‘You must have known that she didn’t have long. Why didn’t you let me know sooner, Sally? Why just send that email? You could have called me and I would have got home in time.’
Sally just shrugs. We sit in silence for a minute or so before she speaks, her voice low and slurring with the remnants of her morning pick-me-up.
‘I didn’t call you because you were off in bloody Timbuktu or wherever. I only had your email address.’
‘Syria,’ I snap, feeling all our old resentments bubbling to the fore. ‘I was in Syria.’
‘Syria. Oh, I do apologize,’ she sneers. ‘And no, I didn’t know she was about to pop her clogs so I couldn’t have warned you in advance. Anyway, I knew you wouldn’t make the funeral so what was the point of going into detail? You haven’t been back for years. Only time I hear from you is when I see your name in the papers.’
‘That’s unfair, Sally,’ I reply. ‘Yes, my job means I’m away a lot, but if I’d known Mum was failing I would have dropped everything to get back to see her. You know I would.’
She nods her head and I can see in her eyes she knows she’s gone too far. The drink makes her spiteful but it’s wearing off and soon she will be full of remorse. It’s always the same.
‘Anyway, how are you?’ she asks at last. The room has grown heavy with my silence and she’s trying to win me over. She’ll probably ask me to buy her a drink in a minute. ‘You don’t look too well.’
And I look at her then, my baby sister, the person who I spent our childhood protecting, and for a moment have the urge to tell her. The words burn inside me, but then I see her trembling hands and I think better of it.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just had a bit of flu.’
‘It’s all these strange places you go to,’ she says, her lip curling. ‘God knows what diseases you might pick up. I see it on the news all the time. What’s the latest one? Ebola? You want to be more careful.’
I take a deep breath and try not to let her rile me. The smell in here is really overpowering.
‘I’m not ill,’ I say. ‘Just a bit tired.’
She shrugs her shoulders and we sit in awkward silence for a few moments.
‘I need another drink,’ she says, getting up out of her chair. ‘Do you want one?’
‘I’d love a glass of water,’ I say. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
I’m trying to keep my voice friendly to avoid any confrontation but my words come out sounding harsh. Still, Sally doesn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Come through,’ she says as she walks to the door.
I follow her out of the conservatory and into the living room. It’s tidier in here; there are vases of fresh flowers on the mantelpiece and a small pile of paperwork on the arm of the sofa. It’s clear that the conservatory is Sally’s den, the place where she hides. The rest of the house seems to be Paul’s domain and as I sit down and sink into the folds of the soft armchair I feel a pang of pity for him. How lonely he must be in this big house with no child and a ghost for a wife.
‘Have you heard from Hannah?’ I ask as Sally comes back with the drinks. I already know the answer but still I feel I need to ask. She hands me a glass of water, takes hers – a mug of something that smells suspiciously like wine – and sits down on the sofa opposite me. Her hands shake as she puts the mug to her lips and gulps the drink down.
‘There’s only one reason Hannah would get in touch or come back,’ she says, cradling the mug in her hands. ‘And that would be to see Mum. Now Mum’s dead, Hannah may as well be too.’
‘But Hannah won’t know that Mum’s dead,’ I tell her. ‘How could she?’
‘It’s the first thing she said to me when she rang that time,’ Sally continues bitterly, ignoring me. ‘How’s Gran? Not “How are you? Sorry I worried you.” No, the only person she was bothered about was her bloody gran.’
‘They were very close,’ I say. ‘It’s understandable. She should know what’s happened. Mum would want her to know.’
Sally shakes her head.
‘I wish you’d known the woman I knew,’ she says. ‘We seem to have gone through life with different mothers. She made my life hell. Nothing I did was good enough. But then you were the one who passed all your exams and then became a famous reporter. You were the golden child in Mum’s eyes. Whereas me, all I was good for was having a kid and, according to her, I made a great big mess of that too.’
‘You’ve still got Paul,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ says Sally. ‘Me and Paul? We’re over. He’s never here these days. Can’t stand the sight of me.’
Her self-pity is too much for me. ‘Can you blame him, Sally? It’s not easy living with an alcoholic. You, more than anyone, should know that. There are places that can help, you know?’