‘No, stay,’ he urges, taking the phone. ‘Forget the tea, can you get me a proper drink? Right, wish me luck,’ he says, punching in the number and walking out of the room.
*
Making vodka tonics in his kitchen, I rehearse ways to console Mark. ‘It’s their loss,’ or, ‘Did you know J. K. Rowling had masses of rejections, and look at her now!’ No, that’s lame. ‘Did you know Virginia Woolf, Beatrix Potter, Honoré de Balzac and many other famous writers all had books self-published at some stage in their career? It’s the latest trend. That could be an option.’ I read that in a weekend magazine. Mark stands in front of me looking as if he’s been given a parking ticket. He slams the mobile on to the table. I wait for him to say something. When he says nothing I tell him I’m sorry and promptly hand him a neat vodka.
‘What for?’ He takes a large gulp of vodka. ‘I’ve got a deal! You’re right, I can’t be bothered to cook supper. We are going out to fucking celebrate!’
‘No! Oh my God!’ I shriek, moving forward to hug him.
He picks me up off the ground. ‘I am going to be published, Katie, can you believe it?’
‘Hurray!’ I shout, wrapping my arms around him and laughing at the same time. He puts me down and then opens the fridge. ‘We need a drink. No champagne, bugger.’
‘I’ll get some, my treat.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he repeats incredulously, circling the kitchen as if he is drunk. ‘Ms Fox better not get run over by a bus or the publishers burn down or go bust or …’
I smile at him. ‘Quiet! Back in a sec.’
I find myself skipping along the road like an excited toddler.
‘You look like a cat who’s stolen the cream, and eaten it too,’ the man at the off-licence says.
‘My friend’s got a book deal.’
‘Wow,’ he says, taking my money. ‘Tell him, many congratulations.’
Aren’t people nice? I love life, I think to myself. Why do people say the British are chippy, that they don’t like people fulfilling their dreams? There’s not a chip in sight today.
*
When I return, I hear Mark talking in the kitchen. I stand there quietly and listen before joining him. ‘We can celebrate when you get back … you don’t have to do that, Jess. What am I doing tonight? Well, I think I’ll have a few celebratory drinks.’ I notice he doesn’t say who with. He’s listening to her and now he laughs. There’s another long pause. His voice turns softer. ‘I know, I wish you were here too.’
Of course she is the first person he wants to ring with the news. This has to be one of the biggest, proudest moments in his life and he ought to be with her, not me. Why do I feel like second-best? It only takes one phone call from Jess and – bam! Back to being Katie the good friend, someone to have a laugh with.
‘Love you too,’ I hear him say.
That’s it, enough dreaming, Katie. Don’t feel disappointed. Mark and I have a great friendship, we get on well, but that’s as far as it goes. End of story, as Sam would say.
I need to go into the kitchen, have one drink and then go home. I need to accept this for what it is. I don’t want to be second-best; I won’t let myself feel like this. I clutch the bottle of champagne and brace myself as I walk back into the kitchen.
*
‘Why do you have to go now?’ Mark asks after one glass of champagne together. ‘Come on, have another.’ He refills my glass.
I push my glass aside. ‘Sorry, Mark, I think I might be coming down with something,’ I say vaguely. ‘Emma had this twenty-four-hour sick bug.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, clearly unconvinced.
‘I think I need to lie down.’
Mark touches my forehead. ‘You feel fine.’ He lifts my chin and holds my face up to his. ‘I don’t want you to go. Let’s go out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I put my hand over his and gently remove it. I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Well done, Mark. I’m so proud of you.’ I pick up my bag.
He follows me to the door and then I feel him clutching at my hand. ‘Why are you really going?’
‘What?’ I say, unable to turn round and face him.
‘I’m trying to figure out if I’ve done something wrong, said something, in the space of ten minutes?’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Then stay.’
