The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  ‘A cheque will do!’ Pip declares, not wanting Zac to pay her, cash or otherwise. The concept is horrendous. It’s not just that she feels suddenly dirty, or cheap – but more that she believes if she accepts money from Zac a formality will then exist which will supersede any vestige of friendship. They’ll become little more than business acquaintances.

  ‘It’s cool,’ Zac shrugs, thumbing through the notes.

  ‘Honestly! Please!’ Pip pleads, though an image of that month’s red bills looms large in her mind’s eye. ‘Tell June to pop a cheque in the post.’

  ‘She likes to honour her debts,’ Zac explains.

  ‘I trust her!’ Pip cries.

  ‘She’s insisting,’ Zac says firmly, approaching Pip with the money. Pip can’t back away because she’s pressed against the door as it is. ‘Here,’ says Zac, ‘take it. Tom’s had a brilliant party. Thank you.’

  Reluctantly, Pip takes the money and shoves it in her back pocket. ‘Pleasure,’ she says quietly.

  Zac backs away. He passes the guest WC and wrinkles his nose, shutting the door firmly. Temporarily, Pip experiences an odd sense of satisfaction, of one-upmanship over Juliana. But it’s only fleeting. Why should it be otherwise – Juliana is with Zac and Pip is heading home on her own. ‘See you around, then,’ Zac says, turning.

  ‘Bye,’ Pip mumbles because there’s no opening for small talk, let alone a chat. She tries to open the door but she’s all thumbs. Zac does it for her. The afternoon sunlight hits them, rendering them momentarily blind. Pip descends the short flight of steps to the street jerkily, blinking. She glances back at Zac. He’s hovering at the door. Good, she thinks, good. Hovering could well be the first step to wavering. She raises her hand to wave and puts a smile on her face. ‘Ta-ta,’ she says.

  ‘Cheerio,’ he replies, hands in pockets but shoulders relaxed. She feels her spirits lift.

  That’s such a Zac thing to say – ‘cheerio’.

  She turns back to say something else. She’s not sure what. Anything. Whatever. But the door has been closed and Zac has gone.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Pip is back at her flat again. Slumped down on her sofa, emotionally and physically exhausted; grateful for the tranquillity and thankful for solitude. She sits and stares at nothing in particular, unable to prevent a barrage of images from her recent past from rampaging across her mind’s eye. Caleb, Zac, Alex. London, Derbyshire, France. Fen, Cat, Django. Megan, Dominic. Dr Pippity, Merry Martha. Tom, Billy. Hoxton, Hampstead. Lights off, curtains open. Hospital wards, accountancy offices. Text messages, tea for two. Cheesy music and cheesy Doritos. Laughing, crying. Shower curtains, bunk beds. It’s been a funny few months; colourful, for sure. The look and feel. The smells and sounds. The different tastes. A matter of taste. What matters. What is it that matters? What’s the matter?

  Dragging her gaze outwards, Pip is suddenly struck by the monotony and bland beigeness of her surroundings. She is aware of a bad taste now, lingering in her mouth. Over the years, she could have gone for colour but she has obsessively settled for neutrality. She’s kidded herself it’s classy and mature, won’t date and will camouflage flaws. But now she thinks it’s all a bit bloody boring. And slightly drab around the edges.

  ‘True enough, it echoes my life.’

  How on earth had she not made the connection before? That she doesn’t date, specifically to camouflage flaws.

  ‘Of course it echoes – because all is hollow and silent.’

  She regards the blobs of nail varnish on the carpet and the sofa. Gradually, it is dawning on her that her long-held philosophy, and strictly adhered-to coda, are not just inherently flawed but somewhat deluded, too. She rummages around in the waste-paper basket. If only she could find the nail polish, she’d happily spatter it around the furnishings. But of course, as soon as Pip McCabe decides something is rubbish, she won’t tolerate it being anywhere near her. So that nail polish isn’t in the wastepaper basket, it’s outside somewhere in the communal bins.

  ‘Me being so bloody hasty,’ she admits to herself with regret. ‘It cost a small fortune. It was Chanel, after all. What a waste.’

  What were you going to do with it if you still had it? Add a few more blobs on the sofa as a symbolic act of defiance against yourself? The thing is, Pip, a token splattering of nail polish here and there might not be quite enough. Nail varnish is not appropriate, anyway. It would indeed be hasty. It’s time for something much more considered.

