I jolt, as there is a loud knock on the door.
‘Georgia?’ Tina’s voice calls. ‘Georgia?’
Oh God. I’ve been rumbled! Can she smell the shampoo? Can she sense that I’m stealing from her? She’s not about to confront me now, is she? I’m naked! And . . . argh! I’ve got shampoo in my eye!
I ram my head back under the shower in an attempt to wash it out.
The curse of the stolen shampoo!
‘Georgia!’ Tina shouts, her piercing voice penetrating the bathroom door.
‘Yeah?’ I manage, madly scrubbing my eye.
Oh God, what’s in this? Acid? It feels like acid. Maybe it is. Maybe this isn’t actually shampoo at all and Tina filled her bottle with hair-removal cream as a way to catch me out from stealing her stuff.
Argh! How could I have been so stupid?
‘Are you nearly finished?’ Tina shouts again. ‘I’m going out, I need to brush my teeth.’
I feel my body relax slightly as my hands grapple on my head.
Oh, thank God. I think all my hair is still there. The last thing I need is to go bald as punishment for stealing from Tina. How on earth would I explain that to anyone?
I manage to open my burning eye and click the shower off.
‘Yeah,’ I call back, ‘give me a second.’
I clamber out of the shower and wrap my steaming, pink body in my limp towel. I grab my hair and sniff it madly, my eyes darting down to the empty bottle of shampoo lying in the shower.
Oh God, my hair really smells of her shampoo. She’s going to know. Can I make a joke out of this? Will she find it funny? Me and Tina have barely exchanged four sentences with each other. She might be totally chilled, or I might wake up in the morning to a horse’s head propped in my bed. Both options are equally plausible.
I scoop up the rest of my things and pull open the bathroom door. A waft of steam swirls between us and Tina bats it away from her face.
‘Sorry,’ I say, slipping past her as quickly as I can.
‘Ooooh!’ Tina calls, turning to face me. ‘You smell nice!’
I freeze.
‘Er . . .’ I say feebly, turning back to her, ‘thank you.’
Tina looks back at me and my eyes dart around the room. Does she know?
‘Are you going out?’ she asks, gesturing to my towel.
‘No,’ I say quickly, as the steam around me diminishes and the usual temperature of our ice cube flat puckers my skin. ‘Well, I’m going to see my sister. I’m there for the weekend. Are you going somewhere fun?’
Tina’s eyes flicker and she looks down at her phone.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I’m out with my girlfriends. I seem to have a birthday every weekend right up until Christmas!’
She laughs loudly and I blink back at her. Apart from drinks with Natalie, I rarely go out any more. Once I graduated from university, I fell into a routine. I like my routine, I’m happy with it.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘that sounds nice.’ I tighten my towel around myself and slowly turn back towards my room. ‘Have a nice evening.’
‘Thanks!’ Tina calls from the bathroom. ‘You too!’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble back, kicking my bedroom door shut, ‘I will.’
*
‘We should have called a taxi.’
My eyes flit between Amy and Mum as a light wind ruffles my hair and I lean against the bus stop, a blade of sunlight streaming on to my face.
‘We can’t call a taxi,’ Amy says tightly, her eyes scanning the gridlocked road. ‘It’s a match day.’
I clench my hands as the weighted shopping bags burn into my fingers and I try to ignore the screaming pain in my elbows, which feel like they’re going to cut themselves free of my sockets any second.
Bloody hell, these bags are heavy. Why are they so heavy?
‘Your dad should have picked us up,’ Mum mutters out of the corner of her mouth. ‘We should have just waited.’
‘He was going to be another hour!’ Amy retorts. ‘We can’t have sat in Sainsbury’s for an hour! We can get the bus. It’s fine.’
Tomorrow is Sunday, and every Sunday Mum makes a roast dinner for the whole family. She’s done this since me and Amy were kids. But this is the first time she’s hauled us both to Sainsbury’s and insisted on buying two pavlovas (or pavlovARHs, as Mum pronounced it – apparently, there’s a serious difference, and when I said I didn’t get it she looked at me as if I’d asked to buy a sex swing).
I tilt forwards as a group of burly men push behind me into the thick of the crowd, all wedged beside the bus stop like passive sardines.
Mum’s answer to everything is food. If you’re celebrating, heartbroken or shot with nerves, she cooks. I glance down to my splitting carrier bags, overflowing with punnets of fruit and stacks of fancy boxes. Even though she would never admit it, I know what the sudden flurry of all this extravagant dessert food really means.
My eyes stray back over to Amy, who is still glaring at the road. I flinch as the gaggle of men behind me bounce into each other, their beer splattering across the pavement.
We grew up in Twickenham, south-west London. Mum, Dad and Amy still live in our family home, and I moved out earlier this year. It’s a lovely place to live.
I was really happy here. Unless the rugby was on.
Then the town is crushed by a swarm of excitable, boozed-up rugby fans, and if you have any sense at all you’ll lock your doors, draw your curtains and put Toy Story on repeat until the terrible ordeal is over.
You most certainly would not willingly stand alongside a swelling gang of supporters, waiting at a bus stop.
‘Be careful!’ Mum hisses over her shoulder at a man with a face like a warthog, as he staggers towards us. She holds her arm behind Amy like a shield and glares at the crowd. I glance nervously towards Amy and see a deep shade of scarlet rising up her face.
I shuffle over as best as I can, but Amy doesn’t look at me. I feel my chest twitch.
It’s been one month since Amy’s diagnosis, and nobody likes to talk about it. Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. We all try to talk about it, but Amy won’t. She won’t even respond.
My eyes meet Amy’s briefly before we both look away, staring instead at the congested roads. I see the bus roll into sight and feel the gaggle of drunkards rise as they spot the bus. They all begin to cheer and knock each other across the pavement.
My body stiffens and I fight the urge to hoist Amy in front of me so that I can protect her. I notice Mum’s head jerking beside me, her eyes full of worry.
Amy doesn’t look ill. This seems to make it harder, because nobody tries to help her. Amy is so stubborn, nobody ever thinks she needs any help at all.
She doesn’t want any help. She’s never wanted any help.
The bus slowly pulls up and the crowd behind us suddenly sticks together as if we have all been vacuum packed. My shoulders rise up to my ears as a large man with a swollen stomach squashes in next to me, and the crowd funnels towards the doors. I glance towards Mum as I hear her yelp, and then I look at Amy, who hasn’t moved. Her eyes are still locked on the traffic, and her mouth is moving slightly, as if she is counting.
The crowd shuffles forward and suddenly I feel Mum barge past me, towards Amy.
My mum is a delicate woman, with dark hair that is cropped behind her ears. As the smallest of the family, she stands at barely five foot tall. I stare at her as she shoves past the giant, roaring men who are blocking her way and wince at the fire in her eyes.
‘Excuse me!’ she shouts, over the jolly roar of the crowd. ‘Excuse me! I need to get through!’
Anxiety spins through my chest as I push my body against the waiting throng, my shopping bags thwacking the backs of my legs. I can barely see Amy now, and as the top of her head is swallowed by the mob, panic grips my skin.
I need to get to her.
‘Excuse me!’ I hear myself scream. ‘Excuse me!’
I angle my shoulders forward
and shove myself against the backs of the men in front of me. One of them stumbles sideways, and I take my chance and squeeze through the gap. As I do, I feel one of my carrier bags split open and my aching fingers contract as I hear the crack of boxes of fruit hitting the floor as the bag falls from my hands. With a great push, I reach the front of the crowd, and as I duck forward I hear Mum scream. The remaining shopping falls out of my hands.
My eyes spin around wildly until I spot Amy, lying at the foot of the bus door, her face pressed against the cold pavement and her limbs sprawled out behind her like a broken doll. I watch her in horror as she tries to push herself up and drops back down on to the concrete. Panic seizes my throat, and I charge forward and grab Amy by the elbows. As I try to pull Amy up, I hear Mum scream into the crowd.
‘She’s disabled!’ Mum bellows, her voice roaring above the chatter. ‘She’s disabled! Look what you did to her!’
