His little sister Ellen had just spilt his coffee over her leg.
She winced with her head still bowed, apparently oblivious to his identity. ‘Oh shit.’
If he walked out of the café right then, she might never notice him. She was more interested in dabbing the spillage with her napkin.
But this was his sister.
‘Are you okay, Ellen?’ he asked.
She went rigid, just as he had done. Without looking up, she said, ‘Mark?’
He moved around the table and faced her.
The unsightly spots and limp hair – the companions of an undeveloped teenager – were absent. In their place, a young woman had emerged. It was Ellen, but not the girl he remembered. That girl had been a sallow, almost pitiful child, who had slunk about the house with a permanent scowl. Now she had wavy hair, which she had cut short, and her eyebrows were shaped into crescents, arching over mahogany irises. Her fingernails were elongated by extensions that glittered as she swept her hand over her leg. The portrait of maturity continued with her pencil skirt and jacket: the classic tailoring worn in nearly every office of the City of London. She’d always had the potential to blossom into something attractive, but he’d never anticipated that an office suit would do the trick.
‘That must have hurt.’ He backed away, opting for anything that avoided a kiss or a hug. ‘I’ll get some ice for you.’
Mark hijacked the front of the queue to ask for ice. The disapproving barista slammed a plastic cup of ice down on the counter. Mark wrapped a few cubes up in a napkin and handed it to Ellen.
‘Keep it on. The longer the better.’
Her hand shook as she pressed the napkin onto the stained patch.
Another wince. ‘It’s cold,’ she murmured.
‘Good.’ Mark took the seat opposite her. He had lost a quarter of his drink to her leg and the table.
She shot him a glance and smiled. Heavens, she’s changed beyond recognition. What had happened since they’ last met? When had they last met?
‘Three years ago,’ she said. ‘I know that’s what you’re thinking. You’re blinking like crazy trying to work it out.’
‘Three!’ He believed her. It probably was that long. Christmases, birthdays, none of those kinds of occasions warranted special attention in the Clewer household. Except, of course, Dad’s birthday. They had been made to honour that and keep it like a holy day. The last Christmas Ellen would have been home, Mark had gone skiing; a disastrous attempt at reconciliation with his now ex-girlfriend.
She shrugged. ‘Mum hasn’t spoken to me in months.’
‘Lucky girl.’ He poked his panini and checked it wasn’t too hot. One burning was enough.
Ellen abandoned the wet napkin on the table and stirred her tea. She ignored the sarcasm. ‘So, why are you here? I mean, here in London?’ she asked.
The extent of their disconnected lives was made real in that one question. He’d been in London for months. ‘Work. When did you leave home?’
‘A year ago.’
He stared straight at her, wide-eyed with shock; they made eye contact for the first time since he’d sat down. He was conscious his eyes might convey surprise, hers were wary.
‘Fu—’ he ended the expletive and looked away. ‘Mum doesn’t talk about you.’
And he never asked after her, that much was now apparent to Ellen who gave another little dismissive shrug. If she was bothered, she hid it well, and Ellen knew exactly how to use emotional displays to get her own way. He hadn’t forgotten her theatrical tantrums and feinted attempts at self-harming. Although, in hindsight, he now recognised it has the most successful approach for handling their mother.
Social services had described it as a cry for help. Her little experiments had gone badly wrong – the razor wasn’t blunt. However, the twelve-year-old Ellen hadn’t persuaded them otherwise. According to Deidre, who considered Social Services an unnecessary interference, they had lectured her about priorities, rebutting her claims that Ellen was just a typical difficult kid. Ellen had never been typical. An indignant Deidre already had to deal with the gossip about her husband; she would never be able to face her neighbours – Deidre had wailed this at Ellen, as if her daughter cared. Mark had shrugged off the humiliation; he had been busy making other plans.
What Social Services achieved had been to encourage their mother to notice Ellen. For a while, Deidre had practised how to be a parent and insisted that if anybody bullied her kids, they should say their dad was innocent. Mark had brushed things aside by talking about appeals. Ellen had never said a thing one way or the other. People formed their own opinion of what had happened and hers had been decided a long time ago.
Ellen had continued to cut herself repeatedly as a teenager. Why she did this was something Mark had never been told by Deidre, but it explained why outsiders kept tabs on Ellen. When Deidre had been told Social Services were considering taking them into care, she had been horrified. Ellen had seemed keen on the idea, but they sent her to a special CAMHS unit for a month instead. Having packed his bags, Mark had gone to Oxford University on a scholarship. Deidre wanted him to study law and become a lawyer, obviously. He had chosen mathematics, then accountancy exams. Ellen, he imagined, had moped about the house on her own with Deidre and the living ghost of their father.
Now here she was, far away from Manchester. She smirked. ‘It wouldn’t cross her mind to mention me. I let her down. I’m a… terrible daughter.’
Mark grinned.
Ellen mimicked Deidre really well. ‘I’m stupid and selfish for leaving.’
Once he might have agreed with that counterproductive assessment. He edged away from the past. ‘She doesn’t rate me much better.’
‘But
