#Toots Read online

  Once back in the UK, Ben went back home to Leicester and I tried to dismiss the whole thing as a holiday fling. But we missed each other so much that, six months later, we took the plunge and moved in together. Ten years later, in spite of a few hiccups, we’re still together.

  I always told Ben I wanted to get married before I turned thirty. Multiple opportunities for a proposal came – and went – but Ben never popped the question. August bank holiday: romantic weekend away at a luxurious spa in the Lake District. Christmas morning: a black velvet box containing a gorgeous Pandora bracelet. New year: a skiing holiday in the Alps. Valentine’s Day: a huge Hotel Chocolat hamper and two dozen pink roses, but still no ring.

  After my last ultimatum, Ben confessed he couldn’t handle the pressure. He was happy with how things were. Couldn’t I be content with what we had? He admitted he loved me but wasn’t sure I was ‘The One’.

  I kicked him out of our flat.

  One morning a month later, I found Ben, with a week-old beard and dirty hair, asleep on my doormat. He told me he’d been calling in sick to work and spending days in his robe slumped on the couch watching Sky Sports, eating nothing but Cheerios, too depressed to even play video games. His best mate Charlie found him crying in front of a meaningless Championship football match on TV and dragged him on a night out, to show him there were plenty of fish in the sea. But Ben realized in the middle of his alcoholic stupor I was the only fish for him. He made his way back to mine, hoping to win me back there and then, but somehow passed out at the front door. He told me that, without me, he might as well be dead. And while he was not ready for marriage yet, he would be, very soon.

  So, I took him back.

  Without him, the flat was tidy but felt empty. I missed his laughter, his kisses, his funny running commentary during The Apprentice, and the cooked breakfasts he used to bring me in bed.

  On the spur of the moment, Ben suggested we go away, just the two of us. The Portuguese trip was our kiss-and-make-up holiday.

  Tonight, I have some exciting news to share so I’m really looking forward to catching up with my toots.

  Not Louise, obviously, who’s a little Rottweiler. She’s so mean that I marvel we come from the same gene pool. If she wasn’t my sister, I would never hang out with her. For years, she nicknamed me Suzette – for crêpes Suzette – referring to my flat-as-a-pancake chest. It’s not even funny. She even tried to make it stick at school, but it never did.

  Anyway, she’s a fine one to talk; there’s nothing real about her. Louise has breast implants, veneers, lip fillers and Botox. The lot. If she was a counterfeit doll she’d be called Bim Bardashian. Tries hard but never as good as the real deal. I know Louise doesn’t leave the house unless she looks perfect. I’ve been told she takes two hours to get ready in the morning. I did the maths: that’s 728 hours, 30 days or one full month each year. Five years of her existence gone when she pegs it, wasted on getting ready. Shocking. You could learn Japanese or plate spinning in that time. To be honest, she had terrible braces for most of her teenage years. I think she’s still scarred by that.

  Luckily for me, I have body confidence and couldn’t care less what she says. Louise is just jealous of me because she must starve and smoke herself to death to stay a size eight. I’m naturally thin. I go up a size after my annual Christmas binge but always go back to my usual ten stones by February. I am careful, though. All my older friends, including Jess, warned me, ‘After thirty, anything you put in your mouth – including thermometers, pens or penises – will make you gain weight.’ And I don’t want to look like Jess in five years’ time. Bless, I would never tell her that, she already feels bad about herself. She needs to exercise to get back in shape. I tried to convince her to hit the gym with me every morning, but she says she doesn’t have time with the babies. It’s not good. She’s always either cooped up at home with the kids or in the office. Jess needs to get a life. Especially because she’s a bit of a nutter. Not in a good way, like she skydives over piranha-infested waters. More like she’s seriously considering building a bunker in her garden ready for the apocalypse.

  I know you’re not supposed to have a favourite sister – a bit like when you’re a parent and you can’t admit to having a favourite child – but I like Emily best. She’s my baby sister, and she’s the sweetest. We get on like a house on fire. I boss her about a bit – for her own good, of course. Poor thing, she’s mothered by her three older sisters. No wonder she lacks confidence.

