The Learning Curve (30 page)

Usually, though, at least Christmas Day was enjoyable. She always went to stay with Claire, Derek and the girls on Christmas Eve and came home on Boxing Day. She was able to ignore Claire’s mother hen-ness and the tedium of Derek because their daughters’ exhilaration always rubbed off on her. But the girls were getting older and this year only the youngest really believed in Father Christmas, and Nicky found nothing sadder than spending Christmas Day with a cynical ten-year-old and a jaded eight-year-old. Not only that, but when the girls had been babies it had been far easier to imagine that one day they’d have cousins to share their youth with. Now that she could see the young woman inside Sarah-Jane bursting to get out, and even Abigail showing early signs of menstrual moodiness, she couldn’t escape the painful thought that maybe they’d never have any first cousins. Or if they did, they’d be babysitting them rather than playing with them, and probably at ridiculous rates. The older her nieces got, the more she felt a witness to their family than a part of it.

Maybe that was why this year Nicky’s depressed lethargy started early. On Boxing Day morning she made an excuse to get home straight after breakfast. On opening her front door and climbing the stairs to her flat, she found winter sunlight streaming in through the windows, creating an aura of light and air and peace. She breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she should spend less time with her sister’s family. The truth was they weren’t her family, they were her extended family, and there was a difference. Perhaps it was time for her to extend the other way a bit. Yes, too much of their company wasn’t good for her.

Then Claire phoned her mid-afternoon on Boxing Day
and she clung to the call like a hung-over alcoholic clings to their first drink of the day.

‘How you doing?’ asked Claire.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Nicky. ‘You?’

‘Knackered. The kids miss you – I’m talking to Aunty Nicky. Go away. I’m talking to Aunty Nicky.’

Nicky could hear Abigail whining in the background.

‘What did I just say?’ Claire asked her daughter. ‘I am talking to Aunty Nicky. Go. Aiy-waiy.’

Nicky walked her phone into the kitchen and looked out of the window over her treetops. She wondered if she would ever tell her own child to go away.

‘Well, go and put them upstairs,’ continued Claire. ‘I am talking to Aunty Nicky. Upstairs. Now. UP!’

Nicky heard Abigail stomp upstairs. One day she was going to buy herself a cat. Not because she wanted a cat, but just to have something to talk to during phone calls with her sister.

‘So anyway,’ continued Claire. ‘Have you got any plans for December 30th? New Year’s Eve Eve?’

‘Yes, actually,’ said Nicky brightly. ‘I’m going on an expedition to Everest. There’s a few of us going. We’re trying to set up the first Internet and knitting café at the top, with loads of new coffee flavours and varieties. We think it’s the perfect place for a fucaccino.’

There was a pause.

‘I SAID UPSTAIRS!’ shouted Claire. ‘I am having a conversation with Aunty Nicky!’

‘Oh no! I forgot,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m going to a sixteenth-century fancy-dress ball as a high-class courtesan. Or is that the week I’m learning to sail?’

These were both things she had actually done in the past
and this was the nearest she ever got to confessing that she was hurt when Claire forgot to ask how they’d gone.

‘What was that?’ asked Claire. ‘Can’t get a moment to myself in this place.’

‘Um, no,’ she sighed into the phone. ‘No plans for December 30th.’

‘Excellent! Derek and I want to have an adult evening. No kids, smart dress, civilised conversation, posh music in the background and real, proper food. Probably M&S. What do you say?’

Nicky felt a hop of hope inside her. ‘Sounds great.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

So, the night before New Year’s Eve, feeling fondness for her sister and something approaching friendliness for her fellow man, with all her school work finished, Nicky rang her sister’s front doorbell, wearing a posh frock and high heels and clutching a Sauvignon Blanc. And then Claire’s front door was opened by a stranger. A man stranger, who was about ten years older than her.

‘Hi!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must be Nicky.’ He gave her an appreciative once-over, then stepped back to let her in. He offered her his hand. ‘I’m Don. I’ve heard so much about you.’

As he took Nicky’s hand in a weak shake, and wobbled it about a bit, Claire’s voice called a greeting from the kitchen and Derek arrived in the hall. He said, ‘Aha! I see you two have already met,’ and smiled benignly at them, like a godparent at a font. And so began the evening from hell.

