Chapter 1 #2
She’d met Rory during freshers’ week as soon as we’d arrived at uni and he’d followed her around like a lost puppy from the outset. But, unlike all the others, she’d permitted him to stay on the scene. And he had, despite Elle messing him around endlessly for three years.
They’d finally made things official shortly before graduation and had been together ever since, though it took Rory an age to convince Elle to move in with him, and even longer to have a kid.
But she was always at her most relaxed in his company.
And he was blatantly still so smitten with her.
It was easy to see why: even without her perfectly proportioned figure, flawless porcelain skin, poker-straight glossy brown hair and almost obscenely large almond-shaped hazel eyes, her magnetic personality alone was enough to get her noticed.
Success was always going to come easily to Elle – professionally and romantically.
Unlike me. What I lacked in charisma I tried to make up for with my self-deprecating humour and unshakeable reliability.
And while I had no real qualms with my pale, mousy but pleasant-enough appearance, I wasn’t in possession of that carefree girl-next-door vibe that would attract attention from anyone who didn’t already know me.
I was very much the ‘kooky yet weirdly organised best friend’ to Elle’s chaotic yet magnetic ‘main character’.
No wonder I found meeting decent men so bloody labour-intensive.
‘More than anyone you deserve some luck on the relationship front. Look, we need to get to the bottom of this. And we will. But I don’t have any answers for you right now. What are you up to Friday night?’ Elle asked.
‘Friday? I thought Tuesdays were your only child-free night?’
‘They are, but Rory’s going to be out until God knows when on Friday for his work Christmas do and it’ll just be me and Frannie.
So why don’t you come to mine for the night?
You can give me a hand getting her to bed and then we can have a cosy night in with a film and a takeaway and try and figure out your next move. ’
‘I swear we had this exact conversation when we were like fifteen – minus the toddler element.’
‘Yeah, except this time we won’t be drinking my mum’s sherry while miming to “Lady Marmalade” in my bedroom mirror.
We can upgrade to a nice bottle of pinot grigio I’ve been saving, watch whatever you fancy on Netflix and hope Frannie doesn’t wake up and insist we watch Olaf’s Frozen Adventure for the sixty-eighth time this year. ’
I shivered at the prospect of watching anything from the Frozen canon. I used to love watching Disney films, but these days they triggered way too many difficult memories. And I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to watch one that centred around the unbreakable bond between two very different sisters.
‘Yeah, go on then.’
‘And maybe we can also have a teeny-weeny chat about that article you keep promising to write for me and never do?’
These ‘teeny-weeny’ chats about writing an article for our employer, The Helix – one of the UK’s leading lifestyle, entertainment and features websites – were a regular fixture of our conversations. Elle was always on the lookout for ways to commission cheap – or, let’s be honest, free – content.
‘Here’s me thinking we’d made it through a night without you bringing that up,’ I said.
‘I still can’t think of anything remotely interesting to write about.
The people you commission for The Helix all have so much to say, whereas I’ve got nothing.
Unless you want me to write about chocolate-based breakfast cereals, in which case I can have an article with you by nine a.m. tomorrow. ’
‘Let’s pop a pin in that particular idea, eh, Mally?’ Elle placed her wine glass down and grabbed my hands firmly. ‘Seriously, though. You know I’m the features editor, right? And I could simply commission you to write something with no questions asked?’
She squeezed my hands tightly as if to emphasise her clout.
‘I know, but I don’t even work in editorial. It’d be awkward – everyone would assume I’d been commissioned because we’re friends. I swear most people still think that’s how I got my job anyway.’
She sighed and released her grip, sliding her glass towards her. I did the same.
‘We commission non-editorial employees all the time, you know that! I swear I’ve been approached by 95 per cent of people who work for the company. Only yesterday, Colin from the canteen asked if he could write a piece about his top ten favourite hand dryers.’
‘I’d read that.’
‘Yeah, I know you’d read that, but I reckon the topic’s a tad niche, even for The Helix .
Plus, the draft he insisted on sending me read like an actual hand dryer catalogue, not a wry feature.
Whereas the intranet piece you wrote today about next week’s health and safety training genuinely made me cackle. ’
‘Huh. I think the pun in the headline is probably my career highlight.’
Elle sighed. ‘You’re doing that thing again.’
‘What thing?’ I don’t know why I bothered to play dumb with Elle; she knew me better than anyone.
‘You’re selling yourself short. How many times do I need to say this, Mally Allister?
You’re an amazing writer, but your talent’s going to waste.
