In My Sister's Shoes

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘No, she’s single, actually,’ said Tara, archly. ‘But her career’s going really well. She just landed her own show.’

  ‘She finally got what she always wanted, then.’

  Tara was annoyed with Sam for being flippant. ‘Well, it was great until last week when she found out Fiona has cancer and had to move home to look after her,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Sam, staring at her. ‘Did you say cancer?’

  ‘Yes, it’s breast cancer, but I shouldn’t really have told you. Don’t say anything to anyone. They don’t want people to know yet.’

  ‘Jesus, is she all right? How bad is it?’

  ‘They’ll know after today how bad it is. She was operated on this morning. Look, Sam, I shouldn’t have said anything, just forget it. I have to go back to work now.’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Sam, grabbing her arm. ‘Take my card and please call me when you know more. I’d really like to know how she gets on – I was always a big fan of Fiona’s and… tell Kate I was asking for her. God it must be hard on her with her mum and all.’

  ‘So I took the card,’ said Tara, ‘which I have here in my pocket, in case you’re interested. I’m sorry I told him about Fiona but I wanted to show him that you’d put your family first. Are you annoyed?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m glad you did – I bet he was shocked to find out I’ve put my job on the back-burner. I can’t believe his marriage broke up. Mind you, he never should have married that cow.’

  ‘So he’s single,’ said Tara, ‘and you’re back in Dublin for the foreseeable future…’

  ‘Tara! We broke up eight years ago. It’s dead and buried.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. My boss is glaring at me. I’ll call you later.’

  I leant back on the head-rest and sighed. Even now the mention of Sam’s name brought a knot to my stomach. I didn’t know if it was down to guilt because I’d broken up with him when I went away to London, or regret, or simply because I hadn’t had a serious relationship since him – unless you count six months going out with a producer at Channel 4 who only called me when he was bored or horny. The men I dated were never right, and I was always so busy with work that I never felt lonely– well, not often. Also, I didn’t want children so the biological-clock thing wasn’t an issue.

  Sam was my first love, the guy I lost my virginity to, and the nicest guy I ever dated. When I met him I was nineteen, and itching to finish my degree in media studies then get the hell out of Ireland to seek fame and fortune in London. I talked incessantly about leaving the backwater that was Dublin. Sam was studying journalism in the same college, although we never actually met. When we were introduced by Tara’s cousin Conor – who was also studying journalism – we had the most enormous row.

  I had asked Sam what newspaper he aspired to write for and when he said the Irish Independent, I laughed. ‘Yeah, right! Come on, you must want to write for Sports Illustrated or one of the big English papers. I mean the Irish Independent’s a bit lame. You’ll spend your time writing about local football. How dull is that?’

  ‘It depends what you find interesting. Maybe in your world talking to arseholes who think they’re God and won’t give you the time of day is fascinating, but in my world that’s sad. Half the sports journalists in the UK have to make up their interviews because none of the sports stars will spit on them. Why would I want to waste my time chasing Alex Ferguson around for weeks only to be told to fuck off?’

  ‘Well, I’d rather spend my time chasing a great interview than waste mytalent standing on the sideline of some sad local hurley match in the pissing rain talking to spotty seventeen-year-olds.’

  ‘What the hell would you know about it?’

  ‘It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that writing for the Guardian or The Times would be a lot more exciting and challenging than some crappy Irish daily. You’d be working with really talented journalists on Fleet Street where you might actually learn something. I wouldn’t dream of wasting my time working in Irish television. The UK is where it’s at for people with ambition and drive.’

  ‘Two very overrated virtues in my book.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with ambition. Some men are intimidated by women who strive to succeed.’

  ‘There’s a subtle difference between being intimidated and being turned off. And, believe me, a woman behaving like a pit-bull terrier is a real turn-off.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Just because you – ’

  ‘Down, boy, there’s no need to bite.’

  ‘Listen, you…’ I said to Sam’s back, as he walked away, laughing.

  I was furious. Who the hell did this guy think he was, speaking to me like that? What was wrong with being ambitious and wanting a successful career? God, some men were pathetic. What a loser.

