Are you serious right now? a voice crackled over the line, shrill with righteous fury, slipping into ultrasonic squeal. Poppy, can you even hear me? Ive got nowhere to put the kids, and youve got the whole weekend free!
Emily pulled the handset from her ear, winced, and pressed it back to her ear, exhaling heavily. The Friday evening she had been dreaming of all week was beginning to fray at the edges. Outside, October rain thudded against the sash window, while on the stove a pot of carrot soup bubbled lazily, more out of habit than hunger.
I hear you perfectly, Emily replied calmly, stirring the broth with a ladle. And Ive already said no. I have plans for tomorrow. Im booked to see a doctor, then I intend to sleep the rest of the day. This is my only free day in two weeks; I deserve some peace.
Shes seeing a doctor! Poppy sneered. I know your doctors. Another massage? A manicure? And Im not going to a party, mind you. I have paperwork to file at the Citizens Advice Bureau, queues there stretch for miles. Where am I supposed to take the twins? Theyll wreck the whole place!
Exactly, Poppy. Theyll wreck everything. And if they manage to wreck a public office, imagine what theyd do to my flat, which we only finished renovating a month ago, Emily turned off the burner and slumped onto a stool. Remember when Jack doodled on the hallway wallpaper with a marker last time? You said, Itll wash off, its a child. It didnt. We had to redo an entire strip.
Oh, blame me for the wallpaper! Poppy shrieked. I apologized! Besides, Simon promised youd help. Hes my brother, after all!
Emily closed her eyes. Of course. Simon. Kind, everready Simon, who could never say a firm no to his little sister. Poppy knew how to pull at that string, playing guilt and family ties like a broken piano.
Simon promised then deal with Simon, Emily snapped. Just remember he wont be home tomorrow either; hes off to the garage for a gearbox issue. So if you bring the kids, theyll be stuck by the door.
You youre such a selfish woman! Poppy spat, slamming the phone down.
Emily set the receiver on the table and rubbed her temples. The kitchens silence felt fragile, like glass about to shatter. She knew this call was only the first rumble of the storm.
Half an hour later a key turned in the lock. Simon shook the rain from his coat, cheeks pink from the cold.
Ah, that soup smells amazing! he pecked Emily on the cheek. Love, why so sour? Something happen at work?
Emily poured him a bowl, added a dollop of cream, sliced some bread. Only when he sat down, fork poised, did she speak.
Your sister called.
Simons spoon froze halfway to his mouth. He gave a guilty grin, instantly understanding.
Ah, Poppy She said she needs to be somewhere tomorrow. Love, could you look after them? Its just a couple of hours. The kids are older now, not the tiny gremlins they were. Put on a cartoon, hand them a tablet and youve got peace.
Simon, Emily crossed her arms, sitting opposite him. A couple of hours with Poppy always stretches into an entire day. Last time she said she was popping to the shop for a minute and returned six hours later, smelling of cocktails and a fresh haircut. Meanwhile I was scrubbing a cat out of modelling clay and rescuing your vinyl collection, which the twins had turned into a flying disc.
She did overdo it, Ill give you that, Simon winced. But its really urgent. Shes on her own with them; its hard for her. Mum called, asked for help. Her blood pressures high, she cant look after them.
My blood pressure? Emilys voice rose. My nerves are about to snap. Im the chief accountant; the reporting period is closing. I come home and collapse. Tomorrow is my day. I want to lie in the bath, read a book, not talk to anyone. I didnt sign up to be a freerange nanny. Poppy has an exhusband, child support, can hire a sitter for an hour. Why must we be the perpetual lifeboat?
Simon set his spoon down, appetite vanished.
Love, its family. Cant you see? We help today, theyll help us tomorrow.
Them? Emily smiled bitterly. When was the last time they helped us? When we moved and asked Poppy to watch the cat for a day, she said she was allergic. She isnt. She just didnt want fur on the sofa. When I had the flu and asked your mother to buy medicine because you were on a business trip, she said she was scared to catch it. Onesided game, Simon.
