I take off the Marilyn wig and switch off the dressing table lightbulbs. The room is immediately plunged into semi-gloom, which is kind of how I feel. I was really looking forward to doing Jess up. I had all these great ideas for her eyes.
But never mind. We can still have a good time!
“So! Shall we . . . watch a movie?” I suggest.
“Sure.” Jess nods.
And anyway, a movie is better. Everyone likes movies, plus we can chat during all the boring bits. I lead the way into the sitting room and gesture enthusiastically at the fanned-out videos on the floor. “Take your pick. They’re all here!”
“Right.” Jess starts looking through the videos.
“Are you a Four Weddings girl?” I prompt her. “Or Sleepless in Seattle . . . When Harry Met Sally . . .”
“I don’t mind,” says Jess at last, looking up. “You choose.”
“You must have a favorite!”
“These aren’t really my kind of thing,” says Jess, with a little grimace. “I prefer something a bit more heavyweight.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, right. Well . . . I can go and get a different video from the rental shop if you like! It won’t take me five minutes. Tell me what you’d like to watch—”
“It’s OK. I don’t want to put you out.” She shrugs. “Let’s just watch one of these.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say with a laugh. “Not if you don’t like any of them! We can do . . . something else! No problem!”
I smile at Jess, but inside I’m a bit disquieted. I don’t quite know what else to suggest. My backup plan was the Dancing Queen karaoke tape—but something tells me she won’t want to do that either. Plus we’re not wearing the wigs.
Why is everything so awkward? I thought we’d be laughing hysterically together by now. I thought we’d be having fun.
Oh God. We can’t just sit here in silence all night. I’m going to come clean.
“Look, Jess,” I say, leaning forward. “I want to do whatever you want to do. But you’ll have to guide me. So . . . be honest. Suppose I hadn’t invited you here for the weekend. What would you be doing right now?”
“Well . . .” Jess thinks for a moment. “I was supposed to be at an environmental meeting this evening. I’m an activist for a local group. We raise awareness, organize pickets and protest marches . . . that kind of thing.”
“Well, let’s do that!” I say eagerly. “Let’s organize a picket! It’d be fun! I could make some banners . . .”
Jess looks nonplussed.
“A picket of what?”
“Er . . . I don’t mind! Anything. You’re the guest—you choose!”
Jess is just staring at me in disbelief.
“You don’t just organize pickets. You have to start with the issues. With the environmental concerns. They’re not supposed to be fun.”
“OK,” I say hastily. “Let’s forget the picket. How about if you hadn’t been at the meeting? What would you be doing now? And whatever it is . . . we’ll do it. Together!”
Jess frowns in thought, and I watch her face with hope. And a sudden curiosity. For the first time I feel like I’m actually going to learn something about my sister.
“I’d probably be doing my accounts,” she says at last. “In fact, I brought them with me, in case I had time.”
Her accounts. On a Friday night. Her accounts.
“Right!” I manage at last. “Fab! Well, then . . . let’s do our accounts!”
OK. This is fine. This is good.
We’re both sitting in the kitchen, doing our accounts. At least, Jess is doing her accounts. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing.
I’ve written Accounts at the top of a sheet of paper and underlined it twice.
Every so often Jess glances up, and I quickly scribble something down, just to look like I’m into it. So far my page reads:
20 pounds . . . budget . . . 200 million pounds . . . Hello, my name is Becky. . . .
Jess is frowning over a pile of what look like bank statements, leafing backwards and forwards and consulting a small bankbook.
“Is something wrong?” I say sympathetically.
“I’m just tracking down a bit of lost money,” she says. “Maybe it’s in one of my other cashbooks.” She gets up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As she leaves the kitchen I take a sip of champagne and glance toward the pile of bank statements.
Obviously I’m not going to look at them or anything. They’re Jess’s private property and I respect that. It’s none of my business. None at all. The only thing is, my leg is feeling itchy. It genuinely is. I lean over to scratch it . . . then casually lean a bit farther . . . and a bit more . . . until I can glimpse the bottom figure on the top statement.
£30,002.
I hastily sit up again, nearly knocking over my champagne glass. Thirty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand pounds?
That’s a bigger overdraft than I’ve ever had. Ever!
Now it’s all starting to make sense. It’s falling into place. No wonder she makes her own weights. No wonder she takes her coffee flask everywhere. She’s probably on an economy drive, just like I went on once. She’s probably read Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton!
God, who would have thought it?
As Jess comes back into the room, I can’t help looking at her with new eyes. She picks up one of her bank statements and sighs heavily—and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. How many times have I picked up a bank statement and sighed? We’re kindred spirits!
She’s perusing the figures, still looking hassled. Well, no wonder, with a whopping great overdraft like that!
“Hi,” I say, with an understanding smile. “Still trying to track down that bit of money?”
“It must be here somewhere.” She frowns and turns to another statement.
God, maybe the bank’s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.
I lean forward confidingly.
