Stars

by Sophia Bennett

  Hello? Genius-girl here, the one who’s on every team at school, in every band and orchestra (when she’s allowed), who has personally raised enough money to OPEN A SCHOOL in Africa, wants to be more like me? What’s going on here?

  ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ she says. ‘I mean it. And I mean it about Jenny. She was incredible, doing that song. Gloria would want her to do it. I mean, I couldn’t let my mother live alone like that, but I’m not Jenny. Maybe I should just help her.’

  I’m about to express more shock and disbelief, but I realise that this would be rude. Instead, I take a deep breath.

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Really?’

  Edie’s doubtful pout suddenly turns into a nervous smile, and then a grin. She hugs me. A bit awkwardly, because we’re sitting in really narrow airline seats and she’s not the world’s best hugger anyway, but at least she’s trying and it’s great. Then I realise I haven’t got to listen to several hours of ranting about Jenny, and that’s great too.

  Five minutes later, a stewardess comes along to ask what we want to eat. I turn to ask Edie, but she’s fast asleep. Her face looks more peaceful than I’ve seen it for months. And prettier too. I decide she needs sleep more than airline food and leave her to it.

  Which leaves me with several unexpected hours of thinking time to myself. I’m not necessarily very good at thinking time. If I think too much at the moment – unless it’s about Liam – I tend to think about Crow getting this job without me, or Mum and Vicente and losing our home, and I can’t bear to do too much of that right now.

  I try watching a romcom on the mini screen in front of me, but it doesn’t work. In the end, I find myself picturing Isabelle’s apartment. How gorgeous it was. How full of memories of Harry. And it gradually occurs to me. This thing that’s been bothering me for ages. The thing that’s not right between them. Somehow, after the whole Edie-not-blaming-Jenny revelation, I can see things in a completely different light.

  It’s not exactly a thrilling discovery about my brother. In fact, it’s pretty tragic in its way. I find myself poring over it for hours, wondering what I should do and wishing I could just forget all about it. The trouble is, I love Harry, and I can’t.

  Luckily, Isabelle is staying at a hotel in London for the fashion shows, and not in our house. That would make what I have to say too totally difficult. Luckily, too, Liam agrees that I’m probably doing the right thing, when I explain it all to him. After my welcome home kiss. And my I-missed-you kiss. And several other kisses he can think of.

  I find an appropriate moment when Harry’s home, but the house is quiet. I fortify myself with a double cappuccino and a whole packet of M&Ms. Harry’s in his room, packing to go to Milan for some shows, but seems pleased to see me. I feel such a traitor for what I’m about to say.

  ‘Er, Harry,’ I start, ‘you know that apartment that you and Isabelle are going to get in New York?’

  ‘Uh huh?’ he says, jamming some socks into his suitcase.

  ‘Well, how exactly do you imagine it? Exactly?’

  It’s not quite the speech I had in mind. Not totally as fluent and articulate.

  ‘Well,’ he says, still fiddling with socks, ‘big, you know. Full of Issy’s stuff, naturally. All those textiles she collects. Big enough for you . . .’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, what about your stuff? . . . How do you picture it?’

  He looks up now, annoyed. ‘It’s not down to me. Issy’s got great taste. What d’you mean, Nonie?’

  His sharp look softens when he sees how uncomfortable I am. He can tell this isn’t easy for me. His brow furrows.

  ‘Really. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I saw Isabelle in New York, of course, and I know if I’d asked her the same thing, she could have told me in great detail. Because she’s been picturing it and looking forward to it. She loves you so much, Harry. But whenever I ask you, or Mum does, you kind of avoid it. And I think that you don’t think about it so much, do you? You aren’t picturing your life together.’

  There’s silence.

  ‘Are you, Harry?’

  There’s more silence. I let it fill the room. It’s very unusual for Harry’s room to be silent, but he needs a bit of thinking time.

  He looks angry, and then frightened, and then sad. He comes over and sits beside me, but doesn’t look at me. He plays with a frayed thread on the knee of his jeans.

  ‘I try. But then I just picture myself on a beach somewhere. By myself. Escaping. How did you know?’

