It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend (4 page)

“It was the most amazing experience,” I said to Oliver. “So, like, elemental. And Claire was… Just, wow. Even though she was screaming and mooing like a cow, bless her, she was just so strong. She did a hypnobirthing course and I think the techniques helped her deal with the pain, because she just zoned out – it was like she’d entered another plane. And seeing how proud she was when she held Pers for the first time was incredible. It’s really going to be tough for her being a single mum but I know she’ll make a go of it.”

And Oliver talked a bit about a friend of his who’s a barrister specialising in family law, and how hard it can sometimes be to get absent fathers to do their duty by their kids, and what a disgrace it is that so many men seem to want to abdicate responsibility rather than embracing fatherhood, and how things really have improved over the past few decades in terms of the way the courts can appropriate income for child support. I was really surprised by how sound his views were actually – I suspect most of Rose’s friends would come over all chuntery about how women shouldn’t go having babies they can’t afford, which is nonsense of course because as we all know, it takes two to tango. Anyway we had more coffee and I found a carton of grapefruit juice in the fridge, and by the time Rose came downstairs showered, dressed, fully made up and looking rather crossly for her breakfast, Oliver and I were chatting away like old friends and we’d finished all the bacon.

“So Rose has a new boyfriend?” asked Claire, once we’d got the formalities out of the way. The formalities consisted of me presenting Claire with a bottle of wine and a box of brownies I’d bought at Waitrose on the way, and Pers with a fluffy pink pig, and then spending about half an hour kissing her adorable squashy tummy and telling Claire how much she’d grown since I last saw her two weeks before.

Poor Claire, since Ty dumped her and she had Pers her social life has been a bit limited, so she’s developed a slightly obsessive interest in other people’s, and of course Rose’s is a pretty good one to pick if you’re in the market for living vicariously. Although Pers was totally gorgeous and brilliant company, and was terribly advanced for eight months, she didn’t have an awful lot to say for herself yet, and Claire missed human interaction, even though she and Pers try to go out at least once every day.

Their flat is truly, truly horrible. I die a little bit inside every time I go there and am struck afresh by how awful it is, and by the fact that it’s home for my best friend and her baby daughter. Claire’s done her best to make it nice, but ultimately with a kitchen that hasn’t been updated since the 1970s, a wonky floor covered in manky, ancient carpet tiles that lets the downstairs neighbour’s skunk smoke seep through, and a huge patch of mould on the bathroom wall that comes creeping back within days of Claire spending an afternoon scrubbing it off, the amount of difference flourishing plants and cheerful framed posters on the walls can make is limited. And yet Claire and Pers emerge from this hovel every day to go to their baby massage class or their mums and tots yoga or storytime at the library or whatever, Claire in her charity-shop clothes and Pers in the little outfits Claire puts together from hand-me-downs and eBay purchases, and they look like they’ve stepped out of the Boden catalogue.

Claire, you see, is seriously beautiful. Not like me and Rose. Claire’s a ten
without doing anything. She’s got clear, glowing olive skin that doesn’t need makeup and smooth, shiny hair the colour of bitter chocolate that doesn’t need straighteners, and a slim, lithe figure that doesn’t appear to need diet or exercise to stay that way, and a perfect oval face with high cheekbones and full lips that always seem to be smiling. I suppose it’s partly her looks that got her into the mess she’s in now. In the same way as people with vast amounts of money tend to go out with and marry other people with vast amounts of money, I’ve noticed that utterly gorgeous people end up sleeping with other utterly gorgeous people. You’d think there’d be some disadvantage to it in terms of the diversity of the gene pool or whatever, but apparently there isn’t, and that’s how it was with Claire and Ty. He’s as beautiful as she is, all long limbs and honey-coloured skin, and the most amazing green eyes I’ve ever seen. For almost a year the two of them were inseparable, constantly intertwining their lissome bodies and exchanging dazzling smiles and gazing into each other’s exquisite faces. You could see that, however much they pretended they were glad to see you, they really couldn’t wait for you to go so they could be alone again. It was at once deeply annoying and really, really lovely and sweet, because they were both so happy, but anyone with more than about five minutes’ experience of life could tell it was going to end badly, and so it did.

