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‘It was me. I couldn’t help it. There wasn’t anything else sweet in the house and I had rotten period pains. So I took them upstairs, got back into bed and ate them. I only meant to have a few, but it was last Saturday when I had that phone call from Penny. It scared me to death when she said she’d been bleeding – I couldn’t get the thought that she might lose the baby out of my head. I needed something to cheer me up and a ridiculous amount of chocolate and the box set of Friends was my only hope.’
‘You should have told me you were struggling,’ I say. I’m trying to sound light, but it takes a whole lot of effort not to sound miffed. ‘We’re supposed to support each other. You could’ve come to me.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Issy explains, twisting her silver ring around her finger. ‘I wasn’t up for talking about it and I’d have only felt guilty if you’d seen me pigging out. All I needed was a wallow and a sugar kick – you know how it is sometimes. Look, I’ll go and get another box of chocolates now if you want. If we mix them in with what’s left it’ll be fine.’
‘It’s not about the chocolate!’ My nerve endings are tingling, and not in a good way. ‘If you’d told me what was the matter, I could have done something. I could have helped. There was no need for you to be cooped up alone in your room all day when I was here, willing to listen.’
Issy smiles sadly and it breaks my heart. ‘But what could you have done, Mon? Nothing. All I needed was a duvet day and to stuff my face. I had a sleep, had a cry and then pulled myself back together. It was no big deal.’
‘I could have listened,’ I insist. ‘Even if that’s all I could have done, I could have listened.’
‘But I didn’t want to talk,’ Issy answers patiently. She speaks slowly and deliberately, as though explaining something to a small child. Maybe the teacher in her is coming out too, it’s obviously a quirk of the trade. ‘It was too raw. It’s nothing personal against you, but it was easier for me to hide away and cry it out. I needed to get my own head around it, that’s all. Anyway, everything’s fine with Penny now. It was just a scare.’
A wave of sadness floods through my body, as though my blood’s running cold in my veins. There’s nothing Issy wants more than to find the love of her life and start a family, and the news that her little sister is having a baby had hit her hard. That Issy hasn’t got a partner at the moment is irrelevant, the maternal instincts are still chewing away at her. The constant pressure from the glossy magazines she greedily devours doesn’t help either, what with their never-ending reminders of ticking body clocks and staged photos of celebrities parading their precious new arrivals around the flawlessly landscaped garden of their luxury mansions. I can only imagine how hard Issy finds it having such a desperate longing within her but being unable to do anything about it. It seems terribly unfair.
When Penny announced she was pregnant it had come as a shock to everyone. She’s only seventeen, and a young seventeen at that. There had been no talk of a boyfriend, no late nights, no tell-tale signs of illicit secret liaisons. She’s doing well at college and keeping on top of her studies – everything had been pootling along the same as it always had.
Then one blazing hot day at the start of the summer holidays Issy had received a phone call from a terrified Penny crying that she didn’t know what to do, that her parents were going to kill her when they found out she was pregnant. She was already four months gone by that point, the hint of a bump just beginning to show on her tiny, child-like frame, and Issy had been torn between the need to support her sister and the all-encompassing desire to give in to the internal pain that demanded she shut down and hibernate.
But Issy’s too kind-hearted a person to hold a grudge and when that natural mothering instinct kicked in, it kicked in hard. She’d gone with Penny to break the news to their parents, who hadn’t managed to hide their initial distress and disappointment. She’d taken her to the GP, who confirmed the pregnancy and attended the first hospital appointment, where the trainee midwife had taken three vials of blood, and a scan which showed that, yes, Penny was eighteen weeks gone already. The radiographer had said he was ninety per cent sure the baby was a boy. And Issy had smiled along, excited about the prospect of becoming an aunt, even though every one of these steps served to remind her of what she didn’t have.
Then last weekend Penny had been passing clumps of dark-brown blood, convinced she was having a late miscarriage because she didn’t have what it took to be a good mother. This was the call that had pushed Issy to attempt to eat her way through a tin of chocolates designed to keep a family’s sweet tooth in check for a month.
‘You’ve been incredible. More than incredible. You’ve been the best sister Penny could have wished for,’ I assure her, although I’m scared I’m going to cry. I can feel those first tell-tale prickles. It reminds me of the time I had acupuncture for sciatica, the little needles making pinching sensations, but this time it’s in my eyes rather than my legs. I concentrate on breathing in through my nose, not wanting my sadness for Issy to show. I can’t break down. I’ve got to step up and be strong. ‘And you’re going to be the best aunt too. When that little lad arrives, he’s going to want for nothing.’
