The One Before the One (8 page)

Martin lifts his chin up triumphantly and I suddenly want to hug him.

The doorman nods. ‘They’re up on the rooftop,’ he says.

In any other circumstances, this would be awesome. When the lift opens, a vast, Colonial-style lounge area with white-wicker furniture and dark-wood floor greets us. In the middle is a tower of logs, supposedly for the wood-burning stove one won’t be needing during a London heatwave, and behind that, a low, granite bar behind which a girl with an Afro idly shakes her hips to an Ibiza-esque chill-out tune. I scan the clusters of white-leather chairs, where couples, legs entwined, enjoy what is, no doubt, an extortionately priced sundowner, but I can’t see Lexi. Then, behind me I hear Martin say, ‘Jeez, check it out.’

I turn around to see what he’s talking about – behind glass sliding doors, which have been opened, is the rooftop pool. It’s a tropical turquoise and set against the most breathtaking view of a London evening skyline, where cranes are silhouetted like prehistoric creatures and high-rise windows glow and flicker like the lights on a sound system.

Then, a high-pitched squeal of delight and a … ‘Don’t! Me bikini bums are gonna come off!’

My heart stops.

‘She’s in the fucking pool!’

‘What are you on about?’ asks Martin.

‘Lexi. She’s in the swimming pool.’

I unglue my feet and use all my strength to push the doors open. I’m standing there now, Martin behind me, taking on what feels like the whole glittering city, which opens out before us. Except it’s not the city I’m taking on, it’s my pint-sized sister. She’s flapping about in the pool with Tristan Banks.

Her jaw drops when she sees me. ‘Caroline!’

Good God, she’s inebriated.

‘Whashyou doin’ here? I didn’t know you were a member of Sawdish House.’

‘I’m not. I’m your sister and I’ve come to collect you. Now get the fuck out of that swimming pool and get dressed. We’re going home.’

‘What?’ She’s intermittently treading water and occasionally going under. I spot two large cocktails by the side of the pool. ‘Why? We’re having the best time. Sherious. Tristan’s in A&R. Tell ’em about all the people you’ve signed, Trisht. Hey, tell ’em about that night with the Kills and Kate Moss in that hotel in Miami. That was
sick
.’

‘Lexi, get out of the pool.’

‘Hey guys!’ Tristan (American, obviously) who’s been avoiding eye contact until now, swims to the side and lifts himself out in one slick move. He’s six foot three at least, lean, extremely hairy, and wearing a thick, silver chain around his neck. He gives a staged flick of his hair so that it lands, rock-and-roll style, across his forehead. He is very good looking, I’ll give her that.

‘I’m Tristan Banks,’ he drawls. ‘Like, is everything cool or do we have a problem here?’

‘We have a problem and it’s you,’ I say.

Behind me, Martin emerges, hands on hips, with three inches of beer belly sticking out.

‘Oh God, it’s you!’ says Lexi. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, what right
you
have—’

‘Lexi,’ I cut in, worried she’s about to start going on about the engagement thing. ‘I’d prefer it if you were
not
rude to Martin.’

I turn to Martin. ‘Look, I think I’m okay here. I’ll handle this. Thanks so much for coming, but I think, you know …’ I reach out and squeeze his hand.

‘Cool, sure,’ he says, backing towards the glass doors. ‘Well, you know where I am if you need me. I’ll just, er …’

‘Great,’ I nod, urging him to go.

‘Go home then. Call me if you …’

‘Course I will. Thanks, Martin.’

‘You know your problem? You’re frigid. You’re anally retentive. You wouldn’t know fun if it poked you up the arse!’

We’re standing on the corner outside Shoreditch House now, and Lexi is incredibly, dirtily, horribly drunk.

‘Wayne says that people who are obsessed with trying to control their surroundings are often just crying inside …’ Her voice teeters off as she stumbles over her own feet and nearly falls flat on her face.

‘Lexi, just get in the cab, please?’ What the hell had she been feeding this Wayne?

The driver has eyebags like elephant skin. He’s leaning against the bonnet, smoking, knowing he’s in for the long haul.

‘No, I won’t!’ She’s stumbling all over the place on her high heels. ‘I won’t have you tell me what to do, crashing my date. Tristan was a really nice bloke, actually.’

‘He was old enough to be your dad and stone cold sober whilst you were pissed out of your head. Don’t you know what that says?’

