by Blake, Rosie
Mark was what people described as a real character which, roughly translated, meant that at times he bordered on the socially unacceptable. He had a wild mop of dark brown hair, lived in a battered leather jacket and drove a moped which he treated like a motorbike (and therefore considered an acceptable mode of transportation). He worked at the planetarium – a sort of enormous silver football right in the centre of town – spending his days pointing out the various constellations of stars to eager youths, and sending his science show reel to various production companies in the hope of becoming a hugely successful science presenter. He resented the fact that I had been unable to secure him a presenting job and thought that I was deliberately keeping my science-producer/BBC-documentary-makers-contacts firmly to myself. Mark loved all things science and was absolutely obsessed with bats. Bats were Mark’s one true love. ‘Wouldn’t you be obsessed if you knew there are over eleven hundred species of bat and that they make up twenty per cent of the world’s mammal population?’ Quite.
He rarely took an interest in the opposite sex, preferring the safety of a lab and a bunch of coloured test tubes for company. I once asked him where he would go on a honeymoon and he’d answered, in a perfectly serious voice, that he would spend seven days in a cave photographing and studying the nocturnal habits of the Townsend’s long-eared bat. When I’d pointed out that his beloved might not be so keen on the idea of resting her head on an inflatable pillow, curled up in a sleeping bag as small rodents dive-bombed overhead, my brother had looked at me blankly. ‘We would never be able to carry all that equipment. Inflatable pillows are an enormous waste of backpack space.’
Recently, however, he’d been taking more of an active interest in females. He was approaching his thirty-fifth birthday and had decided that this was an appropriate age for him to ‘settle down’. He had made the misguided assumption that, as his little sister, I was surely a great way to meet women of a similar age. So every now and again he would descend on me for the night just in case I was suddenly spending my Wednesday evenings surrounded by a team of supple, yet intelligent, female netballers or a book club of sexy, bespectacled young ladies.
‘Tell me. To what do I owe this wonderful pleasure?’ I asked, gesturing at him lounging all over the furniture. ‘No plans tonight, brother dear? No spectacular date lined up? Or have you just come over specifically to damage my coffee table with your ugly boots.’ I stared deliberately at them (does anyone else wear Doc Martin’s in the twenty-first century?).
‘You need tea, sis,’ Mark said, removing the boots and ambling into the kitchen. ‘Or wine,’ he called. ‘Where’s the wine?’
‘In the fridge,’ I called back as I frantically wiped at the table where his boots had been. I had some glass polisher under the sink … Should I wait until he’s gone to work at the smears? Oh, what does it matter? I’ll get the polish now, otherwise I won’t relax at all.
Mark didn’t look in the least surprised as I pushed past him while he waited for the kettle and returned to the living room with a cloth and a spray can to hand. By the time he emerged, the coffee table looked brand new. I thanked him for my glass of wine and fetched two coasters.
‘Just wanted to see you, sister dearest. I went on a date last night.’ He perched on the arm of the sofa.
‘Oh really,’ I said with interest. ‘How did it go?’
‘Go?’ He looked up in surprise. ‘I suppose it went well … Yes, as dates go it could be rated positively.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Oh, hopeless,’ he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘But you just said it went well?’
‘The date did. She, however, was all wrong.’
‘Oh. Well what was wrong with her?’ I asked. ‘Boring?’
‘No.’
‘Ugly?’ I ventured.
‘No.’
‘Crazy?’
‘No.’
‘Too loud?’
‘No.’
‘Too quiet?’ I asked, tiring of this game rapidly.
‘No.’
‘Too … uninterested in bats?’
‘No. Too old,’ Mark said matter-of-factly.
‘Charming. How old is she?’
‘Thirty-three.’
‘Thirty-three isn’t old.’
‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve got another date tomorrow night.’
‘Fast work, brother dear.’ I nodded. ‘So, how’s life at the planetarium?’
‘Fine …’ he said.
Oh God. I was going to have to ask. ‘And, er, how’s the search for a bat TV show?’ I tried to sound breezy and light-hearted.