‘He deserves the best,’ Issy says vehemently, ‘and between us we’ll make sure he gets it. Penny’s going to go to special classes that prepare teenage mums for motherhood – how to change nappies and make up bottles and all that practical stuff – and Dad has put in a request to reduce his hours at work. He’s going to look after the baby two days a week so Pen can continue with her A levels. It’s not ideal, but we’re making the best of it.’ A glimmer of something that looks like sadness passes over her face, before Issy literally snaps herself out of it, closing her eyes tightly together and when they pop open again they are a fraction brighter than they’d been only moments before. ‘She’s not the first seventeen-year- old to get pregnant, and she won’t be the last. It is what it is.’
‘She’s lucky to have such a supportive family. My mum would have gone apeshit if I’d got pregnant at Penny’s age,’ I say, imagining how horrified mum would’ve been if Justin and I had announced an unplanned pregnancy at seventeen. ‘Who am I kidding? She’d go apeshit if I got pregnant now without a ring on my finger first.’
Issy sniggers. ‘Well, we all know how much your mum loves a wedding. Anyway, keep taking those little round pills every day and you’ll be fine. No babies for you anytime soon!’
‘I’d need to have sex to run the risk of pregnancy and there’s no fear of that,’ I say glumly. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anyone in the near future either. I’m just not ready to put myself out there again. The thought of getting naked in front of a stranger fills me with dread. I don’t want some random guy looking at my wobbly bits and judging me! I’m going to have to wait until Justin gets back and see if he wants to work things out.’
Issy wrinkles her forehead in disagreement. ‘You’ve not got any wobbly bits, except the bits that you want to wobble.’ She jiggles her ample bosom to clarify her point. ‘And you’re utterly gorgeous. Any bloke in his right mind would kill to be with you, but for some crazy reason I don’t understand, you don’t see what everyone else sees.’
‘You’re only saying that to be kind.’
‘It’s the truth. You’re right – I’d say it even if it wasn’t because I love you – but it is.’
‘I’ll pay you later.’ I laugh, embarrassed. It’s hard to take compliments, especially now when I’m feeling so dejected, but at least it shows Issy isn’t deliberately shutting me out. That’s a small blessing.
However, I’m glad when the timer buzzes to indicate the pizza needs rescuing from the oven. Grabbing the oven gloves, I quickly whip out the pizza stone, noticing the cheese topping starting to turn a burnished crispy brown rather than the stringy golden goo we love.
‘Phew, that was close,’ I add, nodding towards the pizza.
‘What time’s Connie coming?’ Hope calls through. She’s in the lounge watching Coronation Street, and I can see her through the open doors. She’s propping up an enormous stack of cushions behind her, trying to get comfortable.
‘She texted to say she was leaving work quarter of an hour ago, so she should be here any minute. Just in time to grab a slice of pizza,’ I answer as I rummage around the cutlery drawer for the elusive pizza cutter. ‘If she’s having a wild night of carbs and cheese,’ I add.
The doorbell rings as if on cue and I rush to greet my oldest friend. Not for the first time I’m blown away by her beauty. She looks radiant standing in the doorway with the peachy light reflecting off her long wavy hair, the early-evening sky a vivid orange wash behind her. Near the roots Connie’s hair is the same dark shade it’s always been, but the ends are dip-dyed a vibrant peacock blue. Last week they’d been scarlet. Colour suits her, but I wonder if this constant reinvention is a sign that Connie isn’t sure who she wants to be. She’s like a teenager playing around with her image to see what suits her best. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to change, that she’s already incredible as she is, but know that even if I did she’d only play down my words as I did with Issy’s.
‘Hi!’ we exclaim in unison, embracing each other in a warm, squishy hug.
The weekend was about to begin, and it couldn’t start soon enough.
*
‘I do love The Lion King,’ Connie says with gusto as the disc whirrs to life in the DVD player. ‘It’s got so many catchy tunes. That’s why when you invited me to join the Singalong Society it was the perfect choice. I can’t believe how long it is since I last saw it.’ Her eyes sparkle with anticipation, full of a childlike fervour.
‘It’s for kids,’ Hope says derisively. ‘I doubt there are any other groups of twenty-somethings spending their Friday nights watching cartoons. I’m telling you now, next week we’re moving on to a real film. I’ve had enough saccharine Disney to last me a lifetime.’ Her eyes narrow as she chunters on, her grudge against Walt and his successors in full swing. ‘All that sappy ‘happily ever after’ piffle,’ she tuts. ‘It bears no resemblance to real life.’
