Part 2 (1/2)

'Sorry?'

'I got w.a.n.kered on wine last night, woke up and discovered I'd booked and partly packed for a trip to Melbourne leaving at about midnight.'

'As in Ramsay Street?'

I held the phone away from my throbbing head. 'Yes, as in Ramsay Street.'

'Cancel it, Ruby.'

'I can't. Well...I can, but there's an exorbitant fee attached to the privilege. I haven't had a holiday in...' I couldn't remember my last holiday.

'You don't take holidays, darling. You couldn't even come to our wedding without feeling the need to return to work,' said Fran, with an ounce or two of resentment. 'We're coming over with cupcakes. Is there anything you need me to do?'

'Could you put on your lawyer hat and determine whether I'm eligible for one of those online visas?'

'I'll do that. Call Aunt Daphne, darling. I think she lives near Melbourne or Sydney or something. She'll be able to recommend somewhere to stay. See you soon.'

I hobbled around my stinking flat in search of a pen to jot down a To Do list. On the back of a gas bill, I wrote: 1. Call Daphne 2. Shower 3. Ice toe 4. Dispose of empties; spray Air Wick 5. Confirm visa 6. Pack 6.1 Pack Toolkit 7. Go to airport 8. Buy newspaper 9. Inform parents.

My mother's sister, Daphne, is our family's black sheep. Mummy, the eldest of their clan, is a judge. Her brother, Benjamin, is in private practice. My late grandfather, who was a silk, was the son of an attorney-general.

Daphne 'owns a bakery in the colonies' (according to Grandma) and is a lesbian to boot. At Christmas, hers are the purple tissue-wrapped parcels adorned with koala gift tags, clas.h.i.+ng with the cream and gold theme of my grandmother's eight-foot fir. Mummy has long phone calls with Daphne where they laugh and reminisce like Fran and I do, but the rest of the family whisper her name as if she's deceased.

A barking dog answered Daphne's phone. 'Shut up, Pansy!' said a harsh Australian accent. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Daphne?'

'Who's calling?'

'Ruby.'

'Hold on a minute.' Stomp, stomp, stomp. 'Daph, phone. If it's a telemarketer tell them to f.u.c.k off or I'll report them. It's almost midnight.'

'Daphne speaking,' sang a voice that could easily have been my mother's.

'h.e.l.lo, Daphne,' I said, 'I'm sorry for calling so late. It's Ruby...your niece.'

'Ruby? How lovely to-' The barking continued. 'Shoosh, Pansy!' Silence. 'Sorry about that. My dog's pregnant. The vet says it's normal for her to bark at imaginary things. Ruby, how are you? Is Charlotte all right?'

'Mummy's fine. She and Daddy are at a human rights forum in Paraguay, I think.'

'She's wonderful, your mum. Now tell me about you, Ruby. I think the last time I saw you was when you reversed into the letterbox at Daddy's wake. Or was it Francesca?'

'It was Fran,' I said, recalling the look on my grandmother's face. I was sixteen and in the pa.s.senger seat. That was eleven years ago, when I was full of promise, not a notorious unemployed alcoholic banker.

'Your mother tells me you're doing very well at the bank. Your father must be very proud. How are you finding it?'

Ouch. 'As it happens, I'm no longer with the bank. I'm going on a holiday. To Australia. Melbourne actually. Tonight. Arriving Sat.u.r.day. Hence the call. Do you have time to catch up for a cup of tea while I'm there?'

'Of course. How wonderful, Ruby. I'd love to see you. Where are you staying?'

'I haven't booked anywhere yet-this trip is quite spontaneous. Is there somewhere you'd recommend?'

'With me, of course.'

'No, I wouldn't want to impose.'

'Nonsense, I won't have you being polite with me. I insist. Stay with Debs and me. She's just bought a nice house in the Yarra Valley. We're going to spend a couple of weeks out there.'

None of us had met Daphne's partner-'her beau', as Mummy puts it. 'Well, if it's not too much trouble,' I said, 'I'd love to go to the Yarra Valley.'

'No trouble at all,' she said. 'Text me your flight number and I'll pick you up from Tullamarine. Can't wait to see you. Love to Fran...'

I had made it to Item 4 on my list when Fran arrived. Clem's riotous ringlets sprayed out from under a rainbow beanie that captured every colour on her person from the orange Dora the Explorer pyjama top to the pale pink tutu and navy-blue ribbed tights.

'Clementine decided to dress herself this morning,' said Fran, pulling the long, dark-blonde hair I used to plait from the collar of her Burberry mac. 'You're going to be fine, Ruby,' she convinced herself, s.h.i.+fting her gaze from my left eye to my right. 'Everything's going to be fine.'

'Mummy,' said Clem, crouching on the floor, 'Aunty Wooby's toe is fat.'

'I kicked it,' I said.

'It looks like the cupcake I made you, Aunty Wooby.' Clem pulled out an old cake tin bearing the Queen Mother's rusty face and unveiled a squat cupcake smothered in red and yellow icing. 'See?' She handed it to me. The resemblance was uncanny.

'You need to ice and elevate this,' said Fran. 'Immediately. Sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea.' She waltzed into the kitchen, wincing at the sight of my lime-encrusted kettle.

Fran morphed into the kind of big sister she was when I was three-enabling and incapacitating all at once. While Clem jumped and then slept on my bed, Fran arranged a visa, registered my whereabouts with the Foreign Office, packed a change of clothes, strapped my toe, fed us a homemade supper, refilled my ice-trays and separated like items into labelled zip-lock bags.

'I'm not going on I'm a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here!' I reminded her. 'Melbourne is a rather large city.'

'Remember to thank me when you can find a clean pair of pants in an instant,' said Sister Superior.

Clem was snoring like a wild boar by the time we were ready to go to Paddington. Fran buckled her nasal pixie into the car seat as I switched off the boiler and bounced my suitcase down the stairs.

We pa.s.sed the kaleidoscope of sorbet-coloured houses on Elgin Crescent, the young couples at trendy Westbourne Grove restaurants, the late-night walkers with their iPods and knapsacks at Lancaster Gate before pulling in at Paddington Station.

Fran turned to me from the driver's seat. 'I'll miss you, Ruby.'

'Me too,' I said, attempting to suppress the anxiety building beneath my sternum.

'Bye, Aunty Wooby,' yawned Clem from the back seat.

I reached back to kiss her forehead. 'You look after your mummy for me, won't you?'

'Say h.e.l.lo to Kylie Danone,' yelled Clem out the window as I wheeled my bag inside.

I looked back and caught a glimpse of my sister blotting away a tear.