Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons
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pushes the door and is impressed. Every corner of the flat screams ‘I’m modern, I’m hip. You want me.’ From the granite breakfast bar and six-ring stove to the Bose stereo which blinks into life at the flick of a switch, it is everything Richard has longed for. All the endless research trips, the hours spent doing time at the British Library and the years writing, getting rejected, rewriting and then getting accepted as a proper writer, have been worth it. Richard turns towards the French windows that flank one side of the apartment and is breathless at the view. London in all its mish-mashed glory stretches before him looking wonderful. Richard turns to Sophie who is watching him carefully, allowing him to take in his surroundings.
Good at her job and probably a good shag too, he thinks.
‘You like?’ she asks in a teasing voice.
‘I do, but aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You haven’t shown me the bedroom.’
Sophie smiles and it’s the smile of someone who loves her job, who is control of her life and who knows how to play a man. She unbuttons her blouse, slips off her skirt and stands before him looking gorgeous in black lacy underwear and as Richard correctly suspects, stockings and suspenders. Even Richard is speechless, not quite believing how his day and his life are turning out. Sophie walks down the corridor glancing backwards and beckoning to him. Richard grins and shakes his head before following her to the bedroom.
The Pickled Pig represents the waning soul of twenty-first-century public houses the country over. It once served this corner of southeast London as a cinema until the big cinema companies invented places called multiplexes and it went out of business. It then became a pub and got swallowed up by one of the big pub companies. This caused the locals to moan until they realised that the beer was actually a lot cheaper than before.
Emma is the first to arrive and selects a pint of local beer before finding a booth, far away enough from the bar to be quiet, but close enough to the action to get a good view of the locals, many of whom have been here since opening time. She studies the black and white photographs on the wall depicting old Penge and a man named Angry Tony who made his living selling potatoes and bizarrely, coffins. The evening is grey and wet and she sees Rachel push her way through the swing doors and shake off her umbrella.
‘Man, it’s chucking it down,’ she declares as she locates Emma. ‘Right, what are we drinking?’
‘Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you too. It’s called Stinky Pete and it’s quite good. Try it.’
Rachel takes a gulp and licks her lips,
‘Hmm, not bad. Want another?’
‘No, I’m fine for now thanks.’
Rachel returns minutes later with her drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts.
‘Kids all tucked up?’
‘Yeah, but Steve still isn’t home, so –’
‘You left Will in charge?’
Rachel snorts. ‘Don’t be daft, Lily’s much more responsible! No, Tom is babysitting until Steve gets home.’
‘Tom?’
‘Our next-door neighbour.’
‘Oh, the dishy one.’
Rachel is surprised that she and her sister obviously have similar taste. ‘D’you think?’
‘Oh yeah, bit pudgy, but very cute. Like Russell Crowe.’
‘Steady on, he’s hardly a gladiator!’
‘Oh, so you have checked him out then?’ Emma teases.
‘So what if I have. I am a respectable married lady so it’s fine to look as long as you don’t touch,’ says Rachel in a superior tone.
‘I agree with the married bit,’ laughs Emma. Rachel flicks her sister the V-sign. ‘Anyway, sister dearest, when exactly were you going to tell me that you’re moving to Scotland?’
‘Aha, you’ve spoken to mother then?’
‘Yes but still, Rach, I’m your sister. You could have told me.’
‘Why do you think we’re having this drink? I wanted to tell you face to face. Don’t be so sensitive.’
Emma is irritated by the brush-off, but is interrupted by Rachel’s phone. Rachel glances at the caller ID and rolls her eyes, mouthing ‘Steve’ as she answers with a curt ‘Hi?’ Steve obviously has a lot to say and Emma watches Rachel’s face as her look transforms from one of mild irritation to impatient anger. Emma waits for the backlash and isn’t disappointed.
‘No, Steve, you bloody listen. You said you’d be home in time and you weren’t. Tom offered and I actually do think it’s OK to leave our children with him. He’s been more supportive than you have lately. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to hang up and moan to my sister about you.’ She punches the end call button with a defiant ‘Tosser!’
Emma looks at her sister. ‘You’re really very cross, aren’t you?’
‘D’you think?’ says Rachel. ‘First he wants to move us up north, then I find out he’d known for ages and now he’s playing the alpha-male working all bloody hours while my brain is dissolving due to lack of proper use. I dunno, Em, sometimes I just want to walk out the door and never come back.’
Emma is a little shocked by the outburst. She knows Rachel can fly off the handle and she knows she’s found it hard to adjust to life as a stay-at-home mum, but she’s never heard her talk like this before. Giving up is not something the Darcy sisters do and she’s never seen her as angry as this with Steve either. She’d always had them down as rock-solid and immune to the kind of vitriol she’s seen other couples develop after so many years and so many children. She knows better than to wind up her sister any further and decides that softly, softly might be the way to go.
‘Come on, Rach, you don’t mean that.’
‘Don’t I? Oh God, Em, I don’t know what I mean these days.’
‘Have you tried talking to Steve?’
Rachel looks at Emma as if she’s just arrived from Planet Stupid. ‘Of course I’ve tried talking to him. All I ever bloody do these days is try to talk to my husband, but he’s never bloody there!’
Emma sees the error she’s made but presses on like a woman on a suicide mission. ‘Well, I can babysit one night if you want to go out, you know, to talk.’
Rachel realises she’s been ranting and looks at her baby sister. Emma’s face is twisted with concern and Rachel sees a shadow of the four-year-old agreeing to let Rachel cut her hair, just to please her. Their mother had not been amused when she’d come upstairs to find her youngest daughter resembling a child with alopecia, especially when Rachel had tried to clarify the situation with the words ‘It just fell out, honest.’
Rachel smiles at the memory and at her sister. ‘Thanks, Em,’ she says with as much softness as she can muster. ‘I think Mum and Dad are having the kids at the weekend so we can try and sort it all out. Don’t worry, little sis, I’m just knackered, OK?’ Emma looks relieved. ‘So what have you been up to? Tell me about this gorgeous new author of yours. I presume he is gorgeous? Congrats on getting the book by the way. Sorry, should have said that before’. She knocks her pint glass against Emma’s in a feeble toast.
‘He’s just a nice bloke who’s written a really good book.’
‘Wow, Em, sounds amazing,’ says Rachel, feigning a yawn. ‘Let’s hope they don’t get you to write the marketing copy.’
‘Ha, ha,’ says Emma. ‘Oh by the way, I think Mum’s planning a dress-shopping trip. Are you up for it?’
‘I’m always up for it! Now