The Sisterhood (15 page)

I had written out a list of conversation topics. 'London,' it read. 'My experiences of — positive!! France — idyllic and good place to visit, maybe Liz will come sometime? Baby — excited — father?? Pregnancy — sickness? etc. Scan — ask to look at pictures. Hotel — rubbish. Need place to live.' I added that to the handbag. Then I left. It was probably going to take me a long time to walk to 'Matt's Place'.

It was a sunny day, and, after a while, I began to relax a little. My new look made me feel better. I was so focused on the meeting with my sister that I stopped worrying that everyone I saw was going to steal my money, or assault me, or blow me up. I decided that most people really did have lives of their own, and that they really truly did not care about me. A few men stared at me, but I pretended they weren't there. Gradually, I began to feel all right. I tried to talk myself into being the person Liz would need me to be. I tried to remember to smile. If I smiled at all times, she would have to like me.

Her nominated meeting place was one of those London cafés that didn't exist in France, even though, in England, they seemed to have French names. This one was called 'Café Lumière', though Liz had called it 'Matt's Place'. I knew I had the right café because, on the door, a homemade sign that looked as if it had been drawn by a child said, 'Please don't smoke at Matt's Caff. Thanks.' Flowers had been drawn in many colours of felt tip pen, all around the writing. Next to it there was another sign, in purple pen, which said, 'Help wanted, apply within.' Below it, in bright pink, were the words, 'We rarely close! 8-midnight.'

I pushed the door, trying not to tremble. I never took drama at school, because the people who did it were intimidating and didn't like me. So I wasn't much of an actress. Nonetheless, I attempted to drift carelessly past the people, around the pushchairs, to sit casually at a spare table. I looked at the man behind the counter, wondering whether he was 'Matt'. His bleached fringe was too long and hung into his eyes, but he probably liked it like that. He had a nice face. He caught my eye, and smiled. His face was babyish, a bit like Tom's.

'Be right over,' he called, above the mellow music.

I was ten minutes early, and I could see that no one in this room was Elizabeth Greene. The room smelt of coffee and hot milk. I hated the coffee you seemed to get in Britain, the buckets of milk with a mild coffee flavouring. French cafés were smoky and scruffy, with rickety chairs and old Formica tables. In rural France, there were more men than women in any drinking establishment, and at least half of them would be sitting at the bar with a brightly coloured liqueur even if it was nine in the morning.

This place had a wooden floor, and armchairs and sofas which looked as if they had been arranged any old how, though I supposed that they hadn't. I counted four large pushchairs. With each pushchair was a glamorous woman wearing shiny lipstick, and a baby, several of them ingesting sludge while their mothers talked animatedly to each other.

I caught sight of my reflection in the window, and smiled at it. It was nice to see a blonde bombshell staring back.

Matt, if it was he, jiggled around as he waited for my order. I stared at the laminated menu. He stood over me, nodding his head in time with the music.

'Sorry,' he said, noticing me looking at him. 'Over-caffeinated.'

'I'd like a double espresso, please.'

He nodded. 'Good choice. I like a woman who drinks a proper coffee.'

I felt myself blushing. I wanted to say something back, but I couldn't think what it should be.

I watched as a few people arrived. When half past ten came, I was certain that she wasn't going to turn up. I saw a man with a laptop arrive and set up a little office at a table in the corner. A fat woman came in, then another woman with a pushchair. In my mind, Liz existed as a tall, willowy, beautiful version of me.

I was staring out of the window, waiting and hoping, when the fat woman came to the table. She seemed hesitant.

'I'm sorry to disturb you,' she said, 'but I don't suppose you're Helen?'

I forced a smile. She had frizzy hair around her shoulders, a broad build, and a stomach that definitely looked fat, rather than anything else. She was not glamorous, not at all, though she was carrying a nice red bag. I tried to believe that this was my sister, that this ordinary woman was the one upon whom everything depended. I attempted to quell my disappointment.

'Yes!' I said, sounding as enthusiastic as I could. I cranked up the enthusiasm as far as it would go. 'I am!' I gushed. 'I'm Helen, and that means that you must be Liz!' I stood up, unsure whether to kiss her cheeks, as I would in France, or to shake her hand, since we were in England. I decided to lunge for a cheek, and she tolerated it. Her skin felt dry.

