Summer With My Sister (39 page)

A small frown creased his forehead. That wasn’t a promising start. ‘Is there anything in particular that’s stopping you sleeping?’ he asked, not seeming in any rush to type out a prescription. ‘Is it noise, perhaps, or is the early-morning sun waking you up . . . ?’

She shook her head. ‘Just old-fashioned worries,’ she said lightly, reluctant to launch into any further details unless she absolutely had to. ‘Life, you know.’

He took her blood pressure and typed it into the computer. ‘It’s a bit low, if anything,’ he said. ‘Have you been feeling lethargic lately?’

That was the understatement of the year. ‘Yes,’ she said heavily. ‘I’m knackered. That’s the annoying thing. I’m exhausted, but every night I lie awake, unable to drop off.’

‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Well, insomnia is very common, but rather than go straight to sleeping tablets, there are other things you can try first.’

She tried not to sigh. She’d read enough helpful magazine articles on the subject to know that he was going to suggest soothing lavender baths and hot milk. She didn’t want soothing lavender baths and hot milk, though. She just wanted a nice white pill that she could pop into her mouth, which would block out all the racing anxieties and sweep her into a black hole of sleep. ‘Right,’ she said glumly.

‘How much exercise are you doing at the moment?’

‘Exercise? Um . . . None,’ she confessed sheepishly. Great. Now he would think she was a slob. ‘Walking the dog, I suppose, but I’ve been so busy lately that even that’s been a bit rushed.’ Poor Fred. Even Polly was paying him more attention than she was these days.

‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘Well, you could certainly try taking more regular exercise. If you’re physically tired, that will help you sleep better. Thirty minutes every day could make a real difference – walking the dog is fine, but you could also think about jogging or swimming.’

She flinched at the word ‘swimming’ and he broke off and looked at her curiously.

Her face flamed. Don’t go there, Luke. ‘I can’t,’ she said helplessly.

‘Can’t swim? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are some excellent learn-to-swim classes at the leisure centre in Amberley,’ he went on, and she found herself laughing mirthlessly at the well-meaning kindness in his eyes. If only he knew.

‘I can swim,’ she interrupted him, ‘that’s not the problem. The problem is . . .’ She hesitated, feeling the weight of the silence between them. Oh God. Step away from the can of worms, Clare. ‘It’s not important,’ she lied.

Silence again. He was waiting for her to spill, but her lips were clamped shut now. ‘Is it something I can help with?’ he asked eventually.

‘No,’ she replied, so bluntly that it was on the verge of sounding rude. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled as an afterthought.

There was another awkward pause before he spoke. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Then I’d prescribe you plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, reduced caffeine and alcohol, fresh air and exercise. And try winding down in the evening with a bath and a hot milky drink . . . What? Did I say something funny?’

‘No,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘Thank you.’

‘If you’re still having problems in a fortnight, come back and we can try something else,’ he added. ‘And of course you can always talk to me as a friend, as well as a doctor, about any worries, okay?’ He hesitated as if he was about to say something else, but she was already getting to her feet. ‘Take care,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered again, walking out of there as fast as she could. What a complete waste of time
that
had been.

That evening, to celebrate now having made three-quarters of the stock she needed for the Langley’s order, Clare gave herself and Polly a night off and opened a bottle of wine. It was bliss padding out into the garden, glass of wine in hand, she thought gratefully. She had been so busy recently that she’d barely been out there, only rushing to let the chickens out in the morning and put them to bed every night, her mind elsewhere. Now she noticed that the plants had exploded in one of those mad jungly rushes of growth, where everything was suddenly twice its previous size, flowering, lush and heavy with scented blooms. The roses were the colour of poured cream, their curled petals forming glorious velvety rosettes. The sunflowers beamed out like friendly golden beacons, and the lawn was thick and springy, tickling her bare toes as she walked across it.

Marjorie and Babs seemed drowsy, so she shut them in the coop, then dragged a couple of cobwebby deckchairs from the shed and brushed them clean. She clicked their wooden frames into place, lowered herself carefully into one of them and took a sip of cold wine. Ahh. It was utterly delicious; like an elixir, restoring her sanity. She shut her eyes for a moment, enjoying the flavour in her mouth and the gently cooling evening air around her. God, she needed this. She hadn’t realized just how much until now.

Polly joined her shortly afterwards and they sat enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine in companionable silence for a few moments. Polly was a very different house-guest these days from the one she’d been at first, it had to be said. She insisted on cooking dinner and washing up every other night, and even though some of the earlier blackened offerings had been barely recognizable as shepherd’s pie and salmon fishcakes, Clare had eaten every last scrap in gratitude. Polly had become more thoughtful too – doing the supermarket run, taking her turn at cleaning the bathroom and hoovering, and reading stories to the children in the evening or playing long games with them. And yesterday Karen had phoned Clare in astonishment to say that Polly had turned up out of the blue with some flowers for her, ‘just because’, and had spent the afternoon in the garden with Graham, weeding the vegetable patch and talking about birds of prey, of all things. ‘She even wanted to get out the old photo albums and look through all our family holidays,’ Karen had said. ‘It was lovely, Clare. Really lovely.’

Not everything had changed, though. Much to Clare’s disappointment, Polly was still tight-lipped about her private life. There had been that call she’d tried to make the other week, when she was trying to apologize to someone – some bloke, Clare was sure of it – but had Polly divulged a single smidgen of information about who? No, she had not. Even more frustratingly, Clare hadn’t been able to get a thing out of her about her date with Jay, either. Not a bloody thing!

