The One Before The One. Katy Regan
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‘And what was that flirting in aid of anyway?’ It comes from nowhere but it’s out now and I can’t take it back.
‘What flirting?’
‘Oh come on, Lexi, you were flirting like mad with Toby! Batting your eyelashes, kicking your shoes off.’
‘I was not! I was just chatting to him.’
‘Chatting? You were thrusting your cleavage in his face!’
She looks visibly wounded. I feel a stab of guilt, but not much.
‘That’s bollocks. And anyway, he was flirting with me.’
‘That is bollocks. You’re just pissed and imagining things.’
‘What do you care anyway?’
She had a point; why did I suddenly care?
‘He’s my colleague! I have to work with him.’
‘Whoopdee-do, he’s not your boyfriend is he? And so what if I have a little flirt with a nice bloke who’s who’s …’ she starts crying now, which seems a little OTT. I know I should probably hug her but I don’t feel like it, I just don’t. ‘Nice to me and asking me questions?’
I roll my eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Lexi. It’s not really that, it’s the fact you’re drunk out of your head and I’m supposed to be bloody well looking after you! You’re supposed to have come here to sort your head out and I don’t even know where you’ve been.’
Just then the phone goes. We both stare at it, then stare at each other.
‘If it’s Dad, I’m not in,’ says Lexi
‘You bloody well are.’
I pick up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hi there.’ It’s a man’s voice – a man’s, not a boy’s. ‘Is Lexi there?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Tell her it’s Clark,’ he says. His voice is northern, rich, and really quite attractive.
‘It’s Clark,’ I say, flatly, holding out the receiver, but Lexi’s face darkens immediately.
‘No. No way,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Tell him I’m not here.’
‘She’s not here.’
Lexi has shrivelled into the wall, gone a dealthly pale all of a sudden.
‘Are you sure? Because I really need to talk to her.’
I hold out the phone to Lexi again.
‘He really needs to talk to you.’
Lexi shakes her head.
‘Tough shit.’ She’s really crying now, tears are streaming down her face. ‘Tell him I don’t want to talk to him. And while you’re at it …’ she stabs a finger in the direction of the phone. ‘Tell him to go fuck himself. I wish he, and you, for that matter, would just leave me alone!’
Then she runs upstairs, leaving me holding the phone, wondering what the hell all that was about.
I gingerly take my hand off the receiver.
‘Clark? She’s drunk and really upset about something. I’d call back another time, if I were you.’
‘I will,’ he says.
* * *
The next day, I wake up feeling irritated. Like if my life were laid before me it would all be in tiny little fragments, like nothing’s in control. Call me selfish, but it’s one thing agreeing to take my half-sister in for the summer but not if she’s going to come home off her face, taking out her boyfriend troubles on me. And clearly we can’t have the book club at mine if Lexi’s going to walk in any minute, so perhaps we shouldn’t be having it at all. Why did that thought suddenly fill me with panic? Anyway, I’ve got a big presentation to give to Schumacher today – if I play my cards right, I could seal the deal between us and Langley’s, meaning I’m in with a chance of Sales Person of the Year, and frankly, although I can already feel sisterly guilt breaking down my resolve like a hairline fracture, I can do without Lexi’s boyfriend dramas, too.
I take my To Do list from my bedside table. This is what I need. Nice orderly lines of writing, clear tasks and a chance to prioritize. I feel better already.
This is my Master list, I also have a Shopping list, a Must-see Cultural Events list, an Admin list, Presents to Buy list and a Long-Term Goals list.
I take my notebook out of my bedside table and set about updating.
To Do:
MINOR
Make something with Quinoa – still to do.
Pluck eyebrows – done. (Do again when start to join up.) Get spare room painted – Never going to do it, give it up! Sort out photo albums (buy photo corners) – Still to do, but seriously, when? *Call council about recycling – Done! (Although I still maintain there’s some smug little arse down at Wandsworth Council with ‘Head Foxer’ as his job-title since it seems one needs a degree to recycle correctly.) Get involved in local culture: this coming weekend: installation by interesting sounding German artist at the Pump House Gallery. Done! What next? (See Must-see Cultural Events list and pick something else. Aboriginal Ceramics?) Learn how to use i-Pod that have now had since Christmas. Just do it!! (Have developed a dislike of people who buy me things that I then have to find the time to learn how to use, which is just wrong on so many levels.) Do 3x12 squats and 3x12 sit ups before bed (start tomorrow) – start tomorrow. *Join actual book club
MAJOR
Incorporate two hours of admin into every weekend. No excuse! (This is looking pretty unlikely now I have a teen on my hands.)
Every day, do something for self and de-stressing, even if just breathing (alone, concentrating on, rather than just breathing breathing) for ten minutes. Chance would be a fine thing. Work: Step things up a gear! Seal deal on two new clients per week: work in progress. If I nail this meeting with Schumacher today, I could be half way there. FIND OUT WHAT’S WRONG WITH LEXI ASAP!!
At present, I don’t really care what’s wrong with Lexi, to tell you the truth, which I’m worried makes me the worst sister in the world.
I give her a knock before I leave for work anyway, just to check she’s still alive.
‘Lex?’
No answer
‘Lexi, are you awake?’
Nothing.
‘We’ll speak later in the day,’ I say, presuming she’s sulking. ‘I’ve left a cup of tea by your door so don’t, you know, step straight into it and get the mug stuck on your foot.’
I wait a few more seconds and when I get no answer to my moronic ramblings, I leave for work.
Victoria tube station is rammed with tourists carrying cameras and backpacks. It used to make me feel nostalgic when I saw tourists en masse like this; reminded me of a time when London was new and exciting for me, too, when Martin and I were fresh-faced from the cosy confines of the rolling hills of Yorkshire and everything and everyone seemed exotic.
Now I’m just one of a million other jaded Londoners who wishes they’d all bugger off, stop treating my city like a holiday destination and taking up space on my journey to work.
A train approaches and I curse the 20-strong team of rowdy school children blocking my way to the door. ‘HOLD YOUR BUDDY’S HAND!’ a blonde woman with no chin is shouting as the children shuffle, dazed, onto the tube. ‘And remember we’re getting off at Vauxhall.’
Vauxhall? Christ. Did I have