Summer With My Sister (26 page)

While Jane was plump and jolly, Maria was skinny, sallow and more serious. She was getting over her husband’s recent spot of infidelity, but with three children between them she was determined to get things back on the straight and narrow, however fraught life currently was at home. She worked in sales for a coffee chain and spent most of her waking hours on the M3.

Finally there was Tracey, who was funny and sarcastic, onto her third marriage, and with a fourteen-year-old daughter and one-year-old twin boys keeping her busy round the clock. ’A teenager
and
teething toddlers, aren’t I the lucky one?’ she said, rolling her eyes.

It was when Debbie was uncorking the second bottle of Pinot (the first had vanished almost immediately) that she leaned over to Clare. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. My mum would like to order some bubble bath from you. The rose one, if that’s okay.’

Clare flushed with pleasure. It still gave her a thrill every time someone asked for one of her products. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll drop a bottle round for her. Funny you should mention that,’ she went on before she could help herself, ‘because . . .’ Then she stopped, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. That was the wine talking. Why repeat what Roxie had said? It wasn’t as if she was going to take it any further.

‘Oooh!’ Jane said, spider-lashed eyes widening. ‘Dramatic pause alert! What is it? Don’t leave us in suspenders.’

Clare’s face flamed as they all gawped at her. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

Debbie folded her arms across her chest. ‘Spill,’ she ordered. ‘You can’t tease us like that. What’s nothing?’

‘Boots have been on the phone, wanting Clare’s secret recipes,’ Tracey teased. ‘Don’t tell them, Clare. Not until they’ve agreed to pay more.’

Clare laughed. ‘I wish. No, it’s nothing like that. Just . . .’ And then, because they were still looking at her so expectantly, she haltingly told them what Roxie had said, feeling a complete plonker for having mentioned the situation at all.

‘Oh, wow,’ Maria said at the end. ‘Langley’s are
nice
. We had a conference at the Langley’s in Brighton last year – sooo cool. It was like a Regency palace with chandeliers and chaises longues, but with funky bright artwork everywhere too.’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘Have you sorted out a meeting then? If you want a hand polishing up your pitch, I can help you.’

‘Well . . .’ Clare fiddled with a beer mat. ‘That’s why I shouldn’t have even started talking about it, because I’m not going to do it.’

‘What?’ screeched Tracey.

‘Get away,’ said Jane. ‘Pass up an opportunity like this? You can’t!’

‘Why not?’ Debbie asked. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose by just
meeting
her.’

Clare lifted her glass to sip her wine, but realized that somehow she’d already swallowed the lot. Tracey noticed and topped her up with a generous splash from the bottle. ‘Well . . .’ Clare began again. She hated being the centre of the conversation like this. Usually she took up a more comfortable place on the sidelines, rather than being thrust into the spotlight. ‘Well, I just know she won’t want my titchy little range,’ she said in the end, trying to laugh it off. ‘I mean, I’m hardly Molton Brown, am I?’

‘Yeah, but she wants somebody local,’ Maria replied. ‘And original. Looking at it from a sales point of view, you’ve got a great story too: local mum, growing her own ingredients, starting off the company in her kitchen . . . what’s not to love?’

‘I agree,’ Jane said. ‘How exciting.’

‘You’ve got to do it,’ Tracey put in, leaning forward. ‘This could be your big break, Clare. You could be the next Anita Roddick!’

Clare smiled faintly. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Really. I can’t turn up there with my little bottles of stuff, handwritten sticky labels on them, and try to pass myself off as a serious businesswoman. I just can’t.’

Debbie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Then maybe you need a designer,’ she said. ‘Me! I could work up some gorgeous designs for you and print some labels, no problem. What do you say?’

‘I . . .’ Clare felt taken aback. They were taking this seriously, she realized. ‘The thing is, I’d be expected to talk about costings and stuff . . .’

‘Get that sister of yours on the case then,’ Debbie said. ‘She’s a business geek, isn’t she? She can do all that for you.’

‘I’m telling you, lady, if you don’t say you’ll do it right now, Team Clare will have to stage an intervention,’ Jane warned.

Team Clare
. How lovely was that? There was a sudden wetness in her eyes. These women had been by her side throughout her failing marriage and divorce; they’d been the loyal, loving sisters Polly had never been to her. Just having their encouraging, smiling faces all gazing at her was enough to make the last of her resistance crumble away. They were right. What did she have to lose, except perhaps her dignity when the Langley’s woman turned her down? She might as well try. ‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘Why the hell not? I’ll give it a go.’

And as her friends cheered and clapped her on the back, poured her more wine and started planning the whole pitch in earnest together, Clare felt an unfamiliar feeling sweep through her. She couldn’t put her finger on it immediately, then realized. Excitement. That was it – excitement!

Chapter Fifteen

Polly was not the least bit happy about spending her Friday night babysitting the children. The cheek! Who did Clare think she was, swanning off and leaving her to it like that? Taking advantage of Polly’s good nature . . . taking the piss, more like.

‘Feel free to go out any evening
you
want, obviously,’ Clare had said, checking her lipstick in the mirror.

‘Who with?’ Polly had glowered. ‘I don’t have any friends here any more.’

Clare had raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmmm. I wonder why that is,’ she’d said sarcastically. And before Polly could retaliate, she’d wished them all goodnight (with a rather annoying jauntiness about her, frankly) and vanished off to the pub.

It was seven-thirty and the evening stretched ahead like a minefield. Bloody hell. She hated kids!

‘Can you read me a story?’ Alex asked.

‘A story? Can’t you read it yourself?’ Polly snapped. ‘And anyway isn’t it time for bed now?’

