Summer With My Sister (23 page)

Polly grabbed a suitcase and began stuffing clothes into it. She’d missed work so badly, she realized. Missed using her brain, making calculations, solving problems. Hell, she’d even missed putting on a suit and full make-up every morning. Even if she had to take a small step down the career ladder, this job of Clare’s might just be what she needed.

‘A cleaner? A fucking CLEANER? Tell me you’re joking.’

Clare shook her head. It was eight o’clock, the children were in bed – now both sharing Leila’s room, which had caused a good forty minutes of mutiny on either side, before Clare had had to resort to bribery – and she’d just heaved her sister’s last case up to Alex’s room, which was Polly’s new (and definitely temporary) abode. ‘I thought you’d be pleased’ was all she said.

This was not strictly true. Clare had known damn well that Polly would not be in the slightest bit pleased about the suggestion that she work as a cleaner for the local pub, but as far as she was concerned, beggars could not be choosers. Especially when beggars were about to stay with their kind, patient younger sister and needed some means of paying their own way.

‘Pleased?
Are you taking the piss?’ Polly felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. How dare her sister suggest such a ridiculous thing as her, Polly Johnson, taking on that kind of menial, revolting and probably disgracefully badly paid job? She didn’t even know
how
to clean – and never wanted to learn, either. Cleaning was something other people did, end of story.

‘No, of course I’m not,’ Clare retorted. ‘Don’t be such a snob. Look, I wasn’t joking when I said I needed you to pay your way here. I’m surviving on a shoestring, Polly. No money. And when you’re skint, you can’t afford to be picky.’ She leaned back against the sofa. ‘You don’t have to take the job. It was only an idea, okay? Just something you could do to earn a few quid while you’re waiting for a better offer. But if you’re too high and mighty to put on a pair of Marigolds, then – ’

Polly ground her teeth together. High and bloody mighty indeed. She’d only been in Clare’s grotty little house half an hour and already her sister was trying to rub her nose in it. That hadn’t taken long. ‘I’ll find my own job, thank you very much,’ she growled.

‘Suit yourself,’ Clare said, swinging her legs up onto the sofa and turning her whole body away. A moody silence was on the verge of descending, but then she flicked the TV on with the remote, and brightened. ‘Oh, brilliant,
Florida Mansions
. Do you ever watch this?’

It was on the tip of Polly’s tongue to say a scornful ‘No’, of course she didn’t watch that sort of trash, but during her meltdown period immediately after losing her job she’d actually watched this programme quite a lot. ‘Sometimes,’ she muttered, sitting down next to her sister.

At least she could enjoy some tacky telly here at Clare’s, she thought, trying to get comfortable on the knackered old sofa. She could feel its springs through the cushion, and the wooden backrest through the thin padding – neither was a good sensation. The cottage wasn’t exactly palatial, with its low ceilings and tiny rooms, and Clare might not have the best creature comforts in the world, but at least there was the glorious
Florida Mansions
, a programme so brainlessly bad that the phrase ‘guilty pleasure’ might have been coined for it. She sighed and leaned back, staring at the screen as the garish titles began spooling.

‘What a knobber,’ Clare said, guffawing gleefully as one of the characters in the soap – Jed, a brainless hunk with muscles so pumped up they’d surely been inflated – got completely the wrong end of the stick in a conversation with Marcella, the quirky redhead who’d just moved into their apartment block.

‘I know,’ Polly said, unable to help a snort of amusement herself. ‘Total doofus.’

‘Isn’t he? Did you see that one a few weeks ago when he was trying to get the job with what’s-her-name? Tina, at the car warehouse? Cringe or what?’

‘Oh God, I did!’ Polly said. ‘I could hardly watch. Tina’s face!’

Clare spluttered. ‘Gotta love him, though, especially when he doesn’t actually speak. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crisps, put it like that.’ She leaned forward to put the remote down on the coffee table and, as her T-shirt rode up, Polly noticed a small bluebird tattoo at the base of her sister’s back. God! When had Clare got
that
done? Did their parents know about it?

‘He so
would
eat crisps in bed,’ she said, dragging her eyes back to the screen, where Jed’s cheerfully gormless face had fallen at the realization (at last) that he’d totally put his foot in it with Marcella. ‘But, yeah, I suppose that could be overlooked. As long as he shared them with me, of course.’

‘Yeah, and put the packet in the bin afterwards,’ Clare added. ‘That drove me nuts about living with Steve. He never seemed to get the hang of bins; he’d always drop stuff wherever he was, as if he thought the litter fairy would pop by and pick up after him all the time. As for dirty clothes . . . God. My life is so much better for not having to pick up his smelly pants and socks off the bedroom floor every day.’

‘Ewww,’ Polly said, wrinkling her nose. Not that her own personal hygiene standards had been particularly high recently, but all the same. Men’s dirty pants and socks:
ewww
.

The titles flashed up to signal an ad-break and they fell silent for a moment. It was as if they’d been in a cosy shared bubble while their programme had been on, which had now popped. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asked as a gaudy pizza advert began blaring. She was surprised at her own question – she and Clare didn’t generally go anywhere near personal stuff.

