4: Fliss

FLISS

 

 

Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.

Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.

“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”

She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.

“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”

There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.

There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”

Then there was the time Jamie dumped her and I made the mistake of saying, “Oh God, Lottie, poor you.”

She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a feminist.” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.

So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for ages, and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)

At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.

“So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a

careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.

“Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in

EastEnders.

“Yeah, we split up.” “I see.”

“Wasn’t right.”

“Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”

“Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”

“Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you

…”

What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal? is what I want to demand.

I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.

And now not only are they not engaged but they’re over? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked. I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me. (Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him whatever I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage. Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things—whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.

Correction: I could. So why couldn’t he?

Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?

I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.

The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh God, I can’t bear this. I don’t care how prickly she is, I have to know a bit more. It’s insane. One minute they’re getting married, the next we’re on Stage One of Lottie’s Breakup Process, do not pass Go.

“I thought you said he had a ‘big question’?” I say as tactfully as I can.

“Yes. Well. He changed his story,” she says in a determinedly nonchalant voice. “He said it wasn’t a ‘big question.’ It was a ‘question.’ ”

I wince. That’s bad. A “big question” isn’t a variety of “question.” It’s not even a subset.

“So what was the question?”

“It was about air miles, as it happens,” she says, her voice flat.

Air miles? Ouch. I can imagine how that went down. Ian Aylward is at my office window, I suddenly notice. He’s gesticulating energetically. I know what he wants. It’s the speech for the awards ceremony tonight.

“Done,” I mouth, in a blatant lie, and point at my computer, trying to imply that mere technology is holding up its arrival. “I’ll email it. Email. It.”

At last he walks away. I glance at my watch, and my heart ups its pace a little. I have precisely ten minutes to listen supportively to Lottie, write the rest of my speech, and touch up my makeup.

No, nine and a half minutes.

I feel yet another stab of resentment, directed straight at Richard. If he really had to break my sister’s heart, could he have chosen a day which wasn’t my most insanely busy of the whole year? I hurriedly pull up the speech document on my screen and start typing.

In conclusion, I would like to thank everyone here tonight. Both those who have won awards and those who are gnashing their teeth furiously. I can see you! (Pause for laughter.)

“Lottie, you know it’s our big awards event tonight,” I say guiltily. “I’m going to have to go in five. If I could come round, you know I would in a heartbeat.…”

Too late, I realize I’ve made a heinous error. I’ve expressed sympathy. Sure enough, she turns on me.

“Come round?” she spits scathingly. “You don’t need to come round! What, you think I’m upset about Richard? You think my whole life revolves around one man? I wasn’t even thinking about him. I only called to tell you about my plans for a master’s degree. That was the only reason.”

“I know,” I backtrack. “Of course it was.”

“Maybe I’ll see if there’s an exchange program in the States. Maybe I’ll look at Stanford.…”

She carries on talking, and I type faster and faster. I’ve given this speech six times before. It’s just the same old words, every year, in a different order.

The hotel industry continues to innovate and inspire. I am awed at the accomplishments and innovations that we see in our industry.

No. Crap. I press delete and try again.

I am awed at the accomplishments and advances that my team of reviewers

and I have witnessed around the world.

Yes. “Witnessed” adds a nice touch of gravitas to the occasion. One could almost think we’ve spent the year engaging with a series of holy prophets rather than with tanned PR girls in stilettos showing us the latest technology in poolside towel-chilling.

My thanks are due to Bradley Rose, as ever.…

Do I thank Brad first? Or Megan? Or Michael?

I’ll leave someone out. I know it. This is the law of the thank-you speech. You miss some vital person, then grab the microphone again and call out their name in a shrill voice, but no one’s listening. Then you have to find them and spend a hideous half hour thanking them personally while you both smile but above their head in a thought bubble are floating the words: You forgot I exist.

My thanks are due to everyone who put this awards ceremony together, everyone who didn’t put this awards ceremony together, my entire staff, all your staffs, all our families, all seven billion people on this planet, God/Allah/Other.

…

“… I actually see this as a positive. I really do, Fliss. This is my chance to reconfigure my life, you know? I mean, I needed this.”

I drag my attention back to the phone. Lottie’s refusal to admit that anything is wrong is one of her most endearing qualities. Her resolute bravery is so heartbreaking, it makes me want to hug her.

But it also slightly makes me want to tear my hair out. It makes me want to yell, Stop talking about bloody master’s degrees! Just admit you’re hurt!

Because I know how this goes. I’ve been here before. Every breakup is the same. She starts off all brave and positive. She refuses to admit anything is wrong. She goes days, maybe weeks, without cracking, a smile lodged on her face, and people who don’t know her say, “Wow, Lottie coped with the breakup really well.”

Until the delayed reaction happens. Which it does, every time. In the form of some impulsive, outrageous, total fuckwit gesture which makes her feel euphoric for about five minutes. Each time, it’s something different. A tattoo on her ankle; an extreme haircut; an overpriced flat in Borough that she then had to sell at a loss. Membership of a cult. An “intimate” piercing which went septic. That was the worst.

No, I take it back, the cult was the worst. They got six hundred pounds of her money and she was still talking about “enlightenment.” Evil, preying bastards. I think they circle London, sniffing out the newly dumped.

It’s only after the euphoric period that Lottie finally, properly cracks. And

then it’s into the weeping and the days off work and “Fliss, why didn’t you stop

me?” And “Fliss, I hate this tattoo!” And “Fliss, how can I go to my GP? I’m so embarrassed! What will I dooooo?”

