The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

  I take Ben’s hand and stare at him imploringly. ‘The thing with Alicia – yes, it’s true.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘I got a bit obsessed with her.’ I flinch when I notice Ben’s incredulous expression, and I know how bonkers, how screwed up I must sound. I close my eyes, like a child who believes nobody else can see them if they shut their eyes tightly. ‘Basically I stalked her, and when she told me to fuck off, as she had every right to do, I … well, I went for her.’

  ‘You did what?’

  I open my eyes. Ben looks appalled.

  ‘I hit her,’ I clarify.

  ‘She had to be pulled off her,’ states Beatrice, gleefully it seems.

  ‘Did … did she go to the police?’ asks Ben.

  ‘The police were called, but she didn’t press charges. I gave her a black eye. I felt terrible about it and I … I …’ I let the implication of my suicide attempt hang in the air. ‘I was admitted to hospital a few days later.’

  Ben leans forwards and folds me in his arms. I’m trembling, tears running down my face. He strokes my hair, tells me it’s all going to be okay. Then he barks for the others to get out of the room, to leave us alone. I’m surprised to hear him acting so authoritarian, for actually shouting at his precious sister. I realize that he’s sticking up for me. That he’s on my side after all.

  When the others have filed out, Nia mouthing apologies over her shoulder as she leaves, Ben takes me to his room, tells me he doesn’t want to leave me on my own tonight, that Nia can have my bed. ‘I regret not taking you away somewhere,’ he murmurs into my hair, as I curl up in his arms. ‘I regret so many things.’ And then he kisses me, urgently, in the way we did when we first met, before all his talk of Beatrice’s rules and respect, and as he starts to peel the clothes away from my body I ask him if he’s sure, and he tells me he is, that he is going to put me first from now on. And as we slowly begin to make love I can’t help but think that this is what makes me different to Beatrice, that sex with Ben belongs only to me.

  When I wake up the next morning the sun is streaming through the curtains and I have a sense of renewal, of hope. The birthday I’ve been dreading is over, I’ve had an amazing night with Ben. Maybe it’s because of the enforced hiatus, or the drama of last night, but the sex was better than it’s ever been.

  And I’m not entirely sure why, but I get the sense that the events of last night have altered things between us, made us closer. Ben has had a sudden insight into my confused, obsessive, paranoid mind, and it seems he likes what he sees.

  Beatrice and I don’t talk about what happened. We’re cordial with each other at breakfast. She’s perched next to Nia, eating toast at the large oak table, her hair is damp as if she’s recently emerged from the shower and she’s wearing a yellow shirt that clashes with her hair yet still manages to look good on her. It hurts to see them sitting next to one another. My best friend and my enemy. Is this another person you’re trying to turn against me, Beatrice? Someone I’ve known nearly half my life.

  When she sees me she mutters something about having a lot to do and, snatching a triangle of toast from her plate, hurries from the room. I’m aware of Nia’s eyes following me as I go to a cupboard to retrieve a mug to put under the coffee machine.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Abi,’ she blurts out as soon as I sit down opposite her. Irrespective of the fresh white blouse she’s wearing she looks as if she’s hardly slept. ‘I was worried about you, but I shouldn’t have told Beatrice about Alicia. It wasn’t my place.’

  I tell her that she’s right, she shouldn’t have said anything, but I acknowledge how persuasive Beatrice can be, an animal ready to pounce on her prey, how she won’t give up until she’s got it firmly between her teeth. ‘I probably should have told them about Alicia anyway,’ I concede, sipping my coffee. Nothing can dampen my mood this morning, or wipe the memory of my night with Ben.

  ‘So you’re not angry with me?’ She smiles weakly, hopefully.

  ‘Not any more.’ I reach out and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I know you only told her because you were worried about me. I do trust you, Nia.’

  She slumps back against the chair with obvious relief.

  ‘And it’s lovely to have you here,’ I say. ‘What do you think of the house? Of the twins?’

  She tells me how amazing the house is, how I’ve landed on my feet, that it’s such a coincidence, that I should find myself in a house with twins, after everything. ‘And they look so alike, don’t they? Facially, I mean. He’s the male equivalent of her,’ she finishes.