“Banks are a nightmare, aren’t they?”
“They’re useless,” she replies, nodding.
“I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they’re going to be so unsympathetic . . .”
“I don’t have an overdraft,” she says, looking puzzled.
“But—”
I stop as her words hit my brain. She doesn’t have an overdraft. Which means—
I feel a bit faint.
That thirty thousand pounds is actual . . .
It’s actual money?
“Becky, are you OK?” Jess gives me an odd look.
“I’m . . . fine!” I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. “So . . . you’re not overdrawn. That’s good! That’s great!”
“I’ve never been overdrawn in my life,” Jess says firmly. “I just don’t think it’s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There’s no excuse.” She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. “But you used to be a financial journalist, didn’t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this.”
Her hazel eyes meet mine expectantly and I feel a ridiculous tweak of anxiety. I’m suddenly not sure I want her to know the truth about my finances. Not the exact truth.
“I . . . er . . . absolutely!” I say. “Of course I do. It’s all a question of . . . of planning ahead and careful management.”
“Exactly!” says Jess with approval. “When any money comes in, the first thing I do is put half aside to save.”
Half? Even my dad doesn’t save that much.
“Excellent!” I manage. “It’s the only sensible option.”
I’m in total shock. When I was a financial journalist, I used to write articles telling people to save a percentage of their money all the time. But I never thought anyone would actually save half.
Jess is looking at me with a fresh interest and maybe even affection.
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“So . . . you do the same, do you, Becky?”
For a few seconds I can’t quite formulate a response.
“Er . . . well!” I say at last, and clear my throat. “Maybe not exactly half every month . . .”
“I’m just the same.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “Sometimes I only manage twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent!” I echo feebly. “Well . . . never mind. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
“But I do,” says Jess, leaning forward across the table. “You must understand that.”
I’ve never seen her face look so open.
Oh my God. We’re bonding.
“Twenty percent of what?” comes Luke’s voice as he and Gary enter the kitchen, both looking in good spirits.
Maybe now is the time to move the conversation on.
“Er . . . nothing!” I say.
“We’re just talking about finances,” says Jess to Luke. “We’ve both been doing our accounts.”
“Your accounts?” says Luke, giving a small shout of laughter. “What accounts would those be, Becky?”
“You know!” I say brightly. “My financial affairs and so forth.”
“Ah.” Luke nods, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. “So . . . have you called out the SWAT teams yet? And the Red Cross?”
“What do you mean?” says Jess, puzzled.
“They’re traditionally summoned to disaster areas, aren’t they?” He grins at me.
“So!” I say quickly, trying to change the subject. “Did anyone . . . er . . . see EastEnders last night?”
No one seems to hear me.
“But Becky was a financial journalist!” says Jess, sounding disconcerted.
“Financial journalist?” Luke looks highly amused. “You want to hear a story about your sister’s days as a financial journalist?”
“No,” I put in. “She doesn’t.”
“The cashpoint card,” says Gary, reminiscing.
“The cashpoint card!” Luke slaps the table in delight. “This was during Becky’s illustrious career as a TV finance expert,” he says to Jess. “She was filming an item on the perils of cashpoint use. She put in her own cashpoint card to demonstrate . . .” He starts laughing again. “And it got swallowed on camera.”
“They showed that the other night on a TV clips show,” says Gary to me. “The bit where you start bashing the machine with your shoe is a classic!”
OK, he is off my Christmas card list.
“But why did it get swallowed?” says Jess, looking perplexed. “Were you . . . overdrawn?”
“Was Becky overdrawn?” Luke says cheerfully, getting out some glasses. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
Jess looks confused.
“But, Becky, you said you saved half your salary every month.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry?” Luke slowly turns round. “Becky said she did what?”
“That’s . . . that’s not exactly what I said,” I say, flustered. “I said it’s a good idea to save half your salary. In principle. And . . . it is! It’s a very good idea!”
“How about not running up huge credit card bills which you keep secret from your husband?” says Luke. “Is that a good idea in principle?”
“Credit card bills?” says Jess, looking at me in horror. “So . . . you’re in debt?”
God, why does she have to say it like that? Debt. Like it’s some kind of plague. Like I’m about to go to the workhouse. This is the twenty-first century. Everyone’s in debt.
“You know how doctors make the worst patients?” I say with a little laugh. “Well, financial journalists make the worst . . . er . . .”
I wait for her to laugh too, or at least give a sympathetic smile. But she just looks appalled.
This whole exchange is beginning to rankle. OK, so I may have had the odd debt in my time. But she doesn’t have to look so disapproving.
“By the way, Jess,” says Gary. “We’ve run into a tiny glitch with that program.”
“Really?” Jess looks up. “I’ll come and have a look if you like.”
“Are you sure?” Gary glances at me. “We don’t want to interrupt your evening. . . .”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand. “Go ahead!”
