‘See! She’s not a total tom-boy,’ she’d whisper to my mum.
‘Yes. I suppose there’s still hope for her,’ Mum would say, sighing heavily.
The same pink happy birthday banner that they use every year hangs above the sofa.
‘They’re all in the garden’ Auntie Beryl says, gesturing towards the French doors. ‘Drink?’
‘I’d love a beer,’ I sigh.
‘You know I can't get you a beer in front of your mum. I’ll get you a gin and tonic.’
She walks off towards the drinks cabinet and I walk through the French doors into the garden. My three brothers and Dad are there grimacing, probably already sick of Mum’s constant moaning. Some friggin’ party.
‘Happy birthday love,’ my Dad says, hitting me on the shoulder.
I put my hand up to my shoulder, it already throbbing, and smile. I must get my awkward body language from him.
‘Yeah, happy birthday Po Po,’ Ollie waves as he puffs on his cigarette.
God, it's at events like this I wished I still smoked. We used to always sneak off at family dos and have a cheeky fag. My Dad would always come looking for us and end up having one himself while we all basically hid from my mother.
‘Here’s your drink darling,’ Auntie Beryl says, handing over my gin and tonic.
‘Darling! Beryl just told me you asked for a beer?’
I turn to face my mum carrying out a Marks and Spencer’s birthday cake, dressed in linen trousers and a smock top exposing far too much cleavage.
‘You know you shouldn’t be drinking anymore,’ she says, shaking her head disapprovingly.
‘Why not?’
‘You’re in your late twenties now darling. You need to be drinking water. It fights wrinkles apparently. Oh and what are you wearing?’ She looks me up and down.
‘Well I didn’t have much time.’ I cross my arms defensively, suddenly feeling like a boy.
‘Well you could have still made an effort. And no make-up? Where’s my make-up bag? I’ll put some on you myself.’
She goes fussing around for it as I watch her and Auntie Beryl. They couldn’t be more different, yet so similar at the same time. Even though they have the ridiculous matching names of Beryl and Meryl (I’ll never understand my Grandma’s logic), they look so different.
Unlike Mum, Auntie Beryl has short dark hair, which she always wears down, straightened to within an inch of it’s life. Her big brown eyes are always painted in far too much eye shadow, and her cheeks, once as sculpted as Mum’s, have now gone a bit chubby. Yet they both have the same attitude to life. It's their way or the highway. Their opinions are the right ones and everyone else is insane.
‘Here’s your present anyway,’ Richard says, handing over a purple shiny bag. ‘Annabel picked it.’
Right on queue Annabel walks into the garden wearing a pale green short summer dress which shows off her olive skin perfectly. Hussy.
‘Happy birthday,’ she smiles innocently, wrapping her arm round Richard’s waist.
‘Abbey sends her apologies,’ Henry smiles shyly.
‘Cool. Are you excited about the wedding?’ I ask, trying to make small talk. At least she’s not another Annabel.
‘Yeah, not long now,’ he says politely, as if I’m a work colleague rather than sister.
I’ve never been close with Richard and Henry. They’ve always resented how much attention I got for being the much wanted girl, even though it turns out that I was a massive disappointment, refusing to wear a dress as soon as I could talk.
The household seemed to be split into two camps almost as soon as I was born. Mum’s camp consisted of Henry, Richard and obviously Auntie Beryl. They were the over achievers. Always striving for better – a better house, better car, and better appearance.
Then there was my camp. Me, Ollie and Dad, who are quite happy to get pissed and watch Eastenders. Striving for better always sounded like far too much hard work. Although it does stand to reason that Ollie still lives at home at the age of twenty-eight and I’m living alone, soon to be eaten by cats.
‘I still can't believe we’re going to have a ginger in the family,’ Mum says, as she paints blusher onto my cheeks.
‘Mum!’ I shout, shoving her slightly and nodding towards Henry.
‘What?’ she says, confused, as if she’s done nothing wrong.
‘Actually she’s strawberry blonde,’ Henry says, defensively, his arms tensely at his side.
‘OK darling,’ she smiles. ‘I just hope that your genes take over and we don't have a ginger grandchild on our hands. That would really be something!’
