I started singing to the tune of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, “You know Grazia and Cosmo and Tatler and Stylist, Harpers and… No, it’s no good. I can’t think of any more.”
“Vogue wouldn’t fit the meter,” mused Serena, “And Marie-Claire’s no good either, nor Elle. InStyle doesn’t quite scan.” She tried singing it, and it sounded so daft the two of us were leaning against the kitchen counter giggling like loons when Rose walked in, looking absolutely radiant and appropriate in that way Rose has, in a cream-coloured silk wrap dress with her hair piled up on top of her head with a couple of lovely sparkly combs, and caramel-coloured slouchy boots and the chunky outsize pearl beads that she’d had in her stocking, which I took as a sign that she wanted to make Serena happy, and made me feel a bit relieved.
Once all the food had been prepared to Rose’s standards, Dad, Rose and I bundled up in layers and layers of scarves and coats and mittens and went outside and built a snowman, finishing it off with a carrot for a nose and the battered tweed cap Grandpa wears when he’s out walking in the Lake District, where they live. I made a mental note to retrieve it before the end of the day because Grandpa really is quite bizarrely fond of it. We were all glowing and warm with laughter despite the freezing day, and I looked at the snowman and thought how excited it would make Pers, and I wondered if Claire had taken her down to the park to build a snowman of their own, and just fleetingly I thought that there was something a bit sad and empty about a Christmas with no children. I haven’t been hit with the broody stick or anything – I adore Pers and I expect I’ll have kids of my own one day, but for the moment I simply can’t imagine the responsibility.
Perhaps Rose would marry Oliver, I thought, and in a couple of years’ time there would be a tiny child trotting around Dad’s garden in the snow and sitting down suddenly on its bottom and looking startled in that cute way they have. Then I wondered what it would be like living on my own in the flat in Battersea with Rose and Oliver living somewhere else – I think he’d mentioned that he had an apartment in the Barbican – and I suddenly felt cold again. By that stage Stu, Dad’s old business partner, and Serena’s parents Gill and Michael had arrived so we all trooped back inside and shed our layers and opened some champagne.
Eventually – late as it always is on Christmas day – lunch was ready and we all filed through to the dining room and watched Dad carve the turkey, and then embarked on a very civilised feeding frenzy. After the main course but before the pudding, once everyone had said no, they couldn’t possibly manage another chipolata sausage or Brussels sprout and then had three, and Rose and I had carried the plates through to the kitchen and stacked them next to, but not in, the dishwasher, because a job postponed is a job halved, and Dad had filled everyone’s glasses, Grandpa stood up and tinged his glass with the mustard spoon.
He made the little speech he’d made every year for the past thirteen Christmases. I suppose he used to do it before then too, but I’d dismissed it as one of those random things grown-ups did that had no real meaning for me, but since then, obviously, it had become a bit of a big deal. He talked quickly and sweetly about how Christmas is a time for family and friends – sending a warm smile in the direction of Stu, who was looking borderline comatose from punch – and that, at this time of year, we think most fondly and most sadly about those who we would love to be here, but who aren’t.
Then he said, “So I will propose my usual Christmas toast, to absent friends,” and everyone murmured, “Absent friends,” and took a grateful glug of their drink, and Dad reached over to Serena and gave her hand a squeeze to let her know that although he and everyone else was thinking of Mum, she was the one who was there and the one he loved the most right then. And Serena squeezed his hand back and then Dad gave a little cough, and half stood up too, but thought better of it and stayed sat down.
“I’ve got something to say too,” he said, “and today, with all of us here together, seems like the right time and place to say it.”
I looked at his face, all sort of pleased and shy, and at Serena’s expression of glowy excitement, and the glass of fizzy water she was holding in her hand that wore the titanium wedding band matching Dad’s, and of course I knew exactly what he was going to say. But Rose didn’t. She was half-turned towards Granny, impatient to continue their conversation, and she just looked perplexed and a bit annoyed. I wanted to stop Dad and tell him this was a really bad idea, and to save it for another day, but there was no way I could. Dad is crap at speaking in public at the best of times, but in this setting, facing his daughters and his in-laws (two sets of them, how harsh is that?) and his best mate, he became positively loquacious.
