This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Twenty-Four

I wake up on Sunday feeling like my chest has a dumbbell on it. This is happening almost every morning now. Ah, the degenerative powers of tobacco. I shuffle into the kitchen and make a huge black coffee, eyeing my rolling pouch on the side table. Strange how right at this moment, after eight hours without nicotine, it feels like the only thing that will make my lungs feel better is a freshly lit cigarette.

I force myself to walk past and settle down on the sofa, loading up my blog. Since I’ve been ignoring everybody I’ve found it easier to just leave my phone in the bedroom and write instead. I click onto my WordPress stats, distracted by how much I want a cigarette, and then freeze. What? I close the browser and reopen it, heading back to the page. It’s still there.

28,479 followers.

No. It’s not possible. I refresh the page. The number grows: 28,481 followers.

What is happening?

I haven’t checked my phone since I went to bed last night, when Emma Penton’s retweet had boosted my count a little. Even she doesn’t have the platform to amass nearly 30,000 new followers overnight.

I open a new tab and load up X. 740 notifications. What the fuck is happening? I click through them. Comment after comment after retweet after comment. Where has this come from?!

And then I see it.

One particular retweet.

The one that must have started this entire thing.

@LanaCastoOfficial Funniest thing I’ve read all week... this girl keeps it real.

Lana. Fucking. Casto.

Only the biggest lifestyle blogger in the whole of the UK.

I let out an unattractive squeal, and then jump up from the sofa and start pacing the room. Lana Casto. I must be dreaming. That is quite literally the only logical explanation. I’ll wake up in a minute with my fifty-two followers and questionable blog content, and I can begin my day as normal: invisibly. I glance down at my computer again as I pass. If my WordPress numbers were high, it’s nothing compared to my X following. Oh my god.

Lana Casto.

Despite being a blogger, I haven’t heard of many others. But I have heard of Lana. She writes about decorating and cooking and gardening and what she gets up to on the weekends. She’s unconventional — shaved head, weird clothes and not at all skinny. People adore her; she has over twelve million followers.

This is insane.

I am bursting with energy. I feel like I need to catch them all and trap them in a box, so they can’t realise what a mistake they’ve made and unfollow me again. What if they all disappear? What if they’re all sat there now, reading my writing and smirking at how awful it is? But... they’ve retweeted me, haven’t they? They obviously like what they see. Maybe they don’t... hate it?

I need to write something else, something more. I need to keep the supply coming while the demand is there. The demand! For my writing! I punch the keyboard aggressively with my fingers, writing a new piece that comes straight from a place of new emotion for me; of excitement and acceptance and courage.

After my initial writer’s block, recently I can’t seem to stop finding new things I want to write about. I’ve kept a list on my phone every time a new idea comes to me and fighting my instinct to be impulsive is almost impossible — the result is always so much more interesting for people to read than if I’ve kept my mouth shut and behaved.

I have started to wonder whether I make my own drama. What Cecilia said about me being impulsive and not thinking things through was pretty accurate, and it’s true that my behaviour has become more erratic since I got together with Martin, but what Mum said the other day hit closer to the bone. When you’re unhappy you rock the boat, no mind for consequences as long as there are some. Do I generate my own turmoil to keep myself stimulated? It’s probable. Looking back, a lot of my experiences have come from me acting rather than reacting , so it can’t just be a case of me getting carried away in the moment. Take the conference, for example. I was frustrated and bored (and, yes, slightly drunk) so I caused a shit load of trouble for myself. And for what? Was I subconsciously trying to get myself fired? Trying to shake the stale packet of crisps that was my life to get something going? Maybe, in my mind, even catastrophic life events are better than being bored.

I write it all out, processing it as I go.

I’m really quite desperate for a cigarette now. I’ve had some soya yogurt and seeds (disgusting) and now I’m pacing, trying to keep my mind on my newfound fame and off my rolling pouch. I feel like I deserve a treat, but the fags seem like failure to me. If I can say goodbye to chicken nuggets, a sedentary lifestyle and a miserable career, why can’t I ditch these? I pick the pouch up and turn it over in my hand. Just looking at it reminds me of every moment it’s saved me from: awkward family dinners, stressful situations at work, boredom at home alone. It’s something to do. I mean, the raging nicotine dependency I’ve developed probably doesn’t help, but breaking the habit is definitely the most daunting concept.

