Stella lay with her eyes open. Jack was fast asleep next to her. She’d heard her mother say she was taking the dog for a walk about ten minutes ago. Downstairs Gus and Sonny were intermittently shouting so must be locked in some battle on their phones and she could hear American-accented talking blaring out of the TV which could have been Amy or Rosie’s doing, or both.
So, when she heard the sound of tiptoeing on the landing Stella sat up intrigued. Even more so when the door to the attic staircase creaked open. Someone was trying to be super quiet and failing as the hinges whined and the staircase squeaked.
Stella got out of bed, pulled on a vest and denim shorts, then went to have a peek out of the bedroom door at what was going on.
Amy was creeping really slowly up the attic stairs, the attic door not shut due to the loud creaking.
Stella ducked out of her bedroom and crept across the landing. Downstairs Sonny shouted something that made her jump.
She paused and frowned, wondering why she was tiptoeing, then marched up the stairs. ‘What are you doing up here?’
Amy froze by a packing box like a thief caught red-handed. ‘Nothing,’ she said, immediately defensive.
The attic was sauna hot. A cracked, dusty window in the eaves drank in the sun like a spotlight. The wooden beams above them almost pulsed with heat. The fluffy yellow insulation oppressive like an overstuffed winter duvet. Stella could hardly breathe. ‘It’s unbelievable up here.’ She fanned herself with her hand and tied her hair back with a band on her wrist.
Amy stood with her fingers tapping restlessly on the packing box.
‘What’s in there?’ Stella asked.
‘Nothing.’ Amy shrugged. ‘Just some of my stuff.’
Stella went to say something then stopped. She glanced around – there were maybe fifteen, twenty boxes stacked up, all of them newer, more recently packed than anything else in the musty space. She realised that these must be the contents of Amy and Bobby’s house. She didn’t know what to say. She walked closer. She’d never thought about what had happened to their stuff. To their mugs, their vases, their books. And here it all was.
Amy turned away, pulling open the flaps on the box in front of her. ‘I thought maybe, if Mum’s going to sell the house, I should have a look. I don’t want to have to do it when all the removals people are here and it’s really stressful, right?’
‘Right,’ said Stella. It seemed to her like a strange thing to be doing amidst everything else that was going on. ‘Do you want some help.’
Amy shrugged. Stella weighed up whether that was a no or a yes. Part of her wanted to scuttle back down the stairs and into the easy cosiness of the bed, but she was pretty sure that if Amy hadn’t wanted her there she would have answered no. To say yes was more vulnerable. Stella decided that Amy’s shrug was a tacit agreement.
They worked in the heat for about an hour. Sweating as they unpacked boxes of kitchen utensils and old catalogues for sofa companies that Stella couldn’t believe had been packed but realising, the more she sorted, that it must have all been swept in at speed. No one in a fit state to sort out the trash. Or perhaps Amy not in a fit state to let anyone throw anything away. Stella paused, kneeling on the gritty wood floor pretending to sort some cutlery, hit by a rush of guilt that she didn’t know any of this. She hadn’t been here. They had been abroad at the time of Bobby’s accident. And her role as the outsider was so entrenched that even at Bobby’s funeral, she had felt like the add-on – arriving with her own new family as she watched her old family grieve. There hadn’t been room for them in the front row so they had squeezed in near the back, late for no reason other than cajoling the kids out of the bed and breakfast. The majority of the funeral had been spent trying to subtly distract a then five-year-old Rosie with Frozen on her phone. And after that she had barely got near Amy, a protective circle around her of Bobby’s surfer friends and her parents. Stella and co had milled around at the wake like distant cousins.
That whole period stood out in Stella’s head as a time that highlighted, no matter how many half-terms and Christmases they visited, just how isolated she would always be from her family. Rather, she realised, than a time her sister had been walloped by the grief of losing her husband. Stella’s judgements of Amy suddenly seemed so unfair when she considered what she’d actually been through, if she took a moment to absorb the fact Amy’s whole married life was here, packed up in twenty cardboard boxes.
