by Ali Ahearn
‘You aren’t sitting on the seat, are you?’
Joni had been in some bad, bad places but she had never, ever, sat on a toilet seat that wasn’t her own. That she could remember, at least.
‘Excuse me?’ Frankie sounded as though she had just stepped in something. ‘Are you asking me about my toilet habits?’
‘You know what G always said,’ Joni reminded her sister darkly. ‘Germs jump.’
Frankie laughed coldly. ‘I do not squat. And where you’ve been urinating lately, Joni, I can only begin to imagine. But I can assure you that the offices of Schuster, Schuster, Lathbourne and Lathbourne are duly disinfected thrice daily, so their precious clients’ esteemed arses don’t catch anything they shouldn’t.’
As Frankie made a dramatic exit from the cubicle, she shot Joni a look of disbelief. ‘Honestly. Grown-ups do not air-wee.’
Joni noticed, with a surge of irritation, that Frankie still washed her hands exactly as they’d been taught at Haversham Girls. Over, under, between the fingers, make bubbles. Rinse, soap again. Rinse, shake, pat dry.
The two women spoke into their reflections in the mirror. Frankie’s blonde bob was even more lustrous up close, and Joni’s wild green curls were even more unruly. But the eyes gave their relationship away. Huge, grey, upwards slanting.
‘We haven’t spoken in seven years and now you want me to do this. It’s nuts. Can’t you see that we’re being manipulated?’
‘No!’ Frankie feigned shock. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’
Joni snorted and Frankie continued. ‘Of course we’re being bloody manipulated. This is G we’re talking about. And I’ll give you a million good reasons why we should do it anyway.’
‘Since when do you need money, Ms Rolling-In-Edward’s-Dough?’
‘I don’t need to explain myself, Joni. And it’s Mrs Rolling-In-Edward’s-Dough to you. You know I changed my name.’
Joni stared hard at her sister’s shiny reflection. ‘You forget, I know nothing about your marriage, Frankie. I haven’t seen you since you sold your soul to the devil.’
‘Better that than give it away to any passing arsehole.’
Ouch. Frankie had always had a way with words.
‘I don’t care about money,’ Joni lied casually, spying Frankie’s gorgeous manicure and hiding her own chipped and chewed nails under the basin lip. It was more than that. From the minute she’d heard G’s proposition, she’d felt deep, acrid fear fill her lungs and threaten to suffocate her.
Fear of humiliation. Fear of bodily harm. Fear of failure. And, most of all, fear of Frankie looking at her again with that look that said I don’t know you any more.
‘Really, Joni?’ Frankie drawled. ‘I’m not so sure about that. You see, I had a visitor today, who looked a little like one of your ex-boyfriends. You know, bad dress sense. Tattoos. No neck.’
Joni gasped. Frankie nodded.
‘Ohhhh, yes, little sister. Debt collectors of that calibre do not play nice. Not at all. They’ll get the cash anywhere they can.’
Joni felt weak at the realisation that the thug who had been hammering on her door earlier today had paid her sister a visit as well. But then her rebellious inner voice kicked into life.
‘Okay, so big deal. You know I have some money problems.’
Frankie arched her Brookes as if to dispute the ‘some’.
But Joni wasn’t finished.
‘Let me share this with you, big sister. These guys are not going to wait while I fuck off to Australia for a while to maybe make it to the finals of some TV show, and maybe not get killed, and maybe come back to give them their money. They tend to deal in absolutes. And I’m absolutely fucking sure they aren’t going to buy that as a reason not to hurt me pretty badly. Pretty soon.’
Frankie considered Joni’s reflection carefully. ‘I’ll spot you.’
‘What?’
‘I said I’ll spot you.’ Frankie drew the words out, like Joni was slightly dense. ‘I’ll pay enough, right now, to keep the goons off your back while we go and do this thing.’
Joni was torn between hilarity, relief and confusion. Confusion was winning.
‘Why?’
Frankie had never needed anything. Especially not from Joni. And especially not money. Her grey eyes were locking onto Joni’s.
‘Don’t worry about why. I have my reasons. All you need to do is consider this a business proposition. G might have seen this as the grand reconciliation, but all I need is a month or so of your time. I can do the rest.’
