settle onto the sofas. In the warmth of the room, I find myself yawning, my eyelids heavy. It’s not even ten o’clock.
‘So tell me about the tenants. What were they like?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Joanna and her family. The renters. When you did the handover, did they seem okay? You know, not paperweight-chipping maniacs?’
Something passes over Fiona’s face. She inspects the stem of her wine glass. ‘Yes, they seemed fine.’
I know my sister. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Fiona …’
There is a good three- or four-second pause before Fiona looks up, right at me.
‘Listen, I’m sorry, but I didn’t meet them.’
‘What?’
‘I went over the morning they arrived like we agreed, but they were out – so I just left a note with my phone number. I planned to check in with them later in the week, but then things got a bit chaotic and—’
‘You said you had! You told me you’d met them.’ My palm slams the sofa arm, surprising us both.
It is just like my sister to not follow through with something that doesn’t directly benefit her.
In the bright overhead light of Fiona’s bathroom, I’m confronted by how tired I look – the bags beneath my eyes settling into dark bruises. I’ve learned that you do not say you’re exhausted to a mother of a toddler who has been parenting on her own all week.
I wash my hands, forgetting that the cold tap sprays water, which shoots over my top. I snap off the tap. Not finding any towels, I dry my hands on the dressing gown hanging from the back of the door.
I remember offering to pay for a bathroom refurbishment – back when my book advance felt like it might never run out – but Fiona had given me one of her lethal, haughty stares, and I knew not to offer again. In a way, I’m pleased. There’s a sense of comfort in the bath edge lined with shampoos and conditioners, the plastic ducks and toy boats spooling from a net suckered to the tiles; there are toothbrushes jammed into a chipped mug, a bowl of tiny bottles of shower gels pilfered from hotels. There are no hidden cupboards for toiletries, or woven baskets to house neatly folded towels. It feels lived in and there is something appealing in that.
I’ve often thought that people who know Fiona in a professional capacity – who are used to her straight-talking, razor efficiency – would be surprised if they stepped into her home. It is a valve, a little pocket of chaos to relieve the pressure of her exacting approach to her work.
In that sense, I suppose we’re opposites. My house is my sanctuary: uncluttered, ordered. Everything has its place – and that gives me a sense of security, of calm.
It’s the rest of my life that’s in chaos.
Moving onto the landing, I pause outside Drake’s room. His door is ajar and my heart lifts at the thought of his little pyjama-clad body, the biscuit smell of his neck, the light raspy sound of his snores. It is so tempting to slip into the room, check his blanket, make sure he has his comforter by his hand – but I daren’t risk waking him. It took Fiona an hour to get him down and I don’t want to experience her wrath at being dragged to her feet again.
The room opposite is Fiona’s study, which is lit by a desk lamp. It is the boxroom in the house – the would-be-nursery, if Fiona would entertain the idea of another child (she won’t). Her desk is swamped beneath a sea of papers, notebooks and articles, a computer screen floating above the flotsam.
For years, Fiona worked as a journalist in London, writing ground-breaking exposé pieces about industry professionals. She went after those men and women like a hound following a scent, uncovering illegal fund transfers, tax evasion or any whiff of inequality towards staff. The work appealed to her exacting sense of fairness and she thrived in an industry with punishing hours and high pressure.
Moving to Cornwall and having a baby was not so much a change of direction, but the squealing of brakes, the burn of tyres on tarmac, a vehicle sliding out into a U-turn. It was impossible to do both; her job was driven by contacts, interviews, sources – all of which needed to happen in London.
Fiona’s work has always been central to her identity, so Bill and I were pleased when, on the evening of Drake’s first birthday, as party plates were being stacked, Fiona announced that she was going to set up as a freelance copywriter.
Now her working hours are defined by seeking out the perfect word, a crisp turn of phrase to appeal to customers, to draw them to a brand. A pin board is tacked to the wall above her desk, filled with briefs, images, and guidelines about a client’s specific language choices. In the middle of it all, there is a postcard. I recognise my own handwriting. You are so fearless, so talented, that I KNOW you’ll succeed. May Cutting Edge Copy fly!
I smile, touched that my sister keeps this note pinned above her work station.
Behind me, there is the creak of floorboards. ‘Not quite a sea view, is it?’ Fiona is standing in the doorway.
‘I love it in here.’
‘What are you looking at?’
‘You kept this postcard I sent you.’
‘Did I? I’d forgotten it was there.’
Then, from behind Fiona, there comes a wail. ‘Mummy!’
The front door opens, and Bill loafs into the house, a rush of cold air chasing after him.
He throws down a holdall, slinging his suit jacket over the top. His shirt is undone at the collar, tie removed.
‘Hey, aren’t you that famous author?’ He beams at his old joke, then opens his arms, shirt straining across his barrel chest. ‘Thought I spotted your car.’
As we hug, I catch the scent of car air-freshener and mints – and the subtle hint of cigarette smoke, too. Fiona banned him from smoking when she gave up six years ago, but we all know Bill likes the occasional secret cigarette. As does Fiona.
‘They taste better smoked in secret,’ Fiona had once explained. ‘Makes us feel as if we’re living dangerously.’
‘So where’s that gorgeous sister of yours?’
‘Upstairs. Drake woke.’
‘Ah.’ He glances at the takeaway menu on the side. ‘Fiona’s been cooking you lavish meals again?’
‘Makes a wonderful korma. Sorry, we didn’t know you’d be back early. We’d have saved you some.’
‘All I need,’ Bill says, moving into the kitchen, me following, ‘is one of these.’ He pulls a bottle of beer from the fridge, twists the cap free, and clinks the neck of it against my wine glass. ‘Cheers. To the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ I agree, although I don’t share his buzz. Tomorrow I’m delivering an author talk at the local library and know I won’t relax fully until it
