Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

Matt and I watch them leave in silence. I try to suppress my sniff so as not to draw attention to my tears. Where had all that venom come from? Does Emma really think that of me? We walk out of Grace’s room to go downstairs just as Mum is leading Emma into her bedroom.

Since when did Mum take Valium?

The first time I met Matt was when Emma brought him home to meet Mum and Dad in 1998. We were in our second year of college and it was the start of Emma and I doing our own thing. After being nearly inseparable until we were seventeen, it had been a shock when Emma started to distance herself from me. The school friends I had pushed aside in favour of my sister hadn’t wanted to know me any more. I had to make new friends, while Emma spent all her time with her new boyfriend.

‘Matt’s coming round tonight,’ she’d said, coming into my bedroom. She was wearing a long jumper over a flowing green skirt, with cherry-red Doc Martens – trying to appear arty probably. She’d met him in her ceramics class. ‘Try and be nice, won’t you?’

‘Course I’ll be nice,’ I said. ‘I’m a delight.’

She looked at my vest top and tracksuit bottoms.

‘You’re not wearing that , are you?’ she said.

I shrugged. ‘Yeah. I’m not leaving the house, am I?’

She tutted, rolled her eyes and flounced off.

We’d just finished supper when the doorbell went, and Emma rushed to the door. She was beaming when she brought him through to the kitchen. Of course, I recognised him from college, but had barely spoken to him – she had her friends, I had mine.

Matt was so confident, even then. ‘Hi, Steph,’ he said, as though he’d known me for years.

Dad got up and shook Matt’s hand; he was always so proper and polite.

‘So what are your intentions with my daughter?’ he said.

Matt’s eyes widened. ‘Umm.’

Dad laughed.

‘Don’t worry, Matthew. I’m just joshing with you.’ He stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. He was always slightly awkward in front of our friends – as though he should think of something witty to say.

‘So, love,’ Dad said to Mum. ‘Shall we leave these young people to it?’

‘But we were about to have dessert,’ she said. ‘Matt, would you join us? We have plenty.’

‘Mum!’ Emma’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. I was surprised she didn’t drag the two of them out of the room. ‘You promised…’

‘Did we?’ said Mum.

‘You know very well we did,’ said Dad. He opened the fridge door and brought out the cheesecake. ‘We said we’d give them privacy in exchange for them doing the washing up. And because we’re being evicted, we get to eat the whole cake.’

‘But I couldn’t possibly eat half of that,’ said Mum.

‘Course you could,’ said Dad, winking at us as he closed the kitchen door.

‘God, he’s so embarrassing,’ said Emma.

‘No, he’s not,’ I said.

As soon as I started the washing up, Emma had appeared at my shoulder and whispered, ‘I’m just going to make myself look beautiful. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Of course not.’

I did.

But only until Matt joined me at the sink. He stood so near to me, it was as though I could feel him if I closed my eyes. He grabbed a tea towel and waited as I scrubbed a pan with a Brillo pad. I’d never looked closely at his face before; I’d only ever seen him at a distance. He had little freckles on his nose and on the top of his cheeks. His eyelashes were the longest I’d seen on a boy – not that I’d seen many close-up. I hadn’t been on a date since high school. A late bloomer, Dad called me.

‘I can’t believe you two are sisters,’ said Matt, catching me staring at him. ‘You couldn’t look more different. You, tall with blonde hair, and Emma – she’s what? At least five inches shorter than you with dark brown hair. It’s crazy.’

Matt took the pan from my hands, my face burning with embarrassment. He didn’t look as though he was joking.

‘She’s six inches shorter than me,’ I said. We’d measured our differences for years. ‘But she’s not really my sister though. You do know that?’

He looked up, startled. Then a grin slowly appeared with a twinkle in his eyes. He playfully slapped my arm with the tea towel. ‘Yeah, good one. You almost had me there. Though, no offence – you do look totally different. Did your milkman have dark hair?’

It was then that I realised that Emma might not remember as much as I do. But surely she was old enough to? Perhaps she blocked everything out. It’s not the sort of thing you start discussing when it’s not been mentioned since she came to live with us so long ago. I’d always assumed she’d told Matt everything – but she didn’t, not for ages. I left it when we were teenagers, assumed that Emma would tell him in her own time. It was only a few weeks ago that I realised she hadn’t told him the whole truth.

I first brought up the subject of Emma’s biological mother to Matt when we were both drunk together last month. I shouldn’t have – it was one of those late nights when daylight is emerging and the birds start to sing.

I just wanted to know if Emma had ever mentioned any details. I only remember bits of the conversation. Jamie was at his dad’s and Emma had gone to bed. Matt and I were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire – looking at stupid YouTube videos of dancing cats, our tongues loose after drinking too much wine.

‘Has Emma ever tried to find her real mother?’ I said. ‘She must remember bits about her.’

I don’t know what made me just blurt it out like that.

‘Eh?’ said Matt, squinting like he always does when he’s had too much to drink.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

I flapped my hand, trying to make the words disappear into the air.

‘What do you mean, remember?’ He swayed slightly. ‘She can’t know anything about her birth mother, can she? Emma was only a baby when your parents adopted her.’

I looked at my hands. Why had I said anything? It wasn’t my place to tell him anything so important. It was up to Emma to decide what she told people about her past.

‘Steph?’

I looked up. ‘What?’

‘I said, how old was Emma when she came to live with you?’

‘Did you?’ I was stalling for time. Could I take it back, say I didn’t mean it? ‘You should talk to Emma about it. It’s not for me to say.’

He leaned closer, his hands in fists on the carpet.

‘Just answer the question.’

His eyes were wide and fixed on mine. He wasn’t going to let it go.

‘Okay. But please don’t tell her I told you,’ I said. ‘She was ten years old.’

He pulled away, falling back against the chair behind him like he’d been punched in the stomach. He looked into the fire, frowning.

‘Why wouldn’t she tell me that? She told me it was at birth. That she never knew her real mum.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘From what I remember, her mother didn’t treat her very well – perhaps Emma didn’t want to upset you. She might think you’d feel differently towards her.’

The memory of that night jumps to Matt and me going onto the missing person’s website.

I shouldn’t mix with people when I’ve had a drink – I don’t know what I was thinking. I felt such shame when I remembered the following morning.

‘Is that okay, Steph?’ Mum’s standing behind a chair at the kitchen table opposite me. Emma’s upstairs, still asleep. Her voice jumps me back into the present. Mum, Matt and I have just finished a meal of reheated lasagne from one of the more ‘trusted’ donations. I should keep my mind in the here and now and not keep drifting off into the past.