‘Sit up straight, for Christ’s sake, Ursula.’
‘Don’t be such a motherfusser.’
‘I beg your pardon, young lady?’
‘I was just saying, pity there’s no music for us.’
I had always admired Dad’s way of lightening the mood at difficult family occasions. At fraught moments, he would simply get up and start playing the piano. Although Mother never welcomed his playing. I still remember the derision she set aside for his Clair de Lune. We all smiled and wept at its memory at the funeral. Afterwards, I overheard Mother mention something to Mirabelle about how ‘haunting’ she found it. At least that’s what I thought she said, and I clung to that half-heard moment for many years.
The walnut dining table shone with the reflections of our faces drawn out into long distortions. There was a glitter of dark expectation among the silverware, china and vast array of glasses. The wine glowed liquorice dark through the sharp-cut crystal as if it was stained glass. As we drank, our lips were soon marked purple black and the usual sense of trouble was beginning to percolate slowly. It pervaded every book club get-together so it didn’t seem strange this time but the warning signs were all there. I’m constantly vigilant with family and friends. The slightest change or nuance could be important — or perhaps even vital. It could even be a life saver.
Our brains were rattled again by the Hammer Horror doorbell. Old Angel — he wasn’t that old, middle-aged perhaps, but Old Angel sounds better — began his slow journey to the door. Maybe it was his gliding phantom-like way of walking, his hunched silence or deathly pallor that created an impression of Old Angel.
His announcement of the arrival of ‘Miss Cowdale’ was greeted with a fairly toxic blend of disappointment and hatred. Obviously, Mother thought she was marvellous, but Aunt Charlotte and Mirabelle acted as if he’d just announced an hour-long session of colonic, or precious me time as Mother knows it. Bridget just continued to feed her dog little bits of food, saying quietly, ‘One for Mr Bojangles. One for Mummy.’
‘So Less made it,’ I said, adopting a casual, almost off-hand tone.
Mother shot The Look. ‘I’ve told you before, less of that, thank you, Madam.’
‘Less of Less, do you mean, Mother?’ I smiled, but it was never a real smile when Less was involved.
Less was Joy Cowdale. She had a face like a scrunched-up paper bag and a mind just as empty. From a very young age, I remember her leeching on our Christmases, birthdays, everydays. She was always clinging to Mother with her fake brand of alternative lifestyle and stylish sly doublespeak. ‘Life’s a journey, so be prepared to walk many different terrains.’ It was so vacuous it almost seemed harmless.
Yet beneath it all was a singular lack of enthusiasm to celebrate life or, more specifically, anyone else’s life. She just had the naked ambition to have the life she wanted and at any cost. She did not enjoy the pleasure or achievements of others. If the spotlight was not on her, she turned it there. Somehow her shadow fell long across our lives.
I began by calling her Joyless, which, of course, with time lost its Joy and became simply Less. Every time I said it, her look was as sharp as hate and as fresh as the first time, so in some ways she did bring unexpected joy to the world — my world, at least. But then, just when I’m enjoying her frustration, the sadness always sails back in on billowing sheets of memory.
Mother’s birthday was always a sacred date to observe. Dad had taught me that much. He’d been dead for two years when Less had made her first vicious move. Even though it was just Mother and me now, and it had to fit around my school terms, we still had our family meal. In some ways, it was the only time we ever really came close to each other. I’d booked our usual place — quiet, local, none of Mother’s rapacious, vile friends. Although to be fair, Less had phoned to ask if Mother would like a party and I explained that couldn’t happen because of our little ritual, which she understood. Less was, after all, a very understanding person, what with all her chakras and meditation. She even asked if there was anything Mother wanted. I’d laughed, as Mother wanted everything. I told her I’d saved for a fancy-ish bag but beyond that, anything would do — smelly candles, scarves, make-up — she knew the score. She knew it very well.
I remember the first thing that struck me was just how many of them there were. It must have taken a Herculean effort on Less’s part to assemble so many people for Mother’s surprise birthday party and on the exact night I’d arranged for our meal together. Mother’s friends were swarming our house and all made-up so terrifyingly that they looked like villainous clowns. Their clothes were expensive renditions of pantomime costumes — flounces, frills and buttons all unexpectedly placed to invite attention and comment. ‘Soooo, what’s this? Is it new?’ Oh, of course it is! Their clothes were always new, as if they needed to change their identity every time they went out, like people in a witness protection programme.
They drank as if nothing could quench their thirst; they were loud with rasping voices and eyes intently searching for prey; they were like caricatures of human beings, an alien species mimicking people but missing the subtleties of human existence.
At the peak of their raucous noise, a small chime of a glass caught the edge of the room. Heads slowly turned and the attention Less so craved washed over her in delicious waves. I saw her through the crowd, head tilted up as if basking in the light of devotion.
‘Present time!’ She spread her mouth into the image of a smile and for a second her gaze caught mine. The malice flashed over the dark pearls of her eyes. ‘Pandora, darling birthday girl, lead on! Let’s do it in the sitting room. Come on everyone. It’s from all of us.’
Mother went first, then Less, with one last brutal smile aimed deep into me. And then everyone, the entire room, all filed past me in a single septic line, staring as they went by, until I was alone in the room holding the small gift I’d saved to buy.
They stayed in that room, laughing, for an age until finally one ventured out. ‘Oh, Joy does feel so bad not including you, darling. She just feels dreadful, but she didn’t know you’d be here and Pandora did so want that gorgeous handbag. She really will treasure it and it’s from all of us — well, almost all of us.’ She laughed before she left me alone again.
Less slid over later. ‘Now, don’t you go making me feel bad. Your mother never mentioned you were going to be around this weekend.’
I sat in the loo and stashed my present behind the toilet brush. The cleaner took it away with her after the party, but I kept my humiliation.
This is only one of the reasons Joy will always be Less to me — Less than human — and why I could cheerfully watch her die.
‘Ursula, don’t you dare be rude to Joy!’ Mother’s excited voice cut me from my reminiscing. ‘She’s been a fucking rock — a fucking rock. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Mother. A fucking rock.’
‘Joy, darling! I was just telling Ursula—’
‘That you’re a fucking . . .’ I left a nice neat pause and took a slow drink of my wine.
They waited. Less balanced herself between the hall and the dining room, not daring to move. I took another sip of wine then smiled. ‘Sorry, sorry. What was I saying? Do you know, I’ve totally lost my thread. Anyway, this wine is delicious.’ I held up my glass and looked at her through the wine, her face appearing as glossy and red as a boiled sweet. ‘Come and join us, Less. Such a pleasure to see you again. Do you know, I haven’t seen you since you took my Mother to Paris for my birthday.’