Chapter 18
I got up off the sofa, immediately followed by Astro, loudly complaining that it was way past his dinner time. Not really focussing on what I was doing, I tipped food into one bowl and replaced the water in another and sorted out his litter box, then made myself a slice of cheese on toast and returned to my phone.
There was no point messaging Amelie again tonight. What with Nush, Bryony and Eve and no doubt loads of her other friends all trying to get in touch and Mum on red alert, she must have felt positively besieged. If she wanted to confide in me properly, she’d confide. And if she didn’t, more drastic action might have to be taken.
I tucked my feet up on the sofa and stared at my phone until the screen went blank. Drastic action. I wasn’t sure what that would mean if Amelie needed me, but I knew exactly what it had meant when I’d needed her.
When things with Kieren ended, I didn’t tell my sister. I didn’t tell anyone – not that there was really anyone to tell. My colleagues at work hadn’t known anything was going on – not officially, anyway. Mum and Dad certainly hadn’t known – I’d fondly imagined introducing him to them some day, and Mum looking all relieved and proud and saying, ‘We knew you’d find someone lovely in the end,’ and Dad shaking Kieren’s hand and saying, ‘You’re caught yourself a catch there, young man.’
But it had never happened and, in hindsight, I suppose I’d known it never would.
At the time, though, I hadn’t had the luxury of hindsight. All I’d had was the sound of blood roaring in my ears, the burning of unshed tears in my eyes and, most of all, a horrible sick feeling in my stomach that wouldn’t go away however many times I puked.
And I puked a lot. As soon as I got home, closing and double-locking the door behind me like an animal going to earth in its burrow, I ran to the bathroom and was sick. When eventually I felt able to drink some water, that came straight up too. And so it went on for the next day and a half, until I gave up and stopped trying to eat altogether.
I called in sick from work, telling them I had norovirus, which for all I knew could have been true. I couldn’t sleep. The days were an endless cycle of staring at my hands (which wouldn’t seem to stop shaking), being sick, and crying. Oh my God, the crying. I never knew it was possible to cry so much.
I was determined not to call Kieren, or allow myself to hope that he’d call me, so I buried my phone in my sock drawer and left it there on silent, and eventually the battery must have run down. I didn’t shower for three days. I tried going outside for a walk, but I couldn’t stop crying and when I almost got run over by a bus I decided it was better if I stayed indoors. I felt like there was no point in living, but I didn’t want to die enough for my demise to be the responsibility of some poor bus driver.
Eventually, on the third day, Amelie turned up. I didn’t know it was her; if fact, I would have guessed it was almost anyone else but her, because the hammering on my door was more like a visit from the vice squad than a social call from my sister. So I didn’t answer.
But the knocking went on, harder and louder, and after a bit it was replaced by the rattle of the letterbox and Amelie’s saying, ‘For God’s sake, Luce, open the bloody door. I know you’re there.’
I knew she wouldn’t go away, and deep down I didn’t want her to think anything serious had happened to me, so I dragged myself off the bed where I’d been lying, staring at my hands again, tightened the cord of my old towelling dressing gown, and shuffled to the door, my whole body stiff and sore because I hadn’t properly moved for so long.
The smell of her perfume met me as soon as I opened the door. It reminded me that, in contrast, I must smell absolutely horrible – I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a shower, never mind put my manky bathrobe in the washing machine.
But Amelie didn’t even flinch at the sight – or smell – of me. She folded her arms round me and pulled me close, and the feeling of her cashmere jumper and her fragrant hair tickling my face predictably set me off again, and I burst into a storm of weeping.
‘Come on.’ Her arm squeezed round my shoulders, Amelie guided me into the flat and over to the sofa. I heard the tap of her heels on the floor as she bustled off to the bathroom, returning with a loo roll which she thrust at me to blow my nose, and then the click of the kettle switch and the roar of the heating water.
By the time I’d finished crying, there was a steaming cup of tea in front of me, so strong it was practically terra cotta coloured.
‘I made one with milk first,’ she said. ‘But your milk’s off, so you’ll have to have it black. There’s a ton of sugar in it.’
I took a sip, feeling my mouth pucker from the tannin. The smell of it reminded me of Kieren, whose tea was always stewed like that. Even now, I drew some comfort from it, as if it was bringing me closer to him again – as close as I was ever going to get.
‘Now,’ Amelie said, when I’d worked my way cautiously through about half the mug, ‘are you going to tell me what happened?’
I looked down at my hands again, but I could feel my sister’s penetrating, patient hazel gaze on my face and before long, without really wanting to, I found myself looking up at her.
‘I’m so stupid,’ I whispered.
‘No you’re not. You’re the one with the brains, remember? You’re a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Now come on, spill.’
Reluctantly, helped by another cup of tea and most of the rest of the loo roll, I told her.
‘And you’ve been holed up here ever since on your own?’
I nodded.
‘And you haven’t eaten?’
‘I had some biscuits, but I puked them up.’
‘Right. There’s no way you’re going to start feeling better if you’re half starved. Let’s get some calories in you.’
Amelie bounded up of the sofa and whisked through to the kitchen. Normally, I’d have followed her, making sure she knew where the plates were kept and telling her not to open the Tupperware with the cheese in, because it had been festering in there for ages and God only knew what state it was in. But today I simply didn’t have the energy. I just sat there and listened to her clattering around, and waited.
