The Ugly Sister (21 page)

‘Lovely.’ She does think it sounds lovely, as it goes. It’s a beautiful day and, being away from home, she misses the water. In the summer she usually goes down to the beach every morning, even on days when she’s working because she doesn’t start till ten. Admittedly the Thames isn’t quite the same, but it’s the closest thing she’s got at the moment. And she’d be lying if she said the idea of a day with Jon didn’t appeal.

‘I’ll get ready,’ she says, and she picks up the toast that Elena has given her and heads upstairs before she can change her mind.

If you saw them out, you could be forgiven for thinking they were just a normal nuclear family on a day trip. Husband, wife and their two adorable-looking (and surprisingly well-behaved) girls. You would never imagine that she was in love with him, but he was married to someone else, and that that someone else was her sister with whom she has a complex and not entirely healthy relationship. Well, maybe you would if you were Barbara Cartland and you had a deadline coming up.

Hangover and hormones aside, they actually have a brilliant time. Richmond is beautiful and, once they get the girls past the shops, they walk along the river for miles admiring the stately Georgian houses and the ducks. They stop at a little truck in a field and buy coffees and Abi sits on the grass while Jon chases Tara and Megan around screaming. Tara and Megan that is, not Jon. Abi doesn’t think she’s ever seen Tara run before. At one point she comes over and drags Abi up by the hand and makes her join in. Generally Abi doesn’t do running either (she and Tara have that one thing in common, she thinks). She’s not built for it. But she doesn’t want to put a damper on the occasion so she has a half-hearted go and then collapses
breathless on the grass. After a couple of minutes, Jon joins her and suddenly, there they are, on their own together for the first time today. Abi racks her
brain for something to say, but before she can come up with anything Jon speaks:

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Good, actually.’ Abi takes a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry for all that last night. I’m not used to drinking.’

He laughs. ‘It’s fine. I’ve got kids; you become immune to the horror of the sight of people being sick after a while.’

‘I mean it. It was immature and frankly pretty gross. What I can remember of it, anyway.’

‘We’re all allowed to let off steam once in a while. I imagine it’s been quite stressful for you the past few weeks.’

‘Mmm … well anyway …’

She can’t think of anything else to say so she flops back on the grass and lets the sun wash over her. Jon does the same. Every now and then one of the girls runs past them giggling.

‘I’ve never seen Tara like this,’ Abi says, half to herself.

‘Me neither,’ Jon says. ‘Not for years anyway. Having you around is doing her good.’

She feels herself blush. ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘It’s true,’ he says and Abi can’t look at him. ‘She looks up to you and that’s a really good thing. At least
I
think it’s a good thing.’

She can’t think what to say in reply. They lie there in silence for what seems like an age and then, much to Abi’s relief, the girls throw themselves down next to them, panting heavily. For the rest of the afternoon Abi makes sure she sticks to them like glue.

By the time they get off the train at Waterloo it’s gone six, they’re all starving and, although no one says anything to confirm it, it’s clear that none of them want the day to end. Instead of peeling off towards the tube or heading for the taxi rank, Jon strides purposefully towards the street and the rest of them follow.

‘Who wants to eat out?’ he says in such a way that it sounds rhetorical. He takes the cut through that brings them out by the Royal Festival Hall. The area is buzzing with after-work drinkers steadfastly refusing to miss one second of the sun by embarking on their journeys home before it goes down. They head towards the river, each with one eye open for a free table outside one of the many cafés and restaurants that line the way.

‘I want pizza,’ Megan says, and Jon says, ‘I don’t think we can be that choosy. Let’s just find a table and then see what they have. There’s bound to be something you like.’

Abi waits for a whine of protest, after all, it’s been a long day, but Megan just says, ‘OK,’ cheerily, and that’s that. As they’re approaching the last restaurant in the row, the one closest to the river, where the tables
outside have an unadulterated view of the water and the boats going past, not to mention the full floor-show of the pedestrians parading up and down the river walk – the holy grail in ‘locations to eat outside on the South Bank’ terms – a couple stands up to leave, and Tara is over there like a whippet, sliding into one of the four seats before they’ve even had a chance to pick up their change. Abi, used to polite Kent seaside society, where even the tourists would stand and wait until hunger overtook them completely before they would rush a table that still had occupants, thinks about chastising her, but, she has to admit, she’s impressed
by her niece’s skills and, more than that, she really wants to sit down.

