This is what my parents’ new building is called: the Group. It looks like an old factory, with black metal window frames and brick arches and a mural of elephants. As I stare up at the façade, I can’t help feeling impressed.
“Well,” says Luke. “Good for your parents. This looks great.”
“It’s amazing!”
“Live, work, chill,” Luke reads off a sign. “Co-living for today. Is there a buzzer?”
I’m just searching around for a set of buttons when the doors open and Mum comes bursting out.
“You made it! Welcome!” she cries excitedly. “Janice and Martin are already here, and Jess, of course, and Dad’s making espresso martinis!”
Espresso martinis?
I’m about to say, “Since when did Dad know about espresso martinis?” when I suddenly clock what Mum’s wearing. She’s in a pair of baggy orange trousers that look like they belong to a Buddhist monk, together with a T-shirt with the slogan Bitch Don’t Kale My Vibe.
She…what?
As Mum catches me gawping at her outfit, she beams. “Aren’t my new trousers super, love? I bought them from a stall in Brick Lane. So comfortable. Now, let me show you around our new home!”
She sweeps us through a lobby with exposed bricks and metal rivets everywhere, plus neon signs reading WORK, PLAY, and CHILL.
“So, this is one of our ‘chill’ areas….” She pushes open a door to reveal a room full of low-slung sofas, ottomans, and beanbags. It’s dimly lit, soft music is playing, and a young guy with dreadlocks seems to be asleep in the corner. Minnie makes an immediate dash for one of the beanbags, but Luke swiftly leans in and scoops her back out again.
“Sorry to disturb you, Kyle!” Mum says in a stage whisper and closes the door again. “That beanbag’s wonderful,” she adds. “Super for taking the weight off my bunions! Now, let me show you ‘the garden hangout.’…”
Before I can reply, she’s whisking us down a little corridor and pushing open a door to a cool-looking terrace. There are plants hanging from baskets, a couple of outdoor sofas, and a firepit.
“Wow!” I say in admiration.
“It’s a nice space,” says Mum complacently. “The bees are on the roof. And, look, there’s a bicycle rack for Dad to store his unicycle.”
“His what?”
“He’s joined a local circus-skills workshop. Great fun! And now here’s ‘the hub.’ ”
She leads us to another door and ushers us into a big, bright space with skylights and a huge central wooden table. About ten people are typing at laptops, most with earphones in, and a few lift a hand in greeting, saying, “Hey, Jane.”
“Hey, Lia,” replies Mum cheerily. “Hey, Tariq. This is my daughter, Becky, her husband, Luke, and my granddaughter, Minnie.”
“Hi,” I say, lifting a friendly hand and smiling at all the faces.
“Love,” murmurs Mum into my ear. “A small piece of advice? No one says ‘Hi’ here. It’s a bit ‘old hat.’ Everyone says ‘Hey.’ ”
“Oh, right,” I say, discomfited.
“What businesses are based here?” inquires Luke, looking round at all the laptops.
“Lots of start-ups,” says Mum. “In fact, Dad and I might launch a little start-up, we thought,” she adds brightly. “In our spare time. It’s very much ‘the thing.’ ”
“Great!” says Luke, his mouth twitching. “Good idea.”
“But now let’s go upstairs,” says Mum, chivying us out of the hub and toward an old-fashioned clanky lift. “We’re having drinks and then we’ve booked a table for brunch. Jess is so excited,” she adds. “She’s dying to see you.”
“Did she actually say that?” I ask in astonishment, because Jess doesn’t normally say gushy things.
“Well, maybe not,” confesses Mum after a slight pause. “But I’m sure that’s what she meant.”
* * *
—
OK. I’m just saying, some people, if they were seeing their half sister for the first time in ages, might rush over and hug them. But I’m used to Jess by now. As Mum shows us into the flat, Jess looks up from her drink, lifts a hand, and says, “Hi, Becky,” in her flat, calm voice.
Honestly. Does she think I’m going to say, “Hi, Jess,” in the same low-key way and that will be the sum total of our greeting?
“Jess!” I hurry over to give her a massive hug, even if she doesn’t want it. She feels skinnier and more muscly than ever; her skin is tanned, and her hair has been bleached by the sun.
