My sisters and I come in two versions: Model A and Model B. Model As are tall, wholesome-looking and, if left unchecked, have brick-shithouse tendencies. I am a textbook Model A. My eldest sister, Claire, and the sister next in line to me, Rachel, are also Model As. Model Bs, on the other hand, are small, kitten-cute and gorgeous looking. With their long, dark hair, slanty green eyes and slender limbs, the two youngest sisters, Anna and Helen, are both clear-cut examples of the genre. Though Anna is nearly three years older than Helen, they look almost like twins. Sometimes even our mother can’t tell them apart – although that’s probably as much to do with her not wearing her glasses as their appearance, now that I come to think of it. To make it easy, Anna – a neo-hippy – dresses as though she’s been rummaging through the dressing-up box, and Helen is the one with the air of psychosis.
Model As share the common characteristics of being tall and strong. Not necessarily fat. Not necessarily. Indeed, Model As have been known to look willowy and slender. If they’re in the grip of anorexia, that is – not as unlikely as it sounds. It’s certainly happened, although not, sadly, to me. I’ve never had an eating disorder – apparently I didn’t have the imagination, Helen told me.
I mightn’t have had an eating disorder, but I suspected I had a mild problem with another form of bulimia – shopping bulimia. It seemed like I was always splurging on stuff, then trying to return it. In fact, it had recently caused a huge row that involved most of my family. Helen had been lamenting on how hard it was to live on what she got paid as a make-up artist, and she suddenly rounded on me and accused, ‘You’re good with money.’ This happened a lot; they referred to me as clean-living and sporty – even though I hadn’t played any sport since living in Chicago – and painted a picture of me that was years, probably decades, out of date. My parents were wholly in approval of this sepia-tinted version of me, but my younger sisters – affectionately, mind – treated me as a figure of fun. Most of the time I humoured them, but that particular day I suddenly baulked at being – albeit affectionately – depicted as life-crushingly dull.
‘In what way am I good with money?’
‘Not living beyond your means. Thinking carefully before you buy stuff, that sort of thing,’ Helen said, scathingly. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, hahaha.’
‘I’m not good with money,’ I said sharply.
‘You are!’ they chorused – my parents with admiration, Helen without.
‘She’s not,’ Garv said.
‘Thank you,’ I turned briefly to him.
‘You are so! I bet you’ve a huge stash of used fivers in a biscuit tin under your bed.’
‘She wouldn’t keep it in a biscuit tin,’ Dad defended me against Helen. ‘You don’t get any interest in biscuit tins. She has her savings in a high-interest account.’
‘What savings? I don’t have any savings!’
‘Don’t you?’ Mum sounded confused. Upset even. ‘Didn’t you?’ used to have a post-office book? Didn’t you pay in 50p a week?’
‘Yes, when I was nine’
‘But you’ve a pension fund?’ Dad asked anxiously.
‘That’s different, that’s not savings and you don’t get it till you’re sixty. And I’m always buying things I don’t need.’
‘Then you bring them back.’
‘But they don’t always give refunds. Sometimes they only give credit notes, so that’s the same as spending money.’ My voice was rising. ‘And sometimes they go out of date before I use them.’
‘No!’ Mum was appalled.
‘Well, I bet you pay your credit card off in full every month,’ Helen persisted.
‘I DON’T pay my credit card off in full every month.’ They were all slightly open-mouthed at my unexpected fury. ‘Only SOME MONTHS!’
‘Oh, rock’n’roll.’
I knew it was a little strange to be having this argument. I knew people argued about money – but usually they were being accused of spending too much and insisting that they didn’t, not the other way round. So overwrought was I that eventually Mum made Helen apologize. Then she murmured to me, ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, earning good money and putting some by.’
It was at that point that Garv made me leave, raging that they’d upset me so. (You know the way Garv sees the good in most people? Well, he suspends such altruism around most of my family.)
On the drive home, I said anxiously, ‘I know everything is relative and I know I’m not in their league, but I am neurotic, aren’t I?’
‘You are, of course,’ he said stoutly. ‘Don’t mind them!’
However, I’m not dwelling on my family in this manner to provide background colour, there’s actually a reason for it: it’s because I’m about to resume living with them. I could have moved in with Donna, except she’d recently managed to get on-again-off-again-I’ll-just-get-my-head-out-of-my-arse-if-you’ll-give-me-a-second Robbie to live with her, so I wasn’t sure she’d welcome the presence of a third party. Or I could have asked Sinead, except Dave had kicked her out and she was currently even more homeless than me. And I could have tried my best friend Emily, who has plenty of room. The only problem is that she lives in Los Angeles. Not exactly handy.
So, cap in hand, I’ve to return to the bosom of my family. First, though, I have to tell them, and I’m dreading it.
Perhaps it’s never easy to disappoint your mum and dad, but in my case it feels extra difficult. I’m the one who married her first boyfriend, and they’ve been so heartbreakingly proud of me and of the ticks beside almost every item on the checklist: the marriage, the house, the car, the job, the pension plan, the robust mental health.
‘You’ve never given us a moment’s worry,’ they’ve often said. ‘The only one who hasn’t.’ Then would follow a baleful look at whichever of my sisters was giving them grief at the time. Now, after successfully avoiding them all those years, it was my turn for the baleful looks.