I will my limbs not to shake as I haul Amy to her feet. She collapses against the side of the bus, my hands still gripped around her waist.
Mum’s voice thunders through the crowd and my grip on Amy tightens.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she screams. ‘That is my daughter! She is not well!’
‘Mum!’ Amy’s voice shoots past my ear, and I feel the heat of her face burn against mine. ‘Leave it!’
The line of men stare back at Mum, their drunken eyes wondering. One of them mumbles an apology as the crowd chugs on board, leaving me and Amy slumped against the side of the bus. My eyes fix on Mum’s face.
Mum turns her body away from the crowd, and as she looks at Amy all of the anger falls away. She steps forward, her chest rising and falling.
‘I’m fine!’ Amy manages, glaring furiously in Mum’s direction. ‘I’m fine.’
I hold Amy below her ribs, my arms burning under her weight as fear snakes up my body and pierces my lungs.
Amy quivers beside me as her final words hang in the air, thick with fear.
‘I’m not disabled,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m not dis . . .’
Her words die and I grip on to her.
Amy is not fine. She is not fine at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
18TH JULY
Shopping list:
1 loaf of bread (small loaf as spending most of this week with Amy)
Vegetables (sensible array)
Healthy yogurt **NOT!!** ROLO OR CHOCOLATE BUTTON!!!!!
Treats (sensible array)
Pizza **ONE!**
Ready meals (sensible array)
Fancy chicken fillets
‘Do you want ketchup?’
‘What?’
‘Ketchup,’ I yell, ‘do you want ketchup?’
‘Yes, please.’
I throw a bottle on to the tray and steer my way into my parents’ living room. Amy is propped in an armchair, smiling. Her hair is twizzled into a knot on top of her head and her pinched cheeks are flaring. I hand her a tray and sit next to her.
‘Is there anything on the telly?’
Amy shakes her head and picks up her fork. I glance down at my plate bleakly.
God, this looks horrible.
When I offered to cook for Amy, I thought it was a great idea. I was captivated at the idea of whipping up a delicious feast for my sister after a long day at work. I would nip round Tesco, tossing items into my basket, which I would throw together to create a delicious meal. In the depths of my fantasy, I even imagined being snapped up by Joe Wicks for my natural flair for cooking and would end up perched on This Morning, lightly discussing my hidden talents.
I spear a limp piece of pasta with my fork and wince.
Cooking has now been added to the growing list of ‘things-I-ought-to-be-able-to-do-by-now-but-somehow-can’t’, right before working the tumble dryer and understanding my tax code.
I tear off a piece of garlic bread.
Who knew cooking was so bloody hard? I always thought Mum was just being dramatic.
Amy chews her food and I glance up at her.
After two weeks of managing to create meals that were both undercooked and burnt, I stumbled across the ready meals section of Tesco and have been shamefully lying to Amy ever since. I’m still being a good sister and making her dinner every night. Do you know how hard it is to time an entire meal with only one microwave? Only one little box fits in there at a time. It is actually very advanced and difficult. I think I should get some credit for that.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ Amy asks.
I look at the wall clock; it’s only 6.15 p.m.
I shrug. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want to do. Maybe we could watch that new drama on ITV.’
Amy raises her eyebrows at me. ‘I thought you were seeing your friend Natalie?’
I force myself to swallow another mouthful.
‘No,’ I say airily, ‘I decided not to.’
Amy picks up the remote and selects an old episode of The Great British Bake Off. My eyes widen at the screen.
‘Look at that cake!’ I gush. ‘I don’t know how they do it, I am so terrible at cooking.’
Amy twirls her fork around some pasta and cocks her head. ‘They’ve probably had a lot of practice. You could do it if you wanted to.’
‘I couldn’t,’ I scoff.
Amy’s eyes dart towards me, slightly narrowed. ‘You could.’
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t,’ I say, ‘I could never do that.’
There is a silence as we both watch Mary Berry survey the cakes.
‘How was work?’ Amy says eventually.
‘Fine.’
‘Did you show Bianca your designs?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? They’re really good.’
I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘She doesn’t care, Amy.’
‘Well then, make her care.’
