Look the World in the Eye E-Book

Alice Peterson

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 402

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'A witty and moving account of sibling rivalry' Red Bells is always writing to her sister Katie, but Katie never replies. Preoccupied with her glamorous career in fashion, her busy life and her boyfriend Sam, she just doesn't have the time. Then Bells announces that she's coming to stay. She's not a secret exactly, but. . . Sam doesn't know she exists. For Bells doesn't fit into Katie's perfect world. But when Bells does arrive, everything changes for Katie. Perhaps her perfect life isn't so perfect after all?

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Praise for Alice Peterson

‘If You Were Here is a moving and emotional story about facing a life-altering dilemma’ Jill Mansell, bestselling author of Rumour Has It

‘It’s not often that I fall in love with a book within the first few pages, but it happened to me with this one’ The Bookbag on You, Me and Him

‘Compelling and beautifully written’ Daisy Buchanan, journalist and author on If You Were Here

‘I loved it. It’s character-led, warm and sensitive’ Sarah Broadhurst, The Bookseller on Letters From My Sister

‘This is a wonderful portrait of the different dynamics within an unusual family’ Sara Lawrence, Daily Mail on The Things We Do for Love

‘A lovely example of realistic fiction that many women will be able to relate to’ Sun on One Step Closer to You

‘A lovely read, tackling both light and dark material with real assurance. I love the idea of a love triangle where one of the characters has died, which actually makes him more of an obstacle than if he were still alive. Also, the thought that you can find true love twice feels a strong romantic notion – and quite true, I’m sure’ Tom Williams, Chalet Girl screenwriter on Ten Years On

‘Echoes of Jane Austin, A Room With a View and Bridget Jones’s Diary’ Robert O’Rourke on Monday to Friday Man

To my sister, Helen.

And to Sophie, for inspiring the story.

1

2004

‘Morning, Eddie.’

‘The usual, Katie?’ He turns to operate the cappuccino machine. ‘You’ve been away, haven’t you?’

‘Well, I was in Paris for two weeks on business. Catwalk shows…’

‘Paris and models? Sounds like a holiday to me.’

‘And racking through three thousand designers’ clothes. After a while it’s not much fun, I promise! It was like a cattle market.’

‘One cappuccino, organic chocolate on the top.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Busy day ahead?’

‘Yes, very. Never stops, does it?’

‘You’ve changed your hair again,’ he notes.

I nod. ‘It’s my fashion show tonight.’ I rummage in my purse, trying to find the right change. ‘I’ve got plenty of tickets left, Eddie.’

He laughs. ‘Maybe next time. See you tomorrow.’

‘Five minutes!’ I call out to the models. The dressing room has an overpowering smell of hairspray and styling solutions. I pace the corridor. Where is Sam? I punch in his number on my mobile.

‘Katie, I’m on my way, promise,’ he says. ‘In a cab right now.’ He makes car noises. ‘Yes, left here, mate.’

‘Sam!’ I can hear a phone ringing in the background. ‘You’re still in the office, aren’t you?’

‘Half an hour, tops,’ he tells me.

‘Sam, I really need you here.’

‘Don’t pull my hair so tightly,’ I overhear Henrietta, one of the models, screeching. ‘Are you sure you’re a professional?’

‘Please get here soon.’ I hang up, take a deep breath and walk back into the dressing room. Hen sits in the corner, stroking a strand of her blonde hair protectively. ‘Hen, five minutes,’ I say, counting them off on my fingers. ‘One, two, three, four, five. No more tantrums, OK? Let her do your hair.’

I look at the chaos of high-heeled shoes and the racks of black clothes waiting to be modelled. I own a shop in Turnham Green called FIB, which stands for Female In Black, selling day and evening wear and accessories, and tonight is the summer fashion show. The clothes, of course, are mainly black, except for the odd accessory and the occasional burst of colour for contrast. I have started to organize fashion shows twice a year; it’s hard work but it pays off. This one is being held at a house in Chiswick, owned by a client of Sam. The house is so big you could run a marathon in it. It’s a perfect location for a show because my local customers won’t have to travel far. The owners have gone for the minimal look: stripped floorboards, white walls, spotlights, modern paintings, gilded mirrors. In fact, it’s almost a clone of Sam’s house, except his is half the size.

I can hear the audience taking their seats; there’s that familiar sound of shuffling and scraping chairs. This is the point when my nerves start to kick in. I pick up a halffull glass of champagne, pink lipstick smudged around the rim.

The first thing Sam ever said to me was, ‘Is your glass half-full or half-empty?’ followed by, ‘Allow me to get you a refill,’ finished off with a wink.

If he had been less attractive I probably would have politely refused. I had to look around to make sure he was talking to me; that he had picked up my glass of vodka and tonic.

Eve, who works for me at FIB, tells me the photographer wants a quick word before we start, and someone from the press has just arrived. ‘Good luck, girls,’ I say. ‘Look the part, feel the part and you ARE the part.’ Was one of the models rolling her eyes at me?