“Where’s Tom?” I look around. “Is he here?”
“No,” says Jess.
“How come?” I ask in surprise—and I’m disconcerted to see Jess flinch.
Jess never flinches. She’s like granite. Is something up?
“Tom had a few things he needed to tie up in Chile,” she says stiffly, her eyes averted from mine. “You know he’s been working with a charity out there? He’s coming over as soon as he can. Obviously he’ll want to see his parents, so…”
She trails away as though she can’t think what to say next, which is pretty unusual for her too.
“Oh, right,” I say. “Shame you couldn’t travel together.”
“I’d already agreed to give a series of lectures in London on igneous rocks,” replies Jess impassively. “The dates were agreed.”
“Right.” I nod wisely, as though I know what igneous rocks are. “Well, anyway…welcome back!”
“Aunty Jess!” Minnie clasps her round the legs, and Luke comes over to kiss her, too, and Jess’s cheeks glow a little, as though she can’t help being pleased. Maybe she just needs to be jollied along a bit.
“How was your flight?” I ask. “Are you jet-lagged? I got you something to say welcome back….”
I hand Jess her present, and as she starts to unwrap it, I look around the flat, taking it in properly. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows, a teal velvet sofa, and amazing light fittings everywhere. And there’s Dad, in faded jeans and a long-sleeved gray marl T-shirt, mixing espresso martinis at the copper cocktail bar, while Janice and Martin sit on industrial barstools.
I can’t help gaping at Dad, just like I gaped at Mum. My dad never wears a long-sleeved T-shirt. He never wears jeans. The most relaxed look I’ve ever seen him in before is a golf-club polo shirt.
“Happy new home, Dad!” I say, giving him the champagne and kissing him. “This is amazing!”
“You like it, Becky?” Dad is glowing.
“It’s so different!”
“It’s very different, isn’t it, love?” says Janice in a tremulous voice. “Very different.” She’s wearing a particularly swirly floral two-piece with a pleated skirt and looks quite incongruous, perched on her industrial barstool, glancing around nervously as though she’s found herself in the middle of the Gobi Desert.
“Espresso martini, Martin!” says Dad cheerfully, and hands him a cocktail glass. Martin stares at it dubiously, then takes a small sip.
“Quite refreshing,” he says after a pause.
“Minnie, darling, here’s some juice for you….” Dad gives her a beaker and she sits down cross-legged and starts to sip contentedly. “And a gin and tonic for you, Janice, was it? Now, what sort of gin?”
“What sort of gin?” Janice’s eyes swivel about uncertainly, as though it’s a trick question. “Um…Gordon’s?” she whispers.
“Janice!” chides Dad. “Be more adventurous! We went to an artisan gin tasting the other night. This one is Japanese.” He brandishes a bottle at Janice. “Try this.”
“Lovely!” says Janice, looking disconcerted. “I’m sure.” She watches Dad slicing up a cucumber, then adds, “We missed you at the bridge club. Everyone was saying, ‘What a shame the Bloomwoods aren’t here.’ ”
“We’re going to start poker nights!” says Mum, breezin
g over to the bar and opening a bag of beetroot crisps.
“Poker!” says Janice. “Goodness!”
“Thanks, Becky,” comes Jess’s voice behind me, and I turn to see her holding the bottle of sludgy green body lotion.
“What do you think?” I ask eagerly, studying her face for signs of pleasure. “It’s vegan and the bottle is recycled glass, and the box is made from sustainable cardboard.”
“I saw that.” She nods expressionlessly. “Thanks.”
I feel a tweak of frustration. Couldn’t Jess just once exclaim, “Oh my God, I love it!” and fling her arms around me?
“I know you’re anti-consumerist and everything,” I add. “But I thought this would be OK because it was made by a women’s collective.”
“Yes. I read the label. It’s a good initiative.”
I stare at her calm face, willing her to say more. I know it’s really pathetic of me, but I want her approval. I want her to say, “Wow, Becky, it’s the perfect present!”
