Page 4 of Sisters Making Mischief
She hugged me back and cried into my cardigan, while within me, my anger against Marty railed into a black swirl, almost choking me.
‘Bastard,’ I said, unable to keep quiet any longer, ‘absolute bastard. How dare he. Just give me five minutes alone with him and this—’ I picked up the nearest object, which unfortunately was a cheese grater, ‘and I’ll sort him out, good and proper.’
Sara gave a shaky laugh and blew her nose.
‘I wouldn’t give much for his chances,’ she said.
‘No, nor would I.’
From upstairs there was a distant shout and a scream and Sara sighed.
‘I’d better go up to them. They were quiet as mice on the way over here, but we both know that won’t last. Bloody hell, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Tidings of comfort and joy. Pour me another gin, would you?’
I had planned to walk round that afternoon to a neighbour’s house for a pre-Christmas get together and drinks. Obviously, I didn’t go. My house, while decorated to within an inch of its life and scented with cinnamon and oranges, was filled with tension. Sara was alternately crying and drinking gin, which didn’t help, while the twins skulked upstairs on their electronic devices, occasionally coming downstairs for snacks or to voice complaints about each other. No change there then.
After cobbling together an unplanned and unsatisfactory dinner (I’d planned a solitary feast of a newly opened tub of Celebrations and some white wine) we watched some dull documentary on television about an endangered snail, then a decades-old re-run of a comedy show. Sara talked all the waythrough, by turns morose and slightly intoxicated and then furiously angry, hissing insults and threats against the more delicate parts of Marty’s anatomy.
‘You need some time to get over the shock,’ I said soothingly, after first hiding her car keys in my handbag in case she was tempted to go back to her house and do something foolish.
I quickly realised that it would be better to keep my daughter calm and positive, rather than fire her up with my own anger and experiences and possibly send her back to the marital home to slash his expensive suits and ties in a blind rage.
‘Oh, Mum, I don’t know,’ she said, running her hand through her hair, ‘I’m sick at what he’s done, and equally sick wondering what to do next. Do I go to a solicitor? Should I go home and get the locks changed before he gets back?’
‘From what I know, I don’t think that would be wise.’
‘I don’t think I could bear it anyway. To be in that house, surrounded by all our stuff, knowing that he has been there with that— that trollop.’
‘Hedidn’t?’
‘Oh yes, he did. When the twins and I went for two weeks to Cornwall, and he was going to join us three days late because he hadso much work on. And then he went back early too. When we got back, I found a pair of knickers under the bed that I didn’t recognise. He fobbed me off with some nonsense about me having a bad memory, but yesterday he admitted she’d been there. Why did he need to tell me that? I think she did it on purpose, like some old dog marking its territory.’ Her expression hardened, ‘She’s welcome to him. I knew they weren’t mine; they were from John Lewis. When did I ever buy knickers from there? M&S is the limit of my extravagance. Do you know, not once in all the years we were married, did he put the loo seat down? Or empty the dishwasher. Or bring me breakfast in bed. Even when I was pregnant. God, I was a fool, putting up with it.’
‘You need a good night’s sleep,’ I said in my best soothing voice, ‘you need time to think calmly what’s best for you and the girls.’
Sara’s lower lip wobbled. ‘All I wanted to do was get here, back to this house. I was always so happy here when I was growing up. Everything feels right here. It’s like a sanctuary. So organised and tidy. Nothing ever went wrong here.’
For a moment I thought back, remembering the reality of her shouting matches with her brother, towering piles of dirty crockery and mildewing food under her bed, disagreements with her father about what constituted a suitable outfit, the sulking that sometimes went on for days.
I reached over and stroked her hair.
‘Well, this was your home when you were little, we had a lot of happy times, didn’t we? You can always come here,’ I said.
She started to cry again. ‘Thanks, Mum. You’re the best mum ever, have I told you that?’
‘No, not that I can remember.’
Actually, at that moment I could only remember Sara at fifteen shouting at me that I was useless and didn’t understand what it was like to be young. Still, at least she had a different perspective now, which was reassuring.
She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I ought to go to bed. It’s nearly midnight. I should go up to the girls again, and see they are okay.’
She picked her phone up and scrolled through it for a moment.
‘Don’t text him,’ I said, in my best retired schoolteacher’s voice.
‘I already have, several times. Telling him exactly what I think of him. He hasn’t replied. I’ve got a good mind to?—’
I held out my hand. ‘Give it to me. Just until the morning.’
It was like being in charge of the fifth form again.