Quick look in the mirror. I’m wearing one of the outfits we are showing tonight: a black halter-neck dress that floats below the knee. There’s a panel of silver beading around the neckline and bust, and it’s cut low at the back and fastened with sparkling silver buttons. My outfit is finished off with slip-on silver heels. My dark brown hair has been dyed black and is half scooped back with a white rose.

The show begins with a model striding out in a satin top and black hipster skirt, offset by a handcrafted black-and-silver beaded belt that shimmers under the lights. In one hand she clutches a black satin bag with a small silver clasp. In the other she holds a cocktail glass. I wanted to kick-start the evening with a heady injection of glamour. She glides up to the fireplace, smoke weaving its way across the wooden floorboards. The audience marvels at it and claps as the model leaves the room. I see Emma, my old school friend, taking a seat at the back. You can never miss her entry into a room. She’s nearly six foot tall and always played goalkeeper in school netball classes. She mouths ‘Hello’ to me and looks at her programme. Sam, where are you?

Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ plays as the next model, Henrietta, walks on, looking miserable but determined, her hair scraped back into a ponytail. Her mother is in the front row, watching adoringly. ‘Henrietta and mother’ come together in one package, like bubble and squeak. Hen’s mother is lame, but loaded, and after you have sat her down in the corner of my shop on the chaise longue, plied her with a few drinks and generally treated her like royalty, she buys her darling daughter Henrietta almost my entire stock. ‘Whatever you want, I don’t mind,’ she says in a steadily increasing haze. Sam often asks me if the ‘old soak in the corner’ has been in. He knows it’s his lucky night if she has.

As the song reaches its climax, Henrietta turns dramatically, looks at her mother, who grunts and stamps her stick on the ground with approval, and sashays out of the room. Going well so far, I think to myself. Everyone is talking, there’s a general buzz and people are looking at programmes with interest, writing down notes – always a good sign.

The next girl waltzes out in a zebra-printed evening dress worn with a scarlet wrap. This is one of my favourite outfits. Her hair is dyed jet-black, bobbed, with a sharp fringe, Chicago-style. ‘Superstition’ by Stevie Wonder starts playing. I shift in my seat. This song always reminds me of home. Being at school. I can hear ‘Turn that blasted noise off!’ from Mum’s studio when ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ was played over and over again from my sister’s bedroom. Another world now.

But I do think about Bells. I can still see her letter slipped into my leather diary, that neat familiar handwriting. I haven’t even opened it. I feel guilty receiving letters from her because I don’t write back. I intend to, and then one thing happens after another – trips abroad, work, going out, yoga classes, parties, Sam…

‘How long does it take to write one letter?’ Dad nags me. ‘She really would love to hear from you.’

The photographer from Tatler takes a final picture of all the models standing together. ‘Lastly, and most importantly, I would like to thank Mr Todhunter for allowing me to use his fabulous home for the event, especially at such short notice,’ I announce. Everyone applauds as I shake his hand. ‘Please, everyone, do stay on for a drink, and thank you once again for coming tonight.’

I’m shaking hands, kissing cheeks, moving through them all in a blur of praise, hearing ‘Loved the show, Katie,’ or ‘Stunning,’ or ‘Darling! You look a million dollars,’ my glass of champagne constantly being refilled and the adrenalin kicking in wildly. Eve tells me the photographer would like to take a photograph of me for the article. I swing round to greet him and put on my best smile, while trying hard not to show too many teeth. ‘Thank you,’ he says after taking the shot. ‘Great show,’ he adds.

‘Well, thank you for coming,’ I reply, my balance going for a second. I’m already feeling quite drunk; I hope he airbrushes the telltale patches of red from my cheeks.

I feel a warm arm slide around my waist, and turn around. ‘Sam.’

‘Congratulations, babe, it was sensational.’ He kisses me, his smooth skin brushing against my cheek.

‘You missed half of it.’ But I smile, my earlier agitation melting at the sight of him.

‘I saw the better half.’

‘Sorry for snapping earlier, Sam. I was having my usual panic attack before the show.’

‘It’s cool, don’t worry about it.’ He loosens his tie and then leans towards me and whispers, ‘Is the old soak in the corner here?’

Emma makes her way towards me, dressed in sensible black working trousers and a turquoise cardigan vivid against her olive skin. She’s a clinical psychologist and has probably come straight from the hospital. But before we manage to say hello – ‘Katie darling, that was the best show yet,’ says Antonia, one of my customers who lives around the corner from the shop. ‘I need to get rid of my post-baby stomach, though, before I can even think of buying some of those slinky outfits.’

‘You’ve got your figure back so quickly, Antonia,’ I reassure her, ‘you could get away with wearing any of my clothes.’

‘Really?’ She blushes, touching her cheek. ‘Well, I might pop by tomorrow and have a trying-on session. I have an engagement party to go to. A very smart affair, dinner and all that jazz.’

‘Well, I’m sure FIB can sort you out. How’s the new baby?’

‘I might take it back to the shop –’ she chuckles at her own joke – ‘and ask for a refund. Just a few nights’ sleep would be nice.’

