The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

  One morning I find Niall asleep on one of the sofas, his mouth open and snoring gently, his guitar carefully propped up at his feet, surrounded by wine bottles and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, but most surprisingly of all, I find Beatrice wrapped around him, her long tanned legs intertwined with his, her head on his chest. They are both fully dressed.

  A fortnight after I move in, I’m in the kitchen emptying the washing machine of the few clothes that I possess, plus the dresses that Beatrice let me borrow, into a plastic laundry basket. It took me weeks to identify the Parma violet scent that I detected on Beatrice and in this house when I first visited. I eventually tracked it down to their detergent. I bury my face in my wet clothes, inhaling the wonderful smell that I love so much; it’s the scent of this house, the scent of them. I fold the clothes up and make myself a coffee using the posh coffee machine, thinking how at home I am, when Ben clatters down the stairs, a concerned frown on his face.

  ‘Has Bea gone out?’ he asks, as I spoon frothy milk into my cup. For some reason the shortening of her name sends a spark of irritation through me.

  ‘She said she was going for a walk, to clear her head.’

  ‘When was this?’ He stands over me, silently demanding a quick answer.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know, about ten minutes ago. Do you want to—?’

  Before I can finish my sentence he turns and runs back up the stairs, two at a time. I follow him, mug in hand, and catch him as he rushes out of the ornate front door, bumping into Cass on her way in. He mumbles an apology but continues down the garden path without a backward glance.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ she says, a bemused look on her face, her bleach-blonde crop dishevelled. Standing there in the doorway, wearing a striped Breton T-shirt and black shorts, she reminds me of an actress from a 1960s French New Wave film and, with a twinge of envy, I think how beautiful and young she is. She can’t be older than about twenty-two. She’s holding a can of something chemical in one hand and a wedge of glossy A4 sheets in the other and, as she walks further into the hallway, she kicks the door closed behind her. I stand staring at her mutely. Out of everyone I’ve met through Beatrice, Cass makes me feel the most uncomfortable and I can’t put my finger on why this is. Perhaps because she’s so quiet, only ever having in-depth conversations with Beatrice, following her around like a dainty poodle. Maybe because she’s self-assured in a way I never was when I was her age. But she’s a complete enigma to me. I don’t think the two of us have had a proper conversation in the short time I’ve known her.

  ‘I’ve just made a coffee, if you want one,’ I say, lifting up my mug in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence. It’s the one Beatrice normally drinks from. White bone china with a black line drawing of a bird with its wings spread.

  She glances at the cup, brow furrowed, and then at me. ‘No thanks,’ she says coolly. ‘I’ve got to develop some photographs.’

  ‘You have your own darkroom?’ I’m impressed. I don’t know much about photography but did dabble with it as part of my media studies A-level.

  ‘Beatrice had one installed for me in what was once the en suite. It’s tiny, but it serves its purpose.’ She blushes as if she’s said too much, and, clutching the paper to her chest, hurries up the winding staircase, leaving me standing in the hallway alone wondering what sort of photographs she takes and whether she’s at college or university.

  I follow her up the stairs, and as she continues up to her attic room, I head into the drawing room to sit on the terrace that overlooks the long and neatly manicured garden. If I look up I can see a terrace above me, but smaller, more of a Juliet balcony, which I know to be Ben’s room. It’s another hot, airless day and I’m grateful that Beatrice let me borrow so many of her lovely clothes, although Ben keeps on at me to buy some of my own.

  I’m reclining on one of the wooden sun-loungers when my mobile phone buzzes in the pocket of my skirt. Nia’s name flashes up on the screen and I contemplate not answering it. How am I going to explain to her all that’s happened in the last few weeks without causing her to worry? But if I don’t speak to her, she will assume the worst. After everything I put her through that day, over a year ago, when she found me semi-conscious in the bath with blood oozing out of my freshly slit wrists, I know I owe it to her to be honest.

  ‘Nia, hi,’ I say brightly. My jovial voice sounds fake even to my own ears and perspiration prickles my armpits, only partly caused by the heat. I rest my coffee cup on the arm of the recliner.