I close my eyes and imagine lung cancer patients, people coughing up black phlegm at bus stops, thirty-eight-year-olds with croaky voices. All it does is make me feel anxious, and the urge to smoke gets stronger. On a whim I stand up, open the window and empty the pouch all over the street, watching the golden brown tendrils catch on the wind.

Fuck.

What did I do that for? I’ve just chucked about eight quid out of the window and now I’ll have to go to the shop. My heart immediately starts hammering at the sudden inability to have a cigarette after — what is it now, ten? — hours without. I wasn’t this desperate before I knew they were gone.

I do a mini-jog into the bedroom, intending to pull on a jumper and head straight out, but I stop myself in the doorway. If I go and buy cigarettes now, will I ever have the balls to bin them again? How long have I been telling myself ‘next week’ or ‘on Monday’ or ‘when things get calmer at work’? Do I think I’m going to wake up one morning and find it easy to stop, just like that?

I open the bedside drawer and pull out the neglected e-cigarette. I’ve never even tried it. I read the instruction manual and set it up, feeling like a meth chef as I squeeze the liquid into the glass canister at the top. I take a tentative puff and cough violently. How is inhaling vapour harder on the lungs than smoke? Although... I coughed loads when I first started smoking cigarettes, didn’t I? And the blue flavour is amazing.

I take a few more puffs and notice that while I’d still murder my own firstborn for a proper smoke, it has taken the edge off the craving. Good. Now I’ve just got to survive the day with my family with only this as my saviour.

I jump into the shower, wash my hair and brush my teeth. I contemplate telling my family about Lana Casto and my new apparent internet fame. What if I really am dreaming? What if I’ve actually, finally, completely cracked and it’s all a hallucination? Or, worse still, what if NRJogger trolls me again and everyone realises he’s right and it all comes tumbling down? In any case, my dad will only just be getting his head around my career/relationship/general life demise; I don’t want to provide him with any false hope before even I know what it could mean.

No. I’ll keep it to myself.

* * *

It’s an hour later, as I am standing at the tram stop, that I realise I’ve forgotten the list. I don’t think I’ve looked at it for a couple of days, actually. I can’t remember whether there’s anything else for me to tick off. I’ll check later.

I’m looking good: hair straightened and wearing the same dress I wore to the work do the other night. I’ve decided to face my family dressed like a boss woman who doesn’t take any shit. This feels like A-Level results day, when I showed my grades to my dad and he photocopied them with a piece of paper over the ‘Mathematics — C’ section before popping them on the fridge. Agh, the pressure. No! I am a fully grown, adult woman with a job and an apartment. I cannot let other people’s judgement affect me. Unless it’s positive judgement, of course, then I’ll take it and run.

The tram is three minutes away. I’m vaping like a madwoman, giving a really striking impression of Darth Vader. Vaping just isn’t as glamorous as smoking, is it? I can’t imagine Audrey Hepburn leaning coyly against the ticket machine, dragging noisily on an e-cig. No, it’s just not the same.

Every carriage is bursting at the seams when the tram finally arrives, so I squeeze on and wedge myself under someone’s armpit. Thankfully he’s clean, so I inhale his deodorant and musky armpit smell and it makes me horny and sad. It reminds me of Gary. I still haven’t spoken to him. I just don’t know what to say.

‘Bloody hell, Maggie, we’ve got to stop meeting like this!’ I wriggle uncomfortably to my left, swiping a small child with my rucksack, to find Saffron’s head poking between the tangled mass of limbs clutching onto the pole.

‘Saffron!’ I laugh. ‘Are you following me?’

‘You got on after me, so maybe you’re the stalker.’ She winks. ‘How’s things?’

I wince as the tram doors open and a torrent of people hurtle past me, quickly replaced by twice as many cramming on. I use the in-between time to dislodge myself from the armpit and grab onto the pole, facing Saffron.

‘Good! Yeah, not bad.’ I say. ‘How are all the unnecessary workshops going?’

