‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to.’
I inhaled deeply through my nose and refreshed my smile.
‘You won’t feel the benefit when we leave!’
Cerys lifted her chin, her features impassive and inscrutable.
‘I’m not planning to be here that long.’
‘Two gin and tonics, coming right up,’ I said, clapping my hands together and heading over to the bar.
Very few things in life were one hundred per cent guaranteed to bring me joy no matter what the circumstances. A hot bath full of bubbles, that video of Tom Holland dancing to Rihanna, correcting people who don’t realize Taylor Swift writes her own songs were reliable examples of solid serotonin boosters, but there were few things inlife as wonderful as ordering a gin and tonic in a cosy country pub. The pub hadn’t changed much from when we were teenagers, me and Manny and Dev sitting at the wooden tables outside, taking it in turns to attempt to get served. My memories were a patchwork of freshly faked student IDs, too many vodka lime and sodas, and asking Manny to put Katy Perry on the jukebox then running over to change it to something cooler whenever a boy from the Upper Sixth walked in. My liver turned as I rested my elbows on the polished brass rail, a Pavlovian response to the sight of a bottle of cinnamon Aftershock behind the bar.
‘What’ll it be?’ asked the charmingly gruff bartender.
‘Two gin and tonics, please,’ I said, smiling politely.
‘Any preference on the gin?’
‘Hendrick’s?’ I replied, wondering if I should have asked Cerys what kind of gin she wanted.
I paid for the drinks, optimistically leaving my tab open, and carried them back to our table. It was starting to fill up a bit, happy people slotting into their usual spots, laughing, joking and generally looking full of festive spirit.
And then there was Cerys.
‘OK, out with it, what do you want?’ She took a sip of her drink and stuck out her tongue. ‘What’s in this, hairspray? It’s rancid.’
IknewI should have asked Cerys what kind of gin she wanted.
‘Hendrick’s,’ I replied. If this tasted like hairspray, I’d wasted an awful lot of money on gin over the years when I could have been chugging cans of Elnett for the last decade. ‘I don’t want anything. I thought it would be nice for us to get out of the house for a bit, that’s all.’
She wound the end of her ponytail around her finger, her shoulders hunched in on themselves as she valiantly forced her drink down. Her hair, which she had pulled up in a casual-chic chignon for lunch, had been hastily restyled when Arthur decided he needed to remove all the carefully positioned hair grips while we were eating and Cerys decided not to fight him on it. Now her thick black hair was yanked up and back into a ponytail so tight, just looking at it gave me a headache, with several unruly wisps frizzing up around her temples from our cold weather walk.
We didn’t look alike, not really, but there were whispers of each other in our faces if you knew where to look. I had Dad’s round eyes and Cerys had Mum’s almond shape, but both pairs were inclined to narrow with suspicion as a default setting. Her lips were full with a perfect cupid’s bow and spent a lot of time pursed together, while my smile was broad and easy but, according to all the Instagram ads I ignored daily, could use a shot or two of filler. Only our noses were identical, inherited directly from Nan. Small and narrow and a nightmare come hay fever season. I’d always felt mine was too petite for my heart-shaped face but on Cerys, it was perfect, balancing out her natural femme fatale features. In another life, she would have been a movie star, wandering into a private detective’s office, wearing a big hat and begging Humphrey Bogart to find out what happened to her missing eighty-year-old millionaire husband. I’d be the secretary with one line of dialogue, secretly in love with Bogey and sat outside his office for the entire picture typing up nonsense.
‘Why are you staring at me? Cerys asked, raising a reflexive hand up to her face. ‘Are you trying to make me feel weird?’
‘Why would I be trying to make you feel weird?’ I combed my own unruly hair behind my ears, checking my wrist for an elastic band before remembering I’d used it to give Pari a ponytail before sending her home with Dev. ‘Is it really that impossible for you to believe I just want to spend some time with you?’
She slammed her glass down on the table.
‘Oh my God, you’re pregnant and you want me to tell Mum and Dad.’
‘Cerys, it would be a literal miracle,’ I scoffed. ‘Do you really think they’d choose me to bring the second coming of Christ into the world? The closest I’ve come to a spiritual experience is the second series ofFleabag.’
‘Are you dying?’ she asked with an ugly squint. ‘Are you very ill?’
‘I’m not ill, I’m not dying and the only immaculate conception I know anything about is Madonna’s greatest hits album,’ I assured her. ‘All I wanted was to get out of the house and catch up with my sister. I want to hear about you, what’s new with Cerys?’
She wrapped her hands around the glass and took a long, considered gulp.
‘You’re lying.’
I should have known she wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘How’s work?’ I asked, tipping half of my G&T into her empty glass. Unlike me, Cerys had inherited Mum’s ability to put away the booze and since she refused to be convinced of my semi-altruistic motives, I figured mybest line of attack was to simply get her drunk and get her talking.