  ‘What’s going on, Abs?’ I can hear the hum of cars in the background, the beep of a horn, the faint indecipherable chatter of voices, the clinking of a spoon against china. I imagine her sitting outside a café somewhere in Muswell Hill, a part of London I’m not familiar with, which is probably her reason for choosing to move there. I imagine her toying with her coffee, skimming the froth off her cappuccino with a spoon and licking it in the way she always does, her dark hair falling around her pale face, her brown eyes serious. ‘You haven’t spoken to me for weeks, I only get the odd text telling me you’re okay. And are you? Are you okay?’

  The way I feel about her over-protectiveness flows and ebbs like the sea lapping at the shoreline. Most of the time I understand it’s because she’s got my best interests at heart, that she cares about me, that she doesn’t want a repeat performance of what happened before, but occasionally I find it stifling. Doesn’t she understand that, much as I love her, speaking to her reminds me of my old life, which makes the yearning to turn the clock back so intense that it’s as if I’ve received a physical blow?

  ‘I’m okay, honestly, Nia. I’ve been busy, that’s all … I …’

  ‘Have you been working?’ I can hear the hope in her voice, she knows how much my job meant to me before Lucy died.

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve … well, I’ve met someone. He’s lovely, I know you’ll think he’s great. And his sister, Beatrice. She reminds me so much of Lucy, she …’

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ she says and I can sense the panic in her voice. ‘This isn’t Alicia all over again, is it?’

  My cheeks flame with indignation. ‘It’s not like that at all. Beatrice has become a good friend. In fact, I’m living with her, and him. His name’s Ben Price. They’re twins, can you believe it? They’ve got this amazing house and she doesn’t even charge me rent, instead we all put some money in a kitty to buy food and they have a housekeeper who comes in and cooks for us.’

  There is a long, loaded silence on the end of the phone and, for a moment, I think she’s hung up on me, something that Nia has never done. In all the years we’ve been friends we’ve taken pains to avoid a serious argument, in the way some people avoid meat or dairy products. There might have been times when we’ve been tempted, but we’ve always fought the urge rather than each other. I’d known she would disapprove of this though, which is why I’ve been putting off telling her about it. I touch the necklace at my throat, running my fingers over the letter A. How I can convince her that living here is good for me?

  ‘Nia? Are you still there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Please try to understand.’ I tell her about meeting Beatrice that rainy day at the end of April, how we became friends and how through her I met Ben and came to move in.

  ‘And it’s not like Alicia?’ she repeats.

  I assure her that it’s totally different. I hope I’ve managed to sound convincing.

  ‘It all seems rather quick. And what about your job?’ she ploughs on. ‘You loved being a journalist, Abi. And now what? You just live off this Beatrice,’ she spits out her name as if it tastes nasty and I grip my phone, fighting the urge to cry.

  ‘It’s harder than I thought, freelancing …’

  ‘Have you even tried?’

  ‘Who are you? My mum?’ I snap.

  I can hear Nia taking a deep breath, in an effort to suppress all she wants to say. My hand trembles as I hold my mobile to my ear. I can hear laughter in the background
, the scraping of a metal chair on tarmac. Tears threaten. Why can’t she try and see things from my point of view? ‘Look, Nia,’ I say, in an effort to placate her. ‘Why don’t you come and visit? You haven’t been to Bath for ages. I would love you to meet them, to get to know them a bit. Then you’ll understand.’

  ‘Understand what, Abi?’

  ‘How important they are to me …’ I pause. ‘Nia, I was in a bad place when I met Beatrice that day. Yes, I was better than I was, but I still wasn’t good. And I was lonely, living in that flat by myself.’

  ‘I live by myself.’

  ‘I know. But, Nia, you’re not listening …’ I hesitate, but she doesn’t interject so I continue. ‘I feel that Beatrice and Ben, well …’ I swallow a lump that’s formed in my throat. ‘They’ve saved me somehow.’

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ she says, and I can hear the desperation in her voice. ‘You have to stop looking for someone else to save you. Only you can do that for yourself.’

