No Sister of Mine (ARC)

by Vivien Brown

  The hotel, when I found it, was surprisingly local. The Garden Manor. Only ten miles

  away. It sounded grand but its cheapskate price didn’t quite match up. Still, whether it was

  luxury or budget, what difference did it make? It was too near to home. He would have had no

  reason to stay there, when it was so easy to get home. Not for work anyway. Only for pleasure.

  The sort of pleasure he had chosen to keep secret. I felt the tears prickle at the back of my eyes as I tried to make sense of it all.

  There was nothing since. Nothing that looked in any way out of the ordinary. No more

  hotels, no train tickets, no petrol for long journeys, no cosy meals for two. Nothing that

  screamed out at me that he was having an affair. Unless he had decided to be more careful, and

  destroy it all. But then, why not destroy the one vitally important hotel bill that gave the game away? And, if it was Eve, as I knew it must be, then of course he would have no need to travel

  far from home. She was living right here now, practically on our own doorstep. When was the

  last time he had been on a course, stayed away overnight? When had that all slowed down,

  stopped? Because it had.

  I don’t know what made me look back further, to earlier dates, to times before she came

  home, but I did. And there it all was. Mixed in among all the other places, the genuine trips,

  but easy enough to pick out when you know what you’re looking for. Six years of it. Petrol

  receipts from garages in Wales, meals eaten in Wales, a florist’s bill for roses bought the day before her birthday. He couldn’t find a way to claim for those, surely? But it all added up. It all pointed to just one thing. Eve was still very much in Josh’s life, and almost certainly still in his bed – or hers – and had been for a long time. God, maybe they had never stopped. Maybe

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  it had been going on throughout our whole married life. And me . . . well, I was probably the last to know, wasn’t I? ‘Mug’ written right across my forehead, in big red letters for all to see.

  I waited for him to come home, felt the rage burning inside me the moment I looked at

  him, but I said nothing. Did nothing. I dug my nails into my palms, fought back the urge to hit him, scream at him, but managed to hold it all in. I had to give myself time to think, to plan, not to dive in and do something instant and uncontrolled that I might live to regret. I was his wife, and that meant something. Or it did to me. Walking away, separating, divorcing, was a

  huge step, one I would not find easy, and who would it hurt the most? Me. Me and Janey. And

  wouldn’t it be playing right into their hands? Like opening the door to Eve and inviting her in, to take my place, to take him. It would be giving him what he had probably wanted all along.

  Giving in. And so I bided my time, thinking, watching the pair of them, their every move. Hard

  though it was to carry on as if nothing had happened, that was exactly what I knew I had to do.

  ***

  I’m not sure quite when I decided to play Josh at his own game. Oh, I wasn’t about to leap into

  bed with anyone else. That would simply give him the ammunition he needed to blame me, get

  rid of me, make me out to be the bad guy. But I was lonely, and in need of a sympathetic ear,

  someone who would listen and give me a hug and be on my side. I couldn’t burden Dad, talking

  about it at work would look too much like I was asking for professional legal advice, and what

  did Tilly know about men and the trouble they cause? And so I did what I had wanted to do for

  so long. I opened the contacts list on my mobile and scrolled down to the fictional Carol.

  He didn’t answer the first time I tried and I was far too cowardly to leave any sort of

  message. Hi, Colin. It’s Sarah. Sarah Cavendish . . . What if he didn’t want to talk to me, or didn’t even remember who I was? How embarrassing would that be? I hung up quickly and

  tried to put the whole stupid idea out of my head. The man was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. He

  was busy, important, and quite likely married by now. To some high-flying surgeon, or a sexy

  nurse. What would he want with me? Some girl from his past who he’d never really got to

  know properly the first time around, let alone the second. Come to think of it, what did I really want from him? That was the question I kept coming back to, but not knowing the answer

  didn’t stop me from phoning again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Colin?’

  ‘Yep. Who is this?’

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  I held my breath, my thumb hovering over the End call button. If I was going to back out, now was the time. But I didn’t.

  ‘You might not remember me,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘but it’s Sarah.’

  ‘Sarah? As in Penguins-in-the-park Sarah? Of course I bloody remember you, you nit!

  How are you? And little Janey? Not so little now though, I guess. God, Sarah, I know you said

  you’d call, but it’s been years! I thought you must have lost my number, or just decided you

  didn’t want to talk to me ever again. Made me wonder what I did wrong!’

  ‘I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong. I just . . . well, life got in the way, you know, how

  it does.’

  ‘Still married, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, still married.’

  ‘Shame.’

  I laughed. ‘Colin Grant, you are such a flirt. Honestly!’

  ‘Can’t blame a man for trying. Now, come on, tell me why you’ve called after all this

  time. Couldn’t resist me any longer, eh? Not that I’m complaining. It’s great to hear your

  voice.’

  ‘Yours too.’ I stopped, not at all sure what to say next. ‘I . . . I don’t suppose you’re free

  to meet up, are you? For a coffee or something?’

