The Sister Surprise Read online

  ‘No way, that’s unreal! Like, so cool …’ I whisper to my own reflection, trying to make my delivery sound detached and aloof like the fresh-from-the-womb media graduates that Duncan insists on hiring. ‘No, I’ve never wondered about him,’ I say, unconvinced by my own smile. ‘Not for a minute.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Are … are you sure this is what Duncan asked for?’

  ‘Yep,’ replies the stylist with a curt nod. I blink beneath false eyelashes so thick I feel like I’m about to take off. My hair has been scraped back into what I have been reliably told are called ‘space buns’, giving my eyebrows an arched quality thanks to eye-watering tension at my scalp. The headache that I slept off last night has reappeared with renewed vigour, aided by white lights framing the mirror I’ve been wheeled in front of. Not only do my eyes hurt from the brightness, but I’m now reacquainted with every long-lost pore and blemish on my face. Nice.

  ‘He’s gone for an edgy, youthful look, y’know? Imagine you’re the kind of person who gets drunk tattoos and shags a member of One Direction whilst listening to Billie Eilish on repeat.’

  Right, so that explains the facelift I’ve been given courtesy of Natalie’s brutal work with a metal comb and an entire packet of Kirby grips. ‘I know it’s meant to make me look younger—’

  ‘Youthful,’ interrupts Natalie with a self-satisfied nod. She shakes a can of hairspray and blasts it in an arc above my head. With no warning, I inhale most of it.

  ‘Sure,’ I splutter, ‘but … I feel like it’s accentuating the fact that I’m a decade too old for this look.’

  ‘It’s just because you’re not used to being on camera,’ she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s all about lighting. This one actress – she was a Dame or something – wouldn’t do television appearances unless her team could screw their own lightbulbs in. They were turned up so high, right, that the studio was humming. Benedict Cumberbatch sweated through his three-piece. You won’t believe the powder I got through doing touch-ups.’

  ‘Weirdly, that does makes me feel better.’

  ***

  ‘Hey!’

  I stand on tiptoes and look over the heads of a small crowd gathered at the collection point of a café counter. A harried barista attempts to steam three kinds of milk in tiny jugs, a backlog of KeepCups lined up beside him. A hand waves, a swimmer in an ocean of hipsters. I wriggle through.

  Rory’s fiercely red hair is piled on top of her head and held in place with a huge clip, a loose tendril running over her shoulder like a snake. She pulls me into a one-armed hug; a little uncomfortable owing to the bag of coffee beans wedged between us.

  ‘Are you buying these?’ I ask.

  ‘No, they’ve given them to me so I don’t lose my place in the queue. I feel like a right pillock.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘You’re a peach.’

  She handles the bag like a cautious parent with a newborn, transferring it into the crook of my elbow. Manoeuvre complete, she clasps my shoulders and turns me from one side to the other like I’m a patient she’s examining. I frown, my hairline taut. I open my eyes wide to relieve the pressure.

  ‘Wow. That’s … that’s a look,’ says Rory.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ I say, massaging my scalp.

  ‘It’s very slick.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s the word for it. She combed so much gel through my hair I thought she was about to insert me somewhere.’

  ‘You say that, but since I was relocated to A&E I’ve seen some things that truly confront my understanding of human anatomy,’ says Rory. ‘Oh, hang on. Yep, that’s me! I’m coming! Ava, bring the coffee beans.’

  We scurry to the front, where I cautiously hand over our beany placeholder, swapping it for a lukewarm flat white. Outside, Rory and I sit on an old bench by the window. With the parquet flooring, painted bricks, and school gym equipment, I get an unnerving flashback to PE lessons, most of which involved Rory and me chucking a musty beanbag to each other at the back of the hall.

