She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  So Lara was coming for Christmas (when, of course, her pregnancy would be impossible to conceal). The family would all be united in Stratford for the festivities. They would break the news of the surrogacy. And everyone would just have to get used to the idea that Gabrielle and James were having a baby.

  *

  Then on the morning of Christmas Eve, just after James had driven off to collect Lara from Heathrow airport, and as Gabrielle was in her mother’s bedroom packing up Christmas presents to go under the tree, she received a text:

  Nightmare scenario at work – project deadline 31 December – my boss being a dick as always – all leave cancelled. Sorry, I’m not going to make it.

  Gabrielle stared at the text. She reread it three times in disbelief. It was two o’clock in the morning in New York – Lara was supposed to be on a plane touching down at Heathrow in less than an hour. But she must still be in her apartment on the other side of the Atlantic, awake, a monster in the night, unleashing her devastating blow. She punched out Lara’s number. Three times it went to voicemail, then the fourth, the message came up phone is disconnected, please try later. The bitch had switched it off.

  Gabrielle tossed the phone onto the bed and walked over to the dressing table. She looked in the mirror. Her twin stared back at her. She grabbed her mother’s ivory hairbrush and hammered it into the mirror until Lara’s face was fractured into a thousand pieces and her wild staring eyes shattered from the mahogany frame. Then she picked up the silver-framed rose garden wedding portrait (of herself, holding the dark red bridal bouquet, and Lara in her grey silk) from the bedside table, and hurled it at the wall. Splinters of glass flew in all directions to embed themselves in the carpet. A chunk of plaster was missing where the corner of the metal frame had hit the painted wall.

  A few seconds later, she heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. The door was flung open and her mother stood there, wiping floury hands on her apron.

  ‘What on earth is going on up here?’

  ‘It’s that bitch. That despicable, cold-hearted, scheming bitch. She’s not coming.’

  She bent down to pick up the long shards of glass, squeezing them into her palms until the blood began to drip down on to her mother’s cream woollen shagpile.

  A few hours later, a precarious calm had been restored and the family were sitting in the living room together. James had carefully tweezered out the glass from Gabrielle’s flesh and bandaged up her palms with professional skill.

  ‘Such a blessing having a medical expert in the family at a time like this,’ said his mother-in-law gratefully.

  ‘At least it will get you out of peeling the sprouts and all the usual Christmas chores,’ said James ruefully to Gabrielle. ‘Was this part of your cunning plan?’

  Gabrielle was not amused. She was lying back on the sofa looking bored, sipping a glass of mulled wine and nibbling one of her mother’s mince pies. James sat wedged in next to Mrs Kennedy, turning the pages of a photo book created by Gabrielle. It was an early Christmas present from Gabrielle to James containing photographs of their recent trip to the British Leeward Isles.

  ‘Ah! What a lovely photo!’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘You look like honeymooners. And what a beautiful beach.’ She pointed. ‘The sand is such an exquisite pink.’

  ‘The photo rep at the hotel took that,’ said Gabrielle absently. ‘It cost us thirty dollars – a rip off.’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical,’ said James. ‘We had something to celebrate that evening.’

  He turned to Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘Did Christina tell you? We had a busy holiday. As well as taking delivery of The Phantasea, we put down a deposit on a villa. It’s pretty run down. It’s Gabrielle’s new project – she’s got all sorts of plans for the renovation.

  ‘How exciting!’ said Mrs Kennedy, and she patted Gabrielle’s knee. ‘You must tell me all about it.’

  Gabrielle banged her wine glass down on the sideboard.

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time looking at those bloody holiday snaps. I’m going to watch a film. Hand me those DVDs could you please James?’

  She had brought along a selection of classic black-and-white films to watch in place of the usual trashy Christmas TV that she despised.

  ‘I’m going to expose you all to a bit of French culture,’ she said. ‘This is a good place to start. Jules et Jim.’

