe what me and him shared wasn’t so special, you know – maybe it was just that I felt special ’cause he was so capable of making me – or, people in general – feel that way. Maybe everyone felt special around him.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Guess I’ll never know.’
Mabel starts yapping and Kit grabs some treats for her. She licks them from his palm. Gareth pops his head around the kitchen door, sweat dripping from his forehead.
‘I thought you were working?’ Kit asks.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Gareth defends himself.
‘Come here and gis a sweaty kiss.’
‘I’m getting in the shower.’
‘You came all the way downstairs to announce you’re getting a shower?’
‘Nope. I came all the way downstairs to see if you’re okay.’
‘I’m amazing.’
‘Not you. Her.’
I’m nervous Gareth’ll see the Jacob’s cracker box, burn holes in its side with his gorgeous eyes. They’re the sort of eyes that change colour depending on what he’s wearing. Right now, they’re green and mystical.
‘I’m not great,’ I admit.
‘You’re going to be, though. One day soon,’ Gareth smiles.
‘Have you had your teeth whitened?’ I ask him.
‘Thanks for noticing, Chloe. Did you hear that, Kit?’
‘You got your teeth whitened?’ Kit gasps. ‘How much did that cost?’
Gareth runs away, his shower awaiting. Mabel gives a little bark and Kit lets her run up the stairs after him. He offers me another dip into the Jacob’s cracker box, but I’m done. He sneaks a white chocolate piece out for himself and puts the box back into the tins cupboard.
‘Look, sis. I know I told Gareth off for saying it earlier, but I’m really sorry the whole Thailand thing didn’t work out for you.’
‘Agh, well. It’s brought me home, hasn’t it?’
‘Erm! A small affair called my wedding, I think you’ll find, has brought you home.’
I give a little laugh, although Kit was expecting more. I can see he’s desperate to get his sister back. I want that, too. I lean against the window, watch the rain dancing down. It’s so inoffensive. It gets disliked for ruining a British summer’s day, or, God forbid, a weekend. But it’s not harming anybody. At least the grass will be greener tomorrow.
‘Maybe I should move back …’
‘I wanna say yay! I never wanted you to move to London.’
‘I didn’t just go to London to be with Jack, you know. He was the main reason, of course, but I knew it was the right move ’cause I’d exhausted here. I love Liverpool, but I wasn’t moving forward and it seemed everybody else was steaming ahead. I mean, I was still going to pubs I went to twenty years ago. And it was boss. But the people I liked and hung out with, well, they all started staying in, having kids and I tried to make new friends but it’s hard to give yourself a fresh start in the same place.’
‘And it didn’t help that the school you were working in was fucking miles away!’
‘Right! God, I don’t miss that commute on the M62.’
‘Builder’s?’ Kit asks. There are a few drops of elderflower left in my glass.
I nod and he jumps up to flick the kettle on.
‘Should I come home?’
‘Ah, I’m the wrong person to ask, sis. You know me answer to that.’
My heart swells and in this moment, I feel lucky. Loved. It’s not the love I’ve lost or the love I crave, but it’s still love. And I have it, in abundance.
‘But,’ Kit says, raising his hands as if I’m about to punch him, ‘you can’t stay here. I mean, you can stay here tonight, but after that, you’ve gotta go to Mum and Dad’s.’
‘That’s me plan, don’t worry.’
‘I feel awful – I mean, you’ve had the whole tragic Jack thing and the whole stupid London thing and the whole sad holiday thing and now I’m turfing you out. But the blow-up bed’s broke and Gareth hates anyone sleeping on the sofa, he’s got this weird thing about other people’s feet touching his stuff—’
‘I know about the foot thing.’
‘Hold on, we’ve got a tent. You’re more than welcome to sleep in the garden?’
‘Kit. Stop. I wanna go to Mum and Dad’s. I wanna go home.’
‘Okay. Wow. Weird. But okay.’
He hands me a boiling hot mug, teabag still in the water and enough milk for a bowl of cereal. My brother has many talents and tea-making ain’t one of them. I’m reminded of nine-year-old Kit making us Roscoes a cuppa for the first time. It was Mother’s Day. Bet my mum regrets biting her tongue, pretending it was the best tea she’d ever had. But I love this terrible cuppa. It’s consistent, and that’s just what I need.
I sip. ‘Can we watch Three Men and a Little Lady now?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’