‘Same old.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Fredrick’s going well?’

‘All good, got my staff discount.’

‘Amazing! Free books.’ She grins. I feel a flare of satisfaction at the first positive reaction to my new employer. Saffron lowers her voice. ‘Any drama?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Of course. I’ll fill you in another time.’

‘No!’ She forces the old lady to let go of the pole as she reaches over to poke me. ‘You can’t do this to me!’

‘I’ll tell you soon, promise,’ I laugh. ‘Anyway, this is me. I’ll see you around?’

‘Text me!’ She calls as I’m spat out onto the platform. ‘Let’s drink!’

I wave over my shoulder and start the walk to my parents’ house.

Saffron and I have been talking more recently, but I’ve been resisting getting too close out of a strange, misplaced loyalty to the girls. Maybe we should go for that drink. Maybe it’s time for some new friends.

* * *

Mum takes it a step further this time, opening the door with a glass of wine already poured and forced into my hand. ‘Darling.’ She envelops me in a half-armed hug, ensuring both our glasses are protected from the intimacy. She pulls back and puts her face close to mine, looking me in the eye. ‘Are you OK? How are you feeling?’

‘Fine?’ Has someone died or what?

‘Good. Good. Now, I’ve sorted it all with your dad. Nobody’s angry in the slightest. We’re all very proud. ’ She takes me by the elbow like I’m infirm and gently leads me into the kitchen.

My entire family are sat around the island, drinks in hand and solemn expressions on their faces. Only Ricardo zooms over to me, quivering with excitement at my arrival. I might just lock myself in the bathroom with him all evening.

‘Hey, fishy fart.’ Charlie stands up and gives me a hug. He looks terrible, half a stone heavier than when I last saw him, sunken and swollen at the same time. It seems we are brushing over our meeting at Nana’s house. ‘Chin up.’

Dad scoots round the island and rests his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’ll succeed one day with something. Don’t give up.’ He pecks my head.

Great. Moving.

‘I mean, I don’t see a future in books, personally.’ Verity raises an eyebrow at me. ‘It’s all electronic now. Give it ten years and paperbacks will be archaic. Then what’ll you do?’

‘Veri!’ hisses Mum. ‘We said supportive .’

‘There’s a basket under this chair!’ Nana is hunched in the corner in the cosy seat, covered in blankets.

‘Hi, Nana!’ I rush over to her and kiss her powdery head. ‘How are you?’

‘Lovely.’ She beams. ‘You know they’ve stopped selling torpedoes at the offy? Maureen’s Derek’s had a right hissy fit! And not a dicky bird about those papers, would you believe?’

‘Gosh, unbelievable.’ I nod.

‘To Maggie!’ Mum blurts, raising her glass.

‘Why?’ I hold my glass in the air, too. ‘Why to me? I’ve got a different job, that’s all.’

‘And you’re really giving it your best shot!’ Cheers Dad, taking a swig of his wine.

‘OK, whatever.’ I take a gulp too. Pity is better than hostile disappointment, I suppose. ‘How are you settling in, Nana?’

‘Wonderfully. The staff are delightful.’ She winks at me and I laugh.

‘Cheek on you!’ Charlie throws a balled-up tissue at her and she catches it, chuckling.

‘She’s doing well, aren’t you, Mum?’ Mum smiles. ‘We’ve put her down here, turned the other living room into a bedroom.’

‘Couldn’t give her the nice spare bedroom seeing as Charlie refuses to move out.’ Veri glares across the kitchen.

‘Oh, and the fact that she’d struggle up the stairs with a brand-new hip didn’t factor in at all, did it?’ Charlie retorts.

‘And the goats come round at dawn!’ Nana enthuses, lost again. ‘Absolutely ruin the lawn, they do. Such chirpy little things.’

There’s an awkward silence as Nana stares into the distance.

‘Anyway!’ Dad booms. ‘Where’s that lovely belated Easter lunch?’

‘Easter was weeks ago,’ murmurs Nana, and we all exchange surprised glances.

‘Lamb’s just resting.’ Mum catches my eye. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some weird nut burgers for you.’