Sam, Emma and I make understanding noises, although we don’t really have a clue. Emma is the nearest of us to having children, as she’s engaged to Jonnie. For me, the idea of a baby is terrifying. I’d rather live on a compost heap than go through all the traumas that Mum went through. ‘Antonia, this is Emma, an old school and family friend, and Sam, my…’ Partner? Other half? No. ‘My boyfriend,’ I finish.

‘Well, I strongly advise that you two take precautions.’ She nods at Sam and me, laughing again at her own humour. ‘It is exhausting. If I’m honest, I never wanted to have more than one child, but poor little Billy really wanted a brother or sister. My husband says it’s selfish to have only one child. They always say only children are spoilt brats, don’t they?’

‘I’m an only child,’ chips in Sam, running one hand through his hair. I see him wink at Emma.

Antonia reddens again. ‘Do you have family, Katie? I’m sure they’re so proud of you and what you’ve achieved. To have your own business and be doing all of this.’ She glances around the room. ‘Are they here tonight?’

‘No, sadly they couldn’t make it.’ I look at Emma and Sam, hoping they might change the subject. Instead Sam asks me where the loos are and excuses himself.

‘That’s a shame. Do you have brothers? Sisters?’ she asks inquisitively.

I look around. Sam is out of earshot. ‘No, it’s just me.’ Emma gives me a long hard look. It’s funny how one small question can have an instantly sobering effect.

‘Oh,’ Antonia says. ‘Well, never mind. It’s OK to be an only child, I mean, like I said, I would have stopped at one,’ she continues, digging herself an even deeper hole.

‘Emma, don’t,’ I warn her as we finally move away from Antonia.

‘It’s up to you,’ she says in a spiky tone that makes me feel uneasy.

‘It’s easier, then I don’t get awkward questions or those awful sympathetic smiles.’

‘It’s fine,’ Emma says, but her tone is no more forgiving. ‘If you think it’s best, you carry on.’

I hate it when she gets all self-righteous. The drinks come round again and we each take a glass.

‘Right, back to business,’ I say, making my way over to Hen’s mother with a glass of champagne.

Sam turns the key and we walk inside. He and I have been going out for nine months, and I moved in with him after only three. Sam works in the City. He used to be a currency trader. Now he works in ‘mergers and acquisitions’, or ‘M & A’ as he calls it. He lives in Notting Hill, a stone’s throw from Portobello Market, the famous travel bookshop and the Electric Cinema. It was an impulsive move on my part, but neither of us could see the point of being apart because I was staying with him almost every night. It’s easy for me living here, as it’s only a bus journey away from my shop. Also, Sam has a widescreen television in every room, and a steam room on the top floor. How could I say no?

Mum was immediately suspicious, firing questions at me. ‘Who is this man? Are you sure you’re ready, Katie? You jump from one relationship to another like there’s no tomorrow.’ Her reaction didn’t altogether surprise me, but it made me want to move in with him even more.

Sam picks up the mail, mostly junk – pizza delivery companies, cab firms touting for business, a card saying the electricity meter man came but no one was in. ‘Nothing that can’t wait here,’ he says, chucking it on to the small table in the hallway. He wraps his arms around me.

‘I’m tired and happy,’ I tell him. ‘Tonight went really well, didn’t it?’

‘You are a fashion goddess, my darling.’

I kiss him. ‘Thanks so much for helping me organize this evening.’ I know Sam went out of his way to ask Mr Todhunter if we could use his house for the show. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’

Sam’s face burns with pride. ‘My pleasure. We’re a team, you and me.’

‘Well, I think we’re a top team.’

‘The best.’

I look over his shoulder. The red answerphone light is flashing.

‘How about a liqueur?’ Sam hums as he skips downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Love one.’ I slip off my high heels. My feet ache. I stare at the machine again, certain the message is for me.

‘A steam?’ Sam suggests as I’m about to press the button. He’s holding two glasses and a bottle of cognac. ‘Leave it till tomorrow, it’ll only be Maguire. Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

I turn away and follow him upstairs.

2

After an early-morning run to blow away the hangover, I arrive at the shop with my usual cappuccino and croissant, and a pain au chocolat for Eve, who is addicted to chocolate. I find her studying the books to see how last night went. ‘We have many orders, especially for the French lace dresses, and many people for the mailing list,’ she says, looking even more delighted when I hand her the pastry.

‘That’s wonderful! Last night went even better than I expected. Eve, I have to tell you,’ I exclaim, ‘Sam is taking me skiing this Christmas! It was a surprise, he left the tickets on my pillow.’

‘He is a dream,’ she sighs. ‘Hector and I, we do not get on very well at the moment.’ Hector is her boyfriend. ‘You two are very serious, non?’ Eve is French. When I advertised for a new shop assistant six months ago, she was leagues ahead of anyone else. She arrived on time, wearing a black ribbed polo neck with a camel suede skirt, and her long honey-blonde hair scooped into an immaculate ponytail. She answered my questions so earnestly, as if her future depended on it. ‘I like you very much, Katie. I hope I get this job,’ she said, and touched my desk, ‘touching wood.’

‘I guess we are serious. I’m a lucky girl,’ I say, for a moment feeling guilty that I blurted it out, when I know Eve isn’t getting on too well with Hector.

