FOUR

But as I sit on the train down, I'm resolved that this time will be better. I was watching a

Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers,

and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this

little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us

life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.

So these are my resolutions for today:

I will not:

Let my family stress me out.

Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.

Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.

I will:

Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)

Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved

out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum

in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a

village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like

mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair -

although Kerry's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's — they're both wearing brightly

coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter,

I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I

feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can't wait to give

it to her!

'Hiya!' says Kerry, turning round in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round

her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Kerry

she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Emma! We don't see enough of you. Do

we, Aunty Rachel?'

'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.

'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the

fridge. 'And what about a drink?'

This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.

But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are

always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.

'They're over here,' says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything

around! It makes much more sense now.'

'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to

help?'

'I don't think so…' says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty

much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she

said M S! I couldn't believe it!'

'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.

'At the golf club,' says Kerry.

Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up

together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with

chums from the golf club.

I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules

about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack

because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes

with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit

the ball well: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged

glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.

'Sorry, Emma, can I just get past you…' Kerry reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.

'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'

'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously.

'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'

'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er… why?'

'He just doesn't seem himself.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look

right to you?'

I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.

Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked

just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around… What's the

difference?

'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'

Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got

the right sex. Do goldfishes even have sexes?

'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to

block her view of him.

'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.

'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for

another ten minutes or so.'

I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly

trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been

redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes

them regularly, every week.

Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.

'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.

'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to

historic cities!'

'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'

There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong

train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.

'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's

wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist,

plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies

office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young

entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.

'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'

'What?' I peer at him blankly — then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh

yes! Very smart.'

'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'

'Gosh.'

'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'

'Erm… forty?'

'Guess again.'

'Thirty-nine?'

'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he

adds.

'Right. Wow.'

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.

'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'

'I… don't know. Er… Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach

in my bag and get out a cheque for ?300.

'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his

pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two

feet!'

'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind

me, Emma — what career is it this week?'

When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer.

Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single

bloody-

OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.

'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'

'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'

There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev

simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they

groan again.

'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just…'

As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.

I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go

through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.

'Grandpa?'

Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years

ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he

has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house.

He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on

the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.

'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.

'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him

a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter

than it was last time I saw him.

'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely

addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my

allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.

'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'

'Where should I put them?'

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the

room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.

'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit

down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You

don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'

'Erm… hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I

absolutely have to…'

'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flickknives

roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's

eyes out…'

'It's not that bad-'

'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'

I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London,

he'd say five shillings.

'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'

Sometimes. About once a year.

'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.

'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what

to keep.'

'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're

throwing away?'

'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.

'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'

There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.

'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't

need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings

and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'

'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'

'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of

yours?'

'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the

yo-yo over and over in his fingers.

'Did you become friends?'

'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'

The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.

'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.

'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the

people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away… you want to hang onto any

memento. However small.'

'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my

expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'

'Frank Smith was a very good man-' starts Grandpa.

'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from…' I open

the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of Punch.' I

deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an

envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to-'

Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.

I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's

wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about

nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.

Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at

something. Just us three.

Just us. Before Kerry came into our lives.

I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen,

and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger,

drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to

me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And

at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be

very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Kerry. That was

why she got my room.

I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember

this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was too boring for

Kerry, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went

again.

'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Kerry's standing at the door, holding her glass of

wine. 'Lunch is ready!'

'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'

'Now, Gramps!' Kerry wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing

cases. 'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'

'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't

just throw them out.'

'If you say so.' Kerry rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'

I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.

We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is

Kerry's.

'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right

walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is "I am a successful

woman".'

'Show us!' says Mum admiringly.

'Well.' Kerry gives a false-modest smile. 'Like this.' She pushes her chair back and wipes her

mouth with her napkin.

'You should watch this, Emma,' says Mum. 'Pick up a few tips!'

As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are

sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to

side.

She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.

'I should be in heels, of course,' she says, without stopping.

'When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,' says Nev proudly, and takes a

sip of wine. 'People stop what they're doing and stare at her!'

