Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  ‘Well, bloody go on then,’ I say as we sit cross-legged on the floor around the coffee table.

  Kate smiles. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years: a relaxed, laidback, stress-free smile that tells me all I need to know. Well, not quite but she’s my sister and I don’t need every last detail.

  ‘Charlie was petrified,’ Kate says. ‘Did you see how nervous she was when she arrived? That’s when I knew it would be okay.’

  ‘You weren’t exactly a picture of confidence yourself. Pour the coffee, will you? I’m gagging for it.’

  Kate has found my two matching mugs. Another sign that only the best will do for this important family moment.

  ‘She knew how she felt about me right from when I came for the interview. She told Ros and Ross I was the best candidate and they had to give me the job. But really it was because she thought she might not see me again, if they chose someone else.’

  ‘Oh great. You only got the gig because of her.’ I am outraged on Kate’s behalf.

  ‘Course not. I was the best candidate. Flattering, though, that she had feelings for me so quickly. I liked her from the off too. But I wasn’t expecting . . . this.’

  ‘And what is “this” exactly?’

  Kate coyly tears off a chunk of croissant and dunks it in her coffee. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea, judging by that look on your face. Just flipping tell me, will you?’

  ‘It’s good, An-An. It’s bloody brilliant. Charlie’s brilliant. I don’t want to assume anything because that’s the kiss of death. But today, right now, me and Charlie are, I don’t know what to call it. We’re together. We’re a “thing”.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  ‘And not just that. She told Ros and Ross that she was meeting me. Just about work, not the other stuff. And they said they want me to come back. They put my silly mistakes down to grief. I’d come back to work too soon after Dad died and I was going through delayed bereavement. I suppose I was.’

  ‘Will you tell them you’re a “thing”? You and Charlie?’

  ‘Probably. Best to be upfront. After all, they’re a couple and they work together so they can hardly forbid it.’

  I hug her and she hugs back. I’m so pleased that my little sis is happy. Finally.

  She pulls away, tempering the moment. This is Kate, after all. ‘I need to be cautious, An-An. I won’t jump into this with both feet. Not yet. I know it sounds silly, but I’m not ready to believe what’s staring me in the face, just in case I’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘What’s staring you in the face?’

  ‘That your blinds need a bloody good clean. They really are rank.’

  ‘Katkin! What!’

  She smiles her wonderful smile again. ‘That I’ve met “The One”.’

  I look at maps and train timetables, to pick up where I left off on my circuit of the British mainland. Maybe I can cheat, skirt round the Bristol Channel and head straight for sea area Irish Sea in Fishguard or Aberystwyth. I think back to the drive down the east coast from Tyne, through Humber, and on to Thames. Even though I’m a geography teacher, I hadn’t realized how flipping far that would be. And now I need to make the equivalent journey back up the west coast. My heart sinks . . .

  Another long drive in a hire car, probably alone. Another hunt for a half-decent B&B, an available washing machine, a functioning ATM and a fish supper. There’s money left in my bank account. I can afford to do this. Just. But the urgency is gone. I’m back in the familiar bum dent on my sofa and I’m not sure I have it in me.

  Before I fall asleep, I listen to the Shipping Forecast. Perhaps it will recharge my flat battery and spur me on. But it doesn’t. I’m not defeated by the miles to cover or the effort it will take. My pessimistic mood comes out of sheer bloody loneliness. If I take Dad to Irish Sea, Malin, Hebrides and Fair Isle, what will I come home to?

  This.

  Who will I come home to?

  No one.

  Rob has Fi. They’re an adorable couple. Even our waiter in the pizza restaurant commented on it. I was merely ‘interim girlfriend’, to tide him over after he broke up with Maggie. Now he has Fi. She is The One.

  I can’t bank on Simon being my ‘One’. Yes, I feel hopeful but I couldn’t bear it if we hooked up and fizzled out after a fortnight, like last time. And no matter how much I tell myself that it’ll be different – that we’re different, older, more fearful of being alone, that we’ll make it work – I can’t be sure.

