Shopaholic & Sister (13 page)

“The seats are a little hard, aren’t they, love?” ventures Mum. “You should get some nice tie-on cushions from Peter Jones.”

“Er . . . maybe.”

I hand Mum and Dad their cups, pull out a bar stool for myself, and nonchalantly swing myself up onto it.

Ow. That hurt.

God, they
are
a bit tricky to get onto. Stupid shiny seats.

“So . . . are you both well?” I say, reaching for my coffee.

There’s a short silence.

“Becky, we came here for a reason,” says Dad. “I have something to tell you.”

He looks so grave, I feel worried. Maybe it’s not the house after all. Maybe it’s something worse.

“It’s to do with me,” he continues.

“You’re ill,” I say before I can stop myself. “Oh God. Oh God. I knew there was something wrong—”

“I’m not ill. It’s not that. It’s . . . something else.” He massages his temples, then looks up. “Becky, years ago—”

“Break it to her gently, Graham!” Mum interrupts.

“I
am
breaking it to her gently!” retorts Dad, swiveling round. “That’s exactly what I’m doing!”

“You’re not!” says Mum. “You’re rushing in!”

Now I’m totally bewildered.

“Break what to me gently?” I say, looking from face to face. “What’s going on?”

“Becky, before I met your mother . . .” Dad avoids my gaze. “There was another . . . lady in my life.”

“Right,” I say, my throat thick.

Mum and Dad are getting divorced and that’s why they’re selling the house. I’m going to be the product of a broken home.

“We lost touch,” Dad continues. “But recently . . . events have occurred.”

“You’re confusing her, Graham!” exclaims Mum.

“I’m not confusing her! Becky, are you confused?”

“Well . . . a bit,” I admit.

Mum leans over and takes my hand.

“Becky, love, the long and the short of it is . . . you have a sister.”

A sister?

I stare at her blankly. What’s she talking about?

“A half sister, we should say,” Dad adds, nodding earnestly. “Two years older than you.”

My brain is short-circuiting. This doesn’t make any sense. How could I have a sister and not know about it?

“Dad has a daughter, darling,” Mum says gently. “A daughter he knew nothing about until very recently. She got in touch with us while you were on honeymoon. We’ve seen each other a few times, haven’t we, Graham?” She glances at Dad, who nods. “She’s . . . very nice!”

The kitchen is completely silent. I swallow a few times. I can’t quite take this in. Dad had another child?

Dad had another—

“So . . .” I falter. “Who was this other lady in your life?”

I can’t believe I’m asking my own father about his love life. Even if it is his love life of thirty years ago.

Dad doesn’t flinch at the question.

“Her name was Marguerite,” he says with a steadfast gaze. “I was traveling a lot for business then and she was a stewardess on the 7:40 London to Carlisle train.”

A stewardess on a train. I have a sudden image of a young Dad sitting in a pale 1970s suit with flappy lapels, smiling up at a uniformed girl as she pours him coffee. She brushes against him as she moves the trolley on. . . .

OK, I’m not sure I want to think about this.

“Daddy was very handsome then,” Mum puts in. “When he had his mustache.”

I gape at her. Dad had a mustache? God, how many secrets does our family
have
?

Then all of a sudden it hits me.

“That girl! The day we got back.” My heart is pounding. “The one you were with. Was that . . . ?”

Mum glances at Dad, who nods.

“That was her. Your half sister. She was visiting us.”

“When we saw you, love . . . we didn’t know what to do!” says Mum, with an anxious laugh. “We didn’t want to give you the shock of your life!”

“We decided we’d tell you when you’d settled in a bit,” chimes in Dad. “When you’d got a bit sorted out.”

Now I feel totally dazed. That was her. I’ve
seen
my half sister.

“What’s . . . what’s her name?” I manage.

“Her name’s Jessica,” says Dad after a pause. “Jessica Bertram.”

Jessica. My sister, Jessica.

Hi. Have you met my sister, Jessica?

I look from Dad’s worried face to Mum’s bright, hopeful eyes, and suddenly I feel very weird. It’s like a bubble is rising up inside me. Like a load of really strong emotions are pushing their way out of my body.

I’m not an only child.

I have my own sister.
I have a sister
.

I have a SISTER!

