Upside Down Inside Out

by Monica McInerney

  She’d been scribbling page after page of notes as he spoke. She looked up to find him studying her with a look of concern and affection.

  “I’m throwing you in the deep end, Harriet, but you’ll be okay, I know it. You were a great guide before all that stuff happened, and you will be again.”

  She was surprised at how much his words meant. James rarely spoke about personal things like that. She was about to thank him, when he leaned back against the pillow.

  “And you won’t be on your own with them once you get to England,” he said. “I’ve asked Lara to meet you at Bristol Airport and travel with you for the first couple of days. Just until you really find your feet again.”

  “Lara?”

  James didn’t notice her tone of voice change. “Don’t you think it’s a brainwave? The tourism college she’s doing that course at is in Bath, practically down the road from Bristol. And the Willoughby tour’s her baby, really. She knows it all inside out. Better than me, even. She said it was no problem, she could take a few days off from her course to give you a hand. I rang her as soon as you said yes.”

  “But you just said you knew I could handle it.”

  “I do, but Lara’s so close, it makes sense for her to help you out. It’s all organized. She’ll meet you at the airport, stay with you in the hotel nearby the first night, and then travel down in the tour bus to St. Ives with you the next day.” He gave her a smile. “The two of you will just have to toss a coin to see who gets the guide seat and the microphone.”

  Harriet gave a half smile back, trying hard not to let her feelings show. The excitement at the thought of going back on the road had abruptly faded. She twisted the bracelet she wore on her left wrist. It was a new habit. She’d only started doing it in the past few months. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be meeting up with Lara, let alone traveling with her. What could she have said to James, though? “I’m sorry, James, but I’m not sure I can do the tour for you after all. I don’t think Lara and I can work together anymore.”

  What would he have said in return? “But why not? I always thought you were the greatest of friends. What’s happened? Something you did? Something she did?”

  Something Lara had done. But James hadn’t noticed her reaction or given her time to explain to him how she felt. He’d finished his briefing, she’d driven back home to Merryn Bay, hurriedly packed, and now here she was, less than seventy-two hours later, in England, in charge of a group, just minutes away from meeting Lara again.

  Mrs. Lamerton came up beside her at the baggage carousel. “The hotel’s not far from the airport, I hope, Harriet, is it? We’re all very tired.”

  Harriet glanced at her watch. It was getting late. “It’s just down the motorway, Mrs. Lamerton. I’ll have you there as soon as I can, I promise.”

  She stepped back out of Mrs. Lamerton’s earshot and surreptitiously tried Lara’s mobile again. Still no answer. Where was she? Had she had an accident on the way to the airport? Or was it something as simple as losing her mobile? And if she wasn’t there, should Harriet wait? Or get her poor, tired group to their hotel as quickly as possible and then worry about Lara?

  She felt a slow rising of anxiety and tried to ignore it. Another of her father’s travel rules came to mind, also a duck metaphor, she realized. A good tour guide is like a duck on a pond—serene on the surface and paddling like mad underneath. He was right. Her job was to keep calm and show leadership, to stay serene in the face of all difficulties. She tried to imagine herself gliding across a pond, but the only creature that came to mind was an agitated cat, eyes dilated, back arched, fur bristling. She imagined the group’s reactions if they were to turn and see their tour guide down on all fours, hair standing on end, hissing and spitting beside their suitcases. She tried some deep breathing instead.

  The conveyor belt started again and the last pieces of their luggage came past. She added them to the cart and did a quick count. It was all there. Another step of the tour successfully completed. She decided it was a sign. Of course, Lara was waiting for them outside. She would be friendly, and Harriet would be just as friendly back. And yes, the next few days together would be difficult—very difficult—but they would work through it. They had to work through it. It was what her parents would have wanted.…

  Gathering her twelve ducklings around her, pushing a laden luggage cart in front of her, Harriet took another deep breath and stepped through the door into the arrivals area.

