The One Before the One (6 page)

I kiss his nose and get out of bed. ‘You don’t mean that,’ I say, turning towards the window so he can’t see my smile.

We get dressed and go down to the kitchen. Post-coital, ice-cold Sauvignon Blanc being one of the book club rituals.

‘Do you know what I love about you most, Steeley?’ says Toby, pouring me a glass.

‘No, go on, what do you love most about me?’

‘You’re like a bloke.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, baby!’ he says, seeing my face fall. This time his schoolboy snort is a little irritating. ‘I don’t mean in the way you look – you’re foxy as all hell, you know I think that – I just mean in the way you are.’ He pushes me gently against the worktop and kisses me. ‘You have a rare gift for a woman.’

Our noses are touching now; I’m staring right into his blue, blue eyes.

‘Really? And what’s that?’

‘You’re able to compartmentalize things. Get what you want, when you want. You’re in control of things. It’s ridiculously sexy …’ He puts his hand between my legs. I remove it.

‘Stop that! You’ll set me off.’

‘Like, take a look at this. This book club. This little fuck club of ours, young lady.’ He’s putting his hands through my hair piling it on top of my head.

I open my mouth to laugh but nothing comes out.

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t orchestrate all this. This suits you down to the ground, doesn’t it? You schedule me in on a fortnightly basis. Three hours. Your house. Nice and tidy.’

I prod his stomach, look at him saucily.

‘Now you’re making me out to be some sort of cold fish.’

‘I’m trying to give you a compliment, actually. All I’m saying is that you’re not governed by constant, irrational emotion like most women, are you, Caroline?’

‘Oh God no. No, no! Never been like that.’

‘Not like Rachel. Jesus! She’s such a woman, is Rachel.’

I lean against his chest. The mention of Rachel – which doesn’t happen often – incites a sort of fascinated fear in me. Like I want him to shut up and carry on all at the same time.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I just mean it’s constant, you know?’

‘Constant what?’

Don’t dig too much. Remain nonchalant. Nonchalant and not governed by constant, irrational emotion.

‘Constant woman-ness with her. It’s
all
about her, Steeley. If she’s not spending the whole bloody weekend counselling some boring friend about her drama, she’s having a drama herself. Or we’re going to yet another do with the boring
Uni Girls, or yet another boring awards ceremony for her. Or she’s working, always working.’

I feel a stab of insecurity. Rachel is well-known in the industry for winning awards. When she first met Toby she was selling soft drinks and used to sweep the board at the Trade’s Awards, twice being named Sales Person of the Year.

‘Sex has gone completely off the radar, she’s not interested.’

‘How …’ I kiss him ‘… can that be possible when you’re such an irresistible sex god?’

He laughs.

‘She’s uptight. Doesn’t let herself go, like you. If we do have sex, it’s like something that’s got to be factored in to her tight schedule, something on her fucking endless To Do list, do you know what I mean?’

I shake my head. To Do list. Who would reduce their entire life to a To Do list?

‘To be honest, sometimes,’ he says, ‘I feel like an extra in the show that is Rachel’s life.’

‘Well,’ I say, slipping a hand under his shirt. (Must balance fine line between wanton sex goddess and only-woman-who-understands-him.) ‘We can’t have that.’

Toby cups my face in his hand.

‘Fuck me, I fancy you,’ he says. ‘What is it about you, Caroline Steele, that means that when I am around you, I just want to have sex with you?’

Our top halves are off in seconds, the bottom two of Toby’s shirt buttons sent skidding across the floor. Toby pushes me backwards against the fridge, sending magnets and papers flying. I cover his chest with kisses, his hair smells incredible, that shower-fresh, sugary, bakery smell, times about five hundred. I inhale as he pushes my hair back and kisses me, hard; on my face, my neck, my breasts. There’s the feverish undoing of belts, which is awkward since I am wearing one of those fabric ones and for some reason he keeps squeezing
it the wrong way so that my insides are getting squashed. Finally, after much giggling, I’m up against my fridge, naked, jeans around my ankles. A woman possessed. Possessed by a harlot in my own kitchen.