“You have to admit, it’s an environmentally friendly choice,” I say with a light laugh. “Ticks every box. I mean, it’s pretty perfect, isn’t it? Nothing you can object to.”
“Well,” says Jess, then stops.
“What?” I narrow my eyes at her.
“I appreciate it, Becky. It was very thoughtful and generous of you. You’re always generous. Thank you.” She puts it down on a side table. “So, what’s new? How’s Minnie getting on at school?”
She’s dodging the question.
“What?” I demand. “What’s wrong with my present? Why isn’t it perfect? Tell me!”
Jess sighs. “Well, the packaging is problematic. But you must realize that.” She gestures at the plastic film on the box.
“It’s fully recyclable,” I say in bewilderment. “I checked. It says, Fully recyclable.”
Jess just gives me a blank stare. “We can’t ‘recycle’ our way out of the plastic pollution catastrophe that’s devastating our planet in its thoughtless surge of consumerism,” she says. “Although thanks again,” she adds as an afterthought. “As I say, it was thoughtful of you.”
I can feel my shoulders slumping. Great. Every time I think I’m green enough for Jess, she goes even greener. I’m going to get her something so green for Christmas, she won’t know it, I silently vow. I’ll get her…leaves.
A buzzer sounds, and Mum picks up an entryphone receiver. “Hello? Oh, Suzie! Come on up! Third floor!”
“You’re going for the facial-hair look, I see, Luke!” says Dad in a jovial voice. “Very ‘now.’ What do you think of Luke’s mustache, Becky?”
My head jerks up and I realize everyone’s looking at me. Shit. OK, I need to be supportive.
“I think it’s a brilliant charity effort,” I reply, hedging, “and everyone must sponsor Luke.”
“We can get you some mustache oil for Christmas, Luke!” says Janice, and my smile turns to a rictus of dismay. Mustache oil?
“It’ll be gone by then,” I say too quickly.
“Well,” says Luke, stroking his upper lip self-consciously. “That was the idea. But if you like it, Becky…”
Like it?
“Do you like it, love?” says Mum, with interest.
Argh! I feel totally put on the spot. I don’t want to say anything negative, but how can I say I like it? Husbands and wives should not discuss mustaches in polite company, I instantly decide. It should be a major breach of etiquette.
“You said it looked great the other day,” adds Luke.
“Right,” I say, my voice a little shrill. “Yes. I did say that, didn’t I?”
“So!” says Mum, handing Luke and me espresso martinis. “Speaking of Christmas, shall we discuss arrangements?”
“Let’s wait for Suze,” I say. “The Cleath-Stuarts are coming for Christmas Day too.”
“Oh, good!” exclaims Mum. “It’s going to be such a lovely day. Just think, Graham! No cooking, no decorating…Becky’s going to do it all!”
“All?” I echo in slight alarm.
I know I’m hosting Christmas, but doesn’t Mum want to do some? Or, like…most?
“Becky, love, we don’t want to get in your way,” says Mum in generous tones. “It’s your Christmas.”
Before I can say, “I don’t mind sharing,” the doorbell to the flat rings and Dad swings the door open.
“Suze, my dear!” he exclaims. “Welcome to our new home.”
“Wow,” says Suze, her eyes like saucers as she ventures in, peering around. “Just wow. This flat! And, Jess, you’re here, and, Jane, your outfit is amazing, and…oh my God, Luke!” she says as though this is the biggest surprise of all. “You’ve got a mustache.”
“Becky likes it,” says Janice eagerly, and Suze’s gaze swivels to me in astonishment.
“Really?”
“For now,” I amend quickly. “I like it for now. You can like things for a bit. You can really like them and then…not like them quite so much.” I clear my throat. “That can be a thing.”
“Huh,” says Suze, looking mystified. “I never thought—” She stops herself dead. “I mean, absolutely. Good for you, Luke. It’s…It’s…” She seems to be struggling for words. “Wow!”
* * *
—
As we walk along Shoreditch High Street to the restaurant where we’re having brunch, Minnie holds my hand and we fall into step with Suze and Jess, while the others walk farther ahead.