‘He doesn’t need alcohol to have a good time?’

‘Wrong. He’s a total wanker, taking advantage of you.’

‘Oh, stop being such a drama queen! So I’m pissed, so WHAT?’ she shouts as I put my hand on her head and bundle her into the car.

‘Pissed in a swimming pool, Lexi. Have you any idea how dangerous that is? What sort of person would allow that to happen to you?’ I ask as I fasten her seatbelt.

‘You don’t know how to live you don’t. So fucking BORING!’

‘No, Lex. You’re the one who’s getting boring.’

We’re speeding over London Bridge now. Lexi’s sunk down in the seat, glaring at me, antagonistically.

‘Just be quiet now, please,’ I sigh. ‘It’s 10.30 p.m. and I’m knackered.’

‘I just wanted to come to London and have a laugh for the summer – a laugh!’ she slurs. ‘But I guess you wouldn’t know what that is.’

The driver looks at me through the mirror, raising his eyebrows as if to say, ‘You’ve got a right little cow on your hands there.’

We drive in silence for a while, past the Dickensian gloom of a deserted Borough Market down past the offices of Southwark Street, a ghost town at this time of night. We get to the crossroads with Stamford Street and Blackfriars Road, about to turn left towards Elephant and Castle, when Lexi suddenly says:

‘Stop the car!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lexi, you’re not getting out here.’

‘Shtop the car,’ she slurs. ‘I’m gonna puke.’

Now, I’m rubbing Lexi’s back as she hurls into my toilet bowl. ‘I’m dying,’ she groans.

‘Oh, I think you’ve got a few years yet. You’ll make it through the night at least. You’ll be wanting a glass of wine by this time tomorrow.’

‘UURGHH!’ She hurls again. ‘NEVER! I’m never drinking again! I’msuchatwat,’ she slurs. I look skywards. How long was the self-flagellation going to go on? ‘I mean, look at me! I’m rubbish, I’m stupid, I’m fat. A total fucking mess …’

‘Lexi, you are
none
of those things …’

‘Nobody loves me, nobody fancies me,’ she sobs. ‘I’m not surprised he did it. I’m not surprised he dumped me,’ she says, at which point I take notice.

‘You’re not surprised who did what? Who dumped you, Lex?’

‘Him!’ she shouts, raising her head in an involuntary drunken jerk, and it accidentally catches the side of my face. ‘Loser, cunt-face, prick-head, wanker!’

I bite my lip in order not to laugh. It’s just my little sister, so pretty, so elfin, swearing like a trooper, as drunk as a wench …

‘Do you mean Clark? The guy who called?’

She looks up at me, eyes wandering, cheeks smeared with mascara.

‘Like I shed. Loser, cunt-face, prick-head, wanker.’

Then she falls asleep on the toilet seat.

I eventually get her to the sofa and switch on the telly: some late night documentary about a girl who cries blood. An hour later, a small voice speaks into the darkness. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, you’re alive, then? Feeling any better?’

‘Headache,’ is all she can manage. ‘He kept feeding me Island Cream Teas.’

‘Long Island Iced Teas, you mean. That’ll be the headache, then. And the spectacular projectile vomit in the taxi that reached as far as the windscreen.’

‘Noooo!’

‘And parts of the driver’s head.’ She covers her face.

‘He was a bad ’un, wasn’t he, Tristan?’ She grimaces.

‘Oh, he probably wasn’t an axe murderer, but not boyfriend material, let’s put it like that.’

‘I’m sorry … And also, you know, for anything I might have said.’

‘That’s okay, but will you promise me something? Don’t go meeting any more strange men from the Internet. You nearly sent me to an early grave.’

Then there’s a long pause, before she says, ‘Caroline?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I ask you something?’ I look to see her small, pale face above the duvet. ‘Do you not want me here?’

I swallow. God, had I been that unwelcoming?

‘Course I want you here,’ I say. ‘And anyway, neither of us have much choice now because our useless father and your useless mother have absconded to bloody Atlanta, so you’re stuck with me, kiddo.’

She manages a laugh.

‘I’m kind of glad,’ she says.

‘Yeah, me too.’

And in a strange way, I was, I really was. Perhaps it was nice to be needed. I felt one step closer to finding out what was really bothering Lexi, too. I just needed to find out who cunt-face prick-head wanker was, whether he
was
Clark, and what exactly he’d done, and we’d be all right. We’d be sorted.