You need to free your voice! Who knows, if you play your cards right, you could be moved up to editorial!
Whatever it is that’s holding you back needs to do one. ’
Was I being held back, though? Or was I simply content with a quieter life than hers?
Even when we were teenagers, Elle had always been chomping at the bit to move to London and grow into the person she was born to be.
She’d had her life and career mapped out from the start, whereas mine seemed to be playing out like a fading vapour trail behind her flaming booster jets.
And I didn’t mind it that way – I’d rather evaporate than burn.
‘Yeah, I know. But my heart doesn’t lie in journalism; it never has.
Actually’ – I took a larger-than-average swig of wine for courage – ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, and what I’d really like to do next year is start focusing on the ideas I’ve got for my children’s books.
If I start writing clickbaity features, I worry that I’m going to end up distracted and pigeonholed, so… ’
‘Stop. Listen to me. In the kindest possible way, you’re some way off from having kids. I mean, think about it: do you honestly believe you’ll be able to write anything that will resonate with that audience and that market?’
My stomach flipped at Elle’s words, my throat swelling.
Despite always knowing what I needed to hear to boost my confidence, she also had a knack for slapping it back down again.
But she was right, of course. Meeting someone who I might be able to start a family with one day was definitely on my ultimate to-do list, but if I wanted to even have a shot at having kids this side of forty, I’d have to meet someone immediately.
Like, this month. And she was probably right about my pathetic book ideas, too.
I tried to maintain my composure but my glossy eyes must have given me away.
‘Urgh, don’t look at me like that,’ Elle said. ‘I feel crap enough as it is. It’s been a shitty week at work – you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s going down in editorial at the moment.’
‘It’s fine. I just thought… you know, with Billy, maybe I’d finally met someone who I could…’ The rest of the words got lodged in my neck. I downed the remainder of my wine in an attempt to wash them away.
‘Like I said: what an absolute fucker.’
‘Yeah.’
I looked at my phone and did a double-take at the time.
‘Shit, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train.’
I wiped my eyes quickly and grabbed my stuff. I had eight minutes to sprint from Leicester Square to platform three or five – I could never remember at this time of night – at Charing Cross station. It was just about doable based on previous drunken dashes but it was going to be tight.
‘Okay, go, go, go. I’ll sort the bill and you can pay me back. I’ve got a busy couple of days coming up so I might not see you around the office. But come by my desk on Friday just before five and we’ll head to mine from there, yeah?’
‘Will do. And, Elle?’
‘Mmm?’
‘That elf and safety training is mandatory , okay?’
I missed the train by about four seconds. It was a freezing thirty-minute wait on the concourse for the next one to Hither Green. And, as much as I respected his enthusiasm, I wasn’t sure I could hack the resident saxophone busker playing the same four bars from ‘Last Christmas’ on an endless loop.
Shivering on the platform bench, I put my earmuffs on and decided to re-read the email I’d sent to Livvie last night. After all, re-reading our historical correspondence was one of my life’s biggest comforts these days. I logged into my ancient inbox, which I only ever used for Livvie.
The sight that greeted me caused every millilitre of blood in my body to plummet to my feet. Because, for the first time in twenty years, there was a reply. I had to hold back the urge to plunge my thumb through the screen to read it as quickly as possible, forcing out a restrained tap instead.
An unfamiliar noise escaped from my voice box as it all became clear:
Address not found
Your message wasn’t delivered to [email protected] because
the address couldn’t be found or is unable to receive email.
I was shocked by the intensity of my reaction to the automatically generated reply. I knew, after all these years, it was inevitable this would happen at some point. But part of me had never really let myself believe it.
By the time I’d pulled myself together I almost missed the next train, too.
Settled into my usual spot in my usual carriage, I re-read the bounce-back message.
It was so brutal. So final. And I knew I never wanted to get one of those blunt emails ever again.
But that meant one thing: I would have to stop emailing Livvie.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Because I always liked to imagine that, in some alternative universe, she’d replied to every single one of my messages over the last two decades in her usual no-nonsense manner.
In the case of Billy, she’d have said something along the lines of ‘just call him, FFS!’.
Instead, I’d spent two decades having to imagine her advice.
She’d always been that rare kind of person who’d never cared what anyone had thought of her.
She’d always been unashamedly herself – and had made me feel I could be unashamedly myself , in a way that no one else had since.
My little sister had been my confidante, my best friend, my favourite human – by quite some margin.
But then we lost her when she was just fifteen.
And losing her was the catalyst that, eventually, caused the rest of my family to lose each other, too.