Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

for her to succeed, then she was never going to make it in front of the cameras. Still, it felt more nerve-wracking than it ought to have as she uncrumpled the paper and began to read.

When she finished her performance the room was quiet. She looked up, trying to read into their facial expressions.

Then Dan began to clap, and the others gradually joined in. ‘Clare, that was great,’ he said. ‘Such a brave thing to do.’

‘Are you sure? Do you think I might be making a mistake?’

‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘I think you’re doing exactly the right thing.’

Chapter Forty-Five

On the way home, smiling at the memory of the troupe’s reaction to her performance, Clare had a sudden jolt of anxiety.

She hadn’t heard from Steph.

It wasn’t that unusual for the pair of them not to talk for a few days – it wasn’t as if they lived in each other’s pockets or followed each other around. But after her no-show at the café, surely Steph would normally have rung her to apologise or explain. Or Clare would have rung her.

She felt a sudden pang of worry near her heart. ‘Claudia, phone Steph,’ she said.

‘Phoning Steph.’

The phone rang seven times before the answerphone clicked in again.

‘Phone Steph,’ she said, again, determined to get through.

This time, the line clicked open to reveal silence.

‘Steph?’ she said.

‘Hi,’ came the reply. It sounded like Steph, yet at the same time, it didn’t.

‘Are you OK?’

Silence.

‘Steph, are you OK?’ she said, suddenly and instinctively knowing the answer.

Silence.

‘Look, I’m coming over,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

It took ten minutes to get to Steph’s house – a modest newbuild at the end of a terraced row on an estate built in the grounds of a Victorian hospital. Lights were on in all the windows, but John’s car was nowhere to be seen.

Feeling sick, but not quite knowing why, Clare rang the doorbell. ‘Steph?’ she called through the letterbox. ‘It’s me!’

There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of someone walking.

When her sister answered the door, Clare barely recognised her. Her hair was greasy and dishevelled and tied up in a messy bun. Her face was swollen from crying; she was wearing a towelling dressing gown that was in need of a wash. But it was Steph’s eyes that struck Clare the most. They were expressionless.

‘Steph?’ she said, stepping into her sister’s hallway and hugging her unresponsive body. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ A sudden fear. ‘Where’s Wilbur?’

‘He’s upstairs,’ Steph replied, her voice a monotone. ‘Don’t worry, he’s fine.’

‘And John?’

‘Working.’

‘Oh, Steph, why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t John call me?’

‘I don’t think he knows what to do.’

‘Let me help you,’ Clare said. ‘What’s the matter, are you depressed? Sick?’

Steph let out a hollow laugh but said nothing.

Walking into the kitchen, Clare flicked the kettle on instinctively. Why was it that she always felt problems could be solved with a cup of tea? Probably something about being British.

It took an hour for her to get Steph to open up. How she hadn’t been sleeping. How she’d wake up in the night with racing thoughts. How, a few days ago, the feeling of dread that she’d been keeping at bay had descended on her and try as she might she couldn’t shift it.

‘Oh, Steph,’ Clare said, covering her sister’s hand with her own. ‘You should have called.’

‘You’re so busy,’ her sister shrugged.

‘Never. I am never too busy,’ Clare said, looking into Steph’s eyes for emphasis. ‘Do you understand?’

Steph nodded.

‘Right. Well, we’re going to call the doctor right now and get you an appointment. And until John gets home, I’m going to stay here, OK?’

‘OK.’ Steph let herself be hugged and even ate a little of the sandwich Clare made.

But the whole time she spent with the shell of her sister; Clare couldn’t help feeling that somehow she’d got it all wrong. She’d been wrapped up in her own life, her own petty worries, her own feelings of inadequacy. And she’d let herself believe that everything was OK with her sister – even though there had been signs, even though she’d known, hadn’t she, deep down, how hard she had found it herself after Alfie had been born, and that it was possible Steph might go through something similar.

She was going to stop playing games, stop trying to micromanage everything and start getting real with her own life. Stop trying to change the world when she hadn’t even got her own ducks in a row.

‘I’m sorry, Steph,’ she said for the seventh time, looking at her sister. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be.’

‘We’ll fix this, you know. It’s not easy, but we can fix this.’

For once, Toby noticed something was wrong as soon as Clare got home. And she was grateful. As they cuddled on the sofa for the first time in an age, she remembered those awful days after Alfie’s birth when she’d felt as if her world was closing in. And how it had been Toby who’d helped lead her back to life again.

He had been her rock then, and she was determined that whatever had happened to fracture their relationship would be fixed.

Chapter Forty-Six

Clare and Katie were just finishing clearing the table the following evening when Toby opened the front door and shouted a loud ‘I’m HOME!’

‘Is that Dad?’ Katie asked, her face a picture. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

‘He … he seems fine,’ Clare replied.

The door was pushed open with such force that it hit the wall, its handle leaving a small dent in the plaster.

‘Girls!’ Toby trilled, bounding into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some great news!’

Clare smiled in spite of herself. She’d been feeling sick with worry since she’d realised how ill her sister had become. But Steph was getting help now, and it was hard not to catch Toby’s infectious smile, even if she couldn’t quite join his over-the-top enthusiasm. ‘Go on?’ she said, putting her pile of plates next to the sink. ‘What is it? You’re taking over the TV studios?