‘And he is lucky too. Perhaps he is “the one”, Katie?’

‘Perhaps.’

It’s late in the evening and I’m about to lock up for the night. There’s a tap on the shop window and I see Sam outside wearing shades, holding a bottle of wine wrapped in tissue paper and a bunch of lilies.

He hands me the flowers. ‘Thought I’d pick you up from work today, I finished early for a change.’

‘What are these for?’ I grin. ‘Skiing and now flowers and a chauffeur. If you keep this up, I’ll never want to leave you.’

‘That’s the whole idea, Kitty-kins,’ he says, kissing me. It’s a hot summer’s evening, and the restaurants and bars have opened their doors. Friends are meeting after work, talking and drinking in the last of the sun.

‘Remember, we’re going out tonight,’ Sam reminds me as he unlocks the front door.

‘Are we?’

‘I wrote it down in our social calendar, Katie. Dinner with Maguire and his new lady.’

‘Sorry, it slipped my mind. It’s been hectic today, Eve and I didn’t have a moment off, not even for lunch. I’m going to have to employ another person.’ I walk over to the answerphone and press the play button. ‘Can you fix us a drink, Sam? A nice glass of wine?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘As opposed to a horrid one.’

‘Katie, it’s your father.’

I stand rooted to the spot. This must be the message from last night. I knew something was up.

‘I need to talk to you. It’s…’ He coughs. ‘… It’s really quite urgent.’

I swallow hard. Oh my God, something has happened to Mum. Or Bells. Has someone in the family died? Aunt Agnes? He must wonder why I haven’t called him back.

Sam looks at me curiously. ‘Your old man never calls here.’

Sam is right. Dad always calls me at the shop. Why didn’t he call me there today if it’s so urgent? ‘I don’t know,’ I mutter, pressing my lips together.

‘It’s your mother. She’s been working herself into the ground,’ Dad continues, ‘you know what she’s like, and we haven’t had a proper holiday for years. We went to the doctor and he strongly recommended a break. I’m taking her away. So,’ he lingers on the word, ‘we need to talk about Bells.’

Bells. Don’t say anything more, Dad, please. Hang up.

‘Who’s Bells? Is that your dog?’ Sam asks.

‘Wine?’ I say, praying he’ll walk away.

‘Katie, you know I hate pets.’

‘Your mother and I are going to France for two weeks,’ Dad continues, ‘but we can’t leave Bells on her own.’

Sam is shaking his head now. ‘Sitting next to Mum’s dog, Doogle, is like sitting next to an old fish. F. Breath Esquire, I call him.’

‘Sam! Go! Drink!’ I demand now, feeling myself burning under my skin as I put my hand out to press the stop button, but Sam puts his hand firmly over mine.

‘What is it, Katie? Jesus, I thought I had a weird relationship with my parents.’

Sam has always been cagey about his family. ‘Who’s Julian?’ I once asked him. ‘My father,’ he replied, in an unusually stiff, formal voice which invited no further questions.

‘I really need to talk to you,’ Dad continues. ‘I’m out all day tomorrow, so can you call me back tonight?’ There is a lengthy pause. I wish Sam would go away. His presence feels like a loaded gun.

Dad inhales deeply, making Sam laugh. ‘It’s only a bloody dog, isn’t it, Katie? Anyone would think he was talking about the future of the euro,’ he says, finally disappearing downstairs.

It’s two o’clock in the morning and I can’t find my cigarettes. The evening was dismal because I couldn’t stop thinking about Bells. Sam would never have known I wasn’t enjoying myself. I smiled in all the right places and laughed when Maguire relayed his filthy jokes. But Sam can’t massage this problem away. Why did it have to happen now, when things are running so smoothly? Oh Sam! Where have you hidden them? I stare at the cupboards. There’s nothing in Sam’s kitchen. All the surfaces are kept carefully bare; in fact there’s nothing much anywhere, except for the art sculpture in the corner of the room, made out of what looks like coloured milk bottles. Sam tells me it reflects the mood of the modern world.

I open one of the cupboards and run my eyes over the shelves. Maybe Sam tucked the cigarettes into the pressure cooker, as we never use it? Nope. I stand on tiptoe and run my hand along the top of the cupboard. I could kill him. If I want a cigarette, why shouldn’t I smoke one?

I open each drawer, slamming it shut when no cigarettes are revealed, my conversation with Dad preying on my mind.

‘Katie, we know it’s a lot to ask, but I need your help,’ he had said to me earlier this evening.

‘It’s all so sudden, though, why didn’t you tell me how tired Mum’s been?’

‘I can’t hear you, speak up.’

I had to repeat the question again, keeping half an ear on what Sam was doing. I could hear him upstairs, opening our wardrobe, running bath water.

‘Oh, Katie, you know how proud she is. We’d never go away unless I organized it. Look, it’s just for two weeks.’

‘How is she?’ I asked, biting my lip. ‘Dad?’

‘She’ll be fine, as long as she has a break and we take some time off now.’

