The A-Z of Us (11 page)

But I can't be selfish. First, I need to cheer up Gemma. Such is my role, I feel – somewhere between Activities Counsellor and Court Jester. I hobble back inside.

‘Fancy some brunch?'

I open one of the newly installed cupboards. It's empty, apart from a couple of small screws that seem lonely and lost in the large vacant cabinet.

‘There's no food,' she says in a monotone voice, as I open the next cupboard.

‘I could go and get some. Eggs, bagels, smoked salmon. You love smoked salmon.'

She doesn't reply.

‘Where's the nearest shop?'

‘I'm not hungry, Ian.'

‘You need to eat.'

‘No I don't.'

‘Just some scrambled eggs,
à la
Thompson…'

‘I don't want anything, thank you!'

A phone rings. It's my mobile, coming from my jacket. I want to answer it, in case it's Molly, but I don't want
to make Gemma feel unwanted. The phone continues to ring.

‘Well, fucking answer it!'

I snatch for the jacket and extract the phone. To my disappointment (which I try to conceal), it's my mother.

‘I'm a little busy right now, Mum.'

‘Oh.'

I glance at Gemma, who is gazing out at the empty street.

‘Can I help with anything?' I ask my mother, feeling guilty.

‘No. I just wanted to see how you were doing, you went off in such a hurry…'

‘I'm fine. I'm at Gemma's, she's just not feeling very well.'

‘Oh, poor love. Nothing serious, I hope?'

‘No, no, nothing like that…' I wonder when I stopped telling my mother the truth about things. Probably when I told her I fancied Maisy Gardiner in Class 3C, and she told me I should concentrate on my five-times table instead.

There's a small silence.

‘How's Dad doing?' I ask, as flippantly as I can.

Another pause.

‘He's fine. You know Dad.'

We say our goodbyes and I put down the phone, sensing that small leaden emptiness that I feel whenever I come off the phone with my mother these days.

I stand, uncertain what to do next.

‘I'll go and get some food then.'

Gemma doesn't look up.

‘Whatever.'

*

I buy two bags of expensive groceries from the Londis in Victoria Park Village, and start back towards Raleigh Street. But something slows me. I feel relief that I'm outside, and guilt that I'm enjoying these few minutes away from the friend I've come to help. It's a beautiful late summer's day, and I don't want to return to the stifling atmosphere at number 26. I pause by a sweet-smelling oleander bush and take out my phone. I punch in the number for Geoffrey Walters, a prize-winning travel writer I know from press trips and Christmas parties over the years.

‘Dear boy,' Geoffrey Walters chuckles from his shed in deepest Richmond. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled. Ha, ha, ha… Choronì, ha, ha, that silly statue, ha, ha, ha, the good pilgrims of Stockport, ha, ha, old Foster blew his bloody top, ha, ha…'

‘I wondered if you had any ideas about what I could do?'

‘Leave the country?'

‘Come on, Geoffrey…'

‘It's a tough one, dear boy. Foster's a fella who bears a grudge. I remember when he got a bee in his bonnet about old Barnaby Fredericks. Barney wrote about some luxury hotel in Italy that turned out to be run by Neo-facists; he should have known from the décor, but anyway Foster fired him and he couldn't get a job for yonks. Ended up going to Canada, became a coal-mining correspondent or some such slow death.'

‘Thanks, Geoff.'

‘It'll blow over, dear boy. Keep your head down, do other things.'

‘Like what?' I ask, gruffly.

‘Dear boy, please don't take umbrage with me. I wasn't the one who committed journalistic hara-kiri. You'll find something. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my book. Tashkent beckons.'

I feel despondent. I have to start earning some money. Molly has expensive tastes, and to be honest I'm having trouble keeping up with the restaurant dinners, takeaways, taxis, theatre tickets and everything else that is supposed to make modern metropolitan living so fulfilling. I could always dip into my savings, but that would further delay the purchase of a property, which is the only true mark of success in the modern British world.

The sun is hot now. I really don't feel like going back to Gemma's house, which makes me feel guilty once more, but I can't help it. I need to regain composure, stoke up my strength to stop worrying about myself and look after her in her time of need.

