Remember Me?

There’s silence for a few moments, apart from the sound of dogs skittering in the kitchen. I dread to think what they’re doing.

“Mum, I was wondering about that,” I say. “I’m trying to put all the pieces of my life together…and it doesn’t make sense. Why did I go on that TV show? Why did I become all hard and ambitious overnight? I don’t get it.”

“I have no idea.” Mum seems preoccupied, searching in her bag for something. “Natural career advancement.”

“But it wasn’t natural.” I lean forward, trying to get her attention. “I was never a high-powered career woman-you know I wasn’t. Why would I suddenly change?”

“Darling, it was all so long ago, I really can’t remember… Aren’t you a good girl? Aren’t you the most beautiful girl in the world?”

She’s addressing one of the dogs, I suddenly realize. She isn’t even listening to me. Typical.

I look up to see Amy coming back into the room, still sucking her lollipop.

“Amy, Lexi was just talking about you doing an internship at her office!” Mum says brightly. “Would you like that?”

“Maybe,” I put in quickly. “When I’ve been back at work for a while.”

“Yeah. S’pose.”

She doesn’t even look grateful.

“There’d have to be some ground rules,” I say. “You can’t rip off my colleagues. Or steal from them.”

“I don’t steal!” Amy looks stung. “It was one jacket, and there was a mix-up. Jesus.”

“Sweetheart, it wasn’t just the jacket, was it?” says Mum, after a pause. “It was the makeup, too.”

“Everyone thinks the worst of me. Every time anything goes missing, I’m the scapegoat.” Amy’s eyes are glittering in her pale face. She hunches her thin shoulders and suddenly I feel bad. She’s right. I’ve judged her without even knowing the facts.

“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sure you don’t steal.”

“Whatever.” Her face is averted. “Just blame me for everything, like everyone else.”

“No. I won’t.” I head over to where she’s standing by the window. “Amy, I really want to apologize. I know things have been hard for you since Dad died… Come here.” I hold my arms out for a hug.

“Leave me alone,” she says almost savagely.

“But Amy-”

“Go away!” She backs away urgently, raising her arms as though to fend me off.

“But you’re my little sister!” I lean forward and give her a tight hug-then draw back almost immediately, rubbing my ribs. “Ow! What the hell…You’re all lumpy!”

“No, I’m not,” Amy says after a fraction of a beat.

“Yes, you are!” I peer at her bulky denim jacket. “What on earth have you got in your pockets?”

“Tins of food,” says Amy seamlessly. “Tuna and sweet corn.”

“Sweet corn?” I stare at her, baffled.

“Not again.” Mum shuts her eyes. “Amy, what have you taken from Lexi?”

“Give me a break!” Amy yells. “I haven’t taken anything!” She throws her hand up in a defensive motion and two Chanel lipsticks fly out of the sleeve of her jacket, followed by a powder compact. They land on the floor with a clatter and we all stare at them.

“Are those mine?” I say at last.

“No,” Amy says belligerently, but she’s turned pink.

“Yes, they are!”

“Like you’d even notice.” She shrugs sulkily. “You’ve got thousands of bloody lipsticks.”

“Oh, Amy,” Mum says sorrowfully. “Turn out your pockets.”

Shooting Mum a murderous glance, Amy starts unpacking her pockets, laying all the contents on the coffee table with a series of little crashes. Two unopened moisturizers. A Jo Malone candle. A load of makeup. A Christian Dior perfume gift set. I watch her in silence, goggling at her haul.

“Now take off your T-shirt,” Mum orders, like some kind of immigration official.

“This is so unfair,” mutters Amy. She struggles out of the T-shirt and my jaw drops. Underneath, she’s wearing an Armani slip dress that I recognize from my wardrobe, all scrunched up under her jeans. She has about five La Perla bras worn around her middle, and dangling from them, like charms from a bracelet, are two beaded evening bags.

“You took a dress?” I suppress a giggle. “And bras?”

“Fine. You want your dress back. Fine.” She peels everything off and dumps it on the table. “Satisfied?” She looks up and catches the expression on my face. “It’s not my fault. Mum won’t give me any money for clothes.”

“Amy, that’s nonsense!” Mum exclaims sharply. “You have plenty of clothes!”

“They’re all out of date!” she instantly yells back at Mum, in a way that suggests they’ve had this argument before. “We don’t all live in a bloody fashion time-warp like you do! When are you going to realize it’s the twenty-first century?” She gestures at Mum’s dress. “It’s tragic!”

“Amy, stop it!” I say hastily. “That’s not the point. And anyway, those bras don’t even fit you!”

“You can sell bras on eBay,” she retorts scathingly. “Fancy overpriced bras, that is.”

She shoves on her T-shirt, sinks down onto the floor, and starts texting something on her phone.

I’m totally flummoxed by all of this. “Amy,” I say at last, “maybe we should have a little talk. Mum, why don’t you go and make some coffee or something?”

Mum looks totally flustered, and seems grateful to head out to the kitchen. When she’s gone I sit down on the floor, across from where Amy has plonked herself. Her shoulders are tensed angrily and she doesn’t look up.

Okay. I have to be understanding and sympathetic. I know there’s a big age gap between me and Amy. I know I can’t even remember a whole chunk of her life. But surely we have a sisterly rapport?

“Amy, listen,” I say in my best understanding-grown-up-sister-but-still-pretty-cool voice. “You can’t steal, okay? You can’t extort money from people.”

“Fuck off,” Amy says without raising her head.

“You’ll get in trouble. You’ll get chucked out of school!”

“Fuck,” Amy says conversationally. “Off. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

“Look!” I say, trying to keep my patience. “I know things can be difficult. And you’re probably lonely with just you and Mum at home. But if you ever want to talk about anything, if you’ve got any problems, I’m here for you. Just call me, or text me, anytime. We could go out for a coffee, or see a film together…” I trail away.

Amy’s still texting with one hand. With the other she has slowly moved her thumb and index finger into the “Loser” sign.

“Oh fuck off, yourself!” I exclaim furiously, and hug my knees. Stupid little cow. If Mum thinks I’m having her in my office on some internship, she has to be joking.

We sit there in grouchy silence for a bit. Then I reach for the DVD of Dad’s funeral message, slide across the floor, and plug it into the machine. The huge screen opposite lights up, and after a few moments my father’s face appears.

I stare at the screen, gripped. Dad’s sitting in an armchair, wearing a red plushy dressing gown. I don’t recognize the room-but then, I never did get to see many of Dad’s homes. His face is gaunt, the way I remember it after he got ill. It was as though he was slowly deflating. But his green eyes are twinkling and there’s a cigar in his hand.

“Hello,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It’s me. Well, you know that.” He gives a little laugh, then breaks into a hacking cough, which he relieves by taking a puff on his cigar as if it was a drink of water. “We all know this operation has a fifty-fifty chance of survival. My own fault for buggering up my body. So I thought I’d do a little message to you, my family, just in case.”

He pauses and takes a deep slug from a tumbler of whisky. His hand is shaking as he puts it down, I notice. Did he know he was going to die? Suddenly there’s a hard lump in my throat. I glance over at Amy. She’s let go of her phone and is watching, too, transfixed.

“Live a good life,” Dad is saying to the camera. “Be happy. Be kind to one another. Barbara, stop living your life through those bloody dogs. They’re not human. They’re never going to love you or support you or go to bed with you. Unless you’re very desperate.”