I want him so badly now. I drop down and take him in my mouth. His pubes smell delicious, clean, with a faint muskiness that sparks another explosion that spreads from my groin, right down my thighs.

‘Jesus, you’re good at that,’ he says, leaning back onto the fridge, and laughing, a sort of half-laugh, half-groan. His eyes are closed, his whole body rigid, except his hands, which are gently pushing my head, and his knees that are bending, along to the same rhythm as me.

‘Stop,’ he says, softly. ‘Stop. I won’t last two minutes if you carry on like that.’

Then we’re on the floor, he wants me on top of him and I happily oblige. I am possessed, again, by someone who writhes and swishes her hair and her hips, like a belly-dancer, there, next to the whirring fridge, as, outside, the birds break out into evensong and, inside, I think I might explode with desire.

We’re lying on the kitchen floor now – me on top of Toby in a breathless, sweaty, elated heap.

Then I hear the door go.

‘Fuck!’

‘What?’ says Toby alarmed.

‘It’s Lexi, she’s back!’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ I’m scrambling off him now. Toby’s spread-eagled, naked except for a large erection and the South Park socks.

‘Get up!’ I hiss, flapping my arms about.

‘All right keep yer knickers on.’

‘I would if I could find them!’

I’m flitting about the kitchen now. Toby’s standing, scratching his head and smirking at me. He thinks this is funny.

‘Right, you through the utility room and into the bathroom,’ I say, spotting my knickers scrunched up like a sleeping rodent next to the fridge.

‘What?’

‘Just do it!’ I push him, still sniggering through the door and kick his clothes in after him.

I hear Lexi slam the front door shut and call down the hallway,

‘Hel-lo-oh! I’m back!’

‘Just using the loo!’ I shout back. It’s lame but, frankly, I need anything that’s going to stall her.

I manage to get one leg in one hole of my knickers, as I hear her drop her bag on the hallway floor, then follow Toby, limping, into the bathroom.

‘I can’t find my pants,’ he whispers, rummaging through the pile of clothes.

‘Well, just wear your trousers then. You’ll have to go commando.’

I hear Lexi cough, dramatically, and drag her heels towards the kitchen. Just those two sounds tell me she’s drunk. Body combat class, my arse.

Then she’s hammering on the bathroom door.

‘Hurry up, Missus. I’m gonna piss my pants! Can’t make it upstairs!’

Toby’s buttoning his shirt, his face red with the effort of not laughing.

‘Won’t be long!’ I shout. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck it! How was I going to get out of this one now?

‘In the bath,’ I mouth to Toby ‘The what?’

‘It’s leaking out!’ moans Lexi.

‘All right, can you just hang on a second?’

‘Not su-re!’ She’s singing the words now, intermittently leaning against the door and making it bang. ‘There might be a little puddle in your kitchen if I don’t get in there soo-oon!’

Eventually, I get Toby crouched safely down behind the shower curtain, flush the toilet and open the door.

‘Ohmigodimgonnapissmyself,’ Lexi barges right past me clutching her crotch.

I hear the toilet cover go up, then Lexi sigh, heavily, as she announces. ‘Oh Lordy,’ over the longest, loudest wee ever known to man. ‘I fucking needed that.’

To be honest, at first I’m so relieved that Lexi didn’t catch me riding Toby on the kitchen floor that I forget to be annoyed that she’s drunk. But she is. Leathered, in fact. My little sister is totally pissed.

I managed to persuade her upstairs for a few minutes by presenting her with a pile of laundry, thus freeing Toby up. As far as she’s concerned when she comes down, he just emerged from the lounge.

Lexi stands, arms folded, giving Toby the once over.

‘So. Who’s this then?’

‘This is Toby Delaney.’ I’ve no idea why I give him his full title. Like we’re in a Jane Austen period drama or something.

‘Hello, Toby
Delaney,’
she says.

She’s wearing a black, stretchy minidress, pointy shoes with bows on them and a leather biker jacket. In my mother’s book this would definitely qualify as a look that says, ‘On the game.’

Toby’s sitting up on the worktop, hands clasped neatly in his lap in a gesture that says, ‘Do I look like a man who was just having sex on the kitchen floor?’

‘Hi …?’

‘Alexis,’ she says.