  Obediently, her parents and James settled themselves on the faded sofas in the rectory sitting room to watch ‘the most tragic and poetic love-triangle story ever made’ (so said the blurb on the back of the DVD) by renowned French director Francois Truffaut, about the relationship between Catherine, seductive, charismatic, mentally unstable, and the two men who were captivated by the love of her.

  ‘Do you see yourself as Catherine by any chance?’ said James ironically, as he read the back of the DVD.

  ‘Shush!’ she said, impatiently. She was transfixed, listening intently to the French dialogue and reading the subtitles…

  …It’s a nightmare when night comes. I think of that child we can never have. I feel I’m being judged. I can’t bear it any longer…

  But we love each other Catherine, that’s the only thing that matters…

  There was a loud ping as a text message came in on James’ mobile.

  Jim was thinking of the children he could have had with Catherine… they made love once more not knowing why… perhaps to put an end to their passionate affair… it was like a funeral or as if they were already dead…

  Another ping.

  ‘For God’s sake turn it off,’ said Gabrielle, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.

  Jim received a letter from Jules.

  ‘Your little baby is dead. Died in the first trimester of the pregnancy. She wants silence between you now.’

  James got to his feet.

  ‘Would you excuse me please. Something’s come up at work. Could I use your office for a few minutes?’

  I was scared she might try to kill herself. She had a gun…

  Gabrielle’s father nodded his agreement and James’ left the room, just as his mobile pinged again.

  Catherine believes at least one person must be faithful in a relationship – as for the other?

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Gabrielle’s mother. ‘You’d think they could leave him in peace on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Just shut up, Mother,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I’m trying to watch this.’ Her eyes were glued to the black-and-white figures on the screen as the heroine, Catherine took out the gun and attempted to shoot her former lover, Jim

  They would have been beautiful Jim! You’re going to die! You disgust me! I’m going to kill you Jim! … Je vais te tuer!

  Gabrielle sat up rigid as she listened to the deadpan voiceover.

  Having asked her husband, Jules, to watch them closely – ‘Jules, regarde-nous bien’– Catherine invites her former lover, Jim, to join her in the car, and drives the car off the end of a broken bridge, killing them both.

  That phrase, ‘Jules, regarde-nous bien!’ echoed in Gabrielle’s head. ‘Jules, regarde-nous bien!’… and she sat entranced with tears running down her cheeks as the automobile sank into the river and the credits rolled.

  *

  Coming from behind the closed study door, Gabrielle could hear the muffled tones of James talking to his PA. It was so annoying. There seemed to be no escape from the demands of his work. Thanks to his bloody mobile phone, there was always someone else in the house.

  He was shouting now. Even he was beginning to lose his cool. She heard the study door opening and he came in and sat down beside her.

  ‘Problems at work?’ said Gabrielle automatically – though she wasn’t really interested in hearing about them.

  The clanging of her parents’ old-fashioned doorbell broke Gabrielle’s reverie as she switched off the TV.

  ‘Can you get that, James?’ she said, giving him a prod with her elbow. ‘Who the hell is it?’ she muttered as he stood up. A few seconds later
she got up and followed him into the hallway. He was at the front door, speaking to a deliveryman, who was carrying a large cardboard box and an oversized bouquet of red chrysanthemums.

  Through the open doorway of the study, Gabrielle saw James’s phone where he had left it on the desk. It was flashing on silent.

  He walked down the hallway carrying the huge bouquet.

  ‘They’re from Lara,’ he called out. ‘For your mother.’

  As he disappeared into the sitting room to hand over the bouquet, Gabrielle wandered over to the desk and saw the name, Francesca PA, displayed on the screen. That name set off bad vibes but she couldn’t think why.

  I’ve just about had enough of this, thought Gabrielle. She clicked the answer button and was on the point of giving Francesca a piece of her mind but before she could open her mouth, she heard the voice:

  ‘Hello darling, I’m sorry. I lost my nerve. I know she’s going to give you hell. I just can’t face it, being in the spotlight in this condition, on top of all the usual stress and conflict of Christmas at home.’

