The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

Avoid Charlotte on the second row; she’s got chicken pox and we don’t want to advertise it. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’

‘Yep.’

‘All right, off you go then.’

Vanessa shoos me towards the children and hovers by my shoulder until I start clicking, her many bracelets tinkling as she dumps my bag on the trestle table Mum is trying to clear of used napkins and plastic cups.

I snap a few photos before the show ends, wildly clicking to ensure there are enough pictures to pacify demands for the school calendar. When the lights are switched on, a horde of oversized vegetables dash towards their parents, most of whom have formed a line in front of the cheap wine I picked up. Vanessa lets Mum serve, using the time to apply a particularly garish shade of mauve lipstick, which smears on the front of her pearlescent teeth. I make a choice not to tell her about it.

‘You’re a star, Lorrie,’ I hear Vanessa saying, as she glances over at Mum. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever experienced the total fucking nightmare that comes with maintaining acrylic nails. The upkeep is such a burden, you know. Forty-five pounds every three weeks. Nigel can’t understand it. You’re lucky in that respect, darling. Must be nice not to worry about keeping up appearances.’ Vanessa picks her teeth with the corner of a blunt-edged nail. Mum straightens, pink-cheeked, and pulls her Per Una cardigan a little tighter around her waist. ‘Is there anything left for me to do?’ Vanessa adds, her voice dwindling with reticence.

Mum takes a moment to think. ‘Well, there’s the—’

‘Oh! Look who’s turned up when everything’s finished!’ interrupts Vanessa, barking out a laugh as she pretends to spot me for the first time. She squeezes my elbow. ‘Do excuse me. I must catch Giles before he heads off. We’re at couples’ golf on Sunday and I haven’t had a chance to ask about a luncheon. You don’t mind, do you, Lorrie? Nothing keeping you?’ Vanessa unclasps her stiff handbag, runs a wide-toothed comb through her bob, and rubs her lips together, smearing the colour in a clown-like rim around her mouth. ‘You are good,’ she says, swerving around a caretaker who wheels a stack of chairs behind him.

Mum’s smile twitches and she blows her fringe out of her face.

‘You shouldn’t let her speak to you like that,’ I say.

‘Ah, it’s nothing. Vanessa’s like an orange; from a distance you’d assume she’s sweet inside but you soon realise she’s ninety-nine per cent pith.’

‘She’s definitely got a mean Carol Vorderman vibe about her.’

‘She’s also the reason we acquired eight M&S sandwich platters for tonight. You have to pick your battles.’ Mum pushes her palms into the small of her back and sighs. ‘Help me with the tablecloth, will you?’ We lift the corners and walk towards each other. She takes it off me and tucks it under her arm. ‘You’re on edge today,’ she says.

‘I’m just …’ I look at Mum. She seems older in a way I hadn’t noticed before: dark eyes, stooped shoulders, standing with her right hip jutting forward. ‘I’m just annoyed with people like her.’

‘People like what?’

I nod towards Vanessa, who is busy accepting compliments for the glittering leaf display that she contributed nothing towards. ‘All this stuff that you do for the school, and the WI, and the play group – they don’t realise how much you take on for them. Vanessa’s only here because her husband can’t stand her being at home.’

I bite my hangnail and look around the hall. I don’t like this version of myself. I shouldn’t be able to say how many times the wall displays have changed, or when they re-laid the parquet flooring. You’re meant to remember your first school as a golden haze of sugar paper, poster paints, and pudding-faced dinner ladies, blue crash mats, cloakrooms, and wearing Hula Hoops as wedding rings. With the amount of times I’m pulled back, I’ve never had a chance to grow nostalgic.

Mum has sewn herself into this community. Her presence isn’t remarked on, but assumed, otherwise how would anything function? She loves it. There’s nothing that gives her greater joy than arguing over the correct placement of sausage rolls at a finger buffet. But is it my thing, too? Other than work, this is what I do the most. Her social life is my social life, because it’s only ever been me and her. Until today. Now there’s Moira and God knows who else up in Scotland. If I go there to find out, is it like I’m abandoning her?

Mum ties up the handle of a bin bag. ‘You know, Vanessa never spends time at home because her husband has been having an affair since 2003 and she can’t leave him because he tied up their finances in the pre-nup.’ I scuff the floor with the toe of my boot. I can feel Mum’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up. ‘We’ve all got different reasons for doing things.’

We stand side by side and lean against the wall bars at the same time, Mum sighing with weariness. We look out in comfortable silence as the last few parents sing goodbyes and wheel scooters towards the exit, miniature rucksacks swung over adult arms. Mum bumps her shoulder against mine and my stomach flip-flops, as though physical proximity might increase the likelihood of her accidentally absorbing what I know.

‘Are you happy?’ I ask.

‘Jesus, Ava. What, right now? In life? In spirit?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so … meta. Like, generally?’

‘Yeah, more or less. I’ve got a few good reasons to get up in the morning. Pickles would starve rather than catch anything to eat, for starters. Then there’s Ginger, who would probably be the third wife of a serial polygamist if it wasn’t for my intervention on those God-awful dating apps. And I’ve got you,’ she adds with haste, feigning an afterthought.

‘I’m actually shocked that I come after Pickles,’ I say, disguising laughter.

‘It’s not personal, sweetheart.