‘So ...’ She paused, beyond fearful of asking if Ashleigh wanted a divorce from Evie. She wouldn’t know what to say or do if her sister admitted this, a thought too terrible to contemplate. ‘When you say you feel stuck ...’
‘Just forget I said anything.’
‘So, you want me to forget about coming clean to Mum and Dad about the exam, which, I confess, I’m relieved about, forget you might just have told me that you are not happy. What else do you want me to forget, and what if that’s not an option?’ She felt advice cueing up on her tongue but knew her sister had to be in the right frame of mind to receive it.
Ashleigh turned to face her, her expression almost pained. ‘If it’s not an option, then add everything I’ve said to our one secret, just make it a bit bigger, and hide it away. You know we’re good at doing that.’
‘For God’s sake, Ash!’
There was a sudden loud tap on the windscreen, and Remy felt her heart jump in her chest.
Oi!
‘What do you two think you’re doing? I’ve got hungry kids and a hungry husband in here!’ Ruthie pointed at the house and shouted through the glass, and there it was, the pointed finger. ‘Of course, we wouldn’t have to be doing any of this if someone had remembered to book the table!’
‘Yep, she’s definitely calmed down.’ Ashleigh sighed.
‘I’d say so.’ Grabbing the big bags of stinky food from the footwell, Remy got out of the car.
Her dad settled back into his chair and placed his hands on his rounded tum.
‘Well, that was lovely. All that chicken, and those little pots of beans, just smashing!’
‘Once again, Ashleigh, I’m so sorry about the whole ...’ Her mum flapped her hands as if unwilling to voice for the thirtieth time justhowsorry she was that Remy had not booked a table.
‘Stop apologising! It’s been great. Not a scrap of chicken left. Everyone’s enjoyed it.’
Remy was thankful for the support. ‘Although how hard can it be to book a table?’ Ashleigh tutted.
Remy raised her middle finger and made out to scratch her cheek. Juvenile, yet still funny.
‘Well, you know what your sister’s like.’ Her mum pursed her lips.
‘I am right here! And honest to God, it’s not like I’ve been getting my nails done or sitting on a yacht! I messed up because I’m busy, so busy!’
‘A poor workman always blames his tools.’ This her mum’s parting shot, called over her shoulder as she left the lounge.
‘What the fluff has that got to do with anything?’ Remy asked, her arms outstretched, palms upturned, her tone as jovial as the sinking feeling in her gut would allow. Her mother’s nagging and the thought of having to come clean to Midge was enough to throw her completely. And why, again, was it all her fault? Why was everything? Why was she still feeling the negative effects of a kind and loving thing she did aged ten? Why didn’t everyone just sod off? This was, she reminded herself, what happened when Ashleigh arrived like a well-groomed hurricane and upset the balance of everything.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Midge asked from the sofa, where he was sandwiched between the kids.
‘I’d like some wine. Maybe a bottle with a straw in the top.’ Remy answered in the voice of a needy teen, and Midge jumped up.
‘Tea it is.’
She loved the way he looked out for her, knew what she needed. It was built on understanding and trust, and this was her fear when it came to Ashleigh’s request. What would she do in a world without Midge to love her? Swallowing the threat of tears, she dug deep to find a neutral expression, not wanting to spoil anyone’s day any more than she already had.
‘Ready for your pressies?’ Her mum came back into the room, arms bulging with gifts wrapped inStar Warspaper, no doubt left over from Bertie’s birthday. Ruthie spoke to her husband with her head tilted to one side, voice high, as if he were a child.
‘I’ve been ready since first thing this morning!’ he chuckled. The sparkle in his eye made a mockery of his reputation as a man who didn’t like a fuss.
‘Come on, Midge, we’re opening pressies!’ Ruthie called to the kitchen, as usual wanting everyone there to witness the event.
He appeared at the door; tea would clearly have to wait. Her dad ripped the paper from his first gift as the kids clustered on the carpet in front of him.
‘Oh, Maltesers! My favourite. Thank you, Soph!’
Sophie, her fabulous girl, beamed in the glow of his praise. ‘Happy birthday, Grandad.’