  Later that day when I met up with Tara I ranted about Sam for at least an hour. Eventually Tara cut to the chase. ‘So, is he cute?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, is he?’

  I had to admit he was very attractive, in a scruffy kind of way. He had that just-got-out-of-bed look. Tousled brown hair and crumpled clothes. At first glance he wasn’t much to look at, but up close his eyes got you. They were emerald green, and when he’d looked directly at me – as he had that afternoon – they had seemed to pierce right through me. Although I had spent the day seething because he had been so rude, I couldn’t get those eyes out of my head. ‘He has nice eyes, but the personality of a pig.’

  ‘I dunno, Kate, I think you like this guy. He’s the first person to challenge you in ages. You’re always saying how boring the guys we know are and now you’ve met someone who in one conversation has managed to totally wind you up.’

  ‘I’m not attracted to him. He’s a loser,’ I lied, picturing the gorgeous green eyes again. ‘See what you can find out from Conor about him. I’m not interested, just curious.’

  Tara duly called her cousin and found out the following:

  Sam was paying his way through college by working part-time as a hotel porter. He had one sister, Caroline – who was a real looker and Conor was hoping to hop on. Sam never mentioned his father but lived with his mother and sister. He had just broken up with a girl called Alice, whom he had been dating for a year. She was absolutely devastated and, according to Conor, had taken a bitter pill and was now telling everyone that Sam was awful in bed and had a very small penis. Tara was a bit alarmed to hear this – was Alice being catty or was it the sad truth? Conor was not very helpful in this department as he hadn’t slept with Sam.

  ‘Well, does he have a small willy?’ asked Tara, going for the Best Friend of the Year award.

  ‘Tiny,’ said Conor.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Why do you care? I thought you were going out with Damian?’

  ‘I am. I just feel sorry for anyone with a small penis.’

  ‘Sure you do. It’s OK, Tara, I’m kidding. You can tell Kate that his nickname is Horse and there’s a very good reason for that.’

  ‘Why would I tell Kate? She has no interest in Sam.’

  ‘I was there yesterday when they were sparring. She’s keen.’

  ‘She is not. In fact, she thinks he’s a pig.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say.’

  While Tara relayed all the information to me, Conor told Sam that he had been grilled by his cousin, who happened to be my best mate, and as far as he could tell, Sam was well in. The next time we met was a week later at a party. I knew Sam was going to be there and had spent ages getting ready – eventually opting for a very short denim mini-dress.

  The minute I saw him, my heart jumped. He looked even better the second time. He glanced up and waved, so I made my way over to talk to him, but as I got close he turned his back on me and began to chat up some girl with a really annoying laugh. He studiously ignored me for the entire night. Eventually as everyone was leaving he came over to me.

  ‘Lo
ok who it is! The girl who thinks she’s too good for Ireland.’

  ‘You owe me an apology.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Sam, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘For being so rude to me last week when we met.’

  ‘I think you’re the one who should be apologizing. You insulted my career aspirations.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that you did.’

  ‘Apologize to me and I’ll apologize to you,’ I said, flicking my hair back and giving him my best pout.

  ‘The mini-dress and pouting might work for some guys, but I find it a bit obvious.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Sam, walking away.

  I was left open-mouthed, shaking with rage, embarrassment and lust. No one had ever wound me up like that before.

  A week later, we crossed each other again, outside the college gates.

  ‘Hello,’ said Sam.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, wishing I’d made more of an effort to look good. The woolly-jumper look was not exactly femme fatale.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here. I thought the BBC would have head-hunted you by now.’

  I smiled, then burst into tears. Sam was unprepared for that, although, having lived alone with his mother and sister all his life, he was not as uncomfortable around tears as most guys. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I take it all back.’

  I shook my head. I was mortified. ‘It’s not you, I’m fine.’

  ‘We can safely say that that is one thing you’re not. Can I buy you a coffee or a stiff drink? Would thumping me help?’

  ‘Coffee would be great. It’s my mum’s anniversary today,’ I said. ‘I never seem to get used to it.’

