The Beach Hut Next Door (15 page)

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it.

And then a horrible thought occurred to him.

‘My wallet!’

His wallet. Oh hell – where was his wallet? It had a couple of hundred pounds in it, and his credit cards, his identification – everything. His heart started hammering and he felt sick as he looked wildly around.

He turned to the girl, hoping to appeal to her.

‘Look, it’s obvious. I’ve been stitched up. I’ve been lured here and … whoever she was has made off with all my cash. Oh shit – and she’ll have got my address. She’s probably back in London now, pinching the rest of my stuff—’

The girl was looking at him stonily, eyebrows raised. She clearly wasn’t buying any of it. She pointed to the floor behind him.

‘Is that it?’

He looked down and saw his wallet. He grabbed it, hot with relief. Everything was still intact.

‘Nice try,’ said the girl. ‘Now, how did you get in?’

Pip swallowed and tried to remember.

‘There was a key. Round the back. On a hook.’

Something registered in the girl’s face. The merest flicker of a realization.

‘What did she look like, this Edie?’

Pip paused to think for a moment.

‘About your size. Very … slight. Short blonde hair.’

‘Was she a bit … manic?’

‘Manic?’ Had she been manic? She’d been different, certainly. If anything, she’d reminded him of Tinkerbell in
Peter Pan
. Feisty and busy and slightly unpredictable. ‘Maybe …’

The girl gave a heavy sigh and ran her hands through her hair. ‘OK. This is all starting to make sense.’

‘Is it?’ asked Pip, mystified. And as he looked at her, he felt unsettled, for now he was focusing on her, he could spot similarities. The small, neat nose, the slight figure; a timbre in the voice. Just take away the cloud of curls … A slow realization began to dawn.

‘Is she … your sister?’

‘Yes. Except her name’s not Edie.’ The girl rolled her eyes. ‘It’s Fran. But that wouldn’t be glamorous enough. Not when she’s off on one of her …’

She waved her hands in the air, lost for a word to describe what she meant.

‘Her …?’

‘Look. Fran has … issues. She has episodes. When she goes off into the realms of total fantasy. I’m afraid you got swept up in one of her dramas. What did she tell you?’

Pip frowned. ‘Actually, not a lot. Not a lot at all. It was me who did most of the talking.’

‘That makes a change.’

‘She was very kind to me. Actually.’ Pip felt the need to defend Edie. Fran. Whoever she was. Even if she had done a runner and left him looking a fool. Luckily he was used to that.

Her sister smiled a weary, long-suffering smile. ‘God, I’m really sorry. You must think we’re both mad.’ She stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘I’m Mary. This is our family hut but we’re all kind of estranged from Fran. She can be really difficult. There was an incident last summer …’

‘An incident?’ Pip looked alarmed. He didn’t much want to think about it.

‘We haven’t heard from her since.’ Mary looked around the hut. ‘What time did you last see her?’

‘We went to bed about … two?’ Pip was flustered. ‘Not that kind of bed. Sleep bed. We didn’t … I didn’t …’

‘It’s OK,’ said Mary. ‘You’re both grown-ups. You can do what you like.’

Pip went pink at the thought that Mary might consider they’d had a night of torrid passion.

‘I met her in the library. We went for lunch. And she brought me here. It was a spur of the moment thing.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘That’s Fran for you. She can talk anyone into anything when she’s on a mission. She’s very persuasive.’

‘Yes. I didn’t really get much say. But it was wonderful. In a strange way.’

Mary gave a dismissive snort. She didn’t seem very impressed. Now he was properly awake, Pip could see how very like Edie she was. It was the mass of hair that disguised it, and the glasses, and the hoodie and jeans. He couldn’t help laughing.

‘This is crazy. Twenty-four hours ago I was sitting in the library minding my own business. Now I don’t even know where I am. It’s crazy. No one would believe it if I told them.’

Mary interrupted, crisp, ‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not in some kooky Richard Curtis film with a happy ending. You got away lightly, before she got her claws into you and then had a meltdown.’

Pip grimaced. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes. It’s never pretty.’ Mary looked at her watch. ‘I need to contact my parents. Get them to track her down. Make sure she’s OK.’ She tilted her chin upwards. ‘I don’t have anything to do with her any more. But it’s not as if I don’t care.’

