On top of all the other thoughts and emotions fighting for top spot today, and in spite of the exhausting list of chores and the many moving parts, concern at having to face Ashleigh was right up there. It wasn’t too extreme to say that she was dreading her sister coming home. This immediately filled her veins with guilt, knowing Ashleigh had just as much right to be there as she did. Their relationship was fractured. They saw each other only sporadically. This was just the way it was now, as if it were too hard to hurdle over the wall of hurt, mistrust and awkwardness that sat between them. A wall Remy could see over and yet found almost impossible to climb. It bothered her how her relationship with her sister hijacked her thoughts when today it needed to be all about her lovely dad, the loss of him and coming together to support their mum.
The last couple of times she had seen Ashleigh, at Evie’s wedding to Katrina, and then Sophie’s party for London Fashion Week, she had smiled and nodded politely, and they had managed the briefest of exchanges, both with rictus grins that reflected their discomfort.
‘Evie looks so happy.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be so proud of Soph.’
‘Always . . .’
She was aware that her parents had kept them in their sights, which only added to the pressure, as they waited for the thaw, the reconciliation, the open-armed hugs that meant all was forgiven, so that they could breathe a little easier, knowing their girls were reunited and all was well.
‘I just don’t understand it ...’ her mum was fond of repeating, and Remy would try to explain.
‘Not all siblings get on, Mum! Not all twins! We’re very different people.’
‘I know that, I’m your mother, but you never used to be very different people. You used to be the same!’
And Remy would nod and make a cup of tea or nip to the loo, anything other than try to explain that they had not been the same for a very, very long time and that spending time in each other’s company only seemed to goad the other, like putting a flame to touchpaper. Being on edge when the other was present was now a default, and it didn’t really matter how it had started or how they had got there, it was just how it was. After their fiftieth birthday, the night that still lived bright in Remy’s memory, they hadn’t called each other. Sulking, healing, reflecting, it all led to the same thing; days that turned into weeks and then months without contact, and suddenly it felt too awkward to make the call, to reach out. She didn’t know how, wasn’t sure what to say, and ifshe were being honest, she quite liked not having to worry about the confrontation, concentrating instead on smoothing things over with her parents, looking after her own family and committing to her therapy. Midge’s suggestion had been a good one and she now wished she had sought help earlier, only able to marvel at what a wonderful thing hindsight was.
At Evie’s wedding, Remy had been overly aware of her sister’s presence, making sure Ashleigh always had someone to chat to, so as not to be left by herself like lone prey. She also deployed avoidance tactics like taking five in a corridor, being preoccupied with a drink or her handbag, clinging to Midge like he was a rock that kept her weighted and she was therefore in no danger of floating into Ashleigh and their worlds colliding. Remy wasn’t sure it was going to be quite so easy to avoid her twin today.
Standing in the bathroom in her bra and knickers, she twisted to the side and studied her slender frame in the full-length mirror, running her finger over the bumpy red scar along her abdomen.Hysterectomy.The word itself had been scary enough, followed by the very best words that came soon after:non-malignant, all good, no need to worry ...
And something she’d not shared with anyone: the post-operation distress. It felt ridiculous that, aged sixty, she had perched on the side of the bath in paper knickers and with a gauze-covered pad over the incision and sobbed. Mourning the loss of her womb and the fact that she would never again carry a baby. Not that it was possible or had been possible for over a decade. A post-menopausal woman; it wasn’t even a consideration. But still. To know that the nest which had nurtured her children, the soft, fecund tissue where memories and cells of conception lurked, was no longer part of her body was a lot. She found herself dreaming of being pregnant, bathed in sunshine and running her hands over the full-bellied satisfaction of taut skin, the distended nub of navel, smug and smiling at themiraculous thing that brewed within. Waking placed her in a reality that was cold, riven with loss, and where it was hard to explain to anyone just how much she missed the years when having a baby was possible, missed them with a strength that was alarming to her. With this came the realisation that those had been her best years, when with the optimism of her youth, the wisdom of her experience and an energy for whatever might come next, she had eaten up life!
Not so much now.
Never one to obsess over her weight, accepting the pockets of plumpness that had graced her hips and bottom in her forties, it was odd to her that now, and from this angle, she looked decidedly flatter, squarer. No bum to speak of, no handfuls of flesh; even her boobs had deflated. It was as if the universe had decided that with the decrease of her sexual appetite, and no need to concern herself with reproduction or attracting a mate, they may as well remove the lovely soft bits that she felt made her more desirable. She supposed it helped her to accept the ageing process, the slow fade from siren to sixty, not that she’d ever been a siren. Sixty felt like the gateway to becoming old, and she had to dig a little deeper to find that optimism. She could feel it, the edging towards invisibility, becoming anolderlady before she became anoldlady, and they all looked the same, didn’t they? Milky eyes, grey hair, comfy shoes, breathable fabrics. It was all a ghastly thought.
Hey ho.
Grabbing her fleece dressing gown, she welcomed the softness, the warmth against her skin, and headed downstairs.
‘Penny for them?’
Midge stood by the sink. They had lived here in their cottage for sixteen years now, and she still couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. She liked that each room held memories of get-togethers, the comings and goings of her family and grandchildren. It only made her love the place more.
‘I’m not looking forward to seeing Ashleigh.’
‘I know.’ As usual, Midge offered his unconditional support by not saying too much, but rather giving her a look that told her he was right there and he understood. It was inevitable that with her sister’s imminent return, she would think about the fallout from their fiftieth, a long time ago now, but it had been a marker, and had certainly changed things for a while between her and Midge.
The fact that she’d lied to him had placed a tiny fissure in their blemish-free marriage, one she had had to work hard to polish out. He had been adamant that it was nothing to do with the actions of her ten-year-old self, but rather her actions as a grown-up, when honesty and transparency had been their bywords and she had let him down. This, coupled with the fact she had never truly told him of her lingering trauma, not given him a chance to help fix or even understand it. All of it they had had to slowly unpick, spending quiet nights, side by side, talking as the fire flickered, she cried, and they held hands, drawing strength from the other as they shed skin. Time and patience had played their part. Stripped bare, talking openly and honestly was often far from comfortable, had made her feel vulnerable, scared even. But waking now each morning with a lightness to her conscience gave her new-found freedom, specifically the ability to exist without the worry of discovery lurking. The worry of Ashleigh exposing the secret. The worry of those men hurting her again.
‘I knew I’d have to face her today, but ...’ She clicked her tongue against the side of her mouth.
‘I guess if it’s any consolation, she’ll be worried too, I’m sure. She looked really nervous at Soph’s party. I think we all need to remember there’s other things to think about today. It’s all about your mum.’
‘I know that.’ A steady stream of tears now striped her face. Her sadness was in plentiful supply. In the face of fatigue, Remy’ssorrow found the cracks and wheedled its way into her thoughts. ‘Am I selfish?’
‘Ren, you are the least selfish woman I know.’
‘I told you she sent me an email, saying she wanted to give the eulogy!’ she snorted, and wiped her eyes. ‘Can you believe that?’
‘He was her dad too.’
‘Whose side are you on?’ she fired.