He exhaled dramatically, the wine glass wobbling precariously in his hand. ‘I’m brilliant, but I’m undiscovered and I’m running out of time.’
‘Rubbish …’ I said, and then after a pause. ‘You’re not brilliant.’
He looked aghast.
‘That was a joke,’ I said hurriedly. ‘You’ve just got to keep sending your stuff in and build up some contacts. What happened to Snake Man?’
Snake Man had been a particular stooge at the BBC who had managed to get my brother a five minute segment on a wildlife programme for the Natural History Channel. They’d paid Mark £250 for two days of filming and he’d spent the rest of that year behaving like David Attenborough, often at unexpected, and usually inappropriate moments (one particularly memorable moment being at the dinner table after Aunt Hilda’s funeral when Mark’s impression had set my uncle off into a fresh round of tears – ‘Hilda loved nature programmes.’). Since this triumph, however, there had been no work forthcoming and no more phone calls from Snake Man.
‘You must know of some jobs going in the presenting world,’ he said huffily, before taking a sip from his glass.
‘Look, as I’ve told you a million times, we are an actors’ agency. We don’t specialise in the niche of science presenting jobs.’
‘Oh come on, sis, you’re all in on it together,’ he grumbled. ‘You guys are always hobnobbing at these awards and things.’
‘What awards?’ I laughed.
He still thought my job involved going to the BAFTAs to watch our clients accept little gold statues and make emotional speeches about their wonderful agents.
‘Today I got one of our clients an advert for a digital camera. There aren’t too many award ceremony invites flooding our post,’ I insisted.
‘Well, surely you see each other at agent things,’ he huffed, determined not to give it up.
I sighed. ‘I will try to make more enquiries into production companies looking for ageing science presenters who have an unhealthy and unnatural obsession with bats,’ I droned.
‘Thanks, sis,’ he said, his face lighting up, brain seemingly unable to register my sarcastic tone.
The timer pinged in the kitchen. ‘Dinner,’ he announced with a grin.
‘Great, what have you made?’ I asked, instantly planning to eschew his dinner in favour of my own regular Wednesday evening meal of grilled salmon, baby potatoes and mange tout.
‘Pizza.’
He scooted into the kitchen and after an unusual amount of noise for someone simply finding a plate, he re-entered holding the pizza aloft on a wooden chopping board. ‘Grub’s up, sis!’ He lowered the chopping board reverentially onto the table. I cringed as I watched the stray crumbs scatter themselves over the clean surface.
‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ll make myself something in a bit,’ I said with a grimace.
‘Oh, come on, Nicola, there’s loads.’ He crammed a large slice into his mouth. ‘Don’t be so uptight! You’re skin and bones anyway. Relax, have a bit of pizza, it’ll sort you right out.’
I looked at it slavishly, the melted cheese, peppers, pieces of meat and other delights were chopped into its gooey topping. The crust looked lightly browned and delicious, the scent of it like a bakery in the morning. What would it matter if I had some pizza? I mused for a brief moment before pushing
the thought away. I’d already bought the salmon for tonight and Thursdays were chicken risotto, so if I didn’t make the salmon now, then it would go to waste.
I shook my head. ‘No, no, truly I am going to make myself a little something now. I’m, um, not in the mood for pizza,’ I stood up, practically drooling on my India silk wool carpet.
‘You’ve got issues, sis,’ said Mark through a mouthful, a tiny string of cheese dangling from his lip.
My stomach dropped. ‘What?’
He sighed. ‘Nothing sis. Go and make your … salmon isn’t it?’ he said giving me a weak smile. ‘Always salmon on a Wednesday.’
I sloped off to the kitchen feeling odd and foolish.
Chapter Five
My thoughts festered throughout the next morning. Mark’s ‘You’ve got issues’ comment had really stirred me up. I wanted to ask Caroline if she thought the same thing about me, but every time I opened my mouth to ask her, I bottled it. I tried to concentrate on my work, I really did, but before I knew it I was shouting out:
‘You know, I bungee-jumped in Australia when I was nineteen!’
Caroline stopped typing and looked at me, eyes wide. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Forty-five metres, all by myself.’