First there were pre-dinner nibbles in the living room, during which Claire and Derek popped in and out pouring wine, whilst finishing the cooking and showing off their cosy
coupledom by teasing each other and making gratuitous physical contact that put Nicky’s teeth on edge.

Nicky felt as if she’d stepped into a timeshare sales pitch for marriage. To the soundtrack of Claire and Derek’s advert for wedded bliss, which she found as monotonous and unrealistic as most adverts, Don quizzed Nicky about her job while squeezing in amusing anecdotes to show how much he liked children, pets and his mother. To be honest, there was nothing absolutely detestable about the man, and Nicky wondered if that had been Claire’s criteria when she’d said yes to Derek.

After for ever, Nicky and her future husband were led into the smart dining room, where the table had been laid for the second time that year, all red baubles and matching napkins. Don and Nicky were seated opposite each other while Claire and Derek popped in and out of the room, dishing up, checking on the food, opening another bottle, squeezing each other playfully as they passed in the doorway, and causing a fine layer of acid to line Nicky’s stomach.

As Derek brought in the hors d’oeuvres, Claire plonked two garlic baguettes in the middle of the table, sat down and suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh! I forgot! Nicky! You’ll never guess. Don
loved
that film you liked.’

They all looked at Nicky.

‘Really?’ she said, turning to him. ‘Let’s get married!’

There was a pause before Claire did a fantastic impression of a terrified horse trying to laugh. The men followed.

‘You see? What did I tell you!’ Derek winked to Don. ‘Wicked sense of humour. Absolutely amazing. The kids dote on her. Dote on her.’

Nicky grew concerned that Derek might suddenly stretch
over the table and open her mouth to show Don her healthy gums.

Don confided to her over his mozzarella and tomato, ‘I love Ken Loach. I love his . . .’ he pondered, ‘his beautiful bleakness.’ He let this hang in the air, as if to give her time to appreciate it fully, before asking her, ‘What’s your favourite Loach film?’

Nicky gave him a steely glance. ‘Um . . . was
American Pie
one of hers?’

Don and Derek laughed like machine-gun fire and it was only politeness that stopped Nicky from sticking baguettes in their open mouths and pushing hard. After half an hour, she excused herself and went into the kitchen where Claire was taking out the roast.

She came and stood next to her sister. Her throat caught. Claire looked up and smiled over the roast. Then she saw Nicky’s expression and stopped smiling.

‘What,’ breathed Nicky, ‘are you doing?’

Claire stared at the roast. ‘You think it needs more time?’ she asked, her eyes still down. ‘I don’t want it to go tough.’

Nicky’s neck muscles went twang. She spotted the bottle she’d brought, yanked open the corkscrew drawer and proceeded to open the wine, her hands trembling with rage.

‘Give him a chance,’ Claire whispered to her sister’s back. ‘You never give anyone a chance.’

Nicky swirled round, brandishing the corkscrew at her sister.

‘When did I
ever
say to you “If
only
I could meet a man who loves the beautiful bleakness of Ken Loach, my crappy little life would be worth living”? WHEN?’

‘I –’

‘When?’

Claire wiped Nicky’s spit off her cheek and spoke slowly and pointedly.

‘I was only trying to
help
–’

‘“
HELP
”!’ exploded Nicky. ‘“
HELP
”!’

‘Who needs help?’ Don grinned, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

‘I do,’ squeaked Claire.

Nicky turned to him with a wide grin. ‘I’m
so
sorry, Dan –’

‘Don –’

‘Dom –’

‘Don.’

‘– but I’ve suddenly remembered I left the . . . kettle on,’ and she stormed past him, still holding her bottle, and left the house.

Twelve hours later, now New Year’s Eve, neither sister had phoned the other. Nicky certainly wasn’t going to phone Claire. She was just relieved that she’d finished all her school work already, because after that evening she was in no fit state to do any. She was unable to sleep, due to the increasingly furious imaginary arguments she kept having with her sister. At five that morning, she found herself pacing around her bedroom in her pyjamas shouting to herself.

This year she couldn’t even look forward to the New Year’s Eve work party. Usually she would have a laugh there with Ally and Pete, safe in the knowledge that there would be plenty of good-natured flirting with Rob. But not this year. By the end of Christmas term it had become clear to all that Rob would be arriving at the party, and leaving it, with
Amanda. They were now officially an item. In disgust, Ally had announced at the end of term that she was going to stay up in Leeds with her family for an extra week after Christmas, thus missing the party for the first time ever. As she told Nicky later, she did not want to spend New Year’s Eve being pitied by that spidery witch.