  ‘Except for their eyes,’ I say, thinking of Ben’s hazel eyes in comparison to Beatrice’s almond-shaped honey-coloured ones.

  ‘Is that why you were first drawn to her, Abi? Be honest. Was it because she resembles Lucy? And you?’

  I shrug. ‘I suppose. She caught my eye because of her similarity to Lucy. But her bubbly personality is like Lucy’s too. Although not this nasty side … that was something I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘Are you disappointed not to have gone to Lyme Regis?’ she asks.

  ‘I was, but it’s all worked out for the best. Something changed last night. Ben, well, he … we …’ I laugh as Nia squeals in disbelief. We sit in silence for a couple of seconds and then Nia adds warily, ‘I do feel sorry for her though. I know she’s over-protective, but I still don’t fully understand what you’ve got against her, Abi. Why did you rush off last night? Was it because you were disappointed about not going away? Or was there another reason?’

  And then I explain everything.

  She frowns as I talk, her eyes creasing up so that I can see the beginnings of crow’s feet, another reminder of how we are both ageing when Lucy isn’t. She stays silent but her face pales as I describe the dead bird on my bed, the malicious photograph, the flowers claiming to be from Lucy, and when I finally finish, slightly out of breath and dry-mouthed, she leans back in her chair, her face grave. ‘That’s fucked up. Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?’

  ‘I didn’t get the chance, and I was worried that you would think I’m being paranoid, what with my history.’

  She considers this for a moment. ‘It sounds as though Beatrice is being very manipulative. I’m worried for you. The photograph, the flowers – there’s real malice in those things. Abi …’ She pauses as Cass skips down the steps into the kitchen. Beatrice’s ally. Beatrice’s spy. We watch in silence as Cass busies herself with the coffee machine, completely ignoring us, in a world of her own. When she takes her mug and scuttles from the kitchen, Nia speaks again. This time her voice is more insistent, threaded with fear. ‘I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here, Abi. You need to move out.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘They’re in the kitchen, having some sort of pow-wow,’ says Cass, handing Beatrice a cup of coffee. ‘I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. When I came in they fell silent.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Beatrice, taking the mug and sipping it slowly. She’s nauseous, jittery, she has too much nervous energy flowing through her veins. She pushes Sebby off her lap as she stands up from the sofa and he jumps to the floor with a disgruntled mew at having his sleep rudely disturbed. She pads over to the French doors, goosebumps on her arms as she cups her hands around her mug. It rained overnight, the sun-loungers are wet and littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The detritus from Abi’s party is still evident on the carpet, the coffee table and the mantelpiece: fag ends, wine stains, crisp packets, empty and half-filled glasses of bubbly. The room smells of stale body odour and bad breath. Eva will be in later to make everything look as new again; she knows how Ben can’t stand mess, that it makes him stressed.

  Cass comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay, Bea?’ she asks softly, and Beatrice shakes her head, biting her lip to stop herself from crying. How can she explain to Cass this grief that she feels? As if she’s losing Ben all over again. She t
hought she was doing a nice thing – a kind thing – for Abi by throwing her a party. She thought it might make up for all the bad things that have happened, that it would get Ben on side. But no, Abi still manages to find a way to throw it back in her face, to turn everything on its head so that she’s the bad guy. Even hearing that his darling girlfriend is an obsessive stalker who attacked her own neighbour hasn’t put Ben off her. What will it take, Ben? For you to see her true colours?

  ‘She’s a bunny boiler,’ she says, her voice sounding raw, hoarse, in the silent room. ‘Don’t you think, Cass? I think she’s fucking dangerous. I want her out of this house.’

  Cass squeezes her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says softly, reassuringly. ‘I think she will be gone very soon.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The tension around my birthday somehow dissipates and the rest of August goes by harmoniously enough. Nia rings me most days, urging me to come to London to live with her, but I tell her I can’t move out. At least not yet, and not without Ben.

  I refuse to let Beatrice win.

