‘I don’t know how to do the walk,’ she hissed, on the threshold.
‘You’ll be fabulous.’
John James gave her a gentle push and Sarah walked gingerly down the aisle. The music – ironically, of course – was ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. There were lots of open mouths in the audience. She reached the end of the catwalk – somehow. She didn’t know what to do with herself, so she did a silly little curtsy and walked back up. The lights were dazzling, the music too loud; she felt like she was having an out-of-body experience.
‘Go down again!’ called John James. ‘They love you, bro!’ He was a liar. He was changing into his ‘Come out with the Models’ outfit and the zip he’d designed was clearly stuck, so he was playing for time. Sarah turned and went to drift down the aisle again but somehow, and suddenly, she tripped over something and went sprawling. What the hell? What was happening? She was in full, terrifying flight; the dress was very slippery – a mothball of lace and copper – and she slid halfway down to the end of the catwalk, where she landed in a heap to dead silence just as the Nirvana track ended.
The silence was endless; Sarah blinked into the lights, not able to see anyone’s face. Her left leg hurt. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, there was a hand and it was being held out to her.
‘Front it out,’ said a voice. Sarah looked up. Clarissa. ‘If it can happen to Naomi Campbell, it can happen to anyone.’ She stretched her hand out further. Sarah took it and Clarissa hauled her up. ‘Brazen it out, girl,’ Clarissa whispered in her ear. ‘If my Meg was here that’s what she would tell you to do. Walk with me!’
Sarah looked out across the audience. She looked back at Clarissa, her face now glittery with make-up, who nodded and smiled. Could Sarah brazen this out? It’s what she’d been doing ever since she had returned to London, after all. And she’d always been able to do what was required of her, whether she wanted to or not. OK, she would brazen this out. Sarah squeezed Clarissa’s hand, gave her a nod and a grin, and, to the accompaniment of Talking Head’s ‘And She Was’, the next track, she and the UK’s most famous model walked together to the end of the runway to tumultuous applause.
‘Fabulous, darling, they loved you, really loved you!’ John James yanked her into the wings, beaming, after she and Clarissa had made their way back up the runway, holding hands and laughing.
‘Really?’ said Sarah.
‘Yes! Come on! You’re joining us for the victory walk! Take my hand.’ And John James put his tiny hand in hers and marched her to the end of the catwalk, followed by a strutting trail of clip-clopping models, including her hero, Clarissa. She went for a cheeky curtsy, this time, for a bit of a laugh, and it received more wild applause. Dylan was there, at the end of the catwalk, snapping away. He gave her a wink some (those not dressed so hideously, perhaps?) might construe as sexy, and a thumbs-up. Then they marched back up again, followed by their caterpillar of models.
Clarissa grabbed Sarah in the wings and pulled her to the dressing room. ‘I’ll help you get changed,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Clarissa. Thank you so much for what you did out there,’ gushed Sarah, as Clarissa helped to yank the enormous dress up over her head.
‘You’re Meg’s sister,’ said Clarissa, chucking the dress on the floor for a minion to deal with. ‘She’d do anything for me, so I’d do anything for you. Lord, the disasters Meg’s saved me from!’
‘Like what?’ asked Sarah. Someone had shoved a miniature champagne bottle in her hand which she glugged from gratefully.
‘Nearly getting on the wrong flight after an all-night bender, a creepy designer with wandering hands – she put him straight, I can tell you. He’s now terrified of her! – a potential eating disorder …’ Clarissa sat on the floor with a sigh and stretched those endless legs out in front of her. ‘She really looks after her girls. A natural nurturer, is our Meg. One in an absolute fucking million. Excuse my French.’
‘Excused,’ said Sarah, with a slight hiccup. She thought of all the other people she’d met in London who’d said Meg was ‘lovely’. Now Clarissa was saying she was a ‘nurturer’, a ‘rock’. It was weird to get so many testimonials for a person she herself didn’t know any more. She’d not only seen the city through her sister’s eyes, but had also received glowing eyewitness reports of Meg from those around her. She didn’t really know what to do with it all.
