Summer With My Sister

by Lucy Diamond

‘Right,’ she said diplomatically after a weighty moment.

  ‘I mean, I have dated a lot, I have had sex with men,’ Polly added. ‘I’m not saying I’m a born-again virgin. But they were just dates. And just sex. I never really bothered getting to know any of them. I certainly never cared about them.’

  ‘Oh,’ Clare said, not sure how else to reply. What an awful, horrible thing to admit to. And Polly said it as if she couldn’t give two hoots about the situation, as if she wasn’t bothered either way that she’d never really loved anyone. Clare couldn’t imagine anything more depressing. Better to have loved and lost, in her experience, even if it had meant marrying Steve.

  ‘I guess I’ve never been the settling-down type,’ Polly said, popping out the last soap from the mould and taking the trays to the sink, where she set about washing them with a good deal of splashing.

  And that, Clare thought, was all she was going to get out of her sister on that subject. She wasn’t sure whether to pity or admire Polly for it. It wasn’t a way of life she’d have wanted, though.

  The two of them began work in earnest. Clare put some music on and started melting soap flakes, feeling herself slowly beginning to relax at the prospect of a child-free weekend. She would miss Leila and Alex, of course – she always missed them – but this was the first weekend ever that she hadn’t gone straight upstairs after they’d left to sit mournfully in the desolate silence of their empty bedrooms, wondering what they were doing without her, how many treats and goodies Steve and Denise were lavishing on them, if Alex would be sick on the way home or if Leila would return fired up with talk of pony-riding and go-karting and all the other things Steve had shelled out for her.

  Once they came home again, Clare always struggled not to ask questions about the life Steve and Denise led in Basingstoke, even though part of her was desperate to know everything. ‘Denise wears make-up at breakfast time,’ Leila had once said (rather scornfully, to Clare’s relief), but this fact alone had been enough to keep Clare awake that night, miserably tossing and turning as she imagined the radiant Denise in her skimpy silk dressing gown and a full face of creams and powders to start the day.

  Her phone buzzed just then and she saw that a text from Steve had appeared onscreen. Back home and all OK. Will call later. S

  Paranoid as she was about her children’s well-being, she’d asked him all those months ago to let her know when they’d arrived safely on these contact weekends, just so that she wasn’t fretting. But why did he need to call her later? He never usually rang. Did he have some big piece of news that he wanted to break, which he’d bottled out of doing in person that morning?

  A few months ago Alex had come home and mentioned that Denise had vomited twice while they’d been staying there. There had been a considerable amount of relish in his voice at the grossness of the situation. ‘It was disgusting. You could hear the puke coming out into the toilet, like this …’ And as he’d launched into a demonstration of gruesome fake-retching noises, Clare had been gripped with the fear that Denise was pregnant; and then of course her mind whirled immediately through all the possibilities: the new baby Berry, cosseted and cooed over, dressed in ridiculous Baby Dior outfits by image-mad Denise. Loved more than Leila and Alex …

  Steve hadn’t announced any pregnancy news, though, and there had been no further word from the children about Denise having a bump, or showing scan pictures to them. Maybe it had just been a tummy bug, or maybe Denise had been too early in the pregnancy to want to announce anything yet. Steve had made no bones about the fact that the two of them were keen to start a family, though. He’d actually said those words: Start a family. As if he didn’t already have one of those.

  One thing was for sure, she’d have to practise sounding delighted when Steve broke the news, if she was to stand a chance of avoiding the dread in her heart spilling into her voice.

  As it turned out, there was no joyful announcement of baby news. Instead Steve was ringing about something entirely unexpected: her neglectful parenting.

  ‘I’ve been talking to the children and I’m shocked at what’s been going on there,’ he began without preamble. ‘It’s not on, Clare. It’s just not on.’

  It was as if he was speaking in riddles; it took a few seconds for her brain to actually decode his words. Even then they made no sense. ‘What?’ she asked in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about you setting up a factory for your business’ – he seemed to spit the word down the line as if he couldn’t bear the taste of it – ‘in our kitchen. Exposing our children to dangerous chemicals! It’s bang out of order, Clare. It’s absolutely unacceptable.’