  In Berlin at that moment, Austin Turner stood poised, watchful. He was dressed in a formal black suit and immaculate white shirt, with his dark hair slicked back. The music swirled around him, building to a crescendo. On the stage to his right the heavily made-up woman was kneeling, face wretched, voice pure, as she mourned the loss of her husband, only seconds from seizing a knife and plunging it into her own body.

  Austin felt the wood of the hammers in his hands, running his thumbs along the smooth surface as the music surged. He watched the conductor, waiting. The sound of the violins and cellos was building, quickening, as the drama reached its height on the stage. The soprano’s voice and the orchestra’s music intertwined, rising and falling. Austin didn’t need to look out into the audience to know that every person was sitting still, their eyes wide, caught in the story, seduced by the sounds. He focused on the conductor, waiting. The nod came, at last. Austin hit the hammer against the cymbal, the noise like a thunderclap, sharp, sudden. Again. Again. He kept one eye on the conductor, almost sensing the movement of the knife in the soprano’s hand in the corner of his vision, matching his sounds to her actions. Again. Then his two hands a blur, rolling and hitting against the sides of the drum, the echoes of sound layered with the other instruments, a cacophony of swirling and building up and then—

  Silence.

  A faint panting from the soprano.

  And then like a wave of sound, the applause, rushing at them. Austin bowed his head. Ten years of study, no money, constant travel, waiting for what seemed like hours every night for his short time in the limelight, when the only sounds filling the hall were the ones he was making. It was worth it, every time.

  There was one curtain call. Then a second. As he was turning to the audience for the third bow, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Just as well he’d put it on mute before he’d come into the pit. The bassoon player had been bawled out in front of the whole orchestra at rehearsals last week when his mobile went off midway through the tower scene. It hadn’t helped that he’d answered it, of course. Strictly speaking, they were all banned from keeping their mobiles on them. But they all disobeyed. The violinists couldn’t get away with it, under the nose of the conductor, but it was easy enough for Austin, tucked away to the side, surrounded by kettledrums and percussion instruments. Sometimes entire scenes went by and he didn’t have a thing to do. He’d taught himself to text without looking, which filled some of the time. The messages were often even more misspelled than usual, but that was the whole fun of texting anyway. And he needed something to occupy his time. He’d become bored enough of the opera story line by the fiftieth time he’d seen it.

  He waited until the conductor had left the stage and the other musicians had filed past him before he checked the new message. It was from Harriet. One word.

  HELP!

  Chapter Two

  Harriet’s bedside digital clock clicked over to midnight. Outside her door, the hotel corridor was quiet. Fifteen minutes had passed since she’d last heard the nearby lift being used. She knew the tour group members were safely in their hotel bedrooms, probably fast asleep already. Most had been so tired they’d started to fall asleep in the bus on the way from the airport. They’d only needed to be guided gently up to their rooms, although Mr. Fidock, one of the two men, had insisted on being guided gently into the bar.

  “Watch him, Harriet, won’t you?” James had warned her. “Mr. Fidock treats these tours like lonely hearts club outings. He had poor old Mrs. Kowalski in tears at the end of the
Man from Snowy River tour two years ago. She fell for him, hook, line, and sinker.”

  “Mr. Fidock? The short bald man? But he’s more than seventy years old.”

  “And so is Sean Connery, as Mr. Fidock will tell you over and over again.”

  Harriet was still wide awake. She’d changed out of her Turner Travel uniform into soft brushed-cotton pajamas and

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Alphabet

  Sisters

  A Novel

  by Monica McInerney

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Chapter One

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Your sister is married to your ex-fiancé?” Jessica’s voice rose to such a pitch Bett Quinlan half expected the lightbulbs to explode. “We’ve worked together for nearly two years and you tell me this now?”

  Bett knew right then she had made a big mistake. “It didn’t ever really come up until now.”

