that why you won’t sign up to RecycLove with me either? You’d rather sit alone in the house and be miserable than do this one little thing to make yourself happy?’
Sarah slammed the tea towel drawer shut. Why did everyone automatically assume that if someone spent time alone she was miserable?
‘But I’m not alone. I have you and Catherine.’
She covered the dough with a towel and shoved it back in the boiler cupboard to prove again.
‘You know what I mean,’ Rachel continued. ‘We’re no substitute for a normal, honest, red-blooded bloke.’
Sarah got the eggs out. There wasn’t enough butter for a Madeira cake, but she could use veggie oil for cupcakes instead. ‘Let me know if you find one of those,’ she said.
‘C’mon, it’ll be fun.’
Sarah glanced up. ‘That’s your idea of fun? Tracking down my ex so that he can tell me everything that’s wrong with me?’
‘You’ll get to do it to him too, though.’
‘Oh, well, then it sounds ace.’
She was amazed that Catherine’s business model actually worked. Even if there were enough people out there who didn’t want to stab their exes with a salad fork, how many of those were willing to critique their ex-lover’s techniques and relationship suitability and then (shudder) listen to the same thing about themselves?
She could live without that kind of honesty, thank you very much.
‘Well I’m doing it,’ Rachel said. ‘Aren’t you even curious to hear straight from the jackass’s mouth what he thought of you? You must have wondered what goes through a guy’s head.’
About a million times, along with every other woman in the world, Sarah thought.
Rachel continued. ‘This might be the one chance we have to find out without caring, if you see what I mean. Nobody wants to hear the truth while they’ve still got feelings, but now, years later? Bring it on. And then we’ll get access to all those men … all those improved men.’
‘I don’t even know how to get in touch with any of my exes,’ Sarah said, cracking eggs into the glass bowl. ‘I don’t keep their numbers after the event.’
‘Except for Sebastian.’
‘No way, I deleted him when we broke up.’ She laughed. ‘Not that he’d be hard to find. He’ll be in whichever club has the most Russian models.’
‘You could just ask your brother for his number. They are friends.’
‘He won’t do it,’ Sarah said, talking about Sebastian, not her brother.
‘Why not? You ended on good terms with him. You just weren’t right for each other.’
‘That wasn’t the problem. He thought all women were right for him.’
‘He didn’t actually cheat though, did he?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He was just shite at remembering to pay attention to me when pretty women walked by.’
‘See?’ said Rachel. ‘You’ve already got something for his feedback form. He’ll appreciate the advice. Think about it? Please?’
‘Will you leave me alone if I do?’
‘Of course not. I’ll ask you again tomorrow. If James and I join, will you sign up?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Sarah lied, shoving the Bake Off form back in the kitchen drawer.
* * *
Sarah tried not to smoosh the cupcakes as she sprinted from the train station to Sissy’s place. As she rounded the corner she saw her sister standing outside the facility’s front door, looking pointedly at her watch.
‘I’ve got cupcakes,’ Sarah called. ‘And I’m not late.’
‘Close call.’
Sissy was a stickler for time.
When Sarah opened her arms, Sissy threw herself into them with the full force of a small rhinoceros. As they hugged she breathed in the familiar scent of her strawberry VO5 shampoo.
‘You brought the bread?’ She caught Sarah in her signature laser-beam stare. She had the same colour green eyes as their mum, though they were almond-shaped, whereas Sarah’s were more mossy, round and deep-set.
‘Of course, I promised didn’t I? Shall we have a slice of toast?’
Sissy nodded. ‘With jam.’
While Sarah got to work slicing the bread in the communal kitchen, Sissy selected two plates from the cabinet. Carefully she opened the jam jar and unwrapped the butter. When the toast popped up, golden and steaming, she began her process. Nobody did toast as thoroughly as Sissy.
‘Want to eat it in the garden?’ Sarah asked as she spotted Kelly. Like Sarah, she was in her late twenties, but with a coiled-up energy like those women who taught Zumba classes. She strode rather than walked, with her shiny black hair swinging in a ponytail. She was always easy to pick out, even in the shapeless lilac and black uniform that all the nurses wore. ‘I’ll just give the rest of the loaf to Kelly, okay? Can you carry mine out too, please?’
‘Kelly the bread jailor,’ Sissy muttered as Sarah gave her both plates.
‘Hi Sarah, all right?’ Kelly asked with the same easy manner that all the support workers had.
‘All right, thanks. Here’s Sissy’s bread. We’re tucking into some now.’
But Sarah wasn’t looking at Kelly as she handed over the loaf. She was watching Sissy as she shuffled at her snail’s pace toward the garden door at the end of the corridor.
‘As if you’d get out of here without toast,’ Kelly said.
‘Tell me about it.’
Sissy reached the door but, with her hands full, she couldn’t open it. ‘Oh, sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I should help Sissy.’
Kelly gently touched her arm. ‘Let’s give her a minute.’
They watched as Sissy stood at the door with the plates in her hands. She looked left and right, for help, Sarah knew.
Her heart began to speed. ‘I’ll just—’
‘Leave it just a minute, Sarah.’
Sissy walked into the nearest room and came out a few seconds later with a metal chair in her hands instead of the plates. Carefully she propped the door open with the chair. Then, still not hurrying, she went back into the room for the plates and carried them through to the garden.
Sarah let out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.
‘We’re trying to let her do as much as possible for herself,’ Kelly said. ‘She’s a clever girl. She figures things out. Why don’t you go enjoy your toast?’
As usual, Sarah was in awe of Kelly. She and the others made the care home seem so normal. No drama, no fuss and no institutional feel. Despite the emergency call buttons and trained medical staff wandering around, it felt like a family there. Sissy loved it.
Sissy’s diagnosis hadn’t been a surprise to their mum. When she’d found herself pregnant at forty-two, she’d taken the chromosome disorder test at the insistence of her shell-shocked new boyfriend. Just as a precaution, he’d said.
‘It’s only precautionary if I’d do something about it,’ she’d told him, her Scouse accent becoming more pronounced with her anger. ‘And I won’t.’ She’d taken the test just to shut him up.
He didn’t believe she’d have a Down’s syndrome child.
She