I collapse back down, my head pounding.
“I’ll get you a painkiller,” Jess says distractedly—but she doesn’t move. She’s just standing there, lost in her own thoughts.
I can see I’ve got to her.
“You came up a mountain in a storm just to tell me this?” Jess says at last.
“Yes! Of course!”
She turns her head to look at me. Her face is paler than ever and kind of wary, as though someone’s trying to trick her.
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“Because . . . because it’s important! It matters to me!”
“No one’s ever done anything like that for me before,” she says, and immediately looks away, fiddling in the tin again. “Those cuts need antiseptic on them.”
She starts dabbing my legs with a cotton-wool pad, and I try not to flinch as the antiseptic stings my raw flesh.
“So . . . do you believe me?” I say. “Do you believe we’re sisters?”
For a few moments Jess just focuses on her feet, which are encased in thick socks and brown hiking boots. She raises her head and surveys my turquoise diamanté kitten heels, all scraped and covered in mud. My Marc Jacobs skirt. My ruined glittery T-shirt. Then she lifts her eyes to my bruised, battered face, and we just look at each other.
“Yes,” she says at last. “I believe you.”
Three extra-strong painkillers later, and I’m really feeling quite a lot better. In fact, I can’t stop gabbling.
“I knew we were sisters,” I’m saying, as Jess puts a plaster on my gashed knee. “I knew it! I think I’m a bit psychic, actually. I felt your presence on the mountain.”
“Mmm,” says Jess, rolling her eyes.
“And the other thing is, I’m getting quite similar to you. Like I was thinking I might crop my hair short. It would really suit me. And I’ve started taking a real interest in rocks—”
“Becky,” interrupts Jess. “We don’t have to be the same.”
“What?” I look at her uncertainly. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe we’re sisters.” She sits back on her heels. “But that doesn’t mean we both have to have cropped hair. Or like rocks.” She reaches for another plaster and rips it open.
“Or potatoes,” I add before I can stop myself.
“Or potatoes,” agrees Jess. She pauses. “Or . . . overpriced designer lipsticks that go out of fashion in three weeks.”
There’s a little glint in her eyes as she looks at me, and I gape in astonishment. Jess is teasing me?
“I suppose you’re right,” I say, trying to stay nonchalant. “Just because we’re biologically related, it doesn’t mean we both have to like boring workouts with water bottles instead of cool weights.”
“Exactly. Or . . . mindless magazines full of ridiculous ads.”
“Or drinking coffee out of a horrible old flask.”
Jess’s mouth is twitching.
“Or stupid rip-off cappuccinos.”
There’s a clap of thunder, and we both jump in fright. Rain is beating on the tent like drumsticks. Jess puts a final plaster on my legs and shuts the little tin.
“I don’t suppose you brought anything to eat?” she says.
“Er . . . no.”
“I’ve got some, but it isn’t much.” Her brow wrinkles. “Not if we’re stuck here for hours. We won’t be able to move, even when the storm’s died down.”
“Can’t you forage on the mountainside for roots and berries?” I say hopefully.
Jess gives me a look.
“Becky, I’m not Tarzan.” She hunches her shoulders and wraps her arms round her legs. “We’ll just have to sit it out.”
“So . . . you don’t take a mobile when you go climbing?” I venture.
“I don’t have one. I don’t usually need one.”
“I suppose you don’t usually have a stupid injured sister with you.”
“Not normally, no.” She shifts on the groundsheet and reaches behind her. “I picked up some of your stuff, by the way. It got scattered when you fell.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the handful of things from her. A mini hairspray. My manicure set. A compact.
“I couldn’t find your bag, I’m afraid,” adds Jess. “God knows where it went.”
My heart stops.
My Angel bag.
My two-thousand-euro movie-star bag. The bag that everyone in the world is clamoring for. After all that, it’s gone. Lost on a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
“It—it doesn’t matter.” Somehow I force myself to smile. “These things happen.”