  “Something like that doesn’t need to come up. That’s something you tell people within minutes of meeting. ‘Hi, my name’s Bett, short for Elizabeth. I work as a journalist in a record company, and my sister is married to my ex-husband.’ “

  “Ex-fiancé,” Bett corrected. She tried to backtrack. “Look, forget I mentioned it. I’m fine about it. She’s fine about it. He’s fine about it. It’s not a big deal.” Liar, liar.

  “Of course it’s a big deal. It’s a huge deal. And they’ll both be at your grandmother’s party? No wonder you’re feeling sick about it.”

  “I’m not feeling sick about it. I said I was a bit nervous about going home for it, not sick.”

  “Tomato, tomayto. Oh, Bett, you poor thing. Which sister was it? The older one or the younger one?”

  “The younger one. Carrie.” Bett felt as if the words were being squeezed out of her.

  “And what happened? Were they having an affair behind your back? You came home from work early one day and caught them at it in your marital—sorry, engagement—bed?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.” Bett stood up. She’d definitely made a mistake. That afternoon at work she’d decided to invite her friend and colleague Jessica back for dinner to tell her the whole story. She’d hoped it would help make this trip back to Australia easier. Prepare her for people’s reactions again, like a dress rehearsal. But it wasn’t helping at all. It was excruciating. She ran her fingers through her dark curls, trying to take back control of the situation. “Can I get you a coffee? Another glass of wine?”

  “No thanks. Don’t change the subject, either. So did you go to the wedding?”

  “Would you prefer tea?”

  Jessica laughed good-naturedly. “Come on, Bett. You brought it up in the first place. Think of it as therapy. It can’t have been good for you to go around with a secret like this bottled up inside you. Did you go to the wedding?”

  Bett sat down again. “I didn’t, no.”

  “Well, no, of course you didn’t. It would have been too humiliating, I suppose.”

  She blinked at Jessica’s bluntness.

  “Did your sister use the same wedding invitations? Just cross out your name and put hers instead?”

  “That’s not very funny.”

  Jessica gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. So who was the bridesmaid? Your older sister? Anna?”

  “No, she wasn’t there either.”

  Jessica frowned. “None of her sisters were there? What? Did it cause some huge fight between all three of you?”

  In a nutshell, yes. “It was a bit like that.”

  “Really? You haven’t spoken to either of your sisters since the wedding?”

  “No.” Bett shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Or seen them.” Not since the weekend of the Big Fight. Which had followed the Friday of the Revelations. Which had followed the Weeks of the Suspicions. “Not for three years.”

  “Your grandmother’s party will be the first time you’ve seen your sisters in three years?” At Bett’s nod, Jessica gave a long, low whistle. “This is more complicated than I thought. No wonder you went so weird when that fax from your grandmother arrived.”

  “I didn’t go weird.”

  “Yes, you did. Have you got any photos of your sister and your fiancé together?”

  “Why? Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course I do. I just need to get the whole picture of it in my head, so I can give you all the advice you need.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t—”

  “Please, Bett. You know how much I love looking at photos.”

  That much was true. Jessica was the only person Bett had ever met who genuinely enjoyed looking at other people’s holiday photos. She wouldn’t just flick through a packet of snaps either, but would inspect each one, asking about the subject, the setting, the film speed used.

  Jessica was being her most persuasive. “I’m sure it will help you. This way I’ll know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  “Thanks, anyway, but—”

  “Bett, come on. You’ve told me half of it. I may as well see the rest.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Please-please-please …”

  Bett gave in, picking up the small photo album lying on top of the bookcase in the corner of the room. At least it would take Jessica only a few minutes to get through them. She had left South Australia in such a hurry three years earlier that she hadn’t taken any of her photos with her. The only ones in her album were those her parents and Lola had sent with their letters.

