A Tale of Two Sisters

by Anna Maxted

  But the fact was, my client was a lying cheating bully, and morally, if not legally (yet) he owed his faithful wife, the mother of his children, a decent living standard. In the crassest terms, Alissa and Hubert had made an equal contribution to the family unit – Hubert by earning the cash, Alissa by raising the children. His money wasn’t his, it was theirs. I was certain that if it went to a final hearing the judge would grant her at least half of his wealth, probably more. (I wondered what, of mine, George would think he was entitled to.) Whatever I thought, it was my duty, as Hubert’s counsel, to prevent this.

  I gazed at Barnaby who, though I couldn’t be sure, looked a little ruffled. ‘So, Cass,’ he said. ‘Hubert’s claiming he can only afford to pay Alissa the square root of bugger all, when last year he burned plastic in smart restaurants to the tune of twenty-four grand. His accounts appear to be awash with money that hasn’t got an obvious source or destination. I await his further disclosure with interest.’

  ‘Barnaby,’ I said, ‘Hubert isn’t going to budge.’

  Barnaby shrugged. ‘Glorious. We’ll run it to final hearing. And he can pay all my costs! I’ll be leaving the bike at home tomorrow, coming in by private jet!’

  He was so smug. Barnaby had an arsehole quality that came from going home from work every day for ten years knowing he was right because the judge agreed with him, or knowing he was right and the judge was stupid and wrong.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘Foraging in bins? Alissa’s not exactly coming to court with clean hands.’

  Barnaby gave a snort. His friendliness had all gone. ‘There was no foraging in bins. The documents had, er, spilled out. You wouldn’t expect me to forgo the pleasure of carrying out the usual forensic exercise in relation to Hubert Fitzgerald’s accounts. Given the circumstances, you and I know that the judge will treat Alissa like royalty. She’s not put a foot wrong, whereas he thinks he can trick me with a smokescreen of duff financial documents. He puts massive personal expenditure on his business card and thinks he’ll get away with it – kindergarten stuff! I’m going to demolish him. He’s in for the shock of his life. I hope he’ll enjoy shopping at Costco.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ I said, with my snootiest air. ‘But Alissa shouldn’t count Hubert’s millions just yet. That woman is too good to be true. Tell her to watch out. Because I am going to find something.’

  Chapter 26

  I couldn’t focus. I kept stopping mid-sentence with a blank head, and asking George what I’d been saying. As he never listened, just watched my mouth open and shut, he couldn’t tell me. Perhaps pregnancy made me vague – not, I hoped, for any biological reason – I think it was mental. I couldn’t stop wondering about Sarah Paula. How she’d felt at nearly four months. Still in denial. Not eating enough fruit.

  And then I got a letter.

  Dear Cassie,

  I do hope you don’t mind me writing. I do understand if you choose not to respond, although I would be so sorry if that were the case. I wanted to tell you that I thought you were so brave to try to trace your birth mother – it must have taken a lot of courage. I can only try to imagine your devastation at hearing the news of her death. We are all still in agony over it. It was so sudden, and she was so young, only forty-five. I can see that it must be a double loss for you, and am so very sorry.

  I wanted you to know that while Sarah was very young when she had you, and that at the time, giving you up seemed to be her only option, she never forgot you. You were always in her heart.

  Sarah wanted you to go to a nice, normal family, and to have a good education – I do so hope that her wishes came true. She used to say to me, ‘If people adopt, it’s because they want a baby so, so much, isn’t it, Luce?’ – but please believe me when I say that giving you up was the most difficult decision she ever made. She did think of trying to find you many times – if ever we were out together, her eyes would always be searching, and she’d say, ‘Look, Luce! Could that be her? Could that be her?’ – but she felt it would be unfair to intrude. She didn’t know if you even knew you were adopted.

  I am so sad that she will never know that you have made contact. I don’t think I am being over-dramatic in saying that is a tragedy for both of you.

  I hope you don’t mind that I am enclosing a photograph of Sarah. This is my little sister, around the time she had you. She never did have any other children.

  I can imagine that you are in a state of shock right now, and I certainly don’t wish to add to that. I just wanted you to know that you would receive such a warm welcome, if you were to decide that you did wish to meet the rest of the family. I would so love to meet my only niece (if I may be so bold!). I realise that nothing can make up for the loss of your mother – I suspect it must feel as if she abandoned you twice, but please know that you were very precious to her. I would love to tell you more about her, if you were not averse to it.