‘Right,’ I acknowledged. ‘I know you need a holiday, but I’m not sure I can look after Bells. It’s such short notice.’

‘It’s all booked,’ Dad said firmly.

It’s so unlike him to go ahead without asking me. How does he know I’m free? I might be going on holiday too, or abroad on business. ‘Is there anyone else we can ask?’

‘Like who?’

‘Aunt Agnes. She’d love to…’

‘Bells wants to stay with you.’

‘Why?’ My voice was a loud whisper. ‘I can’t have her here.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘What about my shop? I’m sorry, but I can’t drop everything. Let’s call Aunt Agnes.’

‘Now listen here, Katie. Your mother and I have never asked anything of you until now. We need this time together and Bells specifically asked if she could be with you in London. I told her she must write to ask you herself. Didn’t you get her letter?’

‘It must have got lost in the post,’ I lied, picturing it unopened and hidden in my diary.

‘Oh, Katie!’ He raised his voice in exasperation. ‘Why won’t you write to her? She’s always asking after you. “How’s Katie? Never see Katie.”’

I could hear Bells saying that and my heart melted for a split second. Dad must have felt it too because his voice softened. ‘It would mean so much to her, and to us.’

Back to reality. ‘Dad, two weeks is a long time. It’s not even my own home.’

‘I understand you’d have to ask Sam. We would help towards costs and…’

‘No, it’s not about money, Dad.’ Sam came downstairs in his towel at this point, asking why I was taking so long. The bath was ready. A thought came to me. I could persuade him to go on a golfing weekend with Maguire and the lads. ‘I could have her for a weekend?’

‘And where will she stay the rest of the time?’

‘Can’t she stay in Wales?’ was my desperate last attempt.

‘Well, she could, but that’s miserable, quite frankly,’ he said, his voice loaded with frustration.

I understood all of this, but… ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I really can’t. If I had my own apartment…’

He cut me short. ‘That’s not the real reason, is it, Katie?’

I was quiet.

‘Isn’t it high time you shared some responsibility for your sister? Are you going to pretend she doesn’t exist for the rest of your life? You can’t always leave it up to your mother and me. What would you do if something happened to us? Bells would be your responsibility then. Have you ever…?’

‘Hang on, Dad, what did you mean, if something happened to you? Like what?’

‘If you won’t have Bells to stay, you call her and tell her yourself,’ he continued, his voice was trembling with anger now.

‘Dad, what did you mean before?’ I pressed him. ‘Everything’s OK, isn’t it?’

‘All I meant was, your mother and I aren’t always going to be here for Bells. I’m not trying to scare you, but let’s face it, it’s something you need to think about.’

But I don’t want to. Emma has said this to me too. She wishes I would spend more time with Bells. ‘After your parents, you are her next of kin,’ she says.

‘Katie?’

‘All right, I’ll have her to stay.’

There was this great sigh of relief. ‘That’s wonderful, thank you,’ Dad said.

Frustrated in my search for cigarettes, I stick the kettle on instead. Is it unfair to expect Sam to have Bells to stay for two weeks? If it were my home, well, that’d be different, I reason to myself. Oh, God, who am I fooling? Yet I’m furious that my parents have put me in this position. It cuts both ways, Dad. I have a life to lead. I have a career. I can’t drop everything for Bells like you and Mum have. That was always the motto in our household.

I massage my forehead, desperately trying to think of an alternative. Should I phone Aunt Agnes? Bells would have a much nicer time staying with her. I used to love my holidays there.

How am I going to do this? How will I introduce Bells to my friends? To Eve? To Sam?

I dig into my handbag to find my diary. In it is Bells’s letter. I open it. The address, date and time are neatly underlined in the right-hand corner.

To my sister Katie Fletcher

Mum and Dad to stay in France and it would be very kind you have me to stay in summer holidays. To stay with Aunt Agnes, Suffolk too far, big thumbs down, would be very loveley to stay with Katie in London please. Its very Longtime, since I saw you and Wales close to London.

Love, Bells xoxoxo

I fold the letter and tuck it back into my diary.

How can I say no?

3

1982

I am seven years old. I like staying with Aunt Agnes, who lives in Suffolk, near the sea. She makes the best Black Forest gâteau with flakes of real dark chocolate, and cooks homemade chips with real potatoes in a large deep pan. She is very pretty and wears glasses, attached to small brown beads like a necklace, and a long checked apron when she’s cooking. She has these pointed shoes that look like witch’s shoes and a trainset that I play with in her large garden.

Her husband is funny too. Uncle Roger. Once he sat back in his chair and the whole thing collapsed. ‘This house is like an old lady,’ Aunt Agnes said. ‘It needs a bit of cosmetic surgery.’

I think their house is spooky. Uncle Roger swears to me that he has seen the ghost of his father at the top of the stairs. The stairs creak, even my bed creaks. The corridors are dark and smell old, and I run as fast as I can up and down those haunted stairs and into my bedroom. ‘She’s only a little girl, but sometimes I think she’s going to crash right through them,’ I overheard Uncle Roger say once.