We all settle ourselves in the dining room, putting Nana at the head of the table with the ‘special plate’, the one with the pink flower on that we used to fight over every mealtime. Charlie once slapped me in the eye with a teaspoon he wanted it so badly. Then he turned fourteen and would proudly announce that flowers were ‘gay’ and he was ‘over it’. I’m still not over it.

Veri slides into the seat next to me. Wonderful.

‘Just to warn you, I’m going to eat many, many roast potatoes,’ I announce. ‘No comments or I’ll sit on you.’

‘Oh, shut up and pass me the wine.’ Veri leans over and drags the bottle across the table, filling her glass and mine. Charlie cracks a beer and sighs. Everyone’s in a bit of a mood and hitting the booze in defiance. Aren’t family traditions wonderful?

‘Dad, this Malbec is divine.’ Veri swirls her glass.

Tastes like velvety, alcoholic blood to me, and not in a good way. Then again, a good bottle to me is anything not on the bottom shelf at Tesco.

‘Isn’t it just? We tried it at Hawksmoor the other week and loved it.’

‘Then I found a crate in Costco and I thought, it’s fate! So I bought it.’ Mum walks in carrying a huge roast lamb. ‘I got ninety-eight toilet rolls, too, so you can both take a few home.’

‘Thanks,’ me and Veri mutter simultaneously.

‘You’ll need those, Mags. Remember when you got the shits in Crete?’ Charlie says.

‘Tuck in!’ Mum waves the gravy boat, keen to shut down the diarrhoea conversation before it begins.

I eat potatoes and vegetables and heaps of tomato ketchup to wash down the dry, crumbly nut burger I presume was bought from Waitrose’s organic-vegan-suicide section. I’m on my third glass of wine as we’re sitting back, staring at our empty plates in front of us in silence.

‘Jesus, I am so full. ’ Charlie burps.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Veri mutters.

‘Aw, and there was me thinking we’d got through the entire meal without you being a bitch.’ I smile. Mum opens her mouth to bollock me but Nana says she’s tired so she fusses away to help her into bed.

‘Got to take this.’ Dad says, producing his screeching phone from his pocket and marching through to the kitchen. ‘Gardiner speaking.’

It’s just us three, now. It’s never just us three, because Charlie and I generally point-blank refuse to be left in a room alone with Veri.

There’s a long pause.

‘You ever notice how all our names end in — ee ?’ I try.

‘What?’ Veri sloshes more wine into her glass.

‘Ver ee, Charl ee, Magg ee. ’

‘Verity, Charles and Margaret. Not similar at all.’ She sniffs.

‘All names belonging on a 1960s Coronation Street set.’ Charlie opens his next beer with his back teeth.

‘Aw, no, Charlie’s nice. Timeless.’ I nudge him. ‘You’re the lucky one.’

‘You talk some absolute shite, Maggie.’ Veri rubs her temples.

‘You always have to be so nasty, V?’ Charlie glares past me.

‘I might be nasty but at least I’m not a mess.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Look at you — what’s happened to you over the last few months?’ I’m surprised to hear a slight undertone of concern beneath the hostility.

‘Nothing.’ Charlie chugs half his beer down in one.

‘You’re drinking like you’ve three livers.’

‘Oh, and you’re not? It’s OK to drink fifty units when it’s a divine Malbec , is it?’

I pull out my e-cig and take a deep drag, ignoring Veri’s protests. A couple more hours of this and we’ll all go our separate ways, get on with our lives with no idea what the fuck the other’s problem is. I ache a bit as I think of it; the guilty tram ride home, wishing I’d said something, wishing I’d tried to get to the bottom of this stupid, tangled rift between us all. Veri is an impossibly deep mine of defensiveness, but she’s my sister and societal convention says I have to try. God knows she won’t. And Charlie... I don’t even feel like I know him anymore. We’ve all three of us survived on bitter remarks and witty banter for twenty-seven years, but it feels like we’ve lost the chance to have a real relationship. But how to make them talk?

The hazy image of Christmas and Veri’s uneven boob situation swims into my mind and I jump up from the table, interrupting the bickering.