  Beatrice is holed up in her studio, setting stones into silver rings or necklaces; Ben takes on a short contract with a big technical firm along the M4 corridor and I receive more and more commissions from Miranda. On the occasions we are all home, we spend evenings together eating Eva’s homemade cottage pies or casseroles while sharing a bottle or two of wine. Sometimes Beatrice throws an impromptu party, and I’m not surprised when she declares happily one day that she and Niall have started dating. She seems joyful, reminiscent of how she was when we first met. If she’s noticed that I’m sneaking into Ben’s room every night, she doesn’t comment on it, and it’s as if she’s no longer interested, no longer cares what the two of us get up to. On the surface, at least, we are getting along fine, but I don’t trust her completely. I find I’m still wary, still waiting for her next move.

  Before I know it, a couple of weeks have passed since my birthday. It seems as though the three of us have found a way to make it work and I’m more hopeful. I say this to Ben one Sunday as we walk around Prior Park Landscape Gardens. The sun is high, the sky a pale blue. Ben tucks my arm in his as we wander along the Palladian Bridge, showing me the names and dates and messages from lovers and friends that have been scratched into its Bath stone columns, marvelling at the inscriptions from over a hundred years ago.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he says. ‘It’s important to me that my two best girls get on.’ And I feel it, a trace of jealousy. I know I can’t have him all to myself; after all, who better than I to understand their bond? But sometimes their relationship reminds me even more of what I’ve lost. We walk along in silence, both deep in thought, our shadows stretched out in front of us, elongated versions of ourselves, and I’m curious as to what’s going on in his mind, because every now and again he’s like a television that has abruptly been switched off so that I’m no longer able to see what he’s thinking.

  As we move off the bridge towards the lake he says, ‘My contract has come to an end, but another company has offered me a job, in Scotland. The money’s good, I can’t turn it down.’

  In front of us a mother is grappling with a screaming toddler, trying to hoist him over her shoulder towards the café with the promise of cake. I smile at her sympathetically. ‘How long for?’

  ‘It’s a week contract, possibly two.’ I can’t bear the thought of being away from him for that long; he’s the anchor to my boat and I worry that I will float out to sea, directionless, without him.

  ‘Do you need to take the contract?’ I say. ‘What with the trust fund …’

  He stiffens. I’ve offended him, wounded his male pride.

  ‘I’m from a working-class background. It doesn’t seem right not to earn my own money,’ he snaps.

  I remember Eva telling me about his rich grandparents, their rambling house on the outskirts of Edinburgh. It doesn’t sound as if it was a very working-class background to me. But I bite my tongue because I can understand how he would want to earn a living and not rely on family inheritance. Since I’ve been working, I’ve been giving money to Beatrice for rent, in spite of her protestations. It doesn’t seem right not to pay my way. I know how Ben feels.

  By now we’ve reached the café – or rather a hut with wooden tables set out in front of it, overlooking the lake. The tables are mostly taken up with young families; children run about with ice creams, making the most of the last remnants of summer. We manage to find a small table semi-hidden by an over-enthusiastic bush, with a view of the lake. I take a seat while Ben goes to the hut to buy us coffee.

  He returns clutching two takeaway cups with plastic lids and hands one to me as he manoeuvres his long legs over the bench seat opposite. Over his shoulder I watch as a flock of seagulls descend on the lake, foraging for a snack and scaring away a couple of ducks.

  ‘Will you be okay? In the house with Beatrice and the others? Without me?’ he asks. I’m pleased that he’s worried about me.

  ‘Everything seems to have settled down, and I’m getting on OK with Beatrice again. It makes life a lot easier.’ He nods and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘All that weird stuff that happened, Ben. It was awful, it was as though I was losing my grip on reality.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  I shake my head, trying to chase the unwanted memories away. It’s all in the past, I remind myself, I need to forget it.

  Ben has been in Scotland for the past ten days, leaving me wafting around the house, unsettled, like a spirit with nobody to haunt. I miss him the most at night, so I sleep in his bed, inhaling the smell of him that lingers on the sheets, imagining him here with me.