Joni didn’t doubt it for a minute. There had never been one task that Frankie had set herself that she had been unable to do. She was about to continue refusing. She really had no idea what the right thing to do was, but it felt really good to say no to Frankie. She could stand there and do it all day. But two things happened, almost simultaneously.
First, Frankie said please. ‘Please, Joni, I need you to do this.’
And, in the shock of that rare event, Joni knew she would do it.
The second thing was that Desmond struggled free from Joni’s pocket and popped his head out to see what all the fuss was about. He looked so sweet, like a slightly confused Manuel from Fawlty Towers.
Frankie clearly didn’t agree. She ran screaming out the door and then, suddenly, the bathroom was full of gesticulating lawyers.
Chapter 3
Frances
Frances took a deep breath as she approached her front door. Typical of Joni to choose her fist over the elegant antique brass knocker. As she drew nearer, she could see her sister’s fuzzy outline through the frosted-glass side panels. Unfortunately, not even they could blur the vibrancy of Joni’s startling green curls.
Frances shook her head. Joni used to have the most beautiful hair. As a child she’d looked like a 1920s ad for Pears soap and Little Miss Muffet rolled into one. Joni may not have got away with murder but she’d sure as hell got away with a good deal of shoplifting. Why on earth she now felt the need to mutilate her crowning glory in this manner, Frances had no idea. She looked like a Muppet Show reject.
Frances stilled momentarily at the door, pausing before admitting the enemy. After having had nothing to do with Joni in years, she was seeing her twice within a few days. She breathed in unsteadily and plastered on a smile as she pulled the door open.
Joni was just a means to an end.
Still, Frances found herself devouring the sight of her sister, standing shivering on the doorstep in all her threadbare Oxfam splendour – from the petulant look, with arms defiantly crossed, to the bolshie glimmer in Joni’s clear grey eyes. For a few moments, memories of their angry voices and ugly accusations faded. Frances realised she’d missed Joni so deeply she truly hadn’t been conscious of it until her sister had walked in and filled that stuffy, pompous legal office in the same way she’d always done.
With colour. And vigour.
Just like today. Bright blue tights – thin ones; not sensible, thick woollen ones, to help keep icy October fingers off beanpole thighs. Tiny black denim miniskirt that barely covered her arse. Red and white horizontally striped skivvy and a tartan beret slouched carelessly atop her Muppet hair. No coat or gloves. The only concession to the weather was her black military lace-ups. They looked authentic, like they’d trudged up hill and down dale in Afghanistan. Probably ‘borrowed’ from some poor bastard she’d picked up in a bar, home on forty-eight hours’ leave.
Somehow, with her oversized bag completing the picture, she looked utterly Parisian. It was a style only Joni could pull off. Frances knew that she would have looked ridiculous. Instead of Gigi wandering the Left Bank she’d have looked more like Where’s Wally’s psychotic sister looking for her lost walking stick.
‘Do you think I can come in? I’m freezing my tits off out here.’
Joni’s huffy demand cut through the sentimental haze. Frances pulled herself together, quashing the natural instinct to bundle her sister into the warmth and chide her for her inapp
ropriate clothing. Frances had long ago given up mothering Joni.
‘Of course.’ She stood aside.
Joni stomped her boots on the doormat and flounced inside, sweeping her beret off. ‘Jesus, Frankie. Do you have to live in the middle of goddamn nowhere?’
‘It’s Kew, Joni. Not Bodmin Moor.’
‘I don’t see why this is necessary,’ she huffed.
Frances was sure she didn’t. But there was one million quid at stake – each – and she was damned if she were going to leave it up to Joni’s laissez-faire organisational skills. G had set them a formidable task, which required planning and strategy. It required lists.
Frances was the Queen of Lists.
‘Do you think I would have invited you here if I didn’t think it was necessary?’ she said icily.
Joni snorted. ‘Heaven forbid.’ She looked around the cavernous lobby and shook her head in disgust. ‘You could fit my whole flat in this space.’
It was on the tip of Frances’s tongue to say, ‘This too could be yours if you worked hard and got some direction in your life. You could live somewhere nice. You could be warm and have clothes that covered your arse.’
