on track. I’m clutching tightly to that thought. It’s been painfully hard having so little contact with Justin since Christmas, and I hate this feeling of being so distant. Going from inseparable to short, sharp emails and five-minute phone conversations has been like losing a limb.
‘It’s time’s like this I’m actually glad to be eternally single,’ Issy replies. ‘You Brown girls sure know how to get shat on from a great height.’
Issy hasn’t had so much as a one-night fling in the last eighteen months, let alone anything more. Drunken snogs are her speciality, but nothing ever goes further. She’s adamant she’s holding out for Mr Right, the man she’ll marry and ride off into the sunset with.
‘Well,’ I say, cutting Issy off before she says anything that starts Hope off blubbering again, ‘you can stay here for as long as you need to. The futon in the spare room’s not all that comfy, but you’re very welcome to crash on it. And right now I’m going to get you a glass of your own. Have some more wine and watch the end of Frozen with us. That’ll make everything seem a bit brighter.’
That set Hope off crying again. She’s never been an especially girly girl and in her current state, the thought of princessy Disney films was probably enough to push her over the edge.
‘I’ll need more than one glass of wine to get through Frozen, no matter how big it is,’ Hope says.
‘You make it sound like an endurance test rather than an animated film.’ Issy laughs, but not unkindly, as I move into the kitchen to fetch a glass. ‘It’s hardly scaling Everest!’
‘It might as well be. You two are bloody obsessed with that film. Even the kids at school have had enough of it now.’
Hope works with Issy and me at Clarke Road Primary, teaching the Year 4s. She never planned to go into teaching – falling into it out of necessity rather than a vocational calling – but jobs related to her degree in visual arts are few and far between. At least this way she’s able to use her imagination in the classroom now and again, even if there isn’t as much freedom as she’d like. Creativity’s not exactly a priority in the curriculum these days but Hope’s eye-catching display boards are always spectacular, a talking point with staff and pupils alike.
I peep around the doorframe, mock horror on my face at Hope rejecting my favourite film of all time. ‘Frozen’s not a fad, it’s a way of life! It’s a story of sisterhood and love for all ages. And it’s one of the best films to sing along to. There’s nothing like belting out ‘Let It Go’ at the top of your lungs to make everything better.’
‘Excuse me if I’ve not quite got your level of optimism,’ Hope mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
I can see her shivering from here, and I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’s not just her body responding to the chilly temperature in the house. Maybe the realisation that she no longer lives with her gorgeous girlfriend in a modern, city-centre apartment but is crashing out with her baby sister in what is little better than student digs is hitting home.
‘Anyway, I’m not sure the neighbours will thank us,’ Hope says wryly. ‘We’re hardly Little Mix, are we?’
‘Ah,’ I reply with a smile, ‘but that’s the best thing about living near the university. Everyone else on the street is a student. Most of them aren’t even back until the end of the month, and the ones that are will either be out in town or having a party involving something far more raucous than the three of us pretending to be Elsa.’
‘I think you secretly love it,’ Issy says breezily, attempting to stop Hope snuffling. She wafts a box of pastel-coloured tissues in Hope’s direction. ‘Even you’ve got to admit that despite being the bad guy, Hans is a hottie.’
Hope pulls a lemon-yellow tissue from the box, a rose-coloured fan appearing as if by magic to take its place.
‘I’m a lesbian,’ she states, in case anyone’s forgotten. ‘And even if I wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be resorting to animated characters.’
She blows her nose noisily into the tissue. It sounds like a steam train heading into a tunnel.
‘I’ve always had a thing for Flynn Rider,’ I admit, handing my sister the full-to-the-brim glass of wine I’d poured her. ‘I think it’s his chiselled jaw. Maybe if I grew my hair a bit longer and threw it out of my bedroom window I’d get someone like that to climb up it. Mind you, it’d take years to grow. It’s the one major downside of curly hair, every centimetre in visible growth is actually three.’ I finger a strand of hair ruefully.
‘I don’t think there are any Flynn Rider lookalikes wandering around South Yorkshire looking for plaits to climb up, so the slow growth of your hair is the least of your worries. Anyway, you’re not looking for a man, are you?’
‘I’m most certainly not,’ I reply brusquely.
Issy’s mentioned on more than one occasion that she thinks getting ‘under a man to get over a man’ might be a step forward, but it hasn’t occurred to me. I’ve not so much as looked at another male that way. I don’t want to, because no one else can possibly compare to Justin. How could they? We’ve got ten years of shared history. He’s my first love. My first everything, in fact. Anyway, we’re on a break, we’re not broken.
‘After what happened with you-know-who, I’m not putting myself out there,’ I say. I’m not sure of my status anyway, there’s no noun to describe someone who’s on a break. ‘I’m not ready to lay my soul bare to any man, not if all they want to do is trample over it.’
I’ve said these lines so many times that it’s a well-rehearsed speech, but the doubtful looks on both Issy and Hope’s faces make me wonder how convincing I actually am. Maybe I should say them with a bit more oomph.
‘Come on, let’s get this film back rolling,’ says Issy. ‘And is this wine mine?’ she asks, gesturing to the full glass sitting on the mantelpiece. ‘Because I can feel myself sobering up by the second, and tonight I plan to get very, very drunk.’
*
We’re all glued to the television screen as the tinkly piano starts up and Elsa sadly climbs the snow-covered mountain, her purple cape trailing through the snow behind her. Even Hope’s transfixed, although she’d never admit it.
‘I love this song,’ Issy says, pulling a cushion closer to her stomach. ‘Even though I must have heard it a million times, it still gets me right here.’ She points to the centre of her chest, pulling an over-exaggerated sad face.
‘That’s why Elsa’s so popular,’ I say. ‘She gives up everything to be true to herself and doesn’t give a damn what everyone else thinks. She’s a much better role model than the sappy princesses of old. She’s spunky.’
‘Did you seriously just use the word spunky?’ Hope shakes her head in disbelief. Her eyes already look hazy; the crying and the wine a lethal combination. ‘That’s cringe-worthy, no one uses that word any more. Plus, it’s one of those icky words that makes my skin crawl. That and ‘moist’.’ She grimaces.
‘But Elsa is spunky. It’s the perfect word to describe her.’
‘Whatever.’
The misfit princess runs through the snow-covered land singing about her new-found freedom and