  ‘You bet I am. When? Now?’

  ‘Wow, you’re keen!’

  ‘No time like the present. Let you slip away now and you might not call again for

  another God knows how many years. But at least, now you have, I’ve got your number at last!’

  He laughed. ‘As luck would have it, I’m not working today, so name your place and I’ll be

  there. Then you can tell me all about it. This life of yours, that’s been getting in the way. I heard about your mum, by the way. Too late to send condolences or turn up at the funeral, but

  I am sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. She’d been very ill and we all knew it was coming, but even so . . .’

  ‘Of course. Death is always hard to take, no matter how much you’re expecting it.

  Believe me, I see it all the time at work and I never get used to it. Now, come on, where shall we meet?’

  ‘Kiosk in the park?’

  ‘Ah, you old romantic, you! Scene of our first date.’ He did an exaggerated sigh. ‘Half

  an hour, okay?’

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  I changed out of my floppy trousers and slippers and into a half-decent but not-too-dressy dress, my one and only winter coat and a pair of medium height heels, brushed my hair

  and peered into the hall mirror to add a flick of mascara and a touch of barely-there lipstick

  before grabbing my bag and rushing out to make sure I got there first.

  The metal shutters were down over the kiosk window, badly spelt graffiti splattered

  across them in garish pink paint. The place was all in darkness and obviously not open for

  business. Closed for refurbishments, so the sign on the door said. I waited there anyway, on one of the old wooden benches that bordered the playground. There was a cold wind blowing

  and I started to wish I’d stayed in trousers, but from there I could get a good view along the

  path in both directions, so there was no danger I
would be taken by surprise. I pushed my hands down deep into my pockets and pulled my collar up.

  He looked just the way I remembered him, all confident smile and twinkly eyes, but so

  much smarter. I didn’t know if he had rapidly raided his wardrobe for the best shirt and the

  cleanest jeans he owned, or if he dressed that way all the time, but topped off with a sleek black leather jacket, this tall, slim vision of the man bore no resemblance to the chubby kid I knew

  at school, nor to the sweaty T-shirted runner I had bumped into in the very same park all that

  time ago.

  He ran the last few yards, sweeping me up into a hug as soon as he reached me, and my

  arms seemed to just fall naturally into place around his neck. His kiss on my cheek felt warm

  and welcoming. ‘Well, Mrs Sarah Whatever-your-name-is-these-days . . .’ He held me out at

  arm’s length and smiled, nodding towards the shuttered kiosk. ‘I bet you knew this place was

  closed, didn’t you? A clever ruse, to get me here under false pretences and then entice me away to somewhere a good deal posher. Come on.’ He hooked my arm into his. ‘Let’s find a cosy

  corner in a pub somewhere, shall we? Life stories get told a lot better over a bottle of wine.’

  ‘So, show me your little Janey, then,’ he said, as soon as we were settled with a drink

  in front of us. ‘She must be quite grown up by now.’

  I pulled out my phone and flipped through the photos, looking for the best ones to show

  him.

  ‘Oh, come on, let’s see them all.’ He took the phone from my hand and I watched his

  face soften, his smile light up his eyes as he gazed at my daughter. ‘She’s very like you, Sarah.’

  ‘Do you think so? She has my hair, and maybe my nose, but she’s a lot like her dad

  too.’

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  ‘Is this him?’ Colin had come across some family pictures, the three of us squashed up side by side in some restaurant, and a couple I had taken of the two of them in the garden in

  the summer.

  ‘Yes, that’s Josh.’

  He looked from me to the photo on the screen, and back again, as if he was trying to

  imagine us together, and shook his head. ‘So, tell me. Tell me all of it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Pull the other one! Tell me what he’s done, why you’re so clearly unhappy. And why

  there’s not one single photo of just the two of you together. No smiley ones, no arms-linked

  ones, no . . . well, no really happy together pictures. That says a lot, you know.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  What made me spill out all my problems, and my worst fears, to a man I hardly knew?

  I felt safe with him, for a start. He was on the edges of my life, not a close friend, not bound up in any way with my family or its troubles, yet not a total stranger either. And the way he

  looked at me, held my hand gently in his as we sat side by side on a long comfy corner seat in

  the pub, gave me the warmest, fuzziest feeling that he cared, really cared, and maybe even

  fancied me a little, which was exactly what I needed.

  ‘Do you love him, Sarah?’ he said, ten minutes later, when I’d been talking pretty much

  non-stop and had finally run out of steam and stopped to wipe my eyes and take a sip of my

  wine. ‘Do you really love this rat of a husband of yours? And does he love you? Because, from

  what I can deduce here, he’s not been very good to you, or very fair. Okay, you got off to a

  rocky start, pushed into things too quickly and much too young, before you knew each other

  well enough. I get that. But now?’

  ‘About the getting-married-young thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was pregnant.’

  ‘Yes, you told me that.

