It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend

by Sophie Ranald

  I thought about it for a bit. I hate getting up in the mornings almost as much as I hate running. I mean, what are buses for? I did the Race for Life a couple of years ago, but it took me nearly an hour and to be honest I walked almost all of it. I was just there for the good cause and the whole sisterhood thing, really. But I was hungry, and it sounded like a run was the price I was going to have to pay for Ben’s cooking, which is actually really good.

  “Deal,” I said, and finished my drink, and we got up and left the pub.

  Ten minutes later the kitchen counter was scattered with vegetables, and Ben was continuing his lecture.

  “Butternut squash,” he said. “Hardly any calories, versatile, filling. Cauliflower, ditto. Low-fat coconut milk. Curry paste. Brown rice. In about twenty minutes we will have a dinner as delicious as it’s nutritious.”

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “Want to move in? Or you could be like one of those delivery companies Hollywood stars use that drop off your day’s food every morning and I wouldn’t have anything else in the fridge except Evian water and nail varnish, and I’d stay so thin I’d have to bath with a coathanger between my teeth in case I slid down the plughole.”

  Ben laughed. “So anyway, Ellie, what’s the aim of this diet mission? I’ve never known you to bother before and like I said, you certainly don’t need to.”

  I sat down at the kitchen table and poured a glass of wine, and presented Ben with a sort of edited highlights of the Oliver situation.

  “I really, really like him,” I said. “I know he’s going out with Rose at the moment but she’ll find someone else, she always does. She has an unfair advantage, being so beautiful.. And that makes her Oliver’s type, and I’m not. Not yet. So I’m just making a few changes, to place myself a bit more in his sphere of fanciability, if things go wrong with them. You know what I mean.”

  Ben went quiet, and the knife he was using to cut up some ginger thumped on the chopping board with a force I thought excessive.

  “So you’re on a diet because you want to nick your sister’s boyfriend?” he said.

  “No, no,” I protested. “Not nick him. That would be wrong. Just kind of present myself in a light that will make me more attractive to him, so he might realise he’s chosen the wrong one of us.”

  Ben threw all the chopped vegetables into a pan and added stuff from various tins and jars and boiled water to cook the rice. Then he said, “Put some plates on the table, will you? And do you mind if we have the news on while we eat?”

  I set the table and we had our dinner, which was delicious, but we didn’t talk because Ben was tapping away on his phone, pretending to be Lucille on Twitter again, I suppose. Afterwards I stacked everything in the dishwasher and put the kettle on.

  We drank our tea in silence, and after a bit Ben said he’d better head off, because he had to get up at six to cycle a hundred miles before work, or something. Then he said, “You do know, don’t you, Ellie, that if Oliver dumps Rose for you, especially if he does it on the basis of you losing a stone and getting some highlights done, that would make him a bit of a cunt?” He picked up his coat and laptop bag and plugged himself into his iPod and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before striding out of the front door, slamming it thunderously behind him as he always did.

  The next morning, as I lay in that pleasant state of semi-consciousness in between pressing the snooze button and actually getting out of bed, I remembered waking up next to Ben after our first night together. I’d swum foggily out of sleep – not that there had been much of it, because whenever I’d felt myself drifting into that borderline reality that precedes a dream, Ben’s presence next to me had brought me to nerve-tingling wakefulness, and I’d reach out and touch him. The sheets were damp and twisted and I was feeling hungover and a bit sore from all the sex, and the night of sweat and gasped, surprising words and sudden glimpses of Ben’s face – so very, very close – was over. I opened my eyes cautiously to the bright morning. My clothes were scattered on the not-very-clean carpet and the room had that smell single blokes’ rooms have, sort of essence of man.

  I turned over slowly, not wanting to disturb my companion from the night before, should he prove to be an embarrassingly hideous product of beer goggles. But he wasn’t. He was Ben, and he was wide awake, his bright blue eyes watching me quite solemnly, but his white, even teeth showing in a grin. I grinned back and reached across the bed for him.

