being with the little ones. I wish they’d have a bit more independence sometimes, though.’
‘Like you said to me, it’ll get easier. You’ll have them whipped into shape by the summer. They’re used to being mollycoddled at home, that’s all. Come on, you’ll feel better after a glass of wine,’ she chivvies. ‘And at least there’s no alarm going off at some ungodly hour in the morning, so let’s put a film on and forget about work. I’ve got a Toblerone in the cupboard, too, if you fancy a few little triangular pieces of heaven?’
‘Mmmmm.’ My mouth waters at the thought. Toblerone. My favourite. ‘That sounds amazing. What do you want to watch?’
It’s a ridiculous, pointless question. We’ve watched the same film every Friday night for the past three months.
‘Ooh, let me think,’ Issy replies sarcastically, putting the tip of her index finger to the corner of her lips, as though there’s actually a decision to be made here. Her nails are coated in black polish and there’s not a single chip to be seen. Typical: Immaculate Issy. After a brief, yet dramatic, pause, she announces ‘Frozen!’
I pull the shiny rectangular DVD case from the boxy Ikea bookcase as Issy snuggles into the corner of the settee, pulling the chocolate-brown throw over her knees in an attempt to get cosy, because when it comes to frostiness, 24 Cardigan Close can easily rival an icy Arendelle. Brr!
*
By the time Hans and Anna are capturing the brilliant white moon in their hands as they dance beneath the waterfall, Issy and I are both decidedly more relaxed. A second bottle of red wine’s been opened and all that remains of the chocolate is the iconic triangular prism box and a screwed-up ball of silver foil strewn on the table. The cares of the week are slowly slipping away; the weekend has truly arrived.
Until the doorbell rings, rudely interrupting the peace.
Issy groans. ‘Can’t we leave it?’ I know there’s no way on earth she’ll get up from that settee; she’s set up camp for the night. Begrudgingly, I inch myself into a standing position while she chunters on. ‘Who calls unannounced on a Friday night anyway?’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It must be important.’
‘Or one of those door-to-door charity collectors.’
A ferocious banging follows, five loud knocks that it would be impossible to ignore.
‘That’d have to be one desperate charity collector.’
I pull my dressing gown more tightly around my waist as I reach for my key from the small hook on the back of the door. The knocking continues, louder and more frantic than before, followed by a voice.
‘Mon! Mon! It’s me!’
The desperation in the high-pitched cries urge me into action. The voice is instantly identifiable. I fling the door open and my sister stumbles over the threshold, a bulging black sports bag slung over her shoulder and a wheelie suitcase by her side. Her face is deathly pale in stark contrast to her chocolate-brown hair, and her cheeks are stained with the snail-trail tracks of tears.
‘Hope! What’s going on?’
I’m shocked at the state of her. Actually, I’m beyond shocked. I’m not used to seeing my older sister like this. Hope’s always been the stronger of the two of us, the one with the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude and a permanent look of disdain waiting in the wings to throw at anything or anyone she considers beneath her. But right now she looks fragile and vulnerable, like a frightened kitten in a thunderstorm.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Hope sobs. Her long, dark hair falls in front of her face as she hunches forwards, a protective veil to hide behind. I know the trick; I’ve used it myself.
‘Start at the beginning.’ I try to keep my voice calm, although inside I’m flailing. Placing my hand on my sister’s back, I gently guide her into the living room. Hans and Anna are no longer singing about love being an open door. Issy’s pressed the pause button at an inopportune moment; the close-up shot of the princess showing her eyes closed and her face contorted. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s Amara,’ Hope says finally, before looking up and locking her bleary, bloodshot eyes with mine. ‘She’s thrown me out. She said she’s had enough of me pressurising her into telling her parents the truth.’ She pauses for breath, gulping the air. ‘I’ve been patient, haven’t I, Mon? It’s been four years now, but she still won’t admit to her parents that we’re a couple. Four years! I’m sick of moving my stuff into the spare room every time they come over, pretending we’re just best friends sharing a flat.’ Her shoulders judder as the tears start to fall. ‘All I want is for her to be honest. I don’t want to have to hide any more.’
‘What exactly did she say?’ Issy interjects, moving to the edge of her seat. ‘Do you think she means it? Or is she just angry at the situation and taking it out on you?’
‘Oh, she means it alright,’ Hope answers with a bitter laugh. ‘She’s ashamed to be with me. Her parents are coming up from London tomorrow and when I told her I thought it was time to come clean, she said that’d be ‘impossible’.’ Hope raises her hands, wiggling her fingers to indicate quotation marks. It’s a move full of pain-drenched sarcasm. ‘When I said I was sick of her pulling all the strings in our relationship, fed up of it being fine to hold her hand when we’re clubbing on a Saturday night or walking around Endcliffe Park on a Sunday morning but having to outright lie when it comes to her family… she said she couldn’t lie any longer either. She handed me my bag, told me it was over and ordered I pack and leave.’
Issy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and when she speaks her tone is disbelieving. ‘And you did it without a fuss? I’m sorry, Hope, but that doesn’t sound like the feisty girl I know. She wouldn’t give up and walk out on the love of her life.’
‘Can’t you see? It’s because I love her! That’s why I’ve gone. If Amara can’t tell her family that we’ve been in a relationship, then what’s the point in being together anyway? I know I’m lucky. Mum was fine with me being gay, once she got her head around it. Amara’s parents aren’t like that. They’re always on at her to find a nice young man and provide them with grandchildren. If she tells them she’s gay, they’ll probably disown her.’
‘But even if she’s not with you, she’s still going to be gay,’ I reason. I hand her my glass, thinking a sip of alcohol might calm her down. ‘She’s not going to suddenly start lusting over Daniel Craig just because you’ve moved out. So she’ll still be lying to them either way.’
Hope winces as she sips the Merlot and it’s only then I remember she’s never been a fan of red wine, much preferring a crisp glass of refreshing Pinot Grigio. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.
‘I know,’ Hope answers resignedly. ‘But it’s easier for her to call an end to it than tell them the truth. If she’s on her own, she can make up excuses and fob off the questions. She’ll say she’s not found the right person yet or that she wants to travel or concentrate on her career. That’ll be more acceptable to her family than the reality.’
‘Concentrating on a career,’ I snort. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’
I grind my teeth, determined not to make this about me, but it’s touched a nerve. I feel brittle, fragile. It comes over me like this every so often, and
