Ice cream. Wine. Ryan Gosling rowing a boat. Swans. There were definitely swans. And, oh my God, Sarah had had a skin-full! I’ll check on her in a minute, it’s a good job Jack brought her home. Jack. Oh shit. Jack.
My mind sprints straight into panic mode, convincing myself that I must have said or done something terrible and disloyal and that Sarah is going to hate me. He was talking to me, and we were laughing and watching the movie, and then … Oh. And then I remember. Ginny. Sliding deep back inside the cocoon of my duvet, I screw my eyes up tight and let myself remember my sweet, beautiful little sister. Slender fingers, her nails so fragile they were almost translucent, the only other person in the world with eyes just like mine. I have to concentrate really hard to pull her childish voice from my memories, the excited joy of her giggle, the shimmer of her poker-straight blonde hair in sunlight. Fractured memories, faded like sun-damaged photographs. I don’t allow myself to think of Ginny very often in day-to-day life, or at all, really; it takes me a long time afterwards to reconcile the fact that she simply isn’t here any more, to not be furious with everyone else for breathing when she isn’t.
I remember last night clearly now. I didn’t do anything morally wrong with Jack, nothing that I need to feel compromised over in the traditional sense this morning, at least; I definitely didn’t show him my boobs or confess true love. Yet still I can’t let myself totally off the hook, because in truth I did cross a line, albeit a fine and almost invisible one. I can clearly feel it tangled around my ankles like fishing wire, ready to trip me up and make a liar out of me. I let myself get too close. All it took was a cheap bottle of wine to lower my guard; for one unwittingly misjudged comment to make me crumble like an abandoned sandcastle when the evening tide comes in.
5 June
Laurie
‘Happy birthday, old biddy!’
Sarah blows a streamer in my face to wake me up and I struggle on to my elbows as she breaks into a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Thank you!’ I give her a half-hearted round of applause. ‘Can I go back to sleep now, please? It’s eight o’clock on Saturday morning.’
She frowns. ‘You’re kidding, right? If you go to sleep now you’ll miss out on golden birthday hours.’
She sounds like one of her favourite Disney characters. ‘Last time I checked, we weren’t American teenagers on some cheesy TV show,’ I grumble.
‘Stop moaning and get out of bed right now. I’ve got big plans for you.’
I drop back on my pillow. ‘I already have a plan. It involves staying here until midday.’
‘You can do that tomorrow.’ She nods towards a mug on the side. ‘I made you coffee. You’ve got ten minutes before I come back and really wake you up rudely.’
‘You’re too bossy,’ I grumble, flinging my arm across my eyes. ‘I’m twenty-three now, and you’re still twenty-two. I’m old enough to be your mother. Go and clean your bedroom and do your homework.’
She toots on her streamer again as she leaves, laughing, and I shove my head underneath my pillow. I love that girl.
There are two clothes carriers hanging in the lounge when I emerge exactly nine and a half minutes later, and Sarah is practically hopping on the spot. Even more worryingly, the carriers are emblazoned with a fancy-dress hire company logo.
‘Umm, Sar …?’ I’m starting to realize she wasn’t kidding when she said she had a plan.
‘You’re going to die when you see,’ she says, her fists bunched with excitement like a kid on school-trip day.
I place my coffee down slowly. ‘Should I look now?’
‘Yes. But first you have to promise me that you’ll do exactly as I say for the next few hours, no questions asked.’
‘You sound like an undercover spy. Have you and Jack been watching too much James Bond again?’
She holds one of the carriers out towards me, but clutches on to it when I go to take it from her. ‘Promise first.’
I laugh and shake my head, intrigued. ‘Go on then, I promise.’
She hands it over with a little clap, then flaps her hands for me to hurry up and look inside. Holding it out at arm’s length, I give it a shake and then slide the central zipper down a few inches to sneak a glimpse.
‘It’s pink …’ I say, and she nods, fast.
I whoosh the zip all the way down and shrug the plastic cover off, revealing an instantly recognizable candyfloss-pink satin bomber jacket and black satin leggings.
‘You want me to dress up as a Pink Lady for my birthday?’
She grins and whips her own outfit out. ‘Not just you.’
‘We’re both pink ladies.’ I speak slowly, because I’m somewhat confused. ‘I mean, I kind of love it already as a birthday theme, but what are we going to do once we’re dressed? Because we’re going to stick out like sore thumbs down The Castle.’
‘We’re not going to the pub.’ Sarah’s eyes gleam with anticipation.
‘Can I ask where we are going?’
She laughs. ‘You can ask, but I won’t tell you the truth.’
‘How did I know you were going to say that?’
She unzips her jacket and slides her arms into it. ‘You have seen the movie, right?’
‘Once or twice.’ I roll my eyes, because everyone on the planet has seen Grease at least a dozen times, usually because it’s on TV on New Year’s Day and you can’t physically bring yourself to move and find the remote.
I hold up my satin leggings doubtfully. The waistband is about six inches across. ‘I hope they stretch,’ I say.
‘They do. I tried them on at about six o’clock this morning.’
Her words make me realize how hard she’s trying to give me a fun birthday; and the part of my mind that’s constantly feeling guilty at the moment gives me a hefty dig. Whatever it is she has planned for us today, I need to give her my one hundred per cent best.
‘Pink Ladies it is then,’ I say with a laugh.
She looks at her watch. ‘We need to leave at eleven. Go and jump in the shower, I’ve already been in. I’ll do your flicky eyeliner for you when you’re out.’
It’s midday and we’re on a train out of Waterloo, and it’s fair to say we’re getting our fair share of odd looks. I’m not surprised. We’re the only Pink Ladies on board today, and we definitely have the most fabulous hair and make-up. Sarah’s gone with a high, flippy ponytail that seems to swish around independently of her head, and between us we’ve wrangled mine into bubble curls Olivia Newton-John herself would be envious of. Sarah’s thought of everything: gum for us to chew, jaunty black neck scarves, white-rimmed plastic shades perched in our hair and gin-in-a-tin for the train to get us in the mood for wherever it is we’re going.
‘Should we assume fake names?’
Sarah considers my question seriously. ‘What would yours be?’
‘Hmm. Tricky. I think it needs to sound kitsch and American and fifties, so how about … Lula-May?’
She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I like what you did there. So if you’re Lula-May, that must make me Sara-Belle.’