Sometimes I Lie(68)

We step into the new open plan kitchen and dining room. There are toys everywhere, but apart from that, the place is spotless. They’ve had a lot of work done since Mum and Dad died, the house is hardly recognisable; impressive since I lived here from the day I was born. Claire has redecorated the whole place, papering over the cracks in our family. I still tell myself that it made sense for my parents to leave the house to Claire and David. They needed it more than we did and his garage is right next door, it’s how they met.

‘David is just upstairs changing the twins, he’ll be down soon. Drink?’ Claire’s long blonde hair is pulled back off her flawless face and she looks radiant. It wasn’t always blonde, of course, but the peroxide has been expertly applied for so many years now, that you’d never know. Her black dress looks new and hugs her body. I feel a frump in comparison, I hadn’t realised we were dressing up. I’m the eldest but she looks considerably younger than me given we were born on the same day just a few hours apart.

‘Not for me, thank you,’ I say.

‘Don’t be daft, it’s Christmas!’ says Claire. ‘I was going to open some bubbles to get us started . . .’

‘That sounds nice,’ says Paul.

‘OK, then, just the one,’ I reply looking over at the larder. My height every year of my life until I was a teenager used to be marked on the back of the wooden door. Claire had it painted over.

We sit down on the corner sofas and I feel like an accessory in a photo from one of Claire’s home decorating magazines. The kitchen looks like it’s never been cooked in, and yet something smells amazing. My sister, the undomestic goddess. David comes marching in with a child beneath each arm. He’s too tall and always walks a little bent over, as though permanently worried he might bump his head. His hairline is rapidly retreating and the ten-year age gap between him and Claire is really starting to show.

When we were sixteen, he fixed Dad’s car, and took Claire’s virginity as well as his payment. I was shocked and a little disgusted at the time. She thought I was jealous, but I wasn’t. The idea of him doing things to her repulsed me. I remember when she first started sneaking out to see him. I often went with her, then I’d wait on my own and try not to listen, while they did whatever they were doing. One night like that, Claire and I stayed drinking in the park, just the two of us. It was long after David had gone off to the pub we were too young to get into. When the bottles of cider he had given us were empty, we staggered out from the shelter of the trees. It was so late that the iron gates at the park entrance were already closed, with a padlock and thick chain.

We weren’t worried, our teenage bodies could easily climb our way up and over, but Claire said she wanted to rest first and lay down on the concrete path. I lay down next to her and she held my hand. She gently squeezed it three times and I squeezed hers three times back. We lay there in the moonlight, drunkenly laughing at everything and nothing, and then she stopped and turned to face me, supporting her head on her elbow. She whispered as though the trees and the grass might overhear us. I didn’t ask what the two of them had been doing while I was waiting, but she told me anyway. She said it felt nice. I remember feeling sick, a little bit confused and a lot betrayed somehow. I thought she was making a huge mistake. A marriage, two children and almost twenty years together suggest that maybe I was wrong. She’s never been intimate with any other man. Never been interested. When Claire chooses to love you, it’s forever.

‘You’re here,’ he booms. David has a tendency to speak louder than is necessary. ‘Make yourselves useful and entertain these two, will you.’ He gives us a child each and walks over to the fridge, grabbing a handful of Claire’s yoga-sculpted bottom as he walks past. She doesn’t seem to mind or notice. I’ve got Katie, Paul has James.

The twins seem so alien to me, despite being family. Paul is naturally good with children, perhaps that’s why he’s always wanted his own. He makes the right sounds, gives off a good vibe. It’s more of an effort for me and I don’t always get it right. I try talking to Katie in a soft voice, asking her if she thinks Father Christmas has been to visit. Claire has gone completely overboard with presents and decorations this year, she says it’s all for the twins, as though they’ll even remember. Katie reaches for my scarf and tugs at it. I manoeuvre the material out from her tiny clenched fist, I need it to stay where it is, to cover the hand-shaped bruises on my neck. She isn’t happy about it and starts to cry. Nothing I do works, so Paul offers to swap. He gives me James and as soon as Katie is in his arms she stops screaming. She stares at me, as though she’s suspicious, as though she knows more than she possibly can. I make sure my scarf is still in place.

Paul is going to make a great dad. I’ll tell him tonight. It will be my Christmas present to him this year, there isn’t anything else I can give him that he doesn’t already have. I’m glad I haven’t told him already, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it from Claire and I don’t want her to know yet. I’ll tell him as soon as we get home, when it’s just the two of us.

The afternoon drags as the four of us eat our way through too much food, plugging the gaps with polite conversation and stories we’ve bored each other with too many times before. I imagine this scenario being replicated in thousands of homes all over the country. I spend the hours playing multiple roles: the caring sister, the doting wife, the adoring aunt and take tiny sips of my wine so that I never need a refill. When Claire heads to the kitchen, I snatch the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, offering to help her. Paul shoots me an evil glance, he doesn’t like being left alone with David, says they have nothing in common. They don’t.