Crappily Ever After (29 page)

I awaken to almost complete silence. Bliss. No traffic, no tourists and no goats – just an occasional bird twittering. I check my phone. It’s 11am. How could I have slept so long? I pad downstairs to find Becky humming happily to herself in the kitchen as she unloads the dishwasher of last night’s dishes. She was so right to come home. I’ve never seen her so content. She was right to follow her heart. She wouldn’t have been this happy with Mike. As the saying goes, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette.  

 ‘Morning babe,’ she gives me a quick hug before heading to the coffee percolator.    

She knows me so well. I can barely muster up a grunt before my first cup of coffee.    

Becky busies herself around the kitchen, grilling some bacon for breakfast and letting the cat out. I sip away, feeling more human again. I remember last night’s sleepy, drunken conversation. I feel ready to chat now. So I tell Becky how I could never imagine being with Mike, how my sister is so much better suited to him. I’m ever so practical and boring, Mike needs a flirtatious, girly type. Someone who would never neglect their fluffy upper lip in need of a wax or their legs covered in stubble. I run a finger over my upper lip to check just how bad it is. Not too fluffy and, fortunately, it’s blonde.   

‘You know, Mike really isn’t into all that stuff. You’re comparing yourself too much with Sam,’ Becky replies. ‘I mean, look at me, I’m not exactly Kate Moss, am I?’   

‘I know what you mean,’ I reply, ‘but it’s just, well, I’m so dull, so ordinary.’

Becky walks across the kitchen, pulling me gently down from my stool at the breakfast bar and into the bathroom. She places me gently in front of the mirror.   

‘How long is it since you had a really good look at yourself?’ she asks me, peering questionably at my reflection.   

Ages, at a guess. I have a good look. OK: eyes slightly puffy from sleep and too much wine, but OK complexion. Hair like a birds nest, but white blond and tousled from the sun and sea air. I seem to be missing the extra chin I had before, though. Probably down to the running around behind the bar and in the sweatbox of a kitchen in Tenerife. If I had to categorise myself, I’d say bohemian. Natural, tanned, tousled. Not as bad as I’d expected, actually.  

 ‘Still could do with losing a stone though, Becks.’

‘From where?’ she stares at me incredulous, peeling back the top of my T-shirt.    

‘Size ten and it hangs off you,’ she dismisses my comment with sweep of her hand. ‘How much do you weigh?’ she demands. 

‘I dunno. Ten… Ten and a half stone?’

She marches me over to the scales. The digital display informs me that I am, in fact, eight stone eleven pounds. 

‘Shit!’ I exclaim, rushing back to the mirror for a second opinion.  

‘Exactly,’ Becky proclaims smugly. ‘Now let’s go shopping.’              

We hit Dublin city centre and have a great time trailing armfuls of clothes to the changing rooms. I see myself in a completely new light. How could I have not noticed such a massive weight loss? OK, so everyone has been telling me I’m getting far too skinny – well, Mum has – but then she always does. She’d tell me that if I was morbidly obese. Armed with an entirely new spring wardrobe, we head to the bridal shops. Becky runs her hand dreamily over the fabric of a gorgeous ivory gown sparkling with crystals under the bright lights of the shop that are no doubt designed for that purpose.

‘Try it,’ I urge. She looks abashed, and then glances over to the sales assistant, who is already heading our way.   

Becky tries on the gown. She looks beautiful – there is no other word for it. We squeal with excitement, and despite probably hearing this day in, day out, the sales girl squeals along with us. Just to be safe, Becky tries on several more. Her first choice was the one. She grins at the sales assistant and tells her she’ll put a deposit on it today. She never even checked the price. How I would love to have such a
laissez faire
attitude with money.  

  ‘Now you, Lucy,’ she announces. I try on various coloured gowns, all size eight I am delighted to notice. We settle on a pale lilac empire line with a line of crystals under the bust. I feel like a princess. After settling on shoes and a tasteful and simple hairpiece for Becky (the dress doesn’t need any upstaging) we decide that I’ll be having a single white orchid. Becky wants her wedding to be understated and tasteful. She knows exactly what she wants, right down to the napkin rings and favours. Bob is giving her free rein and, to a point, unlimited finances. If it wasn’t for having to sleep with Bob, I’d almost wish I was Becky. It’s so good to see her happy. She has done nothing but smile since I arrived. Eventually, we head out into the pale mid-afternoon sunshine and practically dance to the nearest pub.     