  Before Dad died – and more so in the weeks after – I still had Kate. We were a unit. We looked out for each other. Mum asked me to take care of her, when the cancer returned, but it took Dad dying for me to finally get my arse in gear. After that, I tried to make up for my years of selfishness and laziness. To be a proper big sister, the one Kate deserved. Shit, I even rushed home from Bideford without a second thought, because she was in such obvious distress.

  Her words in the pub have rung in my head, ever since she said them. ‘I thought I needed you but maybe I don’t any more.’ Okay, I know she meant I could leave her and Charlie to their hot date. But right now, I’m in the mood to pick masochistically at what she said, to pull it apart and find the truth beneath.

  Kate has Charlie. Rob has Fi. Who do I have?

  Kate’s in that honeymoon period of the New Relationship. She’s consciously not dropping Charlie’s name into every sentence but her lover is present in every happy sigh, every enigmatic smile about nothing at all, every zhuzh of her hair or glance at her phone. I’ve become the thing she has to tolerate before returning to Charlie.

  The good news is that she’s got her old job back. Apparently Kate had singlehandedly kept the business running these past few years and they were grinding to a halt without her. Ros was particularly understanding; she lost her father eighteen months ago so she put Kate’s out-of-character cock-ups down to grief at our dad’s passing.

  Kate and Charlie have decided not to go public for a week or two, while they get used to each other. Serious relationships need to be built around more than steamy sex on the kitchen table. It’s all good, though, Kate says, with one of her more enigmatic smiles. I don’t like to think about my sister’s sex life but I’d say she’s not complaining. Lucky old Kate.

  I get back into my old routine. It suits me. It doesn’t challenge me. It’s like I never left the sofa. I compose an email to Cameron about getting my old job back but I don’t send it. I will send it. When I’m ready. Soon.

  One evening, I’m all set for Netflix and chilli, washed down with half a bottle of Lidl Chardonnay, when I get a text from Fi. Do I fancy going to Zumba with her? I politely decline, even when she offers to pick me up from my door. I know she means well and I can’t dislike her, but why would I, saddo ex-girlfriend, reveal myself to the gorgeous proper girlfriend as a funk-free wobble-bottom? I don’t need pity. I have no wish to be humiliated, patronized or, worse, totally ignored just as soon as she sees how crap I am.

  So I lie. I say sorry, I’m visiting Bev that night. I know Fi won’t give up so I’ll need to come up with another excuse for next week. I’ll say I’ve started a cupcake course and it clashes or I’ve lost a foot. Or I could just say: Thanks all the same, but I don’t bloody want to, okay.

  Anyway, who passed a law saying that Fi and I should be besties? If she wasn’t with Rob, I’d be happy to meet her for lunch/brunch/cocktails. She is lovely. But no. Sorry. Not going to happen. Hell is scheduled to freeze over first.

  Chilli dispatched, I’m just polishing off an ancient almond Magnum when my doorbell rings. It can’t be Fi. The class started ten minutes ago. What part of ‘no’ didn’t she understand?

  It’s Rob, still in faded work shirt and paint-spattered jeans. ‘I know you don’t need checking on, Annie, but I wanted to see if you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m tip-top. A hundred per cent. Couldn’t be better, thank you for asking.’

  He hovers, as if there’s more to
say. There isn’t. But I don’t want to appear rude or a-woman-spurned so I invite him in and pour him a tiny wine, because he’s got the van outside. I can be civilized. I can be grown up. I just wish my shorts and T-shirt weren’t so creased, but who irons slob-around gear? (Fi, probably.)

  Rob sips his wine, takes in the detritus of my TV dinner and a pile of dirty plates on the kitchen worktop. ‘How’s the new dishwasher?’

  ‘It’s a dishwasher. It washes dishes. I can’t ask more of it than that.’

  ‘So it’s all working for you again.’ He waves a hand around the room. ‘This.’

  ‘This what?’

  ‘Telly, microwave, sofa . . . perhaps not the iron.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Look at yourself, Annie. This is how you were before your dad died. And afterwards. It was only the threat of his ashes going to Austria that got you off your arse. It’s like you never left your sofa.’

  ‘I did leave. I visited ten sea areas and I’ve got the knitted squares to prove it.’

  ‘What’s changed, though? What’s really changed? Looking at you, here, now, as far as I can see, bugger all.’