  Despite her disapproval, Nia agrees to come and visit around my birthday in a few weeks’ time. As I hang up, I’m hopeful that we are back on an even keel, an argument narrowly avoided.

  I’m fed up with waiting for Beatrice and Ben to get back from wherever it is they’ve gone, so I take the bus into the centre and, as I wander around the side streets, the conversation with Nia plays on my mind. I know she’s right, I shouldn’t be living off Beatrice, I should be trying to freelance. I’ve wanted to be a journalist since I was eleven years old, am I really going to throw all my hard work away? I’ve been living in a bubble these last few weeks and I know that it can’t continue. I make a resolution to myself that tomorrow I will call my contacts, even the ones who I’ve felt have been less than supportive since the court case.

  I turn down Northumberland Passage, grateful for the break in relentless sunshine due to the shade from the narrowness of the buildings that rear up on either side of me. The street is rammed with people; swarming outside the stall that sells oilcloth bags; peering through the shop windows at trinkets, or ornaments, or children’s clothes; perched at bistro tables, nursing a latte or cappuccino. The smell of cheese pasties permeates the air.

  I meander along the lane, taking in the atmosphere, pausing when I come to a little vintage shop that sells the type of dresses that Beatrice wears. Naturally, I’m compelled to go inside. It’s empty apart from the assistant perched behind a Victorian-type counter, talking in bored tones into an old-fashioned phone. I flick through the dresses; there is everything from a 1980s ballgown to a 1920s flapper dress. And then I see it, and my heart quickens. It’s a crinoline tea-dress from the 1940s, maroon with tiny white swallows, a Peter Pan collar and cap sleeves. It’s exactly the kind of dress Beatrice wears. I snatch it from the hanger, letting the material run through my fingers, and I can’t contain my thrill when I see that it’s my size. It’s expensive, and I can’t afford it, yet I buy it anyway.

  I’m crossing the square in front of the Roman Baths, clutching my new dress in its brown paper bag, when I hear someone calling out Beatrice’s name. A large woman in a colourful printed kaftan is hurrying towards me, a wide smile on her mouth, her hand raised, but as she gets closer I notice the flicker of doubt in her eyes, her features rearranged into a frown. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I thought …’ Her hands flap around her dark hair, suddenly awkward. She composes herself. ‘I thought you were Beatrice. It’s Abi, isn’t it? We met about two weeks ago at Bea’s house. It’s Maria,’ she clarifies when I stare at her blankly. Of course, one of Beatrice’s friends. We make stilted small talk for a couple of minutes before she makes her excuses and heads back towards the Abbey. I watch her go, bemused that she would think I was Beatrice, probably because I’m wearing her green Alice Temperley dress. Nevertheless, I’m flattered to be mistaken for her.

  I can hear faint chatter coming from the kitchen when I get back to the house. Beatrice and Ben are huddled at the wooden table, deep in conversation, but when I walk in they fall silent.

  ‘You’re home,’ Beatrice says flatly, lifting her eyes to me. They are red and puffy as if she’s been crying. Ben pulls back his chair and goes to the coffee machine. ‘It’s too hot for coffee,’ she says when Ben offers her one. She begins picking at some nonexistent scab on her smooth, tanned arm.

  My stomach clenches as I take the seat opposite her, dropping the bag containing my new dress at my feet. I can tell by the hostility emanating from Beatrice that Ben has finally admitted to her that we’re seeing each other. I’m suddenly aware that was why he rushed out earlier, to catch up with his sister. I wish he had included me. That we could have told Beatrice together, put up a united front. I feel excluded, pushed out, and it pisses me off.

  ‘So,’ she says when Ben sits back down, sliding a coffee in my direction. ‘Ben’s told me about the two of you.’

  ‘I’ve gathered,’ I want to say, but I keep quiet.

  ‘You didn’t have to hide it from me,’ she says coldly. ‘I thought you were my friend, Abi.’

  ‘I am your friend, you know I am. I … we didn’t know what to tell you. We weren’t sure what was going on ourselves at first …’ I splutter, trying to suppress the swell of indignation that I’m having to explain myself while Ben sits there silently.

