In My Sister's Shoes (13 page)

‘I’m sorry, Tara, and of course I’m happy for you. It’s great news. Just don’t ask me to babysit,’ I said, faking a smile but I was thrown by what she’d said.

Was I going to end up like one of those sad women you see in nightclubs, squeezed into a leopard-print mini-dress with four inches of makeup on, trying to compete with girls twenty years younger? Would I be getting Botox every six months to hide the wrinkles that gave away my age? Was I going to be sad old Auntie Kate, who lived in London on her own, married to her career? And, let’s face it, the business I was in was a young person’s game.

But, on the other hand, I didn’t want what Fiona had. I felt sorry for her: she had no life of her own. Her kids were too young to appreciate everything she did for them and her husband was never there. The twins would disappear at eighteen and she’d have sacrificed all those years for what? Raising kids who were good at sums? It wasn’t what I wanted. I couldn’t imagine myself settled with kids. I’d hate it. I liked spontaneity and sleep, shopping and travelling. I suppose I was selfish, but I wasn’t hurting anyone so why should I feel bad about it? Why did I feel like a freak all of a sudden? I twisted and turned all night, mulling it over in my head.

The next morning I was none the wiser, just even more exhausted. Sod it, I was for the single life and I wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

Two weeks after her chemotherapy session, Fiona began to feel much better, which was great for her and not so great for me. She took it upon herself to teach me how to cook for children. We did a new recipe everyday. Day three was risotto. I’d always thought that risotto was something trained chefs made. It looked long and complicated – and I was right. Instead of using a stock cube, like most normal people, to make vegetable stock, Fiona insisted on boiling real vegetables in water for hours.

‘Why bother?’ I asked. ‘It’s just mucky water. Why not take the quick and easy option?’

‘That’s the whole point, Kate. The easy option is not the most nutritious one. Stock cubes contain a lot of salt and children shouldn’t be eating any at all.’

I decided not to mention that I’d been pouring salt over the twins’ mashed potatoes. ‘Oh, come on, Fiona, a little bit of salt isn’t going to kill them and it’ll knock hours off cooking this meal,’ I said, stifling a yawn.

‘Taking the easy way isn’t right. You need to do things properly in life to achieve the best results. People who cut corners are only fooling themselves. If you’re going to bother cooking dinner, do it properly, or you might as well feed your kids junk food,’ she said.

I was fed up. My best friend thought I was juvenile and my sister thought I was a lazy cow who cut corners at the expense of her children’s health. Not to mention the fact that Sam still hadn’t rung and I lurched from feeling furious to upset to pretending not to care. I knew that if I didn’t get out of the house I’d take out my grumpiness on Fiona and, with her chemo coming up, I really didn’t want to do that, so I told her I had to go and went home to Dad’s to sulk.

His car was in the driveway, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone so I crept upstairs to my room. I was opening my bedroom door when I heard noises coming from his bedroom. It sounded as if he was having a panic-attack. I charged through the door, ready to perform CPR.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he roared. ‘Whatever happened to knocking?’

‘Argggggh!’ I screamed, as my father’s hairy, naked backside greeted me. Underneath him lay a woman who looked about forty and they were mid-action. I couldn’t believe that I had walked in on my father shagging. Widowed sixty-two-year-olds aren’t supposed to have sex.

‘What are you doing home?’ he shouted, very red in the face, although whether that was from exertion or shame, I’m not sure.

I should have walked out but I was rooted to the spot and there was something oddlyfamiliar about the woman… Oh, my God! It was Mrs Jones, my old gym teacher.

‘OUT!’ yelled Dad.

I turned on my heels and fled downstairs. I could hear music from the TV room, so I went in to tell Derek about the scene I’d just witnessed.

‘Derek, you’re not going to believe –’ I said, stopping mid-sentence as two panting faces looked up at me from the couch. Jesus, was I the only person in this house not getting anyaction?

I backed out of the room and went to pour myself a large glass of wine. I hadn’t had sex in months, and here were my father and brother hard at it. It was official: I was a crotchety old dried-up maiden aunt at the grand old age of thirty and three-quarters.

Before I had the chance to wallow completely in self-pity and my lifetime membership of the Shelf, Dad arrived downstairs in his dressing-gown followed by Mrs Jones, his new – lover, friend, fuck-buddy?

