A Tale of Two Sisters
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Anna Maxted
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Copyright
About the Book
Lizbet and Cassie are close, yet far apart. After a clueless upbringing (their parents’ basic childrearing beliefs: ‘play a trombone, see a monkey, get some fresh air’), the two sisters strike out in opposite directions, both desperate to escape . . .
Cassie is skinny, clever, charismatic, successful – every right-thinking girl’s worst nightmare. The one flaw in her quality-controlled life may be her marriage – and if there are any other flaws lurking, Cassie has them covered. Lizbet is plumper, plainer, dreamier – more concerned about the design on her coffee cup than whether she can afford her new house. She works reluctantly for Ladz Mag, desperate to make her name as a writer, but stuck writing embarrassing articles on sex. Her one achievement is her relationship with Tim, who thinks she’s cute, not stupid for asking why Jesus has a Mexican name.
Despite Cassie being the favoured child, she and Lizbet have managed to stay friends. Perhaps because – as Cassie says – they’ve always wanted different things. But that’s about to change. Confronted by challenges that they never asked for, forced apart by mistakes not their own, will Cassie and Lizbet ever realise the real meaning of sisterhood, or will true nature ruin everything . . . ?
About the Author
Anna Maxted lives in London with her husband Phil and their three sons, Oscar, Conrad and Casper. Anna read English at Cambridge and works as a freelance journalist. She is also the author of the international bestsellers Getting Over It, Running in Heels, Behaving Like Adults and Being Committed.
Also by Anna Maxted
Getting Over It
Running in Heels
Behaving Like Adults
Being Committed
A Tale of Two Sisters
Anna Maxted
To Mary Maxted, with love
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the wonderful and talented team at Random House who have worked (and lunched) very hard with me on this book, especially the fabulous Susan Sandon, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Charlotte Bush (missing you already!), and Cecilia Duraes. Thank you to Deborah Schneider – a wonderful agent, and an equally wonderful friend. Jonny Geller – the same goes for you, and I can’t thank you enough. Douglas Kean – this man has the patience of at least three saints . . . Thank you twice, to Mr Karl Murphy – for the book info, and for the boys – to Ruth Bender Atik, the book is in the post, I swear – Sasha Slater, for being a good friend, and for sisterly stuff. I’d also like to thank my other best girls – Alicia Drake-Reece, Jo Kessel, Wendy Bristow, and Josie Lloyd. Michael De Cozar at the Ritz, it was an honour to meet you – Geoffrey labours in your shadow. Lovely Shelley Silas – thank you for talking to me about your work, and shamefully-belated mazeltov (it got to the point where I was embarrassed to write). Liz Webb, and Claire Grove at the BBC, and the playright and comedian Chris Green – all so talented! Oy! – and the fantastic Antony Bond – you were helpful beyond the call of duty. Chris Manby, thank you for bringing the fabulous Sophie Hazel Hamilton to my attention. Maybe in sixteen years’ time she’ll read and (I hope) approve . . . Thank you to my dearest Leonie (sorry I made you look at that witch . . .). Thank you to the brilliant Kirsty Fowkes (what would I do without you and your knowledge of Ruskin?) and I LOVE the name Barnaby. John Nathan – no book is complete without your input! And superwoman herself, Louise Potter – I love ya! Nicola – you are a star! Cassie owes you both (as do I, mainly for making me laugh so much . . .). The lovely Caren Gestetner, for putting me in touch with the fabulous Sam Leek. Thank you to the lovely Suzanne Pye – especially for the Clive-isms! Ella Colley – you helped, I know it! Phil Robinson – I love you. Grub Smith – my darling! My wonderful Uncle Ben – George’s father owes his generosity to you . . . and still can’t compare . . . Now please forgive me anyone I’ve missed, as it’s been quite a year . . .
Lizbet
Chapter 1
When my sister left her jungle villa after two weeks at the Datai, on the tropical island of Langkawi, she wrote a little note for the manager.
