Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  The chance to show off her moves to her friends on the ice rink had won out. So it was her gang, including Sarah Jenkins whom every eleven-year-old girl in her class wanted to emulate, had clustered around her, each awaiting their slice. It was a coup for Sarah to have accepted the party invitation and Annie had high hopes it would put an end to the taunts about her hair that the popular tween liked to make at any given opportunity. It was silently understood that with her own fashionable haircut and up-to-the-minute outfit, Sarah would get the first piece of cake and indeed she would have if Hurricane Roz hadn’t burst into the kitchen at that very moment.

  She’d looked different, Annie registered straight away, but then she hadn’t seen her for a couple of months either. It wasn’t anything obvious, like she’d cut her hair, although her normally gleaming mane was dull and in need of washing. She looked skinny and her clothes hung off her at right angles but the biggest difference was more subtle than that. It had taken her a moment to pinpoint what it was that had changed in her sister but then it had dawned on her. The light that had always glowed brightly within Roz, that special something that made people gravitate towards her, want to be with her. That special something—that if she were honest, she had always been a teeny bit envious of—had dimmed.

  As she looked at her in the harsh afternoon light that flooded into the kitchen that day, Annie was ashamed to admit that although she was pleased her older sister of nine years hadn’t forgotten her birthday after all, she didn’t feel the pride at standing alongside her she normally did. In fact, she felt a surge of embarrassment as Roz lunged at her with her present and talked as though someone had pushed a fast-forward button on her ghetto blaster. In her manic delivery, she was totally oblivious of the group of young girls who stood back, goggle-eyed as she insisted Annie stop what she was doing and open her gift.

  In the hopes that her sister would calm down if she did what she was insisting, Annie put the knife down and forgot the cake for a moment to rip off the gift wrap. As the Barbie doll hidden beneath was revealed, her insides had shrivelled. She hadn’t played with dolls in years. She was turning eleven, for goodness’ sake, and at that moment, she’d felt the small bridge that had sprung up between her and Roz over the last year widen into a chasm too wide to breach. As she stared at the doll in disbelief, she tried to ignore Sarah and the other girls’ giggling. How could Roz have done this to her?

  “It’s a lovely gift, Rosalind, but I think it’s time to go. Come on now, let Annie get back to her friends and her cake before it melts.” Peter Rivers sensed his youngest daughter’s discomfit and had stepped forward to take his eldest child firmly by the arm.

  Roz had shrugged him off in a jerky motion. “Get off me!” She tried to focus on her sister. “Do you like it, Annie? Do you? I picked it out especially because I remember you were always playing with my old Barbie. Remember you used to call her Barba?” Her eyes were wide, unblinking and her pupils were huge, almost covering the dull blue ring of her irises. Every limb of her body seemed to take on a life of its own as she twitched and jerked in agitation. The scene that ensued of her father hauling Roz from the room followed by the shouted discussion on the front lawn was indelibly printed on Annie’s brain when she thought back on her childhood. All her friends, including Sarah, had overheard the heated exchange and she had hated her sister that day. She hated her in that self-contained way that a child can—not just for ruining her party and making her look a fool in front of her friends, but for making her Mum cry and for making her Dad so angry on her birthday. Most of all, she hated her sister who had once been so beautiful, who had always in the past been there for her, and whose potential had been unlimited, for what she had done to herself.

  Roz’s dreams once upon a time had been to visit the city of Athens and wander the Acropolis, to sail around the Greek islands on a yacht, and to have a holiday romance conducted under a hot Mediterranean sun. All of this she had declared passionately on numerous occasions to her enraptured little sister before the drugs had come along and sucked every ounce of ambition from her. She had been fascinated with Greece and all things Greek, including the musician who presently tossed his hair back on the screen in front of them, Yanni.

  Carl had bought the video for Roz’s birthday not long before she died and Annie could remember hearing the strains of it coming from her sister’s room. Something in his music had spoken to her and made her feel like if she held out her hand, she could catch her dreams, she’d told her wide-eyed sister, who had yet to move past the Mickey Mouse Club.

