by Jane Robins
“Felix! Callie, you shouldn’t . . .” She blinks unnaturally, and scratches her left hand and her arm.
“Oh crap. . . . It slipped out.”
“Oh well.”
After lunch she shows me around York; we visit several old churches and then the shops, stopping at Marks & Spencer to buy food for a picnic and a bottle of Frascati wine that’s on special offer. As the sun goes down, we make our way to the vigil by York Minster. It’s busy already, with people sitting in groups on the grass, some of them holding posters with Chloey’s face and the words End Male Violence and Enough Is Enough. Most of the crowd is young and dressed for an indie music festival or an environmental protest. Beside us, an older scrawny guy with a one-eyed dog and a guitar sits on a crate and sings “Hey Jude,” while a fair-haired girl with dreadlocks and piercings and a bare stomach drifts about handing out cupcakes. A breeze sends scraps of debris, mainly food wrappings, swirling around the ground, causing an herby fragrance to come and go. I turn to Belle:
“What do they think this is—a party?”
She ignores me and says, “Look, there’s a lovely spot.”
Belle has a fleece blanket in her jute bag. We set it down, then lay out our food: prawn cocktail sandwiches with salt-and-vinegar crisps and apples, and we open the wine and pour it into plastic cups, while the scrawny guy jumps on to the stage and tries to make everyone sing “We Will Overcome.” But the crowd isn’t enthusiastic, apart from the cupcake girl, so he returns to his crate and the dog, which is barking now and straining to be free of its string. Belle has brought magazines to read, and we flip through Grazia and Cosmopolitan until, just after seven, a vicar with straggly hair goes to the center of the stage, with a microphone.
“Friends! Thank you for coming out on this glorious summer evening to express your support and your love for Chloey Percival and the Percival family. Our thoughts and prayers are with them all.”
Two young women in front of us hug each other.
“Let us welcome Chloey’s loving brother, Brandon, who has kindly agreed to share some memories of Chloey.”
I whisper to Belle: “She’s not dead yet.”
Everyone claps, and a woman calls out: “Bless you, Brandon!” We can see that he’s a skinny teenager in jeans and trainers and a hoodie. His face is deathly pale, his eyes so tired he can barely open them. Brandon mumbles into the microphone, reading from a scrap of paper:
“My mum and dad and I would like to tell you some things about Chloey. My sister is a normal girl. She likes shopping, going out to clubs, buying makeup. Her favorite song is the Lumineers’ ‘Ho Hey.’ ” Here someone shouts out “Ho! Hey!” “She likes Taylor Swift and she doesn’t rate Justin Bieber or One Direction.” We laugh politely. “Her favorite film is Bridesmaids, and her favorite James Bond is Daniel Craig.”
I feel like whispering “Predictable.” But I don’t, because Belle might think I’m disrespectful, which I’m not.
“Chloey is brave. When Travis Scott made threats, she said she wouldn’t hide like a scared animal, and she carried on going out with her friends and going to work. But now my sister is fighting for her life. We believe Travis is damaged and dangerous, and we would like to make a plea. Someone somewhere must know where he is. Please tell the police.”
The vicar puts his arm round Brandon, and the vigil part of the evening begins with helpers handing out candles that we light, one from the next. Then, in a pompous voice, the vicar reads out a bunch of statistics that Belle and I are already familiar with. Two British women a week are murdered by their male partners, he tells us. In America three women and one man are murdered by their partners every single day.
When he’s finished, the Flicks run onto the stage, and a guy with black eyeliner starts singing about death and rage, pouting his lips at the microphone in a way that Belle thinks is sexy. I don’t like their music, though; it’s too loud, and I think about going back to London. But Belle says, “Do come and stay. I’ve bought food for breakfast, croissants and strawberry jam and real coffee.” She’s so sweet and kind that I say okay, and we shuffle through the crowd and catch the bus to Dringhouses.
At Belle’s flat, she shows me the bedroom I can use, which is prepared for Lavender and her children. The bed is made up with a shiny bedspread with sequin edges, and fluffy cushions, and folded-up pink towels that look new. On the dressing table, she’s placed plastic bottles of Boots rose-scented shampoo, bubble bath, face cream and eau de cologne, laid out in a crescent shape; and next to them the presents for Alfie and Saskia, wrapped in yellow paper and tied with ribbon. I tell Belle she’s being a brilliant friend, and then we watch the BBC News, learning that, after we left York Minster, Travis Scott was arrested. A local news report shows a small crowd at the police station, yelling abuse. A woman with a baby in a buggy is screaming: “Hang the filthy bastard!”
