‘Why can’t you find a nice sensible girl to go out with, instead of these half-wits?’ said Dad.
‘Creative people are drawn to each other, Dad. It’s not like I have any control over it.’
‘Fiona, we’d better go,’ said Mark, pointing to the clock on the kitchen wall.
My stomach sank. Please, God, let it be OK and let the cancer not have spread.
Fiona bent down to hug the twins. ‘OK, boys, remember what I told you? Mummy won’t be sleeping here tonight and when I come back I’ll have a sore tummy for a few days. But I’ll see you tomorrow and Auntie Kate is going to look after you today.’ She had opted for ‘tummy’ rather than having to go through the breast chat with two five-year-olds who thought that boobies were hilarious.
‘No, Mummy,’ said the twins in unison, having picked up on the tension in the room and their mother’s drawn face. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I have to, boys, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Now, be good for Kate,’ she said, then wrapped her arms round them and whispered, ‘I love you,’ into their hair as they clung to her. It was the first time she had ever been away from them for a night, and they knew it wasn’t good news. They began to cry and clung to her legs, which made her cry too. Even Teddy looked sad, sitting in his basket, whimpering.
‘Boys,’ said Mark, ‘Mummy has to go now or she’ll be late. Go back and finish your breakfast. I’ll be home to read you a story and tuck you in. Come on, now, let go of her legs.’
Reluctantly they did as they were told, but ran after their parents as they climbed into the car.
We all hugged Fiona, and as Dad clasped her to his chest, I heard him whisper, ‘You’re going to be fine, my darling girl. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.’
We waved them off, all of us fighting tears but trying to look cheery for the boys’ sake.
‘Why does Mummy look so sad?’ asked Bobby, as Fiona turned to wave.
‘Because she’ll miss you tonight, so you’ve to be very good and give her lots of hugs tomorrow when she comes back,’ I said.
‘Why will she have a sore tummy tomorrow?’ asked Jack.
‘Because…’ I was floundering.
‘Because the doctor is going to take out the bad stuff inside and it will be sore for a few days until the scar heals. Like when Bobby got glass in his hand and the doctor took it out – it was sore first and then it got better,’ said Derek.
That made sense. The twins nodded.
‘Nice one, Derek,’ I said, smiling at him. Then, turning to the boys, I said, ‘OK, come on, eat up, we don’t want to be late for school.’
‘I hate yucky porridge,’ said Bobby, turning his spoon upside-down on the table.
‘Me, too,’ said Jack, flicking a lump, which landed on Teddy’s nose. They both squealed with laughter as the poor dog leapt up in shock.
Bobby jumped down and began to chase Teddy around the kitchen, shoving his bowl under the dog’s nose.
‘Leave that poor dog alone,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, now, do what Kate says.’
Grudgingly, the twins sat down.
‘My porridge has dog spit in it,’ said Bobby.
‘I want Frosties,’ roared Jack.
‘Well, I’ve a meeting at nine, so I’ll leave you to it,’ said Dad, backing out the door as fast as he could, followed by the fastest-moving Derek I’d ever seen.
‘Thanks a lot!’ I called after them.
I heard a screech and turned back to the boys. Jack had upturned his bowl of porridge on Bobby’s head. I had been in charge for precisely six minutes.
10
Having chased the boys around the house for half an hour, trying to get them dressed, I eventually resorted to rugby-tackling them to the floor and dressed one while I sat on the other. They were none too pleased to be squashed into the carpet by their supposedly ‘fun’ aunt and I was told in no uncertain terms that I was ‘mean and nasty’.
I bundled them into Fiona’s jeep, but as we were about to drive off, Jack said, ‘No! We can’t go till we pick our music.’
Bollox, the bloody music.
‘OK, whose turn is it?’
‘Mine,’ said Bobby.
‘What would you like to listen to?’
‘Kakosky flowers,’ he said, decisively for a five-year-old. Maybe Fiona was right and this classical-music playing was brain-inducing. I might try it myself.
