The Sisters (20 page)

We’re sprawled out on the stripy sun-loungers that are a permanent feature on the terrace since the heatwave. At our feet are empty glasses, half-eaten packets of crisps, an ashtray and a bottle of sunscreen that Ben earlier slathered over his freckled nose. His face is turned up to the cloudy sky, his eyes closed, although the sun isn’t strong enough to provide any real warmth and I’m covered up in jeans and a cardigan.

Both of us have skirted around the issue of Beatrice and the missing bracelet since I returned from the Isle of Wight. I’ve hardly seen her, it’s almost as if she’s been going out of her way to avoid me, and when we do bump into each other at breakfast, or pass each other on the stairs, our conversation is anodyne, courteous. In spite of everything, the cold-shouldering, the petulance over my relationship with her brother, her accusations, her stealing Lucy’s precious letters, the dead bird, the creepy photograph, I am sad that it’s come to this. In my weaker moments, I want to rush up to her, to apologize for everything that’s gone wrong and to resume our friendship. But I know that can never happen, not while I’m dating Ben. I was mistaken, thinking I could have them both. I’ve been too greedy.

I clear my throat, suddenly nervous about how to broach the subject with Ben, but I’m desperate to get those letters back, and short of returning the favour and going through Beatrice’s room, I’m at a loss as to what to do. The game I’ve been forced to play has reached stalemate.

Ben turns over on to his elbow, squinting up at me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘Uh oh, is this serious?’ he jokes. But he adjusts his lounger into an upright position, like mine, and stubs out his cigarette.

‘When I was in the Isle of Wight …’ I begin.

‘You met up with your ex-boyfriend,’ he finishes. His smile slips from his face and for a moment, a millisecond really, I glimpse another side to him. A side I haven’t seen before; hard probing eyes, set jawline; almost a completely different person. But, as quickly, it disappears and he’s Ben again. Warm, familiar, safe.

I can’t speak for a few seconds, I’m so surprised. ‘That’s not what I was going to tell you,’ I manage eventually.

‘It’s none of my business,’ he mutters, lowering his eyes. I want to reach out and touch him, tell him that he has nothing to be jealous about, but something stops me. ‘How did you know anyway?’

He shrugs. ‘Beatrice.’

‘How the hell does Beatrice know?’

He frowns as if the idea never occurred to him. ‘I don’t know, I assume you told her.’

I exhale in frustration. He’s blind, oblivious to the fact that Beatrice is barely speaking to me, that we’re involved in some bizarre power struggle over him.

It was you, wasn’t it, darling Bea? Sitting on the wall that day,
I think, silently fuming.
You did follow me to the Isle of Wight. But why? To cause trouble?

‘Why are you so angry?’ He swings his long legs over the edge of the lounger so that he’s facing me. ‘If anything, I should be angry with you.’

‘I thought you said it was none of your business,’ I snap.

‘You’re my girlfriend.’

‘So you wish I’d told you?’

He blinks. ‘Yes, I wish you’d told me.’

I clench my fists at my sides. ‘Beatrice is a stirrer.’ I feel an explosion of anger in my chest, the words spilling out of my mouth uncontrollably. ‘She hates that I’m your girlfriend. She wants you all to herself. She stole some letters that Lucy had written to me. They’re all I have left of her, Beatrice must realize how important they are to me. I know she’s been through my room. I know she put the dead bird on my bed to freak me out – you said yourself her cat is too fat and lazy to chase anything, let alone kill it. Do you know I found a photograph? It was a photo of me, I can tell because I’m wearing that white T-shirt of mine, with Blondie on the front. I don’t even know when the photo was taken. Or by whom.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘It had white scratch marks where my face should have been. Don’t you think that’s a bit threatening?’

He freezes, a look of horror on his face. It almost makes me want to laugh. But instead I say, ‘She’s trying to scare me. Maybe she’s hoping that I will move out, I don’t know. But it’s sick.’

He’s silent, processing what I’ve told him. Eventually he says calmly, ‘If she’s been through your room it’s because she thinks you’ve stolen her bracelet.’ He says this without raising his voice. ‘But I can’t believe she would plant a nasty photograph in your things. Bea isn’t vicious.’

I hesitate. ‘She’s been moving my antidepressants,’ I blurt out. ‘They never seem to be in the same place. And one time the packet was empty, as if someone had taken great pains to pop all the pills out of their blisters. I had to get an emergency supply. You know how dangerous it is to miss a dose, don’t you?’

He nods, but I see it. Disbelief. It passes over his face like a cloud over sunshine and I’m suddenly furious.

