biscuit smell of his neck, the light raspy sound of his snores. It is so tempting to slip into the room, check his blanket, make sure he has his comforter by his hand – but I daren’t risk waking him. It took Fiona an hour to get him down and I don’t want to experience her wrath at being dragged to her feet again.
The room opposite is Fiona’s study, which is lit by a desk lamp. It is the boxroom in the house – the would-be-nursery, if Fiona would entertain the idea of another child (she won’t). Her desk is swamped beneath a sea of papers, notebooks and articles, a computer screen floating above the flotsam.
For years, Fiona worked as a journalist in London, writing ground-breaking exposé pieces about industry professionals. She went after those men and women like a hound following a scent, uncovering illegal fund transfers, tax evasion or any whiff of inequality towards staff. The work appealed to her exacting sense of fairness and she thrived in an industry with punishing hours and high pressure.
Moving to Cornwall and having a baby was not so much a change of direction, but the squealing of brakes, the burn of tyres on tarmac, a vehicle sliding out into a U-turn. It was impossible to do both; her job was driven by contacts, interviews, sources – all of which needed to happen in London.
Fiona’s work has always been central to her identity, so Bill and I were pleased when, on the evening of Drake’s first birthday, as party plates were being stacked, Fiona announced that she was going to set up as a freelance copywriter.
Now her working hours are defined by seeking out the perfect word, a crisp turn of phrase to appeal to customers, to draw them to a brand. A pin board is tacked to the wall above her desk, filled with briefs, images, and guidelines about a client’s specific language choices. In the middle of it all, there is a postcard. I recognise my own handwriting. You are so fearless, so talented, that I KNOW you’ll succeed. May Cutting Edge Copy fly!
I smile, touched that my sister keeps this note pinned above her work station.
Behind me, there is the creak of floorboards. ‘Not quite a sea view, is it?’ Fiona is standing in the doorway.
‘I love it in here.’
‘What are you looking at?’
‘You kept this postcard I sent you.’
‘Did I? I’d forgotten it was there.’
Then, from behind Fiona, there comes a wail. ‘Mummy!’
The front door opens, and Bill loafs into the house, a rush of cold air chasing after him.
He throws down a holdall, slinging his suit jacket over the top. His shirt is undone at the collar, tie removed.
‘Hey, aren’t you that famous author?’ He beams at his old joke, then opens his arms, shirt straining across his barrel chest. ‘Thought I spotted your car.’
As we hug, I catch the scent of car air-freshener and mints – and the subtle hint of cigarette smoke, too. Fiona banned him from smoking when she gave up six years ago, but we all know Bill likes the occasional secret cigarette. As does Fiona.
‘They taste better smoked in secret,’ Fiona had once explained. ‘Makes us feel as if we’re living dangerously.’
‘So where’s that gorgeous sister of yours?’
‘Upstairs. Drake woke.’
‘Ah.’ He glances at the takeaway menu on the side. ‘Fiona’s been cooking you lavish meals again?’
‘Makes a wonderful korma. Sorry, we didn’t know you’d be back early. We’d have saved you some.’
‘All I need,’ Bill says, moving into the kitchen, me following, ‘is one of these.’ He pulls a bottle of beer from the fridge, twists the cap free, and clinks the neck of it against my wine glass. ‘Cheers. To the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ I agree, although I don’t share his buzz. Tomorrow I’m delivering an author talk at the local library and know I won’t relax fully until it is over.
Bill grabs a packet of pistachios and shakes them into a dish. He offers them first to me, then begins snapping the shells, dropping the nuts into his mouth, washing them down with beer.
‘How was France?’
‘Good. I enjoyed it – although I was ready to come home.’
‘House still standing?’
‘Thankfully, yes.’
‘Fiona said the Airbnb all went well.’
‘Think so.’
‘Next time you rent it, give me the nod. Wouldn’t mind escaping the chaos of this place for a few days.’ He laughs, eyes sparkling.
I remember meeting Bill for the first time when Fiona was living in London. He was standing at her sink, thick arms plunged into a bowl of soapy water, the kitchen light reflecting off the curve of his bald head. My first thought was that he was one of her housemates’ fathers.
Bill was so unlike the sallow-skinned academics who Fiona tended to date that I’d worried it wouldn’t last – that Fiona, with her tendency to bore quickly, would become distracted.
‘You know he has a proper job,’ Fiona told me later, when we were alone. ‘Something to do with sales. They give him a car to drive. This ugly great silver thing with awful tinted windows.’ She spoke about their relationship with a tone of quiet amusement, as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d fallen for him. ‘Bill hasn’t read a novel in two years. He watches snooker. He classes a good night out as having “a few jars” at a comedy club. He’s twelve years older than me. He wears jewellery – and I don’t mean body piercings. I mean actual jewellery. A gold neck chain. And a signet ring.’
I’d looked at her closely. ‘You really like him, don’t you?’
She’d smiled, glanced away – a girlish expression I rarely saw in my sister. ‘Yes, I think I do.’
Now Bill is asking, ‘Everything okay? You’re looking a bit tired, m’dear.’
I love Bill’s knack for sensing when I’m off-kilter.
‘I’m not sleeping brilliantly at the moment, that’s all.’
‘Ah, the insomnia snake. You’ve got a lot going on, eh? Flynn. Your book deadline. Maybe you’re still adjusting to being in the new house, too.’
I nod, reminded of how intuitive Bill can be.
‘You know that we’re here if you need us, don’t you?’ he says, placing a large hand on my shoulder. He squeezes – his grip just a fraction too firm.
‘Thought I heard the door,’ Fiona says, crossing the kitchen and kissing Bill on the mouth. ‘No traffic?’
‘I had a meeting in Bristol. Finished on time. Came straight here. Drake all right?’
‘Fine – but he’s yours for the weekend.’
‘As long as you’re all mine for the weekend, too,’ he says, pulling Fiona into his arms and burying his face in her neck.
I move towards the chair where I’ve left my coat and handbag. ‘I’m going to disappear.’
‘Don’t be silly! Stay!’ Bill says, releasing Fiona.
‘I’m giving a library talk in the morning.’
‘I saw the posters,’ Fiona says. ‘We’re going to try and pop in.’
‘Are we?’ Bill asks.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I say.
Fiona bats away my resistance. ‘It’s at eleven, isn’t it?’
‘Please, you’ve got better things to do with your weekend.’
‘We are immensely boring