Simon fell silent, his fork still in his hand. He knew she was right, but years of being the good son and brother had hardened him.
Fine, he muttered. Ill talk to her. Ill tell her we cant.
Emily didnt believe him, but nodded. The rest of the evening passed in tense quiet. Simon typed on his phone, frowned, sighed, but never raised the subject again.
Saturday morning didnt begin with birdsong or sunlight; it started with a relentless, demanding buzz from the intercom. Emily, just waking, stretched in bed, glanced at the clock. Nine oclock.
Who could that be? she whispered, already knowing the answer.
Simon, already in his tracksuit, rushed to the door.
I think its a mistake, he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
The intercom rang again, long and grating, then Simons mobile buzzed.
Yes, Poppy? he answered, eyes flicking to Emily. We had an agreement I told you Poppy, this isnt right!
From the speaker came a shrill tirade she could hear even from the bedroom.
I dont know anything! Im already at the block! I have a booking I cant cancel! Pick up your nephews, dont be a doormat! Ill call Mum if you dont open!
Simon looked helplessly at his wife.
Len Shes already here. What am I supposed to do? I cant leave them out in the cold.
Something snapped inside Emily. The thin thread of patience that had held their marriage together for years frayed. She rose silently, slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, turned the tap to full blast, drowning out the clatter of Simons slippers as he shuffled to the intercom.
Five minutes later the flat erupted into chaos. Four tiny feet pounded the hallway, shrill child voices echoed, something crashed in the entrance, followed by a roar.
Uncle Simon, do you have sweets?
Wheres the cat? We want a cat!
Ew, whats that smell? I wont have porridge!
Emily stood before the mirror, applying cream, hands trembling. She heard Poppy barking orders from the hall:
Grab them by five. Ive left food, but check if Lens making pancakes. And dont give them too many sweets; Jacks allergic. Right, Im off, love!
The front door slammed. Poppy vanished, leaving the mess behind.
Emily emerged from the bathroom, already dressed jeans, a sweater, light makeup, a shoulder bag. The hall was a disaster. The fiveyearold twins, Jack and Tom, had already emptied the shoe rack and were now trying to pull Emilys boots onto their feet. Simon ran circles, bewildered.
Len, where are you going? he asked, spotting her.
I told you, she replied calmly, stepping over scattered shoes. I have appointments. Doctor, then a walk, maybe a film.
What about me? The garage, my elevenoclock slot? I cant move it, the queue is two weeks long!
Those are your problems, love. And your sisters. You sort it out. I said no yesterday.
Len, you cant do that! Simons voice cracked with panic. I cant handle them alone, and the car needs work! Stay at least until lunch!
Uncle Simon, Im thirsty! one of the twins shouted, tugging his trouser leg.
Toms pinched me! the other wailed.
Emily surveyed the pandemonium, looked at her husband, who seemed on the brink of a breakdown, and felt a strange lightness. The pity that usually kept her glued to other peoples piles vanished.
The garage key is on the table if you decide to go, she tossed. Theres no food in the fridge; I didnt cook. Order a pizza. Ill be late.
She slipped out, slamming the door behind her, cutting off the yells.
Outside the rain had stopped, a pale autumn sun peeking through. Emily inhaled the damp air deeply. She felt like a fugitive fleeing a prison. Her phone buzzed in her bag. It was her motherinlaw, Dorothy Clarke.
Emily hesitated a heartbeat, then silenced it. Todayno calls.
The day unfolded strangely. She visited a manual therapist who eased her aching back. Later she lingered in a cosy café, sipping a cappuccino with a mountain of foam, reading a novel without being jolted by cries of where are my socks? or whats for dinner?. She drifted to a light comedy in the cinema, laughing wholeheartedly.
