in her bedroom later that afternoon, her portfolio open and untouched on the desk in front of her, Nell fidgeted. The vintage dressmaker’s dummy she’d found in the shop in Camden – the delivery had cost more than the purchase price – stood regally next to her desk, wearing a half-finished pinafore. Nell wished she hadn’t decided to add patch pockets; they were a nightmare to sew and she kept putting it off.
Sorting through some swatches of material, Nell tried to concentrate. Aside from the whirl of feelings that seemed to be paralysing her, her focus kept being splintered by crashing noises downstairs. Her mother, sorting through her cake tins, presumably to find the perfect size for whatever she was planning to create next. She sounded as though she was auditioning for Stomp.
Perhaps baking was like taking drugs for some people? Perhaps it dulled the pain the way alcohol or cocaine did? Nell couldn’t remember her mother baking as much as this when her father had still been around, but maybe she was mistaken. God, she needed her own place. She started as she heard a knock on the door. Luke appeared.
‘Hey. What are you doing here? I only saw you earlier on …’ Nell half stood up.
‘I was worried about you. Sit down, sit down.’ Luke came in and closed the door pointedly. ‘I’m on my way to my shift but I wanted to come and see you.’
Nell was touched. ‘That’s really nice of you.’ She sat down and gestured to the bed. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a spot on the sofa in my new pad,’ she added wryly. ‘The bed is the best I can do.’
‘Still gagging to get your own place, then.’ Luke threw himself carelessly on the bed, the way only a brother would.
‘Is it that obvious?’
Nell smiled at the sight of Luke sprawled across the bed. It reminded her of the old days when they used to talk into the early hours of the morning before their mum stomped down the landing and scolded them.
‘Yeah, it is. And I don’t blame you. There’s nothing like having your own flat or whatever, but it will happen, Nell. These things take time and you’re only young.’ Luke changed tack and cut to the chase, as was his way. ‘So. The letters to dad. I know you said that was an old one I picked up earlier, but was it?’ His tone was gentle. ‘I don’t mean to pry. I just want to know that everything is all right with you. I mean, I know why you started writing those letters to dad in the first place.’ Luke’s eyes dropped to Nell’s wrists.
It was involuntary, but Nell found herself rubbing her left wrist. The right wrist bore matching scars but the left was far more deeply scored. She was right-handed; it made sense. The skin felt gnarly beneath her fingertips, a stark reminder of her past. The old feelings came rushing back. Her mouth suddenly felt parched. That inner panic, the feelings of appalling fear and apprehension were swirling in her stomach, gathering momentum. She fought them, hard. It took a minute or so, but she finally gained control again.
‘I – I … honestly only do it now and again,’ Nell confessed. ‘Write the letters, I mean. And only when something is on my mind.’
She stared up at her noticeboard. It was covered with torn-out magazine pictures, vintage postcards and quotes by Chanel, Lagerfeld, Valentino. It was her inspiration board, full of her passion. Nell couldn’t understand why recently she wasn’t moved by it. She hadn’t been since she’d met … ever since … something had changed. She expelled air, wishing she could release the tension in her heart as easily.
‘What’s on your mind, Nell?’ Luke sat up and gave her an intense stare. ‘There can’t be anything going on in your life you can’t talk to me about, surely? This is me. Nothing shocks me and nothing will make me think worse of you. You know that.’ He reached out and touched her knee. ‘You’re my little sis. I’ll always be here for you.’
Moved to tears, Nell bit her lip. She wanted to unburden herself. But what could she say? That she had met someone? Someone who was not a ‘long term prospect’ as Ade would say, mostly because he spoke and wrote as though he was approaching a bank with a business plan, but someone, nonetheless. Someone she shouldn’t have met, someone she had no right to be with. Nell shut the words down inside. She couldn’t. She loved Luke and she trusted him with her life, but her woes weren’t any of his concern right now. It was Luke and Lucy’s wedding anniversary – hardly the time for Nell to be dropping her own rather unsavoury bombshell. And with Lucy most likely pregnant again, it felt even more distasteful to own up to her own, rather shady secret.
‘Another time?’ Nell offered weakly. ‘I – I don’t know if I’m in the mood for talking today. You go and enjoy your anniversary dinner. After your shift, anyway.’ She checked her watch. ‘You’d better make a move, hadn’t you?’
Luke stood up. ‘Yeah. If you’re sure. But you know where I am, okay?’ He bent and kissed Nell’s head. ‘I don’t want you to feel alone ever again. Not like you did before. You have me and you always will.’
‘I know that. Thank you.’
‘Okay. I’ll catch you later … I’ll be in trouble if I’m late for my shift.’
Nell watched the door close behind him. Luke was right. She didn’t need to feel alone. She had people she could talk to. She had her friend, Lisa – although Nell was fairly certain what Lisa’s reaction would be to her news. Touching her wrist again briefly, Nell tugged her portfolio towards her and re-read her assignment. She had a lot of work to do. She’d be far better spending her time doing that than dwelling on her love life. There would be time enough for her to discuss her relationship woes with Luke. She’d tell him next time she saw him.
‘The food was amazing, really.’ Luke took my hand across the table. ‘I loved the Eton mess. Loved it.’
‘Are you sure?’
I wanted to believe him, but I actually thought I’d burnt the meringues. Luke had (very sweetly) asked for seconds, but that was only because he had impeccable manners. Only an utter gentleman would have made such a furore over a couple of soggy bruschetta and a plate of over-cooked herby lamb.
I sighed. I had no idea why I had bothered to try and cook. Neither of us were drinking, as I couldn’t and because there was a chance Luke might have to go back to work. It might have helped wash down the terrible food I had cooked. I fervently hoped Luke didn’t have to go back. We needed this meal, this time together. It was our wedding anniversary and we’d both been so stressed about the pregnancy.
But, cooking aside, I had come up trumps on the gift front this time. I’d bought Luke an oak chopping board with ‘Antihero’ carved into the side which was a literary joke about his job. It had cost me an arm and a leg, not that I cared about that.
‘Aaah.’ Luke looked sheepish. ‘I don’t have your gift yet. I mean, I have a card and the gift will follow, if that makes sense.’
‘Oh. Okay. No problem.’
I admit it; I was taken-aback. For Luke not to produce a gift was unlike him, out of character.
As