When Claire found out she was pregnant, it was like nature cranked up the dial a bit and allowed her special dispensation to go from being a ten out of ten to being an unprecedented eleven. Joy shone out of her. She was never sick, she barely put on weight, she didn’t seem to get swollen ankles or stretch marks or varicose veins or any of the other disfiguring horrors that plague pregnant women. She just glowed with a kind of serene excitement, thrilled by what was happening in her body. And therein lay the problem. For the first time in their relationship, Claire’s attention was focussed inwards, at the tiny new life
inside her, rather than outwards at Ty. Initially he made an effort and shared Claire’s excitement about the baby – I really believe he did. But as month followed month and he carried on being not-quite-as-important, he started to withdraw. When Claire wanted to stay in and drink tea and have a warm bath and go to bed with another Georgette Heyer novel (she became obsessed with them whilst up the duff), Ty wanted to go out. At first Claire reluctantly went with him; then Ty reluctantly stayed in; later still he took to going out alone, and one night he didn’t come back.

Claire rang me, frantic with worry, and I went round and stayed overnight in the slightly less grotty one-bedroom flat she and Ty shared, while she paced and fretted, sure he had been stabbed to death on the mean streets of Brixton. I pointed out to her that the streets of Brixton are hardly mean any more, property prices there have rocketed in recent years and there’s even a farmers’ market, for heaven’s sake, but she was too anxious to listen. I was right, of course, and the next morning Ty sloped in, sullen and belligerent and clearly feeling guilty as hell. I made myself scarce, but Claire told me later that after spending the day crying (her) and shouting and punching the walls (him), Ty had admitted that he’d spent the night with a girl called Olya who worked on the Chanel counter at Harrods, and he couldn’t help it but he was in love with her and was taking himself off to Bayswater to twine his limbs with hers and gaze into her eyes, and Claire could forget it if she thought she’d be getting child support because Ty, being an out-of-work musician, hadn’t got two quid to rub together.

So in spite of having a genetic inheritance that will probably make her a supermodel, poor darling Pers has had a hard start in life from the point of view of material things. But Claire adores her and I adore her and Ty and Olya adore her (Claire’s been incredibly grown up and allows them to see her every other weekend, although they can’t take her out on their own for very long because Claire’s still breastfeeding on demand and
Pers does demand rather a lot). This also curtails Claire’s social life, and although I know she wouldn’t swap places with anyone, she does get a rather wistful look about her when she remembers the days – just a couple of years ago – when she was out every night at various gigs drinking and smoking and dancing and being admired and pulling. It will get easier for her, of course, once Pers is a bit older and she has a bit more freedom and a bit more money, but for now I think she does feel a bit trapped sometimes, and so she loves hearing about Rose’s active social life and my less active one.

“He’s called Oliver,” I said. “He’s some sort of City trader, and he collects art.”

“Really?” Claire shrieked with laughter and rolled her eyes. “That is just, like, so Rose. Is he as vile as he sounds? Does he wear peach-coloured cashmere jumpers and have floppy Tory-boy hair? Does he pop his collar and have a box at Twickenham? Would I find his picture on lookatmyfuckingredtrousers.com? Does he belong to a swanky golf club that won’t let women be members? Or is he the wide boy type, whose idea of a fun night out is snorting coke off strippers’ bums?”

I said, feeling a bit defensive for some reason, I hadn’t seen Oliver in a cashmere jumper or red trousers and he hadn’t mentioned golf or strippers, and his hair was actually quite sensible and ordinary. Claire looked a bit disappointed and switched Pers over to her other side to finish her lunch.

“Actually, Claire,” I said, “he’s really nice. Like, as in nice. I like him.” I felt myself blushing furiously but she didn’t see because she was gazing down at Pers’s fluffy little head.

“You like him? Great,” she said. Claire’s heard all the horror stories over the years about Danny, Neil, Aiden and all the rest of them, and has had to listen to me wailing about the prospect of Rose one day marrying one of them, and my poor future nieces and
nephews being saddled with Danny, Neil or Aiden for a father.

“Mmmm,” I said, helping myself to another brownie. “The thing is, I think maybe I like him a bit too much.”