“Family is enormously important to me and Serena,” he said. “She’s become a wonderful and close friend to Ellie” – true, she has – “and Rose” – steady on, Dad – “and Gill and Michael have welcomed me as a son, albeit an ageing, crusty one.” He was really getting into his stride. I dug my fingernails into my palms and willed him to wrap it up. Or better still shut up, but it was too late for that.
“And we’re so excited that we are going to be adding a new generation to the family,” Dad blurted out in a rush. “Serena’s going to have a baby in June. Actually she’s going to have twins, and we’re both so delighted and proud.”
The crowd, as they say, went wild. Granny and Grandpa pushed back their chairs and went over to Dad and were careful to tell him how happy they were for him and Serena, and Granny wiped away a tear and said it felt as if Elizabeth were in the room giving them her blessing. I got up, wanting to give Serena a proper squeezy hug so she’d know I was genuinely pleased and didn’t mind and wasn’t in the least bit upset or jealous. Gill and Michael were holding hands, looking terribly chuffed with each other and their daughter who, at the ripe old age of thirty nine, was going to present them with not one grandchild but two. Stu stood to go and congratulate God knows who, and caught his foot in the legs of his chair and went flying, taking the jug of punch with him. I rapidly changed direction and went to see if he was okay, because nothing would fuck Christmas up like a guest with concussion.
Only Rose stayed in her place. She sat there, immobile, for a few long moments while the drink Stu had spilled cascaded over the crimson tablecloth and soaked into her cream dress. Then she stood up very, very slowly, holding on to the edge of the table as if she needed it to balance by, which perhaps she did, she’d had an awful lot of champagne.
“How fucking dare you?” she said quietly, yet amidst the mayhem we all heard every word. “How fucking dare you do that to Mum?” And she turned around and left the room, dripping punch off her lap all over the beautiful wool rug that Serena had bought on her travels in Tibet, of which she was immensely proud, and walked slowly and gracefully up the stairs, her piled-up golden hair and her long neck and her straight slim back gradually disappearing as she reached the landing. Then the glasses and dishes on the table and the baubles on the Christmas tree shuddered with the force of our bedroom door slamming against its frame.
There was a moment of total silence. Then Stu scrambled to his feet and started apologising for the mess and Serena and I rallied round and fetched cloths and sponges and Serena told him it didn’t matter, and Granny suggested to Gill and Michael that they all go through to the sitting room and she would take the Christmas pudding and mince pies out there on a tray with some coffee and port, and really it would be best to leave the two of us to get on with clearing up.
Dad sighed heavily and said, “I suppose I’d better go up and have a word with Rose.”
I didn’t say anything. I carried on sponging the carpet with stain remover, and feeling a bubble of resentment gradually building inside me. I was furious with Rose – not just for hurting Dad and being a bitch to Serena, but for taking the role of the sister who was special, who was different and sensitive and needed to be treated as such, otherwise she would withdraw herself and her affection from the family. Where did that leave me, I fumed? Being the on
e who cleaned up the mess and didn’t get the rich handsome men and smoothed over the hurt feelings, all my life for ever and ever, like some kind of latter-day Cinderella?
I got up and tipped the bucketful of water down the kitchen sink, dried my hands and went into the front room, where everyone was sitting around rather awkwardly with cups of coffee and plates of pudding and glasses of port. I poured myself a brandy and sat down and tried to chat to Gill, who asked me about my plans for New Year’s Eve, presumably thinking it was a safe subject.
“Rose and I are having a party at our flat,” I said, and I saw Gill’s lips tighten at the mention of her name.
“I’m really sorry about what she said back there,” I said. “She’s had a lot to drink and I suppose with it being Christmas it brings back memories of Mum and the feelings are a bit raw. I’m sure she’ll be down soon and feeling absolutely mortified.”
