‘You’re not very good at this, are you?” It was 2008, when I was 30 and temporarily in charge of my 13-year-old cousin. Those words, spoken as she perched like an avenging angel by the Magimix in my parents’ kitchen, were her verdict on how I was shaping up.
Megan as she was then – she switched to her middle name, Ennea, at 18 – had been dealt a rough hand. She had lost her mum aged six, her dad when she was 11, and was now living with my sixtysomething parents – who were off having a little breather for a week.
Beforehand, I had been excited. My friends and I were still largely footloose. Children had novelty and anecdote-in-the-pub value. Perhaps even a little cachet? This will be great, I thought. I’ll spend a week being, you know, sage and cool and firm and fair. More fool me, as they say.
She didn’t want to go to school – she had a cold and school was horrible – but I said she had to. She wasn’t interested in my peppy exploration of negative numbers. Why couldn’t I just do her maths homework, as quickly as possible, so she could watch television? And why wouldn’t I sleep in her room? The house was old and creaky and scary. What was the big deal? Why wouldn’t I?
It got worse. On the Thursday, all jolly-jolly, I said it was movie night. I said we should watch Thelma & Louise, picturing a wholesome lesson in female solidarity. She wanted to watch something else. I pressed play on my choice.
Now, Thelma & Louise is obviously amazing. I was nearly 14 when I first watched it, just about old enough to process the ugliness of the attempted rape scene near the start. Megan was too young. I realised I had made a mistake, but didn’t turn it off. I didn’t say: “Look, sorry, I’m being a massive idiot, let’s watch your trashy film instead and I’ll sleep in your room. Let’s sack off school tomorrow, because it’s just a day. And who knows what I’m ever going to be to you, but one thing’s for sure, I’m not your keeper, so I’ll just back right up, shall I?”
Why didn’t I? Because I thought I was doing the right and proper thing, along with all the other right and proper things: the right A-levels, the right university, the right graduate scheme. But this thing – doing right by my little cousin – this I properly sucked at.
Driving her home from school the next day, up a long, winding hill, I had to stop at a T-junction on the lip of a steep slope. I attempted a hill-start, but stalled. I tried again. Stalled again. And again – and again – and again. A Land Rover behind honked, swerved round us and roared off into the distance. Again I tried.
She was in fits of hysterics. Laughing at myself wasn’t my strongest suit back then, but pretty soon I was in hysterics, too. It took me, and I swear I’m not exaggerating, 24 goes to get the car to bite. And with that, something between us reset. I could no longer cosplay the omniscient grownup. I was just a klutz who couldn’t work a clutch.
That night she wanted to make us a three-course meal – light candles, use the fancy plates. Idiot-me thought: urgh, mess, hassle, no way. Reset-me said: Yes, sure, great plan, and we’ve never looked back.
If we were Russian (I lived there in my mid-20s), I wouldn’t even call her my cousin. I would call her my sister once removed, or just my sister, which is – luckily – what she has become. Superficially, like many sisters, removed or otherwise, we’re pretty different. She’s got innate business savvy, fighting post-Brexit red-tape to start Whim, her ethical swimwear brand. I’m a writer, AKA a business wormhole. She’s got an innate sense of style. I’m winning if I’m washed. And she’s got innate zest, fizzing at parties on nothing stronger than elderflower cordial. I’m an inveterate gen-X boozer.
But none of that matters. As soon as I stopped trying to be the boss of her, we started to have fun together – and that is what we’ve been doing ever since. We’re even neighbours. In fact, we just walked our dogs together. She told me the day’s gossip. I told her I was writing this. “Great,” she said. “Work that orphan magic!”
• The Book of Eve by Meg Clothier is published by Wildfire (£16.99). To support the Guardian, order a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
