Shopaholic & Sister (22 page)

“Hi,” I say, with an understanding smile. “Still trying to track down that bit of money?”

“It must be here somewhere.” She frowns and turns to another statement.

God, maybe the bank’s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.

I lean forward confidingly.

“Banks are a nightmare, aren’t they?”

“They’re useless,” she replies, nodding.

“I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they’re going to be so unsympathetic . . .”

“I don’t have an overdraft,” she says, looking puzzled.

“But—”

I stop as her words hit my brain. She doesn’t have an overdraft. Which means—

I feel a bit faint.

That thirty thousand pounds is actual . . .

It’s actual
money
?

“Becky, are you OK?” Jess gives me an odd look.

“I’m . . . fine!” I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. “So . . . you’re not overdrawn. That’s good! That’s great!”

“I’ve never been overdrawn in my life,” Jess says firmly. “I just don’t think it’s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There’s no excuse.” She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. “But you used to be a financial journalist, didn’t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this.”

Her hazel eyes meet mine expectantly and I feel a ridiculous tweak of anxiety. I’m suddenly not sure I want her to know the truth about my finances. Not the
exact
truth.

“I . . . er . . . absolutely!” I say. “Of course I do. It’s all a question of . . . of planning ahead and careful management.”

“Exactly!” says Jess with approval. “When any money comes in, the first thing I do is put half aside to save.”

Half
? Even my dad doesn’t save that much.

“Excellent!” I manage. “It’s the only sensible option.”

I’m in total shock. When I was a financial journalist, I used to write articles telling people to save a percentage of their money all the time. But I never thought anyone would actually save
half
.

Jess is looking at me with a fresh interest and maybe even affection.

“So . . . you do the same, do you, Becky?”

For a few seconds I can’t quite formulate a response.

“Er . . . well!” I say at last, and clear my throat. “Maybe not exactly half
every
month . . .”

“I’m just the same.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “Sometimes I only manage twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent!” I echo feebly. “Well . . . never mind. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

“But I do,” says Jess, leaning forward across the table. “You must understand that.”

I’ve never seen her face look so open.

Oh my God. We’re bonding.

“Twenty percent of what?” comes Luke’s voice as he and Gary enter the kitchen, both looking in good spirits.

Maybe now is the time to move the conversation on.

“Er . . . nothing!” I say.

“We’re just talking about finances,” says Jess to Luke. “We’ve both been doing our accounts.”

“Your
accounts
?” says Luke, giving a small shout of laughter. “What accounts would those be, Becky?”

“You know!” I say brightly. “My financial affairs and so forth.”

“Ah.” Luke nods, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. “So . . . have you called out the SWAT teams yet? And the Red Cross?”

“What do you mean?” says Jess, puzzled.

“They’re traditionally summoned to disaster areas, aren’t they?” He grins at me.

“So!” I say quickly, trying to change the subject. “Did anyone . . . er . . . see
EastEnders
last night?”

No one seems to hear me.

“But Becky was a financial journalist!” says Jess, sounding disconcerted.

“Financial journalist?” Luke looks highly amused. “You want to hear a story about your sister’s days as a financial journalist?”

“No,” I put in. “She doesn’t.”

“The cashpoint card,” says Gary, reminiscing.

“The cashpoint card!” Luke slaps the table in delight. “This was during Becky’s illustrious career as a TV finance expert,” he says to Jess. “She was filming an item on the perils of cashpoint use. She put in her own cashpoint card to demonstrate . . .” He starts laughing again. “And it got swallowed on camera.”

“They showed that the other night on a TV clips show,” says Gary to me. “The bit where you start bashing the machine with your shoe is a classic!”

OK, he is off my Christmas card list.

“But why did it get swallowed?” says Jess, looking perplexed. “Were you . . .
overdrawn
?”

“Was Becky overdrawn?” Luke says cheerfully, getting out some glasses. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Jess looks confused.

