CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I’m watching old episodes of Modern Family when the doorbell goes. Moving my laptop off my stomach, where it’s been balanced so that I can pretend to myself that I’m doing some form of work, I go to the door, wondering whether I unconsciously ordered another takeaway.
Working from home has been both liberating and suffocating: I’ve enjoyed the freedom of wearing tracksuit bottoms and my Miss Piggy slippers all day, but I’ve also felt slovenly and useless, trapped in my flat with no one to talk to but the orchid I bought at Sainsbury’s on a whim the other day. I’ve named him Bud and he is a pleasant, if somewhat minimal, conversationalist.
Most of my industry contacts are now aware of my redundancy. I spent Monday sending emails to all the agents and PR reps I could think of and received a torrent of support in reply. I thought it would make me upset, but actually it was nice to read their opinions on the matter. Almost all of them pitched me clients to interview on a freelance basis, which was promising—I suppose I could book some in to write up and shop around to publications until I find a new position.
The rest of the week has been spent wrapping things at Narrative, including telling the agents and managers of the interviewees that I was leaving, which was mildly embarrassing. The worst was telling Isabella Blossom. I sent her an email with her film publicist, Rachael, cc’d in, saying that I understood if she’d rather Ryan do the interview now, since I probably wouldn’t be at the magazine by the time we could arrange to come see her and the baby. Rachael quickly replied saying how amazing I was at my job and how sorry she was to hear about the redundancy, before concluding that she and Isabella would be in touch regarding the interview.
Leaving Narrative has also meant compiling a handover file for Ryan, so he can stay up to speed on any features that are currently in the works. His request for a spreadsheet of interviews and dates has not been fulfilled because such a document does not exist. When I emailed to tell him that, I imagined him reading it with his secretive smile. The one he used when my chaos amused him.
I doubt he smiles like that now.
Whenever Ryan’s name has popped in my inbox, my heart has leaped into my throat, but he’s only matched the formal tone of my original email. Which is to be expected. He’s following my lead, and I did say some things during our rain-drenched spat that must have hit home. Ryan is the kind of guy who would respect my request for him to leave me alone. He’d believe me when I tell him that I won’t trust him again.
Still, I find myself toying with the idea of calling him—or, in more desperate moments, showing up at his door. After my outburst at dinner with my parents, I realized that he was the one who gave me the courage to speak my mind. If he had been there, I think he would have been proud of me.
But then I think about how I wracked my brain for days wondering what I did wrong, how I threw myself into work thinking at least I could excel in that area of my life, and my cheeks grow hot with humiliation. My pride can’t quite forgive him. Besides, I don’t have time to be thinking about matters of the heart. I need to get back on my own two feet first. I need to focus on me.
As firm as I am about this decision, I still wonder every time the doorbell rings. Which is why, when I pause Modern Family, I have a teensy flutter of hope that it might be Ryan standing on the other side of the door, holding a bouquet of flowers, begging me to take him back.
It’s not him. It’s not a Deliveroo driver, either (who would have been equally welcome).
“Hi,” Juliet says sheepishly.
I’m so stunned to see my sister that I don’t say anything at first, staring at her open-mouthed. I wonder if I’m hallucinating, that maybe the three Nobbly Bobbly ice creams I’ve ingested today have gone to my head. For one thing, my sister has never been to my flat before. I don’t know if she’s even been south of the river before, let alone ventured as far as Brixton. And for another, it’s 2 P.M. on a Thursday, which means she should be in an office somewhere yelling at people on the phone or taking important clients out for lunch in The Savoy. She definitely shouldn’t be at my door wearing jeans.
Oh my god, she really is wearing jeans. I haven’t seen her in casual wear since she was, like, ten. And that’s not even an exaggeration: Juliet was one of those kids who became conscious of her style early on and would select adorable little outfits with Mum that involved buckle shoes and bows in her hair. I preferred the oversized T-shirt and shorts look, an outfit that would be dirty within roughly two minutes of me throwing it on. I was literally made to star in laundry detergent adverts.
Juliet clears her throat expectantly.
“S-sorry, hi,” I stammer. “What are you doing here? It is Thursday, right? Is it Thursday? Have I missed a couple of days and it’s the weekend?”
“No, it’s Thursday,” she confirms. “Sorry to show up unannounced like this. Can I come in?”