I find the leaflet quite by mistake ten minutes after she’s gone to bed.

Her mobile had gone. I’d thought I’d better see who it was, just in case it was Dad. I rummaged in her bag, among the tissues and the make-up, and then my stomach rolled. Everything started to fall horribly into place.

What To Do If you Think You’re Pregnant, said the leaflet.

How could I have been so dumb not to realize she wasn’t talking about Carly, that she was talking about herself!

I’m starting to think I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

‘I don’t need to hear the details, we just need to know, because only then can we draw up a P of A.’

‘What’s a P of A?’ shouts Lexi over the traffic.

I’m marching her down Battersea Park Road towards the pharmacy. She’s wearing the vintage playsuit, flip-flops and a flower in her hair. She looks like she’s going to a carnival.

‘A Plan of Action!’ I shout back. It’s a Martin term and one that I’m glad to have at my disposal.

‘A P of A is a tool, Caro,’ he always used to tell me when I was scared and overwhelmed, ‘a way of feeling in control.’

And I do feel in control, which is strange, taking into consideration the disaster potential of this latest drama.

‘I’m having an abortion if I am pregnant.’

It’s broad daylight, 9 a.m. in the morning and Lexi shouts this at me with all the gravity of: ‘I’m having my ears pierced whether you like it or not!’

‘Let’s just see if you are first, shall we?’

‘There’s no way I’m having a kid at seventeen. I’m still a kid myself.’

That much is clear.

‘Anyway, a girl at school had an abortion.’

‘Poor her,’ I shout striding ahead of her.

‘She was at school in the afternoon. She said she was just put to sleep. She didn’t feel a thing.’

‘She might have been okay physically, but I’m sure she was in turmoil emotionally.’

‘She wasn’t crying or anything. We all expected her to be in a right mess. But—’

‘Abortion’s not something to take lightly, Lexi!’ She’s annoying me now and I stop and face her. ‘It’s not something you decide to just do, like having Botox or getting a tattoo.’

(The tattoo wasn’t real. I discovered that on Thursday night when, convalescing on the sofa, half the dye came off onto my spanking white duvet, smudged by the swimming pool. ‘Can’t believe you thought it was real,’ she said, managing a snigger even in her near-death state. I could have bloody hit her.)

Lexi glares at me, but there’s that look in her eyes again, behind the usual defiance, a kind of unfathomable sadness like you’ll never be able to reach her.

‘I’m still having one,’ she says.

‘How can you say that? Until you know if it’s a reality or not? You’ll need to think it through, there’ll be a counsellor to talk to …’

She stops. Stamps her foot like a child having a tantrum.

‘I don’t
want
a bloody baby, all right!’ Her anger seems to come from nowhere. ‘And I definitely don’t want …’ She hesitates.

‘What?’

‘I don’t want … Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

She starts crying now: Big, frightened, gulping sobs and I’m sort of glad. At least that’s normal.

‘There’s no way I could cope with a baby crying all night. I can’t change a nappy. I’ve never changed a nappy in my life. I’d do it all wrong. I don’t wanna get fat and never be able to go out with my mates. I know I’m not clever. Not
like you. I’ve fucked up my A levels already, and I won’t be going to uni. But I have got stuff to offer, you know. I’m not totally useless.’

‘You’re not useless at all!’ It disturbed me when she talked like this.

‘Wayne says I’ve got potential – and I’ve got loads of stuff I want to do. I’ve got ideas …’ She can hardly speak for hiccupping sobs now.

‘Lex, course you have.’

‘I’ve decided I want to move to London. I decided that on day two. I love it here,’ she says, eyes burning with enthusiasm. ‘I want to go travelling and get a really good job and show Mum and Dad, make them proud of me. I don’t want to end up a teenage mum with my life over at seventeen!’

‘And you won’t, that’s not what I mean.’

‘So why are you saying I should have the baby? If there
is
a baby that is?’

A Chelsea couple, her pashmina, him with a striped shirt and the collar turned up, approach with a baby in a pram, the woman looking Lexi up and down. What you looking at? I want to say. Never seen anyone discussing abortion at the top of their voices in the street at 9 a.m. in the morning?