‘I can’t. ’Bye, Mark.’ I kiss him on the cheek one more time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sometimes I panic at night. Am I going to work in my shop for the rest of my life? Not that it’s a bad life. Then my mind wanders to home. What if Mum has a relapse or something happens to Dad? Or to Bells? What if I end up an old maid? We all assume we’re going to meet someone, but what if we don’t? What if I end up an old lady feeding her cat fresh prawns. because I never had children and went completely potty? That could be me in years to come. It’s that ‘What am I doing, where am I going?’ question which quietly nags me during the day but screams at me at night. When I wake up, I calm down. Mum is all right. Dad is happy. Bells is fine. I have a job. I have good friends. I know I am going in the right direction. I have so much to be thankful for.
We always want what we can’t have, don’t we? When I was about six I used to pray over and over again for blue eyes like Dad’s. ‘Your eyes are the colour of the sea,’ I used to tell him as a child. After school I’d rush home to look in the mirror. They stayed green. The colour of a murky pond, I thought. I could not understand why God didn’t answer my prayers.
When Bells was born I prayed that she would get better so that I could have Mum back.
I stopped going to church when I was a self-conscious fifteen-year-old, but I still pray. Just don’t tell anyone.
*
Mark stands at the front door, trailing his bike behind him. I haven’t seen him for a fortnight. He left a message on my mobile but I didn’t ring back or go round to his flat. However, I had to make contact when Bells arrived so I asked him if he wanted to come to the cinema with us tonight. Bells is staying for the weekend and will be around for Jonnie and Emma’s Christmas party tomorrow evening. She wouldn’t forgive me if she didn’t see Mark.
His hands are covered in grime and his left cheek is smudged with oil too. His hair is even more all over the place.
‘Did you fall, are you OK?’ I ask. What’s he doing here? It’s only two o’clock.
‘Nearly. The chain came off.’ He grimaces. ‘Clunk, in the middle of the street.’
‘Hello, Mark.’ Bells rushes up to him and claps him on the back.
‘Hi, Bells! How are you?’
‘You have car like Sam?’
‘No,’ he admits, almost in apology.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t. Anyway, how are you?’
They hold hands and her little device vibrates. ‘I should have known,’ he laughs. Bells is rocking forward and clapping her hands together.
‘Come in,’ I tell him. He chains his bicycle to the gate and follows us indoors. His mobile rings and he takes the call.
‘That was Jess, she can come tomorrow,’ he tells me, putting his phone back in his rucksack.
‘Great,’ I reply.
Damn, bugger and shit.
‘It’ll be good to meet her properly,’ I continue in this horrible cheery tone that I don’t recognize as my own.
‘That your girlfriend?’ Bells asks.
Mark nods.
‘You gonna get married?’
He looks at me and I titter cheerfully. ‘Bells, don’t be so nosy.’ I can’t get rid of this merry persona – ironic when I feel anything but. We go into the kitchen. All my washing is hanging on the drier next to the washing machine. Mark is standing in front of a line of my knickers and bras. There’s one particularly attractive pair of grey M&S pants that have seen better days. I wish I could touch a button and they’d all disappear.
I put the kettle on. Bells hands round some fig rolls. ‘Shut eyes,’ she says as
she holds something towards Mark. He looks at me, then back at Bells. ‘Go on, don’t worry, it’s not a toad,’ I laugh. ‘Well, I don’t know actually. It could be.’
‘OK,’ Mark whimpers. ‘But I want a fig roll. I love fig rolls. The children do this at school sometimes. Made me sit on a whoopee cushion once when we had Joanna Lumley in to speak about acting. Deeply humiliating.’ He squeezes his eyes shut.
Bells plants a square of mouldy cheese into his hand. It has fur all over it. From the way her shoulders are heaving up and down I can see she finds this hilarious, especially when Mark throws it back at her, shouting, ‘It’s alive, it’s alive!’
‘Mark, Bells and I have to go out in a minute, we’re going to Sainsbury’s and …’
‘Sainsbugs,’ Bells says, and proceeds to roar with laughter again.
‘I promised Emma I’d get some food for tomorrow.’
‘I’ll help.’
‘You look a mess, you can’t go out looking like that.’ Why am I sounding like his mother now? I can’t bear being so conscious of everything I say and do around him.