  ‘Because I care about you,’ I say. ‘Because I’m your sister. Because I know when something’s not right. I think Crow knew too. She could never get the dress to work.’

  Harry gives a short laugh. There’s a pause. Then he says, ‘When I proposed to Issy, it felt so right. It just happened. She was as surprised as I was. She’s so beautiful, Nonie. Inside too. She’s such a perfect, perfect girl.’

  I nod. Having checked Isabelle out, I agree. She is perfect. The only trouble is, perfect isn’t always perfect.

  ‘I just pictured us carrying on like we were, but, you know, for ever,’ Harry says. He shakes his head, cross with himself. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time. But then the wedding thing got bigger and bigger. And we started talking about kids, or at least, Issy did. Then she saw my face and backed off and suggested a puppy. At least to start with. I felt guilty enough about that.’

  He looks at me helplessly. He’s obviously not proud of himself, but he’s lost.

  ‘You’re only twenty-four,’ I say.

  ‘She’s twenty-one. But she knows exactly what she wants. And she means it. Why shouldn’t I?’

  I shrug. ‘Not everyone’s as grown-up as Isabelle inside,’ I suggest. ‘But you’ve got to tell her. You know that, don’t you? Before you totally break her heart.’

  He jumps up and starts shoving more stuff in his suitcase.

  ‘That’s the problem. Don’t you see? I’ve been thinking about it for months. I can’t let her down now. It really would break her heart. And I couldn’t bear that. She doesn’t deserve it.’

  He catches my eye. It is the eye of a sister who knows him, and knows the right thing to do. I don’t say anything, but he flinches anyway.

  ‘You can see that, can’t you, sis?’

  I get up and head for the door. I pause there for a moment, with my hand on the handle.

  ‘One day she’ll work it out,’ I say. ‘The way I did. How will she feel then?’

  He crumples, as if I’ve hit him with a cricket bat. I let myself out of his room as quietly as I can. Back in my own room, I call Liam, who reassures me, yet again, that it was the right thing to do.

  It doesn’t feel like it, though. Normally, when you do the right thing you feel great afterwards. A real sense of achievement. I just feel empty and miserable. If only I were doing a paper on Shakespeare’s tragedies tomorrow, I’d be in the perfect mood to write it. Unfortunately, it’s Business Studies. Yaaay.

  ‘He didn’t?’

  Yesterday, Mum was on the phone to Granny, sobbing. Today Granny is in our kitchen. Mum is still sobbing, but face to face this time.

  ‘He did. He told me two nights ago, from Milan.’

  ‘Why?’ Granny wails. ‘She’s the best chance he’ll ever get!’

  ‘He says he doesn’t love her.’

  ‘Doesn’t love her? The boy’s besotted.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Mum says in a bit of a break between sobs. ‘Besotted, not in love. Not long-term love, anyway. That’s what he said.’

  ‘Idiot,’ Granny says crossly, getting a hankie out and handing it to Mum. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I bet she took it badly.’

  This doesn’t help Mum, who nods and goes back to sobbing. ‘She’s inconsolable, apparently. She’s had to pull out of several shows. The poor girl.’

  ‘And why now?’ Granny asks angrily. ‘Why suddenly now, f
or God’s sake?’

  Mum looks up helplessly and shrugs. I’ve been watching through the doorway and decide to make myself scarce. Unfortunately, it’s hard to make a secret getaway in Doc Martens and Granny calls me back.

  ‘Nonie! Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.’

  Lie, I tell myself. Just lie. You know you can do it. You do it all the time. Lie your little tartan socks off. But Granny is staring at me with a particular stare that only Granny can do.

  ‘I might have mentioned I was worried about him,’ I say.

  Mum looks up, shocked. Granny looks absolutely furious. The next fifteen minutes are not remotely funny. By the time it’s over, I just about have the energy to creep upstairs to my room and text Liam a sad face, before curling myself up into a ball on the bed.

  He calls back instantly. I uncurl myself enough to pick up the phone from where I’d dropped it on the floor. Then I curl myself up again.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asks. ‘Nothing to do with your mad granny, by any chance?’

  I tell him about the conversation.