‘Oh, Lex, come on.’ I go over and hug her but she holds her arms stiff by her side. ‘I’m not saying you should definitely have the baby. All I’m saying—’

‘I feel like you’re judging me. Like the fact I want an abortion makes me weird or a bad person. It is a woman’s right to choose, you know.’

‘Of course it is. Absolutely it is.’

‘And just because you’re all grown-up and sensible and would never have ever been so crap as to get in this situation in the first place, just because I’m a fuckwit …’

She lifts her head up, folds her arms, and looks the other way towards the mews houses of Chelsea in the fuzzy
morning light. Shall I tell her? Would that just be making this about me, when it’s Lexi in crisis here? But I want her to know that I understand at least, that I’m not judging her, that these things happen – even to ‘sensible’ big sisters like me, so I say:

‘Actually, I did.’

Lexi sniffs. ‘Did what?’

‘Get pregnant.’

She laughs. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m not joking. I was twenty-three, it was Martin’s baby. I messed up on the pill, something to do with antibiotics, these things happen so, you see, I do mess up. All the time, as it happens.’

‘So, what happened? Did you not even talk about keeping the baby? I mean, you were twenty-three, it’s not seventeen, is it?’

We pass a café with a few tables outside; the sound of relaxed chatter and the clinking of china, the sound of the weekend, and I get that feeling I’ve had before, like I’m watching myself, like everything was calm before this. Before Lexi turned up.

‘Oh yeah, we talked. For three weeks. It was horrible, I’ve never cried so much in all my life.’

‘God, you must have shat yourself,’ she says with usual Lexi decorum.

‘I think that would be a fair description.’

‘So why?’ She’s shaking her head, dying to ask.

‘I didn’t want a baby.’ I shrug. ‘I guess that’s what it boiled down to. It was the wrong time and I was like you, I was ambitious.’

‘I’m not ambitious!’

‘Yes you are,’ I say and she looks at the floor. ‘I had so much I wanted to do. I was obsessed with work …’

‘You’re
still
obsessed with work!’

‘This is true,’ I say and she manages a smile.

Lexi bites her thumbnail. ‘God, I feel awful now.’

‘Don’t be silly, you don’t have to feel awful. Much.’

She gives a little laugh.

‘I was just telling you so that you know I have some idea about how all this feels. That I’m not some lecturing do-gooder sister. Well, I have days off, anyway. And anyway, you may well not be as unlucky as me. You might not
be
pregnant. So shall we bite the bullet and find out?’

She gives me a dead arm.

‘Let’s do this,’ she says.

It occurs to me, as we walk the rest of the way towards the chemist, that that was the first time I’ve ever told anyone about the abortion. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it, or have any regrets myself; it’s just I was once pregnant, and I decided not to see it through. There doesn’t seem a reason to speak about it, really.

That’s not to say I don’t think about it. I think about what would have happened if I had kept the baby – was it a girl or a boy? They’d have been nine years old by now! Maybe with a baby in the picture, Martin and I would have made it work because we’d have had to. Maybe I would be a different person now, be less demanding of life, more content?

I’ve shut out those few weeks before I made my decision – even though I know I made the right one for me.

I had morning sickness from the moment I found out. ‘Hey, that means the hormones are strong,’ Martin said, excited as I lay on the bathroom floor groaning. ‘That you know, it’s really taken.’ Which made it sound a bit like a hair dye, but I knew what he meant.

It was then that it struck me – my God, he really
wanted
this baby. I hadn’t said either way yet. I was too in shock and hadn’t wanted to commit to anything. Maybe the hormones will kick in? I thought, and suddenly cull my desire
to take over the world in sales of handwash (the department I was in at the time on the grad scheme, desperate to impress Janine and make my mark). But they never did, and a fortnight later I finally told Martin I couldn’t do it.

‘It’s your body, I love you and I’ll stand by whatever you decide,’ he said, and I cried and cried because I knew how hard it was for him to say that; that deep down he wanted to scream: ‘Don’t do this to me!’ I was
so
lucky. ‘After all, we’ve plenty of time,’ he added. But I suspect I already knew we didn’t, that we weren’t going to last the stretch, maybe that’s the real reason why I couldn’t do it.

Either way, my decision to not keep the baby was the first nick in the tear that was going to run through our relationship, eventually splitting us in two.

The dispenser at the chemist is a large African lady with berry-coloured lipstick and grey hair. We exchange a knowing smile as I hand over the pregnancy test with Lexi shuffling about behind me, pretending to look at shampoos.

