23

~ Coffee grounds are full of antioxidants, potassium, phosphor and nitrogen which can boost your plants, so recycle (dry) used grounds in the soil.

C leo asked to be dropped off at the Travelodge on the outskirts of town, where Elliot had already left an overnight bag for her.

Of course he had. He was a logistics specialist. He texted me to let me know the detailed arrangements he'd made for the boys, the time he'd taken off work to be there for them. Was there anything he could do for Cleo? Or us? We only had to say.

‘I need some time on my own to get my head around this,' she said, and we didn't argue.

Dad drove me home. I didn't take up their kind offer of a night in my old bedroom because I needed to be on my own too, and I sensed they did. I'd never been so glad to get back to my temporary flat, where everything was bland and new, and exactly what I thought it was.

I turned off my phone, watered the plants and opened a bottle of wine, then spent the next six hours flipping through makeover programmes while my brain whirred away in the background, trying to process this new information while I thought about absolutely nothing.

On Sunday night Cleo sent a message on the family WhatsApp to let us know that she was going away for a few days to think, and attached a list of arrangements for us to implement.

Elliot was to carry on looking after the boys, with Mum and Dad to cover certain meals and clubs. I was to be on standby, whatever that meant.

I don't know whether she intended to, but Cleo also attached the memo outlining the temporary cover for the Taylor Maid offices. I read with interest that Jim was now acting manager, and would organise cover for himself accordingly. The email she sent him – which put her sudden absence down to ‘unexpected family matters' – was a lot more charming and apologetic than the one she sent us.

Mum texted me to ask if she could come over on Monday night for a chat ‘to answer any questions I might have' and it broke my heart a bit that she felt she had to ask. I wasn't sure what more she could tell me, and the questions I had weren't ones she could answer. I expected that she'd come round, we'd cry, then she'd clean my kitchen, but she wanted to talk talk.

I hadn't thought there could be any more surprises, but it seemed Mum was doing a major spring clean of her conscience.

‘I had post-natal depression when you were little,' she confessed. ‘I couldn't deal with the unfairness of how Cleo had come into the world, compared with your start in life. I wanted my mum, I wanted my sister, but in order to keep your childhoods the same, I had to pretend Kirsty didn't exist. I couldn't ever talk about her, I couldn't ever tell you how wonderful she was, how much I loved her. She only existed in my head from that moment on.'

‘But you could have, if you'd just told us,' I pointed out. ‘Dad said never to mention Kirsty because it would upset you too much.'

Mum looked tormented. ‘But then I'd have had to tell you about your grandfather, and how Cleo was born, Kirsty's secrets. You know what kids are like – why, why, why? I had no answers! Keeping this inside me was a sacrifice I could make, for her sake as well as yours. I thought I was protecting you.'

‘You gave up a lot for her. For us.' I grabbed her hand, trying to fit this sad woman in a cardigan with the blonde man-eater in the photograph on the cafe table. ‘Did you never want to go back to art school? Finish your course once we were older?'

Mum shook her head. ‘I couldn't be that person again. I blamed myself for going so far away – if I hadn't been so determined to escape from Dad I'd maybe have realised …'

‘You can't think like that,' I interrupted her. ‘Maybe Kirsty didn't even realise herself.'

She shrugged. ‘That's been the hardest part, accepting there are things I'll never know.'

‘I can imagine.' I squeezed her hand. ‘I'm sorry, Mum.'

‘I know you're angry that I didn't tell you sooner,' she said. ‘But …'

‘Don't. I'm not angry. How can I be angry?'

We sat for a moment, then she said, unexpectedly, ‘You know what did annoy me?'

‘No?'

‘When everyone was so surprised that you had creative abilities.' Mum frowned. ‘I had to say, oh yes, so creative, don't know where she gets it from, blah blah blah.'

I regarded her curiously.

‘I got an art scholarship,' she added. ‘I could have been a classically trained portrait painter.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Whereas the acting performance you kept up for the last thirty-seven years was just what? Another string to your bow?'

Mum was a better actress than I'd ever been, I thought.

‘It's not too late,' I said. ‘Enrol in a course here. There are loads at the art college. Finish your degree. Do a different one.'

She sighed. ‘I don't know. It feels pointless somehow.'