‘Oi!’ Charlie yells as I pluck his half-empty beer bottle from his hand. I swipe mine and Veri’s wine glasses too and march into the kitchen, both of them hot on my tail. Dumping everything on the draining board, I go to the cupboard and pull out a sticky bottle of Bailey’s and three little crystal glasses and stride into the living room, setting it all down on the coffee table.

‘Sit.’ I order, and they do, on separate sofas. I can’t choose sides, so I get the floor, as it has always been. I pour our drinks and hand them out, noting that the Bailey’s has curdled slightly and hoping nobody says anything. They take their glasses in silence and sip obediently.

‘Right.’ I take a deep breath. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘What, me?’ Veri raises her eyebrows as I look at her. ‘What’s going on with me ? Have you seen him?’

‘Both of you!’

‘I’m the same as I always am.’ She sulks.

‘Exactly! You’re always horrible. What’s wrong with you?’ I neck my drink and pour another.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me!’ Veri snatches the bottle from me and drinks straight from it.

‘I might be wrong,’ Charlie says, ‘but I’m pretty sure you’re not actually a bitch.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think you’re just insecure or something. You just can’t be this mean. And you can turn on the charm for Dad no problem. There’s a chip on your shoulder for sure.’ He sits back smugly, content with his diagnosis.

‘I’m not drunk enough for this.’ Veri clamps her lips together and folds her arms.

‘Look. You two have it made. There is literally no reason for you to be miserable. What’s going on?’ I implore.

Charlie sighs. ‘I just can’t talk to you two about this stuff. It’s weird.’

‘Have some more Bailey’s.’ I pour him another glass. ‘And start.’

‘Why are you so interested anyway?’ Veri scowls at me. ‘Just leave us to it.’

‘Because I care about you, weirdly enough. It’s bad enough having Nana rapidly dwindling without having to worry about you two as well.’ I raise my arms in surrender. ‘Excuse me for having an emotional investment in my family members.’

‘I know it’d be easier if I just told you.’ Charlie sighs and rubs his eyes. ‘You know, like, spoke to you when stuff was going on. Because we’re close, aren’t we? But not in that way. Not emotionally.’

‘But can’t that change? We’re older now. I’d really like it if we could depend on each other when times are shit. Look at Nana’s fall, none of us even spoke.’ I only realise it’s true as I say it; only realise how little support I’ve garnered around myself during all this crap as I’m faced with two potential saviours who also never ask for help. ‘I’ve seen you since then, Charlie, and it wasn’t comforting, it was horrible. Is that normal?’

‘Normal isn’t necessarily pouring our hearts out all the time,’ Veri sniffs.

‘I’m not saying it is. But when stuff’s going on, wouldn’t you like to have us to talk to? Just a little bit?’ Ricardo patters over to me and flops into my lap, and I bury my head in his furry tummy.

‘I don’t know what advice you could give me, Maggie, to be perfectly honest,’ she sneers, but her heart isn’t in it.

I sigh. ‘OK, I’ll share my shit first. What’s Mum told you?’

‘That you quit your job to go and work in a bookshop,’ Charlie says.

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah, because you love books so much or something.’ Veri rolls her eyes.

Wow. Kind of don’t want to share my depressing life story anymore; that version sounds much better. I’ll choose something else.

‘Well, the other evening I was on my old work’s night out, and I walked through the Northern Quarter afterwards. I saw Sophie and Cecilia, and Sophie was kissing Martin. Remember Martin, my ex? She was kissing him and Cecilia was cheering her on. Turns out Anna knew as well. Haven’t spoken to any of them since.’ I lean back on my elbows, waiting for their reaction.

‘Isn’t that, like, your entire friendship group?’ Veri frowns.

‘Yup. Poof, gone.’

‘Wait, is this before or after you chucked Martin?’ Charlie sits up.

‘After.’

‘Oh, let it go then. He was a drip, anyway. Couldn’t keep up with you.’

I feel a bit warm inside at that. He couldn’t keep up with me. I’m like Effy from Skins .

‘But they’ve betrayed me, haven’t they?’

‘I guess they have. But stuff like this happens all the time; if they’re sorry you should just put it behind you.’ Charlie sips his third glass.

‘Actually, no. If my friends did that I’d never speak to them again,’ Veri says, a renewed fierceness in her eyes.