  Annie blinked the memories away and took a tissue from the box Carl had had the foresight to put on the coffee table. She wiped her eyes before she gave her nose a good blow and then concentrated her attentions on the video Carl had converted to disc. Yet another sign of just how much time had passed: nearly twenty years. She and Carl watched the concert every year on Roz’s birthday. It had been Carl’s idea, this ritualistic viewing of Yanni Live at the Acropolis. He’d found the video among Roz’s sparse collection of things when her parents had asked him whether there was anything of hers he might like to keep. He’d snatched it up and held it tight to him as though it were Roz herself; the following year when his best friend should have turned twenty, he invited Annie round to his place to watch it.

  Despite her parents’ apathy where she was concerned back then, even they might have raised an eyebrow or protested about their young daughter going to watch a video at a twenty-year-old man’s house. Of course, where Carl was concerned, there was no need for concern and besides, Annie was sure her parents were secretly relieved at not having to share their grief with her on such a poignant date. So it was that while her parents would troop off to the cemetery hers and Carl’s annual tradition had been born.

  That first year and for a good few years after it, the drink of choice for Annie had been lemonade and not the bubbles she was partial to these days to have with her popcorn. In a funny way, the soothing ritual of allowing the music to wash over them year after year really did help. As she had matured, the age gap between her and Carl had become irrelevant, just like it would have between her and Roz, had she lived. It was an age gap that hadn’t been intentional on her parents’ part—nature had just played it that way. Through Carl, though, she had not only found a brother, she had also gained a very good friend too. When she was with him, she didn’t have to pretend. In a way, he provided her with what Roz had for him and that was the ability to just be herself. Because he got her. He understood.

  She stole a glance at him. A single tear tracked a path down his smooth cheek. His alabaster skin was the result of regular facials, as well as a facial hair phobia. She reached over and brushed the tear away, not needing to say a word. That was the thing with true friends: they didn’t always need to clutter their friendship with words. She pulled her gaze from his familiar profile and rifled through the last grotty bits of un-popped popcorn before she licked the salt from her fingers. As she reached for her glass, she saw it was in need of topping up. That’s when she remembered her promise.

  “Come on, let’s have a toast to Kas. It’s her birthday as well today, remember, and I promised her we would.”

  Carl poured the remains of the bottle into their respective flutes. “Of course.”

  Annie accepted her drink and raised her glass towards his. “To Kas. Many happy returns.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Their glasses clinked and the bubbles tickled her nose as she took a sip.

  “So come on then, spill the beans. Just how are the lovely Kassia and the rest of the Bikakis clan getting on these days? You haven’t given me an update in ages.” Carl put his glass down on the table before he swivelled round to face her.

  “They’re good. It really was the best thing they ever did, leaving Athens.”

  “They didn’t have much of a choice in the matter though, did they?”

  “No, that’s true.” Annie sipped her drink. Kas, who was an Athenian girl born and
bred, had sent her an email that confided her doubts about moving to the small coastal resort of Elounda on the island of Crete. That wasn’t the only thing bothering her about the move, though. She had explained that as much as she loved her mother-in-law, there was no escaping the fact that she was bossy and opinionated. In her eyes, her two sons—Kas’s husband Spiros and his younger brother Alexandros, who had swanned off to Rio de Janeiro in Brazil to do God knows what—could do no wrong. So how would the two women manage to live under the same roof?

  It wasn’t a situation Kas had foreseen arising when she and Spiros enjoyed their comfortable married life together in Athens. But then the talk of austerity measures had begun. It wasn’t long until Spiros had lost his long-held job as a journalist, along with some four thousand other media employees. Kas, at home with Mateo, was pregnant with Nikolos at the time and things had looked bleak for the couple until Mama Bikakis stepped in. She had been running her namesake Eleni’s Hotel singlehandedly since her husband Abram had died and she was tired, she had told them.

