Читать книгу The One Before The One - Katy Regan - Страница 13

Lexi goes to the tap to get some water and I immediately see my opportunity, grab the pants and put them in the kitchen drawer. She sits back down, nearly missing the chair. God, I think, I really don’t need this.

‘Lexi, are you drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Well, yes, you are, actually. It’s totally obvious.’

She rolls her eyes and gives a little teenage wobble of the head and I suddenly feel very tired. I’ve come over all black of mood and pretty miffed that she thinks she can just turn up here with her minxy little ways and flirt with my, my – what was he? – my lover? My partner in crime? My … well, mine anyway, that’s what he was. And I resent her making me feel like this, actually: a horrid mix of jealous big sister – a very unattractive emotion – and a nagging, joyless mother when she’s my sister and I just want to go to bed, go to work and get on with my life like I was doing before.

‘What happened to the body combat class?’

‘I bumped into a friend.’

‘Lex, come on. This is London. I’ve been here for a decade and never just bumped into friends.’

‘Well, I did, okay?’

‘And who is this friend? Is it a male friend?’

‘Might be.’

‘Is it that Jerome bloke you met on the train?’

‘Might be.’

‘Is it Wayne?’

‘Nope.’

‘Lexi, don’t be like that.’

‘I’m not being like anything,’ she sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘And what was that flirting in aid of anyway?’ It comes from nowhere but it’s out now and I can’t take it back.

‘What flirting?’

‘Oh come on, Lexi, you were flirting like mad with Toby! Batting your eyelashes, kicking your shoes off.’

‘I was not! I was just chatting to him.’

‘Chatting? You were thrusting your cleavage in his face!’

She looks visibly wounded. I feel a stab of guilt, but not much.

‘That’s bollocks. And anyway, he was flirting with me.’

‘That is bollocks. You’re just pissed and imagining things.’

‘What do you care anyway?’

She had a point; why did I suddenly care?

‘He’s my colleague! I have to work with him.’

‘Whoopdee-do, he’s not your boyfriend is he? And so what if I have a little flirt with a nice bloke who’s who’s …’ she starts crying now, which seems a little OTT. I know I should probably hug her but I don’t feel like it, I just don’t. ‘Nice to me and asking me questions?’

I roll my eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Lexi. It’s not really that, it’s the fact you’re drunk out of your head and I’m supposed to be bloody well looking after you! You’re supposed to have come here to sort your head out and I don’t even know where you’ve been.’

Just then the phone goes. We both stare at it, then stare at each other.

‘If it’s Dad, I’m not in,’ says Lexi

‘You bloody well are.’

I pick up the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hi there.’ It’s a man’s voice – a man’s, not a boy’s. ‘Is Lexi there?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Tell her it’s Clark,’ he says. His voice is northern, rich, and really quite attractive.

‘It’s Clark,’ I say, flatly, holding out the receiver, but Lexi’s face darkens immediately.

‘No. No way,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Tell him I’m not here.’

‘She’s not here.’

Lexi has shrivelled into the wall, gone a dealthly pale all of a sudden.

‘Are you sure? Because I really need to talk to her.’

I hold out the phone to Lexi again.

‘He really needs to talk to you.’

Lexi shakes her head.

‘Tough shit.’ She’s really crying now, tears are streaming down her face. ‘Tell him I don’t want to talk to him. And while you’re at it …’ she stabs a finger in the direction of the phone. ‘Tell him to go fuck himself. I wish he, and you, for that matter, would just leave me alone!’

Then she runs upstairs, leaving me holding the phone, wondering what the hell all that was about.

I gingerly take my hand off the receiver.

‘Clark? She’s drunk and really upset about something. I’d call back another time, if I were you.’

‘I will,’ he says.

* * *

The next day, I wake up feeling irritated. Like if my life were laid before me it would all be in tiny little fragments, like nothing’s in control. Call me selfish, but it’s one thing agreeing to take my half-sister in for the summer but not if she’s going to come home off her face, taking out her boyfriend troubles on me. And clearly we can’t have the book club at mine if Lexi’s going to walk in any minute, so perhaps we shouldn’t be having it at all. Why did that thought suddenly fill me with panic? Anyway, I’ve got a big presentation to give to Schumacher today – if I play my cards right, I could seal the deal between us and Langley’s, meaning I’m in with a chance of Sales Person of the Year, and frankly, although I can already feel sisterly guilt breaking down my resolve like a hairline fracture, I can do without Lexi’s boyfriend dramas, too.

I take my To Do list from my bedside table. This is what I need. Nice orderly lines of writing, clear tasks and a chance to prioritize. I feel better already.

This is my Master list, I also have a Shopping list, a Must-see Cultural Events list, an Admin list, Presents to Buy list and a Long-Term Goals list.

I take my notebook out of my bedside table and set about updating.

To Do:

MINOR

Make something with Quinoa – still to do.

Pluck eyebrows – done. (Do again when start to join up.)

Get spare room painted – Never going to do it, give it up!

Sort out photo albums (buy photo corners) – Still to do, but seriously, when?

