The Sisters

by Claire Douglas

  It was the first August of the new millennium when she met him. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays, but she had hung around Exeter with her friend Laila, both not wanting to give up their flat, or to go back home to their families, enjoying their first taste of playing at being grown-up. They had gone to the local pub, the Seven Stars, which all the students frequented in term time because the beer was cheap. Spiller’s ‘Groovejet (If This Ain’t Love)’ was on the jukebox and even now, all these years later, she can’t listen to that song without remembering how she felt when she first noticed him. He was leaning against the bar, chatting to his friend with a pint in hand, seemingly unaware of her reaction. Of how, for those few long seconds, she couldn’t breathe, as if she knew that she had found her soul mate. As if she knew that they were destined to be together before they even uttered a word to each other. And when they did speak they couldn’t stop, she was amazed by how much they had in common. He too was a student at the university, although he was doing a different course. When she found out he was on the same campus as her she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him before.

  Beatrice hardly ever allows herself to think of that time; it was thirteen years ago now and so much has happened since, so much wasted time, so many regrets. Her heart was broken and she had no choice but to leave, not only the university but the country as well. A few years later she heard through Laila that he had a new girlfriend, and it was as if her heart was being ripped out of her chest all over again.

  She jumps as the front door bangs, bringing with it hushed voices, a giggle that echoes around the house. Beatrice rushes out into the hallway to see Ben with his arms around Abi’s waist. Their hair is wet and plastered to their heads, Abi’s hanging in cute tendrils, a limp umbrella dripping water falls from her hand and on to the doormat. She’s looking up at Ben with her beautiful open face and Beatrice is surprised to see her expression is full of adoration. She never expected Abi to fall for him, not this quickly. They are both laughing and the sight of them together brings back unwanted memories. Memories that she tries hard to keep buried. She only wishes she could find someone to fall in love with and then the past could be erased as easily as a pencil drawing.

  ‘All right, Bea.’ Ben flashes her his lopsided smile, but Abi doesn’t even glance in her direction. Standing by the old school radiator, Beatrice is suddenly awkward in her own home. There’s something different about Abi tonight, she realizes, an aloofness that wasn’t evident in her persona before. It’s true that Abi has always been slightly jittery, with a shyness, a vulnerability that endeared her to Beatrice, but she was always so eager to please, so polite. When Abi told her, that day in her bedroom, that she reminded her of Lucy, she had been flattered, had felt that maybe this was the beginning of a long friendship that both of them so obviously needed.

  ‘Have you had a good night?’ she says in an effort to stem her jealousy. It’s not their fault that she’s single.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ replies Abi shortly, still looking up at Ben, her arms encircling his waist. Beatrice is taken aback by her abruptness. Was it all an act, Abi, your eagerness to be my friend? Was it only so you could get into my brother’s pants? Perhaps Ben’s told her about yesterday, how upset she became in the park when she thought they were sleeping together. Would he be so disloyal? It wasn’t the fact he was sleeping with Abi that had bothered her so much. Not really. She just doesn’t want them to get too serious. Even she can see it’s going too fast, that one of them is going to end up getting hurt, and Abi is so vulnerable. Putting a halt to their intimacy might slow things down, give each of them a chance to get some perspective on their relationship. Sex gets in the way. It’s easier when you take it out of the equation, she thinks.

  Abi uncoils herself from Ben and, clutching his hand, leads him up the stairs. ‘Goodnight, Beatrice,’ she calls over her shoulder, and there is something about the way she says it, the way she leads her brother up the stairs, that makes Beatrice think that she’s taunting her, letting her know that she won’t let Beatrice win.

  It’s not a fucking game, Abi. This is my life.

  Ben has a stupid lovestruck grin on his face as he follows Abi up the stone staircase. Beatrice knows she must look like a disapproving landlady, standing at the bottom, wrapped in her thick woolly cardigan, arms folded across her chest, but surely Ben wouldn’t go against her wishes? Surely he wouldn’t be so cruel as to still have sex with Abi after everything she said yesterday? Not when he knows she has the ability to pull the plug on it all.

  Beatrice sighs and flicks the switch to turn the light off in the studio. She must trust that Ben will do the right thing. She can’t keep tabs on him as if she’s his overprotective mother.

  Her eyes pause on the velvet box on her desk, and she makes a mental note not to forget to post it to her client first thing. Another giggle emanates from the landing, causing her to forget all about the bracelet, and, closing the door on it, she follows her brother and his girlfriend up the stairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She’s trapped on the top floor of the house, banging on the attic window and I know she’s screaming although the sound is muffled by the glass, by the flames roaring around her. Her eyes are huge, terrified, and I run towards the house, trying to break down the front door, ignoring the fire licking the paint and causing it to warp, but the smoke knocks me back and I’m crying, exhausted, and she’s getting smaller and smaller so that I can hardly see her. She’s vanishing in front of my very eyes, and before I know it Callum’s grabbing me around the waist, pulling me away from Beatrice’s house, telling me there is nothing I can do.