‘Sometimes I wish she would give up the agency and do something creative, something freeing,’ added Clarissa, looking thoughtful. Sarah thought of the pop-up shop. She had a sudden urge to ask Meg more about it. Maybe she would respond to Meg’s email when she got home. She’d be equally light, equally breezy. Friendly. If Meg was as wonderful as Clarissa and everyone else said she was, Sarah could reach out back to Meg in return. ‘If Meg’s burnt out now, she’ll just get burnt out again, won’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah. She felt ashamed she knew nothing of her sister’s life, how she was doing, whether she was burnt out or not. She realized she had not worried about her sister’s health once, since Meg had said about the high blood pressure. Sarah would ask Meg about that too, when she got back to the flat … but for now she would drink this champagne and hope someone would help her get all this hideous stuff off her face.
*
‘Blimey,’ Dylan said, as she and him walked back towards Old Street. ‘You really know how to create drama round you don’t you, bro?’
Sarah poked him in the ribs. She had seen the whole event out. She’d waited until the audience had filed from the cellars, the models had been belched into the afternoon sunshine, chatting and giggling, all legs and teeth, and the minions decamped – John James had left the building as soon as the show was over, in a flurry of cologne and what looked like a Superman cape. Finally, it was just her, the manager of the venue, and Dylan.
‘You can go, Dylan,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll wait until the clean-up’s all done.’
‘Nah, I’ll hang around for you,’ he’d replied. ‘If you don’t mind. Can’t have the star of the show walking the streets alone.’
And he had hung around, and they had left the cellars together, in the mid-afternoon sunshine.
‘Yes,’ she said in reply to his comment, as they headed towards the Tube station. ‘I intentionally tripped myself up and went flying down the catwalk. I thought it would be a laugh. Oh look, I’ve turned into you. Sarcastic.’
‘Touché,’ said Dylan, laughing. ‘And it turned out all right in the end – luckily – but I know it wasn’t intentional,’ he added. ‘Not by you, anyway.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Felicity tripped you up.’
‘Oh for god’s sake!’
‘Yes. She was in the wings. I saw her stick her foot out and trip you up.’
Sarah’s heart plummeted faster than her bottom had down that runway. ‘You’re joking?’ But she could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t. And she believed him.
‘Are you going to tell Michael?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She had stopped still on the pavement, her heart pounding. This was too much. ‘I need to think about it.’ Would Michael believe her? Did she really want to go running to him with such a ridiculous scenario? And wouldn’t it be better to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’, without complaint, as she had always done?
‘Everyone will be talking about what happened today,’ said Dylan. ‘Why don’t you tell Michael the truth?’
‘Because I’ve only just come back,’ said Sarah, thinking of all of those years away from London, in the country. ‘Because I’m enjoying myself so much. Because I want to stand on my own two feet.’
‘You don’t always have to be a martyr,’ said Dylan. ‘Sometimes you have to just tell it like it is. Make a complaint. You don’t always have to soldier on.’ How did he know how much she had soldiered? How did he know? Dylan stopped too and turned to her. ‘Come for a drink,’ he said. ‘Come for a drink with me and we’ll put the world to rights.’
&n
bsp; ‘I don’t think my world can be put right,’ said Sarah, her head spinning. She suddenly didn’t even know what she was doing here. Was she enjoying herself? Really? She missed her children. She should be with them, not swanning round London going to fashion shows and taking to the catwalk. Brazening it out every day. ‘I don’t even know what I’m doing here, sometimes – London …’
‘You love London, you told me so.’
‘Maybe London doesn’t love me, after all.’
‘Look, London can wear any bugger down, but she’s also the perfect city to lift you up, and she’s definitely the right place in which to drown your sorrows. Come to a London drinking hole and drink whisky with me – it’ll do you good!’