  She assesses us both, her pupils flicking from me to Ben and back to me again. And then she grabs one of our hands in each of hers. ‘I’m pleased for you both, of course I am,’ she says, as if to reinforce this fact to herself. ‘But please don’t lie to me again. I’ve had a lifetime of lies.’ She glances pointedly at Ben, but he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on a knot of wood on the oak table.

  I open my mouth to explain that I’ve been haranguing Ben to tell her since I moved in, that it was his decision not to, but instead I close my mouth and hang my head and dutifully apologize, relieved that at least she knows now. No more secrets.

  Dinner is a rather subdued affair. Beatrice doesn’t say much while pushing her chicken salad around her plate with a fork. Cass, as usual, is morose and Ben and I sit side by side, as if we are two chastised children. Only Pam natters away in her warm West Country accent.

  Later I go to find Ben in his bedroom. The sun has gone down and the balcony doors are propped open with a large Egyptian cat carved out of a sleek black stone, an expensive artefact – so he informed me once – that he picked up on his travels. The air is still, the voile curtains hardly moving in the nonexistent breeze. Ben has stripped down to his boxer shorts and lies on top of his sheets with his eyes closed. His bedroom, as always, is meticulously tidy and minimalist. I notice what looks like a satellite dish with wooden legs in the corner of the room. It’s huge and futuristic with a Scandinavian elegance. I remember him showing it to me in the window of Bang and Olufsen, bending my ear about what an amazing sound it produces, how it would be great for parties. It cost a small fortune. I can’t believe he went out and spent all that money on it.

  Ben opens his eyes when he sees me. I go to him, kissing him passionately, wanting him more than ever. I pull away to step out of my dress, hurriedly unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m taking off my clothes, what are you doing?’ I climb into bed and sidle up to him again, inching his boxer shorts over his hips, ‘Here, I can help.’ He grabs my hands. At first I think he’s fooling around, that this is a new game, but when I turn to look at him in the semi-darkness I can just make out the disgust distorting his features.

  ‘Stop it, Abi,’ he says, shifting away from me and pulling his boxers back up. ‘Can you put something on?’

  In anger I whip the sheet from under him and wrap it around me, shocked at his rejection as I scramble from his bed. ‘What do you mean?’ I can hardly bring myself to say it but the words come out in a rush, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you fancy me any more?’

  The moonlight from the window illuminates him as he sits in the middle of the bed, his legs pulled up to his chin. I long t
o go to him, to put my arms around him, to kiss his neck, his chest, but it’s as though I don’t know him any more. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was Ben’s feelings for me.

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ his voice catches. My chest is heavy. ‘Of course I do. Only, I don’t think we should be having sex.’

  ‘But why not? What’s going on?’

  His eyes are dark and intense. ‘It’s Bea. She’s funny about us sleeping together.’

  I laugh. Surely he’s joking. ‘Why would she care?’

  ‘It’s not particularly respectful, is it? Would you want to sleep with me if we were staying with your parents?’

  I consider this. ‘Well, no, but that’s different. We live here, Ben.’

  He sighs. ‘Look. We’ve already flouted her house rules. I don’t want to piss her off even more. You’re the first girlfriend I’ve had in years. I think she’s a bit threatened by you. She’s always been possessive. It’s only ever been her and me, Abi. Let her get used to us being together first. She’ll come around to the idea.’

  ‘What about what I want? Doesn’t that come into it? Do I always have to bow down to what darling Bea wants?’ I’m so angry I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop myself saying something I will regret.

  ‘It’s not like that. Come on, Abi. Be reasonable. Surely you can see her side of it? I’m the only family she’s got. She’s a bit possessive, that’s all. And it is gross to think your sibling is having sex in the room next door.’

  ‘So I’m the one being unreasonable?’ Hot angry tears spring to my eyes as I gather up my clothes. ‘I want to sleep alone tonight,’ I say, throwing the sheet back at him. It lands on his lap but he doesn’t touch it, as if it’s been contaminated by my nakedness. ‘Maybe you should talk to Beatrice instead. It’s obvious you only care about her feelings.’