‘So what?’ Mark says. ‘You always say you shouldn’t care what people think.’
I smile. ‘Fine. Come.’
*
The supermarket is packed with shoppers and ‘Jingle Bells’ is playing in the background.
‘Mark, what are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Mum and Dad are in New Zealand with my brother the sheep farmer.’
‘You’re not going?’
‘I can’t.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s too expensive to fly out for a week. Anyway, they’re coming home for the New Year. I need to save a bit of money for next year,’ he adds.
I nod. ‘What’s happening next year?’ Mark looks preoccupied and doesn’t immediately reply. ‘You’re not going to be on your own at Christmas, are you?’ I press.
‘No. I’m seeing Jess and a few friends.’
‘Where does Jess live?’ I realize I know the answer. Why is there this sudden need to fill the space between us?
‘Edinburgh.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Edinburgh.’ Why is every word I say so flat and obvious?
‘Excellent,’ he mutters out of nowhere, looking distracted. ‘Where’s Bells?’ We both glance around, and walk up the aisle until we see her at the delicatessen counter talking to the man behind the trays of olives and cold meats. He’s wearing a hat with a silver Christmas star pasted on to the front. I can hear her asking him how old he is.
‘Any more news on the book?’ I sound like an interviewer. I realize it doesn’t matter because Mark isn’t even listening to me. He’s watching Bells put on the man’s silver-starred hat. ‘Mark?’ I nudge him. ‘You’re a world away.’
‘Sorry.’ He turns to me. ‘I’ve got something on my mind.’
‘That sounds serious?’
‘Yes, no. I don’t know. It’s school, something’s come up that I need to think about.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘No,’ he says harshly.
‘Mark?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’ll work it out.’
Bells crashes into our trolley.
‘Hey Bells. Race you to the …’ Mark looks at me for inspiration.
I scan my list. ‘We need mini-sausages and Parmesan cheese.’
‘Race you to the sausages!’ Mark says as he tears off with Bells.
*
Mark, Bells and I are queuing for popcorn. Bells buys a barrel of Coca-Cola. We’re about to see Hugh Grant’s latest film. ‘You want Coke?’ she asks Mark and me.
‘Not another one?’ he gasps. ‘Bells, you’ll have Coke coming out of your ears. I must buy some Coke shares, the industry does well out of you.’
‘Not funny, Mark.’
‘If I drank that much I would spend more time on the loo than watching the film,’ I tell her as we walk to screen number five.
We sit down next to a young couple. I’m in the middle. Bells is laughing at the Cornetto advert. I turn to put my hand into the popcorn. Mark leans towards me and takes a handful. Our hands meet and stay there. I’m aware of every move he makes, each touch.
I hear noisy shuffling of feet. The couple sitting next to Bells are moving seats. ‘Sorry, excuse me,’ they are whispering as they step over people’s feet. I am not going to let it ruin the evening. Don’t say anything, Katie, I tell myself. I want to shout ARSEHOLES and struggle to restrain myself. The only reassuring thing is that I don’t think Bells has noticed, has she?
‘Excuse me?’ I hear Mark saying as he stands up. The auditorium has darkened as the film crackles on to the screen. It’s deathly quiet except for the sound of crisp and sweet packets being opened and ice-cream wrappers being peeled off. The couple turn around. ‘I’m sorry to stop you in your tracks but is there something wrong with your seats?’ I can feel everyone listening. ‘Because if there is, maybe you should report it?’
They look at one another sheepishly. ‘I think we should be in the row behind,’ the man weakly gives as an excuse.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ Mark says quietly, but firmly, and sits down again. The film begins.
He takes off his glasses, wipes them clean on the sleeve of his jumper and then puts them on again. He looks tired, something is clearly worrying him. I wish he would tell me. He must be aware that I’m looking at him because he turns to me. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Thank you.’ I touch his hand and we link our fingers.
‘What for?’
‘For telling them off,’ I whisper.
‘Shh,’ we hear from the row behind.
We both turn back to the screen, withdrawing our hands quickly.
