‘So, are you going to tell him?’ asks Cherie, leaning so far forward I can see down her top. I avert my gaze, and think about the question.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly. ‘I mean, we don’t even know there’s anything to tell, really. It’s all just a theory.’
‘A good theory,’ pipes in Auburn, looking up from the magazine she’s reading. Dorset Life.
‘Yes, but still just a theory. What am I supposed to do – waltz in there and demand a paternity test? Plus, you know, what does it really matter? Our family’s always been weird.’
‘All the best families are weird,’ says Edie, looking up from her iPhone. She’s recently become embroiled in an online Boggle community, and is forever on the hunt for new and exciting six-letter words.
‘My family, for instance,’ she continues, putting the phone down on the table. ‘Well, my mother’s older sister and her husband died in the Spanish flu epidemic, so her children were raised by aunts, uncles, even friends from the village. There was no official adoption, or anything done through the courts – they just stepped in and took them. By the time I was born, I had two older sisters who were actually my cousins. The others went elsewhere. They lived in different homes, but all in and around the village, so they could stay in touch. As a result they had about five different sets of parents.’
Zoe is sitting quietly next to her, head buried in a book as usual, but she looks up at this.
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘That’s really interesting – and complicated.’
‘Yes, dear,’ replies Edie, patting her hand. ‘It’s not just your generation who does complicated. The films might have been black and white back then, but our lives weren’t.’
We all nod at this – feeling slightly told off – and make space as Laura approaches with a tray of drinks and salted caramel cookies. We’re having our usual end-of-day catch-up, and the whole café smells heavenly – Laura’s been making Bakewell tarts, and the aroma of almond is so thick you could lick it.
Mum is here with us, but sitting in bookshelf corner with Saul, colouring in. Katie has started a college course, and we’re all chipping in to help her out with childcare.
We’d lowered our voices when we were discussing Paternity Gate, so Mum wouldn’t overhear, but to be honest I don’t think she’s tuned in to us at all.
I glance over, and see her colouring book flat on the table. I note that she is very much not staying within the lines – which is par for the course, it seems.
I’d tried dropping the name Robert into the conversation the night before, asking if she remembered anyone called that. She’d screwed her face up in confusion, and stared off into the distance as though trying to recall, and then finally shrugged and said: ‘No, sorry – my poor sick brain must have blanked it out!’
Now, I’m used to seeing the way that Alzheimer’s affects my mum. The way it befuddles her, and leaves her searching for words, and lost in a jumble of memories that are only related in her own mind. I’ve seen the genuine pain and confusion it causes her, and the way she tries to fight it.
I’ve seen enough of it to know that on this occasion, she isn’t suffering from Alzheimer’s-related memory loss – she’s just plain lying to my face. My mum is one of the most honest people I know. She doesn’t care enough about normality or other people’s approval to lie for it – so this is quite a surprise. Also, something of a confirmation that Auburn might be on the right track.
‘What was he like, then?’ asks Laura, once she’s passed out the refreshments and settled herself down on the chair next to me. She’s had her hair trimmed, but because it’s so curly, it now just sticks out from her head like a dense, springy triangle. I want to touch it, and realise I may be developing something of a problem with feeling up other people’s hair.
‘He was sex on a stick,’ says Auburn, sticking her tongue out at me. ‘Kind of like George Clooney crossed with Negan.’
‘Who’s Negan?’ asks Cherie, frowning.
‘He’s the baddie in The Walking Dead,’ supplies Edie, the almost ninety-two-year-old. Of course. ‘He’s a very handsome man, but pure evil.’
‘Hopefully Robert’s not the same …’ utters Auburn, flicking through the pages of her glossy. She looks up, and glances around the table at us all. I’m dressed in my favourite black top, which I decorated with stick-on purple sequins myself. Laura’s face is covered in flour. Cherie has her Wonder Woman apron on. Zoe is wearing Cal’s cowboy hat, and Edie is in her usual beige cardigan with her neon orange Vans backpack still on her shoulders.
‘You lot,’ she says, wagging her fingers at us. ‘… would not cut it in the pages of Dorset Life.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Cherie, sounding offended. ‘I’m a well-respected local businesswoman! I could be in Dorset Life if I wanted!’
‘Yeah,’ adds Zoe, smirking. ‘We could be, easily. In fact, we could have our own reality TV show – the Real Housewives of Budbury Village.’
‘None of us are housewives, though,’ Laura adds, looking slightly disappointed that we’ve failed at the first hurdle in our bid for TV fame.
‘True – but we’re all very real!’ responds Zoe. We all like this compromise, and exchange a small round of satisfied high-fives.
‘Cal would love it,’ she continues. ‘Can you imagine him in front of the cameras? He’d be strutting around in his Levis, wearing this hat, laying on the Crocodile Dundee act, accidentally finding reasons to ride a horse topless …’
We all pause for a moment to give that image the respect it deserves.
