"Er . . . me too," I backtrack hastily. "Absolutely!"
Which is kind of true.
I mean, I love eBay.
As I lead Jess into the kitchen I feel a rush of excitement. I reach for the CD remote control, and a moment later, Sister Sledge belts through the kitchen speakers at top volume. I bought the alb.u.m especially for this!
" "We are family!" " I sing along, while taking the champagne bottle out of its ice bucket. I pop the cork. "Have some champagne!"
"I"d prefer something soft, if you"ve got it," she says, looking at the bottle without enthusiasm. "Champagne gives me a headache."
"Oh," I say, halted. "Well . . . OK!"
I pour her out a gla.s.s of Aqua Libra and quickly put the bottle away before she can see the price and start talking about potatoes again.
"I thought tonight we could just relax," I say over the music. "Just enjoy ourselves . . . talk . . . have fun . . ."
"Sounds good," says Jess, nodding.
"So, my idea was, we could do makeovers!"
"Makeovers?" Jess looks as though she"s never even heard the word.
"Come with me!" I pull her along the corridor and into the bedroom. "We can do each other"s makeup . . . try on all different clothes . . . I could blow-dry your hair if you like. . . ."
"I don"t know." Jess"s shoulders are hunched uncomfortably.
"It"ll be fun! Look, sit down in front of the mirror. Try on one of my wigs!" I pull the blond Marilyn one onto my own head. "Isn"t that fab?"
Jess flinches.
"I hate mirrors," she says. "And I never wear makeup."
I stare at her, a bit nonplussed. How can anyone hate mirrors?
"Besides, I"m happy with the way I look," she adds a bit defensively.
"Of course you are!" I say in astonishment. "That"s not the point! It"s just supposed to be . . . you know. Fun."
Jess doesn"t reply.
"But anyway!" I say, trying to hide my deflation. "It was just an idea. We don"t have to do it."
I take off the Marilyn wig and switch off the dressing table lightbulbs. The room is immediately plunged into semi-gloom, which is kind of how I feel. I was really looking forward to doing Jess up. I had all these great ideas for her eyes.
But never mind. We can still have a good time!
"So! Shall we . . . watch a movie?" I suggest.
"Sure." Jess nods.
And anyway, a movie is better. Everyone likes movies, plus we can chat during all the boring bits. I lead the way into the sitting room and gesture enthusiastically at the fanned-out videos on the floor. "Take your pick. They"re all here!"
"Right." Jess starts looking through the videos.
"Are you a Four Weddings girl?" I prompt her. "Or Sleepless in Seattle . . . When Harry Met Sally . . ."
"I don"t mind," says Jess at last, looking up. "You choose."
"You must have a favorite!"
"These aren"t really my kind of thing," says Jess, with a little grimace. "I prefer something a bit more heavyweight."
"Oh," I say. "Oh, right. Well . . . I can go and get a different video from the rental shop if you like! It won"t take me five minutes. Tell me what you"d like to watch-"
"It"s OK. I don"t want to put you out." She shrugs. "Let"s just watch one of these."
"Don"t be silly!" I say with a laugh. "Not if you don"t like any of them! We can do . . . something else! No problem!"
I smile at Jess, but inside I"m a bit disquieted. I don"t quite know what else to suggest. My backup plan was the Dancing Queen karaoke tape-but something tells me she won"t want to do that either. Plus we"re not wearing the wigs.
Why is everything so awkward? I thought we"d be laughing hysterically together by now. I thought we"d be having fun.
Oh G.o.d. We can"t just sit here in silence all night. I"m going to come clean.
"Look, Jess," I say, leaning forward. "I want to do whatever you want to do. But you"ll have to guide me. So . . . be honest. Suppose I hadn"t invited you here for the weekend. What would you be doing right now?"
"Well . . ." Jess thinks for a moment. "I was supposed to be at an environmental meeting this evening. I"m an activist for a local group. We raise awareness, organize pickets and protest marches . . . that kind of thing."
"Well, let"s do that!" I say eagerly. "Let"s organize a picket! It"d be fun! I could make some banners . . ."
Jess looks nonplussed.
"A picket of what?"
"Er . . . I don"t mind! Anything. You"re the guest-you choose!"
Jess is just staring at me in disbelief.
"You don"t just organize pickets. You have to start with the issues. With the environmental concerns. They"re not supposed to be fun."