‘Tell her there are two in there,’ she whispers. ‘How late is she on her period?’

‘About a fortnight, could be more. Basically, she’s missed a whole one.’

She gives me a sympathetic grimace.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’

‘Well, stress can do a lot at that age. Is she stressed?’

‘I don’t know, it’s hard to decipher from the five hundred other moods she seems to experience on an hourly basis.’

The lady laughs, silently.

‘Tell her they do counselling at the Women’s Wellness centre, you know, if it’s not the news you were hoping for,’ she says with a sympathetic smile.

‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I say, thinking, Lord, please no. No, no, no! There’s already been more drama in two weeks
of this summer than I have had in the past year. I’m not sure I can take much more.

‘Do you want me to come into the bathroom with you?’

We’re at home now. Lexi shakes her head.

‘Do you want me to stand outside or just go and do something?’

‘I think, yeah, just go and do something.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Just wee on the stick?’

‘That’s right, then put it on the side and wait for a minute.’

Lexi pauses, bites her lip.

‘What shall I do for that minute?’

‘Er, I’d pray, probably.’

She gives a weak smile then disappears behind the door.

Of course I don’t go and do anything. Instead, I stand bolt upright against the wall, next to the bathroom, bricking it. What if she
is
pregnant? Quite frankly, it’s looking likely. Two weeks late ‘about’ she told me.
About?
I thought. Good God. If I were as much as a few hours late on my period I was down the chemist doing a test.

I run through the P of A if she is. Just picturing the bullet points in my head, helps me, it slows down the heart rate.

There’s a creak as the bathroom door gently opens and a, ‘Can you come in here please?’ Help. Here we go. She hands me the stick. I look at her, but her face is grave, it doesn’t give anything away.

I take the stick in my hand. I close my eyes. Then, not until I’ve said a prayer and apologized for any past sins, including evil thoughts about Rachel and her double chin and her badly cut jeans, I open one eye. I remove my thumb from the display window, then I open the other.

Not Pregnant it says in bright blue letters.

I shake my head

‘You little shit!’

Lexi starts to giggle, then laugh, which starts me off. Before we know it – must be the rush of adrenaline, the dizzying relief – we are both collapsed on the bathroom floor in stitches, wetting ourselves laughing at something that, let’s face it, would have completely transformed the summer. Not in a good way.

‘I think you’d better come into work with me from now on, do some work experience. I’ll get it organized next week.’

We’ve both been lying on the bathroom floor, staring up at the ceiling, for approximately fifteen minutes.

‘Alexis and Caroline have been lying on the bathroom floor for approximately fifteen minutes,’ Lexi says, in the Big Brother Geordie accent.

‘I’m serious!’ I say, punching her in the leg.

‘I know you are and I think you’re right.’

‘Twenty-four hours left to your own devices and look what happens, Lexi.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry, haven’t I?’

‘I forgive you. This time.’

There’s a long silence.

‘Caroline?’ she says eventually, turning to look at me.

‘Yeeess?’

‘Can we make a pact?’

I narrow my eyes at her.

‘What sort of pact?’

‘You never tell Dad about today and I’ll never tell him about your abortion.’

‘I should think so, too.’

‘I s’pose that’s not exactly a fair exchange, is it?’ says Lexi.

‘Not really, but I guess it’s a deal. Can I ask
you
something?’

‘Go on.’

‘Who’s the loser, cunt-face, prick-head, wanker?’

Lexi explodes with laughter. ‘What? What you on about?’

‘You said it on Thursday night when you were drunk.’

‘Did I?’

‘Is it the guy you thought had got you pregnant?’

‘Oh,’ she groans. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. I’ll tell you about it one day. I’m too tired now.’

She lies back down and her breathing slows. I wonder if she’s asleep, exhausted from the drama.

I lie there for a while, thinking about the events of the last forty-eight hours. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who copes well in a crisis and, yet, this has been the biggest crisis since when Martin and I split up, and I feel I did okay,
better
than okay. You were officially awesome in a crisis, Miss Steele. But then, maybe I’ve avoided anything like a crisis since Martin; held everything together, all tight, so that nothing, nothing could get in. But perhaps you can’t stop it coming in, can you? You can’t stop life worming its way through. It’s how you deal with it that matters.