  Later, as we slurped our way through copious amounts of builder’s tea and crunched slice after slice of and toast and Marmite, Ben said, “So, what’s the plan? The delights of London lie at our feet. We can visit any one of the capital’s myriad galleries and museums, admire the glorious autumn foliage in its many parks, take in world-class theatre or opera...” He dropped the travel documentary schtick. “Okay, we can’t do that, because I’m skint. But we can do any of the others. Or we can stay here and gaze mindlessly at daytime telly.”

  “Admiring the ads for loan sharks and ambulance-chasers?” I said.

  “Not today,” Ben said. “Today will be brought to you by Saturday Kitchen, Come Dine With Me and the footie.”

  I remembered it was the weekend. “We can’t have that,” I said. “No point wasting the day indoors watching daytime telly unless it’s properly shit.”

  “Good point,” Ben said. “More toast?”

  I looked at his strong forearms and bony, almost elegant hands as he scooped the knife into the Marmite jar, coming out with a proper huge dollop and spreading it thickly on a piece of toast. My throat felt tight with something in between longing and apprehension. “No, thanks,” I said.

  In the end we just sort of drifted out into the bright October day, and we walked, and we chatted. And in between finding out that we liked the same books, and hated reality TV but loved the shopping channels, and liked Razorlight but thought McFly were overrated, I felt myself beginning to panic. This wasn’t meant to be happening. I was off men, officially. I’d decided. I was going to be single and not get my fingers burned and not get hurt.

  So when we stopped on the South Bank, leaning over the parapet and watching the water, shimmering like crumpled blue foil under the clear sky, I blurted out, “You know what would be cool?”

  “What?” Ben said.

  “If you could have all the good parts of going out with someone, but none of the shit,” I said. I’d been reading Jean-Paul Sartre, and I burbled on for a bit about how monogamy was a bourgeois construct, limiting personal freedom and stifling growth. I’m not making this up. I thought how desirable I must sound – how interesting and independent and grown-up. I suppose part of me even believed the twaddle I was spouting.

  “To exist is to be free,” I said. “Consciousness is what makes us different from cauliflowers.”

  “Different from cauli… Right,” Ben said. “How about a pint?”

  I felt smugly confident that my little speech would have the desired effect. Ben would think I was the ultimate cool girl, offering great sex but not asking for commitment or fidelity. I wasn’t going to be clingy and demanding, and I wasn’t going to fall in love. That way no one would get hurt.

  Well, that worked out well for you, didn’t it, I said to myself as my alarm jerked me awake for the final time and I reluctantly swung my feet out of bed and into my waiting running shoes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My new regimen might have been austere, but after five days of morning runs, porridge for breakfast and increasingly inventive vegetable-based dinners, I was forced to admit that Ben was on to something. My clothes were feeling looser, my skin had lost that pasty winter pallor and Duncan at work asked me if I was in love.

  “Because you’re glowing, sweetie,” he said. “This is January, it isn’t natural.”

  We were in a meeting to discuss our new outdoor advertising campaign, which wasn’t actually outdoors at all. It was a series of digital escalator panels, paid for by a generous donation from a deceased estate and a huge deal for us becaus
e we didn’t usually have any budget at all for advertising. The meeting got off to a bad start, though, because Ruth was a bit late and by the time she walked in Duncan and I were already deep in discussion about the DEPs, and Ruth misheard and sort of blanched and said, “I know we’re all for being up-front about sexual education but surely we shouldn’t be running a London-wide campaign about double penetration?” And by the time we’d finished laughing and set her straight and I’d gone across the road to squander some of our funds on takeaway cappuccinos from the Fairtrade coffee place, and we’d had a bit of general chit-chat, it was nearly lunchtime and we had yet to make any decisions.

  “Don’t you think Ellie looks well, Ruth?” Duncan said.

  “Ellie always looks lovely,” said Ruth. When I first started working there I wondered if Ruth was hitting on me, but in fact she’s just a naturally kind person who makes a point of saying nice things that make other people feel good about themselves.

  “I’ve started getting up early in the mornings and going running,” I explained, “and I’m putting on a bit of slap before work too, and ironing my shirts. Just trying to clean up my act, that’s all.”

  “She is in love!” Duncan crowed. “She so is! Tell all, Ellie, who is he?”