Alexis? Since when did she ever want to be called Alexis?

She pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down, stretching out her long, bare legs. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was flirting.

‘Cool name,’ says Toby. ‘So how was the body combat class? Back when us two old timers were young …’ Ha! He’s got a cheek. Less of the ‘old timers’ and the ‘us two’ thanks very much. ‘It was aerobics or step class. Everyone was lugging these step things about.’

Lexi giggles. A mixture of nerves and a certain thrill, perhaps, that a handsome, older man is talking to her.

She leans forward and rests her dainty chin on her hand so that you can see her perfect B-cups resting in a floral lace bra.

I check Toby. His eyes dart upwards. Caught!

‘Eh, so you’re that Toby off the photo aren’t you?’ she says, her accent even stronger now she’s obviously had a drink.

Oh, that’s great, that is. Now he’s going to think I’m obsessed with that photo.

‘What photo’s that?’

‘Brighton,’ I say curtly. ‘Anyway, hadn’t you better be getting a shower or something, Lexi?’ I glare at her but she ignores me or she’s just too pissed to take a hint.

‘It doesn’t do you justice,’ she says. She’s looking up at Toby from under mascara-smudged eyes. She
is
flirting. God, I could kill her! ‘You know how some people look better in a photo and some people take a rubbish photo but look much better in the flesh?’ she slurs on. ‘Well, you’re definitely the latter type.’

Toby laughs, flattered. I shoot him a look.

She takes off her leather jacket and puts it on the back of her chair, sliding it back from the table slightly. That’s when
I see them. Toby’s Tommy Hilfiger boxer shorts, caught under the front right chair leg! I look over at Toby. Had he spotted them too?

‘Thanks very much,’ says Toby. ‘If that is a compliment, which I think it is. It’s all your sister’s fault, anyway …’ He winks at me, which I respond to with a tight smile and cock of the head in the direction of the floor. ‘Shoddy photography.’

Lexi mumbles something but she’s already thinking of the next question. She has her audience and she’s determined to keep them.

‘How was the book club, anyway?’ she pipes up. (How much longer was this going to go on?)

‘Great,’ we say in unison.

‘So where is everyone?’

‘They left,’ we say, again in unison.

‘But they were here,’ I add, totally unnecessarily.

Lexi nods, uninterested, and looks around the room, her eyes finally landing, unfocused on Toby.

‘Sowhatsyerjob?’ she slurs

God, when was she going to shut up? I look again at the pants, the chair’s moved slightly now, so that more material is on show. My heart’s beating ten to the dozen.

‘I’m an account manager. I sell stuff to supermarkets the same as your sister, but I’m much better at it than she is,’ he says, to which I roll my eyes.

‘Wow!’ says Lexi.

Wow? She’s never said
my
job is wow.

‘So that must mean you have to do a lot of like, speeches?’

‘Present—’

‘—ations,’ he was going to say, but then Lexi kicks off her shoes, which land with a slap on the wooden floor, inches from the pants.

I see Toby do a double take as he spots them; his eyes
linger there for a second before he looks up at me, mouth open.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lexi giggles. Her eyes flit about the room and rest on the floor for a second. I clench my stomach muscles, hold my breath.

‘Nothing. Er, just saw the time, actually,’ says Toby, brightly. ‘I’d better get going.’

‘Really?’ Lexi’s face falls, her eyes drunkenly following him as he gets his jacket.

I’d normally see Toby to the door, catch one more lingering kiss before he has to go but I can’t risk it this time. Besides anything else, leaving Lexi alone with the pants could be potential suicide.

‘Good book club this week, Delaney,’ I opt for, lamely, as he puts on his jacket.

‘Best book I’ve had … sorry,
read,
for ages,’ he says, which is a joke he wheels out every book club. ‘Hope your head’s not sore tomorrow, Alexis,’ he adds as he’s walking out. I watch as he opens the door, closes it behind him and goes home to his wife.

Lexi goes to the tap to get some water and I immediately see my opportunity, grab the pants and put them in the kitchen drawer. She sits back down, nearly missing the chair. God, I think, I really don’t need this.

‘Lexi, are you drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Well, yes, you are, actually. It’s totally obvious.’