“But, Becky, you said you saved half your salary every month.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry?” Luke slowly turns round. “Becky said she did
what
?”

“That’s . . . that’s not exactly what I said,” I say, flustered. “I said it’s a
good idea
to save half your salary. In principle. And . . . it is! It’s a very good idea!”

“How about not running up huge credit card bills which you keep secret from your husband?” says Luke. “Is that a good idea in principle?”

“Credit card bills?” says Jess, looking at me in horror. “So . . . you’re in debt?”

God, why does she have to say it like that?
Debt
. Like it’s some kind of plague. Like I’m about to go to the workhouse. This is the twenty-first century.
Everyone
’s in debt.

“You know how doctors make the worst patients?” I say with a little laugh. “Well, financial journalists make the worst . . . er . . .”

I wait for her to laugh too, or at least give a sympathetic smile. But she just looks appalled.

This whole exchange is beginning to rankle. OK, so I may have had the odd debt in my time. But she doesn’t have to look so
disapproving
.

“By the way, Jess,” says Gary. “We’ve run into a tiny glitch with that program.”

“Really?” Jess looks up. “I’ll come and have a look if you like.”

“Are you sure?” Gary glances at me. “We don’t want to interrupt your evening. . . .”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand. “Go ahead!”

When they’ve all disappeared into the study I wander along the corridor and into the sitting room. I slump down on the sofa and stare miserably at the blank television.

Jess and I haven’t bonded one bit.

We don’t get on. That’s the truth.

Suddenly I’m weary with disappointment. I’ve been trying so hard ever since she arrived. I’ve been making every effort. I bought the picture of the cave . . . and I prepared all those yummy snacks . . . and I tried to plan the best evening I could. And she hasn’t even
tried
to join in. OK, so maybe she didn’t like any of my films. But she could have pretended, couldn’t she? If it was me, I would have pretended.

Why does she have to be such a
misery
? Why can’t she just have
fun
?

As I gulp my champagne, resentment is growing inside me.

How can she hate shopping? How? She’s got thirty thousand pounds, for God’s sake! She should
adore
shopping! And another thing—why is she so obsessed with potatoes? What’s so great about bloody potatoes?

I just don’t understand her. She’s my sister, but I don’t understand one single thing about her. Luke was right all along. It
is
all nurture. Nature doesn’t come into it.

I start dejectedly leafing through the videos. Maybe I’ll watch one of them on my own. And have some popcorn. And some of those yummy Thorntons chocolates.

Jess probably doesn’t even eat chocolate. Unless it’s chocolate she’s made herself, out of potatoes.

Well, good for her.
I’m
going to stuff my face and watch a nice movie.

I’m just reaching for
Pretty Woman
when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say, picking up.

“Hello, Bex?” comes a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s me.”

“Suze!” I feel a huge rush of joy. “Oh my God! Hi! How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!”

Suddenly with all my heart I wish Suze were here. Like the old days in Fulham. I miss her so much.
So
much.

“So, how was the spa with Lulu?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“It was . . . fine,” she says after a pause. “You know. Kind of . . . a bit different . . . but fun!”

“Good!”

There’s an awkward silence.

“And . . . and I was wondering how it’s all going with your new sister,” Suze says hesitantly. “Are you . . . are you really good friends?”

I can’t admit the truth to Suze. I just can’t admit the whole thing’s been a failure. That she goes on spa trips with her new friend, but I can’t even manage one evening with my own sister.

“It’s great!” I say. “Couldn’t be better! We’re getting on so well!”

“Really?” says Suze, sounding a bit crushed.

“Absolutely! In fact, we’re having a girls’ night in together right now! Watching movies . . . having a laugh . . . just hanging out. You know!”

“What are you watching?” says Suze at once.

“Er . . .” I look at the blank TV screen. “
Pretty Woman
.”

“I love
Pretty Woman
,” Suze says longingly. “The scene in the shop!”

“I know! That is just the best scene ever!”