In front of her, Amy pulled out a green hooded sweatshirt, the cuffs frayed, the colour bleached pale from the sun. Stella watched her hold it momentarily to her face, then sit down on a weird old rocking zebra that they’d been terrified of as kids and never played with. ‘I didn’t come up to sort it out,’ Amy said, holding the sweatshirt in a ball on her lap. ‘I came up because I couldn’t remember.’
Stella got up off her knees, swiping off bits of dust and sand, and went to sit on a leather trunk adjacent to the zebra. ‘Remember what?’
‘Enough of the good bits,’ Amy said.
The heat magnified as they sat still. A poltergeist of energy throbbing round the room desperate to claw its way out.
Stella frowned and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘What are you talking about? I thought it was all good bits.’
Amy shook her head. ‘At the time. But it’s all getting muddled. Stella, I feel guilty every time things are better. Like in London, I had this really fun time and I’m laughing and I want to stop half the time and go, “It’s OK, Bobby, it’s not better.” But it is. Sometimes it is.’ She folded the jumper on her lap, smoothing out the white, peeling logo on the front. She blew her hair off her face, then held it back with her hand. ‘At times I’m happier and I’m having more fun and I think it looks like I’m glad he died, which I’m not, because it’s really hard to be happy. But I don’t miss him as much, Stella.’
Stella didn’t know what to say. She felt herself staring at Amy, slightly overwhelmed by the realisation of what she had been through. By her strength. Stella had always seen herself as the strong one but actually she’d been looking the wrong way.
Amy tipped her head to stare up at the ceiling and sighed, resigned, ‘What do I do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Stella shook her head. ‘But I do know you can’t live the rest of your life in the shadow of a memory, Amy. The worst happened to you – he died – and you coped.’
‘Not very well.’
‘Yes, but you coped. And you will cope again.’
Amy looked back at her, eyes damp at the corners. ‘I’m afraid of being alone.’
If the zebra hadn’t been so small, Stella would have gone to sit next to her. Instead she reached over and touched her on the arm. ‘You’re not going to be alone. You’re going to have a little baby to look after. And believe me, that’ll get you out and making friends and whatever because you won’t want to be stuck in on your own. And we’ll all be here, just not necessarily in this house.’ Stella stood up. Unable to cope with the heat any longer she went to force open the window. ‘And don’t forget Gus,’ she said, struggling to unstick the years of dust gluing the pane shut. ‘He is the dad.’
Amy made a face. ‘He’s so annoying.’
‘He’s funny,’ said Stella, still struggling with the window catch.
‘He’s annoying,’ Amy replied, rocking the little zebra back and forth.
‘I think you’re too hard on him.’
The window finally gave way so suddenly Stella almost fell out. ‘Jesus!’ she cried, righting herself on the sill.
Amy laughed. Then she went over to join her, both of them sticking their heads out of the window into the fresh air. After a moment Amy said, ‘What am I going to do if the baby has Gus’s nose?’
Stella almost chocked on her gulp of air. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she said.
‘It is,’ Amy insisted. ‘It’s ginormous.’
Stella tried to stifle a smile. ‘I don’t understand why you slept with him if you find him so abhorrent.’
Amy glanced across at her, their faces nearly touching out of the tiny window. ‘Have you ever had a unicorn martini?’
Stella shook her head.
‘Well believe me, if you had, you’d understand. After half a glass you’d have sex with Shrek if he introduced himself.’
Stella laughed. ‘How many did you have?’
‘Three.’
‘Oh Jesus. Amy!’
‘Well, I was nervous. And it was all so weird.’ Amy pushed her hair back from her face then clipped it with a kirby grip from her pocket. ‘Do you really think this haircut looks nice?’
‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘It makes you look more grown-up.’
‘Old?’
‘No. Less babyish.’
Amy frowned. ‘Thanks. I think.’
‘What was the sex like?’
‘Stella!’
Stella turned her face towards the hint of a sea breeze. ‘Go on, what was it like?’
‘I have no idea,’ Amy said, taking her hair down again.
Stella smiled.
They both looked out at the sea, at a chugging fishing boat and the swooping gulls, the paddleboarders, and a family packing up all their clobber from a day at the beach.
‘I have a vague idea,’ Amy said.
‘Yeah?’ Stella nudged her on the shoulder.
