“When you left the meeting we had a quick straw poll,” says Robin. “And it was practically unanimous. We’d like to invite you onto the action committee. Everyone’s waiting back at the hall, to hear.”
All their faces are so warm and friendly, I feel tears pricking at my eyes.
“I can’t.” I look away. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. There’s no need for me to be in Scully anymore. I’ve got to get back to London.”
“Why’s that, then?” says Jim.
“I have . . . things to do,” I say. “Commitments. You know.”
“What commitments would they be?” Jim says mildly. “You don’t have a job. Your husband’s abroad. Your flat’s empty.”
This is why you shouldn’t pour out your entire sob story to people you’ve just met. I gaze at Edie’s pink and purple swirly carpet, trying to get my thoughts straight. Then I raise my head.
“What does Jess think about all this?”
I look around the group, but no one replies. Robin won’t quite meet my eyes. The white-haired man is gazing at the ceiling. Jim just has that same sad expression he had at the village hall.
“I bet she’s the only one who voted against me, isn’t she?” I try to smile, but my voice wobbles.
“Jess has . . . certain opinions,” begins Robin. “But she doesn’t have to come into it—”
“She does! Of course she does! She’s the whole reason I’m here! Look, I’m sorry. But I can’t come on your committee. I hope your protest goes really well . . . but I can’t stay.”
I can see Robin drawing breath to speak again.
“I can’t.” I look directly at Jim. “You have to understand. I can’t.”
And I can see it in his eyes. He does understand.
“Fair enough,” he says at last. “It was worth a try.” He nods at the others as though to say “It’s over.”
They awkwardly murmur goodbyes and good lucks and file out of the little room. The front door bangs shut and I’m left alone, feeling flatter than ever.
When I wake up the next morning the sky is dark and swollen with gray clouds. Edie serves me a full English breakfast complete with black pudding, but I manage only a cup of tea. I pay her with the rest of my cash, then head upstairs to get ready to leave. Out the window I can just see the hills in the distance, stretching into the mist.
I’ll probably never see those hills again. Which is fine by me, I think defiantly. I hate the country. I never wanted to be here in the first place.
I put the last of my things in my red case, then decide to change into my turquoise kitten heels with diamanté straps. They always make me feel cheerful. As I step into them I feel something small and nubby under my toes and reach down, puzzled. I pull out a small wrapped object and look at it in sudden realization.
It’s the bean. It’s the silver Tiffany bean necklace that I was going to give Jess, still in its little blue bag.
God, that seems a lifetime ago.
I shove it into my pocket, then pick up my cases and stripy hatbox and head downstairs, passing the pay phone in the hall.
Maybe I should call Luke. . . . But then, what’s the point?
Edie’s nowhere to be seen, so I just pull the door of the bed-and-breakfast closed behind me and trundle my cases across the green to the shop. I want to say goodbye to Jim before I leave.
As I push open the door with its familiar tinkle, Jim looks up from pricing cans of beans. He sees my suitcases and gives a resigned nod.
“So you’re off.”
“Yes. I’m off.”
“Don’t go!” Kelly says mournfully from behind the counter, where she has Julius Caesar propped up behind 100 Hot Hair Styles.
“I have to.” I put my cases down. “But I’ve got some more Stila stuff for you. A goodbye present.”
As I hand her a selection of lip glosses and eye glazes, her face lights up.
“I’ve got a present for you too, Becky,” she says abruptly. She pulls a friendship bracelet off her wrist and hands it to me. “So you won’t forget me.”
I’m unable to speak. The simple plaited band in my hand is just like the bracelets Luke and I were given in the Masai Mara ceremony. Luke took his off when he went back to corporate life.
I’ve still got mine on.
“That’s . . . fab.” I rouse myself and smile. “I’ll always wear it.” I slip it onto my wrist and give Kelly a tight hug.
“I wish you weren’t going.” Kelly’s bottom lip sticks out. “Will you ever come back to Scully?”
“I don’t know,” I say after a pause. “I don’t think so. But listen, if you ever come to London, give me a call. OK?”