For the first time in weeks, my ankle isn't hurting. I think of going into the park, where some teenagers are playing football, but for some reason the dry summer-scorched grass and tired-looking trees seem a little depressing, so I continue past Raleigh Street, crossing a main road. It's lunchtime and the streets are empty, people sheltering from the lethargic dog-day heat that seems to mark the end of something, without the hint of a new beginning. It makes me feel vaguely philosophical.

The houses here are built in blocks of three or four, unlike the serried ranks of terraced houses on Gemma's street. They're probably late-Victorian, with fat bay-fronted living rooms and neatly clipped hedges – the area,
like Gemma's street, is a ruffled mix of wealthy renovation and indigenous neglect, Old and New Labour. On one street an ugly 1950s-style brick cube house has been inserted into the middle of a stately Victorian row, as if by a malicious child, the two older houses rising a full storey above it on either side.

The 1950s block house seems incongruous, but I have a good idea why it's here. I remember my father telling me about streets in Liverpool that were bombed in the war, where one house was obliterated whilst its neighbours stood firm. I imagine the German bombs, swooping like deadly angels from the sky to flatten the East End and destroy the plucky will of London's most proud and industrious citizens. The original house was blown up. The houses on either side survived. The block house was built in its place, a perfect symbol of the absurd randomness of life and death.

As I stand, staring at the brick cube house like an architecture student or burglar, wondering how my father could still believe in God when all around him are examples of Godless happenings, I take out my phone and impulsively dial Molly's work number.

‘Hi Molly.'

‘Oh. Ian. How's Cambridge?'

‘I'm back in London. I've been seeing Gemma. At her house.'

‘Oh.'

Silence.

‘So how is little sis? I haven't seen her in weeks. You've got to love London, I mean we only live a couple of miles away…'

I know I'm going to tell her about Gemma, even though I'm pretty sure Gemma doesn't want me to tell her about Gemma (not having siblings of my own, I think, might be a valid defence, if it ever ends up in court).

‘Look, Molly…'

To be honest, it's a relief. As I tell her, I realize I've been worrying more than I've wanted to admit that I was the only one who knew Raj has left, the only one with the responsibility.

Molly listens carefully. I wonder what she's thinking, and feeling. Is she experiencing purely sorrow and concern for her sister? Or is she relieved, in some way, that she's no longer the only Cook daughter to have fucked up a marriage? How do sisters work? Do they thrive on peace, or adversity?

‘Poor Gem,' Molly murmurs, when I've finished recounting what I know about the break-up. ‘God. Poor Gem.'

‘I don't know if she wanted you to know,' I proffer, hoping to be contradicted.

‘I'm sure she didn't. But she shouldn't be alone.'

‘I'm there.'

‘Yes, of course, I didn't mean that… It's just, I've been through it. It might be good for her to talk about it.'

‘She doesn't seem to want to talk about it.'

‘I know. I didn't. But she needs to. Look, I went through hell, but I'm happy now. Okay, Mum can't understand it, but it's like I tell her, I know plenty of miserable 32-year-old married women with kids. Better alone than a clone.'

I grimace at this clumsy Molly-crafted aphorism.

‘I'm on my way.'

‘What?'

‘She's my sister. She needs me.'

‘But…'

‘I'll take the afternoon off, see her, try and get her to talk.'

She sounds business-like. It's very attractive.

‘Can I see you afterwards?'

Shit. Am I whining? I continue, hurriedly:

‘I mean… I haven't really seen you properly since I got back…'

That's better, more in control. I wonder if she detects the blatant insinuation contained in the word ‘properly' – that I'm desperate to have sex with her.

‘Gemma's in trouble here, Ian. This is her marriage we're talking about.'

‘I know, I know. I'm sorry…'

‘Look, maybe we can meet up later. I'll call you. I've got to run…'

Before I can apologize any more, Molly puts down the phone.