  I wasn’t going to explain the whole Oliver situation to Duncan, who is a terrible gossip, so it was a relief when my phone rang and Ruth said, “Shall we reconvene at the same time tomorrow, and then we really must make some decisions,” and they sort of drifted away and I checked my phone and saw Claire’s name flashing up on the screen.

  “Hey Ellie!” her voice sounded a bit squeaky, the way it does when she’s excited about something. Being a drama teacher, Claire knows all about breath control and resonance and all those good things, but she’s never seemed to stop this tell-tale change of pitch in her own voice, and I think it’s really sweet so I’ve never mentioned it to her. “I need a huge favour. Are you free this evening?”

  “Rose is due back from her holiday,” I said, “but we haven’t made any plans. Why?”

  “Can you possibly look after Pers? Just for three hours?”

  I said of course, it would be a pleasure, and we made arrangements for Claire to drop her off at the flat, which she said would be easy for her as she was going into town to meet someone. Of course I was avid to know who he was and whether this meant romance was blooming again for Claire, but before I could ask her I heard a piercing shriek from Pers and Claire said, “Oh for God’s sake, not the curtains. No – Persephone!” and then there was a crash and Claire, half-laughing, said, “Shit, my child is set on destroying the flat. Must go – I’ll see you at seven.”

  I was really excited about an evening in with Pers, and stopped on my way home and bought copies of Owl Babies and The Very Hungry Caterpillar (Pers had chewed her old copy to the point where it was unreadable) and laid in a stash of pita bread, hummus, mango, carrot sticks and cucumber, because Claire’s a great believer in what she says is called baby-led weaning, which as far as I can tell means Claire not having to mess about with jars and purées and stuff, and Pers getting to suck and chew on bits of grown-up food and make an incredible mess, which of course she loves.

  It was almost quarter past seven when Claire arrived, looking amazing in a long, belted velvet coat and high-heeled brown boots.

  “Late!” she said. “Stupid fucking buses. I am late, late, late! Here’s some milk for her – if she won’t drink it out of the bottle put it in a cup and don’t use it in your tea whatever you do, it’s expressed breastmilk. And here’s wipes and nappies and her Camelduck” – this was a shapeless toy knitted by me, which looked like no creature on earth, of which Pers was inordinately fond – “and I’ll see you at ten. Be good for auntie Ellie, sweetheart,” and she thrust Pers and all her stuff at me, kissed us both and ran off back down the road, her dark hair flying, before I could interrogate her about her date.

  I knew from experience that Pers would only go to sleep when she was ready, so we had a bath with bubbles and watched some telly – Pers was absolutely transfixed by University Challenge – and I had a glass of wine and Pers had some of her milk, which she seemed quite happy to drink out of her bottle after all, and I’d just finished changing her nappy and was about to make us some dinner when the doorbell rang.

  “Who’s that, Pers?” I said, in the daft way you do when you’re talking to babies, even though you know it makes you sound like a total loon. “Who’s come to visit us? Has Auntie Rose come back from her holiday and forgotten her keys?”

  I scooped her up and went and opened the front door, and there stood Oliver.

  I couldn’t quite believe it at first, because as far as I knew he was on his way back from Switzerland with Rose. “Er… hi,” I said. Pers recognised him and gave one of her massive gummy grins and babbled away incomprehensibly, holding out her arms for a cuddle, and Oliver kissed her and then kissed me too.

  “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” Oliver said. “I take it Rose isn’t back yet?”

  I said she wasn’t. “Come in though, and have a drink. You’re welcome to have some supper too, if you like carrot sticks and hummus.”

  He followed me into the flat and I gave him a glass of wine, and then it occurred to me that in all the excitement of having Pers, I hadn’t checked my phone since I left the office. There was a missed call and a text message from Rose.

  “She says she’s stuck at Geneva airport,” I said. “Grounded by heavy snow, apparently.”

  Of course I was dying to ask Oliver why he wasn’t with her, also grounded by heavy snow in Geneva, and why Rose had told me but not him. But I couldn’t think of any way to do it that was even slightly tactful, so I watched him sip his wine and thought for the millionth time how beautiful he was. I’d never seen him in casual clothes before, and he looked just as desirable in jeans and a shabby cream jumper as he did in a suit.