  Her mouth dropped open in astonishment as, once again, she needed a moment to decipher this absurdity. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, appalled that he could even suggest such a thing. ‘It’s not “your” kitchen, just as it’s not any of your business what I do in there.’ She shook with anger. How dare he criticize what she was doing? If anyone was out of order, it was him, one hundred per cent.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘It is my business, when it affects my children.’

  The sanctimonious tone of his voice filled her with fresh rage. His children now, were they? Oh, this was rich, coming from him, the man who needed reminding when his children’s sodding birthdays were. ‘They are not being affected in any way,’ she retaliated, struggling to keep her voice sounding even and calm. ‘There are no dangerous chemicals whatsoever. And they are not being neglected, thank you very much. What sort of person do you think I am?’

  ‘Has your sister put you up to this?’ he replied. ‘This business bullshit? Well, I’m not happy about it, Clare. Not happy at all.’

  ‘Not happy about what? Me making a half-decent crust for our children, for a change? I’d have thought you’d be grateful. You’re the one who’s always been so reluctant to contribute any maintenance money. You’re the one who’s left me skint and struggling for so bloody long.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s all my fault, I get it.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘I’ve pushed you into the whole thing – yeah, right. You should listen to yourself, Clare, you’re full of shit. And I’m getting onto my solicitor about this, first thing on Monday morning.’

  She sat down heavily on the arm of the sofa, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Your solicitor? Why the hell do you need to talk to your solicitor?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it’s right that you’re running a business – manufacturing these goods, creating fumes and dust, and God knows what else – in the kitchen where my children live,’ he snapped.

  ‘But it’s not doing them any harm!’ she shouted. She was shaking now, shaking with rage, but also fear of where this was going. ‘There are no fumes or dust, there’s no danger to them whatsoever. Can’t you see, you fucking moron, that—’

  Click. He’d hung up on her.

  She clutched at her chest, unable to catch her breath for a moment. Why was he doing this? And why did he have to be such an arsehole about it?

  ‘What the hell’s happened?’ Polly asked, coming into the room wide-eyed, her hair up in a towel turban. ‘I could hear you over the noise of the shower.’

  Tears stung Clare’s eyes and she had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘Steve,’ she said, her fists still clenched so tight that her fingers were blanched of all colour. ‘Kicking off about my work being a health hazard to the children. Like I’d ever put them in the way of any harm, Polly. Like I’d ever do anything that could possibly hurt them!’

  ‘What?’ Polly’s eyes nearly fell out of her head. ‘What’s he playing at? He knows how much you care about them. He’s talking total crap.’

  ‘I know, but, according to him, he’s going to his solicitor about it,’ Clare said hoarsely. She put her head in her hands. ‘And then what? I’ve no idea what that’ll mean for us.’

  ‘He’s full of hot air,’ Polly said, sitting next to Clare and puttin
g an arm around her. ‘Ignore him, he’s being a wounded alpha-male because he’s just cottoned onto the fact that you might be going somewhere with your business and that terrifies him.’

  But Clare wasn’t so sure she could ignore him, however wrong he was. She sat there trembling and numb, wishing she’d never let her children out of her sight that morning. The only crumb of comfort was that her sister was with her, telling her everything was going to be okay. If only she could actually believe that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If Clare’s star was on the rise in terms of career glory, then Polly’s seemed to have fallen completely from the sky and burned itself to a crisp. For the last three weeks she’d been employed as a cleaner at the King’s Arms. This was what she’d been reduced to.

  When she’d set off for her very first shift, sick with disappointment that her life had come to this, she’d had a flashback to the last time she’d gone to work, wearing her best suit and killer heels, briefcase in hand, striding into Waterman’s. Now look at her: in jeans and an old T-shirt, with her hair in a ponytail. She wasn’t exactly dressed for success any more.