Amy looked at her from underneath her fringe. Eyes a little sheepish. ‘I think it was really good,’ she said. ‘I think I remember really laughing.’
‘Yeah?’ Stella felt her face light up with surprise.
‘Yeah,’ Amy nodded. ‘Stella, I never laughed when I had sex with Bobby. I’m not saying I think that’s a bad thing. But our sex was really proper. Like … Candles and stuff. I think—’ she paused, sighed.
‘You think what?’ Stella was fascinated.
‘I don’t know. I wonder if either of us had enough sex before we got together. I think Bobby would have been offended if it had been funny. I’m not saying that Bobby and I had bad sex. It was good sex.’
‘Just not funny?’
Amy shook her head, then ducked back inside and slumped down against the rough wood wall.
Stella sat cross-legged under the window. ‘I’m having visions of Gus sitting on the bed acting out some kind of stand-up routine.’
Amy thwacked her on the arm. ‘Stop it.’
‘Sorry.’ Stella smiled. ‘So it was good, funny sex.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Or Jack.’
‘Equally unlikely.’
‘You’ll tell Jack.’
‘Maybe just the sitting on the side of the bed cracking jokes bit,’ Stella said.
‘Stop it!’ Amy bashed her again, voice whiny and faux-tantrum.
Stella dodged the hit. ‘I like that you had funny sex,’ she said.
‘I don’t.’ Amy flumped back against the wall, a shower of dust fell from the rafters. ‘Yuck.’ She moved her legs away, brushing off the debris.
‘Why don’t you like that you had funny sex?’
‘Because of Bobby. It does something. It kind of takes away from him. From his memory.’
Stella made a face, confused. ‘Seriously?’
Amy shrugged, then reached over to pull the faded green hoody back onto her lap. ‘I don’t want to be comparing people to him and it changing the memory of him.’
Stella sat forward so she could look her straight in the eye. ‘You’ve just sat here saying how ugly and awful Gus is, that’s hardly negating Bobby’s memory.’
Amy tipped her head, like maybe so. Then she held the sweatshirt right up to cover her face.
Stella reached over and pulled it away. ‘You have to find a way to stop this. Anything. Put him in a box in your head marked something like, “This was great – I loved this” and then pack it away. Know that it’s precious and you will treasure it. But put it to one side, and open a new box.’ She paused, stared with big sympathetic eyes at her sister. ‘You have to do whatever you can to keep moving forward, because life isn’t an either/or, it’s an is. And it’s OK to live it.’
Stella remembered Jack saying something really similar to her when they’d met at university. When she’d first fled her parents’ house. He hadn’t said it quite as articulately as she felt she’d just said it to Amy but along the same lines. Telling her it was OK to get on with her own life.
Amy was looking at her, tears she couldn’t hold back slipping down her cheeks. Stella squeezed her hand. Amy dabbed at her eyes with the hoody. Then after a second she smiled and said, ‘What’s an is?’
Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Please don’t undermine my supremely profound comment.’
Amy laughed.
Stella said, ‘It’s the now. The mess we’re all in; good, bad, OK, indifferent. Hot—’ She jumped up seeing something scuttle along the wall. ‘Spiders!’
‘Spiders!’ Amy shot up. ‘Yuck.’
Stella shuddered, brushing down the back of her top, and that was when she saw it. A tatty old cardboard box with the word STELLA scrawled in marker pen across the side.
She didn’t care about the spiders any more. Amy was still frantically swiping through her hair while Stella ducked down past the beams to reach into the eaves. The box made a trail like a sleigh in the dust as she pulled it towards her.
‘What’s that?’ Amy asked.
Stella shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ She yanked open the flaps. Then she paused, crouched, staring down at the shimmering contents.
‘What is it?’ Amy peered over her shoulder.
‘It’s all my medals,’ Stella said. Reaching in, picking up big gold European and World Championships discs with a red, white, and blue ribbon. Underneath were pennants and trophies. More medals. One in a scuffed plastic box for an Under-11 Regional Championships. There were good luck cards she’d never been able to throw away. A crappy teddy bear talisman she’d stuffed in her bag before every race. The clips she used to wear in her hair. Her Great Britain kit. Her goggles. Everything. Buried in the back of the attic. Never marked, “This was great – I loved this”, not treasured or precious. But saved. Rescued from the rubbish.
