Page 31 of The Notecard
‘Nothing, just a bit tired and ready for lunch. How about a cup of tea?’ I say, deflecting because I think I’m going to tell her we can’t keep seeing each other. I just don’t know how to say the actual words. I feel awful because I said I wouldn’t mess her around, but it just isn’t working. I don’t feel anything towards her other than occasional annoyance and bewilderment.
‘I don’t want tea, Nicky. We’re not fucking fifty. It’s the weekend, we’re young and in London, we should be doing something fabulous,’ says Molly, suddenly on all fours. She crawls across the bed until she’s sitting astride me. I look up at her and she’s so pretty and I wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I be happy with Molly? She gives me everything I need, and so what if she isn’t Meg. I can’t have Meg. Meg is heartbroken and not looking for a boyfriend. She’s going away for six months. Why can’t I live in the moment with Molly? Enjoy this for what it is?
‘What do you have in mind?’ I say.
‘I don’t know yet, Nicky, but it’s going to start right here, right now,’ she says with a salacious grin. ‘Do you know Eskimos have fifty words for snow? Total head fuck, am I right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Right, let’s do this,’ she says, unclipping her bra again. She lets her breasts fall loose and I won’t say no again. I can’t. She’s sitting on top of me, half-naked, and it’s a Saturday afternoon. I’m not working tonight, and maybe Molly is right. We’re young and in London. We should be doing something fabulous. She lets herself fall into me, her lips meeting mine, her hands running through my hair, and before long I’m lost in her and all thoughts about us not being right for each other are gone.
Meg
‘What is she doing here?’ says Laura.
Laura and I are locked in my bathroom together. I love our bathroom. It has a good-sized bathtub with a decent shower attachment. We bought a cool little cabinet from Habitat and we have two plants that seem to be flourishing (George and Mrs Rushden). The rug is super soft when you step out of the bath, and we have a framed map of London on the wall I found online. The one thing it isn’t is big. Laura and I are about a foot away from each other. We haven’t spoken since Fucking Arsehole Gate.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t invite her.’
‘This is typical of you, Meg. All you had to do was throw Dad a party. I knew I should have done it myself.’
‘It’s not my fault she turned up. Did you tell her about this?’
I wouldn’t put it past Laura to have told Mum. Sabotage.
‘Of course not,’ says Laura bluntly. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you going to get rid of her?’ says Laura, and I think she’s serious.
‘You want me to ask Mum to leave?’
‘If she stays, Dad's birthday will be ruined. You know what happened the last time they were together.’
Cardigan twat. Mangy old dog.
The problem now is that because Laura wants Mum to go, I want her to stay. It’s so hard with Laura because she’s younger than me. I’m the older sister. I’m supposed to be the one in control. The one with my life sorted out. The one able to throw dinner parties at the drop of a hat. But I’m not. For some reason, Laura got the gene that makes her able to think ahead when she’s shopping and buy extra bottles of wine (that she won’t drink), napkins for the table (that she won’t use), and little serving bowls and platters (that she won’t break). We have one serving platter, and barely enough cutlery. Keri dropped a mug last week, so now we’re down to three. We have five glasses. We can’t host a party of more than eight people, and three of those will be drinking wine from mugs. Laura might be younger than me, but she’s a proper grown up. And the worst thing is that she knows it. I don’t know if the number of dishes and mugs you have signifies the various degrees of adulthood, but I fear it might.
‘I can’t just ask Mum to leave,’ I say.
‘Then I will. She always does what I say.’
‘Laura, just for once can you stop trying to control every fucking thing…’
‘Oh, here we go.’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to call me a fucking arsehole again?’
‘I said sorry about that.’
‘You texted me, Megs.’
‘A text is still an apology.’
‘A text is not an apology.’
