‘I need to use your laptop,’ she told me. ‘It’s urgent. I’m looking for your birthday present.’
Naturally, I told her she could help herself and settled back for another twenty minutes beneath the duvet. I was in no hurry to get up for another day in the confines of my flat and its bare, grey yard. I was beginning to envy real prisoners. At least they had exercise yards you could actually walk around in. I could take only six steps before I had to turn round again. My last day as a twenty-something should not have looked like this. But at least Clare was going to buy me a present.
What I didn’t know was that my sister was not going to use my laptop to log on to Amazon, or Play, or any of those websites where you might ordinarily expect to find a suitable birthday present for a woman about to turn thirty. Oh, no. She was after something much more exotic. By the time I had dragged myself from the shower, she had just finished her mission. She clicked the open page shut before I could see what she’d bought.
‘Let me see,’ I said.
‘It’s a surprise,’ said Clare. ‘But trust me, I did find exactly what you need and it will be here by half eleven.’
Flowers, then, I thought. Or maybe one of those freshly baked muffin baskets. Now that I didn’t have to worry about being seen in a bikini, I would have been very happy with one of those. Or maybe, in my wildest dreams, she had ordered a pair of shiny Louboutins from Net-à-Porter to make up for having shoved her filthy feet into my pristine Jimmy Choos without my permission. It was more likely to be the flowers, of course – Evan went through their bank statements with a red pen, highlighting unnecessary expenditure that should have been diverted into their mortgage – but I had a couple of hours of feeling quite excited about the surprise ahead.
When the doorbell rang at half eleven, I leaped to answer it, but Clare insisted that I stay put in the sitting room.
‘You’re not to move until I’ve got everything in place.’
‘OK,’ I said. Everything in place? What on earth could she be doing? I stayed on the sofa for a couple of minutes as Clare talked to the delivery guy in the hall, but of course I couldn’t help tuning in to their conversation.
‘Where do you want it?’ he asked.
‘Straight through to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a bit of it, isn’t there.’
‘Eight sacks,’ said the guy. ‘Just like you ordered.’
Sacks?
‘I know,’ said Clare, ‘but I didn’t expect the sacks to be so big. Could you take some back if we don’t need them?’
‘Sure, but once you’ve emptied them out,’ said the delivery guy, ‘you’ll be quite surprised. You may even decide you need a couple more. Jase!’ he shouted back to his mate. ‘Start getting the pallet down.’
The pallet?
What on earth was coming in a pallet? I couldn’t hold out any longer. I had to see what was coming into the flat. I parted the curtains, expecting to see . . . Well, I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but I was certainly not expecting to see one of those huge builder’s merchant’s lorries with its very own crane on the back. On the pavement was the loaded pallet.
I raced out into the hallway. The delivery men were already hauling the first two sacks in.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I told you not to come out here until we’ve finished,’ said Clare.
‘I had to see what you were doing. Where are they going with that? What is it?’
‘It’s your birthday present.’
‘My birthday present is eight sacks of sand?’
Two burly guys were bringing eight sacks of the type of sand you use for playground sandpits into my hallway. Two guys wearing filthy overalls and hobnailed boots. They bumped against the walls on their way in, leaving marks on the reasonably pristine paintwork. I was far from impressed. My landlady would not be impressed either.
‘Get that stuff out of here,’ I said, as calmly as I could manage.
‘I told you to stay in there until I called you,’ said Clare again, as she tried to muscle me back into the living room. ‘Now you’ve totally ruined the surprise.’ Trust Clare to somehow make it my fault.
‘You call that a surprise? Eight sacks of sand?’
‘That’s what it looks like at the moment, yes, but when it’s finished . . .’
‘It’ll be what?’
‘It will be your birthday beach.’
‘What?’
‘A beach, in the yard. I had the idea last night. It’ll be fantastic.’
‘You mean you’re building a sandpit?’
‘I mean a beach.’
I pointed at the dirty footprints on the hall carpet. ‘They’re ruining my flat.’