‘Do you want to help me clean my bathroom?' I asked, solicitously.

Mum pressed her lips together. ‘Not really,' she said. ‘But why don't we paint your bedroom a more interesting colour?'

Elliot gladly accepted my offer of help with teatimes and homework, and whereas the old me would have started making pre-emptive sickie noises to cover the school pickups, I came clean with Anna from the start.

‘My sister's had some life-changing news this week,' I told her, ‘so I might need to take couple of days' holiday this week to do some emergency childcare. I'm sorry, I know I haven't been here long enough to accrue holiday, but I'll make up the time however you need me to. I can do weekend viewings, if you want?'

Anna didn't even let me finish. ‘Don't worry about it, these things happen. If you can work from home that would be great, but do what you have to do.' She raised her eyebrow. ‘That sales pitch for your St Anselm's apartment worked a treat. You know we've already got ten viewings booked in now? Three cash buyers. I reckon we'll have a deal in place by the end of the week.'

‘Good news,' I said.

Anna didn't seem too thrilled for someone about to make a quick sale. ‘Just don't demonstrate the shower for them, eh?'

‘No,' I said. And that was something else that was giving me sleepless nights.

For the last few nights, my first thought on walking through the door of my flat was, ‘It's good to be home.' Home . I never thought I'd feel that about something that was only ever meant to be for a few weeks.

It wasn't the biggest flat or the most elegant, but it smelled of clean tiles, not mould, and now Mum had painted a few walls a soft thistledown beige, it was cosier too. The plants were flourishing on a hanging rail Dad had put up for me in the bathroom, and the kitchen was big enough for the minimal cooking I attempted.

Plus it was cheap, which was important to me now, even though I had a job. Money still kept me awake at night. If Mitch couldn't release my investment, I needed to save up some cash to put my year-out plan into action, so it made sense to save as much as I could on rent. This flat was a short bus ride from my office, and close to every delight Longhampton had to offer.

In short, I started to question whether committing to buy one of the Lark Manor apartments was the best idea after all. Especially now I knew Anna wouldn't touch them with a barge pole.

Mitch called me during the week but I hadn't been able to pick up; the first time I was driving Alfie and Orson to football and didn't need them listening in on my private conversation, and the second time I was at work, going through some paperwork with a client. Paperwork, in my new regime, didn't enter a drawer or file until it was complete. A tactic that so far seemed to be keeping my admin under control.

When I got a quiet moment to return Mitch's call, I found myself hesitating. What would I tell him had been going on at home? It was impossible to condense into a chatty conversation and I wasn't even sure I wanted to discuss it with anyone outside the family yet. I hadn't minded confessing my work disasters to Mitch, but this was different. I didn't know how he'd react, or how I'd react if his reaction wasn't the one I hoped for.

So I texted him to say I was in the middle of a family crisis, apologised for being hard to get hold of and promised I'd explain everything in a couple of days.

He sent a sweet, if short, reply, saying how sorry he was to hear that, to call him if I needed cheering up, and the following day a bunch of roses arrived in the office.

I didn't tell Anna who'd sent them, and dropped them off at Mum's on my way home.

My clean Taylor Maid overalls had been sitting on top of the laundry basket for a few days, long enough to risk them being reabsorbed into the washing cycle. So I used the excuse of taking them back at Taylor Maid HQ to see how the business was running in Cleo's absence.

By which I mean, I wanted to see whether Jim had dared to implement any structural changes while Cleo was away.

I climbed up the stairs to the office and found Jim sitting at her desk, talking to someone on the phone while making notes, his white shirt sleeves rolled precisely up to the elbow and his dark grey jacket slung over the back of the chair. It was a halfway house between his overalls and his relaxed off-duty wear. I wondered if that was the suit he'd worn in his previous executive life, when he was stressed and angry.

This Jim didn't look angry now, or stressed. He looked almost relaxed, as if he was operating in his comfort zone. Like one of the more erudite sports pundits on the BBC. No tie, top button of his shirt undone. Just the top one, though.

He glanced up as I came in and smiled, gesturing for me to take a seat while he finished the call. I gathered it was his new cleaning partner, Gracie. She was having trouble opening a key safe.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?' he asked, when he'd finished guiding her through some basic code-breaking, the very model of patience. ‘Are you here on estate-agency business or are you looking for some extra hours? We can always find work for well-trained housekeepers.'