‘Mum! You can't say these things,’ I almost shout, grabbing hold of her arms.
‘Why not?’
‘Strawberry blonde,’ Auntie Beryl mutters under her breath with a muffled snort. ‘How ridiculous.’
I smile an apology over to Henry, feeling in some way responsible for our insane Mother.
‘Anyway Poppy,’ Auntie Beryl suddenly shouts in excitement. ‘What do you think of my new addition to the garden?’
Oliver and Dad roll their eyes as I search the garden desperately. How the hell would I know what was new? Every spare space in this garden is filled with something. There are hanging wooden wind chimes, hanging baskets, decorative pots, butterflies, cat ornaments. The concrete bench is filled with hundreds of multi-coloured scatter cushions with tiny mirrors and beads hanging from them. Auntie Beryl’s still smiling wildly in anticipation.
‘Um...I’m not sure,’ I admit.
‘Honestly Poppy! It's the new lemon candles.’ She gestures to the centre of the table.
‘Oh...lovely!’ I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
‘Yes, anything to warn off those bastard mosquitos that keep getting me.’ She narrows her eyes as she looks around the garden.
I’d forgot about the mosquitos which she’s sure stalk the garden, even though no one’s ever been bitten.
‘Anyway, let me give you my present.’ She hands over a blue card.
I barely open the envelope before she shouts out ‘It’s pottery classes!’
‘Pottery classes? Since when did she retire?’ Ollie snorts.
‘Oh do shut up Oliver!’ she snarls at him before turning back to me. ‘I thought that you might meet someone there. You know, like in Ghost. It could be very romantic.’ She stares off in the distance, a whimsical look on her face.
It's this very ridiculous romantic attitude that means she’s alone living with three cats.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, trying desperately to sound enthusiastic.
‘But she already has a man!’ Mum corrects her.
‘Oh yes, but I got it before the announcement,’ Auntie Beryl says, topping up both of their wine glasses.
‘What announcement?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Oh...nothing,’ Auntie Beryl says avoiding my gaze.
‘I got you a manicure and pedicure,’ Mum says proudly. ‘You need to start looking more groomed now you’re twenty-six. It might have been fine to look scruffy at twenty-five but now that you’re on the wrong side you need to start looking after yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ I drool sarcastically.
‘That's why I told the boys to get you anti-ageing cream.’
‘Oh thanks for ruining the surprise!’ Richard huffs.
‘Anyway! Let’s cut the cake!’ she says, ignoring him. ‘But none for you darling. Too many calories.’
‘Oh, before the cake, why don't we get the business out of the way?’ Dad says, turning to Annabel. ‘Sign those documents?’
‘Yes, great,’ she smiles.
Shit. I feel my insides clenching. They’re going to sign them now?
‘Let’s go into the study,’ Dad says smiling eagerly, ushering Annabel out of the room.
‘Doing business on Poppy’s birthday. Ridiculous,’ Mum mutters under her breath.
Richard, Annabel and Dad start walking out of the room. A new swoop of fear goes over me. I stare at Ollie and he looks back just as panicked.
‘We’ll be witnesses!’ I exclaim before I think if this can even be done.
Dad stares at me strangely before nodding. We follow him in, Ollie’s eyes are nearly bulging out of his sockets. He’s really not good in an emergency.
‘So here’s the contract,’ Dad says, putting on his reading glasses and handing over a thick wad of paper. ‘It's just what we discussed.’
There’s a fountain pen next to it on the table. Ollie and I spot it at the same time. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I give him a nod. His hand covers the pen as he discreetly slides it off the table and puts it in his pocket.
‘I’m sure it's fine,’ Annabel smiles.
‘Great. Where’s that pen?’ Dad asks, scanning the table.
‘Beryl?’ Dad calls. ‘Do you have a pen we could borrow?’
‘Don't worry,’ Annabel smiles. She gets a pen out of her pocket and places it on the table. ‘I have one.’
Crap. I feel my jaw tighten. My pulse quickens, my breaths become shallow.
‘Could I see it?’ I ask, sweat trickling down my neck.
I pick it up before I’ve had a response and pretend to scan over it seriously. I inhale a deep breath and muster up the loudest, wettest fake sneeze I can, covering the contract in my germs.