  It was Lara, unmistakably, Lara’s voice. An echo of her own. The same texture and intonation but with the breath of an American accent. Devious bastard. But how cliched! He was so lacking in imagination even when he was cheating. She cut the phone, then scrolled back through the list of missed calls from ‘Francesca PA’ – eleven calls! The first at 3 a.m. then 6.30 a.m. – God, that was when he went down to get her a cup of tea just after they made love. A further three calls between 11 a.m. and noon when she went out shopping with her mother for some last-minute Christmas treats, and the remaining six just now while they were watching the film Jules et Jim.

  Gabrielle slammed down the phone. Her ears were ringing with anger and she thought she would faint but she put on her habitual mask of indifference and when James returned saying, ‘They’re from Lara, for your mum. That was thoughtful of her.’

  She replied nonchalantly, ‘Symbol of death, what was she thinking of?’ And then she flounced up the stairs.

  James stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at her with a pained expression on his face.

  At the top, she turned and shouted, ‘Does she think we’re planning a bloody funeral?’

  Then she went into the bedroom she had shared with Lara as a child and slammed the door.

  33

  Scarlett

  It’s three in the morning and still no sign of anyone coming to rescue us.

  ‘We’ve waited long enough,’ I say.

  I take the gun from under the mattress.

  ‘OK. This is the deal. Two shots at the door. That’s all we can spare. That leaves us three bullets to defend ourselves if our escape plan fails and they come back.’ Christina told me that she knows enough about yachting to work out how to skipper the catamaran. With a bit of luck and my help we should be able to navigate back to shore if only we can get out of this damn cabin!

  I practise aiming at the top corner of the door, just the way Mitch told me to – relax your shoulder, look down the barrel, hold your breath… and squeeze.

  I estimate that the bolts must be screwed in about two inches down on the outside of the door.

  We twist the mattress on its side and crouch down behind it to protect ourselves as best we can. I take a shot. There’s an almighty thud, as the bullet hits the door denting the wood, followed a split second later by the rip and scrunch of breaking glass as it ricochets off the door and flies into the mirror above the sink.

  When all goes quiet, we throw ourselves against the door, and kick and pound. The bolts seem to loosen but it doesn’t budge.

  ‘I’ll give it one more try,’ I say.

  This time I miss the door. The bullet hits the steel frame and shoots back in our direction.

  Christina screams and clutches her right shoulder. Blood seeps through her fingers.

  ‘Shit!’ I drop the gun and support her in my arms. ‘God, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

  She’s gone ashen-white and looks as if she’s about to pass out.

  I should have trusted my instincts. I had a feeling taking the gun was a bad idea.

  *

  Dawn is breaking.

  After spending the last two hours lying on the bed moaning and complaining of feeling sick and faint, Christina has revived sufficiently to roll herself into a sitting position and look out of the porthole. Fortunately, the wound in her shoulder seems to be only a flesh wound. With my basic first aid skills, learnt during my childcare studies, I’ve been able to stem the flow of blood by improvising a tourniquet with strips of cotton fabric torn from the sheet. But she needs to get to hospital fast.

  Although I’m not a religious person, I gaze across the water and pray silently to the glowing disc of the sun, for Katie’s safe return and for this nightmare to be over.

  ‘That’s the one thing we can be sure of in this uncertain world,’ says Christina softly. ‘Every day the sun will rise. Look. Isn’t it beautiful? I read somewhere that there’s always a sunrise and always a sunset and it’s up to you to choose to be there for them.’ She leans into the sun, throwing back her head so the warm rays coming through the porthole fall on her face. The numbing pain of her wound seems to have calmed her nerves. ‘Put yourself in the way of beauty. That was the message.’

  As if on cue, a dark shape comes into view at the entrance to the lagoon.