Gill sort of sniffed, and I realised that Serena would have confided in her over the years about all the little examples of Rose being ‘difficult’ – the loads of clothes put in the washing machine with all Serena’s left behind in the laundry basket; the lovingly cooked meals loaded with chilli, which Serena can’t eat; the china figurine of a cat that had been a wedding present to Dad and Serena, which Rose accidentally smashed. Admittedly it was a bit hideous, but still.
Then Dad came downstairs looking no happier, and took me aside and said, “I’m afraid Rose has decided to go back to London, Ellie.”
“But how can she?” I asked stupidly. “There aren’t any trains until tomorrow.”
“She’s rung a boyfriend. Some bloke called Oliver. He’s on his way to fetch her now.”
I couldn’t help feeling a lurch of excitement at the prospect of seeing him.
CHAPTER SIX
When I arrived home three days later, Rose was out. The flat had that slightly stuffy, dusty smell places get when they’ve been empty for a few days, and the beautifully-decorated Christmas tree was shedding its needles on to the parquet floor. I dumped the huge carrier bag of Christmas presents for Rose, which she hadn’t bothered to take with her, in the hall and headed up to my room, put my bag on the floor and then sat down on the bed, looking down at my hands and feeling sad, anticlimactic and generally at a loose end.
We’d tried to maintain the pretence of a normal Christmas after Rose left with Oliver, who had introduced himself politely to all the family but refused anything to eat or drink, clearly finding the situation as cringily awkward as the rest of us. He barely spoke to me, simply perched on the edge of a chair and made desultory conversation while we all waited for Rose to reappear, and when she did she said, “Shall we go, Ollie? Goodbye everyone, enjoy the rest of the day. Ellie, I’ll text you.” Then she and Oliver had walked out to his car (a low-slung sporty thing I think may have been a Jaguar) and they drove away, leaving silence and a feeling of emptiness behind them. Frankly it was all just shit and although I tried not to show it I felt so angry with Rose and embarrassed for her and myself, as if I were somehow to blame. And Oliver, of course, remained as remote and untouchable as ever.
Part of me had really wanted to leave myself, head back home and go out with my friends or to work or somewhere – anywhere – to escape the bad atmosphere. But the office was closed until the second of January, I didn’t want to go back to the flat in case Rose was there with Oliver, there was no room for me in Claire and Pers’s little matchbox and besides I didn’t want Dad and Serena to feel like they’d been deserted by another daughter. So I stuck it out for three more nights, chatting to them about the babies and making pots of tea and being dutiful, and instead of enjoying having them to myself, by the end of it I was really relieved to go. But now that I was home, I couldn’t seem to decide what to do with myself. If we were going to go ahead with Rose’s ambitious New Year’s Eve party plans, we’d have to have a conversation at some stage, but she hadn’t been in touch with me and I was buggered if I was going to be the one to give in and call her first.
After a while I got up, unpacked, found homes for all my Christmas presents, swept up the pine needles and whisked a duster around in a half-hearted way, then went out to the corner shop and stocked up on bread, milk and – randomly – a cabbage, because I vaguely felt we should have something healthy in the fridge to make up for all the chocolate I’d eaten over the past couple of days. When I got back I flipped through the channels on the telly, called Ben and left a message for him, called Claire and left a message for her, and then of course I caved in and called Rose. I should have known I would – I have no willpower in these things and absolutely no ability to sustain any kind of cold war. Whenever I’ve had rows with boyfriends and stormed out into the night in a huff, I’m always back knocking on their door apologising within a few minutes. If I have a disagreement with someone at work, I literally have to sit on my hands to stop myself sending conciliatory emails and end up sending them anyway. I’m a complete sucker that way. Peace-loving, I suppose you could say if you were being kind.
Anyway Rose answered her phone before I even heard it ring, so I suspected she’d been waiting for my call as anxiously as I’d been waiting for the moment when I’d give in and call her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I said.
“Are you home?” she asked, and I said yes, I’d got back a couple of hours before.
Then I said, “Rose, listen…”
“No, Ellie,” she said. “I’m not going to listen and I’m not going to talk about it. I’m just not, okay?”