I put my knife and fork down. Amy has always been like this. If she worked at Lemons, she would have had Bianca’s wedding organised and rebranded the entire company before midday.
She would definitely not eat a squashed ham and cheese sandwich for lunch.
‘How was work?’ I ask.
Amy turns her body away from me. ‘Fine,’ she says feebly.
‘Did you manage the whole day?’
‘Yeah,’ she says eventually, ‘but I was sat at a desk for the afternoon.’
Amy is a PE teacher, and always has been. She’s adamant that this isn’t going to change since her diagnosis. Even though everyone has advised her to quit. I’ve given up telling her to take it easy. It’s not worth the fight.
I glance up at Amy, whose eyes are glued to the TV with such ferocity, they could pop out of her head at any second.
I edge my body closer to her. ‘Are you okay?’ I say.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m worried about you.’
Amy shifts in her seat and moves her plate from her lap. ‘Really?’ she says. ‘I think I’m more worried about you.’
I blink at her. ‘Me?’ I reply. ‘Why are you worried about me?’
Amy shrugs as the credits roll and the music pipes into the living room. ‘I just am.’
*
I rub my eyes and stumble into the living room. I ended up staying at my parents’ last night. After me and Amy finished dinner I couldn’t be bothered to travel home.
‘Morning,’ I mumble to Amy.
Amy looks up. She is sat at the desk, pen poised. Her hair is scraped back into a tight bun and she is already dressed.
How long has she been sitting there?
‘Are you making tea?’ Amy says, her eyes snapping back down to her work.
I nod, unable to organise the words jumbling around my brain as I skulk into the kitchen.
‘Good,’ Amy calls after me, ‘make mine a strong one.’
I flick the kettle on and lean against the kitchen worktop. I jump as Mum comes bustling in, laden with Marks and Spencer carrier bags.
‘Morning, darling!’
�
��Hi, Mum,’ I manage.
‘Goodness,’ she turns to face me, ‘are you not dressed yet? You know it’s almost half past nine, Georgia.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you planning to do with your day? Are you staying for lunch? Jamil from next door is popping round to discuss the garden plans for his remodel, and then I must start cooking for tonight’s dinner with Tim and Linda. You remember them, don’t you, love? Well, Linda has just redone her kitchen, so I simply must make a dessert to blow her . . .’
I zone out as Mum witters in my ear, and carry the steaming mugs back into the living room. If Mum had her way, I would be fully dressed by 7.30 a.m. every day, whisking up a savoury crème brûlée for brunch.
I place Amy’s tea next to her and zap on the TV. Amy reaches over to grab the remote and zaps the TV back off.
‘Hey,’ I say, reaching across, ‘I was watching that.’
Amy drops the remote on to the chair next to her, her eyes still glued to her notepad, her right hand scribbling.
I lean in to try and catch a glimpse. ‘What are you doing?’
Amy dots the paper and continues to scrawl. ‘Writing you a list,’ she says, not looking up.
I roll my eyes. ‘What is it with you and Mum? You’re both obsessed with me leaving the house before midday. I’m not going shopping. I can’t be bothered, I have literally just woken up. If you have a food craving we can order a takeaway.’
That’s actually not a bad idea. I would love a takeaway. What is an acceptable time to order a Chinese on a Saturday? Could I get away with ordering it at, like, 11 a.m.? Surely if I pop a piece of parsley on top I could call it brunch.
‘Not a shopping list,’ she mumbles, sucking on her pen as she scans her words.
I sink into the sofa and rub my head in my hands. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘well, can you pass me the remote, please?’
‘No.’
‘Amy, I—’
‘Shut the door, will you?’ She finally looks up. ‘I need to talk to you.’
I scowl at her as I reluctantly pull myself up from the sofa and click the door shut.
‘What?’ I say grumpily, slouching back against the sofa cushions.
Amy turns to face me and, for the first time this morning, she meets my eyes. Her eyes are glazed over and sunk into their sockets. Her usually bright skin is dull, as if dusted with a coat of grey, and her lips are cracked and peeling.
The List That Changed My Life Page 3