‘I will clean it up, I swear.’ Clare turned back to the builders, who were hesitating in the doorway. ‘Take no notice of her. She’s just a bit surprised. She’ll love it when it’s done.’
‘No, I won’t. They’re getting sand on the carpet!’
‘Through there?’ The older guy nodded to the yard.
‘Yes, please,’ said my sister. ‘Er . . .’
‘Ted,’ he said, ‘and this is Jason.’
‘Well, hello, Ted and Jason.’
Jason paused to push his fringe back from his eyes and threw a greeting over his shoulder as he went to fetch another sack.
‘I think I just heard “The Hallelujah Chorus”,’ said my sister. ‘That man is hot.’
She wasn’t wrong. Jason was around our age, I guessed. He was good-looking in a Jordan’s pet cage-fighter sort of way. His nose looked as though it might have been broken a couple of times, but that was not unattractive. He was deliciously masculine. He was wearing a T-shirt so tight I could almost see the hair on his chest. The short sleeves were rolled up to show his biceps to best effect. And crikey, what biceps they were. Though she was engaged to be married, my big sister could not stop herself from raising her eyebrows at me suggestively when Jason hefted another bag of sand onto his shoulder and asked, ‘Where do you want it?’
I blushed crimson.
‘The sand,’ Jason added.
‘Gosh. Sorry. I don’t know,’ I blustered.
Clare was altogether more relaxed around this Adonis. Flirtatious even.
‘In the yard. You’re making that look like very light work,’ she said, touching him gently on the arm.
Clare seemed to have forgotten that I was not exactly pleased about the sand coming into my flat. My objections had been overruled. At Ted’s request, I gave in and put the kettle on. Hauling sand was thirsty work.
‘What do you want all this sand for anyway?’ Ted was the one brave enough to ask.
‘I know it sounds nuts,’ said Clare, ‘but we’re recreating a beach scene for an art-school project.’
‘Art?’
I was surprised, but Clare continued seamlessly. ‘Yes. It’s about bringing the natural world into the city.’
There were moments when my sister amazed me. Where had she come up with that idea? Who on earth did she think would believe it?
‘My daughter wants to go to art school,’ said Ted, who had seemed oddly unfazed by Clare’s explanation. Now I understood that it probably wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard after all. He confirmed my hunch.
‘She built a nine-foot-high wall made of toilet rolls for her A-level exhibition. Had to be Andrex. Cost me a fortune. At least I could have got her a couple of bags of sand for nothing.’
‘I don’t get modern art,’ said Jason.
‘It’s all about hidden meanings,’ Ted explained to him. ‘Cherry’s toilet-roll wall was about the traps we have built for ourselves in Western society. We’ve separated ourselves from the animal kingdom with our indoor plumbing. We’ve raped the rainforest to wipe our backsides. The cute little Andrex puppy is another construct that separates us from the truth of our existence. Puppies are cute, but they grow into dogs that bite, yeah? Nature red in tooth and claw.’
‘Sounds interesting,�
�� said Clare.
‘Oh, she’s very clever, my little girl,’ said Ted, glowing with pride. ‘I always said she’s going to win the Turner Prize one day. What does your project mean, then?’
‘I suppose it’s something similar,’ Clare ad-libbed. ‘About the separation that exists between man and nature. Nature and man. I’m trying to make a statement about nature reclaiming the land that’s been sacrificed to human development. We can keep trying to hold back the tide, but eventually all this will be under the sea again, unless we can tackle global warming and climate change. Nothing but barren sand and the sea.’
‘Quite right,’ said Ted, as he hauled another bag into place. ‘Do you want us to help you arrange it? These bags are heavy even when they’re half empty.’
‘Would you? Yes, please,’ said Clare.
I could only watch and bite my lip anxiously as Ted and Jason tipped the first bag out into the yard. There was no going back. They had been right about the quantities. Though those bags were incredibly heavy, once the sand was tipped out, it didn’t look like such a big amount after all. Hardly enough to make a decent sandcastle. Ted and Jason emptied out seven more sacks in quick succession.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ted.
