Summer With My Sister (16 page)

She could hear her parents bickering as she unpacked her shampoo and shower gel in the small beige bathroom. ‘You didn’t have to say it like
that
, Graham. Let her settle in. I don’t mind if she leaves her plate on the table, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Well, I do. I’m not having her making extra work for you. While she’s under my roof she’s got to pull her weight, and that’s the end of it. Clare said she’d expect us to wait on her hand and foot the whole summer – and it looks as if she was right. I won’t have it, do you understand?’

‘Don’t you start ordering me around, Graham Johnson. We hardly ever see Polly. Now she’s back, I want to make a fuss of her, spoil her a bit. Can’t you see she’s exhausted? Give the girl a break.’

There was another snort from Graham, and Polly switched on the shower before she had to listen to his retort. She felt hot all over. So Clare had been bitching about her before she’d even arrived, had she? How unsisterly could you get? Clare was just jealous because she’d never done anything with her life, that was all. Clare was freaked out at the thought of Polly moving into her precious village, because their parents would probably start loving Polly best, now that she was on the scene.

After wedging the last of her favourite bubble bath and body lotion into the bathroom cabinet alongside – ugh – a large tube of haemorrhoid cream and some athlete’s foot powder, Polly stepped into the weedy, drizzling shower and gritted her teeth. She had Clare’s number, and her sister had better watch out.

Thankfully her parents were both on their way out of the house by the time she was dressed. ‘If you get chilly, do put the heating on,’ her mum began saying, opening the cupboard that housed the boiler, but her dad swatted her hand away from the thermostat the very next second.

‘She won’t get chilly, it’s June, you silly old bat,’ he said irritably. ‘Leave her be, she doesn’t want all your fussing. Am I right, Poll?’

Polly smiled weakly. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said, not wanting to take sides. ‘See you later.’

The door closed and Polly let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a chance to be on her own for a while. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding onto until that moment. Her parents were lovely, in that slightly maddening parental way, but they did kind of cramp one’s style. All their funny little routines: their cups of tea on the hour, her dad’s tuneless whistling, the dog’s annoying yapping . . . It was a shame they’d left Sissy behind, she thought darkly, noticing the dog eyeing her from her basket in the kitchen, but you couldn’t have everything.

Polly made herself a coffee, then prowled around the bungalow, Sissy trotting after her, as she debated where to set up her new workstation. It was like exploring a foreign country, one where she didn’t belong. There was a small table in her bedroom, which her mum had originally suggested she might use, but it was now piled high with boxes, so that was out. The kitchen table wasn’t the most practical, either – she’d never get anything done, with her parents traipsing in and out and interrupting her. Short of camping out in the shed, she’d have to use the living room.

‘So long, mutt,’ she said, dumping Sissy back in her basket and shutting the kitchen door behind her. The last thing she wanted while she worked was the dog gazing up at her with those huge, mournful brown eyes. She needed to concentrate, make the most of this time
sans
parents.

The living room had Artex swirls on the walls and ceiling, and faded burgundy velvet curtains hanging in swags at the windows. The soft plush sofa was a similar wine-red, but unfortunately just too far along the colour spectrum to match. It clashed, actually, Polly thought, wrinkling her nose, and the overall effect wasn’t exactly helped by the floral blue arm-covers that her mum had added to cover the worn patches. A seascape painting hung on the wall, and Karen’s collection of china animals paraded along the mantelpiece in between a gallery of photographs.

Polly eyed them from a distance. There was one of Clare’s wedding: Clare in the naffest, cheapest-looking meringue ever witnessed, with shiny-faced Steve gurning gormlessly beside her. What had she ever seen in that pillock? Polly had known all along that the marriage would be a disaster. Catch her throwing everything away for a bloke? Never.

Her lip curled as she noticed the bridesmaids in long, dark-red dresses flanking the meringue. Clare hadn’t asked Polly to be a bridesmaid. Not that Polly had
wanted
to, of course, but it wasn’t exactly sisterly of Clare, was it?

There were some baby photos too: bald, chubby Leila with a single front tooth, and Alex brandishing a plastic spade on a windswept beach. A black-and-white photo of her parents’ wedding. A family shot of the five of them back when Polly was about ten, on a carefree summer holiday somewhere in Dorset. And Michael’s last-ever school photo.

Polly dragged her gaze away quickly, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to meet his eye, and think about what had happened. It was too late, though, and in the next second she was ambushed by a torrent of awful images, including one of her dad sobbing brokenly at the funeral. It was the first time she’d ever seen him cry, and the sight of that unbearable pain etched on his face had scarred Polly’s mind like a branding.

Step away from the family photos, Polly, she told herself numbly.