June 1982. Gemma is eight, Molly nine-and-a-half. Molly discovers Gemma wearing her bikini, the one with red roses on it. Molly pushes her younger sister into a patch of stinging nettles at the bottom of the garden. Gemma is badly stung, causing welts all over her back, three of which leave permanent scars.

Christmas 1987. Gemma steps carefully downstairs in Christmas Eve darkness, slips into the shadows cast by the quivering Christmas tree, picks up the wrapped box with her sister's name on it, and slams it against the wall. The next morning, upon unwrapping, the Wella Catwalk Professional hairdryer and curling tongs are found to be cracked. Molly has to wait six weeks for a replacement shipment to reach the shelves of Dickins and Jones, too late for Jason Morrow's fifteenth birthday party.

August 1994. Gemma and Molly go on holiday together for the first time. They both agree they need to be closer, to be more like sisters. Gemma plans the trip to Corfu. Molly complains about the hotel and the distance to the beach. They go to the local disco – Zorba's, in Kérkira. Molly is wearing a Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress bought for her graduation a month previously. Gemma is wearing a Marks and Spencer skirt and top. Molly buys
several rounds of drinks as her way of apologizing for her complaints about her sister's travel plans. They down White Russians and Molly encourages her sister to list the boys on the dance floor she considers snoggable. After some grilling, Gemma admits she fancies a tall German boy with a nice smile. To Gemma's horror, Molly goes and talks to him. He looks over at Gemma, approaches, they dance, his English is good. She's excited, flushed with cheap cocktails and sexual attraction. He excuses himself to go to the toilet and she searches for him for the next hour. Later, Gemma glimpses her sister and the German outside by the fountain of Zeus, kissing. The German has his hand on her sister's arse. Gemma goes back to the hotel, throws up in the shower and the next morning she greets her sister with a smile. At the beach, Molly tells her the German was ‘nothing special'.

Molly slaps down the orange juice carton on to the old Formica worktop.

‘You just said it, like that?'

‘It slipped out.'

‘How could “I don't love you any more” just slip out?'

‘I don't know. I suppose I'd been thinking about it for a long time.'

We both look away. I feel, with rising irritation, that this is all too familiar – the older sister's condescending, exasperated tone, the younger sister's irritated defiance. It makes each of us uncomfortable and annoyed. It's clear we both believe we've moved beyond childhood a long while back, and we're silently blaming the other for letting the zombies of our past out of the crypt.

‘So you meant it? You don't love Raj?' my sister reiterates crossly.

‘I think so.'

‘Do you want a divorce?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Do you think you could ever love him again?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Do you love somebody else?'

‘No. It's not that.'

‘What is it?'

‘It's…'

But I can't say.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Wow. You've really got it sorted out, haven't you, Gem.'

‘Piss off, Molly!'

I pull my legs into my chest and bury my face into the small cleft created by my knees. I sense tears coming, but I don't want to cry in front of my older sister. It's an age-old feeling, trying to be big and strong in front of Molly. It's a little sad that at the age of twenty-nine I'm still attempting it, but there you go. It feels both childish, and reassuring. At least, with this emotion, I know where I am.

Time passes, the clock ticks its seconds. My sister is silent. I keep my eyes closed. I wonder, as I stare through the red and golden dust flickering around my shut-eyed galaxy, whether I can tell my sister everything.

I want to. I want to be taken care of.

But something holds me back. I listen.

Silence.

Perhaps Molly has departed, slipping away without a sound. Or perhaps she's standing above me, fist raised, waiting for me to open my eyes before she gives me a big sisterly slap.

In some ways, I admit to myself, I'm glad that Molly now knows about Raj. Because my sister will be my fiercest critic, she will chastise me like a mother, with extra venom stemming from the pain still lingering from her own short but torturous divorce. As I sit there, cheek against patella, I realize that I want my sister's admonishments. In some ways I am craving them. I want Molly to berate me. I want to feel punished. It will make me feel less responsible.

I open my eyes. My sister is sitting on the floor, four feet away, looking at me.

‘I'm sorry, Gem. I didn't mean…'

The punishment will not be coming. Unless I seek it out myself.