  I spot Emily as I walk into Chicago Bar. She’s hunched worse than the hunchback of Notre Dame, at a corner booth with Louise. That girl is going to give herself back problems by the time she’s thirty. I need to research a good self-improvement podcast and convince her to listen to it. And convince her to go see Joao for a Brazilian blowout.

  Emily

  Louise arrives at Chicago Bar just after my shift starts. No doubt she wants to make the most of the free cocktails. I don’t like to abuse the system, though. Or that I have to ask Mateo, the barman, who takes every opportunity he can to flirt with me, which makes me uncomfortable.

  Louise is only here – complimentary booze aside – to keep up to date with the gossip. She hates being left out but spends most of our time together either on her phone or criticizing the way we dress (by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’), do our hair or make-up (or the way I don’t).

  She also has a new strange tattoo on her shoulder which she seems to be very proud of. I’ll never understand her.

  I’m quite pleased. Carla was hungover this morning, but she said she’d make it tonight anyway. It wouldn’t be the same without her. I can’t wait to tell her I’m dumping Leo – or, more accurately, that I won’t be stalking him anymore. He’s the one who stopped answering my calls. She’ll be so proud of me! She hates his guts.

  And of course, I’m dying to hear about her holiday in Portugal. I’d love to save up enough to go away. Chicago Bar pays minimum wage and I only work weekends. It’s just enough to survive. Without my student loan I’d have to eat at the local soup kitchen. There is exactly one day in the month, between payday and the first of the month when the direct debits kick in, when I feel flush. After I’ve paid the rent and bills, I’m skint again.

  I confess I do occasionally borrow from the Bank of Mum & Dad. I try not to, but my cards seem to have a life of their own. Visa and MasterCard – like Woody and Buzz in Card Story – leave my wallet at night when I sleep and get up to no good. I could also swear that my bank fiddles with my current account. How else could you explain me blowing a whole £19 in Caffè Nero? It’s a three-course meal in a Harvester! I would have had to buy a round of lattes to spend that much! I blame the contactless. At least when I had to enter my PIN number, I actually looked at the pad showing the total amount. Now I only need to press the card on the reader, effectively hiding the charge from my eyes. OK, I admit I do tend to close my eyes for a second as I pay when it is too painful to see I’ve just squandered £20 on two cocktails at Henry’s.

  The problem is, there are times when you cannot avoid spending. When Lola is down about work and you need to take her out to cheer her up. When you run into Tanya going for lunch and you can’t possibly let her eat on her own. Or when you spot a ballerina outfit in the sale at John Lewis which Mia would go crazy for.

  Anyway, the contactless is an evil invention of the Banks, who are nothing but devious rip-off merchants, all scheming to fleece me of my last penny.

  I wish I had already graduated from the School of Hospitality and Tourism Management and had a proper job like my older sisters. They never seem to need money. Well, except Louise, but that’s only because she has luxury tastes and fritters all her hard-earned cash on designer dresses. Honestly, does anyone ever look at the label inside your clothes and go, ‘Wow, Prada, that must have cost a fortune’? Unless your name is Louise and you go around telling people ‘It’s Prada and it costs a fortune!’ whenever you turn up in a new garment. She should just leave the price tag on dan
gling for all to see.

  A whole twenty-four hours has gone by without me checking my phone for news of Leo, my ex. Self-pat on back. Carla forbids me from referring to him as an ex, because he never agreed to the boyfriend title when we were together. She says he was nothing more than a bad friend with benefits. The kind who stands you up at the last minute when you’re supposed to go shopping. Or promises to give you a ride to the airport but never shows up. I’m actually totally fine and über zen without him around. I wasn’t, but I am now. Lola is doing a feng shui revamp of our flat and getting me to ‘spring cleaning’ my love life at the same time. Which is easier than a lot of things. Let’s say, like keeping on top of my wardrobe, which is always overflowing with clothes I never wear. I haven’t thrown anything away for a decade: my teenage clothes all have sentimental value. I save my brightly coloured jackets for a daring day and the sexy dresses for a skinny day, neither of which ever come. I think I might be a conservative person, which sounds both boring and reassuring at the same time. Let’s put it this way there’s no chance of me dyeing my hair pink and sporting skimpy tube tops when I’m a pensioner. To think of it, not even now.