“OK.” Kelly brightens. “Can we go to Topshop?”
“Of course!”
“Should I start saving now?” Jim says ruefully, and we both start giggling.
A tinkle at the door interrupts us and we all look up to see Edie walking into the shop in her green head scarf, together with Lorna and the well-dressed lady from the night before. They’re all looking exceedingly self-conscious.
“Edie!” says Jim, glancing at his watch in surprise. “What can I do for you?”
“Morning, Jim,” says Edie, avoiding his eye. “I’d like some bread, please. A wholemeal and a bloomer.”
“Bread?” says Jim, looking dumbfounded. “But Edie . . . it’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“I know the time, thank you,” she retorts stiffly.
“But . . . it’s full price.”
“I’d like some bread,” she snaps. “Is that too much to ask?”
“Of . . . course not!” says Jim, still looking dazed. He gets down the loaves and wraps them in paper. “That’ll be . . . one pound ninety-six.”
There’s a pause, and I can hear Edie breathe in sharply. Then she rummages in her bag for her purse and unclips it.
“Two pounds,” she says, handing over the coins. “Much obliged.”
I do not believe it. Kelly and I just sit there, goggling in silence, as the other two women buy three loaves of bread and a bag of sandwich rolls between them. Lorna even throws in a couple of Chelsea buns at the last moment.
As the door closes behind them, Jim sinks down onto his stool.
“Well. Who would have thought it?” He shakes his head in wonder, then points at me. “That’s you, Becky.”
“It’s not me,” I say, flushing a little. “They probably just needed bread.”
“It was you!” says Kelly. “It was what you said! Mum told me all about the meeting,” she adds. “She said you seemed a nice girl, even if you were a bit—”
“Kelly,” Jim puts in quickly. “Why don’t you make Becky a cup of tea?”
“No, it’s OK. I’m going.” I hesitate, then reach into my pocket and pull out the little Tiffany bag. “Jim, I wanted to ask you a favor. Could you give this to Jess? It’s something I bought for her a while ago. I know everything’s different now . . . but still.”
“I’m heading up to her house just now, to take a delivery,” says Jim. “Why not leave it there yourself?”
“Oh.” I shrink back. “No. I . . . I don’t want to see her.”
“She won’t be there. They’ve all gone off for the endurance hike. I’ve got a key to her house.”
“Oh, right.” I hesitate.
“I could do with the company,” Jim adds with a shrug, and picks up a sack of potatoes.
“Well . . .” I put the Tiffany bag back in my pocket. “OK. I’ll come.”
The clouds are growing thicker as we walk along the empty streets, and I can feel spots of rain on my face. I’m aware of Jim shooting me the odd concerned glance.
“You’ll be all right, back in London?” he says eventually.
“I guess.”
“Have you spoken to your husband?”
“No.” I bite my lip. “I haven’t.”
Jim pauses, and transfers his potatoes to the other shoulder.
“So,” he says easily. “How did
a nice girl like you end up with a marriage in trouble?”
“It’s my own fault. I did some . . . stupid things. And my husband got really angry. He said . . . he said he wished I were more like Jess.”
“Did he?” Jim looks a bit taken aback. “I mean, Jess is a fine lass,” he hastily amends. “But I wouldn’t have . . . anyway, that’s not here or there.” He coughs and rubs his nose.
“That’s why I came up here. To learn from her. But it was a stupid idea.”
We’ve reached the end of Jess’s street, and Jim pauses for a rest before climbing the steep incline. The gray stone houses are glistening in the drizzle, stark against the distant misty hills. I can just see a flock of sheep grazing high up, like dots of cotton wool on the green.
“Too bad about you and Jess,” says Jim, and he does sound genuinely sorry. “It’s a shame, that is.”
“It’s just one of those things.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I should have known all along. We’re so different.”
“You’re different, all right.” His face crinkles in amusement.
“She just seems so . . . cold.” I hunch my shoulders, feeling a familiar resentment rising. “You know, I made every effort. I really did. But she never showed any pleasure . . . or feelings, even. She doesn’t seem to care about anything! She doesn’t seem to have any passions!”