  I’m not having that. He can’t swan in and make value judgements on my sad little life, just because Fi’s at Zumba and he’s got a couple of hours to kill.

  ‘What’s changed?’ I say, putting down my wine so that I can rant properly. ‘Okay, how about I’ve made my peace with Bev and her family, apart from Mark who’s still a shit bag. How about that Kate’s way more open and honest with me than she ever used to be? That’s a huge step forward, Rob. I learned stuff about me too. Big stuff. Important stuff. Slow-burning stuff like who I once was, who I am now. Let’s see, what else . . .? Oh, I know. I got to hang out with Hilary who is bloody amazing and with Josh who I honestly didn’t think I could love any more. Will that do for now?’

  ‘It’s mutual,’ Rob replies. ‘Hilary and Josh have separately given me grief for breaking up with you. I kept reminding them it was your call. You pulled the plug, not me. But that’s history. We’re history. And we’re cool with it, right? We’ve moved on.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m with Fi now. What did you think of her, by the way?’

  ‘She’s great. You’ve fallen on your feet there, Rob.’

  ‘So why didn’t you want to go to Zumba with her?’

  Bloody Zumba! I hadn’t realized my attendance was crucial.

  ‘Let’s see: a) I hate Zumba and b) just because Fi’s your girlfriend doesn’t mean we have to be best friends. Seriously, Rob, it’s not the law.’

  ‘Fair enough. But you are okay that I’m with her? I’d hate to hurt you.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re not hurting me. I’m totally okay about Fi. And you can be okay that I’m with Simon.’

  Ha! His face! He hadn’t reckoned on me moving on. Yes, okay, I’m jumping the gun a little. But it’s more a case of ‘when’, not ‘if’ I’m with Simon. I see that now, clear as day. Like Rob says, he’s history.

  ‘Who’s Simon?’

  So I tell him: ex-boyfriend from years ago, who I met up with in Brighton. Hugely successful actor, about to tour with a one-man play. I even embroider the truth about those indigestion commercials, implying that he’s still spearheading a major TV ad campaign and it’s earned him a fortune. Rob doesn’t watch much telly; he won’t know I’m lying.

  ‘It’s so brilliant that Si and I reconnected,’ I conclude. ‘The years just fell away. You two must meet. You’d really get on.’

  Rob takes my words at face value. I’m not lying as such, just previewing the inevitable. Simon won’t mind. On the contrary, he’d be thrilled to hear me bigging him up like this.

  ‘So,’ I conclude, ‘we’ve both met someone, we’ve both moved on. We’re both in a happy place and we can be friends, just like we are now, without any awkwardness or emotional baggage. Okay with you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Rob nods enthusiastically, to show just how okay it is.

  I honestly think we’ve turned a corner.

  I wake up to the loo flushing. My alarm clock says 2.20 a.m.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! This isn’t a dream. This is really bad. Annie Lummox strikes again.

  Rob tiptoes into the bedroom but doesn’t get back under the duvet. I pretend to be asleep. I hear him pull on his jeans, stumble into the dressing table, fumble for his watch. I stay motionless. There is no alternative.

  ‘Annie?’ he says softly. ‘Are you awake?’

  I’m tempted to launch into loud snoring but I decide against it. I snuffle and turn over. See, Rob, I’m out for the count so there’s no need to wake me and make clunky conversation. And at least he won’t have to explain himself to Fi when he gets home because they don’t live together yet. Small mercies.

  He must be dressed by now. What’s he waiting for? He stands still for a moment. He’ll be thinking: Will I look like a total creep if I scarper without even saying goodbye? I hear the rustle of paper. He scribbles me a note which he leaves on the dressing table. Then, like a total creep, he scarpers without even saying goodbye.

  The note reads: ‘Didn’t want to wake you. Talk soon xxx R.’

  I give him a full minute after my front door closes, then twitch the blinds to see him get into his van and drive off. I make myself a cup of tea, sit on the sofa in the dark and scroll back to last night.

  We finished the wine and opened another bottle. Platonic friends can get pissed together, no problem. But I must have said something, touched his arm, given him a look, Christ knows. He made the first move but I prompted it. I must have. What was I thinking? We snogged on the sofa like a pair of hormonal teens and it was so good; the same but different, wrong but right.

