The Singalong Society for Singletons. Katey Lovell
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right. Whatever you say. ‘Salted caramel.’ Is that what they call it at the hairdressers?’
I poke my tongue out at her, but she knows it’s all in jest. That’s the great thing about our friendship. We tease each other mercilessly, but we can switch to drying each other’s tears in a matter of seconds if needs be. And Issy, bless her, has done her fair share of being the shoulder to cry on this year, so it’s important to remember to laugh about things as much as possible.
‘They refer to it by number. But it’s the darkest blonde they do,’ Issy replies haughtily, running her hand over her locks once more. ‘You’d see for yourself if we were in the right light. This house has terrible natural light, and you know it. It’s the price we pay for living on the shady side of the street.’
She’s right about that. Even in the height of summer there’s a distinct chill in the lounge of the mid-terraced red-brick house we share. I swear we must’ve been the only people pulling down furry throws from the back of the sofa to keep warm during the one red-hot week that had passed as the British summer. Even long sunny days had done nothing to rid our lounge of its chilly gloom. And now, on an early-September evening, where it’s still light outside, both of us are in pyjamas, dressing gowns and super-thick socks, a necessity if we’re going to meet our annual challenge of making it to the half-term break without caving and putting the heating on.
‘So, are you going to pour me a glass or that Merlot or what? I’m dying of thirst over here.’
‘You’re not exactly encouraging me to share when you’re slagging off my hair and saying my job’s easy. Maybe I’ll keep the whole bottle to myself instead.’
There’s a cheeky glint in Issy’s eyes as she pulls the bottle to her mouth as though to swig from it. I know she’s only messing around, but it’s still enough to make me worry. It’s Friday night. I need that wine.
‘I never said it was easy,’ I correct quickly. ‘Just that you’ve not got the screamers and the over-anxious parents and the snotty noses and the pooey pants to deal with.’ When the negative aspects of the job were all strung out like that, working as a teaching assistant in a reception class sounded bad. Like a cacophony of noise and hassle and bodily fluids.
Issy shoots me a look. ‘You knew what you were getting into, you’ve got a degree in child development. It’s not exactly a state secret that four-year-olds have accidents and don’t know how to use a Kleenex.’
‘I know, I know.’
And I can’t imagine doing anything else. My oldest friend Connie’s stuck in a hell-hole of an office all day and she hates every miserable minute of it. She’s crying out to do something more worthwhile than filing and answering phones. School might be exhausting, but there are plenty of rewards too – some of the things the kids come out with are hilarious and it’s great watching them grow and progress day by day.
‘I do love the kids,’ I add, ‘especially the little ones. They’re continually evolving and that moment when they grasp how to do something new – there’s nothing like it. The pride in their faces…’
I place my hand over my heart, recalling the happiness on one child’s face today as he counted to ten by rote. It had been a touching moment, and one that reminded me how much I love my job.
‘You’re going to set me off crying at this rate.’
Issy rolls her eyes, but the grin that accompanies it is the real giveaway – it shows she understands. I might be more of a people person than Issy, but she cares about the kids much more than she outwardly shows. She just does a good job of hiding her love and loyalty. Issy plays her cards very close to her chest.
‘It’s great being with the little ones. I wish they’d have a bit more independence sometimes, though.’
‘Like you said to me, it’ll get easier. You’ll have them whipped into shape by the summer. They’re used to being mollycoddled at home, that’s all. Come on, you’ll feel better after a glass of wine,’ she chivvies. ‘And at least there’s no alarm going off at some ungodly hour in the morning, so let’s put a film on and forget about work. I’ve got a Toblerone in the cupboard, too, if you fancy a few little triangular pieces of heaven?’
‘Mmmmm.’ My mouth waters at the thought. Toblerone. My favourite. ‘That sounds amazing. What do you want to watch?’
It’s a ridiculous, pointless question. We’ve watched the same film every Friday night for the past three months.
‘Ooh, let me think,’ Issy replies sarcastically, putting the tip of her index finger to the corner of her lips, as though there’s actually a decision to be made here. Her nails are coated in black polish and there’s not a single chip to be seen. Typical: Immaculate Issy. After a brief, yet dramatic, pause, she announces ‘Frozen!’
I pull the shiny rectangular DVD case from the boxy Ikea bookcase as Issy snuggles into the corner of the settee, pulling the chocolate-brown throw over her knees in an attempt to get cosy, because when it comes to frostiness, 24 Cardigan Close can easily rival an icy Arendelle. Brr!
*
By the time Hans and Anna are capturing the brilliant white moon in their hands as they dance beneath the waterfall, Issy and I are both decidedly more relaxed. A second bottle of red wine’s been opened and all that remains of the chocolate is the iconic triangular prism box and a screwed-up ball of silver foil strewn on the table. The cares of the week are slowly slipping away; the weekend has truly arrived.
Until the doorbell rings, rudely interrupting the peace.
Issy groans. ‘Can’t we leave it?’ I know there’s no way on earth she’ll get up from that settee; she’s set up camp for the night. Begrudgingly, I inch myself into a standing position while she chunters on. ‘Who calls unannounced on a Friday night anyway?’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It must be important.’
‘Or one of those door-to-door charity collectors.’
A ferocious banging follows, five loud knocks that it would be impossible to ignore.
‘That’d have to be one desperate charity collector.’
I pull my dressing gown more tightly around my waist as I reach for my key from the small hook on the back of the door. The knocking continues, louder and more frantic than before, followed by a voice.
‘Mon! Mon! It’s me!’
The desperation in the high-pitched cries urge me into action. The voice is instantly identifiable. I fling the door open and my sister stumbles over the threshold, a bulging black sports bag slung over her shoulder and a wheelie suitcase by her side. Her face is deathly pale in stark contrast to her chocolate-brown hair, and her cheeks are stained with the snail-trail tracks of tears.
‘Hope! What’s going on?’
I’m shocked at the state of her. Actually, I’m beyond shocked. I’m not used to seeing my older sister like this. Hope’s always been the stronger of the two of us, the one with the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude and a permanent look of disdain waiting in the wings to throw at anything or anyone she considers beneath her. But right now she looks fragile and vulnerable, like a frightened kitten in a thunderstorm.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Hope sobs. Her long, dark hair falls in front of her face as she hunches forwards, a protective veil to hide behind. I know the trick; I’ve used it myself.
‘Start at the beginning.’ I try to keep my voice calm, although inside I’m flailing. Placing my hand on my sister’s back, I gently guide her into the living room. Hans and Anna are no longer singing about love being an open door. Issy’s pressed the pause button at an inopportune moment; the close-up shot of the princess showing her eyes closed and her face contorted. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s Amara,’ Hope says finally, before looking up and locking