by Emily Barr
‘I bet she did.’ Tessa looks angelic, with a slight wave in her dark hair, and enormous grey eyes with long lashes. In these clothes she looks as if she has stepped out of an illegal website. ‘Let’s go in, then,’ I say, nonplussed.
I have been looking forward to coming home ever since I split up with Jack. I could have come sooner. Mum wanted me to. Yet I wanted to see how much I could enjoy myself, single in London. I have had a wonderful time, and now I am back, ready to be cosseted.
I intend to make the most of this week. I will watch TV, go for walks, and enjoy the lack of responsibilities. I will eat what is put in front of me, and raid the cupboards between meals. I will have endless slices of toast and peanut butter for breakfast. I will practise my cello for three hours every day, fuelled by mince pies and cups of tea, and make sure I’m on good musical form for the advert. Apart from at the party, I will wear jeans and jumpers and sensible boots. I will keep make-up to a minimum - just foundation and a smear of lip gloss, so I seem to be wearing none at all. Tess loves me to look glamorous. She will be disappointed.
‘Hello?’ I shout, standing in the hallway. Mum appears at once, smearing her hands on an apron. I can smell baking.
Behind her, my stepbrother Taylor appears. He looks at me shyly, and grins.
‘All right?’ he asks gruffly.
‘Darling!’ says Mum. She is deputy head of a local school - Tessa’s school, to both of their chagrin - but over Christmas she reverts to a fifties housewife, cooking constantly, cleaning, delighting in providing food and drink for anyone who walks through the door. She has had a haircut, and put lipstick on. She always does that for the holidays. I, on the other hand, relish the rare chance to leave my hair to its own devices. ‘Come in. Sit down. Have a drink. Are you hungry? Let’s have lunch. There’s soup, and I’ve just taken the rolls out of the oven. And the mince pies will be ready in a minute.’
I smile. ‘Lead me to it.’
Taylor is taller and broader than he was last time I saw him. His skin is better, and, at twenty, he now looks like an adult rather than an adolescent. As I walk over to him, he reaches forward reluctantly and hugs me, and I smell beer on his breath. He has had his hair shaved in a number two cut since I last saw him, and I am unable to resist reaching out and stroking his fluffy head. He rolls his eyes and retreats.
I sit at the table in the large kitchen, and look around. The room is decorated with cards and holly and mistletoe. There is evidence of cooking all around the worktops. Washing is drying in front of the radiators. The rolls smell delicious. This is the Christmas I have wanted for years. I am the spoilt child, the famous daughter, the one they hardly ever see. I am single again, and I have a new energy. I pull my legs up and cross them on the chair in front of me.
Tessa takes the chair next to mine, and pulls it closer to me. She rests her elbows on the table, puts her chin in her hands, and gazes at me. I smile back at her. Taylor looks up from his task of pouring gin and tonics for four.
‘Tess,’ he says witheringly, ‘you’re tragic.’
‘I am not,’ she retorts. ‘You’re a tosser.’
Mum looks up. ‘Tessa!’
‘Well, he is.’
‘You don’t even know what it means,’ says Taylor dismissively.
‘I do,’ she says. ‘It means wanker.’
I burst out laughing. After a few seconds, so does Mum. She shrugs.
‘Little girls have changed since you were young,’ she tells me.
‘Because that was the long-ago days,’ explains Tessa.
I take the drink Taylor is holding out to me. ‘Tell me about it. What’s going on with you, Taylor?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing.’ Taylor is still self-conscious about everything, according to my mother, and refuses to tell them anything about his life. I know that he’s working to save up to go travelling in the spring, and that he lives with his mother on the other side of Bristol.
‘How’s work?’ I ask.
‘Boring.’
‘Are you still at the pub?’
‘Mmmm. I hate it. I might leave.’
‘You must have saved some money?’
‘Not enough.’
‘I shouldn’t say you’ve grown,’ I tell him, ‘but you have. You look great. Very handsome. Is that patronising?’ I realise, suddenly, that the boy I kissed a couple of nights ago, the boy I will be seducing early next year whether his management like it or not, is two years younger than Taylor.