I bet they do.

Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn't. I mustn't.

'Do you want to have a go, Emma?' says Kerry. 'Copy me?'

'Er… I don't think so,' I say. 'I think I probably… picked up the basics.'

Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.

'Kerry's trying to help you, Emma!' says Mum. 'You should be grateful! You are good to

Emma, Kerry.'

She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.

Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.

That's why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at

her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an

awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.

And she sent back a standard rejection letter.

I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.

'You should listen to some of Kerry's business tips, Emma,' Dad is saying sharply. 'Maybe if

you paid more attention you'd do a bit better in life.'

'It's only a walk,' quips Nev with a chortle. 'It's not a miracle cure!'

'Nev!' says Mum half reprovingly.

'Emma knows I'm joking, don't you, Emma?' says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more

wine.

'Of course!' I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.

Just wait till I get promoted.

Just wait. Just wait.

'Emma! Earth to Emma!' Kerry is waving a comical hand in front of my face. 'Wake up,

Dopey! We're doing presents.'

'Oh right,' I say, coming to. 'OK. I'll just go and get mine.'

As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I so hope

Mum likes my present.

'It doesn't look much,' I say as I hand her the pink envelope. 'But you'll see when you open it

…'

'What can it be?' Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered

card, and stares at it. 'Oh, Emma!'

'What is it?' says Dad.

'It's a day at a spa!' says Mum in delight. 'A whole day of pampering.'

'What a good idea,' says Grandpa, and pats my hand. 'You always have good ideas for

presents, Emma.'

'Thank you, love. How thoughtful!' Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside.

I had the idea a few months ago. It's a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and

everything.

'You get champagne lunch,' I say eagerly. 'And you can keep the slippers!'

'Wonderful!' says Mum. 'I'll look forward to it. Emma, that's a lovely present!'

'Oh dear,' says Kerry, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own

hands. 'My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it.'

I look up, alert. There's something about Kerry's voice. I know something's up. I just know it.

'What do you mean?' says Mum.

'It doesn't matter,' says Kerry. 'I'll just… find something else. Not to worry.' She starts to put

the envelope away in her bag.

'Kerry, love!' says Mum. 'Stop that! Don't be silly. What is it?'

'Well,' says Kerry. 'It's just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.' She hands Mum

the envelope with another little laugh. 'Can you believe it?'

My whole body stiffens in apprehension.

No.

No. She can't have done what I think she's done.

There's complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.

'Oh my goodness!' she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. 'What's this? Le Spa

Meridien?' Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. 'Tickets to Paris? Kerry!'

She has. She's ruined my present.

'For both of you,' adds Kerry, a little smugly. 'Uncle Brian, too.'

'Kerry!' says Dad in delight. 'You marvel!'

'It is supposed to be rather good,' says Kerry with a complacent smile. 'Five-star

accommodation… the chef has three Michelin stars…'

'I don't believe this,' says Mum. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. 'Look at the

swimming pool! Look at the gardens!'

My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.

All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.

'Kerry, you knew,' I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. 'I told you I was giving Mum a

spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!'

'Did we?' says Kerry casually. 'I don't remember.'

'You do! Of course you remember.'

'Emma!' says Mum sharply. 'It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Kerry?'

'Of course it was!' says Kerry, opening her eyes in wide innocence. 'Emma, if I've spoiled

things for you, I can only apologize-'

'There's no need to apologize, Kerry love,' says Mum. 'These things happen. And they're both

lovely presents. Both of them.' She looks at my card again. 'Now, you two girls are best

friends! I don't like to see you quarrelling. Especially on my birthday.'

Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Kerry

always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has done, ever since she arrived. Whatever she

did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to

her. I could never, ever win.

Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wine glass and take a huge swig. Then I find

myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about

trains running late. That's only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch

telly or something…

'A penny for your thoughts, Emma,' says Grandpa, patting my hand with a little smile, and I

look up guiltily.

'Er… nothing,' I say, and force a smile. 'I wasn't really thinking about anything.'