At the other end of the room stood her dad’s old Victorian desk, which had originally belonged to his greatgrandfather. It was a rather splendid piece of furniture, made of solid mahogany, with four drawers on either side, topped with a green leather writing surface. It was completely out of place in a 1970s bungalow, of course, but there was something reassuringly sturdy about it. This would do for the time being. Turning her back on the photos, Polly went over and cleared the piles of letters and bills that littered the top of the desk and dumped them underneath, then briskly opened her laptop and switched it on. There.

She gazed out of the window while she waited for it to whirr into life. The back garden was her dad’s pride and joy, filled with flowers and vegetables. She remembered helping him in their old garden when she’d been bored on summery Sunday afternoons as a child, whenever Michael and Clare had hatched some game that didn’t involve her. Dad had had her pulling out clumps of pale flowering chickweed and watering the vegetable plot with the big green watering can, so full and heavy that it had bumped against her bare legs as she’d lugged it from the kitchen, spilling water on her feet in noisy glugs.

Right. Work to do. Staring out of the window wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Polly clicked on the Internet connection and the browser opened on its usual job-hunting site.
Here we go again
, she thought, trying not to let the customary pessimistic feelings of doom sweep through her before she’d even begun.

Come on, Polly. Chin up. The sooner you can find a new job, the sooner you can get out of this hole.

That, alone, was more than enough motivation for her to lean forward and start clicking with renewed enthusiasm.

Chapter Ten

Two days later Polly leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms above her head and sighed. It was Friday lunchtime and her parents’ house was deserted once again; they’d trekked off to a garden centre this time, making excited noises about bedding plants and bags of compost. Yes, it was thrills galore in Elderchurch, all right.

She’d been sitting here at the computer for the last forty-eight hours and had achieved precisely nothing – except perhaps a grudging respect for the fact that her parents both seemed to have a way more active social life than she’d ever managed. They were never bloody in the house! So much for looking after her, the firstborn, their
guest
. They were far too busy haring about all the time, enjoying themselves. There was something deeply wrong with that, in Polly’s opinion. Selfish, even.

Her thoughts slid Londonwards, as they had done approximately every three minutes since her arrival in this dump. She hated imagining her flat sitting empty without her. Would anyone have been tempted by it yet? It was taking every shred of will power not to keep phoning the estate agents for an hourly update.

Now that she was here, miles from the city, it seemed even more of an impossible task to get herself back. She seemed to be going round in circles, visiting the same recruitment websites several times a day, only to see the same maddeningly small list of jobs on offer, almost all of them way too menial for her.

Oh, it was no good. She couldn’t do this today. On the spur of the moment she decided that she’d brave it and go into the village, snatch a break and some fresh air (as much as you could call cowshit-smelling air ‘fresh’ anyway) and try to come up with her Plan B. Plan A – bagging herself a new job asap – didn’t seem to be happening right now.

She stood up from the chair, then sat down again just as fast. Whoa, hang on a minute, she needed to think this through. Walking into the village might mean bumping into villagers. Having to engage in conversation. Being asked intrusive questions. ‘What are you doing with yourself these days, Polly?’

She’d have to lie and lie and lie, keep up a fake, tight smile the whole time, her face aching with the effort. Oh God. Could she really handle that? Then again, the alternative was to sit dying a slow death at this desk for the rest of the day.

Sod it. She’d do it. She’d brave the outside world for half an hour, power-walking with her shades on so that nobody could look her in the eye. She might even come up with a good idea if she had a change of scenery. And anything was better than vegetating here for hours on end, until her parents returned, laden with nasturtiums and primulas, and brought her yet another too-weak coffee and some custard creams.

She went to put on her shoes and was joined in the hall by an excited, yapping Sissy, obviously thinking a walk was in the offing. ‘Well, a walk
is
in the offing, but not for you, you little pest,’ Polly mumbled, shoving her feet into a pair of Converse. Damn, the word ‘walk’ had sent Sissy into an absolute paroxysm of joy: running backwards and forwards in front of Polly, stumpy tail beating like a furry metronome, her big brown eyes full of hope.

Polly stepped over her, completely ignoring the dog’s excitement, and eyed herself in the mirror. She wasn’t exactly looking her best, she thought ruefully: her hair scraped back into a ponytail, yesterday’s clothes on again and no makeup on her pallid skin. It wasn’t like she had anyone to impress, though.

She went to the front door, but Sissy yapped louder than ever, racing dementedly around Polly’s ankles as soon as she put her hand on the latch.

‘Oh, all
right
,’ Polly grumbled. ‘But don’t start getting any ideas. This is just a one-off, so that I look like I’ve got something to do, okay? Can your tiny canine brain understand that?’

She clipped the lead onto Sissy’s collar and off they went.

It was a warm day, the sky swept clear of all clouds, and the sun glaring down like an accusing eye. Polly put her shades on and set off, Sissy trotting companionably by her side.