‘And Sam,’ says Laura, sipping her coffee. ‘He’d be down at the beach, surfing and showing off all his tats, and throwing his hair around looking like a L’Oreal advert. Not Matt though. He’d be the stern, solitary one who only gets caught on film by accident.’
‘So would Tom,’ I reply. ‘They probably wouldn’t get him out of his camper van. He likes you lot, but he still isn’t keen on the social whirl.’
‘He’s like Matt,’ says Laura, grinning at me over her cup. ‘I bet he’s completely different with you than when he’s in public, isn’t he?’
Everyone is suddenly taking a keen interest now, as they’re all desperate for some titbit of loveliness about our relationship. I look around the table, and see a row of puppy dog eyes.
‘He is,’ I answer, smiling. ‘Completely different.’
They sigh as one, and look eager for more.
‘Well, for starters,’ I go on, ‘he dresses as a woman – including the high heels. Sometimes knee-high boots in patent leather. And he walks around Briarwood in one of those turbans made of fruit, like Carmen Miranda used to wear. And he has a fetish for bathing in mango smoothies. Honestly, the man’s a mystery to me …’
Cherie reaches out and swats me across the head with the magazine she’s grabbed from Auburn, and Edie cackles out loud.
‘Carmen Miranda! My goodness!’ she says, clapping her hands together. ‘That’s bananas!’
‘Seriously, though,’ says Zoe, nudging me. ‘How is it going? You seem really happy together. And now Auburn’s here, you at least have the space to see where things lead, don’t you?’
‘For the time being, anyway,’ chips in Auburn, looking thoughtful. ‘I’m due back at work before too long, so I need to make some decisions. I could come back for weekends, or I could look for work closer to here. I’ve been keeping an eye on job sites, checking for anywhere in the area that needs a pharmacist.’
I see Laura frown at this, and notice the look she swaps with Cherie. I know what’s coming, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I cringe a little inside, and suddenly find myself fascinated by the cookie crumbs on my plate.
‘But we need a pharmacist!’ exclaims Laura. ‘Right here in Budbury – how do you not know this?’
There’s an awkward pause after that, where everyone slowly realises that I’ve accidentally not mentioned this serendipitous fact to my sister, the pharmacist. That we’ve had several conversations about her future, and her role in our lives, without me ever casually dropping in the fact that our local chemist’s shop is currently uninhabited. In fact, I’ve distracted her every time we’ve walked past it, which I’m sure she’s now remembering.
‘Oh!’ says Laura, blushing as she knows she’s dropped a clanger. ‘Willow must have forgotten …’
Auburn folds her arms across her chest, and smiles. She smiles, but I see the hurt flicker across her face even as she covers it up, and I feel terrible. Why haven’t I mentioned it? Why am I still such a bloody control freak? Why can’t I just accept the fact that she’s back in our lives, and wants to stay there? Lots of questions, and no answers that don’t involve a hefty dollop of self-loathing.
‘It’s okay, ladies,’ says Auburn, going for cool as a cucumber but still sounding shaky. ‘Don’t worry about it. It seems I’m still on probation with my sister. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.’
Cherie gives her a hug. Laura kicks me under the table. Even Edie is looking distressed by this stage, which is absolutely unforgivable. I have breached the number one rule of Budbury life: Thou Must Not Upset Edie May. And, yeah, upsetting my sister feels pretty crappy too.
I reach out across the table, knocking the sugar dispenser over as I go, and grab hold of her hand. She doesn’t meet my eyes, but she doesn’t spit at me either.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, simply. ‘Honestly, I am. I’m so used to doing all of this on my own, it’s taking me ages to accept that I might not even have to. I’m clinging onto it all far too hard, and that isn’t your fault, okay? It’s mine. I’ve let my whole life be defined by the fact that I look after my mum – and she’s actually our mum, not just mine. I want you to stay. I really do. I might want to kill you at least three times a week, but I want you to stay. Forgive me? Please?’
Auburn stays silent for a moment, as does every other single person around the table. All I can hear is Saul and Mum chattering away in the background, and the gentle hiss of the temperamental coffee machine, and the sound of my heart banging away in my chest.
She squeezes my fingers, and blinks her eyes rapidly, and finally says: ‘Okay, sis. I can do that.’
There is a group exhale of relief, and I realise that I’m crying a little bit. So is everyone else, even Zoe, who’s normally tough as nails.
Just at that moment, Becca walks through the doors, pushing Little Edie in her buggy. She pauses. Stares at us all, with our leaky eyes and trembling lips, and says: ‘Oh God. What did I miss? Did someone finally break the news to Laura that Santa Claus isn’t real?’