Summer With My Sister (13 page)

‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s the lot.’

He slammed the van doors shut and put his arms around her. It was a hot, soupy day and she could smell his sweat, mingling with the quick ciggy he’d had when he first got there. He wasn’t a man for cologne, Graham Johnson, just as he had no truck with moisturizer, or shaving enhancers, or any of the other male grooming products that regularly baffled him on the shelves in Boots. Soap, deodorant and a slick of pomade, that was all a man needed.

He clapped Polly on the back now, trying not to show how alarmed he was to see her in such a state. He’d always been so proud of his eldest daughter, had revelled vicariously in her career triumphs, boasting to all his mates about her vast salary and high-end lifestyle. True, she wasn’t exactly the most daughterly of daughters. Karen phoned her every Sunday to see how she was, but apparently it was like pulling teeth, trying to engage Polly in conversation. He knew Karen and Clare minded that she had turned her back on them when she got her first City job, but he understood that she was ambitious. Secretly he admired her for it.

Now, though . . . now she looked pale, scrawny and limp, as if the life had been squeezed out of her. Her hair was greasy, she had spots round her mouth, and the spark was missing from her eyes. She looked defeated. Beaten. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and look after her. Well, he’d drive her back to Elderchurch and she could have the spare room for a while anyway.

‘I’ll just check I’ve not missed anything,’ she said, wheeling away before he could give her that sympathetic look again. She couldn’t bear her own dad thinking she was a loser.

Upstairs in the empty echoing flat, it already felt like some kind of dream, her having lived there at all. She’d actually had this incredible Thames view and cavernous living space, but she’d barely appreciated it. When she’d moved in she’d pictured herself throwing fabulous parties and swanky dinner dos, had imagined a lover throwing her onto her gigantic bed and rumpling the sheets with her. None of it had happened. Somehow she’d just been too damn busy, and now it was too late. The apartment’s particulars were already up on the estate agent’s website, and Vince had arranged an open day there this Saturday when hordes of interested buyers would tramp through, marvelling at the light and airy rooms.

She leaned against the cool cream wall, staring around unseeingly. Was this it, then? Would she ever return to London, or would she have to make do with the spare room in her parents’ bungalow for the rest of her life?

A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I blew it,’ she whispered into the hushed room. ‘I totally blew it.’ And then, because being here any longer was just going to make her cry and cry so hard that she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop, she took a deep breath and walked out.

‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, pulling the door gently shut. She pressed her hand against the white-painted wood for a few seconds, then turned and walked away, her goodbye resounding in her head with every step.

Chapter Eight

Clare had been at work when she’d heard the news a few days earlier. She’d been updating the patient database – a grindingly tedious job that she and Roxie always put off for as long as possible – when her mobile rang. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ her mum had gasped down the line. ‘Polly’s coming home for the summer.’

‘
What
?’ Clare had yelped, her head jerking in surprise.

‘Yes! It’s true,’ her mum had said, breathlessly as if she was running back to London to get Polly herself. ‘She’s taken a sabbatical to do some research, apparently; goodness knows what this research is
about
, it went completely over my head when she tried to explain it. But anyway she needs somewhere quiet to work, she said. So she’s coming to stay with us for a few months.’

Clare gaped. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Really? A few months?’

She wasn’t sure how to feel about this bombshell. It seemed so out of character, for starters, her brash, loadsa-money sister leaving the Big Smoke to camp out in their quiet, sleepy village. As for taking a sabbatical, that was even more out of the blue. Polly had always been welded to her job, her BlackBerry like a shiny plastic extension of her hand. How would she cope without the nine-to-five? It would be like transplanting a hothouse flower to a cool, rainy meadow.

‘How come she’s staying with you?’ she blurted out. ‘No offence, but I’d have thought Polly’s style would be to hole up in a glamorous hotel somewhere, not . . .’

Her brain caught up with what she’d said and she trailed off, not wanting to offend her mother.

Karen Johnson merely laughed. ‘Not slum it with us, you mean? Well, it did strike me as strange too. Maybe she’s been missing my home cooking. She looked that skinny at Christmas, you could almost see the roast potatoes going down her throat. Wrists like Twiglets, bless her. I’ll feed her up, you wait. Anyway,’ she went on. ‘Just wanted to let you know. I’m cleaning every inch of the spare room in preparation. You know how particular she is. High standards, and whatnot.’

‘Mmm,’ Clare replied, still digesting the extraordinary news. ‘Mum, are you sure you’ve got enough room for her?’ Her parents’ bungalow was very modest after all, with barely space for the two of them and Sissy, their Yorkshire terrier, not to mention her mum’s vast collection of knick-knacks, arranged on every available shelf and occasional table. Clare knew her mum had her sewing table set up in the spare room and, since she’d been forced to take early retirement from her job in Amberley library, she liked to sit there on sunny afternoons, sewing machine whirring and
The Archers
on the radio as she worked on a new patchwork quilt or pair of curtains.

‘Well, it’ll be cosy, put it like that,’ Karen replied. She was perched on the sofa as she spoke and glanced along it, trying to imagine a third bottom parked there every evening – a fourth bottom, if you counted Sissy’s. Poor Sissy would be miffed if she was suddenly relegated to the carpet; she always gave you that look, those big sad eyes, that Karen could never hold firm against.

The dog cocked her head as if reading Karen’s thoughts and gave a little whine.
Please don’t put me on the carpet
.