‘How did it go at the doctor’s today then?’ Polly asked conversationally. ‘Did you get some nice strong druuuugs?’

Clare cringed and gestured up at the open window above their heads. The open window of Leila’s bedroom, where both children were probably still wide awake, having only just gone up there, complaining bitterly about it still being light, and why should they have to go to bed
already
?

‘Don’t say that,’ she hissed. ‘The last thing I need is one of them telling bloody Steve that I’m “on drugs”. Just think what a shit-storm he’d create about
that
.’ She grimaced, imagining the carnage that would ensue, the letter from Steve’s smarmy solicitor that would arrive next:
Some concern for the
mother’s fragile mental health . . . Children openly concerned about her drug-taking . . . My client feels he would be the more suitable parent to have residence . . .

‘Sorry,’ Polly replied in a stage whisper. ‘What did she say, though? Did she prescribe you a magic potion to cure all ills?’

Clare rolled her eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Angela – the doctor I’d booked to see – wasn’t there. I had to see Luke instead.’ She found herself blushing. ‘He just gave me the hot-baths-and-physical-exercise line. No magic potions. Told me to take up swimming – like that’s going to happen.’

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Polly leaned forward with interest. ‘Why not? I’ve been meaning to ask why you don’t swim with the kids. Don’t you enjoy it any more?’

‘Something like that,’ Clare mumbled, not wanting to elaborate.

Polly was watching her closely. ‘You like him, don’t you, this Luke,’ she said, not even bothering to make her words a question. ‘What’s he like?’

Clare blushed even deeper. ‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ she said – or rather, the wine must have said it for her. She’d never have admitted as much to her sister otherwise. ‘He’s just . . . a really good bloke. Nice, friendly, funny, kind . . .’

‘Good-looking? Sexy? Please don’t tell me he’s in his fifties with a comb-over.’

‘No, thank God.’ Clare laughed. ‘But . . .’

‘But?’ Polly prompted.

Clare shrugged. ‘Where do I start? BUT he’s got a girlfriend whom he lives with. BUT he’s way out of my league. BUT . . . oh, I don’t know, millions of reasons. It’s just a crush, that’s all. Nothing’s ever going to happen.’ The conversation was making her uncomfortable, so she turned it back on Polly. ‘What about you, anyway? When are you going to start telling me what’s going on with Jay, after you went out the other night? You’ve kept your cards very close to your chest so far.’

Now it was Polly’s turn to sigh and look awkward. ‘It’s because I don’t know what sodding cards I’ve
got
yet,’ she moaned. ‘And I don’t even know how to play the game, which is even more of a problem. The last time I had any kind of relationship that lasted longer than two weeks was . . .’ Her expression was shifty and she pulled her glasses back over her eyes to hide them.

‘Was . . . ?’

‘Well, it was with him, Jay, back when I was a teenager. How sad is that?’

Clare was taken aback. Whoa. Seriously? She licked her lips, not knowing how to react. ‘Well . . .’

‘It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend it isn’t weird,’ Polly said quickly. ‘I know it’s awful. I know it makes me some kind of . . . freak who can’t form attachments.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Classic psychopath material, apparently.’

‘You’re not a psychopath—’

‘I know I’m not a psychopath, but you must admit, it’s not exactly normal.’ She sighed, looking small and vulnerable as she sat folded in the depths of the deckchair.

‘Why do you think it’s been like that?’ Clare asked carefully, tiptoeing around the edges of the subject. ‘I mean, what do you think has stopped you from falling madly in love with someone?’

Polly shrugged again. ‘I guess I’m a bit . . . scared,’ she confessed, gazing into the distance. She sipped her wine, frowning. ‘I’m not usually scared of anything,’ she said with a self-conscious laugh, ‘but that opening-up to another person thing – I find it terrifying. What if you, you know, hand yourself over to them, say here I am, this is me, and . . . they reject you?’

Clare could hardly believe what she was hearing. She’d never seen Polly like this: so uncertain, so anxious. ‘Well, then they’re an arsehole and it’s their loss,’ she replied. ‘And you slag them off to your mates, and you pick yourself up and carry on, and you thank your lucky stars that not everyone in the human race is such a prat.’

Silence thickened between them, and Clare felt her face prickle with heat. She was making herself sound far more confident and carefree than she really was, when it came to the thorny subject of relationships.

‘I know I was just a teenager, but when me and Jay split up, it was so monumental I felt completely . . . well, annihilated by it,’ Polly said. ‘Like nothing would ever be the same. And it hasn’t been.’

‘Oh, Polly,’ Clare said helplessly.

‘And after that, I sort of closed myself off,’ Polly said, barely seeming to hear. ‘I was like: right! Never again! Independence all the way – nobody else will ever make me feel so unhappy.’ She sniffed. ‘And of course it was all mixed in with Michael dying too. I was massively beating myself up for that, totally blaming myself, and . . .’

Clare stared at her in surprise. Had she just heard that right? Polly’s face had turned ashen and she looked stricken at what she’d just said. ‘Blaming
yourself
?’ she echoed. ‘Why?’

Polly finished her wine with a single gulp. There was a long, highly charged silence. ‘I think I need another drink if we’re going to talk about this,’ she said shakily.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Polly retreated to the kitchen and filled their wine glasses, feeling the rush of adrenalin as it pounded around her body. Oh God. Why had she blurted that out? Now she would have to fess up to Clare about the terrible thing she’d done, and Clare would hate her for it. She’d tell their parents, and turn them against her. Polly would be evicted from the village – from the family, more like – within hours.