‘Do you know what I think?’ I don’t wait for him to answer. ‘I don’t think her bracelet is missing at all. I think she’s making it up to point the finger at me. To put you off me. And she’s obviously winning – you’re on her side. Twins stick together, don’t they? I should know that more than most,’ I laugh, although I don’t find it funny. ‘What was I thinking, getting involved with the two of you?’ Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back.

‘Abi,’ his voice is soothing, patient. It’s the voice of the doctors that treated me when I was on the psychiatric ward. ‘Of course I’m not on her side. Please don’t put me in the middle. I love you both.’

It’s the first time that Ben’s said he loves me. I can’t help it, a tear escapes and runs down my cheek. He reaches across and takes my hand. ‘Come here,’ he says, and I join him on his lounger, my legs snaking between his, my head on his chest. He strokes my hair back from my face, his other arm clamping me to him protectively and my anger vanishes along with my paranoia as I remember Callum’s warning. I can’t let my jealousy, my illness, ruin what I’ve got with Ben.

‘I’ll talk to her, I’ll sort it all out. Please don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’

I desperately want to believe him.

Later that night, as I’m walking up the stairs carrying a mug of tea and a plate of Eva’s chocolate cake, I hear raised voices coming from Beatrice’s bedroom. I pause, straining my ears, pleased that the walls are thinner than they appear. I can hear the low rumble of Ben’s Scottish drawl, but it’s indistinct so I can’t quite catch what he’s saying although I’m sure he mentioned my name. Then Beatrice’s higher-pitched tones, shrill with indignation. ‘Of course I haven’t got her precious letters.’ I can’t hear Ben’s reply but I know he will be defending me. He loves me. I can’t help smiling to myself as I push open my bedroom door with my foot.

Beatrice is already sitting at the wooden table when I come down for breakfast the next morning. She’s flicking idly through a newspaper, her slim fingers curved around her porcelain mug. She’s wearing a pink silk dressing gown, her face devoid of make-up, and I think how tired, how wan she looks. I switch on the kettle and stand at the worktop waiting for it to boil, my gaze firmly fixed on the window. A woman walks past, all I can see are her calves encased in sheer denier tights and nude heels. It sounds as if she’s talking on a mobile phone, some nebulous conversation that gets louder and clearer as she passes and then fades, along with the sound of her footsteps.

Beatrice doesn’t say a word until I’m sitting opposite her with my cup of tea. ‘Morning,’ she says, without looking up from her newspaper.

I mumble a greeting and take a sip of my tea. There is so much I want to ask her. How did she know I was meeting up with Callum? Had she followed me to the Isle of Wight intent on making trouble for me and Ben? Is she afraid I might take Ben away from her? Why is she trying to frighten me? I suspect it’s her, yet it still freaks me out. But I don’t know where to start, it all sounds so far-fetched, so ludicrous, even to me.

We are both silent for a while but the tension between us is palpable and I squirm in my seat. Where are the others? I know Ben’s gone to work today, but I haven’t seen Pam or Cass emerge from their bedrooms yet.

‘Beatrice,’ I say. My voice sounds strained in the quiet room and the mug in my hand trembles at the thought of confronting her, but I have to clear the air between us. I know where I stand with Ben now. He loves me and there is nothing Beatrice can do about it, despite her best efforts. ‘Can I ask you something?’

She lifts her head and I notice for the first time her puffy eyes, like she’s been crying. ‘Go ahead.’ She sounds unconcerned, bored.

‘When I was on the Isle of Wight I thought I saw you, at the beach. Were you there? Is that how you knew I met up with Callum?’

She stares at me, her eyes widening, and she shakes her head, emitting a bark of laughter that makes me uneasy, scared. ‘So this is the role you’ve cast for me is it, Abi? The jealous and possessive twin sister? What about the jealous and possessive girlfriend?’

‘I’m not jealous, or possessive.’ I think of Lucy, of Callum, and I know this is a lie.

‘Oh, Abi.’ She takes a deep breath, her eyes holding mine as if she’s trying to read my thoughts. ‘Who are you?’ she says eventually, and there is a kind of wonderment in her voice as if she is unsure of who I am. Sweat prickles my armpits.

‘What do you mean?’ My hand trembles so that hot liquid jumps out of the mug I’m holding and splashes on to the table. I put the mug down.

Beatrice is still staring at me, as if she’s baffled by me. ‘Oh, come on, Abi. You can stop the innocent act now. Ben’s not here, it’s only the two of us.’