                                                         Chapter Twenty-four   

I’m coming to the end of my stay with Becky and Bob. I have had a great time in their amazing home; I am suitably jealous and reassured all at the same time. Becky is fine and Bob is treating her to my standards. I don’t need to worry any more. There was enough time for him to slip his guard, enough moments where I guiltily hovered just outside their room to see if he really spoke to her respectfully, or if it was all pretence for my benefit. The plan is to head back to Arbroath until Becky’s wedding in March, and return to Tenerife in April for the beginning of the summer season. Two blissful months off stretch before me and I can’t wait. Becky drives me back to the airport. I’m flying into Glasgow, where I will take the train home. I text Mary to let her know I’ll be arriving back soon. Mary messages back.  

‘Thank God Mum being nightmare! U know she had new man? Just found out 2 days ago! Name is Bert!’

 I stare at my phone in puzzlement. Mum has never to my knowledge had any man – new or otherwise – since my Dad. This warrants a phone call. I flick expertly through my phone’s contact list and click on Mary’s name. 

‘You what?’ I practically shout at my sister when she answers.

‘I am not joking, Luce. He’s an Environmental Health Officer. I popped down to hers at lunchtime, when she wasn’t expecting me. I let myself in with the spare key under the flowerpot and there they were…’

‘La La La La La,’ I sing loudly, receiving strange looks from a couple passing by with a buggy. They alter their direction and walk a few paces away. 

‘Shut up!’ Mary yells over my tuneless singing. ‘There they were, sitting on the sofa with a pot

of tea and scones. Mum even had the good teacups out. It’s serious!’ 

I don’t know what to say.

‘It gets worse,’ Mary’s tone is low. ‘I stayed for tea after I picked the kids up from school. Well, I couldn’t not, she would have thought I was pissed off with her. I put on some chicken dippers for the kids. Mum, being Health and Safety, commented on the fact that they were due to be eaten yesterday – was it safe?
Him,
being Environmental Health, then had a ten-minute discussion about this with Mum, while I had two squalling, hungry kids around my ankles kicking off.’

‘But… when? Where?’ I begin, and am immediately cut off. Mary, it appears, is still in full flow and was merely pausing for breath.

‘But worse than that, when they finally allowed me to cook dinner for my children, which let’s face it, I have been doing for nearly seven years without poisoning any of them – well, except that one time, but in my defence it was a takeaway. He reached over my shoulder, stuck a temperature probe into a nugget and informed me it could do with another minute and a half. He asked Mum what she thought, and she reckoned two, to be safe. Arrrrgh!’ shouts my sister in frustration. Silence. Finally, I can speak.

‘So where did she meet him?’ I enquire.

‘He gave a talk on some changes to Section 2.1 in the NHS Health and Safety legislation
, apparently,
’she spits out bitterly. ‘They’re doing my fucking head in. He’s there
every
time I go down to Mum’s. Them getting together is like a risk assessment made in hell!’ I sigh. My boarding has just been announced.

‘Look, I’ll call you back from Glasgow,’ I tell Mary, ‘and try to chill.’

I walk down the tunnel, not appearing to notice I’m about to board a plane. My Mum has a man. I smile to myself; fair play to her, about bloody time. I’ve no idea what Mary’s problem is yet. But I’ll get to the bottom of it.          