I think I’ve mentioned that Rose is ridiculously stubborn. I didn’t say anything, and thought for a bit. I could try and talk sense into her and convince her that she was being childish, bratty and cruel, but then we’d end up rowing about it and there’d be a fug of tension in the flat that could last for weeks. Or she might decide to stay where she was and not come home and that would be just as bad.
So I said, “Where are you?”
“I’m at Vanessa’s,” she said surprisingly. “I’ve been staying here for the last few days – Ollie had stuff on. We’re planning our outfits for New Year’s. Did you see the update on the Facebook page?”
“No,” I said, rather sullenly if I’m being honest.
“We’ve decided to make it an eighties theme,” she said. “You’ll need to find a costume – I’m going as Madonna, with a pointy bra and everything, and Ness is going as Tina Turner.”
“What?” I said, well and truly distracted from my original point. “But I hate fancy dress. You know I do.”
“Oh come on, Ellie, don’t be a spoil-sport,” Rose said. “It’s going to be brilliant. We’re going to have disco music and lights and retro food and everything. Ness wanted a prawn ring but I said no because we have our standards, but I’m thinking miniature chicken kievs and devilled eggs and stuff.”
“Cheese and pineapple hedgehog?” In spite of myself, I was entering into the spirit of the thing.
“Exactly!” said Rose. “See, there’s no need to be so prickly.”
“As long as you promise the prawn ring idea’s going to be spiked,” I said, starting to giggle. Rose and I love playing this game.
“Don’t worry, I talked Ness out if it,” Rose said. “She’s quite spineless really.” I could hear the smile in her voice too.
“Did you have sharp words?” I asked.
“Nah,” Rose said, “Ness lacks the quillpower.” I could hear Vanessa groan loudly in the background. She just doesn’t get it.
“Know what I don’t understand about them?” I asked.
“What?” said Rose.
“Why they can’t just share the hedge.” I heard Rose dissolve into laughter, and ended the call, feeling much better. I didn’t know what was going to happen with Oliver, or with Dad and Serena, but for now I had my sister back. I sat down at my laptop and started Googling 1980s fashion, and when Rose walked in a couple of hours later I was feeling quite enthusiastic about the idea and had decided to go
as Siouxie Sioux.
“Now if we hang the mirror ball here, in the middle of the room from the light fitting,” Rose said, “And the coloured fairy lights round the edges, it will look totally tremaze.” It was five o’clock on New Year’s Eve and she had been in full-on preparation mode all day, the two of us working like slaves piping filling into scooped-out boiled eggs, sticking spikes on not one but three cheese hedgehogs, one with pineapple, one with green and red glacé cherries, and one with blue cocktail onions – god knows where Rose managed to track those down, I thought they would have been banned years ago owing to their frightening E-number content. After all, even Smarties have been made all healthy and naturally coloured now, and look like they’ve been pre-sucked, which is wrong if you ask me. Anyway Rose had managed to locate her lurid pickled onions from somewhere, and made a huge black forest gateau and loads of vol-au-vents and sausage rolls and sticks of celery stuffed with blue cheese and walnuts, and it may all have been kitscher than a kitsch thing, but it looked delicious.
Finally, Rose climbed the step ladder and carefully hung up the mirror ball.
“There.” She stood back and surveyed our handiwork. “Now we’d better go and get ready, Ellie – it’s going to take me ages to get my hair right with those stupid heated rollers.”
We went into Rose’s bedroom together and it was just like getting ready for parties used to be when we were teenagers. Rose teased my hair and sprayed it purple and I helped her arrange the rollers in hers. She lent me a black vinyl mini-skirt she’d found in one of her drawers and which I just managed to squeeze my arse into and we put careful rips and ladders in a pair of my M&S opaque tights and I finished off the ensemble with Mum’s velvet batwing top that I’d remembered to iron, and put loads of black eyeliner on my eyes and some on my lips too. Rose hadn’t managed to find a pointy bra but she put on a white basque thing and a full, short skirt and white lace gloves and white fishnet stockings that she said had cost a fortune at a bridal boutique, and masses of red lipstick and once she’d spayed half a can of Elnett on her curled hair she looked beyond hot.
It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend Page 6