“Have you seen what your mum’s T-shirt says?” demands Suze, as soon as Mum is out of earshot. She sounds on the brink of hysteria, which is pretty much how I feel too.
“I know!” I say. “Thank God Minnie can’t read!”
“And espresso martinis.”
“And circus skills.”
Dad showed us some tricks with his newly acquired diabolo just before we came out for brunch. We all clapped and said, “Encore!” and Janice only shrieked once, when the diabolo nearly hit Martin on the head.
“I think everyone should retire to Shoreditch,” says Suze firmly. “It’s the way to go.”
Jess has been walking along silently, but now she says, “It’s really generous of Graham and Jane to give me their house. They didn’t need to.”
“Oh, they wanted to,” I say quickly. “They’re having a great time here! It’s an adventure for them. When do you think Tom will come over?” I add casually, to make conversation—and at once Jess flinches, exactly like she did before.
“Not sure,” she says. “As soon as…He’ll…” She stops as though to give herself time. “Not sure. I’m not sure.”
OK. That was a weird response. Jess’s jaw is rigid and her gaze is fixed ahead. I glance at Suze, and I can see she’s a bit puzzled too.
“How’s Tom’s work in Chile going?” I venture.
“Yes. Good.”
“Any news on the adoption?” I ask, even more cautiously.
“No, none.” Jess’s face closes up, and I see her hands clenching into fists.
I have an anxious feeling in my stomach. My sister is even more monosyllabic than usual. Her eyes have darkened with misery. And, OK, I know we’re only half sisters, but we definitely have a psychic connection. (We once built exactly the same kind of cupboard, hers for rocks, mine for shoes.) I feel I know her—and right now I’m pretty sure something’s wrong with her and Tom.
I glance at her anxiously, longing to fling my arm around her and say, “Jess, what’s up? Is it Tom? He’s always been a bit weird; you mustn’t mind that.” But I’m not sure how well she’d respond. She’s not the chattiest person in the world. I’d better take it slowly.
“By the way, Suze,” says Jess, her eyes still fixed straight ahead, “I haven’t seen you since your…loss. I was sorry to hear about it.”
“Thanks,�
� says Suze, her eyes darkening a little too. “It was…you know. One of those things.” She glances at me and I give a half smile, half wince.
We walk on a short way in silence and I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking about children. I’m wondering wistfully if Luke and I will ever have another baby. But then instantly I feel bad for wanting anything more than Minnie, and I squeeze her hand tightly, just to prove it to her.
Then it occurs to me: Maybe Jess isn’t thinking about children at all; maybe she’s thinking, How am I going to break it to everyone that Tom and I have split up?
The thought makes me feel cold—but at the same time, it’s not really a shock. It must be difficult for them, living so far away. And both working hard. And Tom surrounded by lots of sexy young charity workers in khaki hot pants (I expect). Maybe he’s fallen in love with one of them.
Or has Jess fallen in love with a guy in khaki hot pants? Or a girl in khaki hot pants?
I mean, anything’s possible.
I glance at Jess again, wondering whether to press her on the subject. But, after all, she’s only just arrived back, and the whole family’s around. I’ll take her out for a drink sometime and talk privately to her, I decide. Just us girls, all nice and relaxed. She’ll open up then.
“Bex, you must be really out of shape!” says Suze. “You’re breathing so hard!”
“Oh.” I look up in a daze. “No, I was thinking about…you know. Things.” I wonder if Jess will divine my empathetic, sisterly thoughts—but she gives me a blank look and says, “You should try high-intensity workouts, Becky. You usually dodge cardio, don’t you?”
Instantly, all my empathy melts away. Dodge cardio? I don’t dodge cardio!
“Actually, I’ve got a new online personal trainer,” I say loftily. “I’m on a bespoke exercise program.”
“Wow!” says Suze. “I didn’t know you were doing that.”
“Well, I bought this new dress for Christmas,” I explain. “Alexander McQueen, seventy percent off.”
“Alexander McQueen!” Suze opens her eyes wide.
“Exactly! But it’s a teeny bit too small. So I thought, I’ll hire a personal trainer and fit into the dress, plus it’s good for my health. Win-win.”
Christmas Shopaholic Page 10