With sore, stiff fingers I open my compact—and amazingly, the mirror’s still intact. Cautiously I take a look at myself and recoil. I look like a beaten-up scarecrow. My hair is everywhere, and both my cheeks are grazed, and there’s a huge lump on my forehead.
“What are we going to do?” I snap the compact shut.
“We’ll have to stay here until the storm dies down,” says Jess.
“Yes, but I mean . . . what shall we do? While we wait in the tent.”
Jess’s expression is unreadable.
“I thought we could watch When Harry Met Sally and eat popcorn,” she says.
I can’t help giggling. Jess does actually have a sense of humor. Underneath it all.
“Shall I do your nails?” I suggest. “I’ve got my stuff here.”
“Do my nails?” says Jess. “Becky . . . you realize we’re on a mountain.”
“Yes!” I say eagerly. “That’s the whole point! It’s extra-tough lacquer that lasts whatever you do. Look at this!” I show her the bottle of nail polish. “The model’s actually climbing a mountain in the picture.”
“Unbelievable,” says Jess, taking the bottle from me and peering at it. “And people fall for this?”
“Come on! What else are we going to do?” I pause innocently. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve got anything fun to do, like our accounts. . . .”
Jess’s eyes flash at me.
“OK,” she says. “You win. Do my nails.”
While the storm rages around us, we paint each other’s nails a bright sparkly pink.
“That’s great!” I say in admiration as Jess finishes my left hand. “You could be a manicurist!”
“Thanks,” she says dryly. “You’ve made my day.”
I wave my fingers in the torchlight, then get out my compact to admire my reflection.
“You need to learn to put one finger thoughtfully to your mouth,” I explain, demonstrating. “It’s the same when you get a new ring or bracelet. Just to let people see.” I offer her the mirror, but she turns away, her face closing up.
“No, thanks.”
I put away the compact, thinking hard. I want to ask her why she hates mirrors. But I have to put it tactfully.
“Jess . . .” I say at last.
“Yes?”
“Why do you hate mirrors?”
The only sound is the whistling of the wind. At last Jess lifts her head.
“I dunno,” she says. “I suppose because every time I looked into a mirror when I was young, my dad told me not to be vain.”
“Vain?” I look at her, wide-eyed. “What, every time?”
“Most of the time.” She shrugs, then sees my face. “Why? What did yours say?”
“My parents used to say . . .” Now I’m a bit embarrassed. “They used to say I was the most beautiful little angel who had ever fallen down from heaven.”
“Well.” Jess hunches her shoulders as though to say “Go figure.”
“God, you’re right,” I say suddenly. “I’ve been spoiled. My parents have always given me everything. I’ve never had to stand on my own two feet. Ever. I’ve always had people there for me. Mum and Dad . . . then Suze . . . then Luke.”
“I had to stand on my feet right from the word go,” says Jess. Her face is in the torch’s shadow, and I can’t make out her expression.
“He sounds quite . . . tough, your dad,�
� I say tentatively.
“Dad never really expressed emotion,” she says at last. “Never really told you when he was proud. He felt it,” she adds vehemently. “But in our family we don’t go blabbing about everything, the way you do.”
A sudden gust of wind loosens up a corner of the tent, blowing in a flurry of rain. Jess grabs the flap and reaches for a metal pin.
“I’m the same,” she says, banging the metal pin into the ground with a rock. “Just because I don’t say things doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.” She looks round and meets my eyes with a visible effort. “Becky, when I came to visit your flat, I didn’t mean to be unfriendly. Or . . . cold.”
“I should never have called you that,” I say in a flood of remorse. “I’m really sorry—”
“No,” Jess interrupts. “I’m sorry. I could have made more effort. I could have joined in.” She puts the rock down on the ground and gazes at it for a few seconds. “To be honest, I was a bit . . . unnerved by you.”
“Luke said you might find me overwhelming,” I say ruefully, and rub my head, which has started to throb again.
“You should sleep,” Jess says, watching me. “It’s the best healer. And the best painkiller. Here’s a blanket.” She gives me a sheet of something that looks like tinfoil.