‘Hello, Kate, nice to see you again,’ said the brazen hussy, not looking at all put out that I’d just caught her naked, shagging my father. Mind you, she’d never liked me very much. Gym was not my forte – to be fair, I didn’t have a forte. I was not blessed with bendy limbs – I couldn’t get close to the splits. To be bendy when you’re young guarantees you cool status. I couldn’t even twist my tongue into a sausage roll, not to mind do a decent cartwheel. As a result, Mrs Jones and I hadn’t been the best of pals. She openly favoured double-jointed elasticated girls and scorned us normal ladies.

‘Hi, Mrs Jones, I see you’re as fit as ever,’ I said, smirking. This was my house, my father, and it was her knickers that had been down – I was damned if I was going to be the one to feel embarrassed.

‘Yes, thanks,’ said the old slapper, without batting an eyelid. Then she turned to Dad, kissed him – in front of me! – and headed out the door. The cheek of her.

‘Sheryl’s in training for the marathon,’ said Dad, as proudly as if he were running it himself.

‘I see – and does her training include much horizontal jogging?’

‘Don’t you give me any lip, young lady.’

‘Dad, I don’t think you’re in a position to take the moral high ground here. I just caught you with your pants down riding my gym teacher. How long has this been going on?’

‘About six months.’

‘Did you fancy her when we were in school?’

‘I always thought she was fit-looking.’

‘Jesus, did you try and chat her up at the parent-teacher meetings?’

‘I’d never be so unprofessional,’ he said, sounding genuinely insulted. ‘Besides, she was married.’

‘Where’s her husband now? Should we expect the door to be kicked in any minute?’

‘He died of a heart-attack a few years back.’

‘You’d better watch out – she seems to wear men out.’

‘I’m well able for her,’ said Dad, flexing non-existent muscles.

‘How long were you dating before you had sex?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Are you using protection?’

‘I’m warning you, Kate.’

‘OK. What age is the lovely Sheryl?’

‘Forty-eight.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘She’s a very nice lady.’

‘Do you always have sex with women you find “nice”?’

‘It depends what they look like.’

‘Jesus, Dad!’

‘A man can’t live on bread alone,’ he said.

How had I missed all this? How had I not known that my father was dating? I was in London, not Timbuc-bloody-too.

‘Do Fiona and Derek know?’

He shrugged. ‘Derek’s met her, but sure it all goes over his head and Fiona knows I’m seeing her.’

‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Probably because you never asked.’

He had a point there, but were children supposed to ask their parents how their sex lives were? Wasn’t that a little too modern? I’m all for communication but you can have too much information… and what I had just witnessed was
way
too much information.

‘Do you think it’s going to last?’

‘Who knows? We’re having fun so we’ll have to wait and see.’

Bloody men! They’re all the same, no matter what age they are – noncommittal to the end.

‘Well, I hope you’re not leading that poor woman up the garden path,’ I said, suddenly finding myself defending Sheryl Jones, who had never been very nice to me.

‘She knows the score.’

‘Which is that you want the company, the sex, the fun but not the commitment?’

‘No need to be dramatic. She knows I’m not looking for a wife.’

‘Does she want to get married?’

‘Don’t all women?’

‘No – well, maybe eventually. I dunno, I give up on men,’ I said, and slugged back some wine.

My phone beeped.

I glanced down. I had a new text message. It was from Sam:
Sry not in touch sooner – bloody work! Friday, Blues wine bar 8?

17

The Friday of my non-date with Sam was the day of Fiona’s second chemotherapy session. I was glad to have the drink to look forward to, because I was dreading the day for Fiona. I’d been looking at the Internet and it seemed pretty common for patients’ hair to fall out after the second or third treatment.

The day before her chemo, I booked her an appointment with a local hairdresser and cut out a picture of Sharon Stone with short hair to bring along, so she wouldn’t end up with a pudding bowl. Fiona insisted I didn’t tell them why she was getting her hair cut – she didn’t want people feeling sorry for her. Besides, she was feeling much better and she didn’t want to focus on her illness.

While her locks were being chopped off I told her about finding Dad and Mrs Jones in a compromising position.

‘Oh, God, Kate! What did you do?’

‘When I started breathing again, I ran out as fast as I could. How could you not have told me he was seeing someone?’

‘I suppose I presumed you knew. It’s been going on for a while now.’