But she didn’t.
Not because she was a coward but because she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop once she started.
‘We’re not doing this, Joni. Not today. Just go into the sitting room. The DVDs are there and I’ve made some notes.’
‘Well, that’d be real handy if I knew where the sitting room was. I’ve never been invited into Casa del Edward before. Remember?’
Frances bit back the urge to remind her she’d never before required any invitations when it came to taking liberties. Instead, she took a calming breath and pointed.
‘Keep walking that way. You’ll find it.’ Ever the good hostess, she said, ‘I’ll get us a drink. What would you like?’
‘Beer.’
‘It’s ten a.m.’
‘So?’
Frances shook her head. She needed her sister sober and functional. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’
‘Great,’ Joni said, with underwhelming enthusiasm.
Frances watched her go. A green and blue blur. Cookie Monster, Oscar the Grouch and Little Orphan Annie all rolled into one.
Joni was slouched on the Chesterfield and had her booted feet up on the cluttered coffee table when Frances entered the room with a tray ten minutes later. ‘I made toast,’ she said as she plonked it down.
Frances wasn’t sure why she felt the urge to announce it when the warm, yeasty smell was filling the whole room but she was nervous. And God knew, if anyone needed carbs, Joni did.
‘Marmalade as well,’ Frances said, pushing aside DVD covers and Post-it notes as she unloaded the tray. ‘I assume you still like marmalade.’ She picked up Joni’s mug and placed it on a sterling-silver coaster. ‘And peppermint tea.’
Joni stared at the steaming mug. ‘I’m surprised you remembered.’
Frances remembered.
Frances remembered everything about her sister. She remembered her favourite meal was soft-boiled egg with toast fingers. She remembered her favourite colour was magenta. She remembered how upset Joni had been when a boy called Kirby Jones had spread a vicious rumour about her when she was in the Upper Fourth. One of the most satisfying moments of Frances’s life had been backing that little nob against that wall and threatening the viability of his testicles unless he made a full public apology to Joni.
Frances shrugged carelessly. ‘G always had a supply in her cupboards.’
Joni picked up her tea and stared into its steaming depths. ‘I miss her.’
Frances sat beside her sister. ‘Yes.’
They contemplated their drinks in silence for a moment, then Joni nodded in the general direction of a video camera on a tripod.
‘What’s that for?’
‘The audition. We’re taping it today.’
‘Audition? Didn’t gnome-man say our entry into the show was,’ she paused and made quote marks in the air ‘“guaranteed”?’
‘I don’t care, Joni,’ Frances hissed. ‘If we’re doing this – and we are – then we’re doing it properly. I’ve been watching these bloody DVDs non-stop for the last few days.’ She stabbed the pile of discs of seasons one through nine of Endurance Island.
‘The entire first episode is spent on the audition tapes and the selection process. Giving the audience an introduction to the sad, pathetic lives of its loser competitors, et cetera. So, it’s important, okay?’
Just then Joni’s handbag rattled and distracted them. Frances leaped off the couch. ‘Jesus, you’ve brought that rat-animal with you, haven’t you?’
‘He’s a ferret.’ Joni delved into her handbag and pulled out Desmond. ‘Shh, it’s okay, Des,’ she said, stroking his sleek fur. ‘Aunty Frankie didn’t mean to yell. She can’t help it if she has a stick jammed up her arse.’
‘God, it’s ugly.’
Joni pulled Desmond in close and covered his little ferret ears. ‘Shh. You’ll hurt his feelings.’
‘He has a brain the size of a pea. It’s completely occupied with eating, defecating and shagging.’ Frances shook her head. ‘You’re like the sodding Pied Piper. Couldn’t you have left it at home?’
‘He was dumped on the side of the M25. He has abandonment issues.’
Frances shook her head. Joni had always been a magnet for strays. She supposed a psychologist would say that it was a direct consequence of their rather transient home life – moving from base to base, postings abroad, never really settling in one place for too long.
