She looks radiant standing in the doorway with the peachy light reflecting off her long wavy hair, the early-evening sky a vivid orange wash behind her. Near the roots Connie’s hair is the same dark shade it’s always been, but the ends are dip-dyed a vibrant peacock blue. Last week they’d been scarlet. Colour suits her, but I wonder if this constant reinvention is a sign that Connie isn’t sure who she wants to be. She’s like a teenager playing around with her image to see what suits her best. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to change, that she’s already incredible as she is, but know that even if I did she’d only play down my words as I did with Issy’s.
‘Hi!’ we exclaim in unison, embracing each other in a warm, squishy hug.
The weekend was about to begin, and it couldn’t start soon enough.
*
‘I do love The Lion King,’ Connie says with gusto as the disc whirrs to life in the DVD player. ‘It’s got so many catchy tunes. That’s why when you invited me to join the Singalong Society it was the perfect choice. I can’t believe how long it is since I last saw it.’ Her eyes sparkle with anticipation, full of a childlike fervour.
‘It’s for kids,’ Hope says derisively. ‘I doubt there are any other groups of twenty-somethings spending their Friday nights watching cartoons. I’m telling you now, next week we’re moving on to a real film. I’ve had enough saccharine Disney to last me a lifetime.’ Her eyes narrow as she chunters on, her grudge against Walt and his successors in full swing. ‘All that sappy ‘happily ever after’ piffle,’ she tuts. ‘It bears no resemblance to real life.’
‘Disney isn’t just for kids,’ I answer defensively. Hope dissing Disney feels almost like a personal insult. ‘It’s for all ages. There’s always a serious issue buried under the princesses and castles.’
Hope doesn’t look convinced.
‘This one was based on Hamlet, you know,’ I continue, gesturing towards the TV. ‘And no one would dare to call Shakespeare piffle. He’s the greatest playwright that ever lived.’ I pause, grabbing a fistful of salty peanuts from the small topaz-blue bowl on the coffee table that divides the room in two. Suddenly I’m starving. ‘There’s a reason he’s on every exam syllabus going, why his work will always be a key component of any literature course. He’s a storyteller, pure and simple. One of the best that’s ever lived.’
I pop a pinch of peanuts into my mouth, crushing them between my teeth with a satisfying crunch. The burst of flavour dances across my taste buds.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. We all know you’re a geek when it comes to this kind of thing.’
Her dismissive words are softened by the affection written on her face. Hope had never understood my love of literature. In fact, Hope probably couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a novel, whereas I constantly had at least one book on the go, usually more. It was another reminder of how different the two of us are, yet the bond between us has always been undeniably strong despite that. We’re tight. Unbreakable. Just as sisters should be.
‘Keep an open mind about this one, please?’ I beg.
I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel under pressure to ensure tonight works out as planned. It’s not just the four of us getting together to watch a film, it’s a chance for us to take control. Plus, as the inaugural meeting of The Singalong Society for Singletons, it has to go smoothly. The whole point of the thing is to inject some joy back into our lives.
‘Well, I’ve not seen it since I was about ten, so maybe I can be won over. But don’t hold your breath. I’m a tough nut to crack.’
A piracy warning flashes onto the screen, signalling the film’s about to start.
‘And don’t we know it,’ I reply boldly, poking out my tongue in retort.
Issy tries and fails to stifle a giggle as she pours the contents of a share-sized bag of cheese and chive crisps into a bowl, whilst Connie looks impassively at the floor to avoid getting involved. Typical.
‘It’s my choice of film next week,’ Issy says. ‘I’ll be sure to choose something that isn’t animated, if it means that much to you.’
‘Ssh,’ I hiss in a stage-whisper. ‘It’s starting.’
The rousing opening note of ‘The Circle of Life’ roars from the television causing each of us to sit straighter in our seats. Captivated by the power of the Zulu chanting and the sun rising over the desert, we settle down, prepared to be transported to Africa via a cute little lion cub and a soundtrack full of belting songs.
*
‘Aww, look at baby Simba! He’s petrified!’ Issy exclaims as the future king is held aloft in the showy presentation ceremony. ‘Bless his little cotton socks. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’
‘If we knew what was going to happen in life, we’d all look like that,’ Hope answers, wearing a grim expression. ‘It’s no wonder babies cry all the time. All that lies ahead of them is a lifetime of slogging their guts out at work, trying to please other people, and being shat on from a great height by people who said they’d love them forever.’ She frowns and I frown back at her. After everything Issy’s just said, she has to start talking about babies. Sometimes Hope’s mouth runs away without her brain.
Hope turns away, offended by the insinuation in my look, and I’m instantly ashamed of being so hard on her. She might be abrasive, but my sister wouldn’t purposefully hurt someone.
Poor Hope. She’s done her fair share of feeling sorry for herself during her first week at the house. It’s all been textbook behaviour for the broken-hearted – listening to sad love songs on repeat, pigging out on extra-large bars of Galaxy and moodily sulking around the place in her tartan flannel pyjamas. I know the drill, I’ve been living it myself for long enough.
‘Pause it a minute,’ Hope says quietly, opening the door to the square of carpet at the bottom of the stairs that we optimistically refer to as the hall. ‘My bladder’s about to burst and it’s better to stop the film now before it gets going.’
No one dares mention the tears that are brimming in her eyes – we’re all well aware that Hope hates to appear anything less than rock solid. She’s spent her whole life coming across as strong and dependable, so I can only imagine how hard it is for her now, trying to keep up that front when she’s so obviously crumbling.
‘And I’m going to get some more nibbles,’ Issy says, pushing herself up off the sofa. ‘That glass of wine has gone right to my head. I need something to soak it up.’
‘There’s some kale crisps in my bag,’ Connie offers. In Connie’s mind this is a generous proposition, in Issy’s less so. ‘If you want something a bit less fatty, I mean. They don’t taste the same as normal crisps, but they’re much better for you. Feel free to help yourself.’
She tries to hide it, but I spy Issy’s eye roll. She’s not the type to buy into these faddish foodie fashions. If she wants crisps, she wants actual crisps, made from glorious carbohydrate-riddled potatoes and full of saturated fat that’ll fuzz up her arteries. Like me, Issy believes junk food is one of life’s guilty pleasures. And Friday nights definitely call for junk food, no two ways about it. ‘We could always get take-away?’ she suggests hopefully. ‘I’m sure the Indian down the road put a flyer through the