This got Claire’s attention. She looked up at me. “You fancy Rose’s new boyfriend? Really? You’re not just making it up because my life is bereft of excitement and romance and I have to live vicariously?”

I laughed. “I wish I was. He’s sweet, he really is. He seems really interested in what I have to say. And, Claire, he’s so fucking drop-dead gorgeous I could just sit and stare at him for ever. He’s as lovely looking as you and you know what a compliment that is.”

“Shut up!” Claire said. “But… you won’t do anything about it, will you? You wouldn’t try and steal Rose’s boyfriend off her? Because that would be so totally evil I don’t think I could be your friend anymore.” But she was smiling and I could tell part of her was thinking that it would be really, really interesting if I tried to steal Rose’s boyfriend, and would provide her with enough gossip to keep her going until Pers was practically old enough to leave home. You see, Claire, while a kind person and a true friend, loves nothing more than a juicy bit of scandal.

“Of course not. That would be wrong. I suppose I should find someone new really. I need to get out more,” I said gloomily.

“I still wish you and Ben…” Claire began, but I silenced her with a hard stare.

“Ben. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend,” I said. “And he won’t be, not ever.” I didn’t need to tell Claire why – she knew all about Nina. “So I need someone new. I need to check my phone every five minutes to make sure it’s working, and feel my head spin when I’m kissed, and experience the horrible disappointment of realising he doesn’t really understand
American Psycho
, and all that stuff.”

“Yes, I vaguely remember all that,” Claire smiled ruefully. “Anyway, even if you had set your sights on Rose’s chap, it wouldn’t work, because if Rose is his type, you aren’t, right? Not that you aren’t wonderful and beautiful and everything,” she added hastily, “but Rose is just… different. High maintenance. Knows important people. Goes to flash parties. You know.”

I did know, and after the little smart of hurt I felt whenever I suspected anyone of drawing comparisons between me and Rose had faded, I realised she had a point. Why on earth would Oliver want me, or even think about wanting me, when he had Rose? But why not, if all or at least some of the things he liked about Rose were there to like about me too, mightn’t he – totally of his own volition, without me needing to do any stealing at all – just sort of... notice me? Look at me and think about me in a bit the same way as I couldn’t help looking at and thinking about him? Because when I talked to Claire about all the knee-trembling intensity of the beginning of a new relationship – the breathless anticipation, the round-the-clock sex, the tenderness everything about Him (even unto dirty socks) can inspire, I wasn’t imagining experiencing those feelings for just any random new man. I was imagining experiencing them for Oliver. With Oliver.

Then Claire said, “Obviously trying to steal your sister’s boyfriend would be bad and wrong, but…”

“But what?” I said.

“If you were to decide to just sort of gently entice him away a bit, which would obviously make you a really horrible person…”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then it might help if you had a friend who was a really bad person too, and had a brilliant, evil master plan that could help you do it.”

I said, “I know you’re breastfeeding, but shall we open another bottle of wine?”

“My midwife reckons that unless you get so pissed you forget you even have a baby, it’s all good,” Claire said. “There’s some Viognier in the fridge.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Night out tonight at mystery venue?” I texted to Ben. “Meet at mine at 8 for warm-up drinks. Dress like you’re auditioning for
Made in Chelsea
. E xx.”

It was the last working day of the year and Rose and I were getting the train to Buckinghamshire the next day to spent Christmas with Dad and Serena. But, as you generally do at this time of year, I felt the need for one last big night out before we left London. Usually I would have met a group of mates and headed to Brixton or Camden for a gig, or to the South Bank if we felt the need to imbibe some culture with our drinks, or out for dinner if we were feeling flush. Tonight, though, I had a different plan.

I’d picked Rose’s brains earlier in the day.

“Where do your flash friends hang out these days?” I’d asked as we walked to the station together, Rose to head north to St James’s, where Quinn’s has its palatial headquarters; I to get the train to Waterloo and then the tube to London Bridge and the considerably shabbier offices of YEESH.

“Which ones?” Rose asked. “The media ones, or the art ones, or the bankers, or the young and trendy?”

“The young and trendy, I guess,” I said. “I want to show Ben how the other half lives.”