Katey Lovell - The Singalong Society for Singletons

‘Or one of those door-to-door charity collectors.’

A ferocious banging follows, five loud knocks that it would be impossible to ignore.

‘That’d have to be one desperate charity collector.’

I pull my dressing gown more tightly around my waist as I reach for my key from the small hook on the back of the door. The knocking continues, louder and more frantic than before, followed by a voice.

‘Mon! Mon! It’s me!’

The desperation in the high-pitched cries urge me into action. The voice is instantly identifiable. I fling the door open and my sister stumbles over the threshold, a bulging black sports bag slung over her shoulder and a wheelie suitcase by her side. Her face is deathly pale in stark contrast to her chocolate-brown hair, and her cheeks are stained with the snail-trail tracks of tears.

‘Hope! What’s going on?’

I’m shocked at the state of her. Actually, I’m beyond shocked. I’m not used to seeing my older sister like this. Hope’s always been the stronger of the two of us, the one with the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude and a permanent look of disdain waiting in the wings to throw at anything or anyone she considers beneath her. But right now she looks fragile and vulnerable, like a frightened kitten in a thunderstorm.

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Hope sobs. Her long, dark hair falls in front of her face as she hunches forwards, a protective veil to hide behind. I know the trick; I’ve used it myself.

‘Start at the beginning.’ I try to keep my voice calm, although inside I’m flailing. Placing my hand on my sister’s back, I gently guide her into the living room. Hans and Anna are no longer singing about love being an open door. Issy’s pressed the pause button at an inopportune moment; the close-up shot of the princess showing her eyes closed and her face contorted. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Amara,’ Hope says finally, before looking up and locking her bleary, bloodshot eyes with mine. ‘She’s thrown me out. She said she’s had enough of me pressurising her into telling her parents the truth.’ She pauses for breath, gulping the air. ‘I’ve been patient, haven’t I, Mon? It’s been four years now, but she still won’t admit to her parents that we’re a couple. Four years! I’m sick of moving my stuff into the spare room every time they come over, pretending we’re just best friends sharing a flat.’ Her shoulders judder as the tears start to fall. ‘All I want is for her to be honest. I don’t want to have to hide any more.’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Issy interjects, moving to the edge of her seat. ‘Do you think she means it? Or is she just angry at the situation and taking it out on you?’

‘Oh, she means it alright,’ Hope answers with a bitter laugh. ‘She’s ashamed to be with me. Her parents are coming up from London tomorrow and when I told her I thought it was time to come clean, she said that’d be ‘impossible’.’ Hope raises her hands, wiggling her fingers to indicate quotation marks. It’s a move full of pain-drenched sarcasm. ‘When I said I was sick of her pulling all the strings in our relationship, fed up of it being fine to hold her hand when we’re clubbing on a Saturday night or walking around Endcliffe Park on a Sunday morning but having to outright lie when it comes to her family… she said she couldn’t lie any longer either. She handed me my bag, told me it was over and ordered I pack and leave.’

Issy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and when she speaks her tone is disbelieving. ‘And you did it without a fuss? I’m sorry, Hope, but that doesn’t sound like the feisty girl I know. She wouldn’t give up and walk out on the love of her life.’

‘Can’t you see? It’s because I love her! That’s why I’ve gone. If Amara can’t tell her family that we’ve been in a relationship, then what’s the point in being together anyway? I know I’m lucky. Mum was fine with me being gay, once she got her head around it. Amara’s parents aren’t like that. They’re always on at her to find a nice young man and provide them with grandchildren. If she tells them she’s gay, they’ll probably disown her.’

‘But even if she’s not with you, she’s still going to be gay,’ I reason. I hand her my glass, thinking a sip of alcohol might calm her down. ‘She’s not going to suddenly start lusting over Daniel Craig just because you’ve moved out. So she’ll still be lying to them either way.’

Hope winces as she sips the Merlot and it’s only then I remember she’s never been a fan of red wine, much preferring a crisp glass of refreshing Pinot Grigio. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.

‘I know,’ Hope answers resignedly. ‘But it’s easier for her to call an end to it than tell them the truth. If she’s on her own, she can make up excuses and fob off the questions. She’ll say she’s not found the right person yet or that she wants to travel or concentrate on her career. That’ll be more acceptable to her family than the reality.’

‘Concentrating on a career,’ I snort. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

I grind my teeth, determined not to make this about me, but it’s touched a nerve. I feel brittle, fragile. It comes over me like this every so often, and it makes me mad. These involuntary reactions are all little reminders that however much I profess to have moved on, I still catch my breath at the thought of Justin Crowson. He upped and left and broke my heart, but in just over three months he’ll be back in Sheffield. The ‘break’ will be over; we can get back on track. I’m clutching tightly to that thought. It’s been painfully hard having so little contact with Justin since Christmas, and I hate this feeling of being so distant. Going from inseparable to short, sharp emails and five-minute phone conversations has been like losing a limb.

‘It’s time’s like this I’m actually glad to be eternally single,’ Issy replies. ‘You Brown girls sure know how to get shat on from a great height.’

Issy hasn’t had so much as a one-night fling in the last eighteen months, let alone anything more. Drunken snogs are her speciality, but nothing ever goes further. She’s adamant she’s holding out for Mr Right, the man she’ll marry and ride off into the sunset with.

‘Well,’ I say, cutting Issy off before she says anything that starts Hope off blubbering again, ‘you can stay here for as long as you need to. The futon in the spare room’s not all that comfy, but you’re very welcome to crash on it. And right now I’m going to get you a glass of your own. Have some more wine and watch the end of Frozen with us. That’ll make everything seem a bit brighter.’

That set Hope off crying again. She’s never been an especially girly girl and in her current state, the thought of princessy Disney films was probably enough to push her over the edge.

‘I’ll need more than one glass of wine to get through Frozen, no matter how big it is,’ Hope says.

‘You make it sound like an endurance test rather than an animated film.’ Issy laughs, but not unkindly, as I move into the kitchen to fetch a glass. ‘It’s hardly scaling Everest!’

‘It might as well be. You two are bloody obsessed with that film. Even the kids at school have had enough of it now.’

Hope works with Issy and me at Clarke Road Primary, teaching the Year 4s. She never planned to go into teaching – falling into it out of necessity rather than a vocational calling – but jobs related to her degree in visual arts are few and far between. At least this way she’s able to use her imagination in the classroom now and again, even if there isn’t as much freedom as she’d like. Creativity’s not exactly a priority in the curriculum these days but Hope’s eye-catching display boards are always spectacular, a talking point with staff and pupils alike.