  ‘So they’re saying it’s your fault?’ he asks.

  I think back over the past quarter of an hour. And yes, that pretty much seems to sum it up.

  ‘But you were just trying to stop Harry making a world-class mistake.’

  ‘According to Granny, I was selfishly trying to stop Harry being happy so I could get to stay in my own precious bedroom. Mum looked extra shocked at that.’

  ‘Hey – if he really loved Isabelle, he’d have just told you not to be so stupid. He wouldn’t have called it off just so you can keep your room.’

  I sigh. It’s fine for Liam to be telling me this. I just wish he could have been there to tell Granny. I’d have liked to see him try.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. He realises he’s not being very helpful. ‘They’ll come round.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Nonie?’

  He can tell there’s something else. Something I’m not saying. Something that’s even worse.

  I hesitate. Until a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have told anybody the next bit, but things have changed. Some of them for the better. Including being able to tell Liam anything and know that I can trust him.

  ‘It was after I left. I was on my way up here, but I kind of stopped on the stairs . . . And I heard what Granny said to Mum.’

  ‘Which was?’

  I pause. I try and do Granny’s voice and make a joke of it, but it comes out all cracked and wrong. ‘“Well, that’s the second family marriage that girl’s managed to ruin. What next?”’

  ‘You’re joking! Your granny said that?’ he asks. He’s shocked, which is comforting.

  ‘Well, she’s right,’ I say. ‘And I told myself I wouldn’t do it. I told myself I’d be good.’

  ‘You are good, Nonie,’ he insists. ‘God, I wish I could be there with you. You haven’t talked to your mum yet, have you?’

  I shake my head. He can’t see that over the phone, but I’m not really thinking straight.

  ‘Talk to her,’ he says very slowly, like I’m a little child, or a tourist asking for directions. ‘Talk to her soon. This is getting ridiculous.’

  I promise, once again, that I will talk to Mum. Liam knows I’m lying by now, but there’s not much he can do about it over the phone. Besides, now would be a really, really stupid time to bring up the whole subject of Dad and affairs and mistakes and wasted relationships. I can hear raised voices downstairs and Mum sounding distinctly upset. Even Granny can’t calm her down. The last thing she needs is me going on about family history.

  When I eventually go back downstairs, the house is silent. Granny has gone and Mum’s out too. She’s left me a note, just saying she’ll be back later. I feel as if I’ve pushed them all away and I’m starting to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off in a rented room somewhere, with Mum safely in Rio and me out of upsetting range for a change. Liam said the whole thing’s ridiculous and he’s probably right. It probably does look ridiculous from a distance. But from right in the middle, it feels as lonely as I can possibly imagine.

  Later, I get an email from Crow.

  ‘The overcoat men are in London for the shows. I’m seeing them on Saturday. What is a Senior Vice-President of Talent and Staffing Strategy? Cause I’m seeing one of those too. Oh, and Isabelle called to cancel her dress. She sounded like she has a bad cold. Is she OK? Hope New York was good.’

  So she’s decided to go to this meeting by herself, without asking me along. Fine. No problem. I should have expected it. As for her questions, I don’t know the answers to either of them. One I can look up on the internet. The other I can only guess at. And I’m guessing a No.

  At least Crow’s talking to me. Which is more than I’ve done to her since I got back from New York, I realise. I send her back a quick message, telling her about Jenny and the song, and Harry and my big mouth. I’d forgotten she’d already started designing yet another dress and now, thanks to me, it won’t be needed. I wonder what the new design was going to be? I suppose that now I’ll never know.

  I’m desperate to say more. To ask what happens next and find out what she’d do if she had to choose between going to New York and going back home to Uganda. After Liam, she’s the person I’d most like to be here right now, sitting on my floor, even if she’s not saying anything. I miss her borrowing my books. I miss her annoying shrug and laid-back attitude. I miss her ever-increasing afro and never being able to guess what she’ll have decorated it with today. I miss watching her take a few scraps of fabric and turn them into a work of art.

