The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

tied up with a happy family reunion, which isn’t likely, is it? How’s that conversation going to go? “Oh, nice meeting you. I’ve been called back to London. By the way, we’re sisters. I think your mum hates me because I’m ninety-nine per cent sure your dad had an affair, of which I am the result. Also, I’ve been writing diaries since the day I got here and soz, but your village sounds about as appealing as the toilet block at Reading Festival.” Whichever way you look at it, it’s shit. A pile of shit with a fly on top that probably did another shit whilst it was there, just to put the shitty cherry on top of the cake.’

‘Is there a chance that the thought of telling Moira is worse than the reality?’

‘If anything, I think I’ve downplayed it.’

‘Does that mean you shouldn’t tell her? This feeling you have – the guilt – it’s not going to go away. You said yourself that you wish you’d known you had a half-sister before the DNA test. I don’t want to oversimplify about what you’re facing, but this isn’t just about you anymore. Try imagining this exact scenario, but with positive outcomes instead of the shit storm you’re imagining. How might Moira feel when you tell her?’

‘I’ve imagined it on a loop and that’s what’s making me feel sick. She’s already had the burden of dealing with our dad not being around, I don’t want to make it worse by suggesting that he shagged about as well. That would be my fault.’

‘If that was your positive version, I’m dreading the negative one,’ says Ross.

‘OK … positive scenario? That she’s … happy. That’s she’s understandably angry with me for keeping it to myself, but that she can forgive me in some way. That we’re able to see each other, both of us knowing everything. It’s not like I can lie about my age.’

‘Exactly. If your first reaction is to assume the worst set of consequences, you also have to believe that there’s an equal chance for good ones.’

‘How should I tell her? Perhaps if I burst a party popper and did a little dance, she might not be so angry at me?’

Ross laughs, shaking his head.

‘I can’t give you specific advice on that. But as long as you’re honest and understanding of how she might react, you’ll make the right choice. I’m sure of it.’

I nod slowly and allow my fingers to drift up towards his hand, which dangles from the sofa cushion. He slides his fingers between mine and smiles. My stomach swoops.

‘You sound far too logical for a Christian.’

‘I’m not talking as a Christian. I’m talking as someone who cares about you and Moira.’

‘Be honest. Did you want to throw in a cheeky Bible quote?’

‘Eh, I could have chucked in Luke 6:31,’ he says, pondering. ‘But you’re not ready for the Psalms. The language is a bit more … fire and fury.’

‘Isn’t that a Game of Thrones book?’

Ross grins. ‘An unfortunate coincidence. Shall we crack that whisky open now?’

Chapter 26

I use my sleeve to wipe away a spiderweb from the locked letterbox built into farmhouse wall. Inside are two envelopes and a postcard shaped like Prince William’s head. No prizes for guessing who it’s from. I kick my shoes off in the porch and head through to the living room, where Kian sits with his legs hanging over the arm of the sofa.

‘Oh, glad you’re here. I want to show you something,’ I say, dropping the two envelopes on Kian’s stomach.

‘What’s that?’

‘I need my file, hang on.’

I take the stairs two at a time and hover on the landing to read Rory’s postcard before slipping it under the mattress with the others. They’re getting more and more abstract. Do I need to be worried? Perhaps the Wagamama crawl is pickling her brain with katsu sauce and sake. This time, she’s drawn a dumpling on the back, featuring bulbous eyes and a biro speech bubble that states: ‘the dipping sauce is suspiciously fishy’. Weird.

I hover on the landing and yawn so widely my body shudders. I didn’t switch the lamp off until three-thirty this morning because I had enough reception to use my phone as a hotspot, meaning an uninterrupted deep dive down the rabbit hole of Google. Somehow, I went from watching videos of drag queens recreating iconic Met Gala looks to scouring the internet for ways to bring more money into the farm; a task so dull I should have drifted straight off to sleep. I printed a dozen relevant web pages and stuck them in an old ring binder I found covered in dust and Jurassic Park stickers, which I now tuck under my arm as I head downstairs.

In the living room, Kian sits back in an armchair, shoulders round, hands limply resting by his sides. He looks at me with utter defeat.

‘Jesus, what happened? I was only gone five minutes.’

He kisses his teeth and nods to a ripped envelope on the seat next to him. ‘It’s the bank. They want me to start paying back a pretty fucking substantial loan or they’ll look into repossession proceedings.’

‘Bloody hell. That seems drastic.’

‘Yeah, well, it would have helped if Granddad had told me he’d taken out the fucking loan in the first place.’

‘Ah … yeah, that seems like quite an important thing to mention.’

‘No shit. I’ve got to go in for a meeting the day after tomorrow to “discuss our options”. Our options. Who are they kidding? They don’t give a shit about the farm.’

‘Even if that’s true, can I still show you something?’ I say.

‘Yeah, but only if it’s the folder named “Last Resorts”. I need to slot this letter inside and burn the fucking thing.’

‘We can do that, but would you at least give this a quick look?’ I ask, holding up the file like a tiny shield.

Kian nods wearily. I guide him through to the kitchen with the promise of a coffee and Tunnock’s Tea