‘Perhaps if we heaped a little bit more here?’ Jason suggested.
Clare continued to play art director. As Ted and Jason smoothed the sand out with their big gloved hands, she watched appraisingly. ‘I can see some of the concrete there,’ she complained.
They did their best to cover the bald spot.
‘Now it looks a bit skimpy over there.’
Jason got down on his knees and moved the stuff about effortlessly.
When at last she was satisfied, Clare picked up my lovely clean beach towel and shook it so that it unfurled like a flag before it fluttered down into place.
‘Perfect,’ she and the builders breathed in unison.
‘And here comes the sun,’ said Jason.
The sun peeped out from behind the clouds.
‘That’s right effective, that is,’ said Ted. ‘Do you mind if I take a photo with my phone to show my daughter? I know she’d be interested.’
‘Feel free,’ said Clare.
Ted texted the picture to his daughter, who responded that she thought the concept was reminiscent of the work of some unpronounceable Icelandic artist. (Ted showed us the text, but none of us could make a stab at pronouncing the word therein.) Still, it lent some legitimacy to our lunacy. At least these guys from a builder’s yard wouldn’t think we were flat out mad. We were mad in the cause of creativity and artistic truth, though why that mattered . . .
‘So what do you do now?’ asked Ted.
‘I’m going to take some photographs. My sister here is going to pretend to be on holiday.’ She turned to Jason. ‘I wonder if you would mind pretending to be a holidaymaker, hanging out on the sand too. Just for a couple of frames.’
Jason looked at Ted. Ted grinned.
‘I wouldn’t ask,’ said Clare, ‘but I imagine that you’re quite photogenic.’ She made a frame with her fingers, closed one eye and peered through at his face, as though focusing a lens. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you should be a model?’
This time Jason blushed.
‘I bet she says that to all the boys,’ Ted cackled.
‘You should be a model. I don’t mean it in a sleazy way,’ Clare continued. ‘I have been studying classical proportions and you know what? Your face fits those proportions exactly. Like Michaelangelo’s David. The statue . . .’
‘I know about Michaelangelo’s David,’ said Jason. Of course he did, sharing a cab with Ted. And it seemed that the comparison had flattered him.
‘What exactly would I have to do?’ he asked.
‘Just sit on the sand,’ said Clare. ‘With your top off.’
I bit down hard on my knuckle to stop myself from laughing out loud. Had my sister really just asked a total stranger to take his top off for her? Jason smiled nervously, as though he was waiting to be let in on a joke.
‘Go on.’ Ted nudged him. ‘I would, if I were twenty years younger.’
‘OK.’
Jason peeled off his overly tight T-shirt. I looked away. My sister giggled. I snuck a peek. Jason had clearly put a lot of work into his physique.
‘Sit there,’ she said, pointing to the beach towel.
Jason arranged himself and settled into pouting with remarkable alacrity and talent. He was a natural. As was Clare when it came to pretending to be a photographer. It was all I could do not to snort with laughter as she pretended to frame another shot with her fingers.
‘Will you send me some of the pictures?’ asked Jason.
‘Of course,’ replied my sister.
I could only bite my knuckle until it nearly bled.
After they’d gone, it was time to freak out.
‘You’ve covered my yard with sand!’
‘Looks dead effective, don’t you think?’
‘You asked a builder to take his top off!’
‘He’s cute. I thought it would be a laugh.’
‘To take pictures of a half-naked man? You’re engaged.’
‘It’s only an art project.’
‘What art project? They think we’re insane.’
‘I don’t think Ted did,’ said Clare. ‘He understands art.’
‘Where did you get all that claptrap from?’ I asked. ‘Art project?’
‘Maybe it isn’t claptrap. I have been doing an evening course,’ she said defensively. ‘I’ve been thinking about trying to get on a degree course.’
This was news to me.
‘Since when?’
‘Since I decided that I was bored out of my mind with being a temporary secretary and I need a new direction in life.’