  “I came back a couple of days early,” Oliver volunteered after a bit. “There was a crisis at work and I couldn’t sort it out over email. I’d arranged with Rose to meet her here tonight and more or less assumed it would still be on, even though when I left…” his voice sort of tailed off, and I guessed that they’d had a row – presumably Rose hadn’t been too pleased about her new boyfriend rating a crisis at work as more important than his holiday with her and her friends. Which is not entirely unreasonable – it’s the sort of thing that would piss anyone off, but most people would simmer down after a day or two. Not Rose though – she can sustain a sulk like no one else I know.

  While I was pondering all this I was arranging salad and bread and cheese and stuff on a platter – a lot more decoratively than I would have done if it had just been me and Pers, I must admit – and Pers was sitting on the floor contentedly chewing her new copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “Perhaps she texted you but it didn’t get through,” I said. “They take ages sometimes. Stay and have some food anyway.”

  Oliver looked unconvinced, but said he’d love to stay, and I put some plates and the bottle of wine on the table, and put some bits of food on a tray and gave it to Pers on the floor, because obviously we don’t have a high chair to sit her in. I asked Oliver how the skiing was and he said various incomprehensible things about what the snow was like. I’ve only been skiing once, when Rose persuaded me to join a bunch of her mates in St Moritz for a week, and quite honestly I have never hated anything so much in my life. It’s a mystery to me how an activity manages to be both boring and terrifying, but skiing, in my opinion, has cracked it. Consequently I spent most of the holiday in the bar getting slowly sozzled on gluhwein, eating cake and reading A Suitable Boy some near. I didn’t tell Oliver this, saying instead how gutted I was that I hadn’t been able to have joined them this year, but we were terribly busy at work, and I told him about Ruth and Duncan and the DEP campaign, and he laughed.

  I was so engrossed in talking to Oliver that I’d almost forgotten Pers was there. He was telling me about some near miss h
e’d had on a black run when there was a sort of strangled squeak from the floor behind me, and I looked around to see if she was okay. I could tell straight away that she wasn’t. Her face was brick red, except around her mouth which was bluey-pale, and her eyes were bulging. I said stupidly, “Shit. I think she’s choking and I don’t know how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre.” And I froze, and everything started moving in slow motion. I could feel a huge lump in my throat and my hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my phone to call 999.

  Before I could even start dialling, Oliver had picked Pers up. “You don’t perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on babies,” he said, completely calmly. Then he sort of laid her along his leg and gave her a series of gentle thumps between her little shoulder blades. I stood watching, numb with panic, and after about the sixth thump a soggy lump of pita bread shot out of Pers’s mouth on to the floor, and I heard her take a huge gasping breath and start to wail. I’m afraid to say I wailed too, and Oliver ended up with both of us in his arms, absolutely howling, until his strong, soothing presence and “there, there, it’s okay” noises calmed us down.

  The way I felt about Oliver changed completely after that night. Of course before that I’d fancied him, I’d been fascinated by the world he represented: the world of money and designer clothes and friends with titles, of which Rose was a part and I categorically was not. I’d been faltering at the entrance to a dangerous arena, playing a game against my sister at which she was far more skilled than I was. I knew it was wrong, and my conscience had held me back. But that night, in spite of myself, I fell in love. My head disengaged and my heart took over – and my body was still very, very much involved.

  Oliver was amazing that evening, he really was. He comforted me and Pers, heated up some milk for her, changed her nappy without so much as flinching, and read her a story until she fell asleep, all sort of sprawled out on his lap. He said he’d wait with me until Claire came to pick her up, because I’d had a horrible fright and must be feeling really shaken up – which I was – and we sat together on the sofa and finished the bottle of wine and watched Masterchef, except I wasn’t watching the telly so much as Oliver, transfixed by the beauty of his profile, the way his long eyelashes swooped down over his cheekbones when he blinked, the soft lick of dark hair that flopped down over his forehead, his perfect skin, tanned golden from skiing. Occasionally he made some innocuous comment about the contestants or the food, and we both laughed, but I didn’t really listen to what he was saying just basked in the warmth of his smooth, resonant voice that sounded as if it could turn into a laugh at any moment.