Her sister didn’t say anything, just folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. Rachel wasn’t an idiot; she understoodthis was important to Lily, that her sister had wanted her to be impressed and admiring of her creativity. But a cartoon. And assignments left incomplete. “Lily, look.” She took a deep breath, forcing the fury down. “I get that you like this stuff. It’s fun, and you can do it, but not at the expense of your schoolwork.” She tried to keep her voice reasonable, but she could tell the damage had already been done. “You can’t make a career out of this,” she said, waving the paper. “It won’t get you into university. You can’t live off it—”
“Maybe I could,” Lily said in a low voice. “If you’d let me.”
“I’m trying to give you the best chance in life—”
“Maybe I should decide what the best chance is.”
“What are you saying?” Rachel demanded. “That you don’t want to go to university? You want to live at home and draw cartoons for the rest of your life, maybe take a few shifts at the pub, like Meghan?”
Lily’s face crumpled, and with a rush of remorse Rachel realized what a child she still was. Children had dreams, and she didn’t want to crush Lily’s, but it killed her that her sister could have so much if she just tried for it. She could have everything Rachel had wanted but been denied. Lily might not think she wanted it now, but in a couple of years, when all that was on offer was lousy shift work? Rachel knew better than Lily. It was only that Lily didn’t realize it.
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Lily muttered.
“You’re right, it doesn’t. You can do your work, go to a fantastic university, get a degree and a job, and then you can do your damned doodles.” She thrust the paper back at Lily, who clutched it to her chest. Rachel felt as if she’d hit her. She was being mean, and to Lily, whom she’d cuddled and burped and treated like her own daughter.
Which was why she was so angry now.
“I’m going to make tea,” she said, and went downstairs. Meghan was just waking up on the sofa, and her mother had started calling for something again, her voice a faint, pathetic entreaty.
Gritting her teeth, Rachel grabbed a pan and thwacked it on the stove as hard as she could. The loud clatter was a satisfying sound, but it didn’t actually make her feel any better.
“So what’s your problem?” Meghan asked as she strolled, yawning, into the kitchen. She still had the traces of last night’s makeup on her face, and her hair was flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. “Hmm?” she asked, and stretched. “Bad day, or are you just in your usual pissy mood?”
Rachel took a deep breath and didn’t answer.
Chapter twelve
Claire
Claire had been working at the village shop for a week—four days a week, anyway—and she was starting to feel as if she’d gotten the hang of it. She could manage the till, and Dan had even taught her the trick about Lottery cards and cigarettes and how to add the tax. She’d survived the rush of schoolchildren every afternoon, and Eleanor Carwell’s beady precision every morning. She didn’t particularly enjoy stacking newspapers or milk, but after a while she could appreciate the steady rhythm, and at the end of the week, when Dan paid her, she felt satisfied if surprised at the small amount.
“I did tell you it was minimum wage,” he said, and Claire realized she must have looked disappointed.
“Yes, of course you did.” She tucked the check into her bag. “Thank you.”
“That will buy a pair of shoes, I suppose?” Dan said without looking at her. Claire couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.
“Maybe one shoe,” she answered flippantly as she went back to dusting the tins on the shelves. In London and Portugal she’d spent hundreds of pounds on a single pair of shoes at a time.Her parents had been giving her a clothing allowance since she was thirteen. It hadn’t stopped when she’d graduated from university or gotten a job; she hadn’t thought about it either way. She had just expected the money to be there, and it had been. The realization made her feel uncomfortably guilty now. Maybe she really was the spoiled princess Dan and Rachel and who knew who else seemed to think she was.
“So one shoe,” Dan answered. “Maybe you can buy the other one next week.”
So maybe he could joke, after all. Claire took a deep breath. “You really do have me pegged as some spoiled rich girl, don’t you?”
“Can you deny it?”
“No, I don’t suppose I can. No one can help what they were. But I’m trying to be independent now. To change.” She’d been dusting the tins, taking her time with each one. “Do you know this tin of lamb stew with minty peas has been here since I started?”
“You mean one week?”
“How long have you been running this shop?”
“Three years.”
“And in all that time,” Claire asked, hefting the tin aloft, “has anyone bought a tin of lamb stew with minty peas?”
Dan stared at her, his arms folded. “How am I supposed to remember something like that?”
“I’d remember.” Claire put the tin back on the shelf. “I can’t imagine wanting to eat an entire meal that comes out of a single tin.”