“And the end, when Richard Gere climbs up!” Her voice is tumbling out with enthusiasm. “Oh God, I want to watch it right now!”

“Me too!” I say without thinking. “I mean . . . I want to watch the . . . er . . . rest of it.”

“Oh,” Suze says in a different voice. “I must be interrupting you. Sorry.”

“No!” I say quickly. “I mean, it doesn’t matter—”

“I’ll go. You must want to get back to your sister. It sounds like you’re having an amazing time.” Her voice is wistful. “You two must have so much to talk about.”

“Yes,” I say, looking round the empty room. “Yes, we . . . we certainly do!”

“Well . . . I’ll see you sometime,” she says. “Bye, Bex.”

“Bye!” I say, my throat suddenly thick.

Wait
! I want to cry out.
Don’t go
!

But instead I put down the receiver and stare into space. At the other end of the flat I can hear Luke, Gary, and Jess all laughing about something. They’ve bonded with her great. It’s just me who hasn’t.

And I had such huge hopes. I was so excited about having a sister. But I’ve done everything I can think of, and it’s all failed. Jess and I are never going to be friends. Not in a million years.

Ms Jessica Bertram
12 Hill Rise
Scully
Cumbria CA19 1BD

16 May 2003

Dear Ms Bertram:

Thank you for your letter.

Having gone through your accounts in great detail I can only concur that there is a discrepancy of 73 pence.

I am deeply sorry for this error by the bank and have credited your savings account by this amount, back-dated three months. I have also, as you request, added the missing interest.

May I take this opportunity to commend you yet again on your meticulous and thoughtful approach to your finances.

On a personal note, I look forward to seeing you at the upcoming Prudent Savers’ Group cheese and wine evening, at which our head of personal accounts will be giving the keynote address “Retightening the Purse Strings.”

Yours sincerely,

Howard Shawcross
Customer Account Manager

I WAKE UP the next morning with a splitting headache, which could have something to do with the fact that I polished off an entire bottle of champagne myself last night, plus one and a half trays of chocolates. Meanwhile, Jess, Luke, and Gary spent hours around the computer. Even when I took them in some pizza, they barely looked up. So I just watched the whole of
Pretty Woman
and then half of
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, before going to bed on my own.

As I blearily put on a dressing gown, Luke is already showered and dressed in the “casual weekend” clothes he wears when he’s actually going to spend the whole time in the office.

“What time did you finish last night?” I ask, my throat all hoarse and croaky.

“Not till late.” Luke shakes his head. “Once we started discussing it, we couldn’t stop. Jess had a lot of ideas.”

“Right!” I try to sound enthusiastic.

“You know, I take it back about her,” he adds, tying up his shoelaces. “Your sister’s got a lot going for her. She couldn’t have been more helpful last night. She certainly knows her way around a computer!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. She’s great!” He stands up and gives me a kiss. “You were right. I’m very glad you invited her for the weekend.”

“Me too!” I say, forcing a bright smile. “We’re all having so much fun!”

I shuffle into the kitchen, where Jess is sitting at the counter in her jeans and a T-shirt, with a glass of water.

Cleverclogs. I expect she’ll split the atom this morning. In between sit-ups.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning!” I say in my most pleasant, good-hostess manner.

I was rereading
The Gracious Hostess
last night, and it says that even if your guest is annoying you, you must behave with charm and decorum.

Well, fine. I can be charming. I can be decorative.

“Did you sleep well? Let me get you some breakfast!”

I open the fridge and get out the freshly squeezed orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juices. I reach into the bread bin and pull out some seeded granary bread, croissants, and muffins. Then I start rooting around in the cupboards for jams. Three kinds of luxury marmalade, strawberry jam with champagne, wild blossom honey . . . and Belgian chocolate spread. Finally I get down a range of luxury coffees and teas to choose from. There. No one’s going to say I don’t give my guests a good breakfast.

I’m aware of Jess watching my every move, and as I turn round she’s got a strange expression on her face.