  Apart from her commitment to St Bea’s, Pip McCabe cancelled all appointments, though she could barely afford to, and laid low for the next five days. She tried not to check her mobile phone for the text messages Zac had no intention of sending. She tried not to hope that the answering machine would flash up a message that, in fact, it never crossed his mind to leave. She found it easy to ignore the messages and invitations left by her friends and sisters. One thing she did do, which dramatically broke with her self-protection insurance policy of old, was to think about her recent past, of Zac and Caleb and even Alex. Though she maintained affection for only one of the three, she knew they were all worth thinking about.

  How different my life would have been, would be now, if I’d thought more about them at the time – even if such a process necessitated me confiding in my nearest and dearest.

  It slowly dawned on her that Cat, Fen and Megan – even Django – could have altered the course of her life for the better, had she let them. She reckoned they would have seen through Caleb far more quickly than she had – because, of course, she’d have let them meet him. And they’d have seen Zac bedecked in his true colours much faster. Thus Alex’s flirtations would have amounted to little more than flattery – perhaps a tinge of temptation – which they’d have ensured she quashed. And, very probably, she wouldn’t be on her own now, avoiding their phone calls and wishing for calls that will never come.

  And who can blame him? I fucked up. It’s such a shame.

  It’s such a shame Pip hasn’t quite reached that stage of awareness and courage that would have her lift the receiver, dial the number and say ‘hullo’.

  It’s Friday evening. She’s on her own. She lifts the receiver, dials the number, waits for an answer and then says ‘hullo’.

  ‘Hullo,’ Fen replies, ‘I’ve been trying you all week!’

  ‘I know,’ says Pip, ‘sorry.’

  ‘How’s tricks?’ Fen asks.

  Pip pauses. ‘Tricky,’ she replies.

  ‘You OK?’ Fen asks, a note of concern discernible in her voice.

  ‘Ish,’ Pip confides. ‘I’ve been better,’ she says quietly, ‘I could do better.’ There’s the truth! ‘Listen, I was wondering if you and Cat might come round to mine tomorrow?’ Pip pauses. ‘I’d like your advice.’ She pauses again. ‘I need your help.’

  Fen is taken aback. ‘Would you like me to phone Cat?’ she asks, wanting to be of some practical assistance.

  ‘No, no,’ Pip says, ‘I’ll phone.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Fen pushes, worried for her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I hope I will be,’ Pip reveals, having to clear her throat to strengthen her voice. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Night,’ says Fen softly, ‘see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Hi, Megan, it’s me. You’re probably out and about or in Dom’s den of iniquity. Um. It’s just. Fuck. Anyway, thanks for your messages – sorry I haven’t phoned. It’s just. God. Listen, might you come to mine tomorrow – I mean, if you’re not busy? It’s just. Shit. It’s just. I don’t know. I guess I’m a bit low. I’d love to see you. I need some advice, really. Can you come?’

  Pip hopes her best friend can make it, too. She brushes her teeth and slips into bed. She looks around her bedroom. It would look fine as a photograph in Livingetc. But to live like this in reality is actually plain boring. Neat and tidy and bloody dull. It’s nothingy. All of it is nothingy. It’s been so for years.

  ‘This isn’t solitude. This is loneliness.�
��

  THIRTY

  On Saturday morning, Cat and Fen arrived at Pip’s at much the same time as Megan. They greeted each other on the doorstep with whispers of ‘What are you doing here, too?’ and ‘Did she say anything else?’ and ‘Do you know what’s wrong?’ and ‘When did you last see her?’ and ‘She’s seemed absolutely fine – what on earth can it be?’ and ‘I’ve brought loads of chocolate to facilitate a thorough heart to heart.’ Pip opened the door to them. They swept her through into her lounge on a tide of fond smiles and warm embraces and gifts of chocolate éclairs, Jaffa cakes and magazines. It was almost overwhelming for Pip. She had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from asking them all to leave so she could burrow back into bed, be on her own and forget that any of this ever seemed like a good idea.

  Fen gestured to the sofa. ‘Isn’t that Django’s old bedspread?’ she exclaimed, privately thinking that using it as a throw was very un-Pip and really rather unpleasant, considering the stains and the holes and the indisputable fact that pea-green candlewick would simply never be in vogue.

  ‘What’s with the bin bags?’ Megan asked, regarding a few scattered over the floor.