  We spent the afternoon together and never looked back… until I broke up with him when I moved to London three years later.

  12

  I arrived exactly ten seconds early to pick up the boys. I walked into the room and was met by a happy-looking Bobby, whose hands were covered in paint. ‘Hi there,’ I said. ‘You look like you’ve had a good time. Where’s Jack?’

  ‘He’s in the corner cos he was bold.’

  I looked up and saw Jack facing the wall, looking very small and forlorn. I went over to Mrs Foley. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Remember me? Kate O’Brien, the twins’ aunt?’

  ‘Yes, you dropped the boys off late this morning.’

  ‘That’s right and you made a big song and dance about it. Well, I’d like to know why Jack is standing in the corner.’

  ‘He bit Max on the arm. Biting and violence are unacceptable and children must learn the difference between right and wrong. So when they are bold they stand in the bold corner for five minutes.’

  ‘I see. And tell me, Mrs Foley, do you not believe in making allowances for little boys who might be acting up because their mothers are in hospital with cancer?’

  ‘Mrs Kennedy has never questioned my use of gentle discipline on the boys. I realize that she is in hospital and that the boys might be out of sorts, but biting another child, whatever the reason, is wrong and must be dealt with.’

  ‘Well, maybe my sister would disagree with you on this rather exceptional day. I think Jack could have done with a cuddle and a chat. I’m taking him home now.’

  ‘Jack has a minute left in the bold corner.’

  ‘Get a life, you insensitive cow,’ I snapped, ruining any hope of a friendly relationship with the boys’ teacher.

  I went over to Jack and bent down. ‘Hey, buddy, it’s time to go home now. Are you OK?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was bold today. I bit Max.’

  ‘Listen, Jack, everyone is bold sometimes. It’s OK, as long as you said you’re sorry to Max.’

  ‘I said sorry. Please don’t tell Mummy. She told me to be a good boy today.’

  ‘Of course I won’t tell her. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over and for gotten about. And I’ve got good news about your mum. She’s feeling much better and the doctor got all the bad stuff out and she’ll be home tomorrow. So don’t you worry about anything.’

  He nodded, and bit his lip to stop himself crying. Bobby came over. I kissed them both and told them they were the best boys in the school. Bobby squirmed and wiped the kiss off his cheek, but Jack seemed to find it comforting.

  Mrs Foleyglared at me as I was leaving. She followed me out to the car and assured me that she would be having a word with Mrs Kennedy, who had chosen someone completely unfit to look after the twins.

  I spun round. ‘I’m her sister. What do you think she’s going to do? Fire me? Get used to it, Mrs Foley. You’ll be seeing a lot of me over the next few months. ’Bye now.’ With that, I screeched out of the driveway with the twins kicking each other in the back of the car.

  When we got home, I checked Fiona’s instructions for lunch.

  Proper nutrition: should include eating three meals a day and two nutritious snacks. It’s important to limit high-sugar and high-fat foods. Eating fruit, vegetables, lean meat and low-fat dairy products, including three servings of milk, cheese or yogurt to meet their calcium needs, can also prevent many medical problems down the line.

  She had picked out a menu for me to follow, which was in one of her fifty cookbooks on food for children, by someone called Annabel Karmel. I opened to page fifteen as instructed and read: ‘Pasta with Tomato Sauce and Hidden Vegetables.’

  Ms Karmel described the recipe as a great way to disguise vegetables so children would eat them unwittingly with the tomato sauce. I had to sauté onions and garlic, then add the vegetables – courgettes and carrots and mushrooms – the tomatoes, chicken stock and sugar, and then there was some simmering followed by some blending. It all sounded pretty complicated and time-consuming.

  Fiona had added a footnote to tell me that the boys hated courgette but in this wonderful recipe they’d never notice it. I wasn’t to chop it in front of them because if they saw it they’d know it was in the sauce and then they wouldn’t eat it.

  I sighed. Whatever happened to ham sandwiches? Take one slice of processed ham, put it between two slices of bread and eat. I took the vegetables out of the fridge. Thankfully, Fiona had left a jar marked ‘chicken stock’, because I had no idea how to make it.