‘I don’t know. I just feel I want to get home.’ Except it wasn’t her home, was it? It was Meg’s and she was just the temporary lodger. Her home was a long, long way away and she couldn’t go there as she had to get up for work in the morning. She felt homesick suddenly, homesick for the fields and the mud and her cottage, but most of all, her children.
‘Sarah?’
‘One drink,’ she sighed to Dylan. ‘Yes, please. One drink.’
*
What was it with Dylan and these places with absolutely no light? thought Sarah as they settled into squashy armchairs and squeezed their knees under a too-low round table. There was a lamp in two of the four corners of the room – low voltage, casting more shadow than light; a muted golden glow, backlit from the bar; and one faded red ‘exit’ sign over the top of the door, giving this tiny bar a bordello feel.
‘They have jazz in here sometimes,’ said Dylan, placing his sunglasses on the table. ‘It’s kind of like a mini Ronnie Scott’s.’
‘Cool,’ said Sarah. She didn’t feel very cool. She felt a wreck.
It was only two in the afternoon and a Monday, after all, so there was no one else in there but them and the barman – a young chap wearing a black shirt and a fixed smile. They ordered their drinks and when Sarah’s came she drank it almost in one; she was down to the ice before she knew it.
‘Steady,’ warned Dylan.
‘No,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘I’m making myself steady.’
‘Do you want to talk about it – the Felicity thing?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want to talk about then?’
Sarah sank back into her chair and half closed her eyes. She liked that it was so dark in here; she felt like she was in a soothing cocoon. ‘Music, TV, anything but work.’
‘OK, favourite TV programmes?’
‘How long have you got?’ Dylan held his hands out as if to say, All night. ‘Ok, I like box sets, Billions, Orange is the New Black, that kind of thing. Coronation Street, most of the soaps, actually. Documentaries, comedies … Dylan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you please get me another drink?’
‘OK.’
They had three more whiskies each. Sarah hadn’t eaten all day – there hadn’t been time – and each went to her head in a delightful way. She and Dylan talked about everything and nothing – London bars and restaurants, if they’d ever been to a West End show (Sarah: Mama Mia! and Cats – standard; Dylan, South Pacific – surprising), whether they’d ever been on a blind date – Sarah, no; Dylan, several, as his friends were always trying to set him up, he said. They were always a disaster. He told her one date brought along some pepper spray to dinner, which she placed on the table between them.
‘Hilarious!’
‘She didn’t think so, especially when I tried to add some to my soup!’
His face lit up when he laughed; it made his blue eyes dance. She looked at his lips, too. She’d been trying not to ever since she’d met him again. Of course she’d seen him smile, but she’d never looked closely. She’d never dared imagine what it would be like to kiss them, like she had once a very long time ago. They were sitting quite close to each other now. Their knees were almost touching. And if she moved her hand three inches to the left it would touch his.
‘You said you were divorced,’ he said. ‘Was it recent?’
Sarah laughed. ‘No, years ago.’ Dylan looked quietly surprised. ‘Ah, did you think I’d just split up with my husband and come to London for a new start? No, it was a long, long time ago.’
‘Amicable?’ enquired Dylan.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Horrible. It turned out my ex-husband preferred adultery and booze to marriage.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dylan.
‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m not. It hurt at the time, of course it did.’ Boy did it hurt, she thought, as she sipped her drink. ‘But why would I still want to be married to a man who invited a stripper from his stag do to our wedding reception?’
‘He didn’t?’
‘He did.’ Sarah laughed loudly and it seemed to echo round the bar. ‘And it might have been fine had she blended in with the other guests, but she turned up in red PVC and a leather peaked cap with “BoyToy” emblazoned on it, then drew attention to herself by slut dropping on the dance floor to Marvin Gaye.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Yes.’ Sarah had been furious, and had tried to have it out with Harry behind the hall, as he was having a fag, but as usual he had laughed it off with a ‘What does it matter, babe? In the great scheme of things?’ Sarah had loved this once, this laid-back mantra, but Harry lived up to his ‘what does it matter, babe?’ mantra all too well, by not having anything really matter to him at all – whether he was present, whether he was faithful, whether he drank too much or gave a shit … In the great scheme of things, how Harry let her down was a very big deal. ‘How about you?’ asked Sarah, letting another sip of whisky warm her stomach. ‘Why did you get divorced?’