I grabbed a bunch of CDs from the glove compartment and riffled through them. ‘It’s not here. Can you choose something else?’ I asked impatiently, as I glanced at my watch. We were already running late and Fiona had specifically told me that Mrs Foley liked her pupils to be on time. What difference it could possibly make to a bunch of kids running around or playing with Lego if one was late was beyond me. But I wanted to do everything right and prove myself a responsible, reliable sister. So far, it wasn’t going to plan.
‘I want Kakosky flowers,’ Bobby whinged.
I looked again. Who the hell was Kakosky? Some stupid bloody Russian composer, no doubt, who’d spent his life freezing his arse off in a wooden hut in the middle of a snowy field with no heating and all his family killed in some revolution or other. So he wrote music that reflected his sad depressing life and no one appreciated it because it was so dark and grim. So we had been spared it, until a century later when some music critic determined to make a name for himself had decided to find an obscure composer and convince us that the music wasn’t depressing, it was ‘moving and stirring’, and now we had to pretend to appreciate it. Because to say you think it’s a pile of horse manure shows you’re an ignorant fool, even though most people probably agree with you.
My patience was running out. ‘I’m sorry, Bobby it’s not here.’
Bobby grabbed the CDs and waved one at me. ‘It’s the one with the butterflies on it. It’s number three,’ he said.
I looked down: Tchaikovsky, Waltz of the Flowers. ‘Sorry, Bobby, I see it now.’ I felt like a prat. These kids could run rings round me in the brains department. ‘OK, let me tell you something about Kakosky,’ I said, shuffling through my notes. ‘Here we go. His name was Peter.’
‘We know that,’ said Bobby.
‘And we know he was from Russia,’ Jack piped up.
‘OK. Did you know he had twin brothers, just like you two, whom he adored?’
‘Cool,’ said Bobby.
I looked down at the sheet I’d printed off the Internet in Dad’s office the night before. ‘It says here he was married but he was actually a homo – Oh!’ I said. I didn’t think the boys needed to know about Kakosky’s sexual preferences.
‘Homo what?’ asked Jack.
‘Home a lot where he composed all his lovely music,’ I said, cranking up the volume to drown anymore questions.
When I dropped the twins off at school, I received a stern lecture from Mrs Foley about tardiness being unacceptable, until I cut across her and told her to give me and the boys a break as Fiona was in hospital and very unwell. She sniffed, then said she hoped my sister would recover soon, but if I was in charge for the moment, I must make the effort to be on time in future. Then I was informed that if I was late to pick them up at lunchtime I would incur a charge of five euro for every half-hour, except under very exceptional circumstances. In being late I was teaching the boys a bad habit, which could lead to sloth in the future. And sloth, as we all know, is a deadly sin.
I backed down the driveway as fast as my legs could carry me before Mrs Foley could list anymore sins I might inflict on the boys. Where did Fiona find these people, I wondered, as I drove back to the house to clear up.
When I got in, the kitchen was a mess. Porridge was stuck to the floor and the table. Milk had spilled down the side of the chairs and Teddy was licking the honeyjar, which had fallen on to the floor.
He jumped when he saw me and looked mightily relieved when he realized I was alone. The poor dog was tormented daily by the twins with their over-zealous displays of love.
‘I kno
w how you feel,’ I said, patting his nose. I made myself some coffee and sat down to have a cigarette before I did the cleaning. As I lit up, I saw a bright red sign on the fridge: ‘No Smoking – Our Kids Breathe Clean Air.’ I sighed and put the cigarette back into the packet. I made myself two slices of toast, which I lathered with butter to compensate for my lack of nicotine. I hadn’t eaten bread or butter for four years. Since I’d got my first five-second slot on TV, I’d been starving myself every day. Bread, potatoes, pasta, rice and chocolate were all things of the past. When I was hungry, I smoked. Pretending you’re four years younger than you are requires a lot of discipline and permanent hunger.
The toast tasted fantastic and I decided to have another slice to treat myself. What the hell? I didn’t need a flat stomach. I wasn’t going on TV. Besides, I’d starve myself before I went back to London. For now, I was on a time-out.