  Unlike some of the other islands, Crete, with its geographical location, had a tourist trade all year round. It quieted down in winter but the weather was still mild enough to carry it through the cooler months. That she was exhausted and in need of help Mama had announced in her usual dramatic hand-wringing style. Yes, she had stated she was now an old lady and it was time for her oldest son to come home and reclaim his roots. Eleni’s was his birthright and a mother needed her son close by in her old age. The wily old Greek woman had it all worked out. Spiros could write the novel he had been fostering in his mind for as long as any of them could remember, maintain the grounds, take guests out on fishing excursions and for day trips to a nearby island. While Kas—with Alexandros away—could pick up where he’d left off and help with the day-to-day running of Eleni’s, as well as take over the managerial side of the guesthouse. This in turn would free Mama up to spend more time with her longed-for grandchildren. To the old lady’s mind, it was the perfect solution and a foregone conclusion that they come to her, and so they had packed up their life and moved to Crete.

  Annie traced a finger round the top of her glass. “Well, the latest is that Alexandros has had enough of swanning around Brazil. He’s on his way home and Kas is not looking forward to being outnumbered.”

  “Yes, all that testosterone could be a real leaving the toilet seat up conundrum.” Carl took a sip of his drink and wrinkled his nose. “I think I prefer the Fraiche to the Sauvignon—what about you?”

  “Nope, I like the Sav. The Fraiche tastes like baby shampoo to me.”

  “Hmm, not a comparison I would have made but each to their own. So the golden boy’s coming home, eh? He must have run out of funds or a female sponsor. That will throw a spanner in the works, won’t it?”

  “I hope not, for Kas’s sake. Anyway, Eleni’s sounds like it is busy enough to sustain the pair of them these days because from what she tells me, they’re already fully booked for most of the summer. Of course, Mama is in raptures about the prodigal son’s return. Her two boys and her grandchildren all home to roost! Kas says she keeps clapping her hands and exclaiming that it is all just too wonderful.”

  Carl smiled at the mental picture of the ecstatic Greek mama. “Where does Kassia fit into that equation, though?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about her. She can hold her ground where Mama is concerned. Besides, if Alexandros is true to form, he will be too busy wooing the guests to do any actual work.” Annie placed her empty glass down and hauled herself off the couch. The concert had ended and as she stretched, she realised she felt drained as she always did after their Yanni session. With a glance at the now empty bottle on the coffee table, she realised she felt a bit light-headed too.

  “I don’t think I should drive. I’ll phone Tony and see if he can pick me up, shall I? Oh, hang on, I think he said something about heading around to watch the rugby at his mate Dean’s place tonight. I’ll call a taxi. What company do you use?”

  “Why don’t you just stay here tonight? The spare room’s yours, sweetie, you know that. And to be honest, with David gone, I could do with a spot of company tonight.” He pulled his puppy dog face.

  The thought of not having to move from the couch was appealing and Carl’s expression was rather pathetic. “Okay but only if you agree to an Indian takeaway.”

  “Annie Rivers, think of all those calories. Ugh, all that cream, all those spices—you’ll never fit into the dress! Why don’t you act your age for a change, girl, and come out with me for a night on the tiles. I know this great little tapas bar...”

  Chapter Three

  To: Kassia Bikakis

  From: Annie Rivers

  Subject: Why I am never drinking again.

  Hi Kas:

  It sounds like you had a wonderful birthday. Being surrounded by your family and friends is exactly what a birthday should be all about. It was a horrid precursor to a winter’s day here when I opened the pics you attached and I was so jealous of you all sitting outdoors under that gorgeous blue sky with the olive trees in the background. It looked like a picture you would see in a travel brochure, you lucky thing. Who was the dark-haired girl next to Alexandros? Don’t tell me he has a girlfriend already? He’s only been home five minutes. I wish I could have been there and raised a glass with you all. Though of course I wouldn’t have been drinking that Retsina you are all so fond of sitting in the sunshine and knocking back because I am a teetotaller these days. As of last Sunday that is, thanks to Carl and those bloody Long Island Iced Teas he’s so partial to.

