Pernille Hughes - Probably the Best Kiss in the World

Jen pulled out several sheets of adhesive labels. Her friend Alice had designed them, simply stating Attison’s in beautiful cursive. The remaining space allowed Jen to neatly handwrite in the beer’s name and tapping date. Handwriting them rather than printing them added to the beer’s handmade touch, extending Jen’s notion of artistic creativity. Neat handwriting when annoyed however, was a bitch.

“No, we didn’t,” sighed Lydia, hoiking her skirt up her left thigh, undoing the Velcro above her knee before grabbing both sides and pushing her lower leg off. Placing the prosthetic beside her, damaged shoe still in situ, she began to massage the stump through its polyurethane sock. “You agreed with yourself. I didn’t get a say. As always. Can I have a beer?”

“On the shelf behind you,” Jen said, not looking up from her labels. This was a regular argument. Jen liked to collect Lydia when she got home from London, whether it was from work or from a date. She liked knowing she was safe. She didn’t want Lydia being jostled on the street or her leg getting avoidably chaffed. She didn’t see why Lydia couldn’t have trained at a local firm, but instead she’d insisted on applying to the graduate schemes at the accountancy globals in London. She’d stormed the interview process, which hadn’t surprised Jen one bit, because Lydia, swearing aside, was both quick and engaging. So while the location wasn’t Jen’s preference, it made her ridiculously proud of what her sister had achieved, when at one point it had looked as if there would be no future at all, and Jen allowed herself the commendation of not having made a total hash of bringing teen-Lydia up by herself.

“Need a hand?” Lydia asked, selecting a Golden Ale from the odds and ends shelf by her shoulder and uncapping it on the wall-mounted opener. “I’ve got two of those.”

Jen hated it when Lydia made those jokes, but didn’t say. Lydia got to deal with it however she wanted.

“It’s fine. But thanks.” The many rows of bottles in front of her said she had a couple of hours’ writing and sticking. Still, she’d been spared the trip to the station. She took a second to strike it off List IT and cancel the alarm.

“Come on, Jen. I can write the labels.”

“Really, it’s all good,” Jen said, keeping a firm grip on the pen and sheets. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Having been through this before too, Lydia gave up, mouthed “Control Freak” at Jen’s back then leaned back to take a slug of the beer while her sister worked on.

“Got anything planned for the weekend?” Jen asked, finishing another sticker, peeling it off and sticking it neatly on the bottle. Each label would be perfectly aligned. Meticulous was technically correct, anal would have been Lydia’s word of choice.

“Hmm,” Lydia murmured, as she swallowed her mouthful. “Just popping out somewhere.” Jen bit her tongue to stop herself from pursuing it. She knew when Lydia was being deliberately vague.

“How was tonight’s date?” She moved swiftly down the labels. She might be a perfectionist, but she was an efficient one.

“Shite.”

Jen paused briefly then carried on, knowing it was better to let Lydia vent at her own pace. Lydia spun the bottle cap on the counter like a spinning top, before successfully lobbing and landing it in the corner bin.

“Are all bankers wankers, do you think? This one was so far up his own arse I’m surprised he could walk.”

“How’d you find him?” Jen hoped Lydia was laying off Tinder . Lydia’s dating calendar was busy enough as it was, but if not being used simply for casual hook-ups, Tinder seemed to Jen like people were fighting a “marriage material” tick-list from the off. Not that she’d say so to Lydia, but she worried that a missing limb might not count favourably in such a judgemental framework.

“Bloody Callie from work set me up with him. Said they went to sixth form together and he was a hoot. Uni obviously nixed that. He kept talking about his ex and even sent her a text at one point. And Callie had clearly told him about the leg as he was trying not to study it. Epic fail.”

“Drink choice?” Jen asked. Both sisters believed you could tell a lot from what men chose to drink. They’d worked out a fairly efficient shorthand over the span of Lydia’s many many dates.

“Lager. Kronegaard. Unimaginative wanker.” Jen hmm’ed in agreement. Danish brewing giant Kronegaard wasn’t the worst of the global beers out there, in Jen’s book, but his failure to recognise there was more to beer than mass-produced lager would forever be a black-mark against the guy. Their dad and his love of craft beer had seen to that.

“Ah well, better to know now,” Jen soothed. The thought of Lydia being hurt pained her.

“Definitely,” Lydia agreed. “He was rubbish in bed too. Hence the earlier train.”

So , that label wouldn’t be going on a bottle, the jog in the writing being enormous.

“You slept with him?” Jen asked, trying for calm, but getting more of a squeak.

“Well, I hoped to salvage something from the evening, but no. Crap all round. Not that we slept, but considering it was a speed shag, it was fairly catatonic.”

Jen took a long breath through her nose, reminding herself Lydia was an adult and entitled to place her body where she pleased, with whom she pleased. But it was hard. She felt somewhere along the parenting process she might have slipped.

“Speaking of dullards,” Lydia went on, “where’s the Bobster? Didn’t feel like helping you out here?”

“ Robert ’s on a golf weekend. I’m seeing him Sunday night. As always, ” she said pointedly. This too was a broken record conversation. Lydia was having a dig. Jen and Robert had a long-standing but simple arrangement of dating on Sundays and Wednesdays. It suited them both, it fitted with his sporting commitments and she could work late or brew undisturbed. The fixed nature of the date-nights gave clear structure to their week. Perfect.

There was a long pause before Lydia gave flight to her thoughts. “Jen? Have you ever thought you might not be living life to the full? That you might be missing out?”

Jen paused, looking around her, at her bottles, the tanks, the sacks of hops and malt. She saw her tightly-run micro-empire, tucked secretly away in the back streets of the bustling town, safely away from randomness, and she initially couldn’t think what Lydia might mean. Then her Parenting mode kicked in and it dawned on her Lydia must be referring to herself.

“Lyds, lovely,” she said, putting her fountain pen down and giving her sister her full attention as she always tried to do when it came to “growing up” conversations, “is this a FOMO thing?” Lydia looked confused for a second, then opened her mouth to speak, but Jen beat her to it. “Honestly Lyds, as you get older you’ll see most events are overrated and actually happiness is easily reached if you keep your expectations simple and realistic. Just look at me.” Jen gave her a big smile and a pat on the leg for good measure, hoping her sister was reassured. Lydia exhaled abruptly, shook her head and roughly reattached the prosthetic before alighting from the worktop. Maybe not so reassured. She’d have to give Lydia’s fear of missing out issues more attention.

Still holding her beer Lydia muttered something that might have been Sleep well , but could also have been Bloody hell and stormed back to the house. With a sigh, Jen went back to her labels, enjoying the return of serenity. She’d deal with Lydia tomorrow. For now she’d savour the peace and simplicity of the life she’d constructed for herself. FOMO indeed. Sure, she’d made some sacrifices – a career in incontinence pads instead of brewing, for example- but needs must and there was no point crying over that. All things considered, Jen had everything Just So now and exactly where she needed them to be for a straightforward, no-surprises, quite-happy-thank-you-very-much life. Lydia couldn’t possibly be thinking of her – Jen’s life was solid. Where should she be missing out?