Reinvigorated by the food, I cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, let Teddy out for a run in the garden and by the time I’d finished it was eleven o’clock. Fiona was due out of theatre at about eleven, so I called the hospital. The nurse said she was in the recovery room and still very groggy but the operation seemed to have gone well. She wouldn’t give out any further information until the doctor had spoken to Fiona himself.
After pacing up and down, praying that the news would be good and biting my nails, I decided to hop into the car and drive to the hospital. I wanted to be near Fiona physically; whatever the news, I wanted to be there.
When I arrived, Dad was in the visitors’ room, pacing like a caged tiger.
‘Any news?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he growled, ‘they’ll tell me nothing. The surgeon is in with her and Mark now. Jesus, Kate, let it be good news. Don’t let it have spread.’
I squeezed his hand and we sat watching the clock for twenty more minutes, until the nurse came in and told us we could see Fiona, but only for a minute as she was still very tired.
She looked very small and frail in her hospital gown, but she was smiling. ‘It’s good news,’ she said, and began to cry.
‘The surgeon said he was confident he’d removed all the cells and that it doesn’t appear to have spread to her lymph nodes,’ said Mark, taking over.
‘But we won’t know for sure until the test results come back in three days,’ added Fiona.
‘Fantastic news,’ said Dad, and kissed Fiona’s cheek.
‘She has invasive ductal carcinoma,’ continued Mark, as if he was addressing a conference of cancer specialists.
‘In English, please,’ I said.
He glared at me. ‘IDC is the most common form of breast cancer in those with breast tumours. The treatment for early detection has a very high success rate. Fiona is going to have chemotherapy and radiation treatment, but she’s going to be fine.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dad, beaming.
I looked at Fiona, who was smiling weakly. It was good news, but she still had to wait for the test results and then faced a pretty horrendous few months with no guarantee of success. I went over and held her hand.
‘I’m dreading the chemo,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry, sis. We’ll get through it. One day at a time.’
She squeezed my hand, and then, looking at Mark, she said, ‘You’d better go, you don’t want to be late. Good luck.’
He bent down to kiss her, and left.
‘Where’s he off to?’ asked Dad, trying to sound casual when it was as clear as the nose on his face that all he wanted to do was go out there and box his son-in-law for leaving Fiona.
‘He’s got a conference call with an expert from China who can help him with his paper. He’s been trying to get in touch with him for weeks.’
‘I see,’ said Dad, not seeing at all. I could tell he was thinking of what to do with Mark’s important paper and it didn’t have anything to do with prizes.
The door opened. Thank God! Mark’s seen sense, I thought. He’s come back to put his wife first rather than some Chinese mathematician.
But it was Derek, looking a bit flushed. ‘Yo, howzit going?’ he asked.
‘Good, thanks. It doesn’t appear to have spread and it’s a very treatable form of cancer so I’ll be fine,’ said Fiona.
I looked at her in amazement. She was so concerned not to upset Derek that she’d made it sound like a walk in the park.
Derek looked at the drain in Fiona’s side, then at her pinched face and winced. ‘So, like, was it savagely painful?’
‘Well, I was out for the count during the operation, but it is a bit sore now,’ she admitted.
‘Like, really bad pain?’
‘About as sore as having a big lump sliced out of one of your balls,’ I said, losing patience with Derek’s need for gory details.
‘Chill, I was just asking. I wanted to do something for you, like, make a gesture, and I couldn’t think of anything, but Roxanne came up with a brilliant idea. While you were having your operation I was having one myself. It was total agony, but it looks deadly,’ said Derek, turning round and pulling up his T-shirt to reveal a large tattoo on his lower back, which read ‘CARPE DEIM’.
I began to laugh. Fiona joined in, then Dad.
Derek glared at us. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny. Don’t you know what it means?’
‘I think, Derek, you’ll find that your fuck-buddy suffers from dyslexia.“Diem” is spelt backwards, you turnip.’ I giggled.
‘What the hell? Are you having me on?’