‘I’ll just have to chuck your dad out to his shed if it feels too cramped,’ Karen joked in the end.

Clare felt her lips pursing. Her dad was sixty-six now and by rights shouldn’t have to be chucked out anywhere, least of all for Lady Muck. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’ she said. ‘I’d better get on now, Mum. See you later.’

She put the phone down. ‘God,’ she muttered again. Polly hadn’t spent more than two consecutive nights in Elderchurch during the last twenty years. It was going to be very odd having her back. A few months, hey? Plenty of time for Polly to wind her up, big-style.

‘You okay?’ Roxie asked, looking over from the front desk. ‘Your face has gone all scrunched up. Have you got trapped wind?’ She pointed her pen at Clare authoritatively. ‘Try sticking your bum out and bend your knees; you need a big old fart, that’s all, Clare.’

Clare laughed. Despite her art degree, Roxie increasingly fancied herself as a medical expert, as if by working in close proximity to doctors and nurses she had somehow imbibed their knowledge by osmosis. ‘Not wind, just . . . news,’ she replied, wrinkling her nose. ‘My sister’s coming back to Elderchurch for the summer.’

‘Your sister? I didn’t even know you had a sister,’ Roxie exclaimed with interest. Then her turquoise-lined eyelids snapped open a fraction wider. ‘Oh, wait, is she the one who always gives you mad presents? The stinking-rich one?’

Clare snorted. ‘That’s her,’ she replied.

‘Whoa. The prodigal daughter returns,’ Roxie said, shuffling excitedly on her chair. ‘What the hell has she come back to this dump for?’

Clare arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s what I’m wondering, Rox,’ she said. ‘You just hit the nail smack on the head.’ She turned back to her computer screen, but the patient names kept jumbling before her eyes. Polly was coming back. Shit. This was all Clare needed.

‘I sound really horrible, don’t I? Like the worst sister in the world. But the thing is, I just don’t want her to come back, Debs. Does that make me an evil person?’

Debbie eyed Clare over her mug. It was later that day and Clare had dropped round for a natter before the school run. The two of them were sitting in Debbie’s warm kitchen, along with a pair of dogs snoozing comfortably in front of the Aga, and fresh coffee and home-baked shortbread on the table. Debbie, being Debbie, had painted the kitchen a warm vibrant pink, and the walls were full of children’s artwork. Plants and bright vases jostled for space on the window-ledges and a colourful clutter of mugs, teapots and plates were randomly displayed on the old wooden dresser.

‘No,’ Debbie replied. ‘It doesn’t make you an evil person. It makes you an honest person.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘But it might actually be a good thing, her spending some time here. You can get to know each other again – start a new relationship.’

Clare snorted. ‘Never going to happen,’ she muttered. ‘Not a chance. It’s going to be one long mutha of a summer, I’m telling you now.’ Then she caught the gloominess of her voice and felt mean. ‘Oh, I dunno, maybe I’m being too pessimistic. Maybe you’re right. Only ever seeing each other at Christmas doesn’t exactly make for the best sisterly bond, does it?’ She pulled a face. ‘I kind of wish I hadn’t sold all those awful presents she’s given us on eBay, though. Do you think she’ll be expecting Leila to be prancing about in that ridiculous dress? I really hope not, because I flogged it to some woman in Northampton last week. Ninety quid she paid for it too, the maniac.’

She nibbled her shortbread. Orange and chocolate-chip: yum. Debbie was an ace baker. ‘It’s just going to be weird, that’s all. My sister, back here on Wednesday. I can’t imagine it.’

‘Well, if you’re finding the thought of it strange, just imagine how freaked out she must be,’ Debbie pointed out. ‘Once word goes round that she’s here, everyone will be noseying at her. The great Polly Johnson, back in Elder-church. We are not worthy!’

She bent over, arms outstretched as if worshipping a deity, and Clare giggled. ‘I’m worried she’ll be expecting a bit of that,’ she confessed. ‘You know: Return of the Golden Girl. Didn’t she do well? How come
Clare
never managed anything more exciting than a job at the Amberley Medical Centre?’ She broke off, aware of how bitter she sounded.

‘It’s not a competition,’ Debbie reminded her, ‘as I find myself saying to the kids at least twenty times a day. Honestly, I’m going to get a T-shirt printed up with that on, one of these days.’ She mimicked herself, wagging a finger. ‘It’s not a competition. It’s not a race. What’s the magic word? No hitting. Stop fidgeting. Have you washed your hands? Eat those peas . . . Aargh, I sometimes hear myself and feel depressed at what an old nag I am. What’s happened to me?’ She grimaced. ‘Maybe your sister had the right idea, getting out of here and doing something exciting with her life. Better than turning into a boring old housewife like me.’

‘You’ll
never
be a boring old housewife,’ Clare said in surprise. Apart from Roxie perhaps, Debbie was the least boring person she knew. She’d been a pink-haired punk at school with plans for art college, until baby Lydia had unexpectedly arrived and put that on hold. Even though she was now a so-called respectable wife and mother of four, it was always Debbie who’d be at the helm of a raucous night out, a party girl through and through. ‘You’re lovely. And you’ve been more of a sister to me than Polly has, that’s for sure.’

‘But . . .’

‘But nothing,’ Clare said firmly. ‘Don’t start wishing you were more like her, whatever you do. Once you’ve met her again, you’ll realize that being like Polly is the last thing you want.’