‘Trained by you, you mean?' I said, handing over the bag. ‘Neither – I'm here to return my overalls. I've washed and ironed them, before you ask.'

‘Ah, they're an audition piece. Look at those creases!'

‘I did them inside out, to avoid scorching the printing.'

‘Fabric conditioner?'

‘Of course.'

We were skirting around the elephant in the room, and predictably it was Jim who grabbed it by the trunk.

‘I'm sorry to hear Cleo's taking some time off,' he said. ‘I won't ask why, but you know that if there's anything I can do, you only have to ask?' He gazed at me; I detected genuine concern. I understand personal crises, Jim was saying, wordlessly.

‘I know. It's …' I felt Jim deserved to know more than the office round robin, but I didn't know how to phrase it. ‘It's a family thing. But thank you. Knowing her business is in safe hands is a weight off her mind right now. I'm not being sarky. It really will be.'

‘Good.' He pressed his lips together in a ‘that's good' smile. Not a happy gesture, more an acknowledgement.

‘Can I get you a coffee, now you're here? You can tell me how the new job's going.' He gestured to the machine. I didn't particularly want a coffee but it was nice that Jim obviously saw it as an excuse for a chat.

‘It's funny how different houses look now I'm seeing them from a cleaner's perspective. I was doing a viewing this week and the clients were raving about the feature bath which was located in the worst place in the bathroom. All I could hear was your voice telling me what a pain in the arse it would be to clean behind it, no room for a mop, terrible for the grouting, etcetera. And then same house, stainless-steel surfaces everywhere. They have small kids.' I pulled a face. ‘And you know what that means.'

‘Fingerprints?' Jim looked up from his milk frothing. He'd mastered the microfoam already, of course.

‘And the rest. It'll be like Coleridge Terrace in no time.'

‘Such a shame,' said Jim. ‘Still, I'm glad I'm bedded into your subconscious. Did my voice in your head really say pain in the arse?'

‘No, it said annoying.'

He looked relieved.

‘And how about you?' I swivelled from side to side in Cleo's chair. ‘Is this a permanent move for you? Back into management?'

He laughed. ‘No, but it's, ah … It's rather nice being back in a suit. Just relieved it still fits. I've actually had a couple of interviews myself this week.'

‘I hope you've told Cleo. Have you been headhunted by a better housekeeping agency?'

‘No, by management consultants.' He handed me a textbook cappuccino. Someone – Jim probably – had acquired a foam stencil with the Taylor Maid logo on it. ‘A couple of people I used to work with are setting up a consultancy and they want me to be part of it.'

‘Great!' I sipped my cappuccino. The microfoam was perfect, thick and smooth. ‘Whereabouts?'

‘Singapore.'

‘Singapore?' I spluttered on my coffee, swallowing it the wrong way.

Jim's back was to me as he made his own coffee, and he didn't see my reaction. ‘Yes, I worked there for a while a few years ago. Fantastic place, incredible restaurants.'

I struggled to wipe the chocolate powder off my face before he turned round. I wasn't expecting Singapore. I thought he'd say Slough. I realised I'd hoped he'd say Birmingham. Or nearer.

‘So no more cleaning?'

Jim returned, stirring sugar into his cup. ‘No more cleaning, as of next month. That was more of a …' He hunted for the diplomatic word. ‘Practical therapy. I needed to do something simple, something structured but undemanding, so I could focus on myself. Ask myself some hard questions.' He paused, rolling his eyes at his own easy slip back into management speak. ‘And, if I'm being brutally honest, to begin with, anyway, I was looking for a hair shirt. The weird thing was that I ended up enjoying it.' Jim shrugged.

Why wasn't I surprised by that?

‘And I thought you were a natural. Or at least a career cleaner.'

‘Nope, never so much as scrubbed a toilet a year ago,' he admitted. ‘But if you're going to do something, do it to the best of your ability, that's always been my attitude. It was a challenge, working out the best techniques, developing productivity strategies.'

‘You are insufferable,' I said.

‘Thank you!' Jim put his coffee down. ‘Actually, the one thing I hadn't appreciated about cleaning was the human impact. You were the one who taught me that.'

‘I taught you nothing .'