I love Mark for speaking out. The only thing is that Bells is now painfully quiet. I hand her the popcorn but she doesn’t take any. I think she understands far more than I give her credit for.
I think she always has.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bells sits on my bed as she watches me get dressed. I’m wearing a pale blue jumper tied at one side with a ribbon, jeans and pointed shoes with a small heel.
I brush my hair in front of the mirror and catch Bells in the reflection. She’s rummaging through my make-up bag, picking out lipsticks, powder and generally making a mess. ‘What’s this?’ she asks, holding up an eyelash curler. ‘You and Mark gonna get married?’
‘Me marry Mark? I don’t think so,’ I laugh as I tie my hair back and then let it loose again. ‘It’s an eyelash curler, by the way.’
‘Why you not going marry Mark?’
She’s now trying to put on some of my nail varnish. ‘Er, he hasn’t asked me,’ I reply, still watching her carefully as she attempts to paint her nails with my silver nail polish.
‘Not same as you, am I?’
She has never asked me this question directly, although I know she has asked Mum. I don’t know what to say. Oh, please, someone tell me what is the right thing to say. I can’t lie and pretend she is to please her. Bells will see right through that anyway. I turn round and see a great circle of silver on the white linen. ‘Bells, oh no!’ I rush over to examine the stain.
She throws the bottle across the room and it hits the wall, polish oozing out and on to the carpet.
‘Bells! What’s wrong? Why are you so angry?’ I retrieve the bottle and put the top back on tightly.
‘Can’t do like Katie,’ she shouts, punching one hand with the other, silver smudging across her palms. ‘Not same,’ she says firmly. ‘Not normal, am I?’
I sit down next to her. ‘What’s brought all of this on?’ I ask gently.
‘Not normal,’ she emphasizes again, cross that I don’t understand what she’s saying. ‘People stare, not nice.’
‘Bells, you’re normal to me, to Dad, Mum, to all the people who love you.’
Bells doesn’t look convinced. She’s heard that one before. ‘Not like Katie.’
/> ‘Why do you want to be like me? I’m not half the person you are.’
‘You beautiful.’
‘That’s not what makes a person,’ I say adamantly. ‘Don’t you ever think that.’
‘Not beautiful like Katie.’
‘Well, I’m not a good cook like you. I can make chips and steak, and that’s about it. And a boiled egg. I’m like Dad.’
She still looks upset.
‘Look at the way you ran the house when Mum was so ill. I don’t think you realize how much you can do, Bells.’
She stops hitting her hands together and laughs weakly. ‘Am good cook, aren’t I?’
‘You are. This stuff doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t,’ I say, holding the nail polish in front of her. ‘It’s all pretty superficial. You are you, don’t ever change. Wave, smile, say hello to people like you always do.’ I am thinking of the time when Bells was in my shop and I was ordering her not to say hello to customers. ‘Or if they’re being plain rude, you stare back, don’t let them get away with it. You can rise above all that, Bells. That’s why people love and admire you. Look at Mark, or Eddie at the deli, or Robert and Ted, Mr Vickers, or the entire football team for that matter. I’ve never seen such a fan club.’
A small smile lights Bells’s face.
‘I feel like we’re really getting to know each other now,’ I stumble on, ‘and I love being with you. You’re a top person, Bells.’
‘You pretty,’ she says again, looking at my clothes. Bells is wearing a patchwork skirt, with a black evening top from the shop, and around her wrist is a black leather bracelet with silver studs. She’s also wearing her three small stud earrings in the left ear. ‘Won’t ever look like you, will I?’
‘I haven’t got your beautiful coloured hair.’
‘Mum’s hair,’ she says.
‘Yes, Mum’s. Do you still want to put some of this nail varnish on?’ I ask, holding up the pot.
She gives me her hand and I carefully apply the silver over her short bitten nails. ‘Look, I’ve made a mess too.’ I smile, wiping away the excess nail varnish with a tissue. ‘You are you, Bells, Katie is Katie, Mark is Mark. If we were all the same, life would be pretty dull, don’t you think?’
Letters From My Sister Page 23