  Wrong really. So wrong.

  It felt too frantic to be called making love. It felt too familiar to be called fucking. There were no surprises, no awkward moments about what he likes, what I like. How gentle, how urgent, how intense. Because we knew. It was like riding a bike, you never forget. Shit, I think I even said that out loud, before we moved to the bedroom, and we both giggled.

  I should have stopped it after the first kiss. I shouldn’t have smiled or made eye contact or whatever I did that caused . . . this.

  He has Fi. I have Simon . . . pretty much.

  This can never happen again.

  As the days go by, and despite his note, we can’t talk about it. So, by silent, mutual consent, we don’t. We don’t talk at all because this is too unwieldy to deny or ignore.

  I’ve made a bad thing much worse; sleeping with Rob, then losing him, even as a friend.

  A week after my return to St Albans, I have to accept that Dad and I aren’t going to complete our tour of the Shipping Forecast. So perhaps he should be quietly returned to Bev and scattered in the South Tyrol or off Swanage Pier. It’s her call, after all. I’ve had my hissy-fit. It made sense at the time. Now it seems childish and selfish.

  I nearly ring her to invite myself round for the symbolic Return of the Urn but I get distracted by a Chinese takeaway and eight back-to-back episodes of Friends and then it’s half eleven and too late and yadda-yadda-yadda and I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Probably . . .

  Before I can, I get a call from Hilary in Bexhill and everything changes. I’ve just popped out for Sunday papers, eggs and milk. My only plans for the day are eggy bread and another afternoon on the sofa with the gang at Central Perk.

  ‘So,’ she says in her familiar bossy voice. ‘By my reckoning, you must be in Wales by now. Sea area Irish Sea. I got arrested in Rhyl once, but that’s another story.’

  ‘Not quite. I’m in sea area St Albans. Moderate to good, occasionally poor. And how are you, Hilary?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you. Apart from a bit of heartburn from last night’s imam bayildi. Stuffed aubergine to you. Toni was somewhat heavy handed with the smoked paprika.’

  ‘You and Toni are friends? Oh, that’s made my day. I knew you’d have to stop
being so anti-social sooner or later.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve been very gracious and responsive to all my neighbours, apart from that pound-shop Tory on the next landing. Anyone who wears a cravat is using up someone else’s oxygen.’

  I leave the newsagent’s and perch on a bench outside. Hilary has never rung before, so she must have something to say.

  She cuts to the chase. ‘I spoke to Robin the other day.’

  Oh God, he hasn’t told her, has he? He wouldn’t.

  ‘Oh yes?’ I bleat weakly.

  ‘He said that you’ve found this Shipping Forecast business rather exhausting. Is that correct?’

  ‘It has been hard to keep going.’

  ‘But you’ll see it through?’

  This is my first opportunity to say out loud what I’ve lately been thinking. I may as well try it out on Hilary. ‘Nope. I’m done. Thus far and no further. Yay me for even attempting it.’

  I detect tutting. I’m about to be dressed down. But all I get is a loaded silence.

  ‘Well, say something, Hilary. It’s not like you to be speechless.’

  ‘I’m sad, that’s all. I thought your little adventure was such a splendid idea. For you and for your late father. I can see that it was tiring and emotionally draining, but all the best adventures are.’

  ‘It really was. And who honestly gives a stuff if I don’t finish?’

  ‘I ruddy well do, Miss. And, a year from now, won’t you kick yourself if you don’t complete the task?’

  Well, yes, the thought had occurred to me. What’s that saying: only regret the things you haven’t done. But I won’t be bullied into seeing it through if I don’t feel up to it.

  ‘Sorry. Got to go. I’m late for my Zumba class.’

  I hang up on her. I really do. It was only a teensy white lie. I do have stuff to do. That eggy bread won’t fry itself.

  Two weeks later, Dad and I are on a train to Liverpool. We’re all set to finish what we started a gazillion weeks ago in sea area Cromarty. I told myself I wouldn’t to be bullied or arm-twisted into anything, but my resistance was low and there are only so many episodes of Friends a girl can watch in one sitting. And eggy bread can’t sustain anyone for more than two days, even if you drown it in golden syrup.