  ‘So glad we could do this, even if it is for ten minutes,’ says Rory, her eyes softening as caffeine slips down her throat. ‘Ah, that’s the stuff. Got a hangover. Before you say anything, I will tone it down from now on. It’s getting silly. Thing is, I can’t bear the thought of having dead time in the evenings. Too many opportunities to think about Myles.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not been that long. Couldn’t you stay with Ginger for a bit? Use it as downtime?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ says Rory, flicking down a pair of oversized sunglasses. ‘Mum’s taken my break-up worse than I have. She randomly wails like Mrs Bennet. The melodrama! She’s one step away from smelling salts, I swear to God. I said to her: “Mother. This stops now. He hasn’t cheated on you, has he?” Perhaps if I’d seen just one example of a healthy relationship between her and literally any of the men she went out with when I was a kid, I wouldn’t be so bloody useless at weeding out the arseholes. I said that to her and all,’ she adds, licking coffee foam from her finger.

  ‘Wow, that’s brave.’

  ‘Oh, you know what we’re like: lay everything on the table, get out of each other’s hair for a while, and meet up for a consoling tapas session when we’ve both chilled out.’

  I nod, quietly envious of Rory and Ginger’s open – if chaotic – relationship. If I bring up the tiniest grievance to Mum, she reacts like I’ve made a personal dig at her and then bustles off to do some work for one of the various committees she’s on. Later, when she gets home and I’m on the sofa watching Queer Eye, she pretends like nothing’s happened. That’s that. We move on.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve talked about Myles to death. Distract me. How’re you feeling about your first live stream? Exciting, right?’ Rory interlocks her fingers in mine and jiggles my hand, making the pot of sugar cubes dance on the table.

  ‘Yeah, I mean … I’m excited. I am. I’m just feeling a lot of other things too,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll be fine! You and Max have got great chemistry, you’ve said so before,’ says Rory.

  ‘Only when he’s not trying to wind me up.’

  ‘It’s because he tries to wind you up. You can handle it.’

  I bite my lip and bounce a chunky heel on the floor.

  ‘What’s up? There’s a lot of nervous energy radiating off you,’ says Rory, flicking her glasses down her nose to inspect me properly.

  I close my eyes, the warm autumn sunshine cutting between two austere townhouses. When I open them, Rory is poised like a blackbird, listening.

  ‘It’s the DNA results that I’m worried about. Not in a Jeremy Kyle way, but I don’t think they’re going to be … straightforward.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it that the point of a reveal? Like, the surprise element is the hook, right?’

  ‘Yeah, obviously. But …’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Rory grabs my knee, her eyes wide. ‘Do you think you’re the love-child of someone famous? Mick Jagger? You could have, like, twenty siblings by now.’

  ‘Not quite …’

  ‘Go on, put me out of my misery.’

  ‘Well, you know there are questions about who he is. My dad.’

  ‘I know that him and Lorrie weren’t properly together, right? She bonked him during her activist days, didn’t she?’ I grimace, but nod regardless. ‘You must know his name though.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Really?! Bloody hell. Lorrie really went for the “dine and dash” approach. Dark horse.’ I put a finger to my lips, willing Rory to talk a little more quietly. She grins and scratches lipstick from her front teeth. ‘You must have asked at some point,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, but not recently. Every time I do, she ignores the question and overreacts, as though the idea that I’m curious about him is proof that she’s failed at bringing me up properly. As far as my father goes, the only thing I know is that they met during a protest about dolphins. Or whales. Some sort of sea creature. Anyway, he died when
I started primary school. Not sure when exactly.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that’s going to make for an uplifting watch,’ says Rory. ‘Do Snooper know about your family history?’

  ‘Only what I told Duncan in the first meeting. Basically, that it’s kind of a mystery.’

  Rory props her chin in her hand and taps the table, thinking. ‘What kind of vibe are they going for during the live stream?’

  ‘It’s Snooper, isn’t it? So, light-hearted banter and wide-eyed reactions. Something they won’t have difficulty editing into little clips for short attention spans.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so bad. Still, it’s a pretty extreme way to explore your family history.’

  ‘Trust me, this is the better option. It’s not just an opportunity to show Duncan I can do more than check for misplaced commas, but I get to find out about him, whoever he is. This is one way to do it.’

  ‘I’m surprised it’s taken you this long. In all the time we’ve known each other, you haven’t once gone into Full Ava Mode. I thought you’d be pinning a bunch of Lorrie’s old receipts and photos to the wall to map her movements during 1991 with red string and a stack of Post-its.’