  ‘He stood by me, Colin. He didn’t have to. I have to give him credit for that. For doing

  what everyone said was the right thing, the honourable thing. But . . .’

  ‘Come on, spit it out. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not about to spill your secrets

  all over town. We doctors know how to be discreet, you know.’

  ‘Well . . . I was never actually sure the baby was his. There, I’ve said it. In fact, it was

  highly likely it wasn’t. There was someone else, just a few weeks before.’

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  ‘Not that wally Jacobs?’

  ‘So what if it was? It didn’t mean anything really, just teenage stuff that went too far,

  but then I missed a period. Just one, and I was trying to ignore it, hope I was wrong. I hadn’t done a test. And later, by the time I was sure, it was just assumed the baby was Josh’s. I mean, poor little Sarah, hardly out of nappies herself, surely couldn’t have been with anyone else . .

  .’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What does oh mean? It’s not that I’m expecting you to approve. It was pretty bad of

  me, wasn’t it? I do know that. Bad not to tell the truth, and to let him take the blame. And I

  have felt guilty about that, really I have. It’s why I know it’s not all Josh’s fault. I led us into this disastrous marriage, without giving him all the facts. But when we lost the baby – a baby

  I never saw, although they told us it was a little boy – it didn’t seem to matter anymore. It was all just so horrible, so sad, and I went to pieces for a while. He looked after me, cried with me, and I knew he must really care about me. Me, not just the baby, because there was no baby . .

  .’

  ‘And that’s love, is it? Keeping quiet about something so important, tricking a man into

  marriage, basing your whole future together on grief? You had the chance to end it then, didn’t you? After the baby died, you could have gone your separate ways.’

  ‘Why would I? I loved him. We were married, and we decided to try again.’

  ‘Replace the baby with another one? Don’t you think that was just papering over the

  cracks? Trying to justify why you were together, give yourselves a reason to go on with the

  charade?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it. About us.’

  ‘I know that he doesn’t talk to you, confide in you, treat you as if you’re special. Which

  you are, by the way. And meeting up, quite likely sleeping, with another woman, who could

  very possibly be your own sister? Does that sound like a loving husband to you? Because it

  certainly doesn’t to me. It doesn’t matter why you got together in the first place, or even why you decided to stay together. None of that has to bind you together for ever. The man’s clearly a shit, and I can’t help wondering why you’re hanging on so tightly to someone who might not

  actually be worth hanging on to. The only possible reason I can see why you would even

  contemplate staying is if, despite everything he’s done, you still love him. Really love him.’

  ‘I . . .’

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  ‘It’s not that hard a question. Love, or not love? It’s something you should know instantly, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. I started out believing I was so lucky to have bagged him.

  He was gorgeous, so good looking, older than me but not treating me like a child. I fancied him rotten, and loved him right from the start. But love changes, doesn’t it? I’m not some silly

  dewy-eyed teenager anymore. He has his faults. And so do I, I’m sure. But we have a daughter

  together. A home. He’s all I know. We’ve been together all my adult life . . .’

  ‘And what sort of an answer is that? You stay because you know nothing else, have

  nothing else? Sarah, that’s bullshit. You must know that. What about trust? Respect? Okay,

  what do I know? I’ve
never been married, and luckily I haven’t had my heart broken . . . yet.

  But divorce isn’t the shameful thing it once was, you know. You could walk away with your

  head held high, with money of your own, a chance to start again, build a happy life without

  him.’

  ‘I know. But . . .’ But what? I didn’t know what it was that held me back, so how on

  earth was I ever going to explain it to someone else?

  ‘But you haven’t even tackled him over it, have you? Now, listen to me. You needed a

  friend to talk to, and you chose me, and you asked for – well, sort of asked for – my advice,

  and my support. Why else are we here? So, that’s what you’re going to get, whether you like

  what I have to say or not.’ He looked straight at me, his fingers under my chin, turning my face towards him, making sure he could hold my gaze. ‘As I see it, you’re hoping if you ignore it

  then it will all go away and everything will be rosy again. If it ever was. That’s not the way the world works, Sarah. You tried to ignore that first pregnancy and look what happened. You have

  to face up to things, make positive choices, not rely on luck or fate or whatever magical force you think will come along and put things right. Men like Josh will get away with it time and

  time again if nobody challenges them or tries to stop them. It’s time you stood up for yourself.

  Fight for him or throw him out. One way or the other, you can’t just go on doing nothing. You

  have to know. And if it involves your sister . . . well, you definitely have to know about that.

  You have to ask him. Ask her.’

  I squeezed my eyes tight, nodded and looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor,

  anywhere but at Colin. I edged closer and laid my head against his big broad shoulder, trying

  hard not to cry. Of course he was right. My marriage had been as good as over for a long time

  and I hadn’t been prepared to face it.

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  ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Sarah. You must know that.’ He rubbed his thumb backwards and forwards over the back of my hand, rested his chin lightly on the top of my

  head, and his voice dropped down almost to whisper levels. ‘But none of this is about me, or