‘Time for bed NOW?’ Leila repeated, tossing her hair with a great deal of scorn. She was wearing a skull-and-crossbones T-shirt, a glittery pale-blue scarf around her neck and denim shorts over striped footless tights. Somehow, she looked way cooler than Polly had ever looked, at any age. ‘As if! Aunty Polly, it’s not bedtime for
hours
yet. Mum lets us stay up until nine at the weekend.’

Polly narrowed her eyes. ‘She didn’t say anything about that to me,’ she retorted. ‘Isn’t nine o’clock a bit late for a nine-year-old?’

Leila scowled and threw herself onto the sofa next to Polly, making her aunt bounce up in the air. ‘I’m TEN,’ she said witheringly, folding her arms across her chest and looking the image of Clare.

‘And I’m fourteen,’ Alex said, doing a headstand in the middle of the floor and crashing over. Polly winced as his feet missed the television by inches.

‘I might be a decrepit old aunty, but I’m not stupid,’ Polly said. ‘You are definitely not fourteen. And are you sure you’re allowed to do headstands in here?’

‘All the time,’ Alex assured her, kicking his skinny legs up again. His pyjama top slid down to his armpits, revealing his pale belly. ‘I’ll stop if you read me a story, though.’

This time he keeled over perilously close to the coffee table and Polly sucked in a horrified breath. Clare would kill her if she came back to discover her precious son had broken his legs doing forbidden gymnastics under the so-called care of his aunt. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she grumbled. ‘What story do I have to read, then?
Baby Bunny and the Big Boo-Boo
or something awful like that?’

‘That’s not a proper book,’ Leila said loftily. ‘You just made it up.’

‘I’m not a
baby
anyway,’ Alex said, getting to his feet, his cheeks pink. ‘I don’t even
like
stories like that. Mum’s reading me
Harry Potter
.’

Leila examined her fingernails. ‘Oh, Aunty Polly won’t be able to read that,’ she said. ‘I’d choose something else, Alex.’

‘What do you mean, I won’t be able to read that?’ Polly fired back. ‘I can read, you know!’

‘Yeah, but Mum does really good voices for all the characters,’ Leila said, with a crushing sideways glance. ‘She does it
properly
.’

‘
I
can do good voices!’ Polly retaliated, stung. ‘
I
can do it properly!’

Leila looked disbelieving, but said nothing, as if she were far too polite to argue.

‘Here you are then,’ Alex said, plopping an enormous tome into Polly’s lap. ‘We’re up to chapter seven.’

From the smirks her niece and nephew were now exchanging, Polly had the distinct impression she’d just been conned. This looked set to become the longest evening of her life. With a weary glance at the clock – still only seven-forty, unfortunately – she began to read.

The last time she’d read anything aloud to anyone had been a presentation she’d made at a conference in Zurich back in February. There her audience had been suited and groomed, they’d listened politely, taking notes and nodding in key places. Applause had pattered around the room afterwards.

Now look at her: stuck on the most uncomfortable sofa in the world, with a child either side leaning against her and a book about wizards in her hands. Where was the glory in that?

Nevertheless she was surprised to realize, after only a few pages, that she was actually rather enjoying herself. The story was pretty good, and she found herself getting quite into the action and even doing her best spooky voices when they were required. When it came to the cliffhanger at the end of the chapter, she paused, unsure whether or not to go on.

‘Another one!’ Alex demanded. ‘Pleeeease?’

‘You’re not doing too badly,’ Leila said kindly. ‘Considering you’ve never read anything before. Can we have one more chapter? Please?’

Polly hesitated. If the truth be told, she was quite keen to find out what happened next herself. ‘Oh, all right then,’ she said. ‘Just because I’m feeling extra kind.’

The next chapter was a funny one, and Leila and Alex both burst out laughing at several points. Polly found herself laughing too – as much at their delighted reactions as anything else. They were definitely a more gratifying and easily pleased audience than the ones she’d previously spoken to in sterile conference rooms around the globe.

‘This is great,’ she said, at the end of that chapter. ‘I can’t believe I never realized this
Harry Potter
thing was so good.’

‘Haven’t you read
any
of them before?’ Leila asked, looking aghast at such an omission from her aunt’s life. ‘Truly?’

‘Nope.’

‘You must have seen the films though,’ Alex said. ‘Everyone’s seen the . . . You
haven’t
?’ he exclaimed as Polly shook her head. ‘Whoa. I thought everyone in the whole world had. We have, loads of times.’

‘I know!’ Leila bounded off the sofa, her face alight. ‘Let’s watch the first one now. We’ve got the video, Aunty Polly. Can we? You’ll love it. You so, so will.’

‘Well . . .’ Polly glanced at the clock. Five to eight. If it was still another hour before bedtime, she might as well stick a film on to kill a bit of time. She could finish reading the
FT
on her laptop while they watched it, and send them up to bed when it was nine o’clock.

‘We could have POPCORN! I know how to make it,’ Alex said. ‘Go on, Aunty Polly. We can bring down our duvets and lie on the floor with the lights off while we watch, that’s what we usually do when we have a cinema night.’

‘Pleeeeease?’ they chorused.

‘Oh, all right,’ Polly said, defeated by their enthusiasm. ‘Just for a bit then. But at nine o’clock you’re both going straight up to bed, all right? That’s the deal.’

At half-past ten that evening Polly carried a sleeping Alex upstairs to bed, while Leila trotted beside her. ‘And remember, you must promise not to tell your mum how late you’ve been up,’ Polly whispered guiltily. ‘Otherwise she’ll give me a smacked bottom and take my pocket money away.’