Letters From My Sister by Alice Peterson

a bag of organic carrots. Cheese, bacon, mushrooms and a pot of olives stuffed with garlic are in the middle.
    ‘I wouldn’t hang around if you had a bunch of girls here having a Botox party.’
    ‘I don’t do Botox.’
    ‘You know what I mean. Christ, you’re pedantic sometimes,’ he says, rubbing his nose.
    ‘Sam, Bells and I will stay in our bedroom until the coast is clear,’ I tell him. ‘We just need to make … oh, shit, what does she cook on a Tuesday?’
    ‘What do you mean? Get a takeaway. The boys will be here soon.’
    ‘I’ll microwave a potato.’
    ‘I don’t believe this!’ He watches me slit the potatoes across the top, waiting for me to change my mind.
    ‘Stop rubbing your nose so hard, Sam. You know what happened last time, it went raw at the end.’
    He stops. ‘You’re ruining my boys’ night.’
    I set the timer on the microwave. ‘You sound like a spoilt brat. It’s one night. I won’t make any noise. You won’t even know Bells and I are here.’ He still looks furious. ‘Is this really about her? If it were just me, would you mind?’
    Sam ignores me. ‘Fine. If you have to bloody well be here, can you go upstairs?’
    ‘No! Sam, as scintillating as it might be listening to you boys, I promise I won’t eavesdrop.’
    He makes a disgruntled noise. ‘You promise?’
    ‘Promise.’
    *
    Bells sits on the edge of our double bed eating her baked potato. She was cross with Sam because he wouldn’t let her cook. ‘There’s no time,’ he shouted at her, and then at me. Bells was opening the fridge and cupboard doors and he was hovering behind her, slamming them shut the moment she moved away. I explained why she couldn’t cook her vegetarian risotto with olives and pine nuts. ‘Always cook in Wales,’ she protested.
    I watch her as she eats. She doesn’t look impressed by the soggy-skinned potato. ‘Try not to get anything on the duvet,’ I whisper to her.
    ‘Sam kill me if I make a mess,’ she says.
    ‘Shh! Yes, he will. Bells, you can sit more on the bed if you like.’
    She slides a bit closer to me but still doesn’t look relaxed. ‘Do you want a magazine? Look, I bought a
Tatler
.’ I hold it up towards her.
    Bells shows no interest.
    ‘Or how about doing the crossword? Or we can watch the tennis with the volume off? Better that way anyway, you can’t hear the players grunting.’ Bells stares absently at the walls. She looks so bored. Mum and Dad told me, before they left, that she did get easily fed up when she was staying with them and often wanted to go back to Wales.
    ‘I know it’s not much fun,’ I say, hearing a loud knock on the front door.
    Bells puts her food on the floor. ‘We’ve got to be really quiet now,’ I remind her.
    Any trace of excitement on her face evaporates into boredom again. ‘Why? Bossy Katie. You like traffic warden. Where’s Sam?’
    ‘Sam’s here, it’s his boys’ night.’ I’m still smiling at that image of me in uniform with a navy hat on.
    ‘Who’s at door?’
    Oh God, I think to myself. Perhaps it was a bad idea staying in.
    ‘Davey mate,’ I hear Sam bellow, followed by a few slaps on a manly shoulder.
    ‘Who Davey?’
    ‘Bells, whisper. Davey works in the City with Sam.’
    ‘Lakemore,’ Davey returns in a ringing tone. ‘Am I the first here?’
    ‘Yep, you are
numero uno
. No one else here,’ he emphasizes loudly. ‘Come on in. Looking sharp, mate.’
    I flick my pen between my fingers. I can imagine him winking at Davey now. Sam often follows a compliment with a wink.
    ‘New Paul Smith shoes. They’re the business, aren’t they?’ Davey says.
    ‘Very nice.’
    ‘Like your shirt, mate. Your missus pick it out for you?’
    ‘No, saw it down the Fulham Road. Nice, isn’t it? Look the part, feel the part …’
    ‘. . . and you ARE the part,’ they both finish together. ‘Sit down, David, pour yourself a whisky.’
    ‘Cheers.’
    There’s another knock on the door.
    ‘Crispin, me old