Part of me would like to say no and slam the door in her face. I haven’t spoken to any of my family since the dinner last week. I wasn’t expecting them to contact me after the way I spoke to them, and as I made clear at the time, that was fine by me.
But there must be a reason she’s made the journey here, and somehow manners and curiosity override my feelings of anger.
Standing back to let her in, I watch as she treads carefully into the flat.
“Do I need to take my shoes off?” she asks, gesturing at her designer pumps.
I suppress a laugh. “Uh, no. You’re fine.”
She nods and shuffles in, standing awkwardly in the kitchen while I shut the door. She takes a good look around. It’s currently not the tidiest of homes, but it’s definitely not as bad as it’s been.
“Would you like a drink?” I offer.
“Thanks, that would be lovely. Do you have any herbal teas?”
“Peppermint.”
“Perfect, thank you,” she says as I go to fill up the kettle. “This is a nice flat.”
“Thanks. A little smaller than yours, I imagine.”
“It’s much more homey than mine,” she says carefully. “It has character.”
I snort. “One way of describing it.”
Reaching for two mugs and the box of peppermint tea bags out the cupboard, I set them down on the counter. She watches on in silence, clutching her handbag.
“You can sit down if you’d like,” I say, gesturing to the kitchen table. “Or on the sofa if you’d prefer.”
“Here’s fine,” she replies, pulling out the chair and perching on the edge.
Even the way we sit is completely different. Juliet looks regal, sitting up straight, shoulders back, chest out, chin up.
The kettle signals that it’s boiled, and I pour the water into the mugs. I don’t really want a peppermint tea right now, but I’m going to need something to distract my hands with, and it might as well be a mug.
“Do you leave the teabag in?” I ask.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Me too,” I say, although I’m not sure why she’d be interested.
I set the two mugs down and sit at the opposite side of the table. She thanks me and then falls silent again, her eyes darting about nervously.
“Juliet,” I begin, too inquisitive to remain polite any longer, “what exactly are you doing here?”
She nods as though she’s been waiting for me to ask and needed the prompt.
“I wanted to check you were okay after what happened last week. And … I wanted to apologize, too,” she says, looking me right in the eye.
I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yes. I need to apologize for a few things, actually. But mostly, I’m sorry for not standing up for you. Mum and Dad … they shouldn’t say the things they do. I feel terrible about how they speak to you, and I wanted you to know that.”
I stare at her. Completely taken aback by the apology, I’m suspicious that this is some kind of trick somehow. That she’s going to reach into her handbag and bring out a custard pie to throw in my face before roaring with laughter and shrieking, “AS IF!”
She looks as though she means it, though. And there’s no sign of a custard pie anywhere. But it’s still too sudden and random for me to be convinced.
“I know it’s too little too late,” she continues, recognizing the confusion in my expression. “But I wanted to say it anyway. It’s important to say it, according to my therapist.”
“You’re seeing a therapist?”
“For a few months now. The best thing I ever did.” Looking down at the table, she taps the handle of the mug. “I speak about you a lot. And Mum and Dad. But a lot about you.”
“Really? I’m surprised I feature at all,” I say, unable to mask the bitterness.
“You do. Heavily.” She lifts the mug to her lips to blow on it and I notice she’s shaking.
“So, you came here to apologize,” I check.
“Not just that,” she says hurriedly, putting the tea back down. “I also wanted to let you know that I thought what you did at the dinner last week was extremely brave. Brave and inspirational. It inspired me.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Did you come here to take the piss out of me?”
“No!” she insists, panicked. “I’m being serious. I swear.”
“What I said at the dinner inspired you?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding vigorously. “It inspired me to tell Mum and Dad the truth, which is what I did after you left. I told them that I quit my job five months ago.”
My jaw drops to the floor. “You what?”
“I know.” She gives me a faint smile, as though she can’t quite believe it herself. “Right after they offered me partner at the firm. I’ve been unemployed and lying to everyone this whole time.”
“You quit your job? Why?”
“Because I was miserable,” she says with a shrug, her eyes brightening. “And I’m so much happier now. I mean, I’m not happy as such. I’m still working out what I want to do. But I hated my job. I hated the pressure and the stress and the fact that I worked all hours of the day but didn’t get any fulfillment. When I told Mum and Dad that I’d been offered partner, they kept saying this was what I’d been working for—that’s when it hit me. I’d got to where I wanted to be and I was even more miserable than before. So I turned down the firm’s offer and quit.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned into silence.