  ‘As much as I love the thrill of a colour-coded research project, this one is too complicated,’ I say, massaging my scalp. My leg jiggles so much that our teaspoons rattle on their saucers. Rory holds my wrists, performing a slow inward breath. I copy her.

  ‘Do you remember when you sorted through five years of medical school notes for me? Three thousand pages stacked and categorised with coloured tabs and so much highlighter you could have self-referred to a solvent abuse clinic?’

  I nod, feel my brow soften, and allow my shoulders to retreat an inch or two away from my ears. ‘I had to dust off my industrial hole-punch for that. It was a good use of annual leave.’

  ‘There we go. Feel better?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Rory grins and plucks a loose blonde hair from my jumper.

  ‘You can always pretend you’re ill if don’t want to do this today. I’ll write you a doctor’s note.’

  I pick at my thumbnail, which has been painted a lurid shade of green. ‘Seriously, it’s fine. I just feel a bit weird because Mum goes twitchy and awkward whenever I bring him up. Getting my ancestry results on a live stream feels … underhand.’ I run my tongue across my teeth. The coffee is making my heartbeat throb, the effect more debilitating than restorative. ‘I don’t feel prepared enough and I’m not sure Max has even read the script. We had one snatched conversation about it last week by the vending machine. Did you know he’s the middle child of three brothers? Think we all could have guessed that …’

  ‘Try and relax into it. It won’t be as bad as you think,’ says Rory, squeezing my hand. ‘Come on. I’ll walk you to the station. Take this.’ She slides her Lotus biscuit over the table towards me. I pick it up and hold it to my chest.

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  ‘Just in case you need a sugar hit at some point.’ Rory stands up, swings a bag across her chest, and flicks a lighter until her cigarette glows amber.

  ‘Oh, hang on. I owe you for this coffee trip,’ I say, consulting an app on my phone. So far, your tab stands at £32.70 and mine is £26.60.’

  Rory laughs, the cigarette puckered between her lips. She takes a drag and blows the smoke over her shoulder. ‘I’ll get this, on one condition,’ she says, pulling me to my feet.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you give Max my number.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t verify that he’s had all his jabs.’

  ‘If it comes to it, I’ll walk him to the clinic myself,’ she says, bumping me with her hip. ‘Fancy coming out after work? Waterloo? Me and some of the hospital gang are planning to get drunk on pink wine.’

  ‘Maybe another time? I promised Mum I’d help out at this school thing tonight. Kind of hoped you’d be there.’

  ‘Ah, of course. I can’t face a children’s choir tonight, especially if they’re doing split harmonies. Right. I’ve got to go. Good luck! I’ll be watching from here!’ she says, tapping her phone.

  Chapter 3

  I swipe into our building, hang my bag on the back of my chair, and scan down today’s schedule in my bullet journal. I’m nine minutes behind. Bloody train strike. My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder telling me to head to the dressing room, where I’m given a white crop top and baggy trousers to wear. My emergency measure of over-the-counter migraine medication followed by a takeaway porridge pot hasn’t had a chance to kick in yet, so when I lace up the patent Doc Martens that I’ve been given (unnecessarily, seeing as we’re only going to be on camera from the waist up), I feel my heart beating behind my eyeballs and the effect is nausea-inducing, to say the least.

  I didn’t know it was possible to feel wildly tired and drastically awake at the same time but, alas, this seems to be the case. Max hasn’t responded to the five messages I’ve sent asking if he’s ready for a run-through. As he’s not at his desk, I go on the hunt, my feet clumpy and unfamiliar. I push the door open to the work kitchen and stifle a yawn to avoid straining my hairline.

  Alongside me, a stretch of windows looks down onto a throng of street-level activity, as a ribbon of red buses, cycles, and beeping Hackney cabs jostle for space on a road split by pedestrian crossings and tall Georgian buildings. Giselle is perched with an espresso by the door, her head bent in concentration as she shakes beauty samples out of a padded envelope. She squints at the underside of a lipstick, taps a note out on her laptop, and rolls her sleeve up. From a distance, her skin looks like it’s covered in a number of puce-coloured burns, but then I notice the arc of lipsticks before her, each with a corresponding swatch on her skin. Phew. No clingfilm bandage necessary.