“They shouldn’t behave like that,” I say. “It’s ugly.”
Belle makes hot chocolate and I’m impressed that she has a box of sprinkles in her cupboard to go on top. Belle says as she heads off to bed, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
In the morning she has to leave for work at six thirty, even though it’s a Saturday, and she comes to my bedroom to say good-bye. I’m half-asleep, but I roll over to say thank you for everything, and I see her in her nurse’s uniform, all clean and pressed. “You’re the angel,” I say, and she laughs quietly and leaves me to go back to sleep. Later, I find the croissants and jam on the dining table, nicely set out on plates next to a small vase of tulips and some white cloth napkins. I eat breakfast, then let myself out of the flat and catch the bus to the station.
13
I think about the way Belle’s caring for Lavender and it makes me realize that I should be more proactive on behalf of Tilda. So, as soon as I get home, I phone Tilda’s cleaning lady.
Eva obviously isn’t expecting my call because she keeps saying “Huh? Huh?” in an irritated voice. It seems that Tilda forgot to tell her that I might need the spare key to the flat, and at first she doesn’t believe that we are sisters because she doesn’t even know that Tilda has a sister, and she wants to text Tilda to make sure. I tell her not to, that Tilda won’t want to be disturbed while she’s lying on a beach in Martinique. Eventually Eva agrees to meet me at the flat, and I offer to bring a photo of Tilda and me when we were children, to prove who I am. “Don’t bother,” she says grumpily. “I remember something now about Callie.” (She pronounces my name Collie.) So she’d known all along about me and was being difficult. Even so, I copy Belle and when I arrive I have a bottle of lilac bath soak with me. Eva takes it without saying thank you, dropping it straight into her bag. “It’s not my cleaning day,” she says. Then she gives me the key and leaves me alone.
I haven’t seen Tilda’s flat since Felix’s builders were there, doing their work. “Nothing drastic,” Felix had said. But the place is transformed, hardly recognizable, and for an instant I’m disorientated, as though I’ve come to the wrong place. Before the builders, Tilda’s main room had been in three distinct parts—kitchen and dining and sitting—all of them different colors, with cobbled-together, makeshift furniture, acquired before she became successful. It was messy and cluttered. But now the place is a single minimalist shell in shades of white and pale gray. A nearly white stone floor instead of painted boards. Two white leather sofas where the old sofa with the mangled springs had been. The squashy comfy chair is gone, along with the pine table and the kitchen units, all replaced by white furniture. I guess that the paint on the walls is called soft baby fawn or bare buff or something else equally anemic. The brightest presences are the pale yellow blinds and a wan lemon-colored orchid.
I stretch out on one of the sofas and put my feet up on a glass coffee table, not minding that my trainers are filthy, and I’m overwhelmed by an urge to disturb the order of the place. A nosebleed would be very welcome, because I’m in a mood to protest that this vapid, sterile f
lat is all wrong. My sister isn’t like this. She’s always been a chaotic, messy person. You only have to remember our bedroom when we were young, her clothes in heaps all over the floor, her makeup scattered across the dressing table—clumped mascara going hard on brushes she hadn’t bothered to put back in the tube, used tissues left for months on end. It’s obvious that this newfound tidiness, all this order, comes from Felix.
I decide to make a cup of tea and look for mugs in the kitchen units, but I find that all I have to do is touch the drawers slightly and they slide out on their own, and then back in again with another tiny tap. I set them all going, in and out like a silent symphony of little white coffins, and I see that inside the drawers the cutlery is perfectly aligned—the forks on their sides all facing the same way and the spoons actually spooning one another. The crockery—all new—is creamy-white bone china and neatly stacked. I register the absurd neatness of everything, but what strikes me as totally, mind-blowingly insane is the fact that the crockery is wrapped in cling film, so that whenever you want to use a bowl or a plate, you have to unwrap it. I look in more drawers and find more cling film, around cups and glasses and pots and pans. It’s obvious that Tilda was making an excuse when she told me not to come here. It was this mad stuff she didn’t want me to see. Her cling-filmed life. As I make my tea it occurs to me that Felix might actually know how many tea bags are in the box, and know that I’d been here and taken one. Then again, Eva probably makes herself cups of tea.