‘No, I’m sure you care. Is there anything I can do?’

It was in Pip’s nature to be helpful. Mary looked at him steadily, wrong-footed by his apparent concern.

‘Just count yourself lucky and get a cab to the station.’

‘Of course.’ Pip realized that making himself scarce was the wisest course. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him, ever. He wasn’t sure how to handle it. ‘Um – would you mind if I used the bathroom first?’

A flicker of irritation passed over Mary’s face. Of course she wanted him gone as quickly as possible. ‘Yes, yes. Hurry up.’

‘Thanks.’ Pip scuttled into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. He flipped up the loo seat and began to pee, staring at himself in the shell-encrusted mirror on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was completely baffled. He didn’t know what to make of the situation at all.

On the other side of the door, Mary prowled the hut in fury. Bloody Fran. It was typical of her. Toying with people. Playing with them. Not giving a thought to the consequences. Whoever her latest victim was, he seemed sweet – and absolutely not Fran’s usual type. He was genuinely mortified at being caught and couldn’t wait to get away.

Just like Sven last summer. The memory still made Mary weak with fury.

The trouble with Fran was she felt she had the right to judge, and that she knew better than everyone else about most things. That she was tuned in to something that no one else was. That she was special. Which wasn’t surprising, given that their parents had always made her feel that way. They had long given up any hope of taming her, or expecting her to follow any conventional path. They veered between benign bemusement and outright amusement at her antics, only occasionally tipping over into genuine concern when Fran went a step too far. But then they didn’t know the half of it. It was Mary who was usually party to the fallout from Fran’s games and escapades and covered up for her. Dramas in pubs and at parties; showdowns and confrontations. Mary was never quite sure why she always felt the need to protect her, but she had a sisterly loyalty she couldn’t ignore. It was exhausting.

She had once sat her parents down and told them she thought Fran should go to a psychiatrist.

‘I think she’s bi-polar,’ she told them. ‘Or manic-depressive. I’ve looked into it. There are patterns to her behaviour. Cycles.’

They couldn’t see it. Because Fran was beautiful and beguiling and charming, they thought she was ‘spirited’, or ‘eccentric’.

‘Frances is her own person,’ her mother always said. As if Mary herself wasn’t, Mary thought, exasperated.

‘How can somebody who is perfectly intelligent, but can’t pass an exam, or hold down a job, or a relationship, not have something wrong with them?’ she demanded.

‘She’ll settle down eventually,’ her father said.

‘Yes, but how many people will get hurt along the way?’ asked Mary.

They didn’t see the damage Fran did, the havoc she wreaked. The incident with Sven was the first real evidence they’d had, and even then they chose to swallow Frances’ implausible story: that she was saving Mary.

Sven and Mary met at a Shakespeare summer school she was teaching at just after leaving university. She was besotted; he seemed to be so. They agreed to spend the second half of the summer in England at the beach hut, then head off to Sweden.

Fran took an instant dislike to Sven, and made her mistrust as clear as a cat, skirting round him with distaste.

‘He’s tight,’ she complained to Mary. ‘He never puts his hand in his pocket for anything. He’s taking you for a ride. Why wouldn’t he? The chance of a summer by the seaside in England, all expenses paid?’

‘He’s a poor student, like me,’ protested Mary. ‘I’m sure he’ll repay the hospitality once we’re in Sweden.’

‘And he’s not interested in anyone but himself,’ Fran went on. ‘He drones on and on and doesn’t ask any questions or interact.’

‘He’s shy. And he doesn’t feel his English is that good.’

‘Rubbish. He’s fluent. All Swedes are. And he’s lazy. He’d stay in bed all day given half the chance.’

‘So what? It’s the holidays!’

‘He just lets you get up and do all the skivvying and the shopping while he sits on his arse.’

Mary ignored her. Yet Fran’s observations began to niggle at her. She did notice Sven holding court while people glazed over slightly. She observed how adept he was at avoiding a round when they went to the Ship Aground for a few drinks. And he never cleared away the breakfast things, or set the table for lunch, or helped wash up.

Then Fran showed her what she’d found on Facebook. She had trawled religiously through every one of Sven’s friends, and found a girl whose information read ‘In a relationship with Sven Jansson’. And the girl’s Facebook status she had run through Google Translate which effectively read: ‘Only twelve more sleeps until Sven Jansson comes home’.