I blink at her, confused.

She sighs. ‘Have it your way. I didn’t even know you went to the Isle of Wight. Why would I? You’ve hardly spoken to me for weeks.’ She pushes back her chair and folds her newspaper under her arm. ‘I feel sorry for you, Abi.’ She pauses as if considering if she should say what comes into her mind next, as if she’s worried that it might implicate her in some way. ‘But please, help yourself too. Take your medication.’ And with that she pads out of the room, her bare feet squeaking against the Bath stone, leaving me sitting at the table, alone.

I spend most of the day in my bedroom with my laptop, only venturing down to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup or to grab a sandwich. I bump into Eva in the kitchen making some sort of pie, her delicate hands busily kneading the dough, while Pam languishes by the Aga, chattering away so quickly in her broad accent that I doubt Eva is able to understand a word of what she’s saying. Neither of them acknowledge me as I prepare my lunch.

Miranda, pleased with my Patricia Lipton feature, has commissioned me to do a telephone interview with a well-known comedian. It turns out the comedian is only funny on television, his answers are monosyllabic and he moans about having a cold, which I infer is a euphemism for a hangover. Desperate to get away from the house, after I’ve finished interviewing him I put my laptop in my bag and walk to the little coffee shop in the high street, where I rattle off a thousand words and email it to Miranda.

Later, as the clouds obscure the sunshine, turning everything grey, I close my laptop and head back. I’ve had two cups of strong coffee and I’m shaky and bilious as I turn into the street. I slow down as I see them coming through the gate of number nineteen, Beatrice with one arm linked through Ben’s and the other clasping Cass’s hand, Pam and her boyfriend trailing behind. They turn left in the direction of the tennis courts and I watch their retreating backs, the squeal of laughter floating towards me, Beatrice’s head thrown back in glee, the proverbial Queen Bee, and I think that she’s winning. I can’t go back there. I’m no longer able to spend nights with Ben because of the sex ban, I’m no longer welcome to join in when Beatrice organizes some jaunt. She’s trying to push me out, she’s reminding me that they are all
her
friends, not mine. None of them are mine.

I turn back towards the high street, hoisting my bag firmly over my shoulder, and I keep walking, away from
that
house, away from them.

It’s a two-minute stroll from the bus stop, down a hill and past the canal with its many pretty barges and pubs overlooking the water. Rain, wispy and insubstantial, but the kind that can drench you in minutes, begins to fall.

My parents live in a terraced cottage in the village of Bathampton. It’s the type of cottage you read about in children’s books, with stone mullioned windows and roses around the door, the sort where a wolf is waiting to trick you, dressed in your grandmother’s clothes. But I know there are no wolves waiting to ensnare me here; I’ve left those at home. My mum answers the door, a surprised expression on her kind, familiar face, and as soon as I see her I burst into tears.

‘Abi?’ Her voice is sharp with alarm as she ushers me over the threshold and into their small square hallway. Dad comes rushing out of the sitting room and they both crowd around me, asking in urgent, panicked voices if I’m okay, asking if I’ve tried to harm myself. I tell them, through tears and snot, that of course I haven’t tried to kill myself and they laugh with relief, pushing me firmly by the shoulders into the armchair by the television. Their favourite programme,
Emmerdale
, has been paused so that a woman with black hair, her mouth open as if about to shout an insult, is frozen on the screen. Their pug, Belle, a deliberate misnomer even though we think she’s gorgeous, jumps on to my lap and begins nuzzling my armpit. I cuddle her to me, taking in her familiar malodorous doggy smell. She’s been in the family for nearly fifteen years and as I cling to her neck I often think how she must miss Lucy too. Although it’s the end of July, the wood burner is on and the room is stifling, but my parents can’t abide the cold; they always planned to emigrate when they retired, but they’ve decided against that now. Because of me. Dad sits on the adjoining sofa, not speaking, but watching me and Belle, waiting for me to talk. Mum returns with a cup of tea – her cure for everything – which she thrusts into my hands. ‘Ooh, you must be freezing, you’re only wearing a little T-shirt. I can see goosebumps on your arms,’ she says and rushes upstairs to retrieve a cardigan. It’s good to be here, to be looked after, and as I settle back in my seat with the dog on my lap, I wonder why I resisted moving back here. I glance up at the photographs that adorn the fireplace, my eyes halting on the graduation shot of Lucy. There are hardly any of us on our own, but this one, larger than the rest, domineering, taking precedence over the smaller six-by-four-inch frames, is the exception. Dr Lucy Cavendish.