I avoid his suggestion. “Maybe you could help me out. Like when they ask you about work, you could mention how well Wyst is doing,” I say, every three words punctuated with a breath as the incline steepens.
“But... itisn’tdoing well.” A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. “That’s why you needed my help.”
I give him a cutting side-eye. “I didn’tneedyour help. I could have just as easily hired an actor to play the CEO.”
“No, you couldn’t; you’re broke,” he jibes.
“And you’re not?” I raise an eyebrow under my beanie hat. “You jumped at the idea.”
“Touché,” he relents.
I throw my free hand out dramatically. “Face it, we’re as destitute as each other. Twins to the bitter end.”
We round the corner, creaking the wooden gate open to traverse the garden path to the front door. Un-bloomed pink rosebuds wind in tendrils pinned by metal hooks up the cream and brown bricks, flirting with the edge of the white windows.
We don’t bother knocking, just bust through the door as Spencer shouts our arrival. The house has that distinct family smell. The scent of home fills my lungs like a ghost returning to its body.
“We’re in here!” Mum shouts in a singsong tone from the kitchen at the back.
It’s not lost on me that the house is littered with photographs of Spencer. The ones that feature me are the ones that also include my brother. The one single photograph of me is a portrait from my christening, a bald head and white robe with a lacy collar and pudgy little fingers. It’s faded with the sun, a white streak bleached from the past twenty-seven years of morning rays.
Mum is frantically stirring a wooden Christmas spoon in an aged Le Creuset saucepan while Dad is reading the newspaper with intense focus. We kiss cheeks hello with both of them. Mum seems annoyed about something, not fully meeting my eyes as we exchange pleasantries and I hand her an overcompensatingly large bouquet of flowers. This isn’t new behavior. She never acknowledges it when something is wrong. As though part of the penance for upsetting her is to delve deep into yourself and offer up reasons why she would be disappointed in you. I used to play along, listing the various things I’d done wrongin the past few months like some sort of fucked-up family confessional. Somehow, despite not actually being Catholic, our entire family dynamic is fueled by Catholic guilt.
After thirty minutes of awkward chat about annoying neighbors and distant relatives and two glasses of wine, we sit down for a nice dinner of beef bourguignon. The sound of clinking cutlery on plates, clearing of throats, and chewing teeth fill the air, nobody making a sincere attempt at conversation. A school friend once observed that the Coles don’t ask each other questions. We simply make statements at one another in quick succession and call it a conversation.
“Good beef, Mum. Is this a new recipe?” Spencer says, cutting a giant piece of carrot in half, his knife scraping against the plate.
She beams. “Yes, it is! Thank you for noticing, Spenny,”
“Yeah, really good,” I agree, nodding frantically.
“Darling, please don’t speak with your mouth full.”
“So how is work?” Dad asks, looking specifically at Spencer.
Spencer doesn’t reply until he catches our parents staring directly at him.
“Oh, yeah. Everything’s great.” He purses his lips before taking another sip of wine.
“Any new parts coming up we can know about?” Mum wiggles her eyebrows. The way Spencer has spoken about secrecy in the entertainment industry has made them believe a one-line part onHolby Cityis as on lockdown as a Marvel movie. “Or are you still helping Jess?” She briefly glances at me, then my plate, then back to Spencer with an uplift of her eyebrows.
Spencer’s shoulders raise to his earlobes. “Well... yes, I am, but not for much longer.”
My gut sinks to new depths as my muscles tense ready for impact. It’s an internal dread, which you gain a sixth sense of over time. My throat goes dry, and I try to moisten it with a too-large glug of wine.
“What did I say about taking up all his time?” Mum tuts in my direction.
I clear my throat and take another long sip of wine before answering. “It’s actually going quite well and—” I get cut off before I can finish my sentence.
“For you. But Spencer is putting his career on hold to keep your business afloat,” Dad chimes in. His face is stoic, but his fingers are gripping his knife and fork so tightly his knuckles are turning from pink to white.
My eyes jump back and forth between Mum and Dad before cutting to Spencer. He’s looking down at his plate, pushing a piece of beef around, leaving red-brown smears on the floral-patterned china. Unwilling to come to my defense. Is he seriously not going to correct them?
“And whatcareeris that exactly?” I roll my eyes, popping a potato into my mouth. “Sorry I can’t provide you with five seconds of screen time at the cinema.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I clock Spencer wincing.
“Sorry,” I say, instantly regretting my words.