  With best wishes,

  Lucille Reeves (Sarah’s big sister!)

  I stared at the photograph of the woman who’d given birth to me, and found myself hyperventilating. I thought, you look like me. I crawled upstairs, stair by stair, and got into bed. I vaguely recalled a line from a fairy tale – at least, it was some story from childhood.

  But her heart was hard.

  It had to be. What Lucille didn’t understand, although she took care to portray herself as sensitive and loving, was that I couldn’t let myself care now – now, when it was too late. Because I was only just able to cope, by pretending that none of it ever existed. If I responded to Lucille, heard the kindness in her voice, saw the wonder in her eyes, if I so much as rested my head on her shoulder, I would be drawn into a web of unbearable regret that would spin itself tighter and more chokingly around me until I was ready to die with the sadness of chance and missed opportunity.

  I placed Lucille’s letter, and the photograph of Sarah Paula, in my white filing cabinet, in a folder marked ‘BABY’. That was my one nod towards sentimentality. Then I went downstairs, and ate a bowl of basmati rice to stop myself throwing up.

  I was brought back to the fabulousness of my actual life by George whining, ‘Do we have to go to this thing tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s Aunt Edith’s seventy-fifth birthday party, George,’ I said. ‘She was like a mother to me.’

  ‘So she’s responsible. Say you’ve got morning sickness. No one expects you to turn up. You never do. You’ve got a lifetime of taking the piss to fall back on.’

  ‘Shut up. We’re going. My sister’s going to be there.’

  I hadn’t seen Lizbet since I’d watched her run out of her own house, and I’d stopped calling her. I didn’t want to force it and, to be honest, I didn’t need the fuss of her. Some people create fuss around you. They can’t just look at a millpond. They have to chuck in a rock. Lizbet had overreacted to the situation before she got the measure of it – as if she’d been looking for an excuse to blow up and had snatched at the first chance. I was pregnant, dog-tired, and my emotional life was as tangled as a thorn bush. I could do without my sister screaming in my face.

  I knew she’d spoken to Mummy. She was staying with Fletch, a guy she’d worked with on Ladz Mag. I think they were just friends. She’d told our mother that she’d quit her job, and ‘needed a break’. She hadn’t said anything about me and Tim, so I presumed she’d realised that she’d been a fool. She was probably too embarrassed to see either of us, having made a twit of herself. Still, six weeks had to be long enough to get her over her mortification. We’d probably make eye contact at Aunt Edith’s and burst out laughing. Or – more likely, knowing her – act as if the episode never happened. It was all a dream!

  The do was at Cousin Denise’s house. The décor made you wonder if there was actually cognitive process behind each choice. Every surface – floor, wall, sofa, table – wildly patterned. The eye couldn’t rest. Also? Her idea of catering was to bulk-buy big and cheap, the sort of foods that were best bought small and expensive.
Tuna and pasta salad. Fish balls. Go cheap on a fish ball at your peril.

  But there was Aunt Edith. I flinched at the sight of her swollen ankles, but it was good to see her clutching the mobile phone she never let go of. I guessed that she was expecting an important call – Uncle Pete, from heaven.

  George slunk in behind me. We were barely speaking – for a change – despite the glue of our impending arrival. I’d mentioned the letter from my Aunt Lucille, and George had nodded dismissively, as if I were reminding him to change the light bulb in the cellar.

  ‘What’s your problem, George?’ I’d said. I actually wanted to know, as everything I said to him was now a test, and I liked to measure his reaction on a scale of ‘disappointing’. It was disappointing. I’d really loved him, once.

  He’d shrugged. ‘I don’t know why this mother thing is such a big deal,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if you knew her.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said, in a level voice. ‘My birth mother’s dead. You can’t see why I’m upset.’

  George paused, as if he really might be about to say something intelligent. ‘I mean – if you weren’t a success, then I could understand it!’

  And there the conversation ceased. If that was what he truly believed, then there was nothing more to say.