  ‘Thank God! The police are on their way. Mitch must have raised the alarm.’ I squeeze Christina’s good hand until she pulls it away. ‘I knew he wouldn’t let me down.’

  As the vessel approaches and comes into focus, euphoria turns to doubt, and then despair. ‘It’s the dinghy,’ I say. ‘They’re back.’ Why? It doesn’t make any sense. With us trapped on board, this was the perfect opportunity for them to stage a getaway with Katie.

  We see there’s only one figure aboard – it’s Gabrielle. No Damien. No Katie.

  ‘Where’s Katie now?’ I say. ‘She’s not aboard The Phantasea so God knows who’s looking after her?’

  Christina’s hands are shaking.

  ‘Damien.’ She almost chokes on the name. ‘That bastard Damien is doing the babysitting.’

  ‘What’s she playing at?’ I say. ‘This is her chance, while you’re out of the way, to pass herself off as Katie’s mother and get her off the island.’

  Christina’s not even listening to me.

  ‘She’s coming back alone to take her revenge,’ says Christina.

  I don’t know if it’s Christina’s use of the word ‘revenge’ or if the meditative beauty of the sunrise has worked its magic but a vision comes into my head. Katie’s blue bunny lying on a sunbed – not a sunbed at the hotel but a bright green-and-yellow stripe cotton fabric – by the poolside at the Villa La Revanche.

  I grip Christina’s hand.

  ‘Katie’s at the villa. That’s where they’re hiding her. I saw the blue bunny left on a sunbed by the pool. At the time I thought you’d taken her soft toy because it made you feel closer to Katie. But, of course, it wasn’t you at the villa, it was Gabrielle, and why would she have the blue bunny at the villa unless Katie was there too?’ The more I think about it, the more sure I am. ‘Katie must have been wailing for the bunny, you know how upset she gets when she loses it! Gabrielle must have come to fetch it from my room.’

  So now it all makes sense – those photographs of Katie that I saw in the darkroom were taken at the villa.

  ‘I’ll bet my life on it, that’s where they’ve hidden her. Your twin is so twisted, she’s even signposted it with the name – the villa of revenge. For God’s sake, what normal person, would give a holiday house a name like that? She wants her payback for what she sees as you stealing her baby. So she’s kidnapped Katie and taken her back there.’

  Damien must have returned to the villa to check up on Katie while Gabrielle deals with her twin. But far from babysitting, most likely Damien is busy plotting with Kramer or another of his dodgy drug-dealing associates,
a way of smuggling Katie off the island.

  The dinghy approaches.

  Gabrielle steers the dinghy alongside the catamaran, and as she passes beneath our porthole, she looks up, smiles and gives a cheerful wave. Is she really hell bent on taking revenge on Christina? Maybe we’re being absurd.

  Looking down into the hull of the little boat I can see that she’s brought provisions – but it’s not our breakfast. I count more than twenty metal jerry cans of the kind used for carrying fuel. I can make out the words.

  GASOLINE – HIGHLY FLAMMABLE

  ‘She’s refuelling,’ I say. ‘She must be planning to take us on a long journey with that quantity of fuel.’

  I stand up and take hold of the gun.

  ‘Christina, look at me. We’re out of time. I’m going to shoot through the porthole’

  She seems lost in a daydream watching the sunrise. Without taking her eyes away from the sky, she says quietly. ‘Marine engines use diesel not gasoline.’

  It takes me a second until the penny drops.

  ‘Oh my God! Is your psychotic sister planning to torch the boat?’ I put my hand to her cheek and turn her face towards me. ‘Christina, for God’s sake, listen to me – you can’t just give in to her. I’ve got a new plan. Our lives may depend on it. More importantly, Katie’s life may depend on it.’ I talk slowly and clearly. ‘As soon as she’s out of sight, I shoot through the porthole. Then we climb out and swim round to the dinghy. After Gabrielle’s unloaded the jerry cans, we grab the dinghy and sail back to shore.’

  Christina’s actually smiling when she finally turns to me and says,