It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend

by Sophie Ranald

  There were two hundred of the bride and groom’s closest friends there, some of whom were Nick’s and my old mates from school and from the Deathly Hush days. And there was free-flowing Krug and lethal cinnamon mojitos (Nick had five. I counted). It was a bloody brilliant day, and by the time Nick and I sprinted for the last Jubilee Line train home, making it with seconds to spare, we were, as I’ve said, a bit the worse for wear.

  “That was so cool,” I said, lifting my hair and fanning my sweating neck.

  “Wicked,” agreed Nick, swaying slightly, out of synch with the motion of the train. “We’re never going to do it, right?”

  Nick and I have always said marriage isn’t for us. When we first got together, when I was only sixteen, we said it was because we didn’t want to do anything that would make us in any way at all like our parents. Then when we got together the second time, Nick said that marriage was a bourgeois construct aimed at commodifying women and entrenching Judeo-Christian morality, and I agreed vehemently (then went off and googled what all that meant). Then after a few more years together, we’d bought our first flat and Nick had had his thirtieth birthday and we were fine as we were. Even if our relationship wasn’t perfect, what relationship is? We were happy and settled we saw no reason to change anything. We weren’t into soppiness and romance. We thought what we had worked just fine.

  So all our friends had more or less given up asking, “Are you two going to be next?” at every single one of the weddings we’d been to that summer (and there had been lots; last time I counted I had seventeen hats).

  “No chance,” I said to Nick, as the train pulled out of Southwark, sending him lurching off balance again. “Not a hovering batfuck.”

  He grinned at me and I grinned back, and we moved together and had a proper full-on snog on the train, in front of everybody, until some teenagers shouted at us to get a room, and the sudden, jerking stop at Bermondsey almost sent us flying. We snogged some more on the escalator, and again when we stepped out of the station and the hot September night hit us like a sponge, and again when I stopped to take off my shoes because my toes felt like they were bleeding.

  By the time we got upstairs to the flat, I was dizzy with desire for him. You know what it’s like, if you’ve been with someone for ages. Some days the only conversation you have is a one-liner about whose turn it is to take out the bins. There are weeks when you don’t have any physical contact more meaningful than a kiss goodbye in the morning and the warmth of their back against yours at night. And then there are times when you’re knocked sideways by lust, like Nick and I were that night.

  Of course, he is absolutely gorgeous. Properly hot – but I’ve got so used to seeing him every day that sometimes I just don’t notice. That night, though, I was devouring the sight of him like someone on the 5:2 diet slavering at the window of Greggs. His dark hair is slightly wavy and always shiny and, back in his lead-guitarist days when he had it long, was considerably nicer looking than my own. His steely grey eyes still manage to be warm and smiley even though their colour is cold as a winter sky. Deep dimples press into his cheeks when he smiles his special, wicked grin that’s just for me. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and his legs are all muscly from running.

  It sounds like I’m showing off. I don’t mean to. I’m not some model-gorgeous stunner who automatically assumes she’ll get the best-looking guy, I’m just averagely pretty, if you don’t mind short girls, so it amazes me that I was able to pull Nick in the first place, let alone be his girlfriend for more than a decade. So that night I was truly swept away by how lucky I was to have him, and by the knowledge that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  We ran up the stairs to our flat together, holding hands, and tumbled into the hallway, and Nick swept my hat off and whizzed it like a frisbee on to the kitchen table (he’s always had impressive aim). We didn’t even make it as far as the living room before he’d unzipped my dress and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of silvery satin. And you’ll appreciate the intensity of the moment when I tell you that I didn’t even consider saying, “That’s Anglomania! I need to hang it up or Spanx will sleep on it!” like I normally would.

  (Spanx is our ginger cat. We couldn’t decide what to call him when we first got him, and we were in the middle of a heated argument about it when he came trotting into the room with a pair of my suck-it-all-in knickers, which he’d retrieved from the washing basket, in his mouth. And that settled it.)

  Soon Nick’s jacket had joined my dress on the floor and we were both gasping with desire and laughter, our hands and mouths all over each other’s bodies. Nick and I have been together for ages, as I said, and you know how you sort of get into a routine? Not this time. This was filthy. At one point he… but that’s too much information. I will say that we fell of the sofa, which made us laugh so much I could hardly breathe, and then we went upstairs to bed and service, as they say, resumed. It was totally amazing, the way sex sometimes is when you’ve had a lot to drink and have no inhibitions left to speak of.

  And that’s pretty much all I can remember. I suppose there must have been a moment – maybe when I was on top of him, my hair falling in a tangle over his face, his hands gripping my waist; maybe when we were lying together afterwards, sweaty and sated – when one of us said it. Or perhaps it was more of a team effort – I quite like to imagine that.

  Me: You know, I bloody love you.

  Him: You’re not too shabby either, Pip.

  Me: Iain and Katharine looked really happy today.

  Him: They did. You know, you don’t make me suicidally miserable either.

  Me: I know what you mean. Some days, being with you is almost bearable.

  Him: So this marriage malarkey…

  Me: Maybe it’s not actually…

  Him: Such a bad idea…

  Me: So should we…?

  Him: So will you…?

  Kind of like that. You get the idea. Spontaneous. A sort of joint proposal. But unfortunately I can’t say for sure what happened, because I genuinely don’t remember a thing about that night beyond our tumble off the sofa and stumble up the stairs, and the rush of love and pleasure flooding over me.

  What I do remember is waking up the next day with about as awful a hangover as I’ve ever had in my life, cuddling up to Nick’s warm bare back for comfort and kissing his neck, and him saying sleepily, “Did what I think happened last night really happen, Pippa?”

  And me saying, “Oh fuck, I’m going to be sick,” and legging it to the bathroom just in time.

  Like I said, that’s Nick and me. A right pair of old romantics.

  Foolishly, I’d arranged to meet Callie that day for breakfast and I was already late, so I didn’t have time to question Nick further about what had or hadn’t taken place between us the previous night. I showered at top speed, left my hair to dry on its own (even though I knew it would mean my head would look like the aftermath of an explosion in a cotton wool factory by lunchtime), dragged on a pair of jeans and went out, bashing out a quick text to Callie as I ran to the bus stop to tell her I’d be there in half an hour.

  I don’t see Callie as much as I used to, nor as much as I’d like to, but she’s still my best friend. We grew up together, after all. It was Callie who punched Lauren Davidson in the nose for bullying me when we were eight, and then was made to sit in the corner, and her parents got called in for a meeting with the Head. It was Callie who showed me how to paint my nails when we were eleven, and to whom I owe my current shamefully excessive nail enamel collection (last count: one hundred and seventy-two colours, plus base and top coats, and my nails still look shite. I’ve learned that having nail polishes sat in a drawer doesn’t do anything to improve the appearance of your nails – you have to actually use them. But still I keep buying them). It was Callie who I told when I got my first period and when I lost my virginity.

  So even though there’d been a weird distance creeping in between us recently, I wanted Callie to be the first person
I told about Nick’s non-proposal, and not even the most vicious hangover would have stopped me taking advantage of her being in London, for some conference about legal aid that was starting the next day. I was really excited about seeing her, especially as she’d be on her own, without her flatmate Phoebe. Phoebe’s lovely and a proper good laugh, but recently it had seemed a bit like every time I arranged to see Callie, she was there too, and sometimes I felt a bit left out. So I was glad to have Callie to myself for once.

  Callie was already waiting when I arrived at the café I’d chosen, a former greasy spoon that had recently chi-chi’d itself up and started describing the weekend fry-up as ‘brunch’. Even though it was Sunday, she was wearing tailored trousers and a white shirt and her blonde hair was perfectly straightened.

  “What’s up?” I said, once I’d ordered a sorely needed Diet Coke. “How’s work? How’s Southampton? How’s Phoebe? How’s Phoebe’s dad?”

  It always comes as a surprise to people who were at school with Callie and me that, rather than moving to London and setting the world of law alight with her brilliance, she chose to stay in the town where we grew up, working in a small high-street practice and learning to draw up wills and sort house purchases and defend people in court when they fail to abate a smoking chimney, and whatever else solicitors in small firms do.

  “Work’s great,” Callie said. “Really good. One of the senior partners, Jeremy Gardner, who’s been there so long his office chair is practically welded to his flesh, has finally decided to retire. Which means there might be a vacancy for a junior partner. Which means…” She crossed her fingers.

  “Callie, that’s fantastic news! Really great! When will you find out?”

  “Hopefully early next year, but I’m not going to get excited about it until I know for sure. Phoebs is fine,” she went on. “Her dad’s not. So no change there.”

  “Poor Phoebe,” I said. “It’s utterly shit for her. Having to be a part-time carer is tough anyway, but how much tougher must it be when the person you’re caring for is vile Vernon?”

  At first I’d felt really sorry for Phoebe’s dad, because being in constant pain must be an awful thing. But then I began to realise that his pain seemed to mysteriously get worse whenever Phoebe was planning something she was looking forward to, or was under lots of pressure at work, or had just finished being under lots of pressure at work and was planning to spend a weekend vegging in front of the telly. I actually went so far as to google the condition she told us he had. I forget its name now but it’s some distant and horrible member of the arthritis family, and I learned that it was one of those things that are meant to get better the more active you are. As far as I could tell, the only form of physical activity Vernon practised was pressing the keys of his mobile to summon Phoebe and her mum to do his bidding.

  “And Phoebs and her mum won’t admit it,” Callie said. “Not even to each other. Not even to themselves. All Phoebe will say is that he gets depressed sometimes. But he’s depressed most of the time, and he’s a fucking nightmare all the time. Anyway. It’s awful but there’s nothing we can do to change it. Shall we order some food?” She smiled at the waitress who’d been discreetly hovering for the past few minutes. “I’d like an egg white omelette with tomato and another black coffee, please.”

  “May I have another Diet Coke?” I said. “And a toasted bacon, egg and cheese ciabatta and a custard Danish?”

  “Ouch,” Callie reached over and stroked my hand, very gently. “Poor suffering Pippa. How was the wedding?”

  “Great. Katharine’s really brought Iain into line. She’s got such amazing taste, I think she chose pretty much everything and it was all terribly stylish and a bit… you know. Too perfect, I suppose. Very ‘here’s how Shoreditch hipsters do weddings’. But fabulous all the same.” I spent a few minutes telling her all about the five-course meal, the tiny replicas of the bride’s bouquet positioned at all the women’s place settings, the art deco styling on all the stationery to fit the Great Gatsby theme, and the person whose job it was to stand in the cloakroom with a basket of red rose petals and scatter a few in the toilet bowl after you’d flushed. “Anyway, we had a great time and the food was lush and we drank way too much. And then…”

  “Then what? Did you do the Sexy Dance again?”

  “Yes,” I blushed furiously into my breakfast at the memory. “And snogged Nick on the Tube home. But then after that, it got really weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “I think Nick and I might be engaged. I think he asked me last night, or possibly I asked him. But I definitely woke up somehow knowing we are, and it wasn’t a dream because he thinks so too.”

  “You’re engaged!” Callie shrieked. “You and Nick… That’s just the best news ever. It doesn’t matter if you were pissed when he asked you, you weirdo. You guys are perfect together. You had ‘happily ever after’ written all over you back when you were sitting A-levels and now you’re getting married.” She sniffed, and a little tear rolled down her cheek, taking a smear of mascara with it. Bless Callie, she cries at absolutely anything. Sometimes I hum the theme tune to Watership Down deliberately to set her off – it never fails.

  She accosted the waitress. “Two glasses of champagne, please. My friend got engaged last night! Can I be your chief bridesmaid, Pippa? Please? We said we’d be each other’s when we were eight, remember?”

  “I do remember. But, Callie, the thing is, even if Nick doesn’t change his mind, I don’t think we’d want to have that kind of wedding. We’ve been to so many weddings together and they’ve all been lovely but I can’t imagine us doing it. I mean, why would we? We were never going to get married at all. We’ll just… I don’t know. Elope or something. Or go to a registry office. Or a tropical island.”