  Jess will be the last to arrive and the first to leave as she catches the last train. She’ll be the one who drinks the most in the short time she’s here though.

  I’m Jess’s official babysitter. She kindly pays me the going rate, and I get to see my nieces, which is lovely. Come to think of it, I haven’t looked after the girls for a while. Scott and Jess are so busy these days that they don’t take the time to go out as a couple any more. I will offer when I see her later. Especially because she seems stressed out lately. Must be because of the potty training business. She was whingeing about that the last time I saw her.

  I personally don’t want children till I’m eighty. I’ll be retired then and will need something to keep myself busy. I hate gardening, so a kid could be a good idea. I’ll live in an old people’s home and all my senior girlfriends will take turns to help me. I won’t care whether I’m single or not because men are useless, especially with babies. At least, that’s what Jess says all the time. I’ll be able to bond properly with the baby then, as we’ll have lots in common. We’ll both have poor hand–eye coordination, need an afternoon nap, struggle with solid food, and wear nappies. It’ll be perfect.

  The Girls

  Friday. Chicago Bar. 8.30 pm.

  Chicago Bar is one of the few places in London that strikes the right balance between understated and polished. The nineteenth-century mahogany bar is backed by rows of glowing liquor bottles and the dark wooden floors have a warm patina. The main bohemian salon, painted deep maroon with cushy leather booths and vintage sofas, leads to a tiny pool room which can just fit two snooker tables.

  The small bar starts to fill up with the Friday night crowd: yuccies meeting up for after-work drinks, salsa students from the building next door on their break. There is a celebratory feeling in the air. The weekend starts here!

  ‘I took the tube. Sorry I’m late. Didn’t even have time for grub.’ Jess removes her ballet pumps and slips on a pair of kitten heels. On the table she lines up an eyeliner, a mascara, a Touche Éclat smeared with a sticky residue, and a nappy sack containing a banana peel. She noisily scoffs some Quavers and scrubs her face with a baby wipe before rubbing foundation on.

  ‘How are my baby girls?’ Emily enquires, gesturing to Mateo for a drink. ‘The usual?’

  ‘Yes, please! A pint of sauvignon blanc before I die of thirst.’ Jess licks her finger and smudges her liner. ‘My new nanny Eszter is useless at a few things, including potty training. I spend my evenings cleaning pee off the carpet and poo from Mia’s underwear. Nice.’

  ‘Eww. Sorry to hear that. Are you still with the agency? Aren’t they supposed to send you candidates until you find the right one?’ Emily hands Jess the glass of white wine Mateo has just brought over.

  Jess receives it gratefully with both hands and takes a greedy gulp. ‘I’ll give her a chance. I don’t want to change nannies too often. It’s unsettling for Mia and Molly.’ Jess wipes the lipstick mark from the glass with her thumb, and the latter on her navy denim skirt. She grins a monkey smile, ‘Any on my teeth?’.

  After a few obligatory selfies – #ChicagoBar #Toots – conversations split and fuse between the four sisters as they always do when they’re together

  Carla gives Louise a lengthy sermon about the dangers of infections carried by dirty needles, at which Louise rolls her eyes. ‘Hepatitis! HIV! The tattoo industry is terribly unregulated. Did you check if they had any kind of certifications at all?’

  Jess nags Emily about sorting out her fashion style. ‘Babes. If you dress like this now, I dread to think what it’ll be like in your thirties!’

  Carla shows them a few beach holidays videos (#paradise #dreamholiday) and Jess tries to outdo her with shots of Mia and Molly paddling in the leisure centre swimming pool (#supercute #mummysangels).

  Carla clears her throat. ‘Girls! I have an announcement.’

  Something in her voice, a mix of urgency and repressed excitement, make Jess, Louise and Emily stop in their tracks. All faces turn to her.

  Carla’s eyes sparkle as she toys with her glass. ‘I have news. It’s been a long time coming. I thought a few times, this is it. But it never was. I’ve been ready for this forever. I wanted you all to know first.’

  The girls are reverently quiet. Jess claps a hand to her mouth. Louise puts her phone down. Emily bites her bottom lip and squeezes Jess’s forearm.

  Carla jumps up and, with a fist pump, exclaims, ‘Yes! It has finally happened!’

