Not the only reason. I wanted the post. I wanted the challenge. I wanted the chance to do the job somewhere it would matter.
But being closer to my big sister mattered too.
I would deny that under questioning.
Obviously.
Inside, the house is warm and tidy without being terrifying, full of small signs of family life even when the children aren’t there. A school jumper hangs over the back of a chair. A half-finished drawing sits on the sideboard. A toy fire engine stands guard beside a fruit bowl, one plastic ladder raised as if the bananas are in immediate danger. One of Jamie’s football boots is by the back door, and I make a mental note to ask whether it has a mate or whether this is now a decorative choice.
I follow Nour through to the kitchen, where Amanda is standing at the hob, stirring something that smells like garlic, tomatoes and the sort of dinner a person makes when they want to pretend it is casual even though they have clearly chopped things in advance.
My sister turns, wooden spoon in hand. “There she is. The woman of the hour.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’ve only just arrived.”
“I sensed tone.”
“You sensed correctly.” Amanda points the spoon at a chair. “Sit. Wine?”
“Yes.”
“Badday?”
“No.”
“Good day?”
I take the glass Nour hands me and sit at the kitchen table. “Complicated day.”
“Tell me all.” Amanda turns back to the hob. “Jamie and Samantha are at Mum and Dad’s, nobody is going to ask for pasta with no sauce, and I have been promised the full story of the journalist in the fire station. I’m invested.”
“You need hobbies.”
“I have children. Hobbies are what I remember fondly from another life.”
Nour sits opposite me, chin propped on one hand. “Start at the beginning. Did he apologise?”
That is the problem with Nour. She owns a business, spends half her working life coaxing people into talking about why they’ve put a particular painting in a particular corner, and brings exactly the same calm, dangerous patience to family conversations.
“Yes,” I say.
Amanda looks over her shoulder. “Properly?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
Nour smiles. “What did he say?”
“That he was sorry for the article. For the framing. For putting those comments next to my appointment and not thinking about the connection readers would make.”
Amanda stops stirring for a second. She says, “That is annoyingly decent.”
“I know.”
“Did you accept?”
“I said I appreciated the apology.”
