Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  I’m less interested in lost credit cards and scoffed chocolates. ‘What about you and Charlie?’

  ‘Oh, An-An, I got it really wrong.’

  ‘Crikey, she isn’t gay?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, just listen, will you? I thought I was just a drunken shag in another town, a notch on her bedpost. And that she was as keen to forget about what happened as I was. But she wasn’t. She can’t forget. She’s desperate to see me again. She says she’s never felt like this before.’

  I stop in my tracks. Not at all what I was expecting.

  ‘And now I’m even more confused. You know me, An-An. I’m even more shit than you at relationships. Why would this work any better, just because we’re both women? And if I’ve never felt like this before either, how do I know it’s real?’

  ‘You mean, you have feelings for Charlie?’

  ‘Yes.’ Said so quietly I nearly miss it.

  ‘What if you’ve never felt like this before because you hadn’t met Charlie before? Anyway, how do you know it wouldn’t work? Based on what? Proved by what? You don’t know, Katkin. None of us do. That’s why relationships are scary.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Talk to her, listen to what she has to say. Tell her you’re scared. There’s nothing wrong with showing your vulnerability.’

  Kate nods. The kid on the bike whizzes past going the other way, with dad and dog still in pursuit. We watch them retreat down the path.

  ‘You’re right. You really are, An-An,’ Kate says eventually. ‘Hey, that must be a personal best for you.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha!’

  ‘Sorry. Uncalled for. I know you’re right. I do.’

  ‘Good. Because I am. Remember that spa break with Mum? When she told us the cancer was back?’

  ‘She tried to play it down but we knew it was bad.’

  I make us stop walking so that Kate can take this in. ‘Mum said I was to look after you, be a proper big sister. This is me doing it. Here. Now. Talk to Charlie. You have to, Kate. You can’t keep your feelings to yourself. Not if your happiness is at stake.’

  She kisses my forehead. She agrees. I squeeze her hand. We go home for breakfast.

  My flat smells musty, claggy, as if I left a damp sock in the washing machine. In fact, it’s a tea towel. Inspired by Kate, I resolve to give the whole place a belated spring clean. I got into some bad habits before I scarpered to Cromarty. I can’t let myself sink back into them again. I should check the cupboard under the sink for cleaning products. Tomorrow. I’ll do that tomorrow.

  Dad must be expecting a seascape of Lundy island at the very least. But for now, he’ll have to make do with the view from my bedroom windowsill. Parked cars. Communal flower beds and bins. A laminated sign for a lost cat stuck to a lamppost. The occasional fox. I hope those last two aren’t connected . . .

  I also resolve to contact Cameron about going back to Rangewood for the autumn term. He’s always been a big fan, even after I rebuffed an over-eager kiss from him at the last staff Christmas party. If I’m teaching again, my days will have a structure. I need structure. That way, I won’t have time to get into my old ways, like living in slob-around gear and vegging out on the sofa, which is still dented with my pre-Cromarty bum shape.

  I fling the seat and back cushions onto the floor, give them a dust-releasing thump, turn them over, swap them round and put them back. Instantly, the sofa looks tidy. See how easy it is to start afresh, Annie . . .

  Tiring, though. I find my favourite leggings and Boyzone T-shirt, heat up a long-forgotten M&S moussaka from the freezer, carve a new bum dent in the sofa and watch Escape to the Country. For today at least, I’ve earned it.

  Rob texts: ‘Are you back?’

  I reply: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you home now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sixty seconds later, the doorbell rings and there he is with a bag of supermarket shopping. ‘Eggs, milk, loo roll, orange juice, muesli, apples,’ he says, unpacking it onto my worktop.

  ‘Apples?’ I query. ‘Apples?’

  ‘I thought you’ll probably have been eating rubbish from garages and station buffets these past few weeks. Chocolate and chips and pasties. Apples are good for you.’

  Rob knows me so well, the bastard. Even so . . . apples!

  ‘Josh told me you were coming home but he didn’t know why. Are you okay, Annie?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really. Couldn’t be better. It’s Kate. She’s not very – she hasn’t been well and I was worried about her.’

  ‘Not like her to ask for help.’

  ‘She didn’t. I offered. We’re all we’ve got now. Can I get you a cup of tea? Or coffee? An apple?’