  ‘Where’s your stuff?’ Cat asked, noticing that the shelves were utterly bare and that greasy outlines on the walls were all that was left of the mirror and the Rothko poster.

  ‘I wanted you to help me,’ Pip explained without actually answering any of their questions. They all regarded her expectantly. ‘Cup of tea, anyone?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Cat requested, looking at her eldest sister quizzically, ‘if you’re making.’

  ‘Tea,’ Fen said, scrutinizing her sister for further clues, ‘ta.’

  ‘Tea,’ Megan said quietly, glancing around her, ‘please.’

  Pip went through to the kitchen and returned with a laden tray. Her sisters and her best friend sipped their drinks politely. And waited.

  ‘I thought you could help me,’ Pip said at length, only after she’d eaten an éclair and had licked her fingers thoughtfully. ‘It’s all so dull and boring,’ she said. ‘I want to introduce a little colour into my life.’ Three pairs of enquiring eyes burrowed into her. ‘I’ve always eschewed it without ever actually trying it,’ she continued with a shrug, ‘but I thought it was about time to take some risks.’

  The three girls nodded though their eyes revealed that they were none the wiser. ‘And if it doesn’t work out,’ said Pip, ‘perhaps you could advise me on an alternative plan.’

  Her posse continued to nod but regard her blankly. Them? Advise her? How? While they attempted to fathom it all, Pip went into her bedroom and reappeared with a selection of trial-sized tins of paint. These she opened and, without further ado, she went from wall to wall, daubing great globs of colour in large random patches. Cat, Fen and Megan watched, open-mouthed. ‘Help me,’ Pip implored. ‘Which do you think? What suits best?’

  Why couldn’t she say on the phone that she just wants us to help decorate? Fen wondered to herself, rather bemused.

  Is that it? All she wants is for us to help choose bloody paint colours, Cat remarked to herself, somewhat disappointed.

  I could have just bought her a copy of Livingetc. and then spent the morning snuggled in bed with Dominic, Megan thought to herself, a little annoyed.

  Their irritation and disbelief were but momentary because the sight of Pip splodging colour willy-nilly was at once peculiar and endearing. Putting their grievances to one side, Fen, Cat and Megan entered into the spirit of the case in hand. They were unanimous and enthusiastic that the deep ochre was a gorgeous colour and would suit the living-room very well. They were agreed that the yellow was too acidic, the scarlet too garish and the violet just a little too suggestive of witchcraft. The ochre would do very well, it was rich and positive, classic yet fresh; it would enliven the room without overwhelming the dimensions. They weren’t prepared for Pip to declare that the back wall ought to be a different shade altogether. And, though they didn’t necessarily agree with her on the terracotta hue she favoured, her eagerness was so beguiling that they encouraged her with her choice.

  ‘Tell me that Django’s old bedspread goes!’ Fen pleaded. ‘It doesn’t go with ochre or terracotta. It has to go!’

  ‘It’s only to protect the sofa whilst we redecorate,’ Pip assured her.

  ‘I’m not sure the carpet isn’t going to look a little grubby,’ Megan pointed out.

  ‘Nothing that a great big colourful rug can’t fix,’ Pip proclaimed.

  ‘Is Carol Smillie lurking in your bedroom?’ Cat asked, peering out into the corridor. ‘Or Lord Long Lacy Sleeves,’ she wondered, ‘that Llewelyn-Bowen bloke?’

  ‘Nope,’ Pip assured her, Fen and Megan. ‘Just me. Ringing the changes.’

  With colours and finishes agreed upon, Pip left her gang with rolls of masking tape, more bin bags and a long list of what to do to prep the room while she went out to the local DIY shop to buy paint and rollers. Her sisters and her best friend admitted to one another that they were slightly baffled by the fact that the help Pip required was of a purely practical nature. They were slightly taken aback by her choice of colours. By her choosing colour, full stop.

  ‘It could work, though,’ Fen said, looking around the sitting-room.

  ‘It’s time for a change,’ Cat agreed, quite liking the deep claret colour but seeing Pip’s point about the chosen shade of terracotta.

  ‘It’ll take some getting used to,’ Megan remarked, ‘for her as well as us.’

  The women brushed and dabbed and rollered the cream walls away. Radio 2 provided innocuous background entertainment and the Jaffa Cakes provided sustenance. Before long, they all thought to themselves that it was a refreshing way to spend a Saturday.

  ‘What about your bedroom, Pip?’ Megan asked, sponging an ochre skid off the skirting-board.

  ‘I think lilac’s a great bedroom colour,’ Fen said, ‘very soothing and dreamy.’

  ‘Your curtains and blinds,’ Cat said, ‘dye or die? Lord Long Lacy Sleeves did something very effective with a printing block made out of a potato.’

  ‘The thing is –’ said Pip. Then she paused. She put down her roller and regarded the three of them. Beloved Megan wearing a shower cap to protect her hair; dearest Cat with masking tape stuck to her elbow; cherished Fen with spatters of ochre freckling her face. Pip looked from one to the other and the next. She shrugged, sighed, picked up her roller and set at her patch of wall again. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I’m sort of in love with this bloke called Zac. I think.’

  Pip carried on painting, the sticky clicketing squelch of loaded roller against wet wall providing the only sound. Fen, Cat and Megan were motionless, their jaws dropped to the limit of their hinges, their minds whirring and wondering if they’d heard right. Eventually, a goop of paint, dripping from Fen’s brush noisily on to the plastic sheeting, caused Pip to look up from her task and the three of them to shut their mouths and swallow. Pedantically, Pip laid down her roller and turned to face them all.

  ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I am in love with this bloke called Zac.’ Her audience were hanging on her every word, not that the words ‘love’ and ‘Zac’ made much sense to them at all in the context of Pip’s life. ‘But the thing is,’ Pip carried on, regardless, ‘I’ve scuppered any chance of a relationship with him.’ Her younger sisters and her best friend continued to regard her with incredulity. ‘Not because of Caleb,’ Pip said casually, by way of explanation that of course meant little to them, ‘nor because of Alex,’ she added in a nonchalant way, leaving them none the wiser. ‘No,’ Pip proclaimed defiantly, ‘simply because of me.’

  Pip had covered almost the entire wall before anyone spoke. Fen broke the silence. ‘Caleb?’ she asked, feeling almost virtuous that there was she with only two men on the go, while here was Pip suddenly revealing three.

  ‘Caleb,’ Pip confirmed, ‘Dr Caleb Simmons – a paediatrician at St Bea’s. I was sleeping with him for a couple of months, earlier
in the summer.’

  Fen, Cat and Megan tried not to gulp too noisily and attempted to retain some control over the extent to which their eyes ogled. Did they just hear that correctly? Pip? Philippa McCabe? Their friend and sister? Having casual sex with some doctor from work for a couple of months? How did that come about? When was this? Why hadn’t they known?

  ‘Alex?’ Cat asked, thinking of her colleague on the Tour de France and thinking ‘Surely not!’

  ‘I had a one-night stand with Alex in the bunk bed up on L’Alpe D’Huez three weeks ago,’ Pip confirmed. Megan wondered why on earth Pip hadn’t divulged such fantastic gossip. Momentarily, she was quite taken aback. Fen and Cat wondered how the hell she could have had sex right under their noses without them knowing. Though they both felt somewhat offended, they didn’t ask her. They didn’t know how to. This Pip was so new they had no idea how to break into her outer packaging, for starters, to say nothing of fathoming what made her tick inside. So the three of them just stared at her. And wondered how she could continue to paint walls whilst making revelations of such magnitude.

  ‘Zac?’ Megan asked.

  Immediately, Pip stopped painting and looked crestfallen. ‘Zac Holmes,’ she said. She looked from best friend to sister to sister. ‘He’s a lovely bloke.’ She shrugged.

  ‘You’ve had a fling with him?’ Megan pushed. The abbreviated dialogue which sufficed between the sisters was not enough for her. ‘With this Zac Holmes person?’

  ‘I’ve slept with him twice,’ Pip said quietly, ‘but given him a hard time for much longer.’ No one quite knew if the double entendre was meant, let alone meant to lighten the tone or set the scene. ‘Look, shall we just paint the terracotta wall now?’ Pip was starting to feel out of her comfort zone, on the verge of regretting her disclosures. She was quietly asking herself what the fuck all the fuss was about, why on earth she had made public any of the three men. Caleb, Alex, Zac – they were simply part of her past, after all. Weren’t they? Furthermore, they had hardly been in her life long enough to have been a part of her life, anyway. What was the point of deconstruction and analysis, of regrets and hopes? It was all destined to come to nothing. It already had. There was no future. ‘Oh,’ Pip barked, ‘forget it all. I have. No point. Meant fuck all anyway. Let’s just paint.’