She looked again at the writing on the side. It was her mother’s.
Stella wanted to reach in and touch everything, hug it all to her. She owned nothing of her past and here it all was. Photos of herself on the podium staring back at her, hair scraped into a high ponytail, smile as wide as her face – looking like a cross between Rosie and Sonny. Stella felt immediate guilt for this girl who had tried so goddamn hard, for not treasuring it all and not keeping it precious.
Amy plucked the photo of Stella out of her hand and guffawed. ‘Look at you! What a doofus.’
‘Shut up.’ Stella bashed her on the leg.
‘Aw.’ Amy looked at it again before handing it back. ‘I was always so proud of you.’
‘You were?’
‘Course,’ Amy said. ‘Then you went and bloody left.’
‘Not forever.’
Stella looked at Amy, then at the photo, then back at Amy and felt suddenly as if she’d lived like a horse in blinkers. Trotting through life seeing only her way ahead. Perhaps if she had thought about what the knock-on effect of what happened would be on Amy, even maybe her mother – judging by the fact she’d carefully packed her stuff up in this box – she might have tried harder to nudge her way back in, kept pushing until her father relented. Or even if he hadn’t, she might have tried harder to see them all as individuals. Three people under one roof. Instead she had fused them all as one. All in support of him. The enemy was too strong a word, but as good as.
She wondered if that was what being controlling meant – trying to mould everyone to fit your vision of events, having to think less about whether or not you’re right.
Amy bent down and squished in beside her, fingers rummaging through the glinting box of gold. ‘Ooh look at your shellsuit!’ she laughed, yanking out a mid-nineties polyester tracksuit jacket with Great Britain stamped on the back. ‘Do you remember Dad had one of these, he wore it all the time. It was so embarrassing. And look, a matching bag!’ Amy hauled out the kit bag, bright red with the Union Jack emblazoned on one end from Stella’s first European Championships.
Stella, who was still a bit flummoxed by her own seemingly tunnelled-vision view of the world, laughed along as best she could.
Then her brain did a little fizz and she snatched the bag out of Amy’s hands. ‘This is it. This is the red square in the photo.’
‘What red square? Oh, in the Instagram?’
Stella jumped up, bashing her head on the roof beam. ‘Shit!’ she cried, rubbing furiously at her bump while waving the bag at Amy. ‘He has one. Always took it to competitions.’
Amy looked nonplussed, like she’d never seen it before in her life. ‘I thought he used to use one Bobby got him from a sponsorship deal.’
‘Not then.’ Stella thought for a second. ‘Has anyone checked his passport?’ she said, suddenly incredulous that they may not have done.
‘I doubt it,’ Amy said. ‘He doesn’t travel.’
But Stella was already heading down the attic stairs, bag in hand, Amy close behind.
On the landing they bumped into Gus and Rosie.
‘Oh my God, Gus!’ Stella stopped, hand over her mouth.
‘Don’t you think he looks lovely, Mummy?’ said Rosie. Gus had been done up and adorned from Granny and Grandpa’s fancy dress cupboard. An old skirt over his shorts, a strip of fabric tied as a bandana, a red cape, beads, gloves, a chiffon scarf. He’d been given the Rosie treatment.
Amy saw him and snorted a laugh through her nose.
‘Is that lipstick, Gus?’ Stella asked.
‘I believe it is, Stella,’ Gus replied, deadpan.
‘No one was playing with me, Mummy,’ said Rosie, hands on her hips. ‘And I said that Gus had spent so long with Sonny that it was my turn for someone to play with me and Sonny wouldn’t.’
Stella had to bite her lips to stop from laughing. ‘Well, it’s very nice of him, Rosie.’
‘I think he enjoyed it,’ Rosie said, very serious.
Gus folded his arms. ‘I’m right here, you know.’
‘That’s quite apparent, Gus,’ said Stella, grinning at his get-up and then walking across the hall to her mum and dad’s room.
Amy followed, giving Gus a quick up-and-down before shaking her head like she completely despaired of him.