  It’s a flying visit. He can’t stop. He’s meant to be popping by that nightmare job in Tring. They don’t like the finish on the drawer handles. They don’t want them replaced but can he make them more ‘antiquey’?

  ‘I’ve had shitty clients before but these two take the gold medal.’ He sighs. ‘I said to Fi, I’m almost tempted to give them their money back and just walk away. She said I should charge them double for all their nit-picky time-wasting. Fi’s way tougher than me. Ooh, that reminds me.’

  I know what he’s going to say before he can get the words out.

  ‘She’d love to meet you, Annie. You two will really get on.’

  ‘Because we’ve got you in common?’

  ‘We’re going for a pizza tonight. That restaurant in Market Place. Fancy joining us?’

  ‘When I’ve got all these apples?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. See you at 7.30. You and Fi will definitely get on.’

  ‘Yeah, you said.’

  ‘She wants us to meet,’ Kate gabbles down the phone before I can even say ‘Hello’.

  ‘Fi does?’

  ‘Fi? Why Fi? That’s Rob’s girlfriend, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah, you mean Charlie. And by “us” you mean you, not me. She wants you and her to meet.’

  ‘Well, duh-err,’ Kate groans. ‘Why would she want to meet you?’

  ‘To check she’s smitten by the right sister?’

  It’s a joke, and a lame one at that, but Kate doesn’t respond. When she’s as jittery and vulnerable as this, I can’t even risk a stupid throwaway line.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she says, after a thoughtful pause. ‘You really should meet Charlie, see what you think, see if I’m way off base here.’

  ‘Seriously, Kate? You’ve never asked me to vet any other relationships before. God knows, you didn’t want anyone to meet that architect, all the time you were with him.’

  ‘Because I knew you’d judge him and you’d judge me for being with him.’

  ‘Then don’t ask me to judge Charlie.’

  ‘Please, An-An,’ she says, in her little voice. ‘I’m a mess. I can’t think straight about anything.’ She laughs at her accidental joke.

  ‘I’m not keen, Katkin.’

  ‘Ten minutes. That’s all I ask. I’m meeting her for a drink tonight. Half seven in the Peahen. You swing by, say hi, then pretend you’ve got to be somewhere.’

  ‘I do have to be somewhere, as it happens.’

  She laughs as she hangs up. The very idea.

  That afternoon, I actually do some cleaning and tidying. Plus I polish off all the apples. Rob was right. I have been eating too many big breakfasts, too much fast food. I must fill the fridge with veg and try that Zumba class again.

  After living out of a suitcase for weeks, I now have a whole wardrobe of clothes to choose from again: trousers and tops, skirts and shirts, a couple of Sixties frocks from my favourite vintage shop. I even unearth the luminous dress I bought for Dad’s funeral. I was going to give it to Oxfam but I can’t. Not yet. I remember wearing it and this makes me cry.

  But weirdly, when I get ready for my night out, I feel most at home in the freshly laundered boyfriend jeans and sailor-striped T-shirt Yasmin gave me in Edinburgh. I check myself out in the full-leng
th mirror. I look leaner and stronger, and not just because I’ve been hauling that Star Wars suitcase around the British Isles.

  Something’s changed. I can’t put my finger on it but I like what I see. I couldn’t have said that six months ago. I pull a silly face to puncture the moment. Even the silly face feels real. This is the authentic Annie Stanley. Maybe she was there all along, hidden beneath the sweatpants and a permanent cloud of gloom. I must remember this moment, in case I need to draw on it in an emergency.

  Kate told me to ‘swing by’ the pub where she’s meeting Charlie. What does that even mean? What’s my story? Am I ‘swinging’ spontaneously or on purpose? Do I know Kate’ll be there or should I just stumble across her and Charlie by accident? I mustn’t mess up.

  I spot Kate through the pub window so no subterfuge is required. She’s just downed a glass of white wine and is topping it up as I approach. No Charlie. No wonder she’s in need of Dutch courage. She looks so relieved to see me, like the cavalry’s arrived. She’s already pulled a paper napkin to shreds and is starting to worry a beer mat. I grab the debris and shove it in my pocket. That’s what sisters are for.

  She pours me a generous glass of Chablis. I’m in need of Dutch courage too. I’m not worried about meeting Charlie but meeting Fi is another story. That strong woman I saw in my bedroom mirror seems to have done a runner.