As the party approached, Nicky felt stranger and stranger about going without Ally, as if she was going there naked. She decided to go very late, in the hope that Pete would already be there.

Gwen’s house was a mid-terrace in a pretty, tree-lined street near the school. Most of the houses and trees in the street were adorned with small, white twinkly lights. Gwen’s house had real oak floors in the hall, a real coal fire in the front room and real mince pies throughout. The kitchen was large and square and about thirty years out of date. Nicky spotted the mistletoe over every doorway and made a note not to loiter.

She pushed open the kitchen door and smiled a greeting at everyone. After increasingly feverish glances round the room, she realised that there was not a single person there whom she actively liked. It dawned on her that maybe Pete wasn’t coming.

Apart from Rob, Amanda, Ally and Pete, the Heatheringdown’s staffroom had simply transported itself into Gwen’s kitchen and donned tinsel and big smiles. It was as familiarly surreal as usual. She found herself next to Ned and his wife by the kitchen back door, with whom she began an energetic debate on the art of making the perfect packed lunch.

By 11.30, she realised that she was the only one using irony. By 11.31 this hit her badly. She was young and
healthy and discussing sandwiches with Ned and his wife on New Year’s Eve. Maybe Claire was right. Maybe she did need help.

At 11.55, she decided there was only one thing for it. She would have to exit the kitchen to prevent seeing in the New Year discussing Marmite. No amount of alcohol could make that a good thing. But by now, the kitchen was so packed that she realised she’d left it too late. Panic seized her. There was only one option left. She made a noise about being hot, flung open the back door and rushed into the night air, shutting the door firmly behind her. It was pitch black but surprisingly mild. The pencil-shaped London garden seemed to be completely empty. She stepped carefully down it until she hoped she was no longer visible from the kitchen and there she took a long, deep sigh. Then when she felt she was safe, she started laughing.

‘Hello!’ cried a familiar voice from what looked like a tall, skinny tree.

Nicky nearly jumped out of her skin.

‘We’re over here!’ said Rob, stepping out from behind what turned out to be Amanda.

‘Oh! Don’t let me interrupt you,’ Nicky begged, backing away.

‘Don’t be silly!’ said Rob, following her up the garden. ‘It’s lovely to see you! You haven’t interrupted anything.’

Nicky wanted to scream. Why were couples so patronising? Just because there were two of them and one of her, it was assumed that the pleasure was all hers and the kindness all theirs, when the truth was that they had interrupted the sanctity of her solitude.

Rob and Amanda had now approached, and from the
kitchen light Nicky could make out the delightful sight of Amanda rearranging her smudged make-up and pulling her bra-strap up her bony shoulder.

‘Where’s Pete?’ asked Nicky, getting straight to the point.

‘He’s not coming.’

‘Why not?’ She was outraged.

Rob shrugged. ‘Said he didn’t fancy it this year. So how long have you been here?’ he asked.

‘In the garden? About two seconds,’ replied Nicky.

Rob laughed maniacally.

‘Not “here” in the garden, silly,’ clarified Amanda, standing in front of Rob so her head nestled into his shoulder. ‘Here at the party.’

‘Oh! Right!’ said Nicky. ‘Um,’ she lowered her voice. ‘About fifty years. I’ve been talking to Ned.’

Rob snorted very loudly and then snorted again. He tried to stop but this made him snort again. Nicky guessed he was drunk.

‘So who else is here?’ asked Amanda.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Nicky curtly. ‘I was comatosed in seconds.’

She hated Amanda. It was because of her that Ally wasn’t here.

‘Is that gorgeous new bursar –’ began Amanda, when a muted cheer interrupted her from inside. Nicky turned back to the kitchen and watched everyone hug each other.

‘Well!’ she turned back and forced her face into a fierce grin. This was her worst New Year ever, and that included the one where she went to a Chas & Dave tribute band with Claire and Derek. ‘Happy New Year, guys!’ she cried.

‘Yeeeaaah!’ cried Rob, stepping forward and almost
falling into a long, hard hug with her. Nicky wasn’t sure what amazed her most, him hugging her, or Amanda literally yanking him back to her side. ‘Happy New Year, Nicky!’ he said. Then he stepped forward and began again. ‘Happy New Year!’