We both sat down. I cradled my coffee, hoping my nerves weren't showing. I tried to tell myself that Liz was less intimidating than I had expected, and that this was a good thing.

'God, look at you,' she said. 'You're all young and slim and gorgeous. I love that top.' She sighed. 'I couldn't wear it. I wouldn't even mind if I looked pregnant. But I'm just fat.'

I frowned, unaccustomed to compliments. I knew what I had to say here. 'You're not fat. Not at all. But you're right that you don't look pregnant yet. That's why I didn't think it was you when you came in.'

'Yes, because I'm fat.'

'No you're not.' I paused. It was odd, when I knew so much about her from the forum and from emails, to discover that she was, in fact, a stranger. I hoped she didn't feel that way about me.

'How are you feeling?' I said, keeping up my dazzling smile.

'Fine,' she said, flatly. 'Fine, in a crap way. The nausea's eased off, but I'm still so tired. It's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Some days the first thing I do when I get up in the morning is count the number of hours until I can get back into bed again at night.'

I touched her forearm, then took my hand away before she thought I was strange. I thought that if I worked hard at it, I could probably get used to her being ordinary. I told myself firmly that she could still be amazing on the inside. She could still be the one who would make it all better. 'That sounds hard,' I said. I cast around for another question. 'Are they being nice at work?'

She raised her eyebrows. 'As nice as a bunch of kids want to be to a single, pregnant woman who's nearly forty. I believe they mainly spend their time speculating over the identity of the father. They're desperate for it to be a colleague.'

'Is it?'

I knew instantly that I had said the wrong thing. Liz frowned and edged away from me a little. 'Don't you start,' she said. 'No, it's not.'

I nodded, biting my lower lip. 'Sorry,' I said. 'I didn't mean it. How about the colleagues? How are they being?'

She sighed. 'That was my colleagues I was talking about.'

I was puzzled. 'But you said kids.'

Liz breathed in, and then out. She sounded tired. 'That was a joke. Just then, when I said it was the colleagues I was talking about. Though it might as well not have been.'

I didn't quite follow.

'How about Kathy?' I tried, eager to move on. Liz had written on the forum that her friend Kathy had been horrible when she told her about the pregnancy, and I thought that they hadn't spoken since. I was quite pleased about that, hoping that it might make Liz receptive to my arrival.

'Kathy's fine. I believe. We still haven't spoken. We just crash around our part of the staffroom and pretend the other one's not there. It's very mature.'

She dropped her bag and summoned Matt with a wave of the hand. He came straight over.

'The lovely Lizzy,' he said, pushing his hair out of his face. I wondered how often patrons found stray blond hairs in their coffee. 'What can I get you?'

'Coffee,' she said at once.

'And yet I thought you were off coffee?' he mused, screwing up his face. 'Last time, you threatened to vomit all over the table because you could smell someone's latte.'

'Things change. Second trimester.'

'Whatever you say. Are you having a serious coffee like your lovely friend?'

She looked at me, then at my coffee, a small smile on her lips. Then she shook her head. 'She's French. That's why. No, I'll have your milkiest, most childish concoction. For the baby.'

'You got it.' He looked to me, his eyebrows asking the question. I wished it was afternoon so I could order a proper, alcoholic drink.

'Can I have a glass of water?' I asked.

'Sparkling or still?'

'Tap?'

He sighed. 'Only because I like you.'

'And an espresso?' I wanted to please him, and he smiled at this.

'Deal.'

As the hour passed, I realised that I might be getting away with it. I thought I was just about managing to convince her that I was ordinary. Thankfully, each of our lives provided an easy and obvious talking point, and I only once consulted the list in my bag. She didn't see me doing it.

I asked about baby names, but Liz hadn't started thinking about them. 'That would bring it a bit closer than I want, at the moment,' she said. 'The scan was weird enough. I'm still getting my head around the fact that I have photographs of my foetus.'

'Do you have them with you?' I asked.

She laughed. 'No. You don't have to coo over baby photos for a few months yet, don't worry. I've got them by my bed.'

