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

‘Ah, you’ll be fine, lovie. Just don’t stand on my feet, I’m fresh out of a bunion surgery.’

I nod, a little put off.

By a trestle table bowed under the weight of three kegs. Allan takes a shot glass out of his coat pocket and hands it to Kian. Still no Moira, or I’m sure she’d be at his shoulder, insisting that she could match him drink for drink.

Ross jumps up on the plywood stage to thank everyone for coming, leaving me to run over the steps in my head from this morning, but it’s a blur of footprints against a backdrop of inky clouds.

The caller announces the opening dance and after a brief run-through of the steps, the band kick off and we’re hopping in a circle, hands clasped, boobs bouncing (in my case, anyway). I didn’t think to wear a sports bra, which was a gross oversight. Each time I jump up, they seem to be going down, resulting in a slingshot manoeuvre designed to cause maximum discomfort. Between looking at gaps in the crowd for Moira and changing direction every few seconds, I’ve chest-bumped with so many people I could pass as a frat boy.

As the fiddle playing becomes less frantic, I disentangle myself from the mass of interlocked limbs and clap the band, grinning despite my inability to follow the steps. I clutch Ross’s shoulder, catching my breath as two women I recognise from aerobics head in our direction.

‘Need a drink?’ he says, eyeing them nervously.

‘Definitely.’

We head to the kitchen hatch, where a plastic ice-cream tub acts as an honesty box for the makeshift bar. Two dozen glasses are upturned on a tea towel, a row of Iron Bru and boxed wine beside it. Everything is laid out with uniform precision. It’s the most organised refreshments stand I’ve come across, and I’ve seen my fair share. The PTA mums would be wild with envy.

‘A white wine spritzer and a Tennent’s, please, Eileen.’

Eileen shifts from one foot to the other, her nostrils flared. She looks from me to Ross and glowers, her burgundy lipstick disappearing in the thin line of her pursed lips. I scratch my arm and turn to smile at Ross, but he’s been sidetracked by John, who flicks peanuts in his mouth after each sentence. Inside the kitchen, Jacqui turns from the sink and peels off her Marigolds. She wears a deep green wrap dress and her signature scowl, which she aims in my direction.

‘Hi, Jacqui. Is Moira about?’

‘No.’ She opens the fridge and pulls out trays of beige food, garnished with clumps of parsley like a vintage Delia Smith cookbook.

‘Oh … is she OK? She was supposed to come over earlier.’

‘She hasn’t been out of her room all afternoon. In short, I don’t know if she’s coming. She barely said three words to me before I left,’ says Jacqui, using a fish slice to transfer the canapés onto a tray wrapped in tin foil.

Eileen drops a single ice cube in my glass. I pick it up with trepidation, but after a sip it’s clear that the ratio of wine to soda water is so disproportionate that a mosquito would struggle to get drunk if it fell inside. Ross leans over my shoulder, his wallet in hand.

‘I’ll get this,’ he says.

‘Honestly, let me.’ I stuff a fiver into the tub. ‘Cheers.’

We tap our glasses together and sip. It’s lukewarm and has a vinegar aftertaste, but it’ll do.

‘All right?’ Kian leans against the window sill, an empty glass in his hands. He has a loose stance, like his joints have been over-oiled.

‘Yeah, not bad. Hey, have you heard from Moira? Jacqui said she’s not coming,’ I say.

‘Eh? That’s odd. She’s never missed a ceilidh. She didn’t speak to me for bloody ages because I couldn’t come to the one she threw for her eighteenth birthday.’

My heart thumps and a prickly warmth creeps up the back of my neck.

‘Do you think she’s all right?’

Kian nods and tips beer foam into his mouth from his near-empty glass. He swallows a burp, his hand on his chest. ‘If she’s not here in fifteen, I’ll call her landline from the phone box outside.’

‘I’ll be back in a second, guys,’ says Ross, squeezing my hand before walking shoulder first through the crowd.

‘You look really tired,’ I say to Kian.

‘Nah, I’m fine.’

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’

‘Who?

‘Moira.’

‘She’s one of the best. Always has been. Always happy,’ he says, his lips twitching with a smile.

‘You two work so well together. You’re like Kilroch’s power couple.’ If she’s not here, the least I can do is talk her up. ‘Have you ever thought about giving it a proper go? With Moira?’

‘Ah, that ship is long gone,’ says Kian. ‘We’re family friends, you know? It would be weird. If I fucked it up, that would be that. You can’t go back to what you were before, right?’ Kian says something else, but I can’t hear him over the band.

‘What?’

‘Do you want to join in?’ he says, gesturing to the dance. It’s a couples dance I don’t recognise from our chicken coop rehearsals, but Kian assures me it’s an easy one, so we slot onto the end of the row. As the music builds, the dance gets faster and faster until Kian and I are cheered down the length of the hall, spinning in tight circles until we reach the fire exit. I laugh and clap along, gasping for breath, but Kian hasn’t fared so well. He bites his bottom lip, hands on knees, positively green.

‘Do you need some air?’ I ask.

Kian nods, his cheeks puffed up. I guide him out of the side door onto a pea-shingle path that lines the graveyard. Vomiting in public would be a real mood killer. I should know.

Kian paces like Big Bertha when she’s trying to find a good spot by the slops trough. He puts his hands on his hips and exhales a measured breath.

‘I’ve overdone it. It’s the