‘Sorry,’ she mouths to the couple, but they just smile and move off.

The restaurant turns out to be Neapolitan, much to Megan’s delight. The waiter is like a rent-an-Italian, all over-the-top accent and flamboyant hand gestures. Even though he’s probably never been across the Channel, let alone to Naples, Abi is pleased to see that he has certainly mastered the art of Latin hospitality and he makes a big fuss of the children who, in turn, bask in his attention.

‘I think we deserve a glass of wine,’ Jon says, and then thinks better of it, ‘or we don’t have to if you know, you still feel …’

Abi knows she should say no. That she should just go on the wagon until Cleo gets back. But they’ve
had such a gorgeous day and she just wants to relish being in the moment: the sun, the view, the feeling of belonging. ‘I’d love one. Just the one, though. Let’s order by the glass. Not a bottle …’ She’s blathering. Shut up, she tells herself.

The wine is ice cold and delicious, her linguine al pesto flavoured perfectly, although she does get green oily basil sauce down her chin, and a couple of times she’s left with straggly strands of pasta dangling becomingly from her mouth after she takes her fork out. She finds she doesn’t mind, though. It all feels so … comfortable. This is family, after all, just a slightly distorted version.

‘Your daughters are beautiful,’ the waiter says as she passes him on her way to the Ladies. She thinks about correcting him, but she doesn’t, she doesn’t know why.

‘Just like their mother,’ he calls to her retreating back, laughing.

If only you knew how right you are, she thinks, but she still just smiles over her shoulder and accepts the compliment.

The week rolls into the weekend. There’s been tension, there’s no doubt about it, moments when she thinks she’s given herself away, moments when for a fleeting second she wonders, heart lurching, if Jon has feelings that reciprocate her own – the too-long gaze, the awkward but sweet exchange on the riverbank in
Richmond, the night he held her hair while she was sick – but, on the whole, they’re getting through it. Once safe in her room at night Abi locks the door and hides the key at the bottom of the drawer in her bedside cabinet, as if that might prevent her from going back downstairs if her subconscious self decides to act out her suppressed fantasies while she’s sleeping. Nothing untoward has happened; no one has admitted to anything. There’s nothing that would stand up in court.

Saturday and Sunday loom large and Abi works out a schedule with military precision. At all costs she has to avoid long hours spent with Jon, with or without the children. Hours in which they’d get to know each other better, inch their way closer. She insists that now is the time to tick all the rest of the touristy things off her list and that, because she knows there’s nothing worse for native Londoners than being forced to visit their doorstep cultural treasures on hot summer weekend afternoons, she announces that she will happily entertain herself if Jon doesn’t mind. He smiles quizzically when she says this, one eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘I know what you’re doing,’ but he doesn’t object.

Abi blows all her available cash tearing backwards and forwards across town in a random fashion seeing Kew Gardens then St Paul’s, Westminster Abbey then the V&A.

On Sunday she wanders around the deserted echoey
streets of the City, down cobbled alleys, past medieval pubs nestled up against twentieth-century metal and glass. She walks across the flimsy Millennium Bridge and treats herself to a sandwich from an overpriced concession, which she eats sitting on a bench. By the time she gets home she’s exhausted, but she feels as if she’s achieved something if only that the weekend is pretty much over without incident. The rest of the week is charted waters, days spent apart, dinner with the girls as human shields, minimal alcohol and early nights.

Oh god. Shit, fuck, bollocks. How did she not know that this was happening? Once she got home she had a leisurely bath with a large glass of lime and lemonade and then headed downstairs to see what needed doing for dinner, safe in the knowledge that the new Tara and Megan would be there to help both with the food and the air of tension. Now, as she gets to the hall, she is stopped in her tracks by the sight of her two nieces carrying their backpacks and being ushered out of the front door by the father of one of their friends.

