‘That’s one word to describe it,’ Orla drawled. ‘He did have that mysterious edge, though. Like, I’d have been mostly surprised to hear he was a secret serial killer, or Russian spy. But nottotallysurprised.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘It was quite sexy, really.’
‘Ugh, Orla!’ Sofia gasped. ‘That’s practically your brother you’re talking about!’
‘But he’s not though, is he?’ She shook her head in dismissal. ‘A distant cousin at best.’
‘Wait – I have another question!’ Sofia said. ‘Does Paolo know?’
Bridget didn’t answer, but the look on her face as she buried it in her empty glass said it all. ‘Right. It must be time to get these face packs off. Where’s the wipes?’
‘Bridget?’ I asked, using my sternest Big Sister voice.
‘All me and Paolo are talking about is the wedding!’ she said, pretending to be exasperated. ‘I barely think about Cooper outside work, there’s so much to do.’
‘Young One, if you don’t tell him then when he finds out he’ll think you kept it from him on purpose.’
‘Which she did, so he’d be right,’ Orla said.
‘Fine, I’ll tell him!’ Bridget huffed. ‘It’s not that big a deal. Paolo and I trust each other. Now, can you please pass me the wipes and get your beaky nose back out of my business?’
‘Have you got any further with the marriage project, now your old partner in crime is there to help?’ Sofia asked Bridget, once our faces were all clean and smooth and we’d taste-tested my latest attempt at a gluten-free, sugar-free tiffin recipe (result: too claggy, way too sweet).
‘Ugh!’ Bridget thrust a cushion over her face. ‘It’s terrible. I’m going to lose my job and no credible research department will employ me ever again.’
She pulled the cushion back off. ‘Can I come and bake cakes with you, Emma?’
‘You cannot. But I’m always looking for someone to wash up and sweep the floors.’
‘Who’s the best candidate so far?’ Sofia asked, always looking for a bright side.
‘There’s a couple of older men who don’t seem completely terrible. We’ve still got male applications coming in though, so I’m less worried about that. But the women? You’d think there’d be loads of them hoping to find Mr Right. We’ve had two applicants. One of them insists on being matched to aLord of the Ringsfan. As in someone who spends his weekends dressed up as one of the characters, can speak Elvish, and preferably is called Aragorn.’
‘Okay, so far so freaky. What about the other one?’
‘She’s sixty-four years old and still lives with both her ex-husbands. And I quote, “They’ll move into the spare bedroom, we aren’t peculiar or anything.” She’s looking for a man under the age of thirty-five with medical training. She didn’t explain why and quite frankly I don’t want to know.’
I took another swig of martini. Buzzing with nervous tension and the unspoken thoughts that had been bouncing about my brain for days now, I ate another piece of claggy tiffin in an attempt to stop some of the thoughts from spilling out. Then, as the others carried on the conversation without me, I started wondering whether maybe the only way to shut the thoughts up was to face the witheringly honest scrutiny of my sisters.
They were chatting about what kind of house Bridget was going to get with Paolo, and whether it would be nearer to Donovan’s DIY, or where she lived now, when Sofia noticed that I’d been quiet for the past few minutes.
‘So, Emma, are you going to carry on living here once Bridget’s married, or find somewhere smaller?’
‘I love our little flat, but I definitely don’t want anywhere smaller.’
And then, I took a deep breath, and it suddenly all came tumbling out…
‘I want a cottage in the woods with three bedrooms and a garden, and lots of pairs of tiny shoes and Munch Bunch yogurts in the fridge and chaos and noise and a hamster. A house like ours used to be. And I want someone to buy it with who’ll never get married to someone else and move out, because wherever I am is their home. I made a sixtieth anniversary cake last week for Moses’ Uncle Henry and Aunt Ruby. Sixty years! They invited me to stay for the party, and when I saw them together, how he still looked at her like she was his dream come true, and how she leant on his shoulder like she’d found the answer to all the problems of the universe… To each other, they’re everything. I want to be someone’s everything.
‘And in answer to the question everyone keeps asking, no, of course I don’t mind that Bridget’s finally getting married, and I’m genuinely 100 per cent happy for her. But yes, I do want that too, before it’s too late for Munch Bunch yogurts. And. So.’ I took another deep breath…here goes… ‘I’ve decided to apply for the compatibility project.’
Stunned silence.
‘You’re our everything, Emma. You really don’t need to do this,’ Bridget said, her voice a mixture of panic and bewilderment.
‘That doesn’t count – you all have other people who matter more.’
‘Yes, and the reason they matter so much is because we fell in love with them. We specifically chose them, knowing them well enough to know we could stand living with them for the rest of our lives,’ Orla practically shouted.
‘Really? Is that really the main reason you got married at nineteen, Orla? It was nothing to do with the fact that you were pregnant, and Mum and Dad were fuming at your no-good wastrel boyfriend, until Sam proposed? Isn’t it commitment, tons of effort and sheer good fortune that meant it worked in the long run?’