Dear Sir,
Nearly everything was perfect. However, I think one of the monkeys has a cough.
Sincerely,
Ms Cassandra Montgomery
When she returned home a fortnight later – she and George having gone on to stay at the Regent, in Chiang Mai – a thick cream envelope was waiting on the mat. Cassie tore it open.
Dear Ms Montgomery,
I am delighted that you and your husband enjoyed your stay. Thank you for pointing out that one of the monkeys has a cough. We have informed our vet.
Sincerely . . .
When Tim and I left our bed and breakfast accommodation on the Isle of Wight, I wrote a little note to the owners.
Dear Martyn and Tanya,
Sorry to leave early without saying goodbye. I hope the Garlic Festival was fun. It’s just that the rain and the viral gastro-enteritis have reduced our previously great wealth of activities to watching daytime television and hanging over your khaki-green (or should I say khazi-green? Probably not!) toilet bowl. Also, Tomas’s cold is getting worse – he claims that the ‘horrid smell’ – the pleasant Forest Blast air freshener! – makes his head hurt. And, it’s quite hard to cater for an irate two-year-old’s extraordinary dietary demands when you don’t have a kitchen.
Best,
Elizabeth M
I never got a reply, which made me feel less guilty when Tim confessed that his parting message had been to piss against their wall.
The holiday might have been less of a strain were we not looking after our godson while his parents were in Japan for a funeral. We weren’t bad, as godparents go, so I thought. Most people are pleased at the honour, counting it as evidence of what fine human beings they are. Their conceit wanes as fast as it takes for the child to open its mouth and say ‘WAAAH’. Then they realise. This isn’t a compliment, it’s a contract. Your friends croak, the kid’s yours. Even if they do manage to stay alive, the constant outlay on gifts is on a financial par with keeping a string of racehorses.
Though it was tempting, I didn’t think that Jeremy and Tabitha had asked us because we were fabulous. Tim immediately suspected that they didn’t have any gay friends. I also felt it was because they presumed that we were too childish ourselves to have children. I’d never said, but people assume. If you ever dared to enquire, you’d be appalled at the poor impress
ion you make on even your closest acquaintances. ‘Oh!’ – on seeing your ramshackle cutlery collection mainly assembled from airlines – ‘I’d have thought you’d have everything in matching silver!’
Tabitha and Jeremy lived next door, and from the day we moved in and Tabitha knocked with champagne, they were determined to love us. I’m not complaining. It was only a problem in that I felt anxious about living up to their kind expectations. The house was a deal tidier than it would have been, thanks to Tabitha’s habit of popping in for a coffee most days. (I’d had to ban Nescafé Instant from the premises after a near fist-fight. ‘Oh, I’ll just have the cheap stuff, Elizabeth!’ – ‘Absolutely not, I’ll make filter!’ – ‘No! I won’t hear of it! Please don’t go to any trouble!’ – ‘Tabitha, I insist, don’t you dare, give me that jar!’ etc. – ‘Well, if you feel that strongly . . . !’)
Tabitha had been there when Tim’s German aunt had invited herself round to show off quite the plainest baby I’d ever seen. ‘Hah!’ she’d said, as I tried to resist the hypnotic lure of her enormous bosom. ‘Elizabett is getting broody!’
I had met Tim’s German aunt twice and the assumption I’d made of her was that she could never understand why another person might oppose her opinion.
‘No, I’m not!’ I heard myself say in a loud, cross voice. ‘I’m not getting broody at all!’ Then, so as not to appear petulant, I added, ‘I like babies. They’re very . . . small. I just don’t want one personally.’
Tim’s German aunt pulled the baby closer, and zoned me out of her eyeline.
Tabitha darted me a sharp look, and purred, ‘All babies are beautiful, aren’t they? And what a nice size. Is he feeding well?’
I hurried into the kitchen to make a great big cafetière of designer coffee with every last scrap of caffeine processed out of it, which I hoped would please everyone.