‘Disney isn’t just for kids,’ I answer defensively. Hope dissing Disney feels almost like a personal insult. ‘It’s for all ages. There’s always a serious issue buried under the princesses and castles.’
Hope doesn’t look convinced.
‘This one was based on Hamlet, you know,’ I continue, gesturing towards the TV. ‘And no one would dare to call Shakespeare piffle. He’s the greatest playwright that ever lived.’ I pause, grabbing a fistful of salty peanuts from the small topaz-blue bowl on the coffee table that divides the room in two. Suddenly I’m starving. ‘There’s a reason he’s on every exam syllabus going, why his work will always be a key component of any literature course. He’s a storyteller, pure and simple. One of the best that’s ever lived.’
I pop a pinch of peanuts into my mouth, crushing them between my teeth with a satisfying crunch. The burst of flavour dances across my taste buds.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. We all know you’re a geek when it comes to this kind of thing.’
Her dismissive words are softened by the affection written on her face. Hope had never understood my love of literature. In fact, Hope probably couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a novel, whereas I constantly had at least one book on the go, usually more. It was another reminder of how different the two of us are, yet the bond between us has always been undeniably strong despite that. We’re tight. Unbreakable. Just as sisters should be.
‘Keep an open mind about this one, please?’ I beg.
I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel under pressure to ensure tonight works out as planned. It’s not just the four of us getting together to watch a film, it’s a chance for us to take control. Plus, as the inaugural meeting of The Singalong Society for Singletons, it has to go smoothly. The whole point of the thing is to inject some joy back into our lives.
‘Well, I’ve not seen it since I was about ten, so maybe I can be won over. But don’t hold your breath. I’m a tough nut to crack.’
A piracy warning flashes onto the screen, signalling the film’s about to start.
‘And don’t we know it,’ I reply boldly, poking out my tongue in retort.
Issy tries and fails to stifle a giggle as she pours the contents of a share-sized bag of cheese and chive crisps into a bowl, whilst Connie looks impassively at the floor to avoid getting involved. Typical.
‘It’s my choice of film next week,’ Issy says. ‘I’ll be sure to choose something that isn’t animated, if it means that much to you.’
‘Ssh,’ I hiss in a stage-whisper. ‘It’s starting.’
The rousing opening note of ‘The Circle of Life’ roars from the television causing each of us to sit straighter in our seats. Captivated by the power of the Zulu chanting and the sun rising over the desert, we settle down, prepared to be transported to Africa via a cute little lion cub and a soundtrack full of belting songs.
*
‘Aww, look at baby Simba! He’s petrified!’ Issy exclaims as the future king is held aloft in the showy presentation ceremony. ‘Bless his little cotton socks. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’
‘If we knew what was going to happen in life, we’d all look like that,’ Hope answers, wearing a grim expression. ‘It’s no wonder babies cry all the time. All that lies ahead of them is a lifetime of slogging their guts out at work, trying to please other people, and being shat on from a great height by people who said they’d love them forever.’ She frowns and I frown back at her. After everything Issy’s just said, she has to start talking about babies. Sometimes Hope’s mouth runs away without her brain.
Hope turns away, offended by the insinuation in my look, and I’m instantly ashamed of being so hard on her. She might be abrasive, but my sister wouldn’t purposefully hurt someone.
Poor Hope. She’s done her fair share of feeling sorry for herself during her first week at the house. It’s all been textbook behaviour for the broken-hearted – listening to sad love songs on repeat, pigging out on extra-large bars of Galaxy and moodily sulking around the place in her tartan flannel pyjamas. I know the drill, I’ve been living it myself for long enough.
‘Pause it a minute,’ Hope says quietly, opening the door to the square of carpet at the bottom of the stairs that we optimistically refer to as the hall. ‘My bladder’s about to burst and it’s better to stop the film now before it gets going.’
No one dares mention the tears that are brimming in her eyes – we’re all well aware that Hope hates to appear anything less than rock solid. She’s spent her whole life coming across as strong and dependable, so I can only imagine how hard it is for her now, trying to keep up that front when she’s so obviously crumbling.
‘And I’m going to get some more nibbles,’ Issy says, pushing herself up off the sofa. ‘That glass of wine has gone right to my head. I need something to soak it up.’
‘There’s some kale crisps in my bag,’ Connie offers. In Connie’s mind this is a generous proposition, in Issy’s less so. ‘If you want something a bit less fatty, I mean. They don’t taste the same as normal crisps, but they’re much better for you. Feel free to help yourself.’