Jim seems surprised.
“Oh . . . Jess has got passions,” he says. “She’s got passions, all right. When we get to the house, I’ll show you something.”
He picks up the sack of potatoes and we resume walking up the hill. As we get nearer Jess’s house, I start to feel tiny prickles of curiosity. Not that she’s anything to do with me anymore, but still.
As we reach the door, Jim roots in his pocket for a large key ring, selects a Yale key, and unlocks it. I walk into the hall and look around. But the place doesn’t give much away. It’s a bit like Jess herself. Two tidy sofas in the sitting room. A plain white kitchen. A couple of well-tended potted plants.
I head upstairs and cautiously push open the door to her bedroom. It’s immaculate. Plain cotton duvet cover, plain cotton curtains, a couple of boring prints.
“Here.” Jim is behind me. “You want to see Jess’s real passion? Take a look at this.”
He heads over to a door set into the wall of the landing, then turns the key and beckons me over.
“Here are the famous rocks,” he says, swinging the door open. “She had this cupboard made especially to house them. Designed it herself down to the last detail, lights and all. Makes an impressive sight, don’t you think . . .” He trails off in surprise at my face. “Becky? Are you OK, love?”
I can’t speak.
It’s my shoe cupboard.
It’s my shoe cupboard, exactly. The same doors. The same shelves. The same lights. Except instead of shoes displayed on the shelves, there are rocks. Rows and rows of carefully labeled rocks.
And . . . they’re beautiful. Some are gray, some crystal, some smooth, some iridescent and sparkling. There are fossils . . . amethysts . . . chunks of jet, all shiny under the lights. . . .
“I had no idea. . . .They’re stunning.”
“You’re talking about passion?” Jim laughs. “This is a true passion. An obsession, you might say.” He picks up a speckled gray rock and turns it over in his fingers. “You know how she got that leg injury of hers? Clambering after some blasted rock on a mountain somewhere. She was that determined to get it, she’d risk her own safety.” Jim grins at my expression. “Then there was the time she was arrested at Customs, for smuggling some precious crystal in under her jumper. . . .”
I gape at him.
“Jess? Arrested?”
“They let her off.” He waves a hand. “But I know she’d do it again. If there’s a particular kind of rock that girl wants, she has to have it.” He wrinkles his brow in amusement. “She gets a compulsion. It’s like a mania! Nothing’ll stop her!”
My head is spinning. I’m staring at a row of rocks, all different shades of red. Just like my row of red shoes.
“She keeps all this pretty quiet.” Jim puts down the speckled rock. “I guess she thinks people wouldn’t understand—”
“I understand.” I cut him off in a shaky voice. “Completely.”
I’m trembling all over. She’s my sister.
Jess is my sister. I know it more certainly than I’ve ever known anything.
I have to find her. I have to tell her. Now.
“Jim . . .” I take a deep breath. “I need to find Jess. Right away.”
“She’s doing the sponsored endurance hike,” Jim reminds me. “Starts in half an hour.”
“Then I have to go,” I say in agitation. “I have to see her. How do I get there? Can I walk?”
“It’s a fair way away,” Jim says, and cocks his head quizzically. “Do you want a lift?”
Twenty-one
I knew we were sisters. I knew it. I knew it.
And we’re not just sisters—we’re kindred spirits! After all those false starts. After all those misunderstandings. After I thought I would never have one single thing in common with her, ever.
She’s the same as me. I understand her.
I understand Jess!
Everything Jim said chimed a chord. Everything! How many times have I smuggled pairs of shoes in from America? How many times have I risked my own safety at the sales? I even got a leg injury, just like her! It was when I saw someone heading for the last reduced Orla Kiely purse in Selfridges, and I leapt off the escalator from about eight steps up.
God, if I’d just seen her rock cupboard earlier. If I’d known. Everything would have been different! Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t she explain?
Abruptly I have a memory of Jess talking about rocks on our first-ever meeting . . . and again at the flat. And I feel ashamed. She did try. I just didn’t listen, did I? I didn’t believe her when she said they were interesting. I said rocks were . . . stupid. And boring. Just like her.