‘You did. You made me notice the houses with roses or wisteria outside, because you always stopped to smell it before we went in. I know I said you were time-wasting, but … it's not a waste of time to smell roses. You moved things round at Terry's to make it easier for him. And I miss the debriefs in the van afterwards, when you pointed out the details I didn't see. Like the mysterious snowshoes at the Corrigans. Or the 2020 calendar at Tara Hunter's.'

Our eyes met.

I didn't miss cleaning. I did miss Jim.

‘I'm sorry if I overdid the work versus home boundaries at times,' he went on. ‘I was trying too hard not to make old mistakes. I shouldn't have.'

‘It's OK. Well, we should have a drink before you go,' I suggested. ‘I think I still owe you one from The Ram, the other night? We never finished our round.'

He started to smile, then said, ‘Oh, yes. Was that your boyfriend you bumped into? The bloke at the bar?'

‘Um, yes, well, no, he's …' I fumbled for the right words but was saved by loud honking from outside.

Jim nodded towards the door. ‘Would you mind holding the fort for a second? One of the cleaning teams needs to drop off a broken carpet cleaner and pick up another one – I said I'd action a drive-by.'

‘No problem,' I said. ‘Must have been a big job.'

He looked askance. ‘The worst. I'll tell you when I get back.'

Obviously I waited until Jim's footsteps had clattered down the front steps before going through Cleo's desk drawers. They were disappointing. Little trays of clips and pins, a bag of the expensive chocolate mints for leaving on pillows, nothing interesting.

I helped myself to a couple of mints and scrolled through the tabs Jim had open on the browser. One was the listing for Nikki Nardini's holiday cottage. Curious to see how the photos of us had come out, I clicked on it, and there we were: me and Jim, pretending to have a romantic game of Trivial Pursuit. And there again, by the log burner, me leaning on the sofa, him looking up at me from an expensive Scandi-chic chair, his head resting on one hand.

Wow, I thought. How relaxed we looked in each other's company, as if we were a proper couple. What were we laughing about there? Was that when we were playing the questions game? Despite his acute self-consciousness, Jim was surprisingly photogenic; those strong cheekbones came out well on camera, I thought. And I don't think I'd ever noticed how well-proportioned he was.

There we were again, this time in the kitchen. I was pretending to make a cappuccino without revealing the milk-less cup, and Jim was leaning against the counter, chatting. We weren't that close, but the way we were smiling at each other, you'd believe we really were honeymooning in the cottage, not two cleaners posing while a photographer shouted, ‘Don't do that thing with your hands!' at intervals.

I clicked through the shots of the bathrooms, an arty close-up of a brass tap, an orchard view, an en suite toilet, until I was confronted by Jim and me in bathrobes, and an unexpected warm sensation bloomed in my chest, like a flower opening its petals. Wow. Jim – who didn't resemble the Jim who'd instructed me in the art of streak-free hobs – leaning over the bed as if he was about to kiss me. I zoomed in on his eyes. He had gorgeous eyes. I definitely hadn't noticed him looking like that at the time. Paige had caught me at an unusually flattering angle too; I was positively glowing as Jim placed the tea tray on the bed next to me.

The way I was gazing up at him, you'd almost think …

‘Robyn, you're not going to believe what I've just found in this carpet cleaner …?'

I closed the window hastily – too hastily – and swung away from the computer.

There was Jim in real life. Fortunately he was in office mode, and therefore exuding nothing more seductive than Febreze. He was also holding up the lower half of a set of false teeth. Or half a jaw. Hard to tell.

‘Wow.'

‘So, about that drink …' I said at the same time as he said, ‘Anyway, I hope Cleo's feeling more …'

We both stopped, suddenly awkward, then the phone rang.

‘You should probably get that,' I said.

‘Yes. Absolutely.' Jim's hand was on the receiver; he hadn't lifted it. ‘Thanks for dropping off your overalls.'

‘My pleasure.' Phone still ringing. I made a ‘call me' gesture. ‘Give me a …'

‘Sure.' Jim's eyes were locked with mine, a half-smile on his lips, as if he didn't particularly want this conversation to end either. ‘Let me know about any flats needing cleaners. Nothing with badly fitted showers, ha ha!'

‘You'd better get that,' I said, then added, ‘Might be Cleo?'

