Page 53 of Annabel and Her Sisters

‘You’ll never believe it!’ he exclaimed as he came to a halt in front of me.

‘I’ve literally just discovered that I can take Roman Catholic classes around the corner, at the seminary back there– I don’t have to go to Tottenham at all!

Plus there’s the distinct possibility of a position in Barnes!

Hi, darling.’ He kissed my cheek. I wasn’t sure if he was delighted to see me or if it was the convenient classes and job.

No, that’s uncharitable, but you know what I mean.

‘That’s lovely,’ I said, smiling up at him.

‘Everything I’ve just heard in there,’ he jerked his head back towards the blue door, ‘only convinces me further: the confessional, the orthodoxy, the much stricter dogma, it is all so much more up my street.’

‘I’m pleased. Decision made.’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

‘Ralph, we need to talk.’

He looked surprised. ‘Sure. Lead on, Macduff.’

And so I did. Luckily there was a convenient empty bench facing the river, but as we sat down, my heart was pounding.

I knew, you see, as soon as he’d spoken: knew that all that orthodoxy, the dogma, the strict scripture, would not make my face light up as his had done.

That, like Mum, I felt religion was personal.

Quiet. Silent. Between me and Him. And that when I’d seen him coming towards me, I also knew in my heart I’d felt almost terrified.

Not delighted at all. I’d wanted to love him.

Had tried so hard. Had almost been determined.

Which is not the same as feeling it. So I told him.

First of all I told him carefully, and I hope tactfully, about what had happened last night.

I wanted to be totally honest and transparent, you see.

I didn’t want to hide behind any false excuse.

So I told him about Ted and how wholly unexpected it had been, just supper with my oldest friend, but that even if it didn’t come to anything, which it might not– I still hadn’t heard a whisper from him– I knew I couldn’t marry Ralph.

That I would just prefer to be on my own, in Fulham, with my children as my focus, as Mum had done for years.

And of course my work. My writing. That I was truly sorry– I was– and hoped I hadn’t led him up the garden path, and I hoped he understood.

But that I’d given it careful thought, and was pretty sure that with or without Ted, I was coming to this conclusion anyway.

I believed I would have done so over time, but last night had simply confirmed it more quickly.

As I said it, I knew it to be true. Ralph listened in silence.

He was very shocked, I could tell. Shattered, even.

And it wasn’t great. It never is, that sort of thing, and particularly when he’d almost skipped towards me in his boyish enthusiasm.

After a bit, he swallowed. He gave a wry smile.

‘Right. Three of us, then.’

For some reason, this felt below the belt. Manipulative. Which, weirdly, was a help. If he’d said something different, like– I don’t know– not being able to imagine life without me, I’d have felt far worse. But this only strengthened my resolve.

‘Yes. Three of you. Positively spoiled for choice, aren’t I?’

There. We’d both reverted to sarcasm. Which is never nice.

‘Sorry, Annabel,’ he had the grace to say quickly. ‘That was my fault. I felt a bit piqued, I suppose.’

Piqued. But not devastated. Again, a help. I sighed and felt my shoulders sag as I looked out at the river. Thank goodness we were sitting side by side, not opposite each other. A duck, with her babies in a line behind her, sailed past.

‘It’s all so exhausting, isn’t it?’ I said at length.

‘Trying to be happy?’

‘Yes.’

‘But good if you get it right. Which it sounds like you might have done.’

‘I don’t know. As I say, he hasn’t called. Probably regrets it.’

Ralph stood up quickly. ‘Bloody hell, I’m not your counsellor. I can’t have that conversation with you.’ He ran his hands through his hair and looked truly hurt.

‘I’m so sorry. That was utterly thoughtless.’

We were both silent a moment. He was standing facing the river now, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, gazing at the circling, swooping gulls. He lowered his head, lips pursed.

‘I’ll miss you.’

I wanted to say, I’ll miss you too and hope that we can still be friends, but I knew he’d hate that.

And that even if we were one day, it wouldn’t be for a while.

I believe he’d genuinely been very fond of me.

But love? Who knows. At length I got to my feet.

There was no point in prolonging this conversation.

I didn’t say ‘Goodbye, Ralph’; I felt that might sound heavy and final.

