The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

with your superiors outside the office to build rapport’, but Duncan – our Editor-in-Chief – didn’t even attend his own birthday lunch, so that was off the cards. Take the Reins details a five-point-plan for success that includes ‘say yes to everything’, but that led to working late on Christmas Eve, checking for typos in a recipe for vegan pigs in blankets.

Snooper frequently gets sent PR products to review, so when Duncan handed out genealogy kits in the conference room for this week’s ‘Hot in Tech’ feature, I didn’t think much of it. That was until we each unboxed a plastic vial with instructions to fill it with saliva. The meeting was undignified, to say the least; lots of hacking, spitting, and wiping of chins. Like always, everyone in editorial had to pitch for features linked to the product, and like always, I expected my idea to turn up on someone else’s desk. When I let slip that I didn’t know who my father was, Duncan sat back and rubbed his jowls, a sign that he was listening.

The notion that I’ve been given this chance purely because there’s ambiguity over my parentage has crossed my mind, but I’m not going to jeopardise it by asking any questions. Opportunities like this are rare; like getting through a day without seeing a single Kardashian in your Twitter feed. Mum still takes pictures on a disposable camera, so there’s no chance she’ll watch the live stream, but the idea that I’m going behind her back to find answers to questions she never wanted to answer makes me a feel a bit … squirmy.

Mum plugs in a hot glue gun and taps the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. She’s always liked the idea of me being a journalist, but new media is a step down from the kind of writing she thought I’d be doing. This is largely due to her fervent mistrust of the internet. Basically, if it’s not in print, she doesn’t think it legitimately counts; although the same logic doesn’t apply to Henry, our elderly neighbour, who writes, prints, and delivers the community paper on his electric scooter.

My stomach squirms like I’ve swallowed a sandwich bag full of baby eels. For the umpteenth time, I’m within arm’s reach of asking about my dad. Mum’s in a good mood, so the risk factor is fairly low. Then again, I don’t know why it would play out differently today. It’s like the very first time I noticed that we weren’t like the families around us, the ones with 2.5 kids and a car big enough to fit camping gear in.

I was six years old in the bakery section of Sainsbury’s, which would soon become synonymous with traumatic moments I’d rather forget about. Seeing as I’d just been given the part of narrator in the school play, I wanted to show off, and picked up the nearest greeting card to do so. The words confused me, so I patted Mum’s leg.

‘Does “father” mean the same as “dad”?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, looking elsewhere.

‘Why do fathers need a day?’

‘They don’t,’ she replied. ‘Put it down.’

‘We could send it. To my dad.’

‘We can’t. You should only send cards to people you love.’

‘Why don’t you send it then? Mums and dads love each other.’

She squatted down, kissed my head, and gently peeled my fingers off the cellophane wrapper. ‘Some do, but lots of mums and dads don’t, and that’s OK too. Because I’m both, aren’t I?’

This was wildly confusing to me, but I didn’t say so.

‘So, he doesn’t have a house?’

‘No, sweet pea. He’s in the same place Grandma and Granddad are. Shed his mortal coil, so to speak.’

‘What does that mean?’

Mum pulled me to one side, away from the wheels of someone else’s trolley. ‘He’s dead, my love.’

‘Why?’

‘Jesus Christ, Ava. Sorry. Can we not talk about this now? I only came in for milk.’

I thought I was in trouble, so did what most six-year-olds would and started to cry.

‘Shit.’ She hauled me into her arms and walked us round to the bakery, where rows of birthday cakes sat covered in thick factory icing. ‘Pick one.’ Thus distracted, I forgot about the conversation and we went home with a ten-person sponge covered in candy bracelets and gummy sweets.

This routine persists; I bring him up, Mum snipes at me, drags me along for the food shop, and we come back with a disproportionately large celebration cake.

I think about it now and feel a bit sick. We’ve not done the bakery run for a few years.

Mum pours hot water into our mugs and picks up a glue gun, wielding it with the dexterity of a cowboy in a shootout. ‘How are you feeling about it, then? Being on camera.’

‘Absolutely horrible, to be honest. And excited, in a way. It feels like a really long time coming. I’ll finally be delivering the content I write, y’know? It’s just the thought of everyone watching my face.’

‘You can hardly wear a paper bag.’

I snort and a smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, despite the headache sitting heavy on my brow. Mum runs a hand through her hair, glittery dandruff falling on the table. ‘I think we’ve rehomed half of south London’s woodlice by bringing all this lot inside, don’t you?’

‘Pickles is too lazy to chase them out, so they’re essentially lodgers at this point.’

Mum snorts and squints at the calendar tacked by the door. ‘You still all right to take photographs tomorrow? For the Harvest Festival? If you’ve got something on, I can find someone else.’

‘Nah, it’s all right, I’ll be there. Did Ginger say if Rory was going?’

‘I don’t think she is, no. Apparently she’s busy doing a “Wagamama’s crawl”, whatever that is.’

‘Really? I thought that was just a distraction technique after she broke up with Myles,’ I say, sliding a silicon mat under the glue gun before a globule of molten plastic lands on the table. ‘I didn’t think she’d still be going after – what has been