I’m staying with my uncle and aunt while Mum has her baby. Mum finds being pregnant difficult. She has had three miscarriages – Dad explained to me what they were – and during this last pregnancy she has been in bed most of the time. Now it’s time for me to go back home. ‘Your mother has had a baby girl,’ Aunt Agnes tells me. ‘You’ll need to help your mum a lot. She will be very tired.’ She isn’t smiling at all and keeps on glancing sideways at Uncle Roger.

Why is she being so quiet all of a sudden? Up until now Aunt Agnes has been showing me baby knitwear patterns and asking whether she should just ‘go for it’ and make the booties pink or perhaps ‘sit tight’ in case it’s a boy. Every sentence has begun with either, ‘Katie, if your mother has a girl…’ or, ‘I’m sure it’s a boy. I can feel it in me bones.’ Even when we went to Sainsbury’s she told the girl at the till that she was expecting a nephew or niece. Aunt Agnes flaps her arms around when she’s excited and her eyes flicker like a butterfly. Sometimes she pokes out her tongue when she’s in an especially good mood.

The Sainsbury’s girl had black all around her eyes and didn’t seem at all interested. As the Club biscuits and mini packets of cereals slid past her she said, ‘Me, I’m never gonna have children or get married. Men, they’re only good when you want something done.’

Aunt Agnes roared with laughter as she packed everything into bags. ‘What a lot that girl will miss out on,’ she told me in the car on the way back home. ‘When you grow up, Katie, promise me you’ll have lots of children. Fill the house with them. Don’t be lonely like your old Uncle Roger and me.’ Aunt Agnes can’t have children. Mum and Dad explained that’s why they like to pack me off to go and see her in the holidays. Supper that night was spent deciding what names to call him/her. Now Aunt Agnes looks as if she doesn’t know what to say about the new arrival.

She hugs me on the platform and tells me to be a brave girl. I cannot understand it. I always travel on my own to Suffolk. A guard helps me on to the train and then there is Dad to pick me up when we arrive. There’s nothing to be brave about. The train trundles back to my parents’ home, and I go to the buffet car and pick out a marshmallow biscuit with strawberry filling and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. In between mouthfuls I try to imagine what my baby sister will look like. Will she look like me when I was little? Dad used to say I was blonde and big-eyed with dimpled white skin and chubby legs like baguettes. ‘You used to wear your knickers on your head too.’ He smiled. ‘You pretended they were scarves.’

Dad meets me at the station as usual, wearing his dark-rimmed glasses and looking even thinner and longer than he usually does. My dad is over six foot two inches. Today he is wearing his scruffy jeans that he normally only wears around the house and his knitted chunky grey jumper that matches his hair. He always complains that he turned grey too early in life. He helps me with my shiny red case as I show the platform conductor my crumpled ticket. On the way home I want to ask lots of questions about the new baby. Yet I feel as if I have a marble stuck in my throat. Instead, we drive home in silence. Dad doesn’t even put the radio on to hear the news. He loves the news. Eventually Dad says, ‘Your mother is tired.’ He tells me I must be a good girl. He is gripping the steering wheel so hard I can see his knuckles turning white.

‘We’re back,’ Dad calls loudly. We walk upstairs in silence. Mum is sitting on her bedside chair with her old quilted bed-jacket on. Dad often tries to buy her another bed jacket, but she won’t give it up. ‘It’s like comfort food,’ she says. ‘Sticky toffee pudding.’ I kiss her on the cheek but she doesn’t move, just sits there quietly, like Granny sits in her armchair when she comes to stay. Her eyes look red and puffy, as if she’s been crying. What’s wrong? Shouldn’t Mum be happy if she has had a baby? Instead she looks small and old and her cheeks are cold and dry.

The crib stands in the middle of the room. It looks lonely and no noise comes from it. Mum looks over to Dad, who seems to be making some kind of secret sign at her.

‘Before you see your new sister…’ Dad says slowly. I know then for certain that something is wrong, and I’m scared. I walk over to the crib and look down.

4

‘Did you really think you could keep her a secret for ever?’ asks Emma, grinding some pepper on to our hummus. Each Tuesday Emma and I go to a yoga class, followed by supper together. Sam plays poker with Maguire and a few of his other workmates.

Emma tilts her head sideways when she asks questions – she does it when she’s watching television too, her forehead furrowed in concentration. Emma and I know almost everything about each other. She was once my next-door neighbour. We went to school together, ballet classes together, until Emma was told she was too ‘big-boned’ to have a future in pirouetting. She’s tall and willowy now, but when she was little she was ‘partridge-shaped’ as my dad used to say. She stole bags of crisps from the cardboard box in their kitchen and ate them at the bottom of the garden. I was the other way round; the teacher constantly asked me if I was eating properly.

We used to have a dressing-up box at home and we’d put on my mother’s old fur coats and stilettos and strut down to the shops together with Peggy, Mum’s dog, held tightly on the lead. Peggy would never walk with me, I had to drag her and she bumped along the pavement. I spent most of my time at Emma’s house. When things at home were difficult or if Mum and Dad were at the hospital visiting Bells, I stayed with Emma. Their family house became my second home. Emma is the only person I can talk to about Bells as she grew up with both of us.