  ‘Too much lippy?’ Kate asks, kissing a paper hankie. ‘Or not enough? Have I missed my mouth? I don’t want to look like Auntie Jan.’

  ‘You look flipping gorgeous, Katkin.’ She does. Always. Khaki linen sweater, tailored navy shorts, bronzed dimpled knees. Only one thing spoils the look: an expression of sheer bloody terror.

  ‘Just chill, okay,’ I tell her. ‘Remind yourself what you want from this. Don’t put up barriers. Be open, honest and receptive. You bloody deserve this.’

  She nods, then her face freezes into a grinning rictus. She kicks me hard under the table to signal that Charlie is approaching. I catch the bottle of wine that Kate sends flying as she jumps up to greet the person approaching behind me.

  Charlie sits and I get a proper look: long straight grey hair, that stainless-steel shade that’s almost lilac; heavy horn rims; shortish, curvy, mid-forties; rocking the smart-casual look, just like Kate. Not sure what I was expecting but, if first impressions are anything to go by . . . I’m impressed.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ I say. ‘I’m Annie, the big sister.’

  She shakes my hand. Hers is clammy. She’s nervous. ‘Charlie. Hi.’

  ‘Kate and I needed a quick catch-up. I’ve been away.’

  ‘The Shipping Forecast. Kate told me all about it.’ Charlie grins. ‘Even the cock-up with Keith.’

  Oh, God. Keith. My face reddens.

  She looks awkward. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it. It must have been a nightmare for you.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘It’s a brilliant thing you’re doing, Annie. What a fine tribute to your dad.’

  I wasn’t expecting that. Her response makes my voice quaver. ‘Or an utterly bonkers one. The jury’s still out.’

  Charlie goes to the bar for another bottle of wine and Kate can’t decide whether to give me a warning glare or a hopeful smile.

  ‘Well?’ she stage-whispers.

  ‘She seems nice, based on all of twenty seconds.’

  ‘She is nice. Why wouldn’t she be? Listen, you don’t have to stay. Seriously, An-An. I thought I needed you but maybe I don’t any more.’

  ‘I’ve barely exchanged pleasantries. Are you sure?’

  ‘Just bugger off, will you? I’m fine.’

  So I slug back my wine, make my excuses and go. Charlie wishes me luck for the next leg of my journey. I think she means Lundy to Irish Sea, not the pizza place two minutes up the high street.

  Rob was right: Fi and I do get on. She’s warm and friendly and it’s written all over her face that she’s potty about Rob. I sit facing them, as if at a job interview. But then what’s the seating etiquette in a situation like this? Why wouldn’t Rob sit next to Fi and opposite me? That way, they can hold hands under the table.

  We’re all anxious. We all seek approval. Although me not so much because I’m history. But Rob needs reassurance that I like Fi and I need to reassure him that I do. Fi just has to make it clear that she has a firm grip of the baton now. In true Annie Lummox style, I dropped it and she picked it up. I get that. I do.

  The first time I met Maggie at a barbecue, she gave me the once-over, desperate to know who Rob had replaced her with. She asked me a few questions: where was my dress from, how long had I lived here, what was my preferred sexual position? Okay, maybe not that last one, but I bet she was dying to know. Whatever answers I gave were sufficient for her to abandon me for griddled sweetcorn and a chicken wing within four minutes. No point hanging around: she’d established that Rob hadn’t found someone quite as fabulous as her.

  When I met Bev for the first time, how could I not compare her to Mum? But whereas Maggie got huge satisfaction from Rob dropping his standards, I was hurt that Dad thought Bev was good enough to fill Mum’s shoes. This friendly woman, in her turquoise blouse and peach lipstick, didn’t even come close. Now that I know Bev better, I see that it isn’t fair to compare them.

  Mum was Mum and Bev is Bev. Two women with Dad in common.

  Just like Rob, Fi and me.

  Fi is as Josh described her: choppy blonde hair, slim build, toned arms. I bet she’s got a six-pack. She puts down her bruschetta, cocks her head to one side and gives me a look.

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘Have I got pesto down my front?’

  ‘I know you, Annie. I know I know you.’

  ‘Fi’s amazing,’ Rob says. ‘She never forgets a face. I keep telling her she could be one of those super-recognizers the cops use.’

