Wedding Night

know I’ve always meant to do it. I mean, what am I waiting for? I could apply to Birkbeck, do it in my spare time.… What do you think?”

2

FLISS
    Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.
    Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.
    “Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”
    She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.
    “Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”
    There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must
not
express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.
    There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus,Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”
    Then there was the time Jamie dumped her and I made the mistake of saying, “Oh God, Lottie, poor you.”
    She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a
feminist
.” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.
    So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for
ages
, and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)
    At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.
    “So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.
    “Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in
EastEnders
.
    “Yeah, we split up.”
    “I see.”
    “Wasn’t right.”
    “Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”
    “Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”
    “Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you …”
    What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal?
is what I want to demand.
    I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.
    And now not only are they not engaged but they’re
over
? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked. I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me. (Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him
whatever
I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage. Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things—whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.
    Correction: I could. So why couldn’t
he
?
    Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?
    I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.
    The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh