Letters From My Sister

by Alice Peterson

  He’ll be back soon. How come I stayed here? I remember meeting him, but staying over? Why can’t I remember that? I sit and think hard about what we talked about last night. Mark must have gone for a long run. I bet you he’s hoping I’ll be gone by the time he gets back. He’s probably having brunch with his friends, telling them that I crashed out on his sofa last night. I rub my eyes. Try to remember, Katie. My head feels cobwebby. What I could do is run back to Emma’s and Jonnie’s, have a shower, get myself looking decent and return to say thank you for … what? I’ll figure that out later. That’s a good plan, Katie. Desperately I try to kick myself into action, but nothing is happening. I hear the distant bang of a door followed by a key turning nearby. My heart jumps again at the thought of seeing him. I sit back down and attempt to look relaxed.

  Mark comes into the room clutching a bottle of water and a newspaper. His face looks fresh and squeaky clean. ‘Good morning.’ He smiles as if he has won a premium bond. Why does he look so happy? ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine!’ I lie. I wait for any clue as to why I found myself on his sofa.

  ‘Really? You look terrible.’

  I laugh and admit, ‘OK. I feel dreadful. I feel worse than I look and that is saying something.’

  ‘I bought us some breakfast. Well, lunch really. I’ve already had a bit of cereal. Stay for brunch, shall we say? I’m not going to take no for an answer so come into the kitchen when you’re ready.’

  I pat my greasy hair self-consciously. Look the part, feel the part … Oh, shut up, Sam.

  ‘Have a shower, if you like.’

  My God, he is offering me a shower. Next he will be offering me his toothbrush. How has this happened? I rub my head. I remember Will and Hermione clearly from last night. Then I bumped into Mark and we drank some more wine and coffee. I am sure nothing else happened. Convinced, in fact. He wouldn’t have left me on the sofa, surely? I would have woken in his bed. ‘Mark,’ I call, making my way to the kitchen.

  I find him at the stove frying bacon. I love the smell of bacon and toast. I sit down, suddenly starving. ‘Mark, what were we talking about last night?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘Nothing much.’ He’s wearing those black-rimmed glasses that remind me of my father’s.

  ‘I wasn’t talking crud?’

  ‘Crud? I love your turn of phrase. I particularly like “dandy”.’

  ‘Dandy? What was I saying last night?’

  ‘I can’t really remember,’ he says, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upwards as he pretends to be absorbed in cooking.

  ‘Come on,’ I gently encourage. ‘You can remember, I can tell.’

  ‘All right then. You said it was dandy seeing me, and then you conked out.’

  I put a hand over my mouth. ‘I’m sorry. How lame am I?’ I lean my elbows against the table. ‘I feel so ill,’ I groan. ‘Was I really so drunk I couldn’t make it five steps back home?’

  ‘Yes, pig drunk.’

  ‘Pig drunk?’

  ‘I tried to lift you …’

  ‘Oh God, I haven’t been to the gym in a while …’

  ‘Katie, I didn’t mean that. It’s just dead weight is heavy.’

  I think I would rather be called overweight than a dead weight.

  ‘Look at you, you’re stick-thin.’

  ‘I eat like a horse but I run on my nerves. I’ve got my mum’s genes.’ Mum. I must ring today and see how she is. ‘She’s thin too but we both have round curvy bottoms,’ I add proudly.

  Mark raises an eyebrow as he scoops the bacon from the pan and puts it on the kitchen roll. The grease settles on to the white paper with hens lining the edge. He turns to me with the spatula in his hand. His pale blue shirt collar is sticking up rigidly and he’s wearing that navy jumper with holes in the elbow again.

  As we eat our bacon sandwiches and drink coffee and orange juice, Mark asks me about Sam and why I’m not living with him any more. ‘Katie, you’ve got a bit of orange stuck on your tooth,’ he points out. I censor the story. I don’t tell him exactly why; I don’t mention what Sam said in the restaurant; all I say is that the relationship had run its course. Mark nods thoughtfully. He knows I’m cutting the story down to make it simple. ‘I’m sorry. Is there a chance you can get back together?’