  April 28th started off innocently enough with Carl and I meeting at the Botanic Gardens to talk about all the same old Roz stuff that we talk about every year on her birthday. We went back to his place in the late afternoon because it gets cold earlier and earlier at the moment to watch the Yanni concert. It made us both cry like it always does, though Carl did get his knickers in a knot at one point, accusing me of blaspheming Yanni. I didn’t mean to. I just pass remarked that sometimes he looked like he could do with a really good bowel motion. No offence, Kas, because I know the man is a cultural icon over your way but hey after all these years of watching that concert and his various facial expressions, I feel I am entitled to comment. Anyway, you know Carl: he got over it pretty quick and when the concert finished, I suggested we drink a toast to your birthday too as promised in my last email. So, in a way, Kas, now that I think about it, it is actually your fault too because it was downhill from there on in.

  I wanted to get Indian for dinner but Carl insisted we go out for tapas, which was actually just another word for cocktails because I don’t remember seeing food until three a.m.-ish when I picked up a mince pie at the petrol station on my way home. It was pretty gross too, full of gelatine. I’m getting off track though, sorry—anyway, we wound up at some dark little bar that Carl insisted was the latest ‘in’ place to be seen at. From what I could see, what ‘in’ meant was that the clientele all looked like they’d sneaked out on a school night. Carl was in form, keeping the drinks coming, which I think was an excuse to keep chatting to the cute bartender. Either way, I’d no sooner finished slurping my way through one concoction and then Carl would be there at the ready with another. He was on a mission to get slaughtered because he is on a break from David at the moment and he never does well when he is on his own. It’s alright for him, though; he didn’t make a holy show of himself.

  Oh, Kas, I cringe every time I think about it. I wish us Kiwis were sensible with our alcohol consumption like you Greeks are. Sure, you might like to toss a plate or two over your shoulders when you have had a couple of Ouzos but we, my friend, are a nation of binge drinkers. You would think I’d know better at my age than to drink like that on Roz’s birthday or anybody’s birthday for that matter. Apparently not, though, because I vaguely remember Carl being off on the dance floor while I leaned all over some poor guy in an effort to keep myself upright. I told the lucky chap all about my dream weddin
g dress, which is just what every single man out on the pull wants to hear about. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. I spotted a girl with a sheet of blonde hair dancing by Carl and there was just something about the way she moved that reminded me of Roz and it all came alcohol induced, flooding back. That poor, poor man had me dribbling and crying on his shoulder.

  Annie shuddered as she recalled how she had bent the stranger’s ear and leaned away from the screen for a moment. She shut her eyes at the myriad memories that had assailed her.

  If Roz had dabbled in drugs as a young teenager, then the family was unaware of it. Carl maintained it had never been part of their social scene at school but that all changed when she started work. At eighteen, she’d begun work for an advertising firm as their Girl Friday and it was at one of their industry parties that she first encountered and fell in love with methamphetamine. At least that was what her parents had managed to piece together from her friends. It was ironic that Annie, too, had wound up working in an advertising company but nobody could accuse Manning Stockyard, the firm she worked for, of being anything other than staid. They didn’t even do Friday night drinks—mind you, the thought of winding her week down over a casual glass of wine in the company of her boss Adelia Hunnington, or Attila the Hun as she not so fondly liked to call her, was an unappealing one.

  With a nine-year-age gap between them, Roz’s life outside of home was a side to her sister that Annie hadn’t been privy to until the day of her eleventh birthday party. After everybody had left and Roz was long gone with her latest boyfriend in a squeal of burning rubber, her parents had no choice but to sit her down and explain as plainly as possible what was wrong with her sister. They’d calmly told her they were trying to help her but she had to want to help herself too. The shouted conversations that had ensued every time Roz had visited over the last year, conversations that were cut short were Annie to walk into the room, suddenly made sense. It was only later, though, after it happened, that she really understood the implications of her sister’s addiction. Her affair with the substance was all-encompassing but then Roz had never been the type of girl to do anything by halves.