‘But it’s Mrs Jones! She’s a cow! Don’t you remember her from school?’

Fiona looked a bit vague. ‘No – what did she teach?’

‘Gymnastics. Come on, you must remember her. She was like a sergeant bloody major, ordering everyone about and flinging girls on and off the beam and trying to twist our bodies into unnatural shapes.’

‘I didn’t do gym – it clashed with special maths.’

I had forgotten that Fiona and the other mathematical super-brains – all three of them – had done a special brainiac class. Compared to maths, gym was a walk in the park, as far as I was concerned. Give me a forward roll over a theorem any day.

‘Well, take it from me, she’s not a very sweet person and I don’t want Dad to end up with her.’

‘I didn’t have the impression they were getting married,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s obviously just after her body.’ She grinned.

‘Fiona, if you’d
seen
them! It was gross. I can’t get the image of Dad’s wrinkly bum out of my head. Old people shouldn’t have sex without bolting their doors. I’m traumatized!’

‘Good old Dad. At least he’s still up to it. Sex is becoming a distant memory for me,’ she murmured.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Fiona. ‘You know how it is, couples with young kids…’ She tailed off.

‘Well, you couldn’t be getting less action than I am,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ She turned back to her magazine.

Clearly Mark was underperforming in the bedroom as well as in every other aspect of his marriage. I wondered if his uselessness was grounds for annulment, and wished Fiona could be swept off her feet by a tall dark handsome stranger with big strong arms who’d carry her to and from chemotherapy and tell her how wonderful and beautiful she was and ravish her every night…

‘Kate?’ Fiona’s voice interrupted my match-making.

The hairdresser had finished drying her hair.

‘Oh, wow! You look fantastic,’ I lied. Her beautiful curly dark hair lay strewn around her on the floor and she was left with very tightly cut curls that stuck up in clumps all over her head, nothing like Sharon Stone’s cool crop in the picture I’d shown the stylist.

Fiona looked at herself in the mirror and tried to pat down a stray curl. ‘I look like a poodle,’ she said, as her eyes filled.

‘You do not,’ I snapped. ‘You look gorgeous. Mark’s a very lucky guy.’

She stood up and wiped away a tear. As she turned towards the door, I picked up a stray curl from the floor and popped it into my bag. I don’t know why– good luck, superstition, in the hope that when her hair grew back we could laugh about the shorn curls… I’m not sure, but it was strangely comforting, as if I had a piece of Fiona that no one could take away.

When we collected the twins from school, they stared at their mum in silence. Fiona had always had long hair.

‘Where’s your hair?’ asked Jack, walking round to see if it was hidden behind her.

‘I cut it off today,’ said Fiona, putting on her cheeriest smile.

‘Why?’ asked Jack. ‘You look like a boy now,’ he added, lip quivering.

Jesus, kids could be brutal sometimes.

‘No, she doesn’t,’ I said, frowning at him. ‘She looks beautiful.’

‘Boys,’ said Fiona, crouching so she could talk to them directly, eye to eye, ‘the medicine that the doctor is giving me to make me better might make my hair fall out, so if I look a bit strange, don’t worry, I’m still your mummy. I’ll just have funny hair for a while.’

‘But why does the medicine make your hair fall out?’ asked Jack, very worried.

‘Because it’s strong medicine that I need to take to fight the bad cells. But my hair will grow back, sweetheart,’ said Fiona, as her own lip began to tremble.

‘But I thought the doctor took out all the bad cells already,’ said Bobby.

‘Well, yes, he did, but the medicine is to make sure that no bad cells come back so that I don’t get sick again.’

‘Are they fighting each other?’ asked Bobby.

‘Well, yes, I suppose they are.’

‘Inside your tummy?’ asked Jack.

‘Yes.’

‘Cool,’ said Bobby.

‘Can you feel them punching each other?’ asked Jack.

‘No, sweetheart, it’s not violent.’

‘But how –’

‘OK, boys, that’s enough questions,’ I interrupted, before it turned into
Mastermind
. ‘Come on, into the car. Give your mum a break.’

Mark was working late – again – so I helped Fiona bathe the twins and put them to bed. At prayer time, Bobby piped up, ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy and Teddy and Uncle Derek and Granddad and Auntie Kate, and please make Mummy’s hair come back so she looks like an angel again.’