  While I chopped the courgette, blocking the boys’ view, they played with their toys and tormented Teddy. Suddenly everything was quiet. I looked around and they were gone. Fiona had said if I only remembered one thing it was that silence was deadly.

  ‘If the boys are being quiet they’re up to no good,’ she had stressed.

  I went upstairs. ‘Boys? Where are you?’

  They weren’t in their bedroom, and it was only when I was passing the bathroom that I heard a whimper. I opened the door and there stood poor Teddy, wrapped from head to toe in toilet paper. Beside him, my bag lay open, makeup all over the floor. Jack was spraying Teddy in the face with my expensive and much treasured Jo Malone perfume while Bobby was shoving my Lancôme Juicy Tube lip-gloss up the dog’s backside.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted, as I pushed the boys aside to rescue poor Teddy, who was looking at me through perfume-poisoned bloodshot eyes. I pulled the lip-gloss from his bum, but the top didn’t come with it. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You said “shit”,’ shouted Jack, who was back to his old boisterous self.

  Ignoring him, I looked at Bobby. ‘Was the top on this when you pushed it in?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Bobby, I need you to think. Was it or wasn’t it?’

  ‘Dunno!’ he shouted. And then, bored with tormenting Teddy, they ran into their bedroom to jump on their beds.

  I looked at Teddy. If the lip-gloss top was up his bum he’d be in pain. He looked in pain. Would he poo it out? Or did I have to – Oh, God – did I have to try to get it out? Teddy shuffled over to me. He was walking like John Wayne. Clearly the lip-gloss top was lodged in there.

  ‘OK,’ I said to Teddy, ‘I can sort this out. I just need to calm
down and think. I can either try to fish it out myself or take you to the vet.’

  Teddy rested his head on my knee. I decided to opt for DIY. I went downstairs and put on Fiona’s Marigold washing-up gloves. I went back into the bathroom, followed by the twins, who were fed up with jumping, and turned Teddy round. I tried not to gag as I put my finger up his bum to dislodge the lip-gloss top.

  ‘Yuck!’ shouted Bobby. ‘You’re putting your finger up Teddy’s bum!’

  ‘Smelly,’ said Jack, as they dissolved into giggles.

  I fished about, withdrew my hand and leant over the bath to retch. Even Fiona couldn’t have prepared me for this particular drama. I’d have to take Teddy to the vet.

  I ushered the boys downstairs and into the car, where they started to complain that they were hungry. I ran back into the house, grabbed a couple of slices of bread and a banana. I mushed the banana between the bread and sprinkled sugar on it, like my mum used to do when I was little. I cut it in two and handed the boys a sandwich each.

  Then I put Teddy in the front seat beside me and drove off.

  ‘Banana!’ squealed Jack.

  ‘And sugar?’ said Bobby, in shock.

  ‘Yes.’ I had no patience for complaints. ‘Delicious banana sandwiches. Now eat up.’

  The vet, thankfully, was able to fit us in and was extremely kind and patient. He didn’t give out when the twins pulled off his stethoscope and ran around bashing it on the surgery walls, and just nodded when I explained Teddy’s delicate problem. He had clearly seen it all before, which was a relief, as I was worried he would report me to the RSPCA for cruelty to animals. He expertly removed the lip-gloss top from Teddy’s bum and told me to make sure he had a soft cushion to sit on for the rest of the day, then suggested that I keep the boys away from him until he had had time to recover. He also gave me a tip. ‘Little boys can be very energetic. It’s all the testosterone. When it gets too much I recommend counting to ten. We have three boys and my wife swears by it.’

  I thanked him and when we had climbed back into the car I gave the boys a lecture. ‘What you did to Teddy was very bold and mean. He was in a lot of pain. You cannot push things up his bum or spray him with perfume. How would you like it if I sprayed you in the face and made your eyes sting? It’s not fair. Teddy needs lots of gentle cuddles and pets. Do you understand? You have to be nicer to Teddy and not shout at him or pull his tail or wrap him in toilet paper. OK?’