Her accounts. On a Friday night. Her accounts.

“Right!” I manage at last. “Fab! Well, then… let’s do our accounts!”



OK. This is fine. This is good.

We’re both sitting in the kitchen, doing our accounts. At least, Jess is doing her accounts. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing.

I’ve written Accounts at the top of a sheet of paper and underlined it twice.

Every so often Jess glances up, and I quickly scribble something down, just to look like I’m into it. So far my page reads:

20 pounds… budget… 200 million pounds… Hello, my name is Becky…

Jess is frowning over a pile of what look like bank statements, leafing backwards and forwards and consulting a small bankbook.

“Is something wrong?” I say sympathetically.

“I’m just tracking down a bit of lost money,” she says. “Maybe it’s in one of my other cashbooks.” She gets up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

As she leaves the kitchen I take a sip of champagne and glance toward the pile of bank statements.

Obviously I’m not going to look at them or anything. They’re Jess’s private property and I respect that. It’s none of my business. None at all. The only thing is, my leg is feeling itchy. It genuinely is. I lean over to scratch it… then casually lean a bit farther… and a bit more… until I can glimpse the bottom figure on the top statement.

£30,002.

I hastily sit up again, nearly knocking over my champagne glass. Thirty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand pounds?

That’s a bigger overdraft than I’ve ever had. Ever!

Now it’s all starting to make sense. It’s falling into place. No wonder she makes her own weights. No wonder she takes her coffee flask everywhere. She’s probably on an economy drive, just like I went on once. She’s probably read Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton!

God, who would have thought it?

As Jess comes back into the room, I can’t help looking at her with new eyes. She picks up one of her bank statements and sighs heavily — and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. How many times have I picked up a bank statement and sighed? We’re kindred spirits!

She’s perusing the figures, still looking hassled. Well, no wonder, with a whopping great overdraft like that!

“Hi,” I say, with an understanding smile. “Still trying to track down that bit of money?”

“It must be here somewhere.” She frowns and turns to another statement.

God, maybe the bank’s about to foreclose on her or something. I should give her a few tips.

I lean forward confidingly.

“Banks are a nightmare, aren’t they?”

“They’re useless,” she replies, nodding.

“I sometimes wonder why they give people overdrafts if they’re going to be so unsympathetic…”

“I don’t have an overdraft,” she says, looking puzzled.

“But—”

I stop as her words hit my brain. She doesn’t have an overdraft. Which means—

I feel a bit faint.

That thirty thousand pounds is actual…

It’s actual money?

“Becky, are you OK?” Jess gives me an odd look.

“I’m… fine!” I say in a strangled voice and take several gulps of my champagne, trying to regain my cool. “So… you’re not overdrawn. That’s good! That’s great!”

“I’ve never been overdrawn in my life,” Jess says firmly. “I just don’t think it’s necessary. Anyone can stay within their means if they really want to. People who get into debt just lack self-control. There’s no excuse.” She begins to straighten her papers, then stops. “But you used to be a financial journalist, didn’t you? Your mum showed me some of your articles. So you must know all this.”

Her hazel eyes meet mine expectantly and I feel a ridiculous tweak of anxiety. I’m suddenly not sure I want her to know the truth about my finances. Not the exact truth.

“I… er… absolutely!” I say. “Of course I do. It’s all a question of… of planning ahead and careful management.”

“Exactly!” says Jess with approval. “When any money comes in, the first thing I do is put half aside to save.”

Half? Even my dad doesn’t save that much.

“Excellent!” I manage. “It’s the only sensible option.”

I’m in total shock. When I was a financial journalist, I used to write articles telling people to save a percentage of their money all the time. But I never thought anyone would actually save half.

Jess is looking at me with a fresh interest and maybe even affection.

“So… you do the same, do you, Becky?”

For a few seconds I can’t quite formulate a response.

“Er… well!” I say at last, and clear my throat. “Maybe not exactly half every month…”

“I’m just the same.” Her face relaxes into a smile. “Sometimes I only manage twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent!” I echo feebly. “Well… never mind. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

“But I do,” says Jess, leaning forward across the table. “You must understand that.”

I’ve never seen her face look so open.