I was astonished by Clare’s revelation.
‘Does Evan know?’
‘He wouldn’t understand.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘I will, I will,’ she said, waving the question away. ‘I just need to see if anyone would actually have me first. Prove I’m not just a pretty face.’
‘No. You’re a pretty face hiding a horribly broken brain. Art project? I have sand in my backyard and you just persuaded a builder to take his top off. You’re evil, that’s what you are.’
‘But wasn’t it fun? And I got you a phone number,’ said Clare. ‘You could text him for a date.’
‘You’re not just evil. You’re insane.’
Ten minutes after Ted and Jason left, there was another knock at the door. This time, a B&Q van was blocking the pavement outside.
‘Deckchairs and a windbreak.’ Clare clapped her hands. ‘The finishing touch.’
She arranged the deckchairs on the sand and I had to admit they looked rather attractive with their brightly coloured stripes. If I had ever been in the market for deckchairs, I might have gone for the same type myself. She’d chosen pretty well. Likewise, the windbreak was very festive. Unfortunately, the guy from B&Q was not a patch on Jason and Clare decided against asking him to take his top off too. She just signed the paperwork and got rid of him pronto. There was more fun to be had in the backyard. I looked out at the scene from the kitchen window. It was surreal.
‘Are you coming to sit on the beach?’ Clare asked me.
The sun was shining. The chairs looked inviting. The sand was out of the bags. There was little point resisting.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ I said. ‘Why not?’
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’d started my week’s holiday hiding under a bed. Now I was in my backyard but pretending to be at the seaside. It was an improvement on sharing the dirty carpet with a dead mouse, I supposed. But really, what were we doing? Had confinement driven us both insane?
‘Take off your shoes and close your eyes,’ said Clare. ‘Feel that sand. We could totally be in Majorca.’
‘Sort of,’ I said. Apart from the sound of the planes turning over Clapham
Common, and horns beeping in the street outside, and the dulcet tones of a taxi driver (it had to be a taxi driver) shouting, ‘You fackin’ fack,’ in his traditional Landan accent, I thought. Still, this make-believe was Clare’s idea of a birthday present. I tried to be gracious to her face, while inwardly I was already thinking about how I might have my revenge when her birthday rolled around. Fill her bath with pond water and get her a couple of ducks, perhaps? No. That wouldn’t work. There was a very strong chance that she would keep the ducks and I would end up having to look after them whenever she and Evan were away.
‘There is nothing like the feel of sand between your toes,’ Clare continued. ‘And at least since it’s our own sand, there’s no chance of thrusting your pinkies in with gay abandon only to unearth a fresh dog turd. What’s more, we’re just six feet from the kitchen, so we can have a cup of tea whenever we want one. That’s the main advantage.’
‘Can’t get tea like this in Majorca,’ I chimed in duly. ‘Though perhaps you can,’ I added after taking a sip. ‘We’ll never know.’
‘One day we might. Be positive. I have a feeling that Majorca is still in our destiny. Seriously, I can imagine that island so clearly it has to be in our very near future.’
‘Don’t go all woo-woo on me,’ I warned.
‘There’s nothing woo-woo about visualisation techniques. Last night, I imagined a beach. This afternoon, we’re on it.’
Using her camera, Clare took a snap of her toes. They were freshly pedicured – one of the tasks she’d set to on her spa day – and looked a damn sight better than they had done when she shoved them into my Choos.
‘What do you think? I’ll send this to Evan,’ she said. ‘He likes my toes.’
‘Very nice,’ I said. I looked at my own toes. I wondered if Callum had even had an opinion on them. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it. I tried to remember if he had ever said he especially liked a particular part of me.
Evan texted back that Clare’s toes had brightened his day after the disappointment of a very large gas bill.
‘He’s trying to make me feel guilty again,’ Clare began.
‘He said that you’d brightened his day,’ I pointed out. Clare seemed so quick to assume the worst where Evan was concerned.
What I Did On My Holidays Page 13