  I shake my head. ‘There is nothing left to say. I pick rodents.’ I smile, slowly remembering the cab drive home.

  ‘What?’ Mark has that baffled look again.

  ‘Never mind. What are you doing today?’

  ‘I’ve got to finish my book. Deadline is tomorrow.’ Mark looks at his watch. ‘In fact, I must go soon.’

  I feel a sharp twinge of disappointment. I have enjoyed eating breakfast with him. It seems like an extension of my night out and I don’t want to go yet. ‘Your book? Don’t you write from home?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’ve rented out this tiny office space because I find it easier writing away from here.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. And then it’s going to be sent to publishers, is it?’ Do you believe in destiny? I gulp hard, feeling a flush of red creep up my neck. Did I really say that?

  ‘Yeah, it’s frightening letting it go out into the lions’ den.’

  ‘I can imagine. I like reading. My headmistress inspired me to love it. By the time I was fifteen I had read all of Tolstoy, Emily Brontë and Jane Austen. I wish I could write. What’s the book about?’ Do you think it’s fate, Mark, the way we bump into each other? I sink further into my seat.

  The doorbell rings.

  Mark picks up the entryphone. ‘What a surprise,’ he exclaims. ‘I thought you weren’t coming down until tonight?’

  Oh my God, you’re gay. I don’t know when to stop, do I? Oh, well, what does it really matter? I try to convince myself. He’s probably flattered by the attention.

  ‘Are you going to let me in?’ I hear from outside the flat.

  ‘Sorry.’ He presses the entry button.

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask casually.

  ‘My girlfriend. She lives in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Oh, right, that’s nice!’ A deep thud of disappointment hits the bottom of my stomach. ‘Right, I should go,’ I say, trying to sound like I have a busy day ahead.

  A tall girl with light brown hair held loosely in a ponytail walks into the kitchen. She’s wearing jeans and a tailored jacket. She steps forward to give Mark a kiss. ‘Hello, you,’ she says and they briefly hug. ‘Surprise! I decided to catch an earlier train. My work can wait.’

  Mark coughs. ‘Jess, I’d like you to meet Katie.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She swings round in surprise. She smiles uncertainly at me and I can tell she’s trying to work out why I’m in Mark’s kitchen, dressed in a black evening top, with heavy smudged black-ringed eyes.

  ‘Right, I’d better be off,’ I say.

  ‘Mark, sorry, but who … I mean, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing is going on. I’ve told you about Katie,’ he assures her. Then he looks at me. ‘Sorry, but I told Jess about your mother, I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh, you’re Katie,’ she exclaims with some relief. Then bites her lip and looks at me closely again. ‘How is your mother?’ she asks slowly, her eyes narrowed. She is obviously still trying to work out why I am in Mark’s kitchen.

  ‘She’s much better, thanks.’ But Jess isn’t listening. I could have said any old thing.

  ‘What exactly is going on?’ She stares at Mark hard. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘I should go,’ I say.

  ‘Did you stay the night?’ she asks me coolly.

  ‘God, no!’ I blurt out.

  ‘Well, could you explain to me what you’re doing here?’ Her voice is calm but there is an uncomfortable edge to it.

  ‘Well, I did stay here, but obviously not in the way you think I did.’

  ‘Jess, this is ridiculous,’ Mark says. ‘Katie’s a friend.’

  ‘Ridiculous? Is it?’ she qu
eries, still remaining remarkably cool and not taking her eyes away from mine. I want to go home.

  Mark makes Jess sit down at the table next to me, and pulls up a chair for himself. ‘Katie and I bumped into one another last night at the off-licence. I walked her home, I wanted to find out how her mother was. She came in for a drink – and you were so tired, weren’t you?’ He gestures towards me.

  ‘Really tired,’ I say.

  ‘Then she fell straight to sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Straight to sleep,’ I repeat.

  ‘That’s it, I promise,’ Mark concludes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jess, I can see how this looks, but Mark was being a good friend, that’s all.’

  ‘So nothing happened,’ she says, more of a statement now than a question.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mark and I say together.

  ‘Look, Katie slept next door.’ He leads her into the sitting room.

