Summer With My Sister (4 page)

‘Morning,’ said Roxie, her colleague, who was twenty-two. She had peroxide-blonde pigtails and wore a salmon-pink, chiffon, cap-sleeved blouse with an enormous bow at the neck and a short peacock-blue skirt covered in mismatched buttons. Roxie had studied fashion at college and was now saving up to go travelling with some mates. She was economizing by making her own clothes, bleaching her hair with Domestos and using the surgery broadband for her extensive Internet and phone needs. ‘You all right?’

Clare paused for a split-second as she debated going into a full-scale moan about the dog’s vomming episode, but then clocked the chocolate-chip muffin that Roxie had brought in for breakfast and decided it was kinder not to. ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘You?’

‘Hungover and knackered, and a bit tender in the old nethers, if you know what I mean.’ Roxie winked. ‘Richard insisted on it three times last night. Him on top, me on top, then doggy-style. He could not get enough of me, I’m telling you. Yes, can I help you?’

Clare was always deeply impressed by how Roxie managed to segue so smoothly from spilling saucy sexual exploits into being Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt for the patients. An elderly gentleman was at the counter, his eyes rheumy behind thick glasses, and his liver-spotted fingers trembling as he unwound his scarf.

‘Benson,’ he said. ‘Nine-thirty for Dr Aardvark.’

Roxie’s lips fluttered as if she wanted to giggle and she pinched them quickly together. Clare took over. ‘Mr Benson for Dr Arkwright, yes, okay, take a seat.’

He shuffled away and sat on a blue plastic chair, then sneezed into a voluminous white handkerchief.

‘Go on,’ Clare urged. ‘You were telling me about Richard. Which Richard is this?’

‘Oh, you know, the fit one who used to be in
Spooks
,’ Roxie replied. ‘He was a right dirty bugger. Very athletic. I was squealing like a pig within five minutes. The neighbours started banging on the wall after a while to shut me up.’

‘Ahh,’ Clare said, putting the kettle on. ‘Sounds good. Did you see
Corrie
, by the way?’

‘Yeah,’ Roxie admitted. ‘And
Masterchef
. Then I went to bed with the new Jilly Cooper. God, real life is boring sometimes.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ Clare agreed. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Cheers.’

The surgery where Clare and Roxie worked was in the small town of Amberley, a few miles from Elderchurch. There were five doctors and two practice nurses, and various clinics operated within the centre as well. Tuesday – today – meant the baby clinic, and the one day a week that Clare worked right through until six o’clock. Clare’s mum would pick up Leila and Alex from school on Tuesday afternoons and spoil them rotten for three hours. It was an arrangement that everyone was happy with.

‘Morning, ladies,’ came a voice just as the phone rang.

‘Good morning, Amberley Medical Centre, how can I help you?’ Clare said, picking it up and blushing as Luke Brightside strolled into reception.

‘
Morning
, Luke,’ Roxie cooed, batting her eyelashes at him. ‘Looking very handsome there today, if I may say so.’

‘Looking very . . . colourful yourself there, Roxanne,’ he bantered in return, rolling his eyes comically at Clare as he walked by, a sports bag slung over one shoulder. She felt herself light up inside at his smile. For all Roxie’s cheeky flirting, he
was
looking handsome. He always looked handsome. Luke was one of the GPs and he was
lovely
. He had such a kind face, such understanding, interested eyes and such a deep, sexy voice, she could see why he always had so many female patients flocking to see him. It was enough to make Clare fake an illness herself, the thought of Dr Brightside’s tender bedside manner being lavished on her. In fact, she was getting a hot flush just imagining it . . .

‘Hello? Are you there?’ came a petulant voice down the line, and Clare jerked back to the real world.

‘Sorry, yes, I’m here,’ she replied hastily. ‘Did you say you wanted an appointment? Let me see when we can fit you in.’

Debbie called mid-morning when she knew Clare would be on her break. Debbie had been Clare’s best friend since they were both five years old and had met on their first day at Elderchurch primary school. She still lived in the village too, with her husband Will, four kids, a horse and two dogs. If Clare’s life was the rural idyll gone wrong, Debbie’s was the real McCoy, with the Aga and the Labradors and full acceptance from the horsey crowd, not to mention the successful husband and happy children. It hadn’t always been so easy for Debbie, though – she’d had her first daughter, Lydia, when she was only sixteen, and had been chucked out of school. Then her boyfriend had done a bunk and joined the army, and Debbie had been left high and dry. Things had turned around for her, thank goodness, ever since she’d met Will, although she never took any of it for granted.

‘Wotcha,’ she said now. ‘Just ringing to see if you want a hand on Saturday, or are you all set? I don’t mind being your glamorous assistant, or I can have Alex for you, if he can’t stomach the house being invaded by all those screeching girls, or . . .’

