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‘I haven’t had a clear weekend at home in…’ she paused ‘…well, with the three-ringed circus of hen weekends, weddings and work, we’re probably talking months…’
Still sifting through the contents of her shoulder Tardis, Sam squinted at the screen showing their route across the Atlantic. To her dismay the computer-generated plane had barely left the Eastern seaboard, and was creeping north at the sort of pace that had given snails a bad name.
‘…and I’ve got loads to sort out—you know, all that life laundry that always has to take a back seat…’
She was craving a marathon gym session followed by an evening in and a long soak in an aromatherapy bath with the current men in her life: Paul Mitchell, Charles Worthington, John Frieda and, of course, her oldest and most loyal shampooing partner Tim O’Tei. Candles. Chill-out CD. No more having to make polite chit-chat. A bowl of bran flakes. Bliss.
Sam’s bathtime bubble burst and her stomach knotted instantly as she realised her bag was emptier than normal. The plight of her lips paled into insignificance as, uninvited, a cold sweat crept up the back of her neck.
A furtive glance to her left. To her relief Richard appeared to have finally taken the hint and was now staring out of the perspex window, apparently mesmerised by the blackness of the night sky. Or perhaps checking his too-perfect teeth in the reflection. Sam peered into the dark folds of her bag before unzipping the myriad compartments one more time, just in case she might have misfiled or overlooked it. Not that she did ‘over-look.’ Fuck.
‘Everything Okay?’ Richard sensed a change in the force. A tell-tale furrow had appeared in her brow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
‘Fine.’ Sam forced a smile and, leaning back stiffly in her seat, closed her eyes to create a few seconds of personal space. Maybe it was in her laptop case? A spark of hope followed by a dash of reality. She knew it wasn’t. And none of this would be happening if he hadn’t interrupted her routinely obsessive check of drawers and cupboards earlier.
She had to move fast. Only right now she was on a plane which, even with a complementary tailwind, was hours from Tarmac and a private telephone opportunity. Forcing herself to take a sip of her water, she reclined her seat, headphones on, volume off, pretending to watch the screen sprouting from the end of her armrest. But while the images flickered enticingly, they failed to penetrate her thoughts. The water felt like a river of neat acid as it burned its path down to her stomach. Internal turbulence. But in nineteen years her diary had never let her down, never told her it was too busy, never not been there for her…until now.
Ben refused to open his eyes. Having tossed and turned for most of the night, typically he’d only finally managed to drift into a proper sleep moments before the alarm had gone off. Yet it appeared, from the generally high activity levels going on around him, that his sister was well and truly up. On a Friday morning. On vacation. He must have been adopted; there was no way they could share genes.
Doing his utmost to pretend he was still asleep, he willed the steady hum of the air-conditioning to lull him back into unconsciousness, and was practically knocking on nirvana’s door when a very familiar voice started up right next to his ear. He should have read the small print. This had been sold to him as a free weekend away, not some sort of boot camp. But there was always a catch.
‘Ben…jy.’ The sing-song pre-school approach to his name was quickly cast aside in favour of an impatient bark. ‘Ben… Come on.’ If he’d had four legs he’d have known he was in trouble. ‘Look, I know you’re awake—your breathing’s changed. Come on, will you?’ No wonder David hadn’t minded him taking his place. Ben wondered whether his clients really were in town this weekend.
Ali poked his arm and Ben faked a somnolent shrug and murmur before opening one eye—partially and deliberately obstructed by his arm over his face—giving him a restricted view of his sister, who was squatting down at the edge of the bed. He tried not to smile. Things hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Then on Sunday mornings she’d physically prised his eyelids apart to prove that he was awake before forcing him to play stupid games—usually involving dressing up in clothes their mother had charitably donated to their cause—he suspected now, merely so that she hadn’t had to actually throw or give them away.
‘Ha! Stop pretending. I just saw you open your eye. Your arm shield needs work.’
Ben stretched indulgently before propping himself up on the pillows. ‘Give me a break.’
‘I know you.’
‘I’d hope so.’
‘Better than you know yourself.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure about that.’
‘Well, I know that this pretending to be asleep ruse is a) gym avoidance…’
It was fair comment. But the sight of Ali in full Nike regalia before nine on a Friday morning was inducing acute narcolepsy. After hours of sleep deprivation, his eyelids felt incredibly heavy, and a vortex of dizziness was threatening to pin him to the mattress.
‘…and b) because you’re still worrying about Julia. Come on. You should come for a workout with me.’
‘Are you insane?’ Ben yawned and stretched before springing back into the foetal position.
‘You could do with it.’