  The sisters rejoice and cheer, all hugging Carla at the same time.

  ‘Oh my God! When?’ Louise cries, her voice betraying jealousy.

  Carla beams. ‘Last Thursday at lunch. I was with Ben at the hotel restaurant in Porto.’

  Emily, eyes like saucers, drinks in Carla’s words, repeating them quietly to herself as if to memorize them. ‘Thursday. Lunch. Porto.’

  Jess presses for more details. ‘What were you wearing? What were you eating?’

  Carla, taken aback by the specificity of the questions, replies, ‘We’d just come back from the beach, so I was wearing my blue maxi dress over my bikini. We were having dessert.’

  Emily repeats encouragingly, like a detective questioning a child, ‘Dessert. Take your time. Try to remember. Go on. We need all the facts.’

  Carla’s brow furrows. ‘We were enjoying our leite cremes. Then... I know this is not conventional, but I got a text.’

  Emily shrieks in delight. ‘A text! How different! I love it!’

  Louise is already going through the male contacts on her phone, mentally highlighting possible plus-ones.

  Carla blushes. ‘Yes. But I didn’t mind. All those doubts I had before, like, is it me? Am I not good enough? He knows it’s what I want. What is he waiting for? I felt relieved. I’m chuffed to bits.’

  ‘How does Ben feel?’

  ‘Who? Ben? Ben’s happy too. He’s proud of me.’

  The girls all laugh and talk over each other, clinking glasses.

  Louise suggests, ‘We should order champagne! Sod Prosecco, bring on Bollinger!’

  Emily grills Carla. ‘Did all the waiters in the restaurant clap? Did you cry? Has Ben told his mother? Have you called Mum yet? Have you decided on a date?’

  Carla tries to keep up with the questions flying at her. ‘No! And no. Who? His mother? Why? No, I don’t think so. Not yet. September.’

  Jess blurts out, ‘September? That’s insane! There’s not enough time to organize everything!’

  Louise squints at Carla and says, ‘Can you show us the text, please?’

  ‘CARLA. YOU’RE ON. MARKETING MANAGER. SEPTEMBER. YOU EARNED IT. TALK WHEN YOU GET BACK FROM HOLS. RICH.’

  Jess lets out a half-repressed scream. ‘Rich? As in Rich, your boss? We all thought Ben had finally proposed!’

  Jess’s vision of a shabby chi
c wedding complete with Mia carrying the rings and Molly holding Carla’s train goes up in smoke.

  After an awkward silence, Carla mutters, ‘I was talking about the promotion I was hoping for. I told you girls. Ben’s not ready. Yet.’

  Carla starts gnawing her nails, which she only ever does when she’s mortified.

  Louise barely hides the pity in her voice as she tries to make eye contact with a man in a blue shirt at the next table. ‘Poor babes. Ben is a stupid git. Em, can I have a mai tai, please?’

  Outraged, Jess dumps sauvignon blanc from the newly fetched bottle into her glass, splashing some on the table, and spits out, ‘How dare he take her on a holiday when all she wants is for him to propose? The bastard, leading her on like this!’

  Emily gently wraps her arms around Carla’s shoulders. ‘Carla’s not engaged. Big deal. She’s been promoted! Let’s have champers!’

  Carla forces a timid smile, shakes her head and pulls her shoulders back. ‘And I am buying!’

  Louise suddenly screeches, ‘Em! I can’t believe you posted that photo of us on Facebook. My eyes are half closed! I look bloody terrible!’

  Huffing and puffing, she sets about untagging herself. She takes a few selfies of her best pout and uploads them to counteract the effect of the unflattering photo on her profile – @louisadaviesdd #gorgeous – and sits back, satisfied. Ha! Watch the likes roll in now.

  Rihanna’s ‘Rude Boy’ ringtone chimes. Louise picks up with her sultriest voice. ‘Louisa speaking. Nick! What a sweet surprise! I did leave you a few messages. You’re such a darling for returning my call.’

  She gives a little affected laugh, plays with her necklace and purrs, ‘I’ll gladly take you up on your offer to teach me more about restoring balance to body and mind. How does tomorrow sound? Or better, how does right now sound?’