  Aunt Edith smiled and said, ‘Ahhh! Hello!’ when she saw me. Assorted relatives broke off from eating to stare. I knew of one adopted person whose ‘cousin’ would preface every piece of news with ‘I know you’re not family but . . .’ That wasn’t the problem here. They treated Lizbet with exactly the same dumb curiosity. The last time I’d visited London Zoo, the spider monkey had decided that I was odd enough to merit closer inspection. He’d swung right up to the glass, and gravely inspected my face, his little black hands painfully human. The encounter left me feeling troubled. This lot had the same effect.

  ‘How are you?’ I said, bending to kiss her.

  ‘Ah, not so good,’ she said. ‘Full of aches and pains. It’s the arthritis. I can barely walk.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled. I was not good with people ageing. I would have preferred it if she’d lied.

  ‘Never mind!’ added Aunt Edith. ‘I’ve got wheels. Denise and Ian bought me the car last year. I said, that should see me out!’

  ‘Aunt Edith! Don’t say that! You look lovely. Happy birthday!’ I said. ‘This is from the family.’ I placed the Tiffany vase on the table next to her. She barely gave the parcel a glance, which shocked me.

  ‘And how are you feeling, my dear?’ said Aunt Edith. ‘What lovely news you have for us!’

  Denise, Ian and others crowded round. I tried to look as pregnant as possible. I’d been hoping that my state would grant me impunity from blank stares and loaded comments.

  ‘You haven’t put on any weight!’ cried Denise, accusingly.

  ‘You have, Denise,’ murmured George, behind me. And then, half to himself, ‘It’s like Dorian Gray, fat-wise.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re having?’ demanded Denise.

  ‘A baby, we hope,’ said George.

  ‘Oh shut up, George,’ said Denise, doing my job for me. Then, spying Mummy – who looked half Denise’s age, despite being ten years older – ‘Oho, here comes the granny! Hello, Grandma, got your bus pass?’

  Mummy moved through the jibe like a ghost through a dagger. ‘Hello, Denise! Yes, I must say, it’s a wonderful feeling, being made a grandmother. I expect you’re wondering when Ian will make you a grandmother, Denise. What can I say? We’re all wondering!’

  Cousin Ian had once been seen shopping on Old Compton Street. Indeed, there had been several sightings. But plainly – impossible! Not in our family!

  Denise reddened, just as Lizbet tiptoed into the room, and Cousin Ian tiptoed out.

  ‘My God, Elizabeth!’ cried Denise. ‘You’re skinny as hell! You should put on weight!’

  At least thirty pairs of eyes swivelled on Lizbet. It was like RoboCop: ‘You have twenty seconds to comply!’

  ‘Where’s Tim?’ said Denise.

  Lizbet pretended not to hear. I tried a sympathetic smile but Lizbet wasn’t looking at me. Her lips brushed Aunt Edith’s dry cheek and she said, ‘Happy birthday!’ She placed a soft parcel on Aunt Edith’s lap, and said, ‘Open it!’ I bristled, without knowing why.

  Aunt Edith took Lizbet’s hand and said, over her spectacles, ‘You should have spent the money on food! You’re wasting away.’

  She ripped open the paper – the design was a row of kittens in pink and blue collars, honestly – and pulled out an enormous, supersize red kaftan. It would have clothed a house. Bloody hell, Elizabeth, I thought. She’s not that fat. But to my surprise, Aunt Edith started to laugh, and so did Lizbet.

  ‘What?’ said Mummy, who couldn’t stand not to be in on a joke. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Aunt Edith shook her head and giggled. ‘You’ve got a good memory, dear,’ she said. She turned her head to Mummy. ‘She was only five years old. Uncle Bruce – we hadn’t seen him in a while – sent me a kaftan for my birthday from Toronto. Your big girl and I could both fit inside it! Pete took a picture. Memories,’ she added. ‘When you get to my age, there’s little more precious than memories.’

  She grabbed Lizbet’s face with her puffy hands, her garnet and gold art deco rings like knuckledusters on every finger, and kissed her loudly on the forehead. I felt a twinge, and I knew why I was annoyed. What, so memories were more precious than a baby, were they? All we have is now, Aunt Edith, I wanted to say. I kept quiet. Aunt Edith was a firm believer in fair play. But instinct had always told me that Lizbet was her favourite. It wasn’t easy being our parents’ favourite. But it wasn’t easy not being Aunt Edith’s favourite. I go to all that trouble and expense to buy a Tiffany vase and she doesn’t even give it a glance. Meanwhile, Lizbet sends off for a cheap joke gift and is fêted for it.