“Well . . . OK,” I say doubtfully. “I’ll try.”
I put my head down in the least uncomfortable place I can find, and close my eyes.
But I can’t sleep. Our conversation is going round and round in my mind, with the lashing rain and flapping of the tent as a sound track.
I’m spoiled. I’m a spoiled brat.
No wonder Luke got pissed off. No wonder our marriage is a catastrophe. It’s all my fault.
Oh God. Suddenly tears are rising in my eyes, which is making my head throb even more. And my neck’s all cricked . . . and there’s a stone in my back. . . .
“Becky, are you OK?” says Jess.
“Not really,” I admit, my voice all thick and wobbly. “I can’t get to sleep.”
There’s no reply, and I think Jess can’t have heard, or doesn’t have anything to say. But a moment later I feel something next to me. I turn round, and she’s offering me a small white slab.
“It’s not peppermint creams,” she says flatly.
“Wh-What is it?” I falter.
“Kendal Mint Cake. Traditional climbing food.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and take a bite. It has a weird, sweet taste, and I’m not that keen, but I take a second bite, to show willingness. Then, to my horror, I feel tears starting up again.
Jess sighs, and takes a bite of Kendal Mint Cake herself. “What’s wrong?”
“Luke will never love me again,” I sob.
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true!” My nose is running and I wipe it with my hand. “Ever since we got back from our trip, it’s been a disaster. And it’s all my fault, I’ve ruined everything—”
“It’s not all your fault,” interrupts Jess.
“What?” I gape at her.
“I wouldn’t say it was all your fault,” she says calmly. “It takes two.” She folds up the Kendal Mint Cake wrapper, then unzips her backpack and slips it in. “I mean, talk about obsessed. Luke’s totally obsessed by work!”
“I know he is. But I thought he’d changed. On our honeymoon he was totally laid-back. Everything was perfect. I was so happy.”
Into my mind slips a memory of Luke and me, all brown and carefree. Holding hands. Doing yoga together. Sitting on the terrace in Sri Lanka, planning our surprise return. I had such high hopes. And nothing worked out the way I thought it would.
“You can’t be on honeymoon forever,” points out Jess. “It was bound to be a bit of a crash.”
“But I was so looking forward to being married,” I say with a gulp. “I had this image: we were all going to be sitting round the big wooden table in candlelight. Me, Luke, Suze . . . Tarquin . . . everyone happy and laughing. . . .”
“And what happened?” Jess gives me a shrewd look. “What happened to Suze? Your mum told me she was your best friend.”
“She was. But while I was away she . . . found someone else.” I focus on the flapping blue canvas, feeling a lump in my throat. “Everyone’s got new friends and new jobs and they’re not interested anymore. I . . . haven’t got any friends.”
Jess zips up her backpack and pulls the drawstring tight. Then she looks up.
“You’ve got me.”
“You don’t even like me,” I say dolefully.
“Well, I’m your sister,” says Jess. “I’ve got to put up with you, haven’t I?”
I raise my head, and there’s a glimmer of humor in her eyes. And warmth. A warmth I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
After a pause, I say, “You know, Luke wants me to be just like you.”
“Yep. Right.”
“It’s true! He wants me to be thrifty and frugal.” I put the rest of my Kendal Mint Cake down behind a rock, hoping Jess won’t notice. “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you. To be frugal.”
“Yes! Please.”
Jess rolls her eyes.
“For a start, if you’re going to be frugal, you won’t throw away a perfectly good piece of Kendal Mint Cake.”
“Oh. Right.” A bit shamefaced, I pick it up and take a bite. “Er . . . yummy!”
The wind is whistling with even more force, and the tent is flapping faster and faster. I pull Jess’s tinfoil blanket around me tighter, wishing for the millionth time I’d brought a cardigan. Or even a cagoule. Then all of a sudden I remember something. I reach into the pocket of my skirt—and I don’t believe it. The little lump is still there.
“Jess . . . this is for you,” I say, pulling it out. “I came to your house to give it to you.”