‘Eggs,’ she said a few minutes later, appearing with a heaped plate. ‘One thing I can cook, right? So long as you use enough butter, not even I can fuck up scrambled eggs. There’s no toast though – your bread’s Alexander Fleming’s wet dream. It’s in the bin now.’
I took the plate, fork and square of paper towel from her, and cautiously scooped up some eggs. They were rich and peppery and delicious, and my appetite came flooding back as I inhaled the lot in record time.
‘I take it you haven’t been to work?’ Amelie asked.
‘Not for four days. I called in sick. I guess I’ll need to see the GP if I stay off beyond this week. I can’t go back, obviously.’
‘Well, you could if you wanted to. Chin up, tits out, style it out.’
I put the plate down on the coffee table and shook my head. ‘Nope. Not happening.’
‘Okay. So on Monday you see the doctor and get signed off with stress. It’ll give you a bit of breathing space while you decide what to do next.’
‘I’ll have to find another job. I won’t be able to pay the rent otherwise.’
‘Yeah, you will, but there won’t be any rush, right? Give it a couple of weeks. You’re in to fit state to go to interviews right now. Speaking of which…’
She fixed me again with that steady, luminous gaze. Her eyelashes were curled and mascaraed and she had some sort of highlighter thing on her skin that made it glow like a pearl. The last time I’d looked in the mirror, I’d seen flaky bits all round my nose and mouth, a massive spot erupting on my chin, and bits of four-days-ago’s make-up crusted in the hollows under my eyes.
‘Shower,’ Amelie ordered. ‘Now. And use that L’Occitane stuff I gave you for your birthday. You were saving it for best, weren’t you?’
‘Of course I was,’ I muttered.
‘Well, don’t. It’s there to be used when you need it, and you need it right now. Up you get.’
I realised that she was channeling our mum, who’d always been a big believer in tough love.
I got to my feet, swayed a bit with light-headedness, and walked carefully to the bathroom, pulling my dressing gown off and letting it fall to the floor behind me. Then I closed the door and switched the shower on to boiling hot.
When I emerged twenty minutes later, wrapped in a clean-ish towel with another round my hair, I found that Amelie had stripped the sheets off my bed and replaced them with fresh ones, opened the window to fill the flat with chilly early spring air, and switched on the washing machine. I didn’t feel much better, to be perfectly honest, but the fragrance coming off my skin, the crisp, clean duvet cover and the cold breeze made me realise that feeling better was an option. Eventually, when I was ready.
My sister stayed late that evening, and we drank wine and ordered a curry and she listened to me talk and I cried some more. She left around midnight, literally tucking me into bed and ordering me to make sure my phone was charged and to call her if I needed her, however late it was.
Just before she turned off the light and let herself out, she said, ‘Remember, Luce, the thing about men is they’re dicks. Hold that thought and nothing they ever do will surprise you. It might hurt you, but it won’t surprise you.’
I woke up the next morning feeling quite a bit better, and sorted out a load of the necessary practical stuff I needed to do, getting a sick note and starting to polish up my CV. The following day, I felt even better and managed to go out for a walk without any bus-related mishaps. I went to Amelie’s birthday drinks, alone, and although I didn’t stay late I managed to laugh and even dance a bit.
And the following Friday, Amelie turned up at my flat again. This time, she had something with her: a nylon shoulder bag, only its sides were made of mesh instead of solid fabric. I could hear rustling sounds coming from inside it.
‘Close your eyes, Luce, and sit down,’ she commanded, and I did.
I heard my sister whispering, and the snap of a plastic catch, and a moment later felt sharp pinpricks on thighs and warm softness against my hands. My eyes snapped open.
In my lap was a kitten. He was smokey-grey with amber eyes, spiky whiskers and a tiny, upright tail. He was precious and purring and perfect and I fell instantly in love.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘Look at his little face. Where did you…’
‘Battersea cats’ home,’ Amelie said proudly. ‘They’re awash with kittens at the moment but he was easily the cutest. They called him Astro, but you can change it if you like.’
‘I think he looks like an Astro. He’s the best thing ever. I adore him. Thank you.’
‘There’s food and toys and stuff for him outside,’ she said. ‘I had to get a taxi here and the driver was none too pleased, until I tipped the hell out of him.’
All I could say, again, was, ‘Oh my God. Thank you so much.’
‘Now remember,’ Amelie lectured, once she’d stashed Astro’s food in my kitchen, put his litter tray in my bathroom and filled a cereal bowl with water for him, ‘this cat needs you. And you won’t be able to look after him if you don’t look after yourself. No no more of this going into a decline nonsense, you hear?’
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
And, of course, I didn’t. My broken heart and smashed self-esteem recovered in due course, and every time I needed to cry over Kieren and torture myself with the memory of what had happened, Astro would come and perch on my lap and purr and make me feel better. Whenever I needed to rake over it all, Amelie would listen and reassure me that none of it had been my fault.
Nothing about her kindness surprised me. She was my sister, doing what sisters did. But I knew that, if she ever needed me like I’d needed her then, I’d do whatever it took to fix what was wrong – because that was what sisters did.
And now, she did need me – but I had no idea what to do to help her. I couldn’t bring her a kitten, not to an apartment in Manhattan where she was only going to live for six months. There must be something else I could do.
Unconsciously reaching out my hand and caressing Astro’s hard, furry head, I felt my heart reaching out to Amelie, all those miles away. I tried to reach out to her with my mind, too, although of course I didn’t believe in telepathy, not even between sisters.
‘As soon as I’ve worked out what you need me to do,’ I silently promised her, ‘I’ll do it. I’ve got you.’