We talked about the different types of pushchairs visible in the café. Liz said she had a pregnant neighbour whom she saw from time to time, but that otherwise her only pregnant friends were from the forum. She said that she'd shut herself off from most of her old friends. I didn't understand why, but I was glad.

She asked me what I made of London. I lied shamelessly, again and again, and pretended to be energetic and excited. Then, with a flash of panic, I understood that she was preparing to leave. I needed to make sure I was going to see her again.

'I think I'll be staying in London for a while,' I said, looking at Liz and looking away again. 'And I can't really stay at the hotel indefinitely. I suppose I should find a flat.'

'You're living in a
hotel?
she asked, looking aghast. 'Where? That must be costing a bomb.'

'Not really.' I described my nasty, cheap abode, with its dirty orange counterpane and its stained bathroom. For the first time in my life, I was enjoying the sound of my own voice. 'It's the original room without a view,' I added. 'So, where do people like me actually live? Some Australian girls told me about a hostel, but I didn't go, and then they stole my money.' The further I got into my new character, the more I said.

'Don't you dare go to a hostel. You need a copy of
Loot.'

'Loot?'

'It's an ads paper. Everything's in there.'

'I can get somewhere to live from a
newspaper?'

'Well, how else were you planning to do it?'

'I don't know.' I sounded stupid, so I kept talking. 'Where do I buy it from?
Loot,
I mean. Is it expensive?'

She smiled. 'Cheaper than living in a hotel.'

'What do I do then? I buy the paper, I find an advert for a flat I like the sound of. Then what? Do I find somewhere that's empty and just live there on my own? What about furniture? Do I need to buy that, too?'

Liz was looking at me. 'Helen,' she said, 'how rich are your parents?'

'Um. You know. They do well.'

'I should think they do. And I know you're new to the city and everything, but really, you can't rent a flat on your own. You need to find a flatshare. Unless they're oil millionaires, in which case let's get them to buy you a pad in Hampstead and I'll move in with you, or unless you want to live in Penge or something.'

'I don't know. Where's Penge?'

'OK. You don't want to live in Penge. Trust me. So you look under "flatshares", and you put a ring around anything that sounds good. Then you check where they are, very carefully, on the A-Z. Once you've narrowed it down, you ring up the ones you're interested in and make appointments to go and visit. And you take the one you like the best. You normally give a month's rent as a deposit. I'm sorry, I don't want to patronise you. I realise that I sound as if I'm speaking to a moron.'

'No. You are speaking to a moron.' I remembered to flash my smile at her. 'I'm not offended.'

You've never lived away from your folks? Did you go to boarding school?'

'No. Papa drove me into Bordeaux to school every day.'

She was trying not to laugh at me. 'So you've had a bit of a sheltered life.'

'I came away because I wanted to change that,' I said, defensively. 'It got stifling. My mother means well, but she is a strange woman and I got sick of her standing at the window watching me all the time. I do have my own house on the vineyard, but I was still at their beck and call. Poor Tom, though. All on his own with them now.'

'Your brother?'

'Yes. Tom isn't like anyone else. Sorry. I know it's not cool to miss your little brother, but I do. I wouldn't tell him, though. Have you got any brothers and sisters?'

'A stepbrother, that's all.'

'Oh yes, Roberto. Of course. Roberto and Julie. Who spoilt your announcement.'

She sighed. 'That's the one. You know, it feels slightly creepy that you know so much about me. How about you? Just you and Tom?'

I hesitated. 'Pretty much.' When I saw that she was about to ask what I meant, I carried on talking. 'Do you miss your mother?' I demanded. I regretted it at once.

Liz did not look pleased. 'Goodness,' she said. 'You don't mince your words. Can you miss what you've never known? I'm not sure. In a way, I miss her. I miss the idea of her. Built her up into a saint in my head, over the years.' She finished her coffee and pushed the cup away. 'Anyway,' she said briskly. 'We need to get you out of that hotel.'

I saw my chance, and grabbed it. 'Will you help me? Really? That would be fantastic. Thank you so much. I wouldn't be able to do it on my own.'

She sighed. I could see that this was not what she had meant at all. 'OK.' I watched her spoon the last of the frothy bubbles of her coffee into her mouth. 'Let's go and buy
Loot.
I'll help you pick out a few to look at.'