She rolls her eyes and gives a little teenage wobble of the head and I suddenly feel very tired. I’ve come over all black of mood and pretty miffed that she thinks she can just turn up here with her minxy little ways and flirt with my, my – what was he? – my lover? My partner in crime? My … well,
mine
anyway, that’s what he was. And I resent her making me feel like this, actually: a horrid mix of jealous big sister – a very unattractive emotion – and a nagging, joyless mother when she’s my sister and I just want to go to bed, go to work and get on with my life like I was doing before.

‘What happened to the body combat class?’

‘I bumped into a friend.’

‘Lex, come on. This is London. I’ve been here for a decade and never just bumped into friends.’

‘Well, I did, okay?’

‘And who is this friend? Is it a male friend?’

‘Might be.’

‘Is it that Jerome bloke you met on the train?’

‘Might be.’

‘Is it Wayne?’

‘Nope.’

‘Lexi, don’t be like that.’

‘I’m not being like
anything,’
she sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘And what was that flirting in aid of anyway?’ It comes from nowhere but it’s out now and I can’t take it back.

‘What flirting?’

‘Oh come on, Lexi, you were flirting like mad with Toby! Batting your eyelashes, kicking your shoes off.’

‘I was not! I was just chatting to him.’

‘Chatting? You were thrusting your cleavage in his face!’

She looks visibly wounded. I feel a stab of guilt, but not much.

‘That’s bollocks. And anyway,
he
was flirting with
me
.’

‘That
is
bollocks. You’re just pissed and imagining things.’

‘What do you care anyway?’

She had a point; why did I suddenly care?

‘He’s my colleague! I have to work with him.’

‘Whoopdee-do, he’s not your boyfriend is he? And so what if I have a little flirt with a nice bloke who’s who’s …’ she starts crying now, which seems a little OTT. I know I should probably hug her but I don’t feel like it, I just don’t. ‘Nice to me and asking me questions?’

I roll my eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Lexi. It’s not really that, it’s the fact you’re drunk out of your head and I’m supposed to be bloody well looking after you! You’re supposed to have come here to sort your head out and I don’t even know where you’ve been.’

Just then the phone goes. We both stare at it, then stare at each other.

‘If it’s Dad, I’m not in,’ says Lexi

‘You bloody well are.’

I pick up the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hi there.’ It’s a man’s voice – a man’s, not a boy’s. ‘Is Lexi there?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Tell her it’s Clark,’ he says. His voice is northern, rich, and really quite attractive.

‘It’s Clark,’ I say, flatly, holding out the receiver, but Lexi’s face darkens immediately.

‘No. No way,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Tell him I’m not here.’

‘She’s not here.’

Lexi has shrivelled into the wall, gone a dealthly pale all of a sudden.

‘Are you sure? Because I really need to talk to her.’

I hold out the phone to Lexi again.

‘He really needs to talk to you.’

Lexi shakes her head.

‘Tough shit.’ She’s really crying now, tears are streaming down her face. ‘Tell him I don’t want to talk to him. And while you’re at it …’ she stabs a finger in the direction of the phone. ‘Tell him to go fuck himself. I wish he, and you, for that matter, would just leave me alone!’

Then she runs upstairs, leaving me holding the phone, wondering what the hell all that was about.

I gingerly take my hand off the receiver.

‘Clark? She’s drunk and really upset about something. I’d call back another time, if I were you.’

‘I will,’ he says.

* * *

The next day, I wake up feeling irritated. Like if my life were laid before me it would all be in tiny little fragments, like nothing’s in control. Call me selfish, but it’s one thing agreeing to take my half-sister in for the summer but not if she’s going to come home off her face, taking out her boyfriend troubles on me. And clearly we can’t have the book club at mine if Lexi’s going to walk in any minute, so perhaps we shouldn’t be having it at all. Why did that thought suddenly fill me with panic? Anyway, I’ve got a big presentation to give to Schumacher today – if I play my cards right, I could seal the deal between us and Langley’s, meaning I’m in with a chance of Sales Person of the Year, and frankly, although I can already feel sisterly guilt breaking down my resolve like a hairline fracture, I can do without Lexi’s boyfriend dramas, too.