Emma still has that psychologist’s expression on her face, which makes me feel unsettled. Of course this would be her reaction.

‘I knew Sam would meet her some day, if we were serious,’ I finally reply.

‘Are you serious?’ She dips her pitta into the hummus.

‘Yes, I think so.’

Emma is absent-mindedly coiling her dark brown hair, but her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘Then in a way this is the perfect opportunity to tell him. It’s given you the push you need. Otherwise, when will you?’

‘It’s never been a conscious decision not to tell him about Bells.’ I fight my own corner. ‘He knows I have a sister, I haven’t told him much about her, that’s all. It hasn’t come up in conversation.’

‘You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I’m not embarrassed.’ I blush, feeling defenceless around her, as if she is peeling the protective layers away from me one by one.

Emma chooses not to hear. ‘You think the longer you don’t mention Bells, the harder it will be to drop her casually into conversation, don’t you?’

‘Sam’s not a curious person,’ I defend myself, ‘we don’t talk about family stuff.’ Since going out with Sam I have discovered little scraps of information about his parents. His father worked overseas when he was young. ‘Mum and I were fine,’ he insisted when I asked him if he’d missed his father. ‘We had a great time. Mum had a ball, in fact, when Dad left. Didn’t have to pick up his dry-cleaning or put his bloody supper on the table by seven on the dot. She could go out with her friends. Used to take me to all the parties,’ he recalled with a short laugh. ‘Yeah, we had a grand time, Mum and I. Turned out for the best, I’d say.’ Sam doesn’t like saying anything is wrong or that someone has hurt him. It’s a positive thing, in that he doesn’t ever feel sorry for himself or harbour resentment. ‘Life is for living, not for dwelling on, Katie,’ he always says.

It’s not really as simple as Sam makes it sound. Yet I’ve never felt able to tell him about my family; about how much I hated not seeing more of Mum after Bells arrived. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because Sam doesn’t ask. That’s why I love going out with him. I don’t need to explain anything. I can be exactly who I want to be.

‘Eat some of this,’ Emma demands, pushing the plate of hummus and pitta bread in my direction. ‘You haven’t touched your food.’

I look at the plate dispassionately. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Instead I pour myself another glass of wine.

‘I think you’re overreacting to the whole situation,’ she says. ‘You’re not the only one to go through something like this, you know. Dad did exactly the same thing with Mum.’

‘Really?’ I look up.

‘Yes.’ Emma nods. ‘He didn’t introduce her to his brother, you know, Uncle Spencer? Big ears, plays the piano very badly, rides a motorbike and wears dodgy maroon shirts and purple ties?’

‘I know Uncle Spencer.’ I smile. ‘He’s the one who can tell you what day of the week you were born from the date of your birthday, can’t he? I used to love that game,’ I reminisce. ‘I was born on a Friday. I always wanted him to be just one day out, but he didn’t slip up, not once. I remember his wobbly “Für Elise” too.’ I grin. ‘Which came out especially at Christmas, along with a few hymns. “Hark the Herald” was particularly painful.’

‘Exactly.’ Emma laughs. ‘He’s wonderful, but he lives on another planet. Dad thought Mum might call off the engagement if she met him. So he was wily and arranged that Mum’s visits never coincided with Uncle Spencer’s. They “courted” for eight months, were engaged, and Mum finally met Uncle Spencer for the first time at the wedding.’

‘In one of his dodgy suits?’ For a moment I am forgetting my own dilemma and enjoying the world of Uncle Spencer.

‘No, even worse, he arrived on his motorbike wearing a black shirt with a gold tiger on it.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Totally inappropriate, but it didn’t surprise anyone.’

‘Well, there you go!’ I top up my glass of wine. ‘Your dad would understand then. You should too.’ I feel like I have earned back a few points.

‘I do understand. But I asked Mum if it would have made any difference had she met Uncle Spencer before they married, and she said no. She was adamant. She would have married Dad anyway. He was a silly old fool who worried too much. She adores Uncle Spencer. We all do. He’s entertaining. She finds his sister, Esther, boring and straight.’

‘Ems, I do see what you’re saying, I just feel Sam has to seriously… I mean, seriously,’ I emphasize, widening my eyes, ‘fall in love with me before I introduce him to Bells. It’s only been nine months and they have been fantastic. I’m happy. I don’t want to risk Bells meeting him and whacking him hard in the balls.’

Emma’s face dissolves into a smile. ‘She doesn’t do that any more though, does she?’

When Emma and I were at school we used to meet boys in our lunch hour and clumsily snog them behind school fences and gates. I remember fancying two boys, Toby and Ben, but not being able to choose which one to go out with. So I decided to put them both to the ‘Bells Test’. In the past, boys had met Bells and, ten times out of ten, left the house vowing never to return. To begin with I had been mortified, but then I started to turn the situation around. There had to be one boy, surely, who could stand up to the test?

I took Toby home first and watched Bells charge at him full tilt and butt him in the balls. You might wonder where the fun was in that, but the best part lay in studying his reaction. When Bells belted Toby I watched him as he clutched his balls in agony. Then he pretended it hadn’t happened at all and asked me what was for tea. Bells started to howl with laughter and Toby said he had forgotten his mum wanted him back for tea after all.