I paused at the front door before letting myself in. Just taking a moment. Filled with a fierce need to run away, leave the country, avoid facing my atrocious failure. Then, with a sigh, I shoved my key in the lock. I couldn’t run away – I’m responsible and conscientious. In a family where several black sheep are jockeying for position, being the sole white sheep isn’t much fun.
Model As share the common characteristics of being tall and strong. Not necessarily fat. Not necessarily. Indeed, Model As have been known to look willowy and slender. If they’re in the grip of anorexia, that is – not as unlikely as it sounds. It’s certainly happened, although not, sadly, to me. I’ve never had an eating disorder – apparently I didn’t have the imagination, Helen told me.
I mightn’t have had an eating disorder, but I suspected I had a mild problem with another form of bulimia – shopping bulimia. It seemed like I was always splurging on stuff, then trying to return it. In fact, it had recently caused a huge row that involved most of my family. Helen had been lamenting on how hard it was to live on what she got paid as a make-up artist, and she suddenly rounded on me and accused, ‘You’re good with money.’ This happened a lot; they referred to me as clean-living and sporty – even though I hadn’t played any sport since living in Chicago – and painted a picture of me that was years, probably decades, out of date. My parents were wholly in approval of this sepia-tinted version of me, but my younger sisters – affectionately, mind – treated me as a figure of fun. Most of the time I humoured them, but that particular day I suddenly baulked at being – albeit affectionately – depicted as life-crushingly dull.
‘In what way am I good with money?’
‘Not living beyond your means. Thinking carefully before you buy stuff, that sort of thing,’ Helen said, scathingly. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be, hahaha.’
‘I’m not good with money,’ I said sharply.
‘You are!’ they chorused – my parents with admiration, Helen without.
‘She’s not,’ Garv said.
‘Thank you,’ I turned briefly to him.
‘You are so! I bet you’ve a huge stash of used fivers in a biscuit tin under your bed.’
‘She wouldn’t keep it in a biscuit tin,’ Dad defended me against Helen. ‘You don’t get any interest in biscuit tins. She has her savings in a high-interest account.’
‘What savings? I don’t have any savings!’
‘Don’t you?’ Mum sounded confused. Upset even. ‘Didn’t you?’ used to have a post-office book? Didn’t you pay in 50p a week?’
‘Yes, when I was nine’
‘But you’ve a pension fund?’ Dad asked anxiously.
‘That’s different, that’s not savings and you don’t get it till you’re sixty. And I’m always buying things I don’t need.’
‘Then you bring them back.’
‘But they don’t always give refunds. Sometimes they only give credit notes, so that’s the same as spending money.’ My voice was rising. ‘And sometimes they go out of date before I use them.’
‘No!’ Mum was appalled.
‘Well, I bet you pay your credit card off in full every month,’ Helen persisted.
‘I DON’T pay my credit card off in full every month.’ They were all slightly open-mouthed at my unexpected fury. ‘Only SOME MONTHS!’
‘Oh, rock’n’roll.’
I knew it was a little strange to be having this argument. I knew people argued about money – but usually they were being accused of spending too much and insisting that they didn’t, not the other way round. So overwrought was I that eventually Mum made Helen apologize. Then she murmured to me, ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, earning good money and putting some by.’
It was at that point that Garv made me leave, raging that they’d upset me so. (You know the way Garv sees the good in most people? Well, he suspends such altruism around most of my family.)
On the drive home, I said anxiously, ‘I know everything is relative and I know I’m not in their league, but I am neurotic, aren’t I?’
‘You are, of course,’ he said stoutly. ‘Don’t mind them!’
However, I’m not dwelling on my family in this manner to provide background colour, there’s actually a reason for it: it’s because I’m about to resume living with them. I could have moved in with Donna, except she’d recently managed to get on-again-off-again-I’ll-just-get-my-head-out-of-my-arse-if-you’ll-give-me-a-second Robbie to live with her, so I wasn’t sure she’d welcome the presence of a third party. Or I could have asked Sinead, except Dave had kicked her out and she was currently even more homeless than me. And I could have tried my best friend Emily, who has plenty of room. The only problem is that she lives in Los Angeles. Not exactly handy.
So, cap in hand, I’ve to return to the bosom of my family. First, though, I have to tell them, and I’m dreading it.
Perhaps it’s never easy to disappoint your mum and dad, but in my case it feels extra difficult. I’m the one who married her first boyfriend, and they’ve been so heartbreakingly proud of me and of the ticks beside almost every item on the checklist: the marriage, the house, the car, the job, the pension plan, the robust mental health.
‘You’ve never given us a moment’s worry,’ they’ve often said. ‘The only one who hasn’t.’ Then would follow a baleful look at whichever of my sisters was giving them grief at the time. Now, after successfully avoiding them all those years, it was my turn for the baleful looks.
I paused at the front door before letting myself in. Just taking a moment. Filled with a fierce need to run away, leave the country, avoid facing my atrocious failure. Then, with a sigh, I shoved my key in the lock. I couldn’t run away – I’m responsible and conscientious. In a family where several black sheep are jockeying for position, being the sole white sheep isn’t much fun.