FOR THE PAST week I haven’t been able to sleep. Or concentrate on anything. All I can think about is the fact that I have a real, blood sister.

At first I felt totally shaken up. It’s OK for Mum and Dad; they’ve had weeks to get used to the idea. But to find out Dad had an affair years ago . . . and got somebody
pregnant. . .
. I never thought Dad was like that, to be honest.

But he’s been really sweet about it. The day he and Mum came round to tell me, he could see I was a bit shell-shocked. So he sat down on the sofa with me and told the whole story. He kept reiterating that this all happened before he even met Mum, and that he had no idea he’d fathered a child. Apparently Marguerite the stewardess broke off their relationship with no warning. Dad got on the train one Monday morning, and she just wasn’t there. Another stewardess told him she’d had a whirlwind romance and married another passenger, who owned a frozen food business. Dad was so crushed, he started taking another train. And then they moved his work to Birmingham . . . and that was the end of it. He had no idea there was a baby.

But there was. A little girl called Jessica. All my life, without knowing it, I’ve had a sister, growing up miles away, with no idea I existed either.

And today, at last, I’m going to meet her!

Just the thought makes me feel exhilarated and jumpy all at once. How will we be the same? How will we be different? What will her voice be like? What will her
clothes
be like?

“Do I look OK?” I ask Luke, while anxiously surveying my appearance in the mirror. We’re in my old bedroom at my parents’ house, and I’m putting the finishing touches to my meeting-my-long-lost-sister outfit. It’s taken me several days, but after a lot of thought I’ve decided on my most flattering Seven jeans, some boots with spiky heels, a gorgeous pale pink Marc Jacobs jacket, and a T-shirt made ages ago for me by Danny.

“You look great,” Luke says patiently.

“It’s like . . . balancing formal with informal,” I explain. “So the jacket says ‘This is a special occasion,’ whereas the jeans say, ‘We’re sisters, we can be relaxed with each other!’ And the T-shirt says . . .”

I pause. Actually, I’m not sure what the T-shirt says, apart from “I’m friends with Danny Kovitz.” And I’m not even sure how true that is anymore. He hasn’t called back, even though I’ve left two messages.

“Becky,” says Luke, “I don’t honestly think it matters what you wear.”

“What?” I wheel round in disbelief. “Of course it matters! This is one of the most important moments of my life! I’ll always remember what I was wearing the day I met my sister for the first time. I mean . . . you remember what
you
were wearing when you met me for the first time, don’t you?”

Luke looks blank.

He doesn’t remember? How can he not remember?

“Well,
I
remember,” I say crossly. “You were wearing a gray suit and a white shirt and a dark green Hermès tie. And I was wearing my short black skirt and my suede boots and that awful white top which made my arms look fat.”

“If you say so.” Luke raises his eyebrows.

I smooth down my T-shirt. “I just want to look right. Like a sister.”

“What do sisters look like?” Luke asks, looking amused.

“They look . . . fun!” I think for a moment. “And friendly. And supportive. And like they’ll tell you if your bra strap is showing.”

“Then you do look exactly like a sister.” Luke kisses me. “Becky, relax! It’s going to be fine!”

I know I’m a bit wound-up, but I just can’t get over the idea of having a sister after being an only child for so long.

Not that I’ve
minded
being on my own or anything. Mum and Dad and I have always had a great time together. But sometimes I’ve heard other people talking about their brothers and sisters and wondered what it was like. I never thought I would actually get to find out!

What’s really spooky is that all this week, I’ve suddenly been noticing sisters. They’re everywhere! For example, the film of
Little Women
was on telly the other afternoon—and right after was a program about the Beverley Sisters! And every time I’ve seen two women together in the street, instead of just noticing what they were wearing, I’ve thought, “Are they sisters?”

It’s like there’s a whole world of sisters out there and finally I’m part of it.

I feel a smarting in my eyes and blink hard. It’s ridiculous, but ever since I heard about Jessica, my emotions have been all over the place. Last night I was reading this brilliant book called
Long-Lost Sisters: The Love They Never Knew They Had
and tears were streaming down my cheeks! The stories were just amazing. One was about these three Russian sisters who were in the same concentration camp during the war but didn’t know it. Then there was this woman who was told her sister had been killed but she would never believe it, and then she got cancer and there was no one to look after her three children, but they found the sister alive, just in time for them to say goodbye. . . .