‘No,’ he says, swallowing his gin in two gulps. ‘It’s fine. You haven’t grown. You’ve shrunk since last year. Do you have an Xbox?’
‘No,’ I tell him, and add proudly, ‘but I bought one the other day. I got it for Jack.’
‘Wasted on him. You should have kept it. Come up and play after if you want. Sega GT. I’ll show you.’
‘OK.’
Mum sits opposite me, her hands wiped clean of dough, her gin and tonic sparkling before her. She leans across conspiratorially.
‘You seem all right, darling,’ she says, a look of concern on her face and a question in her voice. Taylor holds his hands up and leaves the room. Tessa leans forward too.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, looking at each of them. ‘Really, I’m great. I’m better than I’ve been for ages. You’ll like Megan. Oh, sorry, but I accidentally invited her parents to the party as well.’
Mum laughs. ‘Good. I always worry no one’s going to come.’
‘The flat’s gorgeous, right on the top floor, with views for miles. Maybe not miles and miles, but very good views for London. It’s all light and airy too. I love it. It couldn’t be more different from south-east London.’
‘I always loved Greenwich,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t you miss it?’
I smile. ‘Not really. I miss our house and the river and the pubs, but I’m glad to be moving on. I think I have more of a west London personality.’
‘So you’re happy?’
My smile gets broader. ‘Very.’
‘And do you think there’s any chance of patching things up with Jack?’
‘Oh, you’ll love this. I told him to get away and sort himself out, so he’s booked himself a little cell in a Buddhist monastery in Scotland. He’s going next month.’
‘Poor Jack,’ says Mum, looking at me.
‘I know. He turned up in a state the other night and said he wanted us to have a baby.’ I watch Mum’s reaction. She is taken aback. ‘I don’t need him any more. I don’t want to go back and try to force myself to be content in a relationship I don’t enjoy. If we already had kids together, sure, I’d do my best to make it work, but for now I want to aim a little higher. I’ve written off my twenties, so the first half of my thirties is going to have to be good.’
‘You and Jack were together a long time, Evie. He’s allowed to be cut up about it. It takes time to get over a marriage. It can be hard to let go. I remember, with your father, even with all the . . .’ She glances at Tessa.
‘I know.’ I know exactly what she was going to say. Even with all the drinking, even though his alcoholism made her life hell, she still found it hard to let go. I know, because we’ve spoken about it before. I stand up and get out bowls and plates for lunch. ‘But it should be so simple for me and Jack. We got together too young, it’s been eight years, we’re clearly not right for each other any more, and we ought to be able to have the textbook amicable separation.’ I look at Tessa. ‘You shouldn’t be listening to this,’ I tell her. She smiles and flutters her eyelashes at me, as charmingly as she can.
‘S’OK,’ she says. ‘I know about boyfriends.’
‘No you do not, young lady,’ says Mum. ‘Go and get Taylor off his Xbox.’
‘If you ask me,’ Mum says quietly, when we are alone, ‘the textbook amicable separation is a myth. It never happens. At least, like you say, you and Jack haven’t got any children together.’
On Christmas Day I wake with a start to find someone next to me in my old single bed. I sit up, shock
ed. For a moment I think Jack has broken into the house and climbed in next to me. I would not be in the least surprised.
My heart is pounding. When I look down and see Tessa, I force myself to breathe deeply. Of course it’s Tessa. It could not have been anyone else. Tessa’s dark eyelashes curl away from her face. Her cheeks are pink, and her breathing is even. She senses me looking at her, and opens her eyes. Then she remembers what day it is, and smiles broadly.
‘Happy Christmas!’ she shrieks, reaching both arms around my neck and pulling me back down. Tessa’s dark hair is tangled and she is warm and soft. She smells of little girls. The smell gives me a familiar pang. ‘Has Father Christmas been?’
‘I’m sure he has.’ I snuggle back down with her. ‘Happy Christmas to you too. How long have you been here?’
‘Oh, I woke reeeeeeely early, like at five or something, and that’s like when kids get up on Christmas, so I thought I’d better not wake Mum and Dad since I’m not exactly a kid any more. So I came in, so so quietly, to see you. And then I came into your bed and it was lovely and warm so I fell asleep.’
I check the clock.