She returned home dark, about nine at night. A knot of anxiety tightenedhow were they? Had the twins wrecked the flat completely?
The flat was eerily quiet. Shoes still littered the hallway, an open pizza box and empty soda bottles sat on the kitchen table, and on the sofa, amidst a scatter of cushions and toys, Simon lay, the TV on mute.
Emily slipped into the bedroom. The twins were gonePoppy must have taken them.
She changed into loungewear, brewed tea, and settled at the kitchen table. Her phone flashed: twenty missed calls from Dorothy, five from Poppy, ten from Simon, a flood of angry messages.
Are you heartless? Dorothy wrote. You left your husband in that mess! Simons blood pressure is through the roof! How could you do this to family?
Thanks for the help, sis, Poppy sneered. Because of you I got back an hour early, my plans all ruined. Didnt expect such a betrayal.
Emily deleted the messages without replying.
Simon slunked into the kitchen, hair dishevelled, eyes rimmed with bags, as if hed been shovelling coal.
Its over, he muttered, bitterness edging his tone. Do you even know what happened?
I know, Emily said, sipping tea. Thats why I left. Did you get to the garage?
No garage! he waved a hand, pouring water. Had to cancel. They fought, shouted, spilled cola on the sofa I tried to clean it, only made it worse.
Emily looked over her cup.
See? And imagine if that had been me. Id feel used too.
Mum called, Simon said, eyes on the table. She was furious, said I dont respect us. Poppy said she wont be in this house again until I apologise.
Me? Apologise? Emily raised an eyebrow. For what, for not letting her sit on my neck? Simon, lets be straight. Poppy never went to the bureau. The bureau closes at noon on Saturdays, and she dropped the twins off at nine, planning to collect them at five.
How do you know? he snapped.
Because I didnt lazylook; I checked social media. She posted a story at oneoclock from the shopping centre, then a café. Girls having a breather, the caption read. I can show you.
Simons face flushed.
You you actually have proof? he stammered.
Emily pulled out her phone, handed him the screenshot: Poppy, glass of something sparkling, laughing with two friends. Time stamp: three hours ago.
Simon stared, colour draining from his face.
So thats he swallowed. And I was supposed to believe she was doing paperwork?
Exactly, Emily said, pocketing the phone. I wont apologise. Next time your mum or sister call with complaints, youll explain it yourself. Or should I forward this to Dorothy?
Dont, Simon blurted. Shell get upset. Ill talk to Poppy. Seriously.
He stood, clumsily wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Im sorry, Len. I was stupid. I thought I had to help, and it just fell apart.
Well call the drycleaners, Emily sighed, pressing her cheek to his stomach. Of course, at Poppys expense.
Sunday passed in a deadquiet truce from relatives. No calls. Simon spoke to his mother only tersely, blocking any attempts to discuss Emily. Poppy tried a few times to dial Simon on Friday evenings, but now he answered on speaker, Poppy, weve got plans. Hire a sitter. The line crackled as if it might burst.
Emily sensed the family skeletons rattling in the walls up to the seventh degree. She was now the villain, the selfish one, the breakup catalyst.
But on Saturday morning, waking to the stillness of her flat, pouring coffee, knowing no one would hop onto her sofa and doodle on the walls, she realised being enemy number one wasnt so terrible. It was the price of freedom and selfrespect. And she was ready to pay it.
A neighbour, aware of the family drama, once whispered as they passed:
Len, you cant be so hard. Bloods blood. Be softer, wiser. A womans lot is to endure and smooth corners.
Emily flashed her brightest smile, adjusted the new scarf shed bought with the money saved from never buying gifts for the evergrumbling clan, and replied:
My lot, Mrs. Whitaker, is to be happy. Let the ones who create the corners smooth them.
She walked on, heel clicks echoing on the pavement, feeling the autumn wind puff her coat like the cape of a superhero who had just vanquished the ultimate foeanothers audacity.