  Still, there was actually something rather pleasant about seeing Elderchurch at this early hour, she realized. It was only ten to seven, but there was a light, bright freshness in the air, the sky was a pale clear blue, and you could tell it was going to be another corker of a day. Funny how you noticed the weather more in the countryside. She glanced over at the fields beyond the village and was rewarded by the sight of a bird of prey – a sparrowhawk? a kestrel? her dad would be able to tell her, if he was here – gliding magnificently on a thermal high up in the cool morning sky. Beautiful. You never saw that on your London commute.

  Erica, the landlady, let her in and showed her the ropes. There seemed to be an awful lot of ropes. Not only was Polly expected to hoover the lounge and restaurant area, but she also had to mop the tiled floor behind the bar, empty and scrub disgusting-smelling slop trays, polish the brass, wipe down the tables and heave the trolley of empty bottles round the back. She didn’t dare tell cheerful, plump Erica that she had never worked a Hoover before; instead she agreed to everything and got on with it as best she could. By the end of the shift she stank of bleach and was ready to collapse, but she’d actually earned some money for the first time in months. The only way was up.

  The days passed by and Polly dutifully got up every morning and went to work her shift. She knew the drill by now, had mastered the wretched Hoover and knew its temperamental ways. She could polish up the bar brasses until they gleamed, could spot a stray pork scratching at twenty metres, and had stopped feeling quite so sick at the stench of the empties. In some ways she actually preferred ploughing through a short period of intense physical work to spending hours at a computer screen, clicking and typing like a machine. This way she could make a visual difference, she could bring order to chaos and feel a certain amount of satisfaction at her efforts …

  She laughed to herself. Listen to her, bigging up her cleaning job, like it was some massive career achievement. Yeah, right. If Magda, her old cleaner in London, could see her now!

  The thought was an uncomfortable one. It had to be said that Magda had become something of a thorn in Polly’s side, ever since she’d started work at the pub. Whenever she thought back to the inhuman way she’d treated the Polish woman, it made her cringe. Magda had shown nothing but kindness to her – the sympathy she’d offered when Polly had broken down in tears, for example; the way she’d been gracious enough not to ask awkward questions, and had worked so hard for all that time without any word of thanks. And for what? For Polly to call the agency and complain about her, demand that she be sacked. How could she have behaved so callously? How could she have done it, knowing as she did about Magda’s own financial worries?

  If Magda could see me now, she’d probably spit in my face, Polly thought glumly one morning, dragging out the Hoover and plugging it in. She’d probably laugh her socks off. See how the mighty had fallen!

  The only solace was the knowledge that she’d changed so much since then; there was no way she’d dob someone in like that when their only ‘crime’ had been to attempt to comfort another human being. There was certainly no way she’d ever look down on a cleaner again, either, or anyone employed to do menial tasks. She knew just what a slog it was, and how little you got paid for it.

  ‘She works hard for her money,’ she began singing over the roar of the Hoover, pushing the nozzle under the tables and into the corners. ‘So ha-a-a-ard for the money …’

  Then she screamed in shock as she turned and saw a man standing right in front of her. Clutching a hand to her chest, she switched off the Hoover, then wilted in dismay as she realized a split-second later who it was. Oh, bollocks. Of all the people.

  ‘No need to stop singing on my account,’ he teased.

  ‘Jay,’ she said, aghast. ‘God, you made me jump. What are you doing here?’

  He laughed. ‘What am I doing here?’ he echoed. ‘I could ask the same of you. Is this a spot of moonlighting in between multi-million pound financial transactions then?’

  Shit, oh shit, oh shit. Well, her cover story about the sabbatical had been well and truly shot down in flames now. She sighed, hating the way he was smirking. Oh, he was loving this, wasn’t he? Couldn’t wait to blab it about the village, no doubt. You’ll never guess WHAT …

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said after an agonizing pause. ‘But basically …’

  She screwed up her face in despair, unable to finish the sentence. She wanted nothing more than to blag it, to fob him off with another line but the way he was looking at her so intently was disarming. She wouldn’t be able to get away with it.