I felt like a wet cat for a long time afterwards. Till at least ten forty-five. I didn’t like having to defend myself for what wasn’t even a decision, yet. I was thirty at the time, and it didn’t seem that long ago that I’d had to defend myself, aged fifteen, to Aunt Edith for not having a boyfriend. Not content with assuming that you were prim about cutlery, people assumed that you wanted children and were jealous of theirs. And commented openly! I couldn’t decide which was ruder.
I had caught Tabitha’s sharp look, and wondered what it meant. Six months later, when she and Jeremy invited us round for dinner, and Tabitha had grown to the fine shape of a ripening squash, it sort of made sense.
‘We’d love to be godparents! What a lovely, lovely, er, thing!’ I croaked, before Tim said something inappropriate, like, ‘It’s still half-fish, aren’t you supposed to wait till it’s born?’ I loved Tim with all my heart but in social situations he trod a fine line. Dinner parties were rare these days, what with everyone around us procreating, but when we were invited out, I’d spend the night with my hand hovering over his – less because we couldn’t bear not to be touching than because the arrangement enabled me to gently suffocate any faux pas at its inception.
(Now I sound like a Tory wife, but the last time the pleasure of our company was requested, Tim announced to a rather smug guest who had moved to St Albans – a small town half an hour from civilisation – ‘If I moved to St Albans, I’d feel like I’d failed.’)
St Albans was a sore point. Tim was a designer. He’d designed a TV remote holder, a dartboard, an ergonomic footrest, all of which, despite painstaking computer-enhanced imagery, failed to sell to a manufacturer. Then, three years back, he’d designed a potty in the shape of a train. I have no idea why, as he had no knowledge of young children, beyond that gathered incidentally in supermarkets. He then borrowed thirty thousand pounds to pay for an injection mould. The TRAINing SeatTM required a ‘particularly complex mould,’ said the guy from Plastik Magnifik. The prototype was featured in Best for Baby magazine, billed as ‘The Pot They Actually Want to Sit on!’ This secured Tim a meeting with Woolworths, which led to an order for five thousand Trains. And when Tim mentioned his vision for a pink Fairy Throne, they went for that too.
While Woolworths wasn’t the Conran Shop in style or kudos, it was a national chain, and Tim and I felt queasy with the promise of endless wealth. We all know that money doesn’t buy happiness, but it buys lots of other nice things, which go a long way to compensate. He secured himself an agent, who brokered the deal – which was impressive enough to get Tim featured in The Times’ business section. The headline: ‘Sitting Pretty, the Potty Prince’.
This did little, as you might imagine, for Tim’s credibility or, indeed, his popularity. Only his mother, who bought twenty copies of the paper, couldn’t find fault. Not only had reports of his wealth been greatly exaggerated – tax, agent fees, etc. – but eighteen months later, barely long enough for the royalties to kick in, a rival store released a blue potty in the shape of a racing car (what dastardly genius) and – woe upon woe – a pink potty in the shape of a princess’s pony.
It was a bit bloody inconvenient, to tell the truth, as we’d taken the agent at his word – ‘This is new house money!’ – and moved next door to Jeremy and Tabitha. It was also a trifle annoying in that all who knew us were convinced we were millionaires, and not for any glamorous reason either. (Though, were we millionaires, I think, in time, with intensive electro-shock therapy, we might have come to terms with the stinky-bottom foundations of our fantastic jet-setting multi-mansion lifestyle.)
My point is that – after finally opening our last bank statement – Tim and I had made the drive of shame to St Albans. Tim was entirely disagreeable about the whole exercise.
‘Where is this place?’ he said, as we tried to get out of it. And then, ‘It’s, like, nowhere.’ And, finally, ‘It feels like death.’ And, soon after, ‘The people are different outside London.’ And, as we sped down the motorway, ‘I’d be spending all my time wanting to escape from it.’ And, as we approached our road, ‘We’re bigger than St Albans.’ And, as we pulled into our drive, ‘I’d rather move to Australia.’