She tries to hide it, but I spy Issy’s eye roll. She’s not the type to buy into these faddish foodie fashions. If she wants crisps, she wants actual crisps, made from glorious carbohydrate-riddled potatoes and full of saturated fat that’ll fuzz up her arteries. Like me, Issy believes junk food is one of life’s guilty pleasures. And Friday nights definitely call for junk food, no two ways about it. ‘We could always get take-away?’ she suggests hopefully. ‘I’m sure the Indian down the road put a flyer through the door just last week…’
I gawp in her general direction. Even I’m stuffed, and that’s saying something because I’ve got a massive appetite, but the waistband of my jeans is digging into my bloated stomach and it’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m tempted to undo the button, that’s how uncomfortable it is. ‘We’ve just had pizza!’ I exclaim.
‘And your point is?’ laughs Issy. ‘I could eat a horse right now. And I’m sorry, Connie, but your kale crisps aren’t going to cut it, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t fancy those either,’ I confide in a conspiratorial whisper, scrunching my face up in distaste. ‘I don’t know how anyone can eat them. They look like crispy bogies.’
‘We don’t need a take-away,’ Connie says resolutely. ‘Let’s eat what’s already out.’ She gingerly reaches for a Wotsit, the gaudy powdery orange flavouring smearing over her fingertips. She pulls a face as she nibbles it, as though it might bite her back. The cheesy puffs are a far cry from the kale crisps, that’s for sure. ‘If no one else is eating my crisps, then I will.’
‘You’re welcome to them,’ Issy mutters, resigning herself to the fact she’s been outvoted on the take-away. ‘But hang on a minute. I’m going to get my dressing gown, it’s bloody freezing in here tonight.’
A young Simba is frozen on the TV screen, surveying the vast pridelands with his father. He looks so small and insignificant against the sprawling savannah.
‘This film always did make me sad,’ Connie starts, nodding towards the screen. ‘But I’ve got such an empty feeling in my stomach right now. Not hunger,’ she adds quickly. ‘I always felt a bit like Simba. My family fell apart when Mum died. She’d been the lynchpin holding us together and once she was gone, it felt like there wasn’t any point any more. Dad tried his best, bless him, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with a pre-pubescent teenager. It was like he was waiting in fear for the moment he’d have to go to the chemist and buy me sanitary towels. And the rest of the family, my aunts and uncles, they were there at first, bringing lasagnes round for us to keep in the freezer and phoning on Sunday mornings to see if we wanted to join them for a pub lunch in the Peak District. But really, we were alone. Mum arranged all the family parties, the barbecues, the day trips to the seaside where we’d pile in the car with a cricket set and a cool box… Once she was gone, it all stopped.’
Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks with the slightest of blinks and I instinctively reach out to hug my friend. As I pull her in close her heartfelt sobs reverberate through the both of us.
‘I know it’s stupid to cry over a film, but it touched a nerve, you know? Simba’s so brave, setting out to face the world alone. Look at me! I can’t bring myself to leave Sheffield. I even stayed here for university when everyone else buggered off to Leeds and Manchester.’
‘Simba was running away,’ I correct, brushing a tear from Connie’s cheek with the pad of my thumb. ‘And so was everyone going to university too, really. It’s not the same thing.’
I think back to my own three years at university. I’d not wanted to go in the first place and I could have got a job in a school without the degree and the student loan that came with it. But I’d blindly applied to the same cities as Justin because I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being away from him. Which would be laughable, considering our current situation, if it wasn’t so downright sad. As it happened we’d ended up staying in Sheffield too, so Connie certainly hadn’t been alone.
Connie wipes the end of her nose against the cuff of her chunky-knit lilac cardigan, and takes a deep breath as through preparing to swim underwater. ‘I needed to stay here for Dad, you know? He’s not good at looking after himself. I dread to think of him trying to keep on top of the washing pile, and I don’t think he knows how to turn on the hoover. He probably doesn’t even know where the hoover is!’
She laughs, and even though her cheeks are now covered in a blotchy red blemish and her pure black mascara has smudged, leaving her with panda eyes, she still looks so incredibly beautiful. There’s a serenity about Connie, even in the rare moments like this when she’s unravelling.
‘Sometimes I dream of running away,’ she admits. ‘Breaking free. Going to Africa and building a school with a community. Pipedreams, I know, but what’s the point of being alive if you’re barely living?’
I place my hands on my oldest friend’s shoulders and look her in the eye, hoping I can convey how wonderful she is. ‘You’re doing plenty of living. You dance. You’re passionate about food, even though none of us like those vegetable crisps you keep trying to foist on us. And you’re a wonderful daughter; staying in Sheffield because of your dad proves that. But you know, if you’ve got a dream, you should go for it. You’re young! You’re single! You’re free! Make the most of it. Go to Africa and build that school, if that’s what you want.’
‘But what about Dad? He’d end up living on mouldy toast and wearing dirty clothes. He’s never had to survive on his own. He lived with his parents until he married my mum, and then there’s been the two of us for the last fifteen years.’
‘There are cleaners and there’s internet shopping and all sorts of other services that make life easier. You can pay people to do pretty much anything these days.’
Connie looks wary. ‘I’m not sure he’d like having people coming into the house.’
‘What’d happen if you met someone? Or if you got a flat in town, a bachelorette pad? He’d have to manage then, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s not expecting you to stay at home forever.’
‘He’d have to find a way, I suppose.’
Although the words themselves border on positive there’s a dejected air to Connie’s tone that leaves me with a sneaky suspicion she’ll harbour her dream but do nothing about it. I hope she’ll surprise me by being proactive. Sometimes there’s justification for being a little bit selfish.
‘Just think about it, yeah? Don’t give up on your dream too easily. Neither your mum or your dad would want that. Nor me.’
Connie pulls at the soggy sleeve of her cardigan. It had swamped her frame to start with and now they’re damp, the cuffs hang down way past her knuckles. ‘I’ll think about it.’
I squeeze Connie’s hand, soft as playdough from the expensive hand creams she’s devoted to. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’
Hope and Issy bundle back into the room, their booming voices breaking the serenity. I can’t help thinking that maybe it’s time we all took some chances. What’s that saying, ‘a life without risks is a life half lived’?
‘Hakuna Matata’ begins to play, the jaunty tune sweeping us along until all four of us are singing along at the tops of our voices.
‘Isn’t it amazing how a song about farts can be so singable?’ I giggle. ‘I always thought it was hilarious how they got away with it.’
‘That’s what makes it so funny, it feels naughty.’
‘You know you can’t sing for toffee, right?’ Hope says bluntly.
‘Hakuna Matata!’ Issy quips back good-naturedly, continuing to sing about Simba and the gangs’ problem-free philosophy as he grows before our eyes.
Connie trembles, her shoulders quivering, and somehow I know it’s a result of Simba’s maturation and independence presented through this song.
‘Okay?’ I mouth silently, hoping my earlier support is enough to stop her feeling alone.
Connie nods. ‘No worries,’ she mouths back.
We quietly watch on, moving only to help ourselves to the limited selection of snacks and drinks that remain. It’s as Mufasa’s spirit sends the message to Simba to ‘Remember who you are’ that Connie begins to speak.
‘I’m going to do it,’ she announces, ‘I’m going to find out about the volunteer programmes in Africa. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. If Mum could see me now she’d be devastated that I’m working in a stuffy office, typing endless numbers into meaningless spreadsheets. I want to make her proud. To remember who I really am.’
An excitable buzz fills the room as me, Hope and Issy fire question after question at an eager Connie.
‘Do you get to choose where?’
‘How much money do you have to raise? Do you need sponsorship?’
‘When will you go? And how long will you stay?’
‘I don’t know!’ Connie exclaims with a shrug and a laugh. ‘I’ve only this minute decided to go for it. But tomorrow morning I’m going to start Googling, find out the most reputable charities and how to apply.’
‘It’ll be amazing,’ Issy assures her. ‘A once in a lifetime opportunity that’ll make a real difference.’
‘There’s something else, too,’ Connie adds. She has a fire in her eyes full of feisty determination that I’ve not seen in her since our last ballet recital. Naturally she’d had the solo, executing perfect fouette turns and pirouettes that made the kids in the junior classes sigh dreamily. ‘I’m not putting off the teaching exams any more.’ She looks directly at me, waiting for my reaction.
‘No way.’ I’m agog. ‘You’re finally going to bite the bullet and become a dance teacher? At our dance school?’ I refer to it as ours, even though we’re only pupils. We’ve been going there so long it feels like we have the right to stake some claim over it.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to try and get a bank loan and start up on my own. It sounds ludicrous, I know. But there’s got to be a disused factory somewhere in Sheffield that I can buy, or at least rent. Line the walls with mirrors, put up a barre, get a sprung floor laid… after that it’ll just be upkeep and running costs. And if it doesn’t work, then hey ho. At least I’ll have tried.’