I land in Glasgow airport to a text from Mike. How was Dublin? Hmm, how do I deal with this? I text back that it was a great trip, Becky looks well. No reply. Oh dear, well it was a no-win situation that one. What was I supposed to say? Mary collects me from the station yet again. She wants to go for a cruise in the car. We drive down the familiarly comforting streets. Down the West port, turn right along Millgate Loan, out past Tuttie’s Neuk, the Plege (our name for the indoor fairground), Waterfront nightclub and finally come to a stop in front of the blue-black North Sea. Pitch dark other than the white foam of the crashing waves and the occasional flash of the Bell Rock lighthouse. The sea is always soothing to me. It always seemed to reflect my mood as a child: bright blue and playful, with seagulls diving over it, when I was in a good mood; moody and turbulent with waves crashing over the barriers if things weren’t going good that day. Today, the bonnet of the car is soaked with the overspill from the high tide waves. Mary seems not to notice. I can taste the salt as I bite my lip, waiting for her latest outpouring and trying not to find the deafening silence so amusing. She steps out from the car and walks straight into a wave, soaking her from over the barrier. It pushes her almost off her feet. She stands so still after, in shock. Shit! I think, snorting with laughter, that’s not going to help her mood. She stares at me aghast for a moment, sea water dripping from her hair. I stare back, unsure what to say and scared to move. Eventually, I grab the blanket from the back seat and open the passenger door, nervously waiting for the next wave to hit. I place the blanket around her shoulders. Mary laughs, a small chortle to begin with, growing louder and with a hysterical edge. I join in and before we know it, we are both unable to catch a breath.  

‘Ah, come on home,’ she says when we eventually calm down.                     

We head back to the car. I instinctively know what’s up now. Being in my sister’s company I can almost read her mind. Sometimes we will argue when one of us relates a story that happened years ago, over whether it happened to me or her. Sometimes I forget where I end and my sister begins, so close are we. She never met Dad and I did. I know she finds this new man hard to take. An impostor. Even though I don’t actually remember Dad, I used to relay to her stories told to me by Mum. I guess they seemed real to Mary, like I had some inside knowledge or memories. We used to tell stories, late at night, about how there was a mix-up at the hospital. Dad hadn’t really died and turned up at school one day to take us to the Inverpark Hotel for fish and chips and a lime soda. Of course, we knew deep down it was fantasy, but I think it helped with a lot of unresolved grief that we felt we had no right to have. How can you grieve for someone you never met or don’t remember?

‘Let’s at least give him a chance, for Mum’s sake,’ I break the silence. Without a word, Mary starts up the engine and points the car towards the harbour – and Mum’s house.          

It’s so strange to see what Mum’s taste in men is, having never experienced it from memory. OK, she has quite a broad taste in celebrity men. Mel Gibson, Morgan Freeman, Ken Stott (the guy who plays Rebus). We used to laugh at Mum whenever anyone she fancied appeared on our screens. 

‘Oh, he’d get it!’ To which Mary and I would pretend to gag. Parents and sex lives are too gross to even consider. But this man here, in the armchair with our Poopsy puss on his lap, is greying, slightly portly in the belly area, and has a warm, smiley red face and a glass of wine by his side.

‘Don’t get up,’ I smile, ‘Poops looks so comfy. I’m Lucy, daughter eldest.’ I lean in to kiss Bert’s soft, soapy-smelling cheek.

‘And ugliest,’ Mary adds. Bert chuckles.

‘Lovely to meet you, Lucy, your Mum’s told me lots about you, our budding entrepreneur.’

I jolt a little at the ‘our’ mention, but it feels nice, comfortable and settled. It’s so nice to hear a unity of my mother and someone else for the first time. I glance at Mary. She looks warily at me. Bert misreads the situation.

‘Of course, who could match our little earth mother?’ he smiles, keen to play down my success and highlight Mary’s. I like what he’s doing. It’s endearing rather than annoying.

‘Did you know she’s taking another language course, Lucy? Claims she can barely speak English, but you should hear her Polish!’

‘Yes Bert, I’ve heard it,’ I say seriously, before Mary and I laugh uncontrollably at the memory of the confrontation with Kasia. Bert looks confused. Bless him – he has two boys and his wife died years ago. He doesn’t have a great deal of experience with girly ways. Mum bustles through, fussing around Bert like a mother hen. Pushing him forward to re-arrange his cushions – he has a bad back, apparently, and it’s not good for his posture to slump like he is. She informs him that tea won’t be long, does he need another glass of wine? This is the biggest shock. Mum having a boyfriend was nothing compared to this. My mother, feminist to the point of making Emmeline Pankhurst look like a Stepford Wife, is pandering over a man. Mary rolls her eyes, but I can tell already that me being back has made her see them in a new light. Mary and I appear never to have a real perspective on things until we both have discussed it; we’re two sides of a brain working together. She’s like a thirteen-month late identical twin.  