‘No, Derek, she isn’t,’ said Fiona. ‘You now have a huge misspelt tattoo on your backside. But I appreciate the thought.’
‘Roxanne’s a legend. She’d never get it wrong,’ said Derek.
‘In all fairness, Derek, she didn’t strike me as a Latin scholar,’ said Dad.
Derek ran into the bathroom to check it in the mirror. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. I suffered two hours of torture for this. I’m outta here. Man, I’m gonna kill her.’
‘It’s proud moments like these that a father dreams of,’ said Dad.
‘Hey, Derek,’ said Fiona, as he was storming out the door.
‘What?’ he asked grumpily.
‘Thanks for cheering me up.’
11
I left the hospital and was on my way to pick up the twins when my phone rang. It was Tara. ‘How’s Fiona?’ my friend asked, full of concern.
‘She’s OK. We still have to wait for the test result but they don’t think it’s spread to her lymph nodes, so they say that the chances of her recovery are good but she has to go through chemo.’
‘Poor Fiona.’
‘I know, and she’s trying to be brave, but I can tell she’s terrified. I feel so sorry for her.’
‘At least the diagnosis is good, that’s the most important thing, and I’m sure you being home to help is a relief to her. How are you getting on with the twins?’
‘Not great. They were late for school and I got a bollocking from the teacher. I’m on my way to pick them up. They’re hyper – and it’s going to be a long afternoon. Seven and a half hours to be precise.’
‘Do you want to hear something that’ll distract you?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic?’
‘I bumped into an old pal of yours today.’
‘Who?’
‘Sam,’ said Tara, then paused for dramatic effect.
‘Oh, right. How is he?’ I said, trying to sound casual as I narrowly missed slamming into the car in front.
‘Very well…’ said Tara, and she told me the story, leaving nothing out.
*
She was sitting in the café around the corner from her office, munching her sandwich, when she heard, ‘Tara? Hi.’
She looked up. It was my first love – Sam Taylor. She hadn’t seen him in at least five years.
‘Oh, my God! Hello, stranger, how are you?’ she said, and got up to kiss him. They smiled at each other with a mixture of awkwardness and familiarity– the way people do when they used to kno
w each other very well but haven’t met in a long time. ‘Will you join me for a coffee?’ she said, pointing to the chair opposite her.
‘I’d love to. How the hell have you been? What’s new?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t even know where to begin.’ Tara laughed. ‘It’s been so long since I saw you. Well, the short version is that I got married and settled down. What about you?’ she asked, pretending not to know that Sam had married Nikki Jennings four years ago, a fact she had dissected in minute detail with me for weeks, months and even, possibly, years. Nikki Jennings had been in the year below us at school – she was all blonde hair, big tits and sunbed tan.
She sipped her tea and waited for Sam to tell her about his marriage. He hesitated, then said, ‘Well, I was married for three years, but we’ve been separated for almost a year now.’
Tara choked. She hadn’t seen that one coming. Separated? ‘God, Sam, I’m sorry. I had no idea. Are you OK?’ She was, trying to figure out a way of asking him what had happened without appearing nosy. Wait until Kate hears this, she thought.
‘Yeah, I’m fine now, thanks. It’s been a rough year or two, though,’ he said, looking up at her.
Wow, he still has those killer eyes, thought Tara. ‘And is there no possibility of a reconciliation?’ she asked, congratulating herself on her subtle questioning.
Sam shook his head. ‘Well, considering she’s now living with her boss – the man she was having an affair with while she was with me – I’d say the chances are slim,’ he said, smiling ruefully.
‘Yikes! I’m sorry, Sam.’
‘Yeah, me too. So, anyway, how’s married life with you?’
‘Is it OK for me to say that it’s great?’
‘Absolutely. I’m glad it’s going well.’
‘Tom, my husband, reads your column religiously. He thinks you’re the best sports writer around.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘You know me and sports – even Kate had more of an interest than I do.’
‘How’s Kate? How’s her high-flying career going?’ he asked, with just the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘Has she married some hot-shot TV star yet?’
In My Sister's Shoes Page 6