“Oh, and I broke up with Harry weeks ago,” she adds before taking a sip of her tea. “I’ve been too scared to tell Mum because I know she adored him, but I told them that at the dinner, too, after you left. Harry is a great guy for someone else, but not for me. I think he was a bit relieved when I called it off, to be honest.”
“Juliet,” I say, my brain scrambling for words, “this is a lot of information to process.”
“I know. You’re taking it a lot better than Mum and Dad. They weren’t very happy.”
I grimace at the thought. “I can imagine.”
“Dad said I was obviously confused and had had a little blip, but that he was sure the firm would take me back if I explained.” She sighs. “I told him I wasn’t ever going back and he threw his napkin down on the table in protest.”
“Scandalous.”
She hesitates, adding quietly, “Mum couldn’t even look at me. She said she hoped I knew that I was sabotaging my life. I left after that.”
I stare at her, impressed. “Have you heard from them since?”
“Dad has left a few voicemails that have covered a range of emotions. In some, he’s attempted to be understanding, saying he knows the pressure of the job can be a lot, but that he’s certain I can find my way through and get back on track. Others have been full of yelling.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m going to give it some time before I respond.”
“That’s a good idea. Let the dust settle.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you,” she says, looking pained and shaking her head. “Dealing with them all this time.”
“I’m used to their disappointment,” I assure her with a shrug.
“I’ve resented them for a long time,” she admits, bringing her eyes up to look at me again. “Therapy has helped me realize that. I’ve been so focused on pleasing them and living up to their expectations that I forgot what it was like to make myself happy. I got used to shutting myself off from any feelings of joy. All I focused on was maintaining their approval. Along the way I lost myself. And I lost you, too.”
I hesitate. “Yeah, well, we’ve never been on the same page.”
“I want that to change,” she says fiercely. “I know that I’ve been a terrible sister to you, Harper, and I know that we’re different. But I would like to repair whatever relationship we’re able to salvage. Or build a completely new one. It’s a lot to ask and I know you … you might not be interested, but it’s important that you know how much I want to make things better between us. You don’t have to decide now. You can take your time. But that’s the main reason I’m here today.”
She’s looking at me so earnestly that I feel overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions. I’ve been so angry at her for so long and felt so distant from her that the idea of finding common ground when we’re in our thirties seems delusional and futile. But I also find myself grappling with feelings of compassion toward her. Maybe, for the first time ever, I understand her a little better.
“I had no idea that you were unhappy,” I say eventually. “I thought you had the perfect life.”
Her expression clouds over. “Trust me, I didn’t. I don’t. Looks can be deceiving.”
“But why do you want to build a relationship with me now, when you’ve never wanted to before? You didn’t even notice me before now.”
“That’s not true,” she says firmly. “Yes, I’ve been wrapped up in my own life, but the thing is, Harper, I’ve always been envious of you.”
“Envious of me?”
She nods, frowning. “You had the guts to stand up to Mum and Dad and tell them who you are and what you wanted. I had no idea who I was, really. I was so jealous of the freedom you created for yourself. And then being around you only amplified the guilt I felt over letting Mom and Dad be so horrible to you while allowing them to fawn all over me. I was too scared to let them down because then … then they’d treat me…”
“The same way they treated me,” I conclude for her.
She nods, her eyes welling up. “Exactly. I’ve been so cowardly. I’m sorry, Harper.”
I press my lips together, blinking back tears.
“What you said at dinner, you were right. They are bullies, and I’ve enabled them,” she continues. “I want to thank you, because it’s you who finally helped me find the courage to be honest with them. For the first time. And I don’t know if they’ll ever get over it, but I do feel much better now they know the truth. It’s like a weight has been lifted and I can finally move forward. So even if you decide that you don’t want me in your life, I’m always going to be grateful to you for that, Harper.”
We fall into silence. I consider what she’s said and try to work out where to go from here.
“I’m proud of you,” I say finally, surprising myself but meaning it.
She inhales sharply, her knuckles whitening as she grips her mug.
“What you’ve done—quitting your job, going to therapy, telling our parents the truth—all of that is stuff you should be proud of,” I say. “And … I would like to take some steps to repairing our relationship. I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a sister.”