‘Maybe she’s just a friend!’ shouted Mary.

‘Maybe you’re just an idiot!’ Fran shouted back.

‘Maybe you’re just jealous?’ Sven, for all his possible faults, was blond and tanned and better looking than Mary felt she deserved.

Fran gave a dismissive snort and slammed the lid of the laptop down as Sven came in.

‘Oh, how kind, Sven, you shouldn’t have,’ she said sweetly.

‘Shouldn’t have what?’ he asked.

‘Exactly.’ She swept out of the hut.

Mary gave an apologetic shrug.

‘What’s the matter with your sister?’ asked Sven.

‘We’ve been trying to figure that out for years.’

Two days later, Mary came back from a shopping trip to find Fran in flagrante delicto on the bottom bunk with Sven.

‘Wow,’ gasped Fran. ‘I can see why you put up with him.’

Mary dropped her shopping and fled.

Twenty-four hours later, Sven was on a plane back to Sweden and Mary had thrown Fran out of the beach hut.

‘I wanted you to see what he was.’ Fran was defiant.

‘You wanted him for yourself. You couldn’t bear the fact that I finally had a good-looking boyfriend, and you were jealous.’

Frances went white. ‘Why doesn’t anyone understand me?’

‘Because you’re a fuck-up.’

‘Do you really want a boyfriend who is happy to get it on with your sister? He didn’t take much persuading.’

‘I don’t want a sister who is happy to let my boyfriend “get it on” with her.’ Mary could hardly bear to say it.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘I get that you are a crazy, destructive lunatic.’

‘I saved you from him. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else. Lots of someone elses, probably. I can’t bear to see you being made to look a fool.’

‘You can’t bear to see me happy.’

Fran stared at her, fists clenched. ‘Why does no one ever understand me?’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Mary put her face up close. ‘I totally understand you. Now get out. Before I kill you.’

Fran’s face crumpled. There was distress and grief and despair etched in every line. Mary’s face, by contrast, was made of stone. Smooth and expressionless.

‘Stop with the stage school act,’ she said. ‘You’ve finally been exposed for what you are.’

‘And Sven. What about him? What’s he?’

Mary held her head high. ‘Another victim. Another one of your pawns.’

Fran pointed at her as she left. ‘You’ll figure it out. You’ll think about it and you’ll realize I’m right and that I was trying to protect you.’

‘Fran,’ said Mary. ‘Fuck off.’

Even now, she could feel Fran’s presence in the hut; a ghostly shadow looking over her shoulder. She could smell her perfume in the air. If she listened hard enough she felt sure she would be able to hear her laughing. She shivered and brushed at her arms, as if to sweep her away.

Yet a year later on, she had to admit to herself that Fran had been right. She herself had trawled the Facebook photos. Seen pictures of Sven pop up week after week of him with a girl. She couldn’t speak a word of Swedish, but she could see they were deeply in love. The realization had made her doubly sick. Sick that she had been betrayed by Sven, and that she had mistrusted her sister. Yet why had Fran chosen such a cruel way to prove her point?

Because it was typical of Fran, to prove that she was irresistible. Even though she was proving to Mary Sven was a cheat, she had to prove that he would be powerless if she chose to lure him. It was so, so subtle, Fran’s one-upmanship of Mary. It exhausted her.

She didn’t know who this latest victim was, or what role he was playing in Fran’s fantasy life, but he was certainly taking a long time in the bathroom.

It was then she saw the note on the table. Propped up against the blue spotted vase that was empty of flowers. She walked over and picked it up. It was written in brown ink in Fran’s wild and erratic writing – the writing that suited her personality so well; all swirls and dashes and ellipses.

I knew … I knew as soon as I saw him – just as I knew about Sven. But this one is right for you – I promise. Treasure him …
F xxxxxx

Mary took in a breath. The paper shook in her hand as things started falling into place. The unexpected visitor certainly wasn’t the type she would expect Fran to drag back to her cave to devour. He was far too gentle. Too polite. Fran favoured men with tattoos and piercings and attitude. Not rather cuddly teddy bears with lovely smiles and even lovelier manners.

Pip came out of the bathroom looking rather abashed.

‘I’ll shoot off then. Although I’m not even sure where we are. I didn’t take much notice yesterday.’