Ben was different. He rugby-tackled Bells and she liked that and kept on asking when he was coming round again. And he did come back! Ben at least had risen to the challenge. Was I scared that Sam wouldn’t?

‘Come off it, that was when we were… what? Fourteen? Fifteen?’ Emma continues. ‘And we are talking Toby, the prick who wore tight leather jackets and thought he was in Grease, and Ben who drew phallic diagrams all over your pencil case and files? What a loss!’ she laughs. ‘Bells did you a favour.’

‘I know,’ I concede. ‘But, Emma, it’s two whole weeks. It’s not a weekend, a few days, it’s a whole fortnight.’

Emma shakes her head. ‘Katie, this is ridiculous. Bells is not your average sister, but so what? She wants you to be a part of her life, is that so scary? Just this evening I had to see a young girl from a broken home, self-harming…’ Emma stops, knowing the information on her patients is strictly confidential. ‘You need to put it in perspective.’

The waiter takes our plates away. ‘You’re right,’ I say, hanging my head with shame. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, your job must be difficult sometimes.’

She shrugs. ‘Bells gets on with it. You need to as well. When did you last see her? I mean, properly?’

‘Last Christmas. I went home for a night.’

‘You never know, you might actually enjoy her company. Things always come along to test us,’ Emma continues. ‘Life never stays on a nice even keel; it doesn’t work like that.’ As she is saying this, half of me wants to reply, ‘What’s ever tested you?’ Emma’s life is perfect. She gets on with her family, her brother is her best friend, she has a close relationship with her parents, Jonnie adores her, they were made for each other, and now she has a large diamond on her finger.

‘You don’t see enough of your mum either, Katie. You might regret it one day.’ She waits for my response. ‘What’s wrong? There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she probes. ‘Is it your mother?’

I tell Emma about my conversation with Dad. ‘It seems a bit sudden, that’s all. I can’t help wondering if he’s keeping something from me.’

‘Your dad wouldn’t lie,’ Emma says with conviction. ‘Look, I think all they want you to do is make more of an effort with Bells.’

‘Mum didn’t even ring to ask me how my show went,’ I tell her.

‘OK, but did she know about it? Did you ask her to be there?’ Emma’s patience is running out.

‘No, not really. Oh,’ I wave a hand dismissively, ‘I know. I’m nearly thirty, not sixteen. It shouldn’t get to me like this.’ I sink back into my chair and try to relax. ‘I wish I’d told Sam straight away about Bells; it would have made life a lot easier.’

‘Tell him your sister’s coming to stay. Describe her so he won’t be too surprised, and I bet you he’ll be fine about it.’

‘But…’

‘No buts.’

‘Yes, but what if…’

‘No buts. I know you would be saying the same thing to me if it were the other way around. And I know it’s easy, my sitting here giving you advice,’ she admits, ‘but tell Sam tonight. Don’t put it off any longer. He’s not a monster, he’s your boyfriend. I tell Jonnie everything, he would be hurt if I shut him out. Don’t we go out with people to feel supported? Isn’t that the whole point?’

‘Yes.’

‘You tell him,’ she says simply. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

5

1982

‘Katie,’ Dad says sternly, ‘don’t upset your mother.’

I can’t help it. I peer into the cot again. ‘But what’s wrong with her?’ I turn to look at Mum and Dad. ‘Why hasn’t my sister got a proper nose? And what’s that funny hole between her nose and lip?’ Mum is crying now, and Dad crouches down beside her, stroking her arm gently.

‘Why does she look so funny?’ I ask again. I can’t look at the baby any more. It’s scaring me.

‘Katie,’ Dad begins, ‘this is the way she was born. I’m afraid not all children are lucky enough to be born perfect.’

‘Why?’

Dad takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. ‘Just because. We’re going to have to help her. Your sister will have to see a doctor who will make her face better. It’s going to be all right. We’re…’

‘Stop!’ Mum sobs. ‘Nothing’s all right. How are we going to cope?’

‘We’ll manage. We’ll make sure we do,’ Dad reassures her. ‘Katie will help us, won’t you, darling?’ He looks at me as if to say, Don’t just stand there, come over and give your mother a hug.

Was this what Aunt Agnes meant by being brave? I walk over to Mum and put my arms around her.

The doctor is here and I am listening behind the kitchen door.

‘There’s an excellent local team of specialists in facial-oral problems. They’re highly experienced in treating children born with a cleft of the lip and palate,’ he says. ‘One child in approximately seven hundred and fifty births has this problem. We will also consult a plastic surgeon for advice. He’ll talk us through the reconstructive surgical procedures. With a series of operations, we can repair your daughter’s lip and palate.’

‘When can we start?’ Dad asks.

‘While she’s still a baby, but a bit bigger and able to cope with the surgery.’

‘I don’t understand why this happened. I felt fine during the pregnancy, I had plenty of rest. What did I do wrong?’ Mum pleads for an explanation.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Dad tells her.