I hand Jess the little blue bag. Slowly she unties it and tips the silver Tiffany bean with its thin chain out onto her hand.
“It’s a necklace,” I explain. “I’ve got the same one—look.”
“Becky.” Jess looks stunned. “It’s . . . it’s really . . .”
For an awful moment I think she’s going to say unsuitable or inappropriate.
“Fab,” she says at last. “It’s fab. I love it. Thank you.”
She fastens the chain around her neck and I survey her with delight. It really suits her! What’s a bit weird, though, is that something about her face seems different. It’s kind of changed shape. Almost as if . . .
“Oh my God!” I exclaim in astonishment. “You’re smiling!”
“No, I’m not,” says Jess at once, and I can see her trying to stop—but she can’t. Her smile broadens, and she lifts a hand to finger the bean.
“Yes, you are!” I can’t help laughing. “You so are! I’ve found your weak point. You are a Tiffany girl at heart.”
“No, I’m not!”
“You are! I knew it! You know, Jess—”
But whatever I was about to say is drowned out by the howling wind, as, with no warning, the gale whips up one entire side of the tent.
“Oh my God!” I shriek, as drenching rain lands in my face. “Oh my God! The tent! Get it!”
“Shit!” Jess is hauling the flapping canvas down again and desperately trying to anchor it, but with another huge gust it blows right out of her grasp. It billows like a sailing ship, then disappears down the mountainside.
“What are we going to do now?” I have to shout just to be heard above the noise.
“Jesus Christ.” She rubs rain off her face. “OK. We have to find shelter. Can you get up?”
She helps me to my feet, and I can’t help crying out. My ankle is total agony.
“We’ll have to make for those rocks,” Jess says, gesturing through the rain. “Lean on me.”
The pair of us start half limping, half shuffling up the muddy slope, gradually getting into an odd kind of rhythm. I’m gritting my teeth against the pain, willing myself not to make a fuss.
&nbs
p; “Will anyone come to rescue us?” I manage between steps.
“Unlikely. We haven’t been out long enough.” Jess pauses. “OK. You need to get up this steep bit. Hold on to me.”
Somehow I make it up the rocky incline, aware of Jess’s strong grip holding me up. God, she’s in good condition. She could easily have climbed down out of the rain, it occurs to me. She could be safe and warm at home now.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say gruffly, as we start on our shuffle again. “Thanks for staying with me.”
“ ’S OK,” she says, without missing a beat.
The rain is billowing into my face, almost choking me. My head is starting to whirl again, and my ankle is excruciating. But I have to keep going. I can’t let Jess down.
Suddenly I hear a noise through the rain. But I must be imagining it. Or it’s the wind. It can’t be real. . . .
“Hang on.” Jess stiffens. “What’s that?”
We both listen. It is. It’s real.
The real chopper-chopper sound of a helicopter.
I look up—and lights are dimly approaching through the sleeting rain.
“Help!” I scream, and wave my arms frantically. “Here!”
“Here!” Jess yells, and thrusts her torch beam up, moving it about in the gloom. “We’re here! Help!”
The helicopter hovers above us for a few moments, then, to my dismay, it moves on.
“Didn’t . . . they see us?” I gasp.
“I don’t know.” Jess looks taut and anxious. “Hard to tell. They wouldn’t land here anyway. They’d land on the ridge at the top and come down by foot.”
We both stand motionless for a moment, but the helicopter doesn’t return.
“OK,” says Jess at last. “Let’s keep going. At least the rocks will shelter us from the wind.”
We start moving again, as before. But this time all my drive seems to have gone. I just feel exhausted. I’m drenched, and cold, and I have absolutely no reserves of energy left. We’re inching up the slope with a painful slowness, heads together, arms locked around each other, both panting and gasping as rain hits us in the face.
“Wait.” I stop still. “I can hear something.” I clutch Jess, craning my neck.
“What?”
“I heard something—”
I break off as a dim light flashes through the rain. It’s a distant torch beam. And I can hear the sound of movement down the mountain.
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