‘What friends?’ Charlie murmurs.

‘ Anyway ,’ I interrupt. ‘Veri, your turn.’

She sighs. ‘I don’t even know what to say. There’s nothing wrong. ’

‘There’s been something wrong as long as I’ve known you.’

‘I don’t know.’ She stares into her glass. ‘I honestly don’t know. I can’t put a word to it.’

‘Well... is it something physical? Or... or, you don’t like seeing us? Or you don’t like coming home?’

‘No, I like coming home. I do, honestly. I think... I don’t know. I feel... alone.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m talking shit.’

‘No, no, you’re not.’ I’m desperate to keep this going. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough, I’m sure of it. We have never spoken like this. ‘Alone in what sense?’

‘Well, you two have your cosy little club. You both have friends, partners sometimes. It sometimes feels like I don’t have anybody at all.’

Charlie leans forward. ‘But you go to all these dinners! All those nights out.’

‘Work stuff. Politics. Not one real friend among them.’ She sighs. ‘I think that’s why I’m so nasty sometimes, you know? I feel so angry and defensive. I don’t want people to think I’m unravelling.’

‘But maybe the defensiveness actually makes the problem worse,’ I muse. I can completely relate to her anger and snappiness. I’m mean when I’m unhappy, and I see it in myself. It makes me sad that I couldn’t see it in her, couldn’t read that there was something going on under that veneer.

‘I know. I know my attitude doesn’t help and I’ve brought it on myself.’ She slurs a little. The Baileys is working its magic.

‘Well, we’re here for you, aren’t we, Charlie? We can all go out together and do stuff, it’ll be fun!’ I smile, but I am trying to wrap my head around the fact that she was jealous. Of me, of all people. I am hit with the realisation that actually, from the outside, my life might not look so bad. I suppose it depends what you focus on.

‘I’m not saying I want to hang out with you both,’ she mutters, her face flushing.

‘Oh, you don’t?’ Charlie raises his eyebrows. ‘OK. We’re not good enough apparently, Mags.’

‘Apparently not.’ I scrunch my eyebrows together in pretend hurt. ‘Looks like it’ll be just the two of us next month then.’ I have no idea what I’m alluding to, but Charlie catches on quickly.

‘Mmm. Shame for Verity to miss out on Alton Towers, isn’t it?’ He shrugs.

There’s an almost imperceptible movement from Verity.

‘What’s up, Veri?’ I smile innocently.

She glowers at me. ‘You know how much I love Alton Towers.’

‘Aaaah!’ Charlie throws himself onto her sofa. ‘I knew it! Bloody come with us then!’

Veri laughs and slaps Charlie across the head. ‘Maybe.’

‘You have to stop being mean, though. They don’t let grumpy bastards on Oblivion.’ I say.

‘No promises.’ She flashes me a half-smile.

‘Starting now, by the way. No more negative comments for the rest of the night.’

‘Fucking hope the night ends quickly then.’ She sees my expression. ‘OK! Fine. For the rest of the night. But only if Charlie talks.’

‘There you go, Charlie. All our problems solved if you’ll just spill.’

His body slumps down and he sighs again. He’s sighed so many times this evening, I could make a musical montage. ‘It’s honestly so difficult to talk about. You won’t get it.’

Fucking hell, I hope he’s not dying. I really, really hope he’s not dying.

‘Try us.’ Veri says.

‘Fine. But you asked for this. The baggage that’s going to come with this.’ He looks me dead in the eye. ‘I’m gay.’

There’s a silence.

Charlie flits his eyes between me and Veri, colour rising in his cheeks.

‘Well? Say something!’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Bloody Bailey’s.’

‘Wait, what? Is that it?’ Veri looks at me. ‘Is that seriously it?’

‘This is why you’ve been so unhappy?’ I jump up from the floor and throw myself at him. ‘Charlie! I can’t believe it. I mean, I can — you’re obviously gay, we’ve known longer than you probably have — but I can’t believe you didn’t want to tell us!’

‘ I can’t believe you thought that would be an issue.’ Veri is shaking her head. ‘Have you just sat on this forever?’

‘Pretty much.’