I privately call these post-breakup fuckwit actions her Unfortunate Choices, which is a phrase our mother used a lot while she was alive. It covered anything from a dodgy pair of shoes worn by a dinner-party guest to my father’s eventual decision to shack up with a South African beauty queen. “Unfortunate choice,” she would murmur, with that glacial stare, and we children would shiver, thanking our lucky stars it wasn’t us who had made Unfortunate Choices.

I don’t often miss my mother. But sometimes I wish there was another family member I could call on to help pick up the pieces of Lottie’s life. My dad doesn’t count. First of all, he lives in Johannesburg. And, second, if it’s not a horse, or offering him a glass of whiskey, he’s not interested in it.

Now, listening to Lottie babble on about sabbatical programs, my heart is sinking. I can sense another Unfortunate Choice looming. It’s out there somewhere. I feel as though I’m scanning the horizon, my hand shading my eyes, wondering where the shark will surface and grab her foot.

I wish she would just curse and rant and throw things. Then I could relax; the madness would be out of her system. When I broke up with Daniel, I swore obscenely for two solid weeks. It wasn’t pretty. But at least I didn’t join a cult.

“Lottie …” I rub my head. “You know I’m off on holiday tomorrow for two weeks?”

“Oh yes.”

“You’ll be OK?”

“Of course I’ll be OK.” Her scathing tone returns. “I’m going to have a pizza and a nice bottle of wine tonight. I’ve been meaning to do that for ages, actually.”

“Well, have a good one. Just don’t drown the pain.”

That’s another of our mother’s sayings. I have a sudden memory of her in her pencil-slim white trouser suit and green glittery eye shadow. “Drowning the pain, darlings.” She’d be sitting at the bar in that house we had in Hong Kong, cradling a martini while Lottie and I watched, in our matching pink dressing gowns flown out from England.

After she’d gone out, we would intone the phrase to each other like some kind of religion. I thought it was a general toast like “Down the hatch,” and shocked a school friend many years later, at a family lunch, by raising my glass and saying, “Well, drown the pain, everyone.”

Now we use it as a shorthand for “getting totally trashed in an embarrassing manner.”

“I will not be drowning the pain, thank you,” retorts Lottie, sounding

offended. “And, anyway, you should talk, Fliss.”

I may have drunk a few too many vodkas after Daniel and I split up, and I may have made a long speech to an audience of curry-house diners. It’s a fair point.

“Yes, well.” I sigh. “Talk soon.”

I put the phone down, close my eyes, and give my brain about ten seconds to reboot and focus. I have to forget Lottie’s love life. I have to concentrate on the awards ceremony. I have to finish my speech. Now. Go.

I open my eyes and swiftly type a list of people to thank. It goes on for ten lines, but better safe than sorry. I email it to Ian, headlined Speech! Urgent! and leap up from my desk.

“Fliss!” As I leave my office, Celia pounces on me. She’s one of our most prolific freelancers and has the trademark crow’s feet of the professional spa reviewer. You’d think that the spa treatments would cancel out the sun damage, but I find it tends to be the other way around. They really should stop putting spas in Thailand. They should situate them in northern wintry countries with no daylight at all.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I quickly type into my BlackBerry: Zero-daylight spa? then look up. “Everything OK?”

“The Gruffalo is here. He looks livid.” She swallows. “Maybe I should leave.” The Gruffalo is the industry nickname for Gunter Bachmeier. He owns a chain  of ten luxury hotels and lives in Switzerland and has a forty-inch waist. I knew he was invited tonight, but I assumed he wouldn’t turn up. Not after our review

of his new spa–hotel in Dubai, the Palm Stellar. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t tell him it was me.” Celia’s voice is actually trembling.

“Celia.” I grip her by both shoulders. “You stand by your review, yes?” “Yes.”

“Well, then.” I’m willing some strength into her, but she looks terrified. It’s amazing how someone who writes such savage, excoriating, witty prose can be so gentle and sensitive in the flesh.

Hmm. Is there a piece in that?

I type: Meet our reviewers in the flesh?? Profiles??

Then I delete it. Our readers don’t want to meet the reviewers. They don’t want to know that “CBD” lives in Hackney and is an accomplished poet on the side. They simply want to know that their massive slice of cash is going to buy them all the sunshine/snow, white beach/mountains, solitude/beautiful people, Egyptian cotton/hammocks, haute cuisine/expensive club sandwiches that they

require of a five-star holiday.

“No one knows who ‘CBD’ is. You’re safe.” I pat her arm. “I have to run.” I’m already striding down the corridor again. I head into the central atrium and look around. It’s a large, airy, double-height hall—the only impressive space at Pincher International—and every year our overcrowded sub-editors suggest that it’s converted into office space. But it comes into its own for the awards party. I scan the space, ticking off items in my head. Massive iced cake in shape of magazine cover, which no one will eat: check. Caterers setting out glasses: check. Table of trophies: check. Ian from IT is crouching by the podium, fiddling with the auto reader.

“All OK?” I hurry over.

“Grand.” He jumps up. “I’ve loaded the speech. Want a sound check?” I step onto the stage, switch on the microphone, and peer at the reader.

“Good evening!” I raise my voice. “I’m Felicity Graveney, editor of Pincher Travel Review, and I would like to welcome you to our twenty-third annual awards ceremony. And what a year it’s been.”

I can see from Ian’s sardonic eyebrow that I’m going to have to sound a bit more excited than that.

“Shut up,” I say, and he grins. “I have eighteen awards to present.…”

Which is far too many. Every year we have a stand-up battle over which ones to get rid of, and then we get rid of none.

“Blah, blah … OK, fine.” I switch off the mike. “See you later.”