My mug in my hand, I head for the bedroom. By now I’m ticking off the changes in my head. New cupboards, new blinds, new bed—king-size and with a suede headboard the color of rotted meat. Barely thinking about what I am doing, I start taking Tilda’s clothes from the drawers and the wardrobe, piling them up on the bed; a strange mix of things—T-shirts in flimsy cotton the same washed-out colors as the flat, jeans with nonsensical brand names—Paradise in the Park, XXOX, Lost and Found. And long, sparkly dresses that I suppose she wears to movie premieres and awards ceremonies—not that she’s been to any recently. I run my fingers over them, feeling the softness and lightness of the silk, the hard edge of tiny sequins, and then I take off my T-shirt and jeans and pull on a pale-gold, gossamer-thin dress with a network of spaghetti straps that crisscross down the back. It isn’t easy to pull the dress down because I’m two sizes bigger than my emaciated sister, and when I do force it into place there’s no question of being able to do up the zip—the dress just gapes open at the side. I pose in front of the mirror, looking preposterous; a lump of chicken tied up with tinsel. Also, I can hardly breathe. But I keep the dress on while I inspect the next cupboard, the one containing Felix’s clothes.
Piles of white boxes, with shirts in them. Twenty-five boxes, in fact, all numbered—eight in blue ink, for blue shirts; eight in black ink, for white shirts; and four in red ink, for shirts that are the palest pink. The remaining five boxes, numbers 21–25 (more black ink), are empty—so I suppose he’s taken those shirts to Martinique. I imagine Felix checking that the boxes are perfectly aligned, and that the shirts are immaculately pressed and folded, and by now I’m finding the urge to ruffle things up unbearable.
Then I see, on the window ledge, a dead bluebottle on its back, its crunchy little legs in the air. Carefully, I pick it up and place it inside the collar of a pink shirt. Then I open a small white drawer, a tiny thing, and see a watch inside, and some cuff links. I pick them out to inspect them, and find that they are all exquisite little pieces of jewelry, one silver set shaped like a starfish; another, gold set like a four-leaf clover. I pick up a clover piece and turn it over and over in the palm of my hand, thinking about lucky Felix with all his perfect things. I pop the clover into my mouth, suck on it, then return it to its box.
I sit on the bed, amongst Tilda’s clothes, and remember how I used to eat her things, and become nostalgic for all the Tilda sustenance that would lie around, the hair in her hairbrush, the paper from her diary, her teeth. There’s nothing like that here. But, just in case, I get down on my knees to see if she’s tried an old trick and hidden something by attaching it to the underside of the bed. I crawl under, and feel around the empty space, and I’m crouched down like that when there’s a knock on the front door—or rather, three loud knocks.
I pull myself up and survey the mess—clothes thrown on the bed and floor, drawers and cupboards open everywhere. I start to tidy up, but there’s no time, so I sit on the edge of the bed, willing the intruder to go away. More loud angry knocks. I stay perfectly still, until I hear the sound of a key in the lock, the door opening and footsteps on the stone floor, pacing about. I dash to the en suite bathroom, grab a white bath towel, wrapping it round me, over the gold dress, then I run to the bedroom door and open it a tiny amount, so I can see out. Eva’s standing there, hands on her hips.
“Hi.” I stick my head through the gap. “What do you want?”
She looks at me with a distrustful expression. “What you doing?”
“I was about to have a bath. What are you doing?”
“I come to tell you to bring key back to me when you leave.”
“But you don’t need it. You’ve got another key. You just used it.”
“It’s my responsibility. You must return it.” She’s in the mood for a fight.
“Okay. Write your address down, and leave it on the table.”
I slam the bedroom door shut, and lean against it for a few seconds, listening to the sounds she’s making, walking around; then I hear her leave. I come out, the towel still wrapped round me, and inspect the flat. I want to see the full extent of what Eva has seen, and realize that I left half the drawers in the kitchen wide-open, bowls and plates out of their cling film, and my dirty trainers on the coffee table. It’s messy, but not as bad as the chaos in the bedroom.
I return to the bathroom, to replace the towel and check the cabinet. Tilda always seems so spacey and I wonder about drugs. I even consider heroin and crack cocaine—not that I expect them to be on a shelf, neatly displayed and labeled. I find prescription medicines, though, that hadn’t been there back in the spring, and I gather up bottles and packets and take them into the sitting room, where I left my plastic bag with a notebook inside, and my cup of tea. I write in the book: Drugs that may be contributing to Tilda’s decline—and add Anafranil, Zolpidem and Ativan, thinking that I’ll look them up when I go home.