FIVE

Anyway. It doesn't matter, because I'm going to get a promotion. Then Nev will stop making

cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed -

and it'll be fantastic!

I wake up on Monday morning feeling totally bouncy and positive, and get dressed in my

usual work outfit of jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.

Well, not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the label says

French Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad I don't have much choice about where

I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one

cost ?7.50. And it's practically new!

As I skip up the tube steps, the sun's shining and I'm full of optimism. Imagine if I do get

promoted. Imagine telling everybody. Mum will say, 'How was your week?' and I'll say, 'Well,

actually…'

No, what I'll do is wait until I go home, and then just nonchalantly hand over my new

business card.

Or maybe I'll just drive up in my company car I think in excitement! I mean, I'm not sure any

of the other marketing executives have cars — but you never know, do you? They might

introduce it as a new thing. Or they might say, 'Emma, we've chosen you specially-'

'Emma!'

I look round to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me,

panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, and she's holding one shoe in her hand.

'What on earth happened?' I say as she reaches the top.

'My stupid shoe,' says Katie disconsolately. 'I only had it mended the other day, and the heel's

just come off.' She flaps it at me. 'I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster.

The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a terrible weekend…'

'I thought you were spending it with Charlie,' I say in surprise. 'What happened?'

Charlie is Katie's latest man. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was

supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he's doing up at the weekends.

'It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.'

'Oh right.' I try to find a positive angle. 'Well, at least he's comfortable with you. He can just

act normally.'

'Maybe.' She looks at me doubtfully. 'So 'then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit

while he was gone? So I said of course — and then he gave me this paintbrush, and three pots

of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.'

'What?'

'And then he came back at six o'clock — and said my brushwork was careless!' Her voice rises

woefully. 'It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder

wasn't long enough.'

I stare at her.

'Katie, you're not telling me you actually painted the room.'

'Well… yes.' She looks at me with huge blue eyes. 'You know, to help out. But now I'm

starting to think… is he just using me?'

I'm almost speechless with disbelief.

'Katie, of course he's using you,' I manage at last. 'He wants a free painter-decorator! You

have to chuck him. Immediately. Now!'

Katie is silent for a few seconds, and I eye her a bit nervously. Her face is blank, but I can tell

lots of things are going on beneath the surface. It's a bit like when Jaws disappears underneath

the rippling water, and you just know that any minute-

'Oh God, you're right!' she suddenly bursts out. 'You're right. He's been using me! It's my own

fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plumbing or

roofing.'

'When did he ask you that?' I say incredulously.

'On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation.'

'Katie, it's not your fault.' I squeeze her arm. 'You weren't to know.'

'But what is it about me?' Katie stops still in the street. 'Why do I only attract complete shits?'

'You don't!'

'I do! Look at the men I've been out with.' She starts counting off on her fingers. 'Daniel

borrowed all that money off me and disappeared to Mexico. Gary chucked me as soon as I

found him a job. David was two-timing me. Do you see a pattern emerging?'

'I… um…' I say helplessly. 'Possibly…'

'I just think I should give up.' Her face falls. 'I'm never going to find anyone nice.'

'No,' I say at once. 'Don't give up! Katie, I just know your life is going to turn around. You're

going to find some lovely, kind, wonderful man-'

'But where?' she says hopelessly.

'I… don't know.' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'But I know it'll happen. I've got a really

strong feeling about it.'

'Really?' She stares at me. 'You do?'

'Absolutely!' I think quickly for a moment. 'Look, here's an idea. Why don't you try… going

to have lunch at a different place today. Somewhere completely different. And maybe you'll

meet someone there.'

'You think?' She gazes at me. 'OK. I'll try it.'

She gives a gusty sigh, and we start walking along the pavement again. 'The only good thing

about the weekend,' she adds as we reach the corner, 'is I finished making my new top. What

do you think?'

She proudly takes off her jacket and does a twirl, and I stare at her for a few seconds, not

quite sure what to say.

It's not that I don't like crochet…

OK. It is that I don't like crochet.

Especially pink scoop-neck open-weave crochet tops. You can actually see glimpses of her

bra through it.