  As Jessica gleefully started turning the pages, Bett retreated to the tiny kitchen with the dirty dishes, feeling sick and steamrolled. Thirty-two years old and she still hadn’t learned how to stand up for herself. For a fleeting moment she wondered how her sisters would have reacted in the same situation. Anna would have given Jessica a haughty stare and chilled her into silence. Carrie would have tossed her blonde head and told her laughingly and charmingly to mind her own business. But not Bett. No, she’d just felt embarrassed about having said too much and then handed the photo album over anyway. She decided to blame the wine they’d had that night for this sudden need to show and tell all. Nine parts alcohol, one part truth serum.

  She came back into the living room and picked up a music magazine, trying to pretend she wasn’t watching Jessica’s every reaction as she pored over each photo. For a while the only sound was pages turning, interrupted by Jessica asking the occasional question.

  “Is that your mum and dad?”

  Bett glanced at it. A photo of her parents, arm in arm in front of the main motel building, wearing matching Santa hats, squinting into the sunshine. They’d sent it in their Christmas card the previous year. “That’s right.”

  Jessica read the sign behind them. “The Valley View Motel. Is that where you grew up?”

  “We moved around a lot when we were younger, but that’s where they are now.”

  Jessica nodded and turned the page. “And this is Lola? The old lady wearing too much makeup?”

  Bett didn’t even have to look at the photo. “That’s her.”

  “Would you look at those eyebrows! They’re like caterpillars on a trampoline. She was your nanny, did you tell me?”

  “Sort of.” Nanny always seemed too mild a word to describe Lola. She’d certainly minded them as children. With their parents so occupied running the motels, it was Lola, their father’s mother, who had practically brought up Bett and her two sisters—but she was more a combination of etiquette teacher, boot-camp mistress, and musical director than nanny.

  “Is she wearing fancy dress in this next photo?”

  Bett glanced over. It was a picture of Lola beside her seventy-ninth birthday cake, nearly twelve months earlier. She was wearing a gaudily patterned caftan, dangling earrings, and several beaded necklaces. Nothing too out of the ordinary. “No, that’s just her.”

  Jessica kept flicking the pages, and then stopped suddenly. Bett tensed, knowing she had reached Carrie and Matthew�
��s wedding photo. Bett had wanted to throw it away the day she received it, but had stopped herself. She hadn’t wanted her grandmother to be right. It was Lola who had sent the photo to her, enclosing a brief note: “You’ll probably get all dramatic and rip this up, but I knew you’d want to see it.”

  “This is them?” Jessica asked.

  “That’s them.”

  Jessica studied it closely. “Carrie’s very pretty, isn’t she? And he’s a bit of a looker, too, your Matthew. Nice perm.”

  At least Jessica hadn’t said what people usually said when they remarked how pretty Carrie was: “You don’t look at all alike, do you?” As for her other remark …

  “He’s not my Matthew. And it wasn’t a perm. He’s got naturally wavy hair.”

  Jessica grinned. “Just seeing if you defended him.” She turned the page and gave a loud hoot of laughter. “Now we’re talking. I’ve been dying to see proof of the Alphabet Sisters. Look at you with that mad head of curls.”

  Bett tugged self-consciously at that same head of curls, now at least slightly less mad. Lola had sent her that photo, too. It had arrived with just a scrawled note, subtle as ever. “Remember the good times with your sisters as well.” It had been taken at a country show in outback South Australia more than twenty years previously, at one of the Alphabet Sisters’ earliest singing performances. Anna had been thirteen, Bett eleven, and Carrie eight. Bett could even remember the songs: “Song Sung Blue,” “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” and a David Cassidy pop song. Just minutes after the photo had been taken, a fly had buzzed its way straight into Anna’s mouth. Her shocked expression and sudden squawk had made Bett and Carrie laugh so much both of them had fallen off the small stage, a wide plank of wood balanced on eight milk crates. The memory could still make Bett laugh.

  Jessica was inspecting it very closely. “You were a bit of a porker back then, weren’t you?”

  The smile disappeared. “Well, that was nicely put, Jess, thanks.”