Tears stream down her cheeks.
“That means a lot, Harper. Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming here to talk to me. Can’t have been easy navigating South London,” I say playfully.
“It is a strange new world,” she grins, opening her handbag to pluck out a tissue and dab her eyes. She takes a moment to regain composure, drinking some tea before giving me a sympathetic look. “I’m really sorry about your job, Harper. I know you loved it.”
“Thanks. It’s been a bit rubbish. But my friend Mimi threw a great leaving party last Friday that involved a piñata with my boss’s face on it. I got to smack the shit out of him.”
“I take it he didn’t attend the party.”
“He had a bowling tournament.”
She laughs. “By the way, I read your Audrey Abbot interview.”
“Yeah?”
“It was brilliant.” She hesitates. “Someone who pulled themselves up from the ground, dusted themselves off, and made it through. She’s iconic.”
“She is. Wait until you read her memoirs. Talk about ups and downs, she’s been through it all,” I inform her proudly.
“I’ve been listening to this great podcast recently about failure and how it can mold you into being the best version of yourself, and how you can use it to build your success. Everyone you’ve admired has failed at some point, or felt like they were failing. There are famous guests on it every week talking about their failures and how they got to where they are now. You should listen to it. Not that being made redundant is a failure, but it might help to give you a new perspective on things. It’s helped me, anyway.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ll give it a try.”
“If anyone can pull themselves up, it’s you,” she says simply.
I glance down at the table. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” she replies without hesitation, forcing me to look back up at her. “Change is scary, but sometimes being forced out of your comfort zone is necessary. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that. A few others have said the same thing.”
“Maybe we’re on to something.”
I smile and offer her another drink. She accepts and I suggest making us honey tea. It turns out she loves it, too, but only has it on the weekends as a treat. We agree to make an exception for today.
“After all, neither of us has a job.” She shrugs. “So I guess every day is a weekend.”
Now that we’ve had the difficult conversation and we’ve cried and laughed, something in the air between us has lifted. We relax, moving away from the heavy topics. Talking about the honey tea Mum would make us when we were sick encourages us to reminisce about our childhood, bringing up memories that the other may have forgotten. It’s cathartic to remember the happier times we shared, before life got in the way and things were expected of us.
We hug when she leaves and she holds on a little tighter and for a little longer than I’m expecting. She tells me she’ll message some dates that we could do lunch. I shut the door behind her and feel lighter, something within me beginning to heal.
I return to my laptop to see very few emails have landed in my inbox while I’ve been busy having a heart-to-heart with my long-lost sister, and I’m just about to slump back on the sofa when my phone rings. I check the caller ID—it’s Isabella Blossom.
“Harper, hi,” she says when I pick up. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I reply, hearing the baby gurgling in the background. “How are you? How’s mum life?”
“I’m so sorry about your job,” she says, ignoring my question. “I hope you haven’t been too upset about it.”
“Taking it all in my stride,” I assure her as I head toward the freezer to have my fourth Nobbly Bobbly and wondering whether it’s acceptable to speak to a Hollywood A-lister on the phone while eating an ice cream.
“Listen, I’ve spoken to Rachael and she agreed—I want you to have the exclusive about me and the baby.”
“That’s so lovely of you, but I’ll have to check with Cosmo that he’s happy for me to write it when I don’t technically—”
“No, Harper,” she interrupts. “I promised the exclusive to you. Not the magazine.”
I shut the freezer door and straighten. “Huh?”
“It’s in your hands what you do with the interview, although maybe run it past me and Rachael first. I know you have impeccable taste with publications, and I do trust you, but there are a couple of magazines out there I’d rather didn’t get it, based on past run-ins I’ve had with them. But the point is, it’s your article, no one else’s. We can do this however you want, as long as I’m speaking to you.”
Something sparks in my brain. An idea. A good idea. And a lot of the credit for it goes to Juliet. I lean against my fridge, phone against my ear, my brain suddenly whirring with possibilities.
“Harper, are you there?” Isabella prompts. “Have I lost you?”
“I’m here,” I assure her. “But I think … I might have an idea that I’d like to discuss with you about how to make this work.”
“Yeah? Okay, great! Are you free tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works perfectly.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait to see you. I know that you’ll write the perfect article.”
“That’s the thing,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. “I don’t think I’ll be writing anything at all.”