  ‘Mark, if you’re lying to me, I couldn’t bear it,’ I can hear Jess saying in a low voice, as she knows I’m only a room away. ‘I’d rather you told me now.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t lie to you,’ he reassures her. This is the perfect time to make my escape. It’s clear they need to talk about this and I don’t think I’m helping by hanging around.

  I edge my chair back, trying to be as quiet as I can. I open the front door. ‘I know it might look suspicious but I swear nothing happened,’ Mark is saying.

  Gently I shut the door behind me.

  *

  I walk home, slowly.

  I see the empty stretch of road ahead of me. Thank God I’m outside the flat; I’m too hungover to deal with this.

  The shock of Jess’s arrival is now replaced with a nagging sense of disappointment that Mark has a girlfriend. You know, you’re very attractive, Mark … there’s something about you …

  I have made a complete fool of myself! Oh well, I think, kicking a stone across the pavement. What did I think would happen? Break up with Sam and then fall predictably into the arms of Mark, who is, of course, the complete opposite to Sam, single and the answer to my dreams? For God’s sake, Katie, this isn’t a Hollywood movie.

  ‘Hey, why did you go without saying goodbye?’ I hear. I turn and see Mark racing towards me on his bike, his typescript balanced between the handlebars. He comes to an abrupt halt and the script flies on to the road and scatters into a hundred sheets.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have stayed last night.’ I bend down to try and retrieve the paper. I reach out for one of the sheets and the wind blows it in the opposite direction so I end up clutching air.

  ‘Shit … bugger … shit!’ Mark curses on his hands and knees. ‘I knew I should have put it in a bag.’ He is desperately grabbing sheets of paper. One floats off into the middle of the road.

  We laugh helplessly. I don’t feel it’s the right time to ask what the book is about as I pick up the pieces of paper and dust them off.

  ‘You weren’t going to say goodbye?’ he mutters, scooping the remaining pages off the road.

  ‘I need to get home, out of these smoky clothes.’ I smile at him. ‘Is Jess OK?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Shouldn’t you be with her now?’

  ‘I have to get this to someone, it won’t take long,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t blame her for being suspicious, I would be.’

  ‘We know nothing happened so we have nothing to feel guilty about.’

  I nod.

  He stands up and I stand up with him. He grabs his bike and follows me. ‘Well, this is me.’ I stand outside a red door with bits of paint flaking off it. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Mark doesn’t say anything. ‘’Bye then.’ I turn the key in the door, aware that he still hasn’t gone.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I should have told you – about Jess, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter,’ I say, though every part of my voice says it does.

  ‘I’d like to see you again. There’s no harm in us meeting for a …’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘And a sticky bun?’

  I smile. ‘You know where I am.’

  ‘Great. Friends?’

  Ouch! That’s painful. Did he think he had to say it so I wouldn’t make a pass at him again? ‘Friends,’ I say, wrapping my shivering arms around myself for warmth. I watch him as he pushes off on his bike, the script back in position in-between the handlebars. He uses one hand to wave at me from behind. It looks dangerous to me. ‘Good luck with the book!’ I call out. I want to shout, ‘Be careful,’ but don’t want to sound like his mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The house is modern, down a steep drive. Mum warned me how steep it was and that I must leave the car in gear. I have bought my own second-hand car and love it. It’s small, silver, shiny and fast. The next thing I need to do is look for a flat to rent.

  My legs are stiff and aching from the long journey. I should have arrived at least half an hour ago had it not been for getting lost along the endless winding narrow roads that all looked the same and seemed to lead nowhere. There are no signs outside Bells’s house, it really was a stroke of luck that I spotted a tall man wearing a tracksuit, with a bright blue jumper and an identity card around his neck, motioning me into the drive. I recognized him immediately from Bells’s photograph album.

  ‘Hello, I’m Ted,’ he says, holding out a large hand which I shake. He has curly brown hair and bright blue eyes that almost seem to pop out of his head with enthusiasm.

  ‘Hi, Ted. I’m Katie, Bells’s sister.’

  ‘Hello, Bells’s sister. Welcome to Wales.’