When they’ve all disappeared into the study I wander along the corridor and into the sitting room. I slump down on the sofa and stare miserably at the blank television.
Jess and I haven’t bonded one bit.
We don’t get on. That’s the truth.
Suddenly I’m weary with disappointment. I’ve been trying so hard ever since she arrived. I’ve been making every effort. I bought the picture of the cave . . . and I prepared all those yummy snacks . . . and I tried to plan the best evening I could. And she hasn’t even tried to join in. OK, so maybe she didn’t like any of my films. But she could have pretended, couldn’t she? If it was me, I would have pretended.
Why does she have to be such a misery? Why can’t she just have fun?
As I gulp my champagne, resentment is growing inside me.
How can she hate shopping? How? She’s got thirty thousand pounds, for God’s sake! She should adore shopping! And another thing—why is she so obsessed with potatoes? What’s so great about bloody potatoes?
I just don’t understand her. She’s my sister, but I don’t understand one single thing about her. Luke was right all along. It is all nurture. Nature doesn’t come into it.
I start dejectedly leafing through the videos. Maybe I’ll watch one of them on my own. And have some popcorn. And some of those yummy Thorntons chocolates.
Jess probably doesn’t even eat chocolate. Unless it’s chocolate she’s made herself, out of potatoes.
Well, good for her. I’m going to stuff my face and watch a nice movie.
I’m just reaching for Pretty Woman when the phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, picking up.
“Hello, Bex?” comes a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s me.”
“Suze!” I feel a huge rush of joy. “Oh my God! Hi! How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine! Are you OK?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine!”
Suddenly with all my heart I wish Suze were here. Like the old days in Fulham. I miss her so much. So much.
“So, how was the spa with Lulu?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“It was . . . fine,” she says after a pause. “You know. Kind of . . . a bit different . . . but fun!”
“Good!”
There’s an awkward silence.
“And . . . and I was wondering how it’s all going with your new sister,” Suze says hesitantly. “Are you . . . are you really good friends?”
I can’t admit the truth to Suze. I just can’t admit the whole thing’s been a failure. That she goes on spa trips with her new friend, but I can’t even manage one evening with my own sister.
“It’s great!” I say. “Couldn’t be better! We’re getting on so well!”
“Really?” says Suze, sounding a bit crushed.
“Absolutely! In fact, we’re having a girls’ night in together right now! Watching movies . . . having a laugh . . . just hanging out. You know!”
“What are you watching?” says Suze at once.
“Er . . .” I look at the blank TV screen. “Pretty Woman.”
“I love Pretty Woman,” Suze says longingly. “The scene in the shop!”
“I know! That is just the best scene ever!”
“And the end, when Richard Gere climbs up!” Her voice is tumbling out with enthusiasm. “Oh God, I want to watch it right now!”
“Me too!” I say without thinking. “I mean . . . I want to watch the . . . er . . . rest of it.”
“Oh,” Suze says in a different voice. “I must be interrupting you. Sorry.”
“No!” I say quickly. “I mean, it doesn’t matter—”
“I’ll go. You must want to get back to your sister. It sounds like you’re having an amazing time.” Her voice is w
istful. “You two must have so much to talk about.”
“Yes,” I say, looking round the empty room. “Yes, we . . . we certainly do!”
“Well . . . I’ll see you sometime,” she says. “Bye, Bex.”
“Bye!” I say, my throat suddenly thick.
Wait! I want to cry out. Don’t go!
But instead I put down the receiver and stare into space. At the other end of the flat I can hear Luke, Gary, and Jess all laughing about something. They’ve bonded with her great. It’s just me who hasn’t.
And I had such huge hopes. I was so excited about having a sister. But I’ve done everything I can think of, and it’s all failed. Jess and I are never going to be friends. Not in a million years.
WEST CUMBRIA BANK
45 STERNDALE STREET
COGGENTHWAITE
CUMBRIA
Ms Jessica Bertram
12 Hill Rise
Scully
Cumbria CA19 1BD
16 May 2003
Dear Ms Bertram:
Thank you for your letter.
Having gone through your accounts in great detail I can only concur that there is a discrepancy of 73 pence.
I am deeply sorry for this error by the bank and have credited your savings account by this amount, back-dated three months. I have also, as you request, added the missing interest.
May I take this opportunity to commend you yet again on your meticulous and thoughtful approach to your finances.
On a personal note, I look forward to seeing you at the upcoming Prudent Savers’ Group cheese and wine evening, at which our head of personal accounts will be giving the keynote address “Retightening the Purse Strings.”
Yours sincerely,
Howard Shawcross
Customer Account Manager
Fourteen
I wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, which could have something to do with the fact that I polished off an entire bottle of champagne myself last night, plus one and a half trays of chocolates. Meanwhile, Jess, Luke, and Gary spent hours around the computer. Even when I took them in some pizza, they barely looked up. So I just watched the whole of Pretty Woman and then half of Four Weddings and a Funeral, before going to bed on my own.
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