Page 31 of A Touch of Magic at the Comfort Food Café
Even though I’ve been with her for hours, helping as best I can, lugging tables around and putting up giant poster photo montages of the girls, she still announced: ‘Why do I always have to do absolutely bloody everything on my own, all the time? Why?’
I was clearly the invisible woman, taken for granted as usual. I let it slide, because she was almost crying as she spoke. That weird woman combination of anger and sadness that makes us look weak, when we’re actually furious.
I felt sorry for her, and I was worried. Could it just be the stress, or some kind of delightful menopause mood swing thing? Or is there something bigger lurking beneath the surface? Sally has always been good at pretending everything is fine, even to herself. She’s the kind of woman who would hit the dance floorduring the end of the world, and bust out a quick Macarena as civilisation crumbled around her.
‘Are you all right?’ I said at the end of the day, as we had a quick drink before getting ready. ‘You seem a bit… stretched?’
She glared at me, narrowed her eyes, and said: ‘Yes. Well. Let’s just hope I continue to stretch, eh? Let’s just hope I don’t run out of stretch and completely snap! Who is it you’re bringing tonight anyway? Is it some old biddy you met at the W.I.? Or a chubby farmer type in wellies who smells of cow shit?’
‘You think they’re the only kinds of people I could meet in the countryside?’
She stood up, grabbed her bag, ready to leave. ‘I’m amazed you’ve met anybody at all, Sarah. I assumed you’d just batten down the hatches never to be seen again! You’ve never been the best at engaging with the real world, have you?’
I stared at her and bit my tongue. She was lashing out at me because she’s upset. Or possibly, because it’s just the way things go between us. I finished my drink and replied: ‘No, I really haven’t. I’ll see you later, with or without Worzel Gummidge.’
She nodded, barely registering my sarcasm, and left. Our mum and dad were already back at her house, so I was glad to stay here. I spent a pleasant hour or so replying to emails and watching videos of Golden Retrievers on my phone, enjoying my own company. A day spent with my sister is always enough to remind me why I live alone.
I’ve brought my dress and make-up with me, and there’s a very swish ladies’ powder room where I’m currently glamming myself up ahead of the big event. I went to the salon earlier and had my hair done with what I was reliably informed was ‘pin curls’. The lady told me that once I was set, I could take out the pins and I’d be party-prepped and ready to dazzle. It seems too much to hope for after an afternoon of moving furniture, but the pins are in fact all still in.
My dress is new, a simple fitted sheath that goes just below the knee, made from a silky fabric in a deep shade of forest green. I run my hands over it as I stand in front of the mirror, feeling suddenly uncertain. It’s more fitted than I’m used to, hugging my body in a way that makes me feel a little exposed. It’s strapless but the top feels pretty secure. I make sure to test it out, though, by jumping up and down, jogging on the spot and doing some very vigorous dancing while singing Footloose out loud. That results in no slippage, no hint of a potential wardrobe malfunction, and only a minor case of being out-of-puff.
Is it too much, I think, gazing at my reflection? Is it too young for me? Is it too dark on my pale skin? Why am I even thinking about this so much?
I don’t often get dolled up. My job sounds glamorous, but the reality is that I spend a lot of time alone in my pyjamas. Yes, there are events and parties and public appearances, but I’ve cut those back to the bare minimum and developed a kind of work uniform for them. Smart black trousers and matching jacket, plain shoes, minimal fuss. I probably look like an FBI agent from a movie, now I come to think about it. That fits with my writing and it’s relatively little trouble, but it’s not exactly alluring.
Tonight, I realise as I stare at this stranger in the glass, I’m aiming for alluring. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, and I immediately blush. I’ve applied my make-up with a lot more care than usual, I’m wearing a fancy new frock and slinky black heels. I tug out the little pins that have been strategically placed in my hair, and as promised it rolls down my shoulders in a whoosh of waves. I fluff it up with my hands, and stand back to survey the finished result.
I look completely different. I look like a fashionable, attractive, confident woman. If only, I think as I apply some lipstick, I could actually feel like that as well. This all feels like I’m playing a part, like a kid dressing up in her mum’s wardrobe.It’s not the real me, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the real me has been hiding in the shadows for too long. Maybe the real me is a bit of a wuss. The fake me looks pretty kick-ass. I don’t think I’ll mind being her, at least for a night.
I spritz on some perfume and fight down the urge to simply run away. This is a celebration of my wonderful nieces’ eighteenth birthday, and I will not skip it. I will tolerate my parents and their toxic jibes; I will not overreact to my sister, and I will not plot a great escape because Aidan is coming and that is also freaking me out. I will do all of this because I love Libby and Lucy, and because I am Not A Wuss. I abbreviate it in my head to NAW, which makes me laugh. I should get it tattooed somewhere subtle, like my forehead, just so I never forget.
My ponderings are interrupted by the arrival of a gaggle of giggling teenagers. They pour into the room, filling the pink-and-marble space with their youth and chatter and clattering heels. Lucy is one of them, tall and slender, her red hair gleaming.
‘Auntie Sarah!’ she exclaims, coming over to hug me. ‘You look amazing! What happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply seriously. ‘I think I might have been kidnapped by the makeover police. Happy birthday, sweetie!’
It’s not their actual birthday for another three days, but who wants a party on a Tuesday?
She thanks me, and I emerge out into the lobby and then our function room. While I’ve been completing my transformation, quite a few guests have turned up. I spot Libby with her own little group of friends, and blow her a kiss, and find Sally at the bar holding a glass of champagne. She’s staring at it like it holds the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.
‘Oh. There you are,’ she says, glancing up at me. ‘I thought you might have done a runner.’
No comment at all about my dress or the way I look, even though I can tell she’s noticed. Okay, I think, I’ve kind of had enough now. I am NAW, after all.
‘Is there something going on with you, Sally?’ I ask, grabbing my own drink from the tray. ‘Or are you just being a cow for no good reason?’
She gapes slightly, and I know from experience it could go one of two ways now. Either she’ll cave and apologise, or go nuclear. She pauses, then shakes her head.
‘Sorry, sis. Just… Just a cow, I suppose. Too much stress. Mum and Dad have been pains in the arse, and Dad has already started on the whisky. “To toast the girls’ big day,” he said. As though he ever needed an excuse. Do you remember our eighteenth?’
I nod grimly. It’s not the most idyllic of childhood memories. There was no flashy party like this, just a group of our friends gathered in the local pub. It was the kind of place that sold egg and chips, and showed horse racing on a big screen. My dad had got absolutely obliterated and ended up having a physical fight with one of his drinking buddies at the bar. They had disagreed about something stupid, probably to do with football, and because they were both hammered it got nasty very quickly. Dad ended up decking him onto the pool table, scattering the balls and knocking our friends out of the way as he did it.
I was mortified and just went home and cried. Sally was mortified too, but she always handled things better than I did. She made a big joke of it, and somehow ended up looking even cooler. That party became the stuff of legend in our school, the stories about it getting wilder and wilder until it resembled one of those huge saloon fights in a Western movie.
‘How could I forget?’ I say, spotting my parents over in the far corner of the room. I’ll have to speak to them at some point,but not right now. ‘This won’t be anything like that, Sally. Your girls are lucky; they’ve got the best mum in the world.’
She looks at me, and I see a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. ‘You think so? I don’t know. I always feel like I’m messing up. Lucy is vaping, even though she thinks I don’t know about it, and Libby’s scared of her own shadow, worried all the time. I just want them to be happy…’