  But that’s the point, really. Because she’s so good at it, I have to let her go. Like Jenny, she’s got a gift. I’d just be selfish if I told her how much I wanted us to stay together. Better if I pretend I’m fine with how things are. As Edie says, I’m good at lying.

  When I’ve sent the email, I Google Jenny, to see if there are any updates about the show to take my mind off things. Usually there’s a snippet or two about her, but today the internet’s gone crazy. Suddenly, Jenny is headline material. There are stories about her everywhere.

  ‘JACKSON WARD DISCOVERS BROADWAY STAR’ ‘WARD’S COPPER-HEAD BOMBSHELL’ ‘BROADWAY’S NEW BRIT BABY!’

  Someone has ‘leaked’ the clip of her singing onto YouTube, where it’s already got over ninety thousand hits. I can’t bear to watch. Jenny’s anguished face is not exactly designed to cheer me up right now. However, it’s having the desired effect. The advance ticket sales for The Princesses are breaking records. Even though there are still months to go, it’s the most anticipated opening on Broadway.

  I print out the story to use later. Liam’s suggested making a scrapbook about Jenny. It’s something Mum did for Crow years ago, when she first got her design career going. It’s fun to find little snippets about the show and put them in, alongside Jenny’s Vogue pictures, the Miss Teen advert of her with the elephant and the Taj Mahal and her reviews from the play, the movie (the better ones, anyway) and Annie. The plan is to take it round to Gloria at the weekend. Working on it is the best way of taking my mind off . . . everything else. Except my boyfriend. He is wonderful and I don’t mind thinking about him at all.

  By Sunday, the scrapbook is ready. When Liam comes round to pick me up and take me to Gloria’s, as agreed, he finds me at the kitchen table with my miserable brother. Harry still hasn’t forgiven himself for what he’s put Isabelle through. He’s cut down on his own work because he’s so upset.

  ‘You going out?’ he asks.

  I explain about the scrapbook.

  ‘Tell Gloria get well soon from me,’ he says. ‘Will Edie be there, by the way?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You couldn’t ask her about volunteering ideas, could you? I’d like to do something useful. See if she can suggest anything.’

  I promise I will. He’s obviously trying to make himself feel better. I wish I could do a scrapbook for Harry too. However, I’m not sur
e what a break-up scrapbook would look like. It’s probably not something he wants a memento of.

  When I get to the flat with Liam, Gloria is sitting in a chair in the kitchen and Edie’s bustling round her, making coffee. Gloria looks slightly more like her old self, with her hair up in a loose bun and a little more flesh on her bones. It’s hard to say what’s happened, exactly. Maybe it’s the shock of being in hospital, or the medication they gave her, or how well Jenny’s doing in New York, or just her brain chemistry, but something has altered her mood. She smiles when she sees us and cries when she sees the scrapbook, poring over every page.

  ‘Thank you for looking after my girl,’ she says to me in a weak voice, and holding out a hand towards me. I take her hand, noticing the boniness of her fingers, and her shakiness as she reaches out.

  ‘Pleasure,’ I say. ‘New York’s amazing. You really must go.’

  And then I remember that she can’t. Jenny said something about travel insurance, and she looks too frail to go. I feel silly, but Liam rescues me.

  ‘I like your flat, Gloria. Very homely.’

  Gloria smiles at him gratefully. ‘It’s Edie who looks after it for me.’ She beckons him closer and he leans in towards her. ‘Edie saved my life, you know.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Edie says, fiddling with the cafetière and going pink. The way she bustles around reminds me exactly of her mother, except a taller, geekier version, with better hair.

  ‘She did,’ Gloria says earnestly, looking deep into my boyfriend’s gorgeous blue eyes. ‘More than once. Many times.’

  Edie laughs. ‘What do you mean, many times? I only called one ambulance. And that was just . . . well . . . you know, anybody would’ve.’ She’s so embarrassed. But Gloria shakes her head.

  ‘Not anybody. Who else would come over in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Coffee?’ Edie asks, trying to change the subject.

  ‘And think of all those other times you came,’ Gloria continues, ignoring her. ‘You didn’t know if you were helping me or not, but you did it anyway. And it cost you your place at Harvard. Don’t tell me it didn’t, because I know.’