*Call council about recycling – Done! (Although I still maintain there’s some smug little arse down at Wandsworth Council with ‘Head Foxer’ as his job-title since it seems one needs a degree to recycle correctly.)

Get involved in local culture: this coming weekend: installation by interesting sounding German artist at the Pump House Gallery. Done! What next? (See Must-see Cultural Events list and pick something else. Aboriginal Ceramics?)

Learn how to use i-Pod that have now had since Christmas. Just do it!! (Have developed a dislike of people who buy me things that I then have to find the time to learn how to use, which is just wrong on so many levels.)

Do 3x12 squats and 3x12 sit ups before bed (start tomorrow) – start tomorrow.

*Join actual book club

MAJOR

Incorporate two hours of admin into every weekend. No excuse! (This is looking pretty unlikely now I have a teen on my hands.)

Every day, do something for self and de-stressing, even if just breathing (alone, concentrating on, rather than just breathing breathing) for ten minutes. Chance would be a fine thing.

Work: Step things up a gear! Seal deal on two new clients per week: work in progress. If I nail this meeting with Schumacher today, I could be half way there.

FIND OUT WHAT’S WRONG WITH LEXI ASAP!!

At present, I don’t really care what’s wrong with Lexi, to tell you the truth, which I’m worried makes me the worst sister in the world.

I give her a knock before I leave for work anyway, just to check she’s still alive.

‘Lex?’

No answer

‘Lexi, are you awake?’

Nothing.

‘We’ll speak later in the day,’ I say, presuming she’s sulking. ‘I’ve left a cup of tea by your door so don’t, you know, step straight into it and get the mug stuck on your foot.’

I wait a few more seconds and when I get no answer to my moronic ramblings, I leave for work.

Victoria tube station is rammed with tourists carrying cameras and backpacks. It used to make me feel nostalgic when I saw tourists en masse like this; reminded me of a time when London was new and exciting for me, too, when Martin and I were fresh-faced from the cosy confines of the rolling hills of Yorkshire and everything and everyone seemed exotic.

Now I’m just one of a million other jaded Londoners who wishes they’d all bugger off, stop treating my city like a holiday destination and taking up space on my journey to work.

A train approaches and I curse the 20-strong team of rowdy school children blocking my way to the door. ‘HOLD YOUR BUDDY’S HAND!’ a blonde woman with no chin is shouting as the children shuffle, dazed, onto the tube. ‘And remember we’re getting off at Vauxhall.’

Vauxhall? Christ. Did I have to put up with this until Vauxhall?

The tube creaks into action and I look down from my spot jammed up against the armpit of a man who smells of fried chicken to see a pale, ginger-haired girl staring up at me, tasting the snot that streams from her nose with the tip of her tongue. This is what I resent most about the tube: the fact you pay a fortune to be subjected – totally out of your own control – to the most vile of human habits at 8 a.m. in the morning.

I eventually get a seat and ask myself when I turned into such a wizened, grouchy old woman. I’m sure I used to be a sunny sort of a girl who took delight in the minutiae of life and gave selflessly to others. Or something.

Perhaps it was just that I was happier back then. Or younger. In fact, perhaps happiness is actually just youth. It’s funny, isn’t it, how your experience of happiness changes as you get older? When I was young, happiness came in bursts of unadulterated joy, moments that stuck in my memory like diamonds in a rock-face: a walk onto the university campus on a sunny October Friday, knowing Martin was coming to visit in a matter of hours; running into the sea, drunk on Bacardi in just my knickers on a girl’s holiday to the Costa Brava. (Now I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bikini even if I drank my own weight in Bacardi.) Driving through the Yorkshire Dales in my clapped-out Polo with Pippa, my oldest friend from school, chain-smoking out of the window. Where was Pippa now? Last I heard, she was shacked up with some builder in Otley, a baby on the way, and what was I doing? Living in London, the great flat, the big job and shagging somebody else’s husband. Oh GOD. It made me feel sick just thinking about it.

Yeah, these days, happiness to me is more like an unreliable weekend dad. You never know when it’s going to turn up, and even when it does, you never know how long till the next time.

Mum used to say: ‘You wait till your thirties, Caroline! Your thirties are the happiest time in your life because you’ll know who you are and what you want.’

Sometimes, I feel like that is the biggest piece of misinformation I’ve ever been fed. In fact sometimes, I get this feeling like is this it? Is my only stab at happiness over already?

Perhaps that’s what Toby feels like when he talks about his marriage. And I can relate to that; this is why I understand him. Because if grown-up happiness means knowing anything for certain, I’m about as far from it as humanly possible.

We grind to a halt at Green Park. I think about Lexi, tucked up in bed, no doubt brooding about life, about Clark, about our row last night. She’s probably sticking needles into a voodoo doll of me as we speak. Maybe this boyfriend trouble was why she dropped out of sixth form – I suspected as much the day she arrived. She probably thinks it’s the end of the world, too. It’s only when you get to thirty-two and look back that you realize it had only just begun.