‘Sometimes,’ Clare said, fiddling with her bracelet. ‘At Christmas I did, and the kids’ birthdays; you know, those full-on happy-family times. And when he’s not there for things that matter to the kids, like their school concerts or sports day, and I can see on their faces that they’re wishing he was there, that’s horrible. I feel a sort of ache, as if something’s not right. But on the whole . . .’ She lifted her chin up defiantly. ‘No. We’re doing fine without him.’

There was silence for a few moments and Polly scrabbled about desperately for something to say – something that wouldn’t sound patronizing or ineffectual. What did she know about bringing up two kids on her own, though? Bugger all.

‘I never liked the way he tried to put you down,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Clare’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

Tread carefully, Polly
. ‘I mean, he seemed to hate it when you had any kind of success or triumph,’ she said. ‘Like the Christmas you made Mum and Dad that amazing mosaic picture and he came out with a mean comment about buying them a “proper” present next year when you had more money.’

Clare flushed. ‘I’d forgotten that,’ she mumbled.

Polly hadn’t. It had been painful seeing Clare’s look of pride crumple into embarrassment when Steve came out with his snarky remarks. Mum and Dad had protested, saying how lovely the picture was and how long it must have taken Clare to make, and it
was
lovely, even Polly had to admit as much, despite despising home-made gifts in general. Unfortunately it seemed that Steve had already destroyed what pleasure she’d had from giving it to them.

‘And then there was that time, another Christmas it must have been, when Leila was only tiny and—’

‘All right, all right,’ Clare snapped. ‘No need to dredge all that up now.’

‘I was only—’

‘Yeah, I know. But let’s not go there.’

Oops. Okay, so slagging off the ex was still off the agenda. Luckily Polly thought of the perfect thing to say instead. ‘Oh, I forgot! I’ve brought you some wine as a thank-you for having me. Shall I open it?’

‘Yes,’ said Clare with audible relief in her voice. ‘Good idea.’

One bottle of Ernest and Julio’s finest later (the village shop wasn’t exactly laden with quality vintages) and Polly felt she and her sister might just be approaching some kind of peace treaty. First they’d bonded over
Florida Mansions
. Then had come the discovery that they were both addicted to
Flying High
, the sexy-pilot series that had been repeated recently. And finally, when they had moved on to tumblers of Clare’s emergency gin ration, they’d come over all confessional. Clare had admitted to breaking their mum’s prized porcelain doll at the age of six (Michael had got the blame at the time, despite him hotly denying having anything to do with it) and Polly had fessed up to nicking fifty pence out of the collection plate at Sunday school, back when she’d been nine and desperately saving up for roller skates.

The topic of money must have jogged Clare’s drunken memory, because the next thing she said was, ‘So are you going to think about that job at the pub then?’

And just like that the new-found confidence between them splintered and broke. Polly twisted awkwardly on the uncomfortable sofa – she was so going to have backache the next morning – and scowled. ‘No! I already told you! I’m . . .’ She thumped a fist down on the arm-rest. ‘I’m not interested in that kind of work. I want to go back to London, not hang around in this poxy place any longer than—’

She broke off, slightly scared by the look of fury that had appeared on Clare’s face. Ahh. Maybe she shouldn’t have called Elderchurch a ‘poxy place’ quite so bluntly.

‘Well, I’m sorry that this isn’t up to your usual standards,’ Clare fumed, getting unsteadily to her feet. ‘And I’m sorry you’re not even going to
try
, when a perfectly good job is going begging right on the doorstep. I should have known you’d turn your nose up at it; just as you’ve always turned your nose up at everything here, your whole flipping life. The sooner you go back to London, the better for everyone.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean—’ Polly tried, but Clare had already flounced out. Seconds later there were thunderous footsteps on the wooden staircase and Polly guessed she’d stormed off to bed. Goodnight to you too, Clare.

Polly leaned her head back in irritation. Deliberate antagonism, that was her sister’s game; goading Polly and trying to humiliate her with this wretched cleaning job.

Well, she’d be damned if she let it get to her. Clare could shove her stinking Marigolds up her own jacksy, Polly thought savagely, draining the last of her gin. And from now on, she could bloody well keep her nosey beak out of Polly’s business too.

Polly tossed and turned under Alex’s alien-patterned duvet that night. Luminous miniature planets dangled disconcertingly above her head from the ceiling, a Wallace and Gromit clock ticked loudly, and there was a distinct pong of socks emanating from under the bed. The Ritz this was not. ‘The Pitz, more like,’ she muttered, rolling over for the umpteenth time.

The sooner you go back to London, the better for everyone
, Clare had said. Yep, Polly thought. Couldn’t have put it better herself. She’d never moan about city life again when she returned there. The smog, the traffic, the crime – she’d embrace them all like long-lost friends. As for the thought of a new proper job, with her own desk to sit at, a PC, an assistant . . . She’d be the dream employee, given half a chance.