Ben clenched his stomach muscles and stabbed at his T-shirt-covered torso to reassure himself that he still had some muscle tone, even if it was currently a few centimetres below the surface.
‘Maybe later. I’ve never been any good at physical exertion first thing. And I’ve only had about ten minutes’ sleep so it might just kill me.’
Ali rolled her eyes.
‘Okay, maybe a couple of hours, tops, but I didn’t sleep much on the plane.’ He couldn’t help it if he was a sucker for seat-back Nintendo games and multiple movie channels playing on a loop. ‘And I’ve never been a morning person.’
‘It’s nearly two in the afternoon for us.’
‘For you, maybe. Anyway, that would make it just about time for an afternoon snooze.’ Ben folded his arms behind his head and indulged in a prolonged blink. Closed was definitely preferable to open.
‘You can’t just lie here moping.’
‘I would have been quite happy sleeping.’ Ben pulled the heavy Egyptian cotton covers up to his nose and relished the weight of the down duvet on his weak body.
‘Bull…it’d be good for you to get your blood pumping.’
‘It’d be better for you. You’re the one writing an article on the gym refurbishment. I might come along tomorrow, or I’ll go for a run in the park later. I need more sleep.’
‘Whatever.’
‘One of the advantages of being single is autonomy. Or at least that was the idea…’
‘Julia wasn’t bossy.’
Ben smiled to himself. In some respects she and Ali had been way too similar. They always say girls pick men like their fathers, but did brothers pick women like their sisters? Right now, he hoped not. ‘Besides I hate gyms. Too many mirrors. I want the before and after, not during. I mean, who looks good while they’re exercising?’
‘You’ll have to look yourself in the eye eventually, and she’s bound to have pulled herself back together by now—she’s a tough cookie…’
He just wished she didn’t have to hate him in the process.
‘Far better that you were honest. The longer you’d left it, the harder it would have become—and if you’d strung her along I’d have disowned you. Plus, just for the record, there are far more single women of your age out there than men. Read any of the magazines on my bedside table if you don’t believe me.’
‘Hey, I’m not desperate.’
‘I know.’
‘Even if I said the “d” word out loud, which might mean that you think I am because I’ve said I’m not.’
‘You are such an amateur shrink sometimes.’
‘I’m just a little disheartened. She wasn’t who I’d thought she was.’
‘We’ve all done it.’ Ali shuddered at the memories of dating pre-David. The drip-feeding of information at appropriate moments in an attempt to generate common ground before coming out with the more contentious, potentially deal-breaking stuff farther down the line. At seventeen she’d even reinvented herself sartorially in pursuit of Johnny’s affections. But he had been very cute. Everyone in her year had wanted to date him.
Ben smiled. ‘Are we talking ten-hole Doc Martens?’
Ali nodded sheepishly. Hormones had a lot to answer for.
‘And the rockabilly quiff…?’ He was enjoying this moment. She’d looked like a cross between Morrissey and the B52s.
She laughed nervously, willing the conversation to move on. ‘It was an important experimental phase…’
‘Turn-ups on your vintage 501s…bright red lipstick… Mum thought you were about to come out.’
‘Yeah, yeah… All photographic evidence has been systematically destroyed. And I don’t think I need to take this from the boy who wore eyeliner.’
‘Once. I was twelve and I wanted to be a New Romantic.’ Ben sighed, allowing his head to sink back into the pillow and making his next point to the ceiling. ‘It would just be much easier if single people were required by law to carry a card stating their genuine age, profession, aspiration for children, preference for Coke over Pepsi, cats over dogs, Friends over Frasier, you know…’
‘You need to get a real job. You’ve got far too much time to think.’
‘A real job like yours, eh? O freelance journalist.’
‘Just remember, it’s your choice that you’re on your own.’
Ben shrugged. Silence. Ali decided to ease off a little.
‘…so you’re not prepared to compromise. That’s a positive not a negative.’
Ben nodded sagely. Even at the time there’d been a sense of relief. Julia had become a habit rather than a choice. And he’d been very fond of her. Fond. That said it all. Great-aunts were fond of their great-nieces; the British nation had been very fond of the Queen Mother. But the bottom line was he wanted it all. The whole mutual love and respect thing. The Paul and Linda. The Brad and Jen. Someone to grow old with. To have children with. Or nothing.
‘But…’ there was always a bloody but ‘…maybe I was just being male. Wanting the thing I didn’t have just because… She was a great girl in lots of ways. Spent a bit too much time at the office…’
‘She was ambitious.’
‘So am I. I just don’t feel the need to talk about my career trajectory incessantly. And at least I have an office to go to.’