“Can we go any faster?” I say to Jim. We’re rattling along in his ancient Land Rover, past grassy slopes and drystone walls, heading higher and higher into the hills.
“Going as fast as we can,” he says. “We’ll be in time, easy.”
Sheep are scattering off the road as we thunder along, and small stones are hitting the windscreen. I glance out the window—and quickly look away. Not that I’m afraid of heights or anything, but we seem to be approximately three inches away from a steep drop.
“All right,” says Jim, pulling into a small parking area, with a crunch of gravel. “This is where they’re starting. And that’s where they’re climbing.” He points to the steep mountain looming above us. “The famous Scully Pike.” His phone rings, and he reaches for it. “Excuse me.”
“Don’t worry! Thanks!” I say, and wrench open the door. I get out and look around—and just for a moment I’m floored by the scenery.
Craggy rocks and peaks are all around, interspersed with patches of grass and crevasses, and all are overshadowed by the mountain—a stark, jagged outline against the gray sky. As I peer across the valley, I feel a sudden swooping, a bit like vertigo, I suppose. I honestly hadn’t realized quite how high up we are. There’s a little cluster of houses visible far below, which I guess is Scully, but apart from that, we could be in the middle of nowhere.
Well, come to think of it, we are in the middle of nowhere.
I hurry across the gravel to a small level patch where a table has been set up, with a banner reading SCULLY ENVIRONMENTAL GROUP ENDURANCE HIKE, REGISTRATION. Behind the table two yellow flags mark the foot of a path leading up the mountain. A man I don’t recognize is sitting at the table in an anorak and flat cap. But apart from that, the place is empty.
Where is everybody? God, no wonder they don’t have any money, if no one turns up for the sponsored walks.
“Hi,” I say to the man in the anorak. “Do you know where Jess Bertram is? Sh
e’s one of the walkers. I really need to speak to her.”
I’m totally wound up with anticipation. I cannot wait to tell her! I cannot wait to see her face!
“Too late, I’m afraid,” the man says, and gestures up the mountain. “She’s gone. They’ve all gone.”
“Already? But . . . the hike starts at eleven. It’s only five to!”
“It started at half past ten,” corrects the man. “We brought it forward because of the poor weather. You’ll have to wait. It’ll only be a few hours.”
“Oh.” I subside in disappointment and turn away. “All right. Thanks.” It’ll be OK. I can wait. I can be patient. It’s not that long, really, a few hours.
Yes, it is. A few hours is ages. I want to tell her now. I gaze up at the mountain in frustration, only to spot a couple in matching red anoraks, a few hundred yards up. They’ve got bibs with SCULLY ENVIRONMENTAL GROUP on them. They’re part of the hike. And look, a little beyond them, there’s a man in blue.
My mind is working quickly. They haven’t got that far. Which means Jess hasn’t got that far either. Which means . . . I could catch up with her. Yes!
This kind of news can’t wait a few hours. I mean, we’re sisters. We’re real, genuine sisters! I have to tell her immediately.
I hoist my Angel bag firmly on my shoulder, hurry to the start of the steep mountain path, and look up at it. I can climb this. Easy. There are rocks to hold on to and everything. I take a few tentative steps—and it’s not hard at all.
“Excuse me?” The man in the anorak stands up in agitation. “What are you doing?”
“I’m joining the hike. Don’t worry, I’ll sponsor myself.”
“You can’t join the hike! What about your shoes!” He points at my turquoise kitten heels in horror. “Do you have a cagoule?”
“A cagoule?” I pull a face. “Do I look like someone who would have a cagoule?”
“What about a stick?”
“I don’t need a stick,” I explain. “I’m not old.”
Honestly. It’s only walking up a hill. What’s the fuss?
Just to prove it to him, I start clambering up the path in earnest. The ground is a bit slimy with drizzle, but I stick my kitten heels into the mud as hard as I can and grab on to the rocks lining the path—and in about two minutes I’m already past the first bend.
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 126