‘Well, that sounds like fun.’
‘And once, Caroline, I hitch-hiked,’ I went on, jabbering now. ‘Do you remember there was that petrol crisis? Well, I was in Wiltshire and I needed to be in London because I was watching Take That in concert that night with Natalie, who had a squint but had got money off the tickets, and I flagged this car down and jumped in.’
‘That’s brave,’ Caroline said, eyebrows meeting as she looked at me.
‘It was.’ I paused for a moment and pleated the soft fabric of my grey wool dress. ‘Do you think I’m unadventurous?’ I blurted at her.
‘Unadventurous?’ she repeated.
‘You know, sort of stuck in my ways? Uptight?’ I carried on, tripping over the words now to get the question out.
‘Well you like things …’
‘Like I like them?’ I finished for her.
‘Exactly,’ she said, then fell silent for a moment. ‘Um, it wouldn’t be so bad to loosen up a little on some of the, er … habits.’
‘Habits?’
‘You know the, er, timing of things and the food, the keeping yourself to yourself. You could ease up a little,’ she said lightly. ‘I mean, don’t you get horribly lonely at home?’
‘No, no,’ I said brightly, ‘I’m used to being on my own.’
She looked at me in a way that could only be described as ‘sympathetic’.
‘I mean, I like being on my own,’ I corrected.
‘But you’re so young.’ I rolled my eyes, recognising the familiar lecture that was about to begin. ‘You just seem so frightened of letting—’
I gushed over her. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, I was just thinking out loud, don’t wor—’
‘—No listen, Nic, you asked me, remember!’ The pitch of her voice rose an octave. ‘Now, I want you to hear this.’ Caroline never raised her voice. I stared at the keyboard of my desk, not seeing any of the letters, only hearing her words. ‘You should be getting out there and living your life, not worrying about whether your carrot stick is exactly five centimetres long. You should be meeting people, you should be out with friends, you should be dating, seeing people, having fun.’
‘Okay, Caroline.’ I held up my hands to signal the diatribe could stop.
‘No, Nic, you asked me,’ she stressed. ‘And so I’m telling you.’
‘Fine, thanks. I get it. Can we drop it now?’ I pleaded.
I heard a door open. Caroline paused, mouth agape, her fresh attack momentarily suspended.
‘Nicola,’ came James’ voice.
I jumped and spun around on my chair to face him.
‘Nicola, I need you to pop to Alexandra Street and pick up the proof for our new poster.’
I looked at him blankly for a moment, then registered his request. ‘Oh, right, yes, of course, James,’ I said, flustered.
‘Everything okay in here?’ he asked, smiling round at us both, an eyebrow raised.
‘Absolutely fine,’ we chorused at him.
He gave us one last funny look and then returned to his office.
I sighed, picked up my handbag, and, looking anywhere but at Caroline, went out to the printers.
I brought Caroline a Twirl from my trip out and things went straight back to normal. The power of chocolate. I was relieved to see Caroline bustling about as if the horrid conversation had never happened. She was arranging the diary for next year and kept muttering things like, ‘I can’t believe it’s only seven weeks till Christmas’ and ‘Where on earth does the time go?’
‘Nic,’ she said. ‘I’m sorting out holidays for next year. I’m taking a week off in January to get the kids ready for school. When do you need your time off?’
‘Oh, um, I haven’t really thought about it.’ I shrugged.
‘Alright, well let me know whenever you know.’
‘Bet you’ve already booked Valentine’s Day,’ I chuckled.
Last year David had flown Caroline to Rome on a friend’s private jet for the weekend. ‘Completely extravagant,’ Caroline had fussed. Secretly she’d been delighted and I’d spent the year wondering how David was ever going to top that.
‘Nope, I’ve actually booked the fifteenth off,’ she smiled wickedly, ‘I won’t want to work the day after Valentine’s Day. To have and to hold and all that.’
‘Eugh,’ I clapped my hands to my ears in mock horror. ‘Stop talking like that, I’m only young.’
‘What about you, Nic? Why don’t you take Valentine’s Day off, keep it free for … someone?’
