flesh between my molars, enjoying the sharp pain. I close my eyes for a moment and think. Then I write another update.
Bea Bishop is so so sorry.
This one feels right because I am sorry. Terribly, awfully sorry and this seems like the best way to apologise without having to deal with seeing anyone. Cowardly, maybe, but why change the personality trait of a lifetime?
I hit post but nothing happens. I hold the phone out, swearing under my breath as I fail to get a signal. I try kneeling up on the window seat and holding the phone up to the ceiling, standing on one leg over by the back door and crouching by Loni’s Welsh dresser. But there’s nothing. Cal wanders over and crouches down next to me.
‘Hey . . .’ he says, gently prising the phone from my hand and rubbing my back. ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea?’ His face is pulled into a frown and suddenly I see how tired he looks. His shock of curls has always made him look childishly cherubic – both at school and at home he seemed to get away with anything, which used to drive me mad – but recently his responsibilities seem to be drawn on his face like marks on a map. The frown line between his eyes is Loni. He’s constantly worrying about her being on her own. The group of lines stretching out from the east and west of his eyes are all Neve and Nico, a combination of laughter and exhaustion that they’ve brought since they were born two years ago. And the faint lines across his forehead are his job; they tell of each emergency he deals with and how he does it with humour, patience, urgency and passion.
‘What else am I meant to do, Cal?’ I ask desperately. ‘I need to let everyone know how sorry I am. I need to apologise for this mess . . . I need to . . . I – I need to . . .’ I start crying again and Cal rubs my shoulder.
‘Just give it some time, sis. Sort your head out in private. And more importantly, let Adam sort out his.’
I look at the screen. My unsent status is blinking accusingly at me. I’m torn because although part of me is desperate to make contact with the outside world, to pour my heart out with apologies, I also know that Cal’s right.
Why is it that every decision I try to make is always the wrong one?
Suddenly I’m aware of a doorbell piercing the silence. In a panic, I look at Loni.
She comes over, strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. ‘Let Loni deal with it.’
As she walks out of the kitchen, I pick up my phone and rush back upstairs. I run down the corridor that is painted a lurid purple and covered with photo montages of Cal and me. Dozens of them are packed into various clip frames. In every single one we are outside, on beaches, in pine forests, in the garden. Our skin is nut-brown, our noses covered with freckles, the sunlight shining through the lens in a warm filtered glow that comes from happy memories. There are a lot of Cal standing, hands on hips, dimpled chin stuck out, proudly wearing one of his Superhero costumes. I remember the Christmas after Dad left. Cal was five and he dressed up as Superman every day of the school holiday. It became a standing joke – not so funny when you realised his reason for it. Outfit aside, I think it’s what he’s been pretending to be ever since.
I pause at the end of the corridor in front of a display of recent family shots. There are more of Lucy, Cal and their kids than of Adam and me, mainly because – as Cal and Loni have never failed to remind me – we hardly ever come, came , past tense, home.
I can hear a faint murmuring of voices downstairs, but I can’t even make out who it is. I stare at the one photo of Adam and me and I remember it was taken six months ago. We’re sitting in the garden leaning into each other, my arms threaded around Adam’s neck, his lips resting on my cheek and eyes smiling into the camera. We’d just got engaged, and he’d insisted we drive to Norfolk and tell Loni and Cal in person. We were so happy. We look so
Bea Bishop is so so sorry.
This one feels right because I am sorry. Terribly, awfully sorry and this seems like the best way to apologise without having to deal with seeing anyone. Cowardly, maybe, but why change the personality trait of a lifetime?
I hit post but nothing happens. I hold the phone out, swearing under my breath as I fail to get a signal. I try kneeling up on the window seat and holding the phone up to the ceiling, standing on one leg over by the back door and crouching by Loni’s Welsh dresser. But there’s nothing. Cal wanders over and crouches down next to me.
‘Hey . . .’ he says, gently prising the phone from my hand and rubbing my back. ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea?’ His face is pulled into a frown and suddenly I see how tired he looks. His shock of curls has always made him look childishly cherubic – both at school and at home he seemed to get away with anything, which used to drive me mad – but recently his responsibilities seem to be drawn on his face like marks on a map. The frown line between his eyes is Loni. He’s constantly worrying about her being on her own. The group of lines stretching out from the east and west of his eyes are all Neve and Nico, a combination of laughter and exhaustion that they’ve brought since they were born two years ago. And the faint lines across his forehead are his job; they tell of each emergency he deals with and how he does it with humour, patience, urgency and passion.
‘What else am I meant to do, Cal?’ I ask desperately. ‘I need to let everyone know how sorry I am. I need to apologise for this mess . . . I need to . . . I – I need to . . .’ I start crying again and Cal rubs my shoulder.
‘Just give it some time, sis. Sort your head out in private. And more importantly, let Adam sort out his.’
I look at the screen. My unsent status is blinking accusingly at me. I’m torn because although part of me is desperate to make contact with the outside world, to pour my heart out with apologies, I also know that Cal’s right.
Why is it that every decision I try to make is always the wrong one?
Suddenly I’m aware of a doorbell piercing the silence. In a panic, I look at Loni.
She comes over, strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. ‘Let Loni deal with it.’
As she walks out of the kitchen, I pick up my phone and rush back upstairs. I run down the corridor that is painted a lurid purple and covered with photo montages of Cal and me. Dozens of them are packed into various clip frames. In every single one we are outside, on beaches, in pine forests, in the garden. Our skin is nut-brown, our noses covered with freckles, the sunlight shining through the lens in a warm filtered glow that comes from happy memories. There are a lot of Cal standing, hands on hips, dimpled chin stuck out, proudly wearing one of his Superhero costumes. I remember the Christmas after Dad left. Cal was five and he dressed up as Superman every day of the school holiday. It became a standing joke – not so funny when you realised his reason for it. Outfit aside, I think it’s what he’s been pretending to be ever since.
I pause at the end of the corridor in front of a display of recent family shots. There are more of Lucy, Cal and their kids than of Adam and me, mainly because – as Cal and Loni have never failed to remind me – we hardly ever come, came , past tense, home.
I can hear a faint murmuring of voices downstairs, but I can’t even make out who it is. I stare at the one photo of Adam and me and I remember it was taken six months ago. We’re sitting in the garden leaning into each other, my arms threaded around Adam’s neck, his lips resting on my cheek and eyes smiling into the camera. We’d just got engaged, and he’d insisted we drive to Norfolk and tell Loni and Cal in person. We were so happy. We look so
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