Out of the corner of my eye I register a red light flashing on the phone, and I press the button to listen to the messages. Only three. The first is disappointing—just a reminder from the dry cleaner’s that the cleaning’s ready, and would Tilda please pick it up at her earliest convenience. The second is a short “Hey, Felix, it’s Guy; call me.” I have no idea who Guy is. But the third message is interesting—Tilda’s agent, Felicity Shore, in a pleading voice asking Tilda to get in touch: “Come to lunch or something, and let’s go through your options.” It sounds like she’s concerned. In the notebook I write: Does Felicity Shore realize something is wrong? Have further information?
I finish my tea and put the mug in the sink. Then I remember how Tilda used to hide her diary in a pillowcase and have the idea of looking through the linen cupboard in the bathroom. Like everything else, it’s pristine—satiny cotton sheets folded in perfect piles. I take out the pillowcases and pat them one by one, checking, and when I reach the bottom of the pile I notice a lump in a corner. I reach in and turn over in the palm of my hand something hard and smooth, like a small ingot, but lighter than solid metal. I pull it out, and find I have a shiny red computer memory stick.
I’m cross because I haven’t brought my laptop to the flat, and I’m now in a rush to get out of there and home. Even unzipped, Tilda’s dress is a nightmare to get off because it’s so tight, and as I work it up my body and struggle to pull it over my head, I rip it along a seam. Taking a chance, I put it back on its hanger in the closet. Probably, she hardly ever wears it and won’t notice for ages. Then I leave, ignoring the chaos, the crock
ery out of its cling film, dirty marks on the coffee table, clothes everywhere.
After Tilda’s flat, mine seems like a disorganized jumble. Shaggy red rug, green walls, a thousand little things not put away—pens, notebooks, T-shirts and underwear, Cheerios box, cider bottles and a sink full of dishes. It actually seems urgent to declutter the place, and I stop to pick up a dozen dirty socks from the bedroom floor before sitting at my table by the window and booting up my laptop. It takes an age to splutter into life, and as soon as it does I ram in the memory stick—only to see that I’m barred from entry. It needs a password. I try possible words and combinations, Felix, for instance, and Curzon and Callie and Faith, our mother’s name. I even try Liam and Liam Brookes. But nothing works. Out loud I yell “Shit!” and it comes into my head to go back to Curzon Street to trash the place. The thought is overpowering and loud, like bird wings thumping on glass. It feels like a way of releasing Tilda, setting her free.
14
2006
Our family moves to Harcourt Road, a treeless street of Edwardian houses packed into long terraces, curving north towards the river. We agree that the new house is friendly—the vibes are good. Also, we like being closer to the Thames. On weekends Mum likes to say, “Come on, let’s have a blast of brown air,” and we walk along the old iron pier. My memories are of a penetrating damp wind, a river invariably choppy and gray, and hugging Mum’s arm tightly, never letting go, because sometimes it seems she might actually blow away. I suppose this is because of her health—she’s been diagnosed with breast cancer and has had chemotherapy. She tells us not to worry, that she’ll be fine, but that doesn’t stop her cancer from becoming a pervasive heaviness in our lives. I imagine it with a voice, saying, I am the nearly death; I am the forerunner of death, and I tell it to shut up.
Mostly it’s just the two of us on these weekend walks, because Tilda’s busy with different interests, like her new ambition for a singing career. She has set up a girl band with her friends Paige, Kimberley, and Sasha, and they have the awful name the Whisper Sisters. They practice mostly in her bedroom—the move to Harcourt Road being all about our desire for separate rooms, which, as happens with teenage girls, have become showcases for our personalities. It’s as if the contents of our brains have been flushed out and plastered all over the walls and the furniture. Tilda’s room is a gargantuan mess of piled-up clothes, makeup, music paraphernalia, posters and fashion magazines. She doesn’t care if Tampax boxes are lying around, tampons spilling out, or if hairbrushes are evolving into puffballs of old hair. My room isn’t exactly tidy, but it has a solemn, organizational look to it, with my crime books lined up on a wooden shelf and my notebooks stacked on my desk. I regard it as a haven, while Tilda’s bedroom is a center of activity, somewhere to visit.