  ‘Hey, have you seen Max anywhere?’ I ask, tapping on the back of a chair.

  ‘He came out of Duncan’s office earlier, but that was first thing this morning,’ says Giselle, holding her arms parallel to compare identical shades of burgundy.

  ‘Hmm. Shit.’

  ‘You all right?’ says Giselle, looking up. ‘You look a bit sweaty.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted,’ I say, reaching up to rub my eyes.

  ‘No!’ shouts Giselle, her chair tipping backwards as she slaps my wrist down. The lipsticks scatter across the table. ‘Your make-up looks insane! Don’t touch your face!’ She tips my chin from one side to the other. ‘Is this the new Charlotte Tilbury palette?’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘How could you not know?’ she asks, incredulous.

  ‘I was thinking about other things.’ I stretch the back of my neck and wince. ‘I swear it’s getting tighter,’ I say, cautiously tapping my hairline.

  Giselle sits on a beanbag and pulls her heels onto her lap.

  ‘Have you practised your surprised face yet?’ she says, tying her hair back with a sequined scrunchie.

  ‘No …?’

  ‘You might want to. I’ve seen Max do his and it’s pretty good.’

  ‘Why would we need to practise?’

  ‘Well, you’ve already seen your DNA results, right? You’ve got to make it seem authentic.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s meant to be revealed live!’

  ‘It’s got to seem like it’s revealed live. Max was going on about it earlier. Something to do with being related to King Louis the Sixteenth …’

  I exhale sharply and pace up to the windows and back again. ‘Oh, God. This is a nightmare. I’m living in an actual fucking nightmare.’

  Max blasts through the double swing doors.

  ‘Morning, all!’ He wipes his palms on his jeans, rocks back on his heels, and rubs his nose. He nods in my direction, but reels into a conversation with two tech hands by the fridge that contains few words but plenty of over-enunciated laughter.

  I take a half-step towards them. ‘Max,’ I hiss, trying and failing to attract his attention in a subtle manner. ‘Max!’ He whips around and s
macks his lips like he’s popping bubble gum.

  ‘Ava? Man, didn’t recognise you. You look good. What happened?’

  My neck grows hot and I now regret the urgent email I sent to lighting about using the high wattage bulbs. I pull him out of the kitchen and into a darkened corner of the studio.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Did you have an appointment this morning?’

  ‘What kind of appointment?’

  ‘With the stylist?’ I say, tugging at my space buns in an attempt to loosen them.

  ‘Didn’t have one,’ replies Max. He throws an arm across my shoulders and grins down at me as he steers us towards the studio. I jab a knuckle into his ribs and face him straight on, arms crossed over my scooped T-shirt that shows three inches more cleavage than I’m comfortable with showing.

  Max and I met on our NCTJ journalism course five years ago and became an unlikely pair; I’d save him a seat during lectures, he invited me to parties, and our friendship was uncomplicated by sex, which is how he burned his bridges with the rest of our cohort. We ended up at Snooper within six months of each other and he delivers peanut and prawn dumplings to my desk if I’m on a tight deadline, so there’s genuine friendship there beneath the bravado.

  ‘Duncan literally told me I wasn’t allowed to appear on camera if I refused to go.’

  ‘Call it natural beauty,’ says Max, posing with his fist propped beneath his chin. He does look annoyingly cool, if dishevelled.

  ‘You excited?’ he asks, glancing around at the technicians taping cables to the floor.

  ‘No. I’m … annoyed at you.’

  Max places a hand on his chest and pretends to look affronted. ‘Me? No.’

  ‘Please – for the love of all that is holy – can we go over the script.’

  ‘Sorry, looks like we’re about to start,’ says Max with a wink.

  Lowanna, the floor manager, pulls aside her headphones and runs a finger down her clipboard. ‘Can we get you in position? Max? Ava? We need to set up the shot.’

  I sit down on set and clutch my forehead, squinting. The lights are so bright that everyone’s silhouette is stamped on the back of my eyelids. My head throbs. I never thought I’d relate to Harry Potter so strongly, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say Voldemort was close by.