  Her face looks familiar too. Josh said she doesn’t have kids so she can’t be a school parent. Maybe she was in the same year as Kate.

  ‘Got it!’ Fi says, clapping her hands. ‘Scoff’s. You were one of our regulars.’

  Nope. Not. A. Clue.

  ‘Scoff’s. The little cafe near the cathedral. Purple-painted brick walls. Breeze-block counter. All us staff wore red aprons. Okay, here’s a clue: “Would you like your frittata warmed?”’

  Scoff’s. Of course. I often nipped in on a Saturday for a chai latte or smashed avo on sourdough. When I stopped teaching, but before I qualified as a full-time couch potato, I’d spend an hour or two over a couple of coffees at a window table. They always had a good selection of newspapers and gossip rags, plus some choice glossies.

  ‘Aha, I remember you now. And the other guy who always wore a baseball cap.’

  ‘Danny. My shit of an ex.’

  ‘That frittata was to die for. I asked you for the recipe once and you pretended not to hear me. Small world, though. I caught up with an ex-boyfriend when I was in Edinburgh. Duncan. Josh told me you do food markets. He does too. Home-smoked fish in a floury bap. Bloody gorgeous.’

  Rob watches us bonding and beams with joy. No fisticuffs, no sarkiness or snarkiness. I bet he’s thinking: If only Maggie and Annie could have hit it off like this.

  Fi isn’t finished. ‘You came to Zumba once and never returned, right?’

  ‘I did. That class was my worst nightmare. I just wanted a bit of cardio, you know, work up a sweat so I could have cake afterwards. But it was like I was auditioning for Beyoncé’s dance crew. Plus, I kept forgetting left and right. Horrifying.’

  ‘Marco. He was brutal. It’s Fleur now. She’s amazing. Come with me next week. I can nudge you if you get lost.’

  Our pizzas arrive. Mine groans under the weight of three kinds of meat. Rob and Fi have chosen veggie options and spend several minutes trying to swap slippery halves; his courgette and sun-dried tomato for her spinach and goat’s cheese.

  Rob loves pepperoni but he’s going meat-free for Fi. If they were The Lady and the Tramp, they’d be sucking
up the same strand of spaghetti. I want to hate them but they’re not making it easy.

  Fi fills me in on the Scoff’s saga. She and Danny had an acrimonious break-up but fortunately, it came at the same time as an offer to buy them out by one of the big coffee chains. So he went to Spain and she bought an old ice-cream van off a mate.

  ‘I was the grafter, not him,’ she explains. ‘My tabbouleh recipe, my fig flapjacks, my spinach frittata. Not Danny’s. So that’s what I sell now, at farmers’ markets and summer fayres and festivals. I couldn’t be happier, especially since I met this one.’

  She takes Rob’s hand and they smile at each other. My prosciutto sticks in my throat.

  I feel obliged to break the gooey silence. ‘I remember that flapjack. God, it was good.’

  Rob pats his waistline. ‘Don’t I know it.’

  We chat, with no awkward pauses, for the rest of the meal. Fi is nice, Rob is happy, I am cool. Maybe it’s a good thing. I can draw a line and move on. And now I have someone to move on with/for/to. Simon is imperceptibly becoming part of my future by the day, not that he knows it yet. And it means that, instead of thinking the world revolves around me (which of course it does), I can be pleased for Rob. For Rob and Fi. They’ve found each other and the world is blessed with one more blissed-out couple.

  A tiny, pointy shard of me is still slightly narked by their happiness. I over-compensate by following my pizza with a sticky stack of profiteroles and, four hours later, a Gaviscon.

  Kate rings my doorbell at quarter to nine the next morning. I’ve been sleeping in since I got back from Bideford. It’s easier than deciding what to do next and I’ve always thought my bed was the best in the world; the pillow/mattress/duvet relationship is perfect.

  She bears croissants from the French patisserie, classy raspberry jam and freshly ground beans; she heads straight for the kitchen to make coffee. How did she know my Nescafe has solidified into one grey lump that I have to chip at with a knife to extract granules?

  I know she’s dying to tell me what happened last night with Charlie, but I also know my control-freak sister well enough not to pester her until the coffee is brewed, the croissants are warmed and plated, the jam has a clean spoon in it.