Oh God, I’m going to cry just thinking about it.

I take a deep breath and wander over to the table where I’ve put my present for Jessica. It’s a big basket full of Origins bath stuff, plus some chocolates, plus a little photo album of pictures of me when I was little.

I also got her a silver bean necklace from Tiffany, which exactly matches mine, but Luke said it might be a bit overwhelming, presenting her with jewelry on our first meeting. Which I didn’t really understand. I mean, I’d love it if someone gave me a Tiffany necklace! But he was really insistent, so I said I’d keep it for later.

I run my eyes over the basket, slightly dissatisfied. Should I maybe—

“The present is fine,” says Luke, just as I open my mouth. “You don’t need to add any more.”

How did he know what I was going to say?

“OK,” I say reluctantly. I look at my watch and feel a swoop of excitement. “Not long now! She’ll be here soon!”

The plan is, Jessica’s going to phone when her train gets in to Oxshott Station, then Dad will go and pick her up. It’s pure coincidence that she’s going to be in London this week. She lives in Cumbria, which is miles away, but apparently she was coming down anyway, for an academic conference. So she’s come down a day early, especially to meet me!

“Becky, before all the excitement starts . . . I wanted to have a quick word. On the subject of our honeymoon purchases.”

“Oh, right.”

I feel a twinge of resentment. Why does Luke have to bring this up
now
? This is a special day! There should be a general reprieve from all arguments, like in the war when they played football on Christmas Day.

Not that we’re at war or anything. But we did have a bit of a row yesterday when Luke found the twenty Chinese dressing gowns under the bed. And he keeps asking when I’m going to sort out the apartment.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve spoken to the furniture merchants,” says Luke. “They’ll be coming by on Monday to take away the Danish table.”

“Oh, right,” I say sheepishly. “Thanks. So, are they giving us a full refund?”

“Almost.”

“Oh, well! So we didn’t do too badly in the end!”

“No, we didn’t,” agrees Luke. “Unless you count the storage costs, the delivery costs, the expense of packaging it all up again . . .”

“Right,” I say hurriedly. “Of course. Well, anyway . . . all’s well that ends well!”

I try a conciliatory smile, but Luke’s not even looking. He’s opening up his briefcase and pulling out a wad of—oh God.

Credit card bills. My secret code-red-emergency bills, to be exact. Luke asked for them the other day and I had no choice but to get them out of their hiding place.

I was kind of hoping he’d be too busy to read them, though.

“Right!” I say, my voice slipping up two notches. “So . . . you’ve seen those, then!”

“I’ve paid them all off,” Luke says shortly. “Have you cut up the card?”

“Er . . . yes. And thank you for paying them off,” I add humbly. Luke gives me a hard look.

“Have you really cut it up?”

“Yes! I threw the pieces in the bin!”

“OK.” Luke turns back to the bills. “And there isn’t anything else to come? Anything you’ve paid for recently?”

I feel a tiny clenching in my stomach.

“Er . . . no,” I say. “That’s all.”

I can’t tell him about the Angel bag. I just can’t. He still thinks all I bought in Milan was a present for him. That’s about my only redeeming feature right now.

And, anyway, I can pay it off myself, no problem. I mean, in three months I’ll have a job and my own income! It’ll be easy!

To my slight relief my mobile phone starts ringing. I scrabble in my bag and pull it out. Suze’s number is flashing on the display.

Suze.

At once I feel a gigantic leap of nerves and a familiar hurt starting to rise inside me.

I haven’t spoken once to Suze since I left her house. She hasn’t called . . . and neither have I. If she’s all busy and happy with a fab new life, then so be it. She doesn’t even know I’ve got a sister.

I press the green button and take a deep breath.

“Hi, Suze!” I exclaim in airy tones. “How are you? How’s the family?”

“I’m fine,” says Suze. “We’re all fine. You know . . . same old . . .”

“And how’s Lulu?” I say lightly. “I expect you two have been busy doing lots of fun things together?”

“She’s . . . fine.” Suze sounds awkward. “Listen, Bex . . . about that. I wanted to—”

I cut her off. “Actually, I’ve got a bit of exciting news of my own. Guess what? It turns out . . . I’ve got a long-lost sister!”