  And so a month flies by. I go to bed late, watching TV with Mum and Bert, hang out at Mary’s and with other family members and generally have a very lazy and relaxed time. I get the chance

to catch up with old school friends, something I never usually get a chance to do in my flying visits home. Walk over the footsteps of old childhood trails, along the beach, out to the cliffs and Auchmithie, a tiny, but beautiful fishing village. I trail for miles with Bobby, Bert’s son’s Jack Russell. It clears even the most stubborn cobwebs from the recesses of my head. Mike and I keep in touch, but the trip to Aberdeen never materialises. I don’t mention it again and neither does he. Then just before March, I receive a phone call from him. He has received a wedding invite from Becky.   

‘Are you going to go?’ I ask, waiting on edge for a barrage of abuse.

‘I might do. Be nice to go with you though.’

 ‘Why don’t you ask Mary?’ I play devil’s advocate. Mary hasn’t mentioned Mike again, but it won’t end there. I’ll keep trying.

‘Mary? Your sister, Mary?’ 

‘Yes. Why not? I thought there was a bit of a spark between you two,’ I answer. 

‘Nah, she’s sweet and all, but no, I don’t really see her in that way.’

 Oh. I’m quite surprised by this. My beautiful, bubbly sister is not fancied by Mike.

‘OK, well I’ll call you in a couple of days and we’ll discuss flights and stuff then.’ 

Maybe Mike is planning to be the one at the wedding who stands up to challenge the vicar when he asks should there be any reason the couple shouldn’t get married. I have waited with baited breath at every wedding I have ever attended for this bit. How exciting to have someone stand up and declare that, actually, he did have a problem, he wanted to marry the girl in question himself. But I guess that kind of stuff only happens in books or movies. It has no place in real life.               

I walk back along the Vicky Park to Mum’s. On the horizon I see a frantically waving Mary, rushing towards me. She picks up speed as she gets closer. Bobby strains at his lead in recognition, ready for one of his renowned sniff-fests. Mary reaches me, panting and brushing off Bobby’s attempts to slobber all over her.

‘Bert’s son is at Mum’s. He is gorgeous!’ she wheezes at me. 

‘No he’s not,’ I look at Mary in alarm. Jeez, is she that desperate for a man?’ 

‘No-ooo,’ she replies impatiently, ‘not Jim, Bobby’s Dad, the other one. You’ve got to see this.’ Mary grabs me by the arm and pulls me along towards Mum’s house, adopting a simpering manner before my eyes as we open the gate. 

Bloody hell, she’s right. What a fox! He’s as pathetic over her as she is over him. I drag her to the kitchen on the pretext of helping me refill the wine glasses.

‘You can’t do anything, what if he becomes our stepbrother? That’s sick,’ I shake my head at her, the second we close the kitchen door.

‘No, actually you’re the weird one. We have no blood ties at all, and I will happily race Mum to the altar if it comes down to it.’

‘But, Mike?’ I raise an eyebrow questionably at her. 

‘Mike? What your Mike?’ I nod. ‘No, Euw! Don’t want your sloppy seconds, thanks,’ and with that, she flounces out of the kitchen with two glasses, back to Drew the screw, as she’s named him.              

A few days on, and I’m packing up my things for my flight to Ireland the next day. I have had a great time with my family and friends but feel quite content to be moving on. Mum is settled and happier than I’ve ever known. Drew seems to be reciprocating Mary’s intentions for him. Well, if the fact I haven’t seen them for a couple of days is anything to go by. Still, Kasia will be bringing the kids back tonight, that’ll put a stop to it all. At least I’ll get to see my niece and nephew before I head off again, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. All the Ramseys will be congregating at Mary’s in an hour for the big send off. Mum books a taxi and Bert helps her load all the drink and foodstuffs into a carrier bag. Well, all the non-perishables that is, the other things will be packed into freezer bags, military style as the taxi honks its horn outside. Contrary to what Mary said, Mum and Bert are in fact a risk assessment made in Heaven – and just adorable to watch. We arrive at Mary’s flat to the usual noise. Many hugs and comments on how they can’t wait ‘til July for the grand Ramsey piss-up. I am so looking forward to it – it will see me through the first half of the summer season. The doorbell goes and I head down to answer. A very tearful-looking Kasia stands there. Josh and Jess shove around her, ignoring me in their quest to find Craig and hear his attempts to burp the alphabet. He made it to N last time, apparently.