‘I don’t think so, Caroline. I’ve never had a date on Valentine’s Day.’
‘What, ever?’ she frowned.
‘Never,’ I confirmed, smiling ruefully at her.
‘But you have been asked out on a date on Valentine’s Day before?’ she checked.
‘Er, no,’ I mumbled, suddenly deeply embarrassed by this confession.
‘That’s awful,’ she said, looking aghast. ‘Just awful.’
‘It’s not awful,’ I protested, trying my best to brush off her reaction.
‘But didn’t you date a man for three years, didn’t he—?’
‘—Don’t, Caroline,’ I warned.
‘But … but …’
‘Just forget it. It’s fine!’
‘Of course, I, well, it’s just …’ she tried to recover herself and clearly couldn’t. ‘Actually no, that’s awful.’ She shook her head and we lapsed into an awkward silence.
A few uncomfortable moments passed and then, all of a sudden, she launched herself out of her chair and marched over to my desk.
‘Right,’ she said, reaching above my head. I cowered for a brief second in case she was here to smash me round the ear. She wasn’t. Instead, Caroline took down the faded wall calendar that hung behind me (an Impressionist’s calendar from 2006 that was always on April because everyone liked the Degas ballerina picture on it). She flipped through to February and took out her big red marker. She circled the 14th. Then she placed it on top of the work I’d been doing and stood before me. I looked at the new picture, Renoir’s The Theatre Box, and looked back up at her, baffled.
‘You, Nicola Brown,’ she said pointing at me with an unsteady hand, ‘are going to listen up.’
I gulped.
‘By that day,’ she pointed at the circled fourteen, ‘you will have been asked out on a Valentine’s date by someone wonderful.’
‘Caroli—’
‘—Shush! By Valentine’s Day, you are going to make certain that you have tried everything in your power to secure yourself this fabulous date and then, and only then, will I, Caroline Haskey, agree to never again hassle you about your love life. Or lack thereof. Ever, ever again.’
I raised an eyebrow.
She wasn’t finished.
‘In short,’ she announced grandly, her eyes gleaming, ‘I dare you to get a love life.’
What?
‘Well? Do you accept?’
‘No!’ I spluttered instantly. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I double dare you.’
‘Stop it, Caroline.’ I squirmed under the intensity of her gaze.
‘I double dare you, no returns!’
‘Caroline, I can’t, I won’t, it’s …’ My voice trailed off as I looked down at February 14th circled in bright rose red.
She’d thrown down the gauntlet. I stared at it, mesmerised. I couldn’t do this. It was a silly, daft idea. Wasn’t it?
‘No I can’t,’ I said pushing the calendar away. ‘I’m sorry, Caroline, I won’t.’
Chapter Six
I arrived back at my flat that evening with a heavy heart. The apartment, which usually looked so spacious and light, tonight just seemed too big for me. I got the chicken for tonight’s dinner out of the fridge and started chopping it into neat slices. I had a sort of empty feeling in my chest and I couldn’t shrug it off. Almost as if everything seemed a little bit pointless. I mentally scolded myself, walked purposely through to the living room and put on the most upbeat music I had to hand. But even playing Musical Theatre’s Greatest Hits at full volume couldn’t lift me out of the gloom. When ‘Close Every Door’ from Joseph sounded out through the speakers, I felt my mood slip further. Clutching the tea towel I was holding to my chest, I looked dramatically into the half-distance and started to sing about shutting out the light. Caroline was right. I was alone. Utterly alone, and no one could do anything about that but me.
I thought back to her dare, what it represented, what it might give me the chance to do. I sighed; I didn’t have the nerve to go through with it. Look how things had ended before. Trusting him had led to so much pain. It was too messy. I was better off this way. I turned the music off and flopped down onto the sofa, aimlessly flicking through the television channels. It was like the universe was highlighting my sense of isolation: Coupling was on a BBC repeat, Friends was on E4 and Love in a Cold Climate was on ITV2. Thanks for the pick-me-up, World. With a grunt, I settled for Saw on Film 4. Maybe watching people trying to decide whether to remove keys from inside their heads or let themselves explode would scare me into distraction.