That makes me so sad. My funny, lovely brother has driven himself insane and nearly given himself diabetes and/or alcohol poisoning because we didn’t create the right emotional environment for him to be himself. I’m ashamed.

‘I am so sorry.’ I’m crying now, wine and Bailey’s hurtling through my system. ‘I should have pushed you harder to tell me what was wrong. I mean, I knew this. You knew this too, right, Veri?’ She nods. ‘It was just... I never thought it was something to discuss.’ I stare at the arm of the sofa, trying to find the words. ‘It just was, you know? Part of you. But I didn’t realise you were so worried about it. We all should have been there for each other. We’ve failed each other.’

How much have I neglected, being so absorbed in my own problems? How much have I missed, more to the point, in the lives of the people around me? Not once did I take my head out of my own arse to consider anyone else and what they might be going through, and by the sounds of it it’s been worse for them than it has me.

‘No, you haven’t.’ Charlie shakes his head. ‘How could you have known? And we’re all to blame, aren’t we? I had no idea you two were going through stuff, either.’

‘You know, I’ve been thinking...’ Veri stops herself. ‘No, never mind.’

‘No, go on, what?’ I poke her leg.

‘Your list thingy. You seem... happier.’ She catches Charlie’s confused expression. ‘Mags made a list of everything she hated about herself. I don’t know, maybe we could do the same? It might make us feel better? Like, Charlie, you could write “stop eating shit” and “get my own place and stop being a scrounger”, then maybe—’

‘No.’ I interrupt. ‘No, don’t do that.’ I don’t know why I suddenly feel like this is a bad idea. Something in me just knows that I don’t want them documenting and obsessing over the things they loathe themselves for. I wave my hand. ‘Didn’t work. Just the new job.’

‘Hm. You seem a lot better, though.’ Veri’s eyes lose focus for a second as she stares at the wall.

Suddenly, she grabs her glass. ‘In any event, this is a happy occasion. To being gay!’

‘To being gay!’ I scream, euphoria rising in my chest as I finally, for once, stand on the same side of the fence as my sister. And it’s not even Christmas!

Charlie pauses. This is still new for him; he’s spent so long not saying those words, it evidently doesn’t come easily to blurt them out and toast to them. He looks at us both and takes a deep breath.

‘I’m fucking gay!’ He cheers, the burden of his secret lifting slightly from his shoulders. ‘I’m so obviously, wonderfully gay!’

We sit back and giggle. I wipe the back of my nose with my sleeve.

‘Now I’ve got to tell everyone at work. And Mum and Dad.’ Charlie winces.

‘They love you, Charlie. They’ll accept anything that makes you happy. And who says you have to tell anyone at work? Your business is your business.’

‘Dad can’t even accept that you work in a bookshop.’ He raises his eyebrows.

‘Sorry, but he can’t.’

‘Not surprising, really—’ Veri starts, before clamping her lips shut and shaking her head in apology. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

‘So?’ I say, realising that I actually don’t care. ‘You can’t be so worried about disappointing him that you don’t live your life the way you want.’

There’s a small silence as we sip our drinks, all of us pretty smashed by this point.

‘Is there a guy on the scene, then?’ I try, but scene comes out as ssshene. Thankfully, drunk understands drunk.

‘Hey, there might be a man on my ssshene,’ slurs Veri.

‘Really?’ I sober up momentarily. Did she not say two minutes ago that she didn’t have a boyfriend? ‘Who?’

‘Roger. One of the senior partners. We’re just shaggin’.’ She hiccups.

That seems to be it.

We start talking about my friends again, what I should do, back and forth until I can barely remember why I’m angry with them in the first place. We’re debating forgiveness when Nana pokes her head around the door.

‘Goodnight, scallywags!’

‘I thought you went to bed ages ago, Nana?’ Charlie says.

‘Did I? Oh, I can’t remember.’ She shakes her head.

‘Night, Nana.’ I sway to my feet and give her a kiss.

‘Night, love. Make friends, won’t you? Life’s too short.’ She potters through the door and we sit back down.

‘God, imagine what she’d say if she knew I loved cock.’ Charlie giggles.

We jump as a chuckle comes from down the hallway. ‘Don’t we all, darling!’