Oh my God. We’re bonding.

“Twenty percent of what?” comes Luke’s voice as he and Gary enter the kitchen, both looking in good spirits.

Maybe now is the time to move the conversation on.

“Er… nothing!” I say.

“We’re just talking about finances,” says Jess to Luke. “We’ve both been doing our accounts.”

“Your accounts?” says Luke, giving a small shout of laughter. “What accounts would those be, Becky?”

“You know!” I say brightly. “My financial affairs and so forth.”

“Ah.” Luke nods, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. “So… have you called out the SWAT teams yet? And the Red Cross?”

“What do you mean?” says Jess, puzzled.

“They’re traditionally summoned to disaster areas, aren’t they?” He grins at me.

“So!” I say quickly, trying to change the subject. “Did anyone… er… see EastEnders last night?”

No one seems to hear me.

“But Becky was a financial journalist!” says Jess, sounding disconcerted.

“Financial journalist?” Luke looks highly amused. “You want to hear a story about your sister’s days as a financial journalist?”

“No,” I put in. “She doesn’t.”

“The cashpoint card,” says Gary, reminiscing.

“The cashpoint card!” Luke slaps the table in delight. “This was during Becky’s illustrious career as a TV finance expert,” he says to Jess. “She was filming an item on the perils of cashpoint use. She put in her own cashpoint card to demonstrate…” He starts laughing again. “And it got swallowed on camera.”

“They showed that the other night on a TV clips show,” says Gary to me. “The bit where you start bashing the machine with your shoe is a classic!”

OK, he is off my Christmas card list.

“But why did it get swallowed?” says Jess, looking perplexed. “Were you… overdrawn?”

“Was Becky overdrawn?” Luke says cheerfully, getting out some glasses. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Jess looks confused.

“But, Becky, you said you saved half your salary every month.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry?” Luke slowly turns round. “Becky said she did what?”

“That’s… that’s not exactly what I said,” I say, flustered. “I said it’s a good idea to save half your salary. In principle. And… it is! It’s a very good idea!”

“How about not running up huge credit card bills which you keep secret from your husband?” says Luke. “Is that a good idea in principle?”

“Credit card bills?” says Jess, looking at me in horror. “So… you’re in debt?”

God, why does she have to say it like that? Debt. Like it’s some kind of plague. Like I’m about to go to the workhouse. This is the twenty-first century. Everyone’s in debt.

“You know how doctors make the worst patients?” I say with a little laugh. “Well, financial journalists make the worst… er…”

I wait for her to laugh too, or at least give a sympathetic smile. But she just looks appalled.

This whole exchange is beginning to rankle. OK, so I may have had the odd debt in my time. But she doesn’t have to look so disapproving.

“By the way, Jess,” says Gary. “We’ve run into a tiny glitch with that program.”

“Really?” Jess looks up. “I’ll come and have a look if you like.”

“Are you sure?” Gary glances at me. “We don’t want to interrupt your evening… ”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand. “Go ahead!”

When they’ve all disappeared into the study I wander along the corridor and into the sitting room. I slump down on the sofa and stare miserably at the blank television.

Jess and I haven’t bonded one bit.

We don’t get on. That’s the truth.

Suddenly I’m weary with disappointment. I’ve been trying so hard ever since she arrived. I’ve been making every effort. I bought the picture of the cave… and I prepared all those yummy snacks… and I tried to plan the best evening I could. And she hasn’t even tried to join in. OK, so maybe she didn’t like any of my films. But she could have pretended, couldn’t she? If it was me, I would have pretended.

Why does she have to be such a misery? Why can’t she just have fun?

As I gulp my champagne, resentment is growing inside me.

How can she hate shopping? How? She’s got thirty thousand pounds, for God’s sake! She should adore shopping! And another thing — why is she so obsessed with potatoes? What’s so great about bloody potatoes?

I just don’t understand her. She’s my sister, but I don’t understand one single thing about her. Luke was right all along. It is all nurture. Nature doesn’t come into it.

I start dejectedly leafing through the videos. Maybe I’ll watch one of them on my own. And have some popcorn. And some of those yummy Thorntons chocolates.