  “You’ll still need a bridesmaid, though,” Callie objected. “Otherwise who’s going to untie the sheets from your bedpost after you’ve climbed out of the window to meet him? Or sign the register, or protect you from falling coconuts?”

  I laughed. “If I need any of those things, I promise I’ll ask you. No one else would be nearly as good, especially at the coconut bit. But seriously, it’ll be a tiny wedding, if it even happens. Microscopic. And really, like, low-key.”

  “Pippa, come on. You say that now, but just wait and see what will happen to you. How many weddings have you been to? At least a dozen in the past year, maybe more. And how many of them have been low-key? Don’t rush, I’ll give you a minute to think about it.”

  I didn’t really need a minute, but I tried to look thoughtful anyway, and finished the champagne in my glass. “Er… Simon and Deborah’s was quite low-key. It was in a village church, then a marquee in her parents’ garden.”

  “Low-key, my arse,” Callie said. “You told me about that wedding. You said it was fabulous, and there was a bonfire and a cake made out of cheese and all the men wore matching ties from Liberty.”

  “Only the best man and the groom’s brothers,” I said.

  “Pippa,” Callie gave my hand another squeeze, a firmer one this time. “I’m four whole months older than you and I have more life experience, and I can guarantee that you will become obsessed with this wedding. All brides do, sure as night follows day. I give it two months before you’re on the phone to me and Phoebe telling us we have to match our knickers to your table napkins. It. Is. Going. To. Happen. And now I’m off to be a lawyer.”

  She put thirty pounds down on the table and gave me another hug and a kiss on both cheeks. “Go and buy a few wedding magazines. You need to start lusting over frocks and wondering if a grand is too much to spend on invitations. And give my love to Nick. Tell him congratulations, and to beware of the bridezilla lurking in his future.”

  After Callie had gone and I’d paid the bill, I left the café and wandered aimlessly around a bit, thinking about what she’d said. I couldn’t detect even a hint of bridezilla-ness in myself. Deep inside me, a small, warm flame was glowing with excitement at the idea
of being married to Nick (although I’d already decided I was going to remain Pippa Martin, thank you very much, none of this Mrs Pickford business for me). But I also felt a sense of deep trepidation. Would marrying Nick mean that things between us would change? Did I want them to change?

  And the actual wedding?

  It all struck me as an awful lot of fuss for just one day. I cook for a living and I’ve catered plenty of weddings and I’ve seen the waste of food, of drink, of money they cause, not to mention the stress and the strops. One reception dinner we did at Falconi’s involved a ten-course tasting menu for a hundred and twenty people, followed by fireworks, with an ice rink set up in the square outside, and the couple split up after six weeks.

  That wouldn’t happen to Nick and me, obviously. But the obsession that Callie had mentioned? I like to think I’m quite a level-headed person, but what if it was inevitable?

  I spotted a newsagent further along the street and went in and bought a packet of wine gums and another Diet Coke. A shelf stacked with glossy wedding magazines caught my eye, and I thought I might as well buy a representative sample, just to see if Callie was right. I sat on a bench in the park and ripped the plastic cover off the first one, and a stash of leaflets spilled out: ‘Bespoke Suit Hire for Him’; ‘Have you considered a faux bouquet?’; ‘Fancy Favours for Everyone’; ‘DON’T FORGET YOUR WEDDING INSURANCE!’

  Wedding insurance? What the very fuck was that?

  I selected a red, black and green wine gum and put them all in my mouth at once, opened the first of the magazines and scanned the contents page. ‘Lose weight for your big day’; ‘The season’s most dramatic dresses’; ‘Our fairytale Nantucket nuptials’. The pages were full of pictures of impossibly perfect women in gorgeous frocks, fantastically elaborate cakes and cherubic pageboys. None of it looked like anything to do with me or Nick, I reassured myself. We simply weren’t interested in stuff like this – we’d do it our own way. We’d have our relaxed, low-key, small wedding, with just a handful of guests. Maybe Erica, Nick’s mother, might even decide not to come, if it was going to be small enough and informal enough? But that was probably too much to hope for.