Clare laughed. Saturday was Leila’s party and she was having seven girls from school round for the afternoon. Leila’s dream party had originally been to invite the whole class to a roller disco at the village hall, but even when Mr Button, who did the hall bookings, had offered it to Clare at half-price and Debbie had put forward Will’s services as DJ, it was still going to cost an arm and a leg, when you added in the hire of disco lights plus food for thirty children. Clare had persuaded Leila to scale things down slightly, so they were now having an ‘Arts and Crafts’ party at home. Clare was going to make bath-bombs with the girls, and had picked up some clear plastic boxes in the pound shop that they could decorate with acrylic paints, then fill with their bath goodies.

‘I would love a glamorous assistant,’ she confessed. ‘An extra pair of hands would be fab. I can’t help feeling this birthday is doomed, though.’ And she poured out everything that had gone wrong with the bike, and the cake, and how she wasn’t even sure that Steve was going to remember it was his daughter’s birthday, and whether she should phone him to remind him, or, if he
had
actually remembered, whether her call would be an insult.

‘Oh, mate,’ Debbie said sympathetically. ‘Ring the brainless berk, I would. The worst that can happen is he’ll be narky with you. And so bloody what if he is. It’s a lot better than Leila getting upset because she thinks he’s forgotten her, right?’

‘That’s true,’ Clare said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go. Cheers, Deb. See you tomorrow.’

She’d text Steve later rather than phone, she decided, ending the call. That way he wouldn’t be able to hear the desperation in her voice. That way she wouldn’t have to hear
his
voice either and be reminded how happy she’d once been with him. Keep looking forward, she told herself. The future is bright. You just can’t see it yet, that’s all.

That night when Clare got home, sugar-loaded kids in tow, there were two things waiting for her on the doorstep.

One was a pastel-pink box that the delivery guy had left tucked behind the dustbin. Clare pulled it out to see ‘Little Miss Luxury’ on the address label and guessed, with a groan, that this was her sister’s birthday present to Leila. Little Miss Luxury indeed. What would it be: another expensive, dry-clean-only dress with hand-stitched beads around the hem? Maybe some over-the-top jewellery that Leila would no doubt swap with one of her mates for a packet of felt-tips. Clare could lay money on the fact that it would be nothing that pony-mad tomboy Leila would be remotely interested in. Oh, well. That was Polly for you.

The second item on the doorstep was a battered-looking Quality Street tin with a Post-it stuck on the lid. ‘Open when Leila isn’t looking,’ Clare read in Debbie’s handwriting. She carried it into the kitchen and gave Fred a stern look. ‘Keep away from this, if you value your life,’ she warned him, and prised off the lid. Inside was a Victoria sponge with thick buttercream icing, decorated with chocolate buttons and rainbow sprinkles, and sandwiched with jam and whipped cream.

She felt like running across the field and kissing Debbie. Thank God she had her friends when everything else in her life was going tits-up.

Chapter Three

Polly wasn’t quite sure how she managed the walk of shame out of Hugo Warrington’s office, after his life-shattering bombshell. Somehow her legs worked robotically, one foot after the other, to take her back to the sanctuary of her desk.

Meanwhile her mind was racing with panic. Oh my God. Oh. My. Actual. GOD. She’d lost her job. She’d
lost
her
job
. How had Warringon put it again? She was being ‘let go’, that was it. Let go, like an animal released into the wild. Like this would liberate her. Like she should be grateful! The thing was, she didn’t
want
to be released into the wild. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay in her safe, warm cage – office, rather. Her PC, her phone, her filing cabinet . . . these were all the cornerstones of her world. These things
were
her world. What did she have, without this place? She spent more time here than in her actual apartment; she often ate dinner here, she’d even slept here occasionally on the stylish grey sofa when she was up against a deadline. And to have it all taken away from her, pulled out from under her feet . . .

She clutched at the table, dizzy and light-headed. Shit. She hadn’t seen that one coming. She’d had absolutely no idea. Usually you got a premonition of bad news at the firm: call it the inner radar, call it the twitching feelers, but generally you heard the whispers being passed along the grapevine. This time – nothing. Not even a knowing look. Twelve years of her life she’d given this place and they were just opening the door and pushing her out again, without a second thought.
Bastards
. Was she even going to get her bonus now? Christ! She needed that money; had already accounted for most of it. They’d better bloody cough up, or . . .

She grimaced. Or what? She wasn’t sure she had many options all of a sudden.

She buzzed through to Jake. ‘Get me a coffee,’ she said crisply. ‘And make it a strong one.’

Damn. What was she going to do? Warrington had told her she had an hour to gather her things and leave the office. One measly hour. She’d wasted ten minutes already just staring around wide-eyed in horror, frozen to the spot as if rigor mortis had set in.

Her door opened and a burly guy from security appeared with an empty box. ‘This for you, darling?’ he asked. ‘Need a hand clearing your stuff?’

Polly drew herself up to her full height, which, on these particular heels, was an impressive five foot ten. ‘No,’ she said frostily.

He shrugged and dumped the box on the desk. ‘Your call. Personal stuff only, all right? Everything else belongs to the company. We’ll check it on the way out.’

He’d check it on the way out. Polly flushed. Like she was a common criminal, sneaking off with company secrets and juicy dossiers. The
nerve
of the man. She felt like throwing his wretched box in his porky-pink face. That would show him.