We both stopped smiling.

‘Yes, quite. Um, OK.' Jim lifted the phone and said, ‘Taylor Maid, this is Jim,' but he was watching me as I left, his gaze following me out of the door as if he wished we were still chatting.

I made the ‘call me!' sign again, felt stupid, grinned, felt more stupid, then left.

Cleo texted on Thursday morning to invite me for a coffee in the park. And ‘a chat', obviously.

I hated scheduled ‘chats' at the best of times. It made me worry that she'd have an itemised agenda to work through. I spent the morning running through the things I wanted to say, searching adoption websites and groups to make sure that none of them were insensitive or could cause upset, trying to find resources and guidance until, in the end, I gave up. It was Cleo . I'd known her my whole life. All I could be was honest.

She'd suggested meeting on the bandstand, and that filled me with mixed feelings. The bandstand was one of our teenage haunts, along with everyone else who grew up in Longhampton. It was the backdrop for snogging, breaking-up, pre-drinking, inept smoking, and a hundred other adolescent rites of passage.

Cleo was waiting there with two coffees and two cinnamon buns from the coffee stand by the park gates.

‘I came prepared,' I said, offering her one of the two coffees and two cinnamon buns I'd brought.

‘Mine are better,' she said. ‘They're organic.'

I let her get away with that. My cinnamon buns were actually better on account of being free: Hoffi Coffi were so pleased to see me and my caffeine dependency back in town they'd upgraded me to a Gold VIP card.

‘Just so you know,' said Cleo, peeling the lid off her coffee to add more sugar, ‘you're third on my list, so please don't be offended if we keep this to the basics. I've already explained how I feel to Mum, and then Dad separately. I've still got to talk to Elliot, then Alfie today, and Orson, then Wes.'

‘It's a lot.' I was flattered to have come in third on her list.

‘It is.' Cleo sighed. ‘I'm starting to understand how you must have felt, delivering the same lines over and over again. I can see now why you sounded so robotic all the time.'

‘Thanks,' I said.

We sipped our coffees and I waited for her to start.

‘I'm basically just glad it's finally out in the open,' she began, ‘My whole life, I've felt as if people were lying to me. I thought it was because I was just a suspicious kind of person – which is not a nice thing to think about yourself, by the way – but I found it so hard to trust anyone. I was always second-guessing, triple-guessing. And now …' She let out a breath. ‘I mean, I wasn't wrong, was I? Everyone was lying to me. About who I was. Even if they didn't know they were doing it.'

‘I'm sorry if I was part of that,' I said.

‘I don't blame you for any of this, Robyn. It's turned your childhood on its head too.' She turned to me. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘I don't know. I don't know whether I have a right to feel different, it doesn't affect me the same way. You're still my big sister. I'm only heartbroken that you might feel … further away from me.' I struggled to articulate the feelings that drifted around inside me like clouds, some dark, some rainy. ‘Are you going to try to find out …?' Dad's face rose up in my mind. It was hard to form the words. ‘Who your real father is?'

Cleo let out a long breath. ‘I've thought about that a lot. Getting a DNA test. I keep going round in circles. Probably not. I have a father. But then I think maybe I have a responsibility to the boys to find their real grandfather. Or is it my responsibility to shield them from him? I don't know.' She shook her head. ‘It's like being trapped on a rollercoaster. Just when I think I can get off, because I've worked out how I feel, it sets off again. I wake up crying because I'll never see my real mother's face, then I think, well, Mum is my mother, then I get angry, then I'm swamped with regret that I've lived nearly half my life thinking I'm someone I'm not …' Her voice trailed away.

‘I don't think it's something you can resolve overnight.'

‘No. It's just weird, not being who I thought I was. But then … How am I different, really?'

I thought about telling Cleo about my new ADHD diagnosis, and the fact that I too had spent half my life thinking I was stupid and chaotic when that might not be the whole story, but I decided that could wait for another day. I'd stopped being angry at Mum for not noticing. She clearly had a lot on her mind.

‘You know who's been amazing through this?' said Cleo.

‘Who?'

Go on , I thought, say ‘You, Robyn' .