This excursion wasn’t mentioned to Tabitha and Jeremy – who were forever having work done on their beauteous house and, we feared, had little affinity with poor people. Particularly poor people who were godparents to their firstborn. I exaggerate. Not that my job as assistant to the deputy editor at Ladz Mag was pulling in a hefty wage, but if you can afford to donate seventy-eight pounds a month to a health club, just to help it along with its profits when you haven’t set foot in the place for seven months, because you can’t bear the fat-girl finality of cancelling your membership, you’re not, strictly speaking, poor.
We weren’t, however, able to afford our lifestyle. Our neighbours were doctors and lawyers and bankers – people with serious jobs and serious pay packets – Tim and I had no business living alongside them. All we did was prat about with words and potties!
Hence the decision to spend this year’s summer holiday in England. We booked late, which reduced our choices to the Isle of Wight. Everyone reacted like we were off to French Polynesia. Wonderful . . . marvellous . . . amazing beaches. It never occurred to me that these people were the same liars who’d assured me that I looked great in culottes. Then Tabitha came round, with sad news of the demise of a university colleague’s father. They had to attend the funeral, in Tokyo. No point going all that way and staying less than a week. They were between nannies – Tabitha went through nannies like a tractor through muck – would we mind Tomas? I hadn’t understood at first. Would we mind him doing what?
Then I got it.
‘Would it be ok to take him to the Isle of Wight?’
Tabitha looked confused. I don’t think she really believed in money worries, she must have thought I was being ironic.
‘Of course!’
So Tomas came with us to the Isle of Wight. His luggage alone was worthy of Ivana Trump. The list of instructions on his welfare, daily routine, habits, likes, dislikes, favoured topics of conversation, preferre
d pastimes, allergies was as long as the New Testament. It was unfortunate that Tim left it in our hallway. It was also unfortunate that even before we left London, Tomas found and ate an unidentified object off the floor that he would only describe as ‘blue’.
Prior to the ‘holiday’ I had considered myself to have a fine relationship with my godson. I babysat at least twice a month, and Tomas loved coming to our house, primarily to play with the cat litter (‘sand!’). We had conversations easily as advanced as the ones I had with Tim. I mentioned to Tomas, for instance, that in four months’ time, his mother was going to have a baby.
His response: ‘I hit baby, with stick. I sit on his head. I push him. I smack his bot.’
My response to his response: ‘Oh! Really? I’m sure you wouldn’t. I’m sure you’re very gentle with babies.’
His response. ‘I wear pink dress.’
En route to the Isle of Wight, our relationship deteriorated. I was frantic about his consumption of the blue object. Tim refused to be alarmed but this was just laziness. Actually, no ill effects from the blue object ever presented. Except that Tomas, despite being dressed like a lunar explorer, caught a cold. And Tim and I found that, even with a three-decade advantage, witwise, we were no match for a two-year-old.
There was no organic food on the Isle of Wight, only chips. Tabitha had said, ‘He won’t eat junk. He loves avocado.’
Not on our watch. The kid ate Coco Pops for breakfast. A jam sandwich (white bread) for lunch. Chips or pizza for dinner. Offer anything nutritious and he’d scream until his lips turned blue. He made us play his Bob the Builder video (‘no more than twenty minutes of Bob a day’) at least four times, morning and afternoon. He refused to go to bed till midnight. If it weren’t that he got up at six thirty – ‘I awake now!’ – you’d have thought he was a teenager.
We might have coped, were it not for the viral gastro-enteritis, which bypassed Tomas, but zeroed in on the runts of the litter, Tim and I, with ferocity. And did I mention the flies in our lounge? And our cold bedroom? And the mean weather? And the fact that no restaurant opened until seven. (‘Tomas eats dinner at five thirty, certainly no later.’) We got to the beach once, where Tomas fell in the sea three times in ten minutes, soaking every item of clothing I’d packed for him. After three days of retching in a green bathroom, and little sleep – less, thanks to Tomas, than Tabitha, who phoned on the hour (we lied a lot) – we admitted defeat, and left early.