‘It’s half past eight! I remember a couple of Christmases ago when you were waking me and Jack at quarter to six. Well done, sweetheart. Where’s your stocking?’
‘I brought it through with me. It’s on the floor. I only looked at the things in the very top. Does Father Christmas come to you?’
I smile and run my fingers through my tangled hair. ‘He asked if I wanted a visit this year, and I said no.’
Tessa looks conspiratorial. ‘Evie, I actually know that Father Christmas isn’t real. I actually knew that when I was seven. But Mum and Dad think I don’t know so I haven’t told them. You see, I have to pretend. Even though I’m twelve.’
‘If I were you, Tess . . .’ I stop, not sure whether I’m right.
‘What?’
‘Well, I think you could tell them that you know. They won’t mind. They’ll probably be pleased that they don’t have to pretend any more.’
Tessa looks crestfallen. ‘You mean he really isn’t real?’ she says in a small voice.
I am horrified. ‘Were you testing me?’ I hastily try to work out if there’s a way to backtrack.
Tessa bursts out laughing. ‘Of course I knew! I’m only teasing. Evie, it’s so nice to have my sister home. Will you stay living with us now that you’re divorced?’
I sit up in bed and hug my knees. ‘I’d love to. But I have to go back to London because of work, and soon I have to go to America. I’m not quite divorced yet, either. But now that I don’t have to think about Jack, I’ll come and stay much more often. And when you’re maybe thirteen, you can come to London and stay with me.’
‘Can I really?’
‘Of course you can. I’ll meet you from the train. Stay with me and Megan. I love your pyjamas.’
‘I love yours.’
‘Shall we go downstairs?’
Christmas lunch is late and large. I sit between Tessa and Taylor, and eat an enormous amount. I feel my stomach constricted by the waist of my trousers, and consider undoing a button. Taylor and I drain a bottle of wine between us before Phil finishes carving the main course.
‘May as well get rid of the last few drops,’ says Taylor jovially, filling my glass so full that the meniscus rises above the rim. I lean down to slurp the excess from the top.
‘Cheers,’ I say, picking up the glass.
‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘It’s nice to have Evie on her own, isn’t it?’
No one replies, but I know they all agree. Phil changes the subject. ‘Much work coming up?’ he asks. Phil has been my stepfather for seventeen years. He has black hair and a black beard and olive skin, all of which come from his Spanish father. He is gentle and kind, and a good complement to my father, Howard, whom I rarely see because he lives in America. Howard has been sober for years and years, and Phil is the best thing that could have happened to my mother. For a dysfunctional family, we have got off lightly.
‘Yes, actually,’ I say casually. I used to be wildly overexcited by professional engagements, but at the moment I can’t see how I’m going to muster the energy to get through them, particularly in America where I have to be exhaustingly nice to everyone all the time. I should be grateful for the opportunities I am given, I know, but right now I can’t help feeling cynical. Like a Hollywood actress, I know that once I begin to lose my looks, the work will dry up. This is understandable for a film star, and less so for a musician. If I was stupendously talented, my age and looks wouldn’t matter. But I am not; and they do. It bothers me that I am deemed unsuitable for Dan Donovan. ‘I’ve got to play “The Swan”, on an advert,’ I tell him, and I hum a few bars to remind them all which popular classic that is. ‘Saint-Saëns. And I have to go to New York for it. They actually want to film me playing it sitting in the middle of a crowded street, at a junction, all dressed in white with my hair flowing like the Timotei ad but a bit funkier.’ I shrug. ‘The money’s good, and this is my chance to make some inroads in America.’
Tessa squirms. ‘I love it when you’re on telly! When’s it going to be on?’
‘Not for a while yet, sweetheart, and then only on satellite. We don’t film till February.’
Phil looks amused. ‘What will you be advertising, sitting in the middle of this junction dressed in white?’
I laugh. ‘Iced tea. Can you believe it? It’s the launch of a new brand made by one of the big drinks companies, and they’re going to be plastering the ads everywhere. Apparently its name was going to be Nice Tea but they decided if you say it quickly it sounds like Nasty. So now it’s just called Calm. An oasis of peace in a crazy world, that kind of thing. All the traffic will be suddenly silenced by my playing. Like it always is. In real life. Particularly when I’ve had a synthetic sugary drink.’