But sharing a room with her sister for most of those years had been like living in an episode of Life on Earth minus the dulcet tones of David Attenborough. Frances had never been sure what animal might be nesting under the bed covers and it had taken her a long time to get out of the habit of checking. ‘Just keep him away from me.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Frances sat down again, a little further away. ‘Right.’ She picked up the remote control and clicked the television on. ‘So, I’ve looked at a lot of these episodes and I’ve been making notes.’
Joni took in the multiple Post-its, four different notepads and several screwed-up balls of paper. ‘There’s a shock.’
Frances ignored the sarcasm. ‘Here,’ she said, picking up a piece of A4 paper and handing it to Joni. ‘I’ve made a list of the stereotypes that seem to be represented in most of the series to date. I think to win this thing we’re going to need to understand our opponents.’
Joni rolled her eyes as she took the paper covered in Frances’s precise cursive print. ‘Dib, dib, dib.’
Endurance Island Seasons 1–9
Common Sub-Groups
The Newlyweds. Sickeningly content. To start with anyway. Screen Caption – Newlywed Nutcases.
Token gay couple. Usually metrosexual men. Spend entire time lamenting loss of creature comforts – face cream, Tivo, weekly pedicures. Unless lesbians in which case very butch, shun creature comforts. Screen Caption – Drama Queens/Daring Dykes.
The bimbos. Dumb, blonde, big-boobed. Wear bikinis – everywhere. Generally trade on wiles. Screen Caption – Party Princesses.
GI Joes. They can light a fire, build a rope bridge, kill large beasts with their bare hands, survive on next-to-no sleep. Screen Caption – He-Man Wannabes.
The Siblings. Either BFFs or completely estranged. Screen Caption – Siblings at War. (THIS IS US!!!!!!)
Know-It-Alls. Irritating. Know every animal/tree/ grain of sand on island personally. Usually first to be voted off/drowned. Screen Caption – Smartypants.
The Whiners. Spend entire time bitching about mosquitoes, food, weather, the host, the challenges. Usually English. Generally the second to be voted off. Screen Caption – Whingeing Poms.
The something-to-prove people. Usually screwed up by their parents/partners. Major chips on their shoulders. Absolute killer instincts. No sense of humour. See psychological tor
ture of Endurance Island as next phase of their healing. Screen Caption – Therapy Nuts.
The parent/child. Most seriously deluded of all the couples, think airing of family secrets to millions of people will bring them closer. Grisly but compelling. Hard to beat. Screen Caption – Happy Families.
Joni finished reading and looked at her sister. ‘And there I was thinking we were the Party Princesses.’
Frances snorted. ‘Yeah, we’re a regular Kylie and Dannii.’
Joni squirmed and looked back at the list. Frances sighed. ‘What? Do you need to spend a penny?’ They really didn’t have time for Joni’s bladder thing right now.
Joni lifted her eyes from the page. ‘No, it’s just …’
Frances crossed her arms. ‘What?’
‘This is totally … mercenary. Therapy Nuts … He-Man Wannabes?’ She stabbed her finger at the list. ‘Not all lesbians are butch, Frankie.’
Frances glared at her sister. ‘You think?’ She whisked the list from Joni’s hand. ‘It’s not me casting these people in these roles. I’m just trying to define them. It’s perfectly bloody obvious that the producers trawl the audition tapes specifically looking for stereotypes to exploit. The more screwed up and cardboard cut-out, the better. Of course all lesbians aren’t Doc Marten-wearing, chunky women with crew cuts who can crack coconuts open with their bare hands, but the gorgeous, girly ones don’t make the cut. Unless they have an A-level in jelly wrestling.’
Frances paused to check her sister was keeping up. Joni was absently petting Des. ‘This is no time to be squeamish, Joni. Now, may I please go on?’
Joni shrugged and drew Des closer. ‘Fine.’
Frances picked up the remote. ‘I thought we should watch a few shows together and strategise. I’ve kept aside the last season.’
Joni checked her watch. ‘How long will that take?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, do you have a more pressing engagement?’ Frances snapped. ‘A protest march to go to? A laboratory to deface? A dole cheque to pick up?’
Joni’s hand stilled on Desmond and she squeezed him a little tighter. ‘I have a job, Frankie,’ she said quietly. ‘I own a record shop. I run an animal shelter.’