Page 23 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
‘No, but there seems to be a pocket on it specifically for your phone.’
‘Or remote control. Tea?’
‘Stupid question.’ Meg shakes out her matted hat hair and stands up to hug me again.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
‘Is it really obvious?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘The sisters, we all had a chat, and after you told us about that memorial thing for Tom, we thought one of us should come down for a while. I was the only one with a gap in my schedule. And I thought it’d be nice. You and I don’t spend nearly enough time together.’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘So it’s a conspiracy?’
‘In part. I’ve also been told to meet this Sam you’re shagging and check you’re looking after yourself. But I also need to prepare you…’
‘Prepare me? For what?’
‘Mum got her invite and she’s gone next level. She and Dad have rented a house for the week of the memorial. Some giant gaff and we’re all going to be staying there, together. Like a big family cult meeting.’
Meg looks thrilled at the prospect but I understand why I needed to be warned. Those logistics will either be amazing or a disaster and I’m hedging my bets on the latter. Meg helps herself to the two biscuits on the plate on the kitchen counter and opens the cabinets searching for more. She stands back from the cupboard with an expression that I can’t quite read as either confusion or admiration.
‘G, why are your cupboards labelled?’
‘For organisation. I got myself a DYMO label maker for Christmas.’
She doesn’t look as excited as I do by that reveal.
‘So if I did this…’ She puts a hand inside the cupboard and moves three tins of chopped tomatoes on the right of the shelf to the left markedBaking,‘…would the world implode?’
‘Yes, and kids would starve. Do not knock the system.’
She fakes a smile. ‘It’s why we love you, babe. You better have more than two biscuits, though. Why so many vitamins?’
‘It’s recommended. I read an article. Yours don’t take vitamins?’
‘They eat fruit; I assume they’re all in there.’ She looks at the jars curiously.
‘How long are you staying?’ I enquire, wondering exactly how many more packets of biscuits I need to get in.
‘You have me for two weeks then I’ll come back for the big day,’ she replies, putting her hand in mine. ‘Let me just help. Whether it’s with the girls or with this memorial. Don’t take it all on yourself.’
The sisters worry about me like this. They worry the grief has the capacity to crush me and it’s their job to stop that, to distract me, to offer assistance by eating all my biscuits. Meg scans my kitchen and the list on my counter, laughing at the detail in my organisation. I do this everywhere. Lists are the way I sort stuff in my head, how I make sense of madness.
‘What are the desserts options for the memorial?’ she asks.
‘Brownies, fruit tarts or profiteroles.’
‘Profiteroles, every day of the week – see how useful I am?’ she says, laughing. She pulls up a chair and puts her feet up on another. ‘And who is Carrie Cantello?’
‘Bitch mum from school, head of the PTA.’
‘You joined the PTA?’ she asks.
‘Emma told me it would be a good way to make friends.’
‘Never listen to Emma. Her girls are in a private school where everyone wears padded gilets and eats pheasant. Their PTA raffles off cars. Mine raffles off dusty bottles of cherry brandy. I won a bottle once that was half-drunk.’