"OK," I say hastily. "Let"s forget the picket. How about if you hadn"t been at the meeting? What would you be doing now? And whatever it is . . . we"ll do it. Together!"
Jess frowns in thought, and I watch her face with hope. And a sudden curiosity. For the first time I feel like I"m actually going to learn something about my sister.
"I"d probably be doing my accounts," she says at last. "In fact, I brought them with me, in case I had time."
Her accounts. On a Friday night. Her accounts.
"Right!" I manage at last. "Fab! Well, then . . . let"s do our accounts!"
OK. This is fine. This is good.
We"re both sitting in the kitchen, doing our accounts. At least, Jess is doing her accounts. I"m not quite sure what I"m doing.
I"ve written Accounts at the top of a sheet of paper and underlined it twice.
Every so often Jess glances up, and I quickly scribble something down, just to look like I"m into it. So far my page reads: 20 pounds . . . budget . . . 200 million pounds . . . h.e.l.lo, my name is Becky. . . .
Jess is frowning over a pile of what look like bank statements, leafing backwards and forwards and consulting a small bankbook.
"Is something wrong?" I say sympathetically.
"I"m just tracking down a bit of lost money," she says. "Maybe it"s in one of my other cashbooks." She gets up. "I"ll be back in a moment."
As she leaves the kitchen I take a sip of champagne and glance toward the pile of bank statements.
Obviously I"m not going to look at them or anything. They"re Jess"s private property and I respect that. It"s none of my business. None at all. The only thing is, my leg is feeling itchy. It genuinely is. I lean over to scratch it . . . then casually lean a bit farther . . . and a bit more . . . until I can glimpse the bottom figure on the top statement.
30,002.
I hastily sit up again, nearly knocking over my champagne gla.s.s. Thirty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand pounds?
That"s a bigger overdraft than I"ve ever had. Ever!
Now it"s all starting to make sense. It"s falling into place. No wonder she makes her own weights. No wonder she takes her coffee flask everywhere. She"s probably on an economy drive, just like I went on once. She"s probably read Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton!
G.o.d, who would have thought it?
As Jess comes back into the room, I can"t help looking at her with new eyes. She picks up one of her bank statements and sighs heavily-and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. How many times have I picked up a bank statement and sighed? We"re kindred spirits!
She"s perusing the figures, still looking ha.s.sled. Well, no wonder, with a whopping great overdraft like that!
"Hi," I say, with an understanding smile. "Still trying to track down that bit of money?"
"It must be here somewhere." She frowns and turns to another statement.
G.o.d, maybe the bank"s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.
I lean forward confidingly.
"Banks are a nightmare, aren"t they?"
"They"re useless," she replies, nodding.
"I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they"re going to be so unsympathetic . . ."
"I don"t have an overdraft," she says, looking puzzled.
"But-"
I stop as her words. .h.i.t my brain. She doesn"t have an overdraft. Which means- I feel a bit faint.
That thirty thousand pounds is actual . . .
It"s actual money?
"Becky, are you OK?" Jess gives me an odd look.
"I"m . . . fine!" I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. "So . . . you"re not overdrawn. That"s good! That"s great!"
"I"ve never been overdrawn in my life," Jess says firmly. "I just don"t think it"s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There"s no excuse." She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. "But you used to be a financial journalist, didn"t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this."
Her hazel eyes meet mine expectantly and I feel a ridiculous tweak of anxiety. I"m suddenly not sure I want her to know the truth about my finances. Not the exact truth.
"I . . . er . . . absolutely!" I say. "Of course I do. It"s all a question of . . . of planning ahead and careful management."
"Exactly!" says Jess with approval. "When any money comes in, the first thing I do is put half aside to save."
Half? Even my dad doesn"t save that much.
"Excellent!" I manage. "It"s the only sensible option."
I"m in total shock. When I was a financial journalist, I used to write articles telling people to save a percentage of their money all the time. But I never thought anyone would actually save half.
Jess is looking at me with a fresh interest and maybe even affection.
"So . . . you do the same, do you, Becky?"
For a few seconds I can"t quite formulate a response.
"Er . . . well!" I say at last, and clear my throat. "Maybe not exactly half every month . . ."
"I"m just the same." Her face relaxes into a smile. "Sometimes I only manage twenty percent."
"Twenty percent!" I echo feebly. "Well . . . never mind. You shouldn"t feel bad."
"But I do," says Jess, leaning forward across the table. "You must understand that."
I"ve never seen her face look so open.