Shopaholic and Sister
“Jess—”
“And anyway, I’m busy.” Jess dumps three battered cans on the counter, together with one that has lost its paper covering altogether and is marked at 10p. “Do you know what this is, Jim?”
“Fruit cocktail, I think.” He frowns. “But it could be carrots…”
“OK. I’ll take it.” She plonks some coins on the counter and fishes a crumpled paper carrier out of her pocket. “I don’t need a bag. Thanks.”
“Another night, then!” I say desperately. “Or lunch…”
“Becky, leave me alone.”
She strides out of the shop and I just sit there, my face tingling as though I’ve been slapped. Gradually the hush turns into whispers, which grow into full-blown chatter. I’m aware of people’s prying eyes as they come up to the counter to pay, but I’m too defeated to care.
“Are you OK, Becky?” Kelly says, touching my shoulder tentatively.
“I’ve blown it.” I drop my arms in a hopeless gesture. “You saw her.”
“She always was a stubborn little cuss.” Jim shakes his head. “Even when she was a kid. She’s her own worst enemy, that Jess. Hard on herself and hard on the rest of the world too.” He pauses, cleaning some dirt off his Stanley knife. “She could do with a sister like you, Becky.”
“Well, too bad,” Kelly says robustly. “You don’t need her! Just forget she’s your sister. Pretend she doesn’t exist!”
“Not as simple as that, though, is it?” says Jim. “Not with family. You can’t walk away so easy.”
“I don’t know.” I give a dispirited shrug. “Maybe we can. I mean, we’ve gone twenty-seven years without knowing each other… ”
“And you want to make it another twenty-seven?” Jim looks at me, suddenly stern. “Here’s the two of you. Neither of you has a sister. You could be good friends to one another.”
“It’s not my fault… ” I begin defensively, then tail off as I remember my little speech last night. “Well, it’s not all my fault… ”
“Didn’t say it was,” says Jim. He serves another two customers, then turns to me. “I’ve an idea. I know what Jess is doing tonight. In fact, I’ll be there too.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Local environmental protest meeting. Everyone’ll be there.” His eyes twinkle. “Why not come along?”
FAX MESSAGE
TO: LUKE BRANDON
APHRODITE TEMPLE HOTEL
CYPRUS
FROM: SUSAN CLEATH — STUART
6 JUNE 2003
URGENT — EMERGENCY
Luke
Becky isn’t at the flat. No one has seen her anywhere. I still can’t get through on her phone.
I’m really getting worried.
Suze
Nineteen
OK. THIS IS my chance to impress Jess. This is my chance to show her I’m not shallow and spoiled. I must not fuck this one up.
The first crucial thing is my outfit. With a frown I survey all my clothes, which I’ve strewn over the bed in the B&B room. What is the perfect environmental protest group meeting outfit? Not the leather trousers… not the glittery top… My eyes suddenly alight on a pair of combat trousers, and I pluck them from the pile.
Excellent. They’re pink, but I can’t help that. And… yes. I’ll team them with a T-shirt with a slogan. Genius!
I haul out a T-shirt that has the word HOT on it and goes really well with the combats. It’s not very protest-y, though, is it? I think for a minute, then get a red pen out of my bag and carefully add the word BAN. BAN HOT doesn’t exactly make sense… but it’s the thought that counts, surely. Plus I won’t wear any makeup, except a bit of eyeliner and some mascara and a translucent lip gloss.
I put it all on, and tie my hair into plaits, then admire myself in the mirror. I actually look pretty militant! I raise my hand experimentally in a power salute, and shake my fist at the mirror.
“Up with the workers,” I say in a deep voice. “Brothers unite.”
God, yes. I think I could be really good at this!
The protest meeting is being held in the village hall, and as I arrive I see people milling about, and posters up everywhere, with slogans like DON’T SPOIL OUR COUNTRYSIDE. I head to a table with cups of coffee and biscuits on it.
“Cup of coffee, love?” says an elderly man in a waxed jacket.
“Thanks,” I say. “Er, I mean… thanks, brother. Right on.” I give him the power salute. “Up the strike!”
The man looks a bit confused, and I suddenly remember they’re not striking. I keep getting this mixed up with Billy Elliot. But it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Solidarity and fighting together for a good cause. I wander into the center of the hall, holding my cup, and catch the eye of a youngish guy with spiky red hair and a denim jacket covered in badges.