Mac laughs. ‘Tempting, Ma, but I think if I was gonna murder her, I’d have done it before now.’ Folding his arms, he leans back in the chair. ‘She’s my little sister. My annoying little sister, aye—’
I begin to splutter. ‘Annoy? You’re the annoying one. You’re a complete pain in my arse!’
‘Erse?’ Dad repeats.Arse, Scottish style.‘Did that girl just say erse?’ he asks Mum, incredulously.
‘Yes.’ I don’t wait for her answer or provide an excuse for my language as my eyes flick from Mac to the screen and back again. If anyone was annoying, it’s the great lump sitting next to me with his delusions of perfection.
‘Well, you’re like a thorn in my arse, and you’re lucky you’re still alive.’ He answers a touch too sardonically for my liking. ‘The number of times I’ve wanted to throttle ye!’ he said, making some motion of sliding his hands around my neck.
‘Yeah?’ I spit back. ‘Well, well.. . I once had a dream that you’d died and woke in the middle of the night, crying and feeling so sad that I had to check on you. I pinched your nose to see if you were breathing, and you know what? When you began to snore and flail, I left the room disappointed. Yes, disappointed that you weren’t really dead, so there!’
The room falls quiet as what I’ve admitted suddenly dawns. I’m not going to win any sister of the year awards withthatadmission. And my poor parents look horrified, but then Mac bursts out laughing—a great bellowing guffaw.
‘Talk about keepin’ it real. See, I knew there was a reason I’ve called you Poison Ivy since we were wee.’
My cheeks flamed red, but I know what he’s getting at. It doesn’t matter how perfect you try to be—pretend to be—someone will always see through the façade. Nobody’s wholly perfect, and who better to know than the one you’re always compared against.
Macormac, sit down. Macormac, come away from that. Why can’t you behave like your sister?
How my goody-two-shoes persona must’ve driven him mad at school.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Mum complains. ‘You two and your bickering drive me ‘round the bend.’
‘It’s what kids do, Ma,’ replies Mac with a shrug. ‘But it never stops us from lookin’ out for each other.’ He looks at me then, reaching out for my hand.
‘You’re not going back to London?’ My brother lives and operates his chain of twenty-four-hour gyms from there.
‘Well, I’ll have to do a bit of travel, but I’ll base myself out of Auchkeld until they’re back from their gallivanting.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I ask, stunned. When I said I’d needed his support, I really meant for making this call. I know he loves me, and that he’d help—be there for me—if I really needed him, but I didn’t imagine it’d extend beyond a few phone calls to check in. ‘You’d put your life on hold for me?’
‘Aye, aye,’ he replies, waving off the emotion in my words. ‘I can if you can manage not to bawl all the time.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I protest, wiping the corners of my eyes with my fingertips before turning to the laptop and my parents again. ‘Guess I’ll see you in November, then.’
With my familynow in the pregnancy loop, I move down the list to those who also need to know. Now that Mum and Dad are aware of my... my impending arrival, I have someone else—actually, a few someone elses—I need to inform.
And first on the list is Dylan, my husband. At least, he is my husband for a little while longer.
After Mac had left last night, I’d fallen into bed exhausted. More an emotional sort of tiredness rather than anything pregnancy related; I was just worn out. And possibly beyond the optimal window for sleep because I’d spent the most of the night watching the shadows creep across my bedroom walls. I’d spent the night thinking, and while I’m sure Fin would say no good could come of this, I’d have to disagree. And as I walk down the stairs into the salon this Tuesday morning, I feel lighter because I’m reconciled. Resolved. I’ve decided I’m going to tell Dylan today. Tell him about the baby. Tell him that I’m sorry. Explain to him how my own insecurities ruined our marriage. Tell him how I feel. That I still love him. Say what I know to be true; how I know it’s much too late for any kind of reconciliation, but that I need to start being more honest.Including with myself.I need him to know that I don’t really hate him. That I never did. That I’d just buried my love under a blanket of anger and blame, attempting to lay the failure of our marriage at his feet even though I knew my actions were the real cause.
Maybe I was afraid he wouldn’t love me now that he was famous. Or maybe I’m just not a nice person after all.
Whatever the reason, as I enter the salon, I know I’m telling him today. Sure, I feel nervous, but it’s the excited kind. But how? Do I try to call him? Would he answer? Does he still even have the same number, or might he have blocked me from his call list? Maybe I should reactivate my social media accounts—send him a message, asking him to call me? An email?
‘Morning.’ Natasha’s already on the salon floor, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, as she leans against the counter. Light from the vintage brass table lamp set on the reception counter glints from her new Monroe piercing.
‘Morning, boss lady,’ she says, barely glancing up. ‘You’re in fine fettle this morning.’
‘Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying,Ivy, you no longer look like death warmed because you’ve brushed your hair and put a bit of lippy on?’
‘I’m sure your hair hadn’t seen the spiky end of a brush all week.’ A smile grows on her face along with her retort. ‘You look... better.’
‘I feel pretty good. Apart from the appetite and vomiting bit.’
She looks again, her gaze examining me. ‘What’s changed?’
‘I told the olds.’