Instead, I reached up and kissed his cheek. And then I turned and walked away.

To stop myself looking at my phone, I’d turned it off. Which was why, when I got back home and put the key in the door, then heard familiar voices drifting up from the kitchen, it was a total shock.

‘Sorry,’ Ginnie hastened down the hall towards me. ‘Polly let us in. She’s gone to the foundry now. But your phone was off, I think.’

‘Yes I–’ I glanced beyond her and realized Clarissa was sitting at my kitchen table.

I glanced back at Ginnie and knew in an instant.

My garrulous, unstoppable sister, unable to keep anything to herself, full to the brim with emotional incontinence– like me, of course– had spilled the Piers beans.

And had probably texted me to say as much, but I hadn’t seen.

And let’s not forget, this was what Clarissa had intended: my mother had been right– she’d suspected we knew and had wanted Giovanni to fill in the gaps.

I hugged Ginnie quickly as she shut the door behind me and somehow managed to change gear, from one turbulent personal life to another.

No words were needed as she followed me down the hall.

Clarissa was sitting at my kitchen table, looking pale and dislocated.

A lot had happened in a short space of time.

A lot of revelations, which she would have been aware were unfolding, having directed some of the traffic herself.

But it was all deeply rupturing for her, nonetheless.

She was in the same white shirt and skirt I’d seen her in at Joan’s house.

The shirt was a bit creased. Just the one London outfit, I realized with a pang.

I felt sorry and ashamed that I’d misunderstood her so much, and desperately sad.

She stood up uncertainly and I don’t know whether she wanted me to, but I hugged her anyway.

We both held on tight, for much longer than we ever had before.

Her head was bowed on my shoulder– she was much taller than me– and she was silent.

Finally, we released each other and I realized Ginnie was wiping away tears, as I was too.

‘So,’ whispered Clarissa, who generally barked. ‘Now you know.’

‘Yes, and I’m so glad we do,’ I told her earnestly as we all sat down together. ‘I just wish you’d told us before.’

‘That’s what I said,’ murmured Ginnie.

‘I didn’t want any more division than there was already.’

I bowed my head, ashamed, as Ginnie did. Clarissa was never going to sugar-coat anything. And quite rightly.

‘I actually think it would have brought us closer together,’ I ventured.

‘But possibly for the wrong reasons.’

She was right. Because bitching about a sibling is par for the course, a family dynamic is ever thus, but a half-sibling… Clarissa hadn’t wanted us to make any allowances. And yet, Mum and Dad would have known, and watched. I voiced this.

‘Oh, they understood too. They understood I didn’t want you to be nice to me because I was a bit different.’

Golly, she was blunt. Honest, I mean.

‘Surely we weren’t that unkind?’ Ginnie said incredulously.

‘No. I often deserved it. I also… well, I also probably played up to it. I would act sort of worse than usual, more bossy, more forthright, and you’d get even more exasperated, and a little bit of me would think– if only they knew.

I suppose, in a weird, warped sort of way, I quite liked having a secret.

Enjoyed the game I was playing. It gave me power.

It was something the pair of you didn’t know. ’

I realized this was the most I’d ever heard Clarissa talk about feelings in my entire life and I could tell Ginnie was astonished too.

She’d made a pot of coffee but she paused before pouring it, her hand on the lid.

I think we were all remembering the multiple occasions when this might have occurred: the pounding of her feet upstairs, the slamming of the bedroom door in Primrose Hill, the incredulity from the two of us at the supper table with our parents.

Finally, Ginnie poured her brew into three mugs.

‘Have you told… Piers… that we know?’ I asked gingerly, feeling my way around his name.

‘My father?’ She looked me in the eye. ‘Yes, I rang him the other day, said I was pretty sure you’d found out. You were both behaving strangely. Who told you?’

‘Pammy,’ I admitted. ‘But only because I’d sort of guessed because Mum had said something when she was ill and Joan had directed me to her. Joan didn’t want to divulge. Neither did Pammy, actually; I pressed her.’

‘Ah. I told him I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to tell you myself so I’d pointed you to Giovanni. He and my father are good friends. He thoroughly approved of that. He’s wanted to be part of the family for some time.’