  On the Friday that Ben is due home I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop. Pam is at the sink washing out brushes; her hair has gone from tarmac black to a blood orange – a home dye job that went wrong apparently, although it has now ‘grown on her’. She’s wearing baggy paint-splattered overalls and is chattering away, totally oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to write an article I promised Miranda. I log on to Facebook, distracted by Pam’s incessant chatter, knowing I won’t get any work done while she’s in the room. As I do every week or so, I go on to Lucy’s Facebook page that I’ve still kept running, not quite able to contact them to disable it, taking comfort from the past posts on her timeline, the photographs she uploaded before she died, the funny messages on her wall that we sent to one another. Her profile photograph is of the two of us, taken at some party; grinning inanely, hair damp with sweat, a crowd of people dancing behind us, slightly out of focus. I smile at the memory, remembering when Nia took the photo at the opening of a new club in Covent Garden. With beads of perspiration on our foreheads, our hair pushed back from our eyes, our lips bare, even I have to scrutinize the photograph to remember which of the smiling, fun-loving girls is me.

  The letters in the box upstairs are the only private things I have left of her. Yes, I can access her Facebook page, click on the videos that I have of her, but it’s the letters that mean the most, because in them she poured out her thoughts and feelings. When I read them, I can hear her voice, I can imagine that she’s talking to me. Letter-writing was something we shared, something personal, between the two of us and not for her three hundred Facebook friends. And when I think that three of those precious letters have been taken by Beatrice and hidden God knows where, a flicker of anger burns inside me so intense it takes me a while to calm down and regain my composure. I’m biding my time, but I will get those letters back.

  Pam is still chattering away but her words wash over my head. There is something new on Lucy’s timeline, her status has changed. My heart starts to race and I rapidly blink to make sure I’ve read it correctly. But there is no mistake. The three words float in front of my vision so that I’m dizzy.

  I’ve been replaced.

  My fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard. I can see by the date that it was written yesterday. My mouth goes dry. Has her account been hacked?
Maybe it’s some idiot mucking about, but why write such a thing? What does it mean?

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ says Pam, noticing my shocked expression.

  I can’t bring myself to tell her because, as much as I’m fond of Pam, admire her reassuring presence, her confidence, not even minding that she’s slightly self-obsessed, I doubt she would understand. When I received those flowers on my birthday she had appeared nonplussed, almost dismissive, assuring me there was probably a logical explanation. As if there could be.

  So I plaster a tight smile on my face and tell her I’m fine, and she seems to believe it as she gathers up her paintbrushes, humming as she trots up the stairs to the next floor.

  Why would you write that, Lucy? I think, before checking myself, tears stinging my eyes as it sinks in that, of course, Lucy didn’t write it. How could she? She’s dead. She’s fucking dead! I take deep breaths, try to concentrate on my breathing. I slam the lid of my MacBook, telling myself that it’s a mistake, that it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s not at all weird, eerie, sick that a message has appeared on my sister’s wall nearly two years after she died.

  When I check again later, the message has disappeared, leaving me doubting whether it was ever there in the first place.

  It’s dark when Ben’s little Fiat finally turns into the street. I watch from my bedroom window as he pulls up outside the house. I run downstairs, throwing open the front door as he’s stepping on to the pavement. He’s dressed in a moss green corduroy jacket that I haven’t seen before, and a woolly beanie hat pulled down over his head, hiding his hair. Although it’s only the end of August the weather has taken a turn for the worse so it seems more autumnal. I’ve missed him so much. I rush towards him but something about his demeanour makes me hesitate by the wrought-iron gate. He looks tired, the tan he acquired over the summer has faded and his shoulders are slumped. I call out to him and he glances up; his smile, when he realizes it’s me, transforms his face. I open the gate and fall into his arms and he drops his suitcase on to the pavement to hug me. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you,’ he says into my hair as he squeezes me tightly, urgently. ‘It’s been a hideous few weeks.’ I nod sympathetically, remembering his late-night phone calls bemoaning his boss, the ridiculous long hours, ‘the shambolic company’ that he’s working for.