  A tall man with dark hair walks out and says hello too, asking me how my journey was. His name’s Robert. He is one of Bells’s ‘key workers’. He leads me inside, down a long corridor, past a pin-board that gives details of the events of the month, and into the kitchen. ‘Isn’t the weather remarkable today?’ Ted says, following closely behind. ‘They said there would be lots of rain, but we haven’t had a single drop.’

  ‘Ted is fascinated by the weather,’ Robert mentions with a dry laugh. ‘There’s nothing he doesn’t know about weather fronts.’

  The kitchen’s a soft yellow, the colour of primroses, and kept immaculately clean, not a spot of dirt or clutter anywhere. I like the feel of the place immediately. There are glass doors behind the long wooden kitchen table which open out on to the terrace and garden. ‘What a lovely house,’ I acknowledge, looking around the room.

  ‘We like it,’ Ted says proudly.

  ‘Bells will be down in a minute, she heard your car arrive. Would you like a tea? Coffee?’ Robert stands ready at the kettle.

  ‘I’d love a tea, thanks.’

  ‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’ There’s no accusation in his tone at all, but I can’t help but feel a heavy sense of guilt that up until now I have shown no apparent interest in where my sister lives. ‘I want Bells to show me round.’ Above the larder fridge is a black-and-white photograph of her wearing her dungarees, standing over a wheelbarrow filled with cooking apples. She’s smiling with her thumbs up. Robert can tell I’m looking at it.

  ‘She’s a great girl, Bells,’ he comments. ‘She’s always doing something. She can’t sit still, can she, Ted?’

  ‘Never,’ he says. ‘Bells and I go to college together. Every Thursday we go. We learn all kinds of stuff, like art and writing, and I’m learning to dance too.’

  ‘Really? What kind of dancing?’

  ‘Ballroom dancing.’

  There’s another photograph, on the other side of the room, to which Ted leads me. He is large with broad shoulders. ‘Guess where I am?’ he says. I peer closely at the photograph. I can see Bells dressed in an Elvis outfit, strumming a tennis racquet as a guitar. Ted is behind her, wearing what looks like a shiny all-in-one outfit, with enormo
us fake sideburns. He’s playing the drums. ‘There you are!’ I say, pointing.

  ‘Groovy, huh?’ He laughs. ‘It was my birthday party. Everyone had to dress up as Elvis Presley. Bells and I formed a band together, we called ourselves the Gold Fishfingers.’

  ‘Really groovy.’ I smile back. ‘Why the Gold Fishfingers, though?’

  ‘Well, I love fishfingers,’ he replies simply, as if I really should have known, and walks out of the kitchen.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Robert asks me.

  ‘She’s doing well. She gets frustrated because she still can’t drive, but Dad is so patient with her. He sets her tasks, like putting photographs into albums and other things you never normally get round to doing.’

  Robert sighs with relief. ‘We were so worried, you know.’

  ‘Has Bells talked to you about Mum?’

  ‘No, no,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

  I’m dying to see her so I ask if I can go upstairs, but then she walks into the kitchen. She’s dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and the black T-shirt I gave her with the silver star on it. ‘She’s wearing it in your honour,’ Robert says, winking at Bells.

  ‘Hi, Bells.’ She walks towards me. I’d like to hug her but Bells doesn’t really do hugs. Instead we shake hands and then she hits me affectionately on the arm and I hit her back. ‘That’s right,’ she says.

  I pick up my bag. ‘I brought you some olives and cheese biscuits, and Eddie asked me to give you this ginger cake.’

  ‘Eddie at deli.’ She rocks forward and takes the bag of food. ‘Thanks, Katie.’

  *

  Bells leads me upstairs. A large DO NOT DISTURB sign is stuck to her door, along with lots of peeling football stickers. Her room is small, with a single bed in the corner, and unlike the kitchen there is no space in here which hasn’t been filled with paintings, stickers, posters, CDs and newspaper cuttings. I have to tiptoe in between a painting on the floor of the Union Jack flag and a poster that reads in red pen, Come on ENGLAND.

  There’s the familiar poster of Bob Marley smoking a joint, and the one of the Beatles, both of which she pinned to the walls of her bedroom in London. I sit on the edge of her bed. Her inhaler sits on the bedside table together with her photograph album and a mug of tea.