‘Elliot.' Cleo's expression softened. ‘I know, I know. Elliot's had to deal with my insecurity, my anxiety … I know I've been hard to live with at times. He's been hard to live with too, though,' she added quickly. ‘We've come second best to his job for years, expecting me to deal with the kids, the house, the laundry, everything, just because I was working from home. But he's taken time off this week to be with me if I need him. He listened, Robyn. He really listened to me.'

Privately, I thought it would help if she could listen to him too, but I didn't want to spoil the delicate balance of the mood.

‘So you're talking? You think you might give it another go?'

‘Maybe. Elliot wants us to have a serious talk once I'm in the right place to think about the future. Which is sensitive, isn't it, not putting too much on me now?'

‘It is,' I agreed.

‘He knows me.' Cleo leaned on the railings and gazed out at the park, where a teenage couple were snogging on a bench, much to the disgust of the pigeons. ‘He's known me since I was eleven. That counts for a lot. Especially now.'

I nodded.

‘Anyway, I'm bored of talking about me.' She tore a strip off her bun. ‘What's happening with you? What happened to your plans to buy a fancy new flat with your Hollywood nest egg?'

I sank my forearms onto the railings next to her. Doubt had got stuck in my head like a fly trapped against a window, buzzing away since Anna Hastings dismissed Mitch as someone she wasn't keen to do business with. Maybe Cleo would have better stories to put my mind at rest.

‘I'd appreciate some advice on that, actually.'

‘Go on. I wouldn't mind talking about something else.'

So I told her about the investment, what a genius solution it had seemed at the time, but also how I'd realised I needed to stop and have a life audit, so committing every penny of that money, plus more to furnish an expensive apartment, suddenly didn't seem such a great idea.

I didn't tell her about me and Mitch. I couldn't face two lots of advice at once.

Cleo listened, thoughtfully, then said, ‘You've got a written contract, haven't you?' as if I might have impulsively handed Mitch a big bag of cash.

‘Yes.'

‘And what does that say about cooling-off periods? Or returns? When did you sign it?'

I had to confess that despite reading the contract several times now, I didn't have confident answers to either of those questions. I'd even had to put some phrases into Google to see if they made sense. And yes, I had signed it without giving it to a solicitor to check over. Because Mitch was helping me out, not trying to rip me off.

Cleo stared at me in horror, then said, ‘OK. Right. You need to write to the company, stating clearly that while you're happy to leave your money in the project as an investment with the agreed return, you no longer want to treat it as a down payment on the apartment.'

‘I can do that?'

‘I don't see why not. I can ask my solicitor to go through the contract with you if you want?'

‘Would you?' I felt a surge of relief. ‘I've tried to talk to him about it, but a letter puts things on a better legal footing, doesn't it?'

‘Him? So you have discussed it with someone?'

I went red.

Cleo interpreted my discomfort with her usual accuracy. ‘You're not …? Oh god, you are. Is it that property developer Mum said you were seeing? Oh, Robyn.'

I pushed myself away from the railings. ‘I know. I know! But I think he'll be all right about it. He's a good guy, you'd like him.'

‘Hmm,' said Cleo. ‘Send me the contract.'

We finished our coffees and watched the dog walkers circling the pathways, and the teenagers slouching in packs from one end to the other, clumps of boys, then girls following giggling behind. Then back the other way, but reversed.

‘Time's a bastard, isn't it?' said Cleo. ‘One minute you're you, getting on with your life, then one day you look in the mirror and you've become someone completely different. And my teenage self probably wouldn't even recognise me now. Or she'd be horrified, probably.'

‘That's the whole point of siblings,' I said. ‘It doesn't matter to me who you think you are, you're still my big sister. That's never going to change, I'm afraid. We're stuck with each other.'

She turned, and her expression was intense, the same sharply defined, confident attitude that I'd known all my life. I knew those eyes under bowl-cut fringes as a child, ringed with Rimmel kohl as a teen, behind her sunglasses as an adult. Always Cleo. ‘And you're still my little sis.'

I held out my arms and we hugged in the bandstand, breathing in the familiarity of each other, her expensive Jo Malone Roses, my whatever-I-walked-past-in-Boots, her gym-toned shoulders, my messy hair.

We hugged, then bounced up and down very slightly, still hugging, the way she used to pretend she was going to lift me up when I was little but never did. Just like it had always been. And probably always would be.