‘As do I.’
Ben scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘I think you’ll find yours is the spare room.’
‘At least I have a spare room.’
Why did she always have to have a comeback? ‘Anyway, people need television.’
Ali snorted. ‘Only in the way I need four pairs of black boots. Anyway, it’s not like you have a biological clock that’s ticking—and you’ve still got all your hair. Relax, unwind, have a bit of fun…’
Ben nodded. Right now the random shag option was far more alluring than playing the relationship game. He didn’t have the energy for false starts, thoughtful gifts and the whole wooing process if there wasn’t long term potential. Lazy? Tired? Uninspired.
‘She’s out there somewhere, Benj. Maybe even at the gym.’
‘Nice try, Al.’
Resting on his elbows, Ben eyed her suspiciously as she contorted herself through a number of stretches at the side of the bed. Women were definitely more supple than men, and Ali was always hyper when they were back in New York.
‘OK, I’m ready. Are you coming or what?’
‘Nope.’
‘Fine.’
Ben knew from her tone that it absolutely wasn’t, but he also knew she was his sister and by the time she’d sweated away over three hundred calories he’d be forgiven.
‘I’ll be about an hour. Why don’t you get some breakfast sent up?’
‘We can just grab coffee and a bagel.’ Ben wasn’t in the mood to spend forty dollars on tea and toast.
‘Order whatever you like. I’ll claim it.’
She knew him quite well.
‘I don’t want you whingeing about hunger pangs in a couple of hours—we’ve got a big shopping day ahead of us.’ Ben wished that he could get a little more excited at the prospect. ‘Now, shape up. This weekend is not all about you. Work aside, I need new clothes—and, having unpacked your bag, I know you do. Not least because we’ve barely made an impact on the walk-in wardrobe. I think this suite is bigger than your apartment in London.’
‘Not difficult.’
‘Stop being so antsy.’
‘I’m tired. Blame it on sleep deprivation. You’re the one who felt the need to set an alarm.’
Ali performed her most serious stretch while whistling ‘New York, New York’. It was like watching some freaks’ talent show.
‘And no one asked you to unpack for me.’ Maybe she was rechargeable. A couple of hours plugged into the mains and good as new. Now she was practically bouncing on the spot.
‘It was a pleasure. Love you too.’
The door closed—and opened again almost immediately. What now?
‘Hey, Daddy Warbucks, the Times and the Journal. I want you fully up to speed by the time I get back.’
The thud of broadsheet on carpet preceded the click of the room door and, relieved to finally be alone, Ben exhaled as he closed his eyes and fleetingly imagined himself on the treadmill. He could always go down and surprise her. Just a couple more seconds.
One of the things he loved most about living in England was the fact that everyone he knew talked about going to the gym whilst in the pub and, with the exception of January, they didn’t quite get there. As long as you paid your membership and could theoretically go and work out instead of hitting a bar, you actually felt fitter. And anyway, he always walked up escalators. Well, if he wasn’t carrying heavy bags…
Suddenly dimly aware that he was on the verge of his deepest sleep yet, Ben jerked awake. Sitting up far too fast, a wave of numbing pins and needles swept up his body as he stared at the alarm clock. It had only been a few minutes. Reaching for the remote he allowed himself a quick pre-shower television moment while his body came to terms with the fact that sleeping opportunities were over for the day.
He surfed fast and purposefully. If his career wasn’t going to be spiritually rewarding or making a difference, it could at least be paying better. He needed to be thinking format. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? He did. Such a simple idea. Just sadly not his.
Flicking between MTV and VH1, now he was awake he needed sustenance—even if the only growing he was doing these days was outwards. Leaning over, he tried the bedside drawer—Manhattan Super Pages and a pristine Holy Bible. In a single movement he rolled over to the other side of the bed. Nothing. Forcing himself into the vertical position, he padded across to the desk and checked the drawers.
Bingo. 1 x folder containing everything you would ever want to know about the hotel and its environs, including the extensive Room Service menu, and 1 x nondescript black hardback book. Moments later breakfast for two was on order and Ben was back in the horizontal position. But with the MTV channels on a simultaneous ad break, cartoons and infomercials on almost every channel that wasn’t showing the news, and Ali’s glossy magazines proving to be totally resistible, Ben opened the black book at a random page.
‘If anyone calls from The Carlyle put them through immediately…’
Please. Mel mouthed the word silently as she rolled her eyes at no one in particular from her desk outside Sam’s office.
‘…and I need those file notes typed up as soon as you’ve got a moment.’
‘Will do.’
Sam dialled the next number without even looking at the keypad.