Dylan pulled a face. ‘My wife went off with a film producer. A producer of fluffy films, Hallmark kind of stuff. The ones that have their own channel. You could say she left me for a bit of fluff.’
‘Ouch.’ Sarah could imagine that hurt. Dylan was as far from a bit of fluff as Sarah could imagine; he was all flinty corners.
‘Yeah, ouch. It’s been situation vacant ever since, but I’ve not found anyone for the post.’ He looked at her, with soft, unnerving eyes. ‘Have you?’
His eyes were boring into hers now, with those heavy, sexy eyelash shutters.
‘I’m not looking,’ she said. ‘When you’ve been burnt you keep well away from the fire.’ The whisky was burning away at her stomach right now; she could feel Dylan’s body heat. She was too close to the fire.
‘What about if the fire doesn’t burn you but just keeps you nicely warm?’ said Dylan. ‘Like your granny’s electric blanket.’
Sarah smiled. Her grandmother did have an electric blanket. It got passed down to Sarah’s mum, and it was still at Orchard Cottage, in a cupboard somewhere. ‘Fire always burns,’ she said blithely. ‘Now let’s change the subject.’
‘OK.’ Dylan picked at a beer mat. ‘As you wish. Go for it. Pick your subject.’
‘OK,’ said Sarah. ‘Your heart’s not really in Events, is it?’
‘Not really.’ Dylan shrugged.
‘So why don’t you do something else? News photography, or something?’
‘Do you know how many photographers there are in London?’ said Dylan. ‘It was either this or become a distinguished member of the paparazzi.’
Sarah laughed and took another slug from her glass. She felt all woozy. ‘No really, though,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you?’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘Of course not!’
‘As I think I said before, I’m a bit of a sloucher, I plod too, occasionally. It’s hard for a sloucher and a plodder to make a break for it.’
‘Your reportage shots are so good,’ said Sarah. ‘You could just get out in the city and do something. Get a portfolio together. There’s so much news, so many issues, on these streets every day.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘Why not do it then?’
‘Be back in a minute,’ said Sarah. She got up to go to the loo and as she did so, she realized she was drunk, proper drunk. When she looked at herself in the smoky mirror in the ladies’, she could barely focus on her face.
‘I’m a bit pissed, sorry,’ she said, when she sat back down at the table with Dylan. ‘I should have just had the one. I’ve got a long site visit tomorrow. I’ve got to spend all morning at a bloody zoo!’
‘A zoo?’
‘Oh, don’t ask. Oh god, I shouldn’t have drunk like this today.’
‘Do you need to go home?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She didn’t want to go home; she wanted to stay in this low-lit bar with Dylan and drink all night, but that would be way too dangerous. He had a curious look on his face; he looked cheeky and handsome. Dangerous. She needed to run.
‘OK?’ asked Dylan, as they stood outside on the pavement in air almost as hot as it had been inside. Sarah was so surprised it was still daylight: a mere six o’clock, according to her watch. She felt she’d been in that dark den for half the night.
‘OK.’ She was very unsteady on her feet now. A cab turned the corner, its light on. The street was busy. They had competition from revellers with takeaway pizza boxes held out in front of them like trays. Diesel fumes and the odd drunken shriek milled around them.
‘Here!’ Dylan whistled and the cab stopped at the kerb right by them. ‘Well goodnight, Sarah,’ he said, and he looked at her and she looked at him, and he looked … lovely. His dark blue eyes were gleaming and those bloody eyelashes… She fancied him as much as she did twenty-odd years ago; there was no denying it any more. And she had noticed something new about him, this time around. He was kind. He was a kind man. And he had a kind, lovely face.
The Sister Swap Page 19