  ‘You were asking where Tim was, Denise,’ I heard myself say. ‘Good question! Where is Tim, Lizbet?’

  There was a silence, as an entire room of sequined nosy parkers held its breath for my sister’s response.

  ‘Cassie,’ she said, with a friendly smile, ‘I stopped caring after I caught you two in our bedroom together, and realised that Tim was the father of your child. So you tell me!’

  Lizbet

  Chapter 27

  Denise always was a bitch. When I turned five she gave me a birthday present, and it was The Passover Pop-Up Book. An event has to be hugely significant for you to remember it at that age, and this was, being the most miserable gift possible. And she knew it. Cousin Ian’s room was full of Mr Men books. The family celebrating Passover in the drawings gave me nightmares, because their eyes were completely green – also the father had a moustache – and the pop-up bits were not fun. (‘Open the secret doors and find the Hebrew and English names of the Ten Plagues . . .’)

  It was nice to see her jaw hang when I revealed Cassie’s secret. Although, it was better to see Cassie’s jaw hang. My heart beat to a blur, and I couldn’t believe I’d really said it – and in front of parents, friends, and the Gargoyles – sorry – relatives. Because, was I one hundred per cent certain that it was really true? Well. I’d said it now, so it had to be. And public shame was what she deserved. I was sure it was true. Certain. If I hadn’t caught them in our bedroom – Tim with his dick halfway out of his pants, her all weak with post-coital abandon in his arms – I’d never have believed it of either one of them. Yeah. But I had. So I was certain. One hundred per cent.

  I had trouble holding on to good feelings these days, and the satisfaction of creating a fuss was brief. Actually, the satisfaction was brief to the point that it didn’t exist. I hated the way the Gargoyles stared – with more pity than usual – at me, and Cassie, and George, and Vivica and Geoffrey. I didn’t care that Denise was barely hiding a fat smirk. But I did care that Aunt Edith shot me a sharp look. Not Cassie – me, the victim! It was gone in a blink, but I saw it and it made my insides heave. It was a look of
disapproval. From the only person who ever thought I was special.

  I ran out, and caught a cab back to Fletch, even though giving directions was purgatory – I didn’t want the stress of interaction. Renting a room from Fletch wasn’t the adventure in easy living that it was meant to be. Fletch resided in a surprisingly stylish three-storey house in West London, and I was a lumbering elephant around his delicate fitments. Within days, I’d pulled the chrome towel rail out of the wall, and flooded the walnut surface in his kitchen by yanking the swish tap the wrong way and being unable to turn it off for five seconds. I thought he’d wave away such incidents as part of my gauche charm but he was put out.

  Meanwhile, I didn’t find him a bowl of rose petals either. I’d chosen him as a landlord rather than any of my girlfriends because I’d wanted to be left alone, and Fletch acted like he didn’t care about anything. But he did. He was curiously fussy. The books on his bookshelves were arranged in alphabetical order. And his taste in art was revolting. It was all modern and violent with garish colours. He’d ordered them all in a job lot over the internet – you could commission artists in India to run you up a quick Mona Lisa – but Fletch preferred The Assassination of Pablo Escobar, a fat man dying bloodily on a roof in a hail of bullets.

  ‘I like it,’ Fletch told me, ‘because it’s absurd. And because most people don’t like it. I like things that are real. A lot of art is a bowl of flowers, but this is a moment of history.’

  It was bang in the middle of the lounge wall, and I couldn’t relax in front of the flat screen television. (Even after five weeks, I was still always dumping a bag in front of its infra-red signal, then wondering why the picture was such bad quality.)

  I adored Fletch but he annoyed me, and his every quirk made me miss Tim. Fletch wasn’t interested in food to the level I was. He was happy with Sainsbury’s Economy coleslaw. He didn’t chew much, I noticed, he gulped his food, like a dog. (He grew up with five brothers.) But if I rebelled and bought M&S traditional coleslaw – the finest on the market and I’ll brook no argument – he’d eat the lot, leaving me with the economy muck, then profess he ‘didn’t realise. It’s all the same, isn’t it?’ I thought it ungentlemanly. Had we shared a cave, ten thousand years ago, Fletch would have been in charge of catering, and I would have starved.