‘Where are you going?’ Abi almost shouts, giving away far too much panic in her voice. Don’t go out. Don’t leave me alone with your father.

‘Sleepover,’ Megan says casually, and the dad introduces himself. Abi shakes his hand and tries to pretend that everything is fine. It’s too late for her to claim she
is going out for the evening herself, even if she could think of somewhere to go. She is clearly not dressed for anything other than slobbing around at home. She even said earlier that she was glad she had no plans because she was knackered. Jon even checked that she was going to be home for dinner and she said yes.

They’re out of the door before she can think of a way to stop them. She’s about to turn round and creep back up the stairs (and then what? Call Jon from her mobile and say she has a highly contagious disease, don’t come anywhere near her?) when he suddenly appears from the kitchen brandishing an open bottle of wine.

‘Peace at last,’ he says, and Abi smiles weakly, but refuses his offering.

‘I’m on the wagon.’

She has no choice but to follow him into the kitchen. He hands her a knife and a bag of courgettes and they just get on with it like they always do. Everything will be fine so long as she acts normal. Whatever signals she’s thought Jon might have been giving off in the past couple of days are all in her imagination. She’s incapable of making conversation, though. Suddenly she can’t think of a thing to say. Luckily Jon seems oblivious to her monosyllabic answers.

‘I took them swimming in the ponds in Hampstead,’ he says, and Abi grunts. ‘Don’t tell Cleo, though. She thinks the bathing ponds are full of bacteria and paedophiles.

‘I don’t mean that to sound disloyal,’ he adds hurriedly, afraid that Abi will be offended by the apparent slight to her sister. ‘Just that she’s very overprotective. Which is a good thing, obviously.’

‘How’s she getting on, by the way?’ Talk about Cleo, that’s a good plan. Keep reminding both him and herself (especially herself) that Jon is married to her sister. Her sister who may be difficult and demanding, but who has never done anything to deserve Abi making a play for her husband. Abi’s nervousness strikes her as ridiculous. She and Jon often prepare food together while the girls are off doing other things. It’s no big deal. But there’s something about knowing they are alone in the house. All night. And knowing that he knows it too.

‘She actually seems to be having a good time. They love what she’s doing or at least they keep telling her they do, which amounts to the same thing.’

Abi is sceptical. She thinks he is too loyal to be honest, but neither of them is going to admit it. ‘That’s great.’

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Abi can’t think of anything to say. She looks at Jon’s hand holding the fork, pushing food around his plate. She thinks he has nice hands. Tanned. Long slim fingers, but with a strength about them. Neat short nails, not too manicured. She looks away. In her head she sees the outline of his brown fingers on her paler skin. She could imagine those hands getting up to all sorts. In fact, she has. Several times.

‘What do you see yourself doing in ten years’ time?’ Jon says out of the blue.

This is not a subject Abi feels very comfortable with now that Phoebe’s left home. She has no idea what the answer is. Work in the library part time and hope some grandchildren who need her come along eventually? Girls these days don’t even think about having kids until their late thirties so she might have to wait a long time.

‘Honestly?’ He nods. ‘I haven’t got a clue. Get a cat?’

‘You must have a dream tucked away in there somewhere. Round the world trip? Write a novel? Move to the country?’

‘I already live in the country. Well, more or less.’

‘Oh yes. So you do. Anything else?’

‘I’m trying not to think about it.’

He sighs. ‘Me too.’

She can sense that he’s waiting for her to react. She doesn’t know how. She doesn’t know what he is trying to hint at. She concentrates on her food. There’s an atmosphere tonight that hasn’t been there before. It’s making her feel uncomfortable. She wishes the girls would come home. Maybe one of them will feel unwell and insist on being brought back to the house. Or they might have an accident. Not a bad one, just break something minor. Then they’d all have to rush off to A and E and the excitement of the moment would dissipate whatever it is that’s going on here.
That would work. Great, so now she’s wishing pain and trauma on her nieces. And just when they were beginning to like her.

She can’t bear the loaded silence, so in the end she says ‘Well …’ in a way that she hopes implies she’s about to launch into a new topic but then she can’t think of one so she leaves it at that.