“When I first told my mum I’d started having sex, she drew me diagrams so I could show my boyfriend where to find my G-spot,” said Star. “That’s openness.”
“Okay, yep, that’s waaay too open,” said Simone, screwing her face up. “I’ll stick with Rene.”
“Oh my god, that’s hideous.” Maggie cackled. “I never discussed sex with my mum.”
“Nor me with mine,” said Simone. “When I told my mum I was gay, she told me not to make a song and dance about it.”
Star spluttered a laugh. “What does that even mean?”
Simone shrugged. “Who the hell knows! I won’t be like that with my children, child . . . if I have any.”
“Maybe the sale of some of this crap will be enough for another round of IVF?” Maggie suggested.
“I’m not sure it would make any difference at this point.” Simone twiddled her wedding ring. “I’ve spent so long focusing on becoming a mother that I stopped being a good wife.”
“Evette knows how hard this must be for you,” said Star. “She’s lovely. Far too nice for you.” She poked out her tongue, and Simone smiled.
“Even Evette has her limits. Trust me, I have pushed all the way to hers and back again.”
“That’s why you’ve booked the cottage,” said Maggie.
“Yeah. Evette thought some time apart would do us good. And if it doesn’t, I guess I’ll be moving in with you, Maggie.”
Maggie laughed, but Star caught something behind it that she was too drunk to place.
“Or you could move in here with me.” She grinned. “Roomies ride again.”
“Absolutely not,” Simone deadpanned.
There was a lull in the conversation as each sister disappeared into her own thoughts. The shop had its own set of noises: creaking pipes, the tick of the newly wound cuckoo clock, a dripping tap in the kitchenette, and the gentle hiss of the heater. It was all so familiar; this whole shop was a time capsule in which they were comfortably cocooned from the outside world.
“I’ve missed you two,” Star said quietly. “I do miss you.”
“I haven’t been anywhere but here,” said Maggie, a little defensively.
“But we’ve been distant, all of us have, emotionally I mean, as well as physically.”
“That’s true,” Maggie agreed.
“I’m afraid the company you keep has a lot to do with that, Star.” Simone raised her hands. “I’m not trying to start a fight, I’m simply stating a fact.”
That stung, but she let it pass. “I hear you, but I don’t accept that it’s the only reason.” Star kept her voice even. “We’ve been distant for years. I think it’s partly because we were only ever summer sisters, and outside of here our lives were poles apart. But we’re adults now, and I don’t believe that our different upbringings should make us irreconcilable. I’d like us to be, I don’t know, full-time sisters. You’re the only family I’ve got, apart from Perdita and, well, she’s . . . flaky at best.”
“I haven’t got any family other than you two and the kids,” agreed Maggie.
“You’re right. We shouldn’t take each other for granted,” Simone began, and for a moment Star wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “I adore Patrick and Verity and I’ve missed so much of their childhoods; I regret that. I haven’t been a very good aunty. I’d like to think that if I do ever become a mother, my children will at least know their aunties.”
“It is what it is.” Maggie shrugged. “Anyway, you always send birthday cards. Unlike Aunty Star . . .”
“I’m not good with dates,” Star protested. “But I always remember Christmas!”
“You’re not good at adulting—full stop.” Simone sneered.
“Ah, but you included me in the ‘aunties’ for your kids, so you must think I bring something to the party.”
“Of course,” she replied with her usual abruptness. “I’ll need to use you as an example of what not to become.”
Star felt the gibe like a gut punch and her breath caught.
“I’m kidding! Don’t give me those Bambi eyes. You’re family, of course I’ll want my children to know you. Even if I don’t always like you very much, I do still—well, obviously—of course I love you, stupid girl.”
Star was so relieved she burst into tears.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “You know, Simone, you really need to work on your interpersonal skills,” she chided. “You’re the only person I know who can make ‘I love you’ sound like ‘fuck you.’？”
Star wiped her eyes and heaved herself up out of the chair. “For the record,” she said, sniffing, “I love you too.” She wandered unsteadily to the sideboard and disappeared down behind it, then reappeared holding aloft an unopened bottle of honey-infused Scotch whisky like it was the Olympic torch. “I found this earlier.” She grinned lopsidedly and waggled her eyebrows. “I don’t think Dad would mind.”
Her sisters clapped and whooped in response.
14
The shock of her alarm going off at seven thirty had caused Simone to reach over the side of the bed and throw up into a floral chamber pot, which she vaguely recalled bringing home from the shop last night . . . or rather, this morning. Why had she thought drinking whisky after all that wine was a good idea? What day is it? she wondered, trying to count back to when she’d arrived. This place is like the Bermuda Triangle. She retched again. Time has no meaning. She breathed slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth. Wednesday, she concluded. The act of thinking had exhausted her.
She rolled back onto the bed and covered her face with her arm. It felt as though an invisible entity was using a tin opener to prize open her skull. She was dehydrated. She imagined herself like one of those sea sponges stranded on the beach when the tide’s gone out, brittle and parched as the sun beats down on it. The duvet was stifling her, so she kicked it off and then regretted the movement as waves of sickness rolled over her. Evette always made her drink a pint of water before bed after a night out. But Evette wasn’t here.
The thought of her wife stirred a hazy memory to the surface, and she pulled her phone out from beneath the pillow, where she had stuffed it after turning off the alarm. A notification citing seven missed calls in the early hours and a message from Evette flashed across the top of the screen and Simone grimaced.
Sorry I missed your calls at half one and two o’clock this morning. I was, as most normal people would be, asleep. Your two fifteen call, however, did wake me.
“Oh, bollocks,” she sighed. Evette was a wonderful woman but a horror if she didn’t get enough sleep.
I called you several times, worried that something had happened to you, and when you didn’t answer, I called Maggie. She didn’t answer either. Eventually I tried Star, who did pick up, and she told me you were drunk. So, thanks for that. I hope you drank some water before you passed out. I’ve got clients booked in all day, so I’ll call you later. x
The single kiss at the end of the message did not go unnoticed. Cheers for that, Star, you snitch! she thought, but what else could Star have said, really?