Taylor nods to my glass. ‘Drink up then.’
I scrutinise the bottle. ‘Wrong sort of drink entirely, but never mind. A nice Bordeaux Cabernet. Not the bringer of sudden calm at all. Much more likely to make me obnoxious and tearful. I’ll have to treat this as research into contrasts. This is what I am not recommending.’
Phil chuckles. ‘Essential that you have a thorough awareness of the full spectrum of the beverage market, I imagine.’
Mum looks happy. ‘And are there other things coming up, darling?’ I nod, my mouth full of turkey and gravy.
‘Apparently this Calm thing is going to launch me in the States. They’re putting out my most recent album, you remember, the one that came out here a little while ago.’
Taylor interrupts. ‘You mean the one with your kit off on the front?’
‘I’ve always got my kit off on the front, except for the strategically placed gauze or cello. Anyway, they’re releasing it there to coincide with the ads, so there’ll be lots to do out there, and I’ll hang around for as long as I’m welcome, really.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Do you get to fly first class?’ asks Taylor, gulping a whole roast potato. I nod again.
‘Business class,’ I clarify, after swallowing. ‘And I get to hang out in the first-class lounge at the airport. Honestly, it is the best. I turn up five hours early and get my hair and eyebrows done - for free. And all the food and drinks are free too, and there are people who keep appearing at your elbow asking ever so politely if they can fetch you anything. You can see the planes outside really clearly, and for some reason there’s an enormous train set. It’s freebie paradise in there. The more money you have, the less you need to spend. It’s terrible, really.’
‘Yes,’ says Phil. ‘It sounds it.’
‘What about hotels?’ demands Taylor. ‘Can you get free stuff on room service?’
‘Mmm,’ I tell him. ‘Not free room service, unless I’m particularly lucky. They put me up in the most mediocre establishment they can get away with. But nice, obviously. The trouble with America, though, is that you have to tip everyone all the t
ime. I always find myself in some position where I am so obviously supposed to hand someone a couple of dollars and I haven’t got any change, or any money at all, and then the looks they shoot you. Pure hatred.’
I look around. I love being the centre of my family’s attention, just for a few moments. They are all looking at me fondly. I know Taylor thinks my life is impossibly glamorous, and I am happy for him to believe in his enchanted stepsister for a few years, until he’s wise enough to see through the trappings. I look down at Tessa, who is gazing at me with adoration.
‘Hey,’ I tell her. ‘It’s only me. I may get to go on planes for free sometimes, but I’m getting divorced as well. It’s not all excitement and fun.’
Conversation turns to other subjects, to Phil’s search for a new job and Taylor’s working visa for Australia. I am pleasantly drunk. I will have a doze in front of the television this afternoon, followed by a walk. This is family life at its best. Everyone is flawed but everybody loves each other.
I can’t quite shake the conviction, however, that someone is missing from the happy gathering. And it is not Jack.
chapter six
Boxing Day
I am forcing myself to do some practice when the doorbell rings. No one is due at the party for three hours, at least, so I ignore the interruption, and carry on with my scales.
I’m playing in my bedroom, which is, once again, something of a sanctuary for me. Lots has happened in this room, and it was long ago redecorated as a guest room, with neutral magnolia walls and pale green curtains, rather than the clashing reds and pinks of my day. That doesn’t stop it being my little bedroom. I can still hide away here, when I need to. Today, for some reason, I need to.
This is the smallest bedroom in the house, tucked between Tessa’s room and a little bathroom with views across to Clifton. I have been playing here, undisturbed, for an hour. Sometimes I love to sit and play, to let time stand still while I go over and over a cluster of notes. It is like meditation. I smell the house around me - the soothing scent of laundry, bubble bath and distant cooking - and I go over E flat major again and again. Up the scale, from the C string through to the upper reaches of the A. Three octaves of E flat major, and I’m not hurrying it, not thinking about my marriage, my flat, my past, my future. I am simply playing. I wish I could always play like this. If I was this patient, this relaxed, every time, I might be the musician my press releases suggest. If I loved the music like I love the celebrity, I would lead an entirely different life.