I take my To Do list from my bedside table. This is what I need. Nice orderly lines of writing, clear tasks and a chance to prioritize. I feel better already.

This is my Master list, I also have a Shopping list, a Must-see Cultural Events list, an Admin list, Presents to Buy list and a Long-Term Goals list.

I take my notebook out of my bedside table and set about updating.

At present, I don’t really care what’s wrong with Lexi, to tell you the truth, which I’m worried makes me the worst sister in the world.

I give her a knock before I leave for work anyway, just to check she’s still alive.

‘Lex?’

No answer

‘Lexi, are you awake?’

Nothing.

‘We’ll speak later in the day,’ I say, presuming she’s sulking. ‘I’ve left a cup of tea by your door so don’t, you know, step straight into it and get the mug stuck on your foot.’

I wait a few more seconds and when I get no answer to my moronic ramblings, I leave for work.

Victoria tube station is rammed with tourists carrying cameras and backpacks. It used to make me feel nostalgic when I saw tourists
en masse
like this; reminded me of a time when London was new and exciting for me, too, when Martin and I were fresh-faced from the cosy confines of the rolling hills of Yorkshire and everything and everyone seemed exotic.

Now I’m just one of a million other jaded Londoners who wishes they’d all bugger off, stop treating my city like a holiday destination and taking up space on my journey to work.

A train approaches and I curse the 20-strong team of rowdy school children blocking my way to the door. ‘HOLD YOUR BUDDY’S HAND!’ a blonde woman with no chin is shouting as the children shuffle, dazed, onto the tube. ‘And remember we’re getting off at Vauxhall.’

Vauxhall? Christ. Did I have to put up with this until Vauxhall?

The tube creaks into action and I look down from my spot jammed up against the armpit of a man who smells of fried chicken to see a pale, ginger-haired girl staring up at me, tasting the snot that streams from her nose with the tip of her tongue. This is what I resent most about the tube: the fact you pay a fortune to be subjected – totally out of your own control – to the most vile of human habits at 8 a.m. in the morning.

I eventually get a seat and ask myself when I turned into such a wizened, grouchy old woman. I’m sure I used to be
a sunny sort of a girl who took delight in the minutiae of life and gave selflessly to others. Or something.

Perhaps it was just that I was happier back then. Or younger. In fact, perhaps happiness is actually just youth. It’s funny, isn’t it, how your experience of happiness changes as you get older? When I was young, happiness came in bursts of unadulterated joy, moments that stuck in my memory like diamonds in a rock-face: a walk onto the university campus on a sunny October Friday, knowing Martin was coming to visit in a matter of hours; running into the sea, drunk on Bacardi in just my knickers on a girl’s holiday to the Costa Brava. (Now I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bikini even if I drank my own weight in Bacardi.) Driving through the Yorkshire Dales in my clapped-out Polo with Pippa, my oldest friend from school, chain-smoking out of the window. Where was Pippa now? Last I heard, she was shacked up with some builder in Otley, a baby on the way, and what was I doing? Living in London, the great flat, the big job and shagging somebody else’s husband. Oh GOD. It made me feel sick just thinking about it.

Yeah, these days, happiness to me is more like an unreliable weekend dad. You never know when it’s going to turn up, and even when it does, you never know how long till the next time.

Mum used to say: ‘You wait till your thirties, Caroline! Your thirties are the happiest time in your life because you’ll know who you are and what you want.’

Sometimes, I feel like that is the biggest piece of misinformation I’ve ever been fed. In fact sometimes, I get this feeling like is this it? Is my only stab at happiness over already?

Perhaps that’s what Toby feels like when he talks about his marriage. And I can relate to that; this is why I understand him. Because if grown-up happiness means knowing
anything
for certain, I’m about as far from it as humanly possible.

We grind to a halt at Green Park. I think about Lexi, tucked up in bed, no doubt brooding about life, about Clark, about our row last night. She’s probably sticking needles into a voodoo doll of me as we speak. Maybe this boyfriend trouble was why she dropped out of sixth form – I suspected as much the day she arrived. She probably thinks it’s the end of the world, too. It’s only when you get to thirty-two and look back that you realize it had only just begun.