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘You don’t want to know,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh, but I do.’ Course he bloody did. Couldn’t wait to crow. ‘I’m intrigued. Last thing I heard, you were busting balls. Now you’re busting dust.’ He leaned against the bar, still with that infuriating grin. ‘Come on, tell me. I’m all agog.’

  She glared at him. ‘I haven’t time, I’ve got to get on with this,’ she said, switching the Hoover on again. If I ignore him, she thought, he’ll go away again. He’ll vanish and we can both pretend this never happened.

  She turned her back and carried on pushing the nozzle doggedly to suck up the scattered crisp shards, bending down to snatch up a discarded Scampi Fries packet. He’s not there. Just block it out. Don’t think about him any more.

  But then the Hoover let out a sorrowful whine before falling completely silent. She whirled around to see that he’d flicked it off at the socket and was setting two stools at a table, with worrying closeness. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘And tell me all about it.’

  She glanced around, wary of Stuart or Erica coming in and seeing that she’d stopped working. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Look, I know you think this is hilarious, but I do actually have a job here, and I’ve got loads to do.’

  He just laughed again. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you know? I work here too. Well, for the brewery, anyway. I’m the area manager, so I guess that makes me your boss. And I’m telling you to sit down.’

  Polly stared at him, uncomprehending for a second, before his words began jigsawing into place. Oh God. His dad had been high up at the brewery back when they’d been teenagers, she remembered. So Jay had followed in his footsteps and was now area-bloody-manager … Aargh. Monstrous. Jay Holmes, lording it over her? How excruciating could you get. ‘Oh,’ was all she said dismally.

  He patted the stool next to him. ‘So. What happened?’

  She couldn’t think of anyone she less wanted to tell about her painful fall from glory, but there seemed no way around it. She sat down wearily and propped her elbows on the table. ‘I fucked up,’ she said bluntly. ‘Lost my job, lost my flat, lost my whole life. Okay? Satisfied? So, well done. You win. I hope you enjoy telling the rest of the village all about it.’

  She didn�
�t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the gloating on his face. ‘Bummer,’ he said mildly, and she felt a hysterical laugh building inside her.

  ‘Is that all you can say? Bummer?’ Her voice sounded wild. ‘Don’t you see: I lost it all. I’d done really well – I was at the top of my game. I had a corner office! I had this amazing flat overlooking the Thames! I … I had a silver Mercedes!’

  She swung her gaze to his, daring him to mock. He shrugged. ‘Yeah, I heard you’d done well,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘So, they made you happy, did they, your corner office and your amazing flat and your silver Mercedes?’

  She hated the way he was repeating her words. ‘Well, of course I was happy,’ she retorted, but there was no mistaking the hollow ring to her answer.

  Had she been happy? It was a tough question to answer. She’d loved the work – yes. The satisfaction of achieving and the peer recognition had made her happy. But the lifestyle: the so-called friends who’d dumped her like a shot once she was made redundant; the paranoia in the industry about who was competing against you, who was snapping at your heels … That hadn’t been so good. And then she remembered how lonely she’d felt in her big empty flat, and in all those hotel rooms she’d stayed in around the world. Suddenly her prized corner office didn’t seem quite the be-all and end-all it once had.

  ‘Well, you know,’ she added after a moment. ‘As happy as anyone is.’ Then she felt defensive. What was it to Jay-effing-Holmes, anyway, whether or not she was happy? ‘So I take it you’re happy, are you?’ she retaliated waspishly. ‘Being area manager, just like Daddy: that’s you set up, right?’

  He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it’s taken me a while,’ he said. ‘I was drifting around for years, couldn’t stick at anything, always looking for the next exciting thing, you know?’

  She nodded. She’d never drifted in her life (apart from the last couple of months), but she could relate to that grass-is-greener driving force. It had urged her on constantly too, pushing her towards more power, more glory, more money.