  ‘She’s gone, Abi. She’s gone. You have to let her go.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ I scream, and I carry on screaming until my blood runs cold and my throat hurts. Suddenly Luke’s face is in front of mine, his usual good-looking features contorted with anger so that he’s ugly, scary, and he’s turning on me, telling me it’s all my fault. The house disappears and instead my old Audi is on its side in the ditch and Lucy’s in Luke’s arms and he’s cradling her, crying, as he did that terrible, terrible night. And then it’s not Lucy’s face that stares up at me any more with her eyes open, unseeing. It’s Beatrice’s.

  I awake with a start, my pillow wet with sweat, the sheets damp and twisted in knots at my feet, the duvet a heap on the floor. My heart bangs against my ribs as I sit up in bed, gasping for air. How I wish Ben was lying next to me, to soothe me, to remind me it was only a nightmare. It was only a nightmare, I tell myself as my heart slows, knowing that the events in my dreams might be different every time, but the outcome is always the same. As is the reality.

  My twin sister is dead, Luke hates me and I will always blame myself. I will never be able to let Lucy go.

  I’m rounding the stairs that lead to the basement kitchen when their raised voices stop me in my tracks. ‘It’s gone. It was on my desk last night and this morning it’s vanished,’ says Beatrice.

  ‘Are you suggesting that someone has stolen it?’ Ben’s voice is unusually acerbic, his Scottish accent more pronounced. I’ve never heard them argue before and my heart skitters.

  ‘It was there last night,’ she repeats, her voice rising. ‘That’s all I’m saying. And now it isn’t.’

  ‘Maybe you put it somewhere else?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Her voice is clipped, cold.

  I hover on the stairs, not sure whether to retreat or to continue into the kitchen. Hidden by the curved wall, I try to imagine the expressions on their faces.

  ‘I don’t know, Beatrice. But don’t go accusing people until you’re sure.’

  ‘Accusing people? Who have I fucking accused, Ben? Nobody.’

  His voice is calm as he answers. ‘You say it’s gone missing and your tone is accusatory. So come on, who do you think has taken it?’

  I freeze, waiting. Her voice, with its hint of a Scottish accent but so much softer than Ben’s, is barely audible over the whir
l of the washing machine. ‘Cass was in London last night and Pam was at her boyfriend’s house. So there’s only one person who could have taken it, unless of course you were with her all night? Were you? Were you with her all night, Ben?’

  She means me.

  Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy so that I have to hold on to the wall for support. I can’t guess at Ben’s expression, and I don’t wait for his answer as I scurry back up the stairs, tripping up them in my eagerness to get away and grazing my shin in the process. I don’t stop to examine my leg but keep running until I get to my room. I close the door and lean against it, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, the graze stinging, tiny dots of blood bubbling up on my skin. Did Beatrice imply that I’m a thief? Or is my paranoia, my sickness rearing its delusional head?

  I glance at my bedside table; my antidepressants aren’t in their usual place. Maybe I forgot to take one last night? I crawl around on the floor on my hands and knees, in case the packet has fallen or slipped down behind the bedside table or my chest of drawers. And then I see the familiar cardboard packet poking out from under my bed. With relief I retrieve it, pulling the silver foil from within its cardboard mouth, like a dentist extracting a filling, but when I look there are no pills left. How could I have been so stupid? I check the date; my last prescription was almost three months ago, but there still should be a strip left. I shake the packet but the foils that fall on to the carpet are empty, their oblong blisters deflated. Panic rises in me, the darkness closing in. Did I take the Prozac before I went to bed? Why can’t I remember? Things have been so hectic; moving in here, my relationship with Ben, that I can’t remember when I last took one.

  Ben had come to bed with me last night, although we lay fully clothed on top of the duvet, talking quietly. Then I must have fallen asleep because when I woke in the night, Ben had gone back to his room and I was still dressed in the jeans and jumper I had worn to the pub. My mouth was dry and sticky so I padded downstairs to the kitchen to get some water. Had I taken the tablet when I came back up? I don’t think so. Janice told me it was dangerous to stop taking the medication and that I needed to be weaned off them gradually, when the time was right. It’s still early, surely I can make an emergency appointment with my GP or Janice? It will be okay, I tell myself. There’s no need to panic. Surely missing one pill won’t hurt, I’ve done it before. But what if I’ve missed more than one?

  I sit on the floor against the bed, its iron frame digging uncomfortably into my back, but I don’t care, welcoming the pain. I pull my shaky knees up to my chest and a sob escapes my lips. How could I have thought that those blasted pills would make everything okay? Now Lucy’s gone I will always feel this way, as if I’m on the brink of a precipice and one false move could send me toppling over.

  I’ve managed to avoid her all day.

  I’ve spent the morning ringing around my contacts and I’m relieved when Miranda, my old boss, sounds pleased to hear from me, even telling me she might have a commission for me. ‘Patricia Lipton has agreed to be interviewed for our arts pages, I know how you love her novels,’ she tells me. It will mean travelling to the Isle of Wight as Patricia hates telephone interviews, but that might be what I need: to get away from Beatrice for a bit, to clear my head.

  I manage to get an emergency appointment with my GP for more antidepressants. Afterwards I pop into town to buy a duvet cover that will match my new walls. I’m shouldering my way through the door around tea-time, carrier bag in one hand and umbrella in the other, when I hear her voice carry down the hallway in a breezy hello and I see her emerging from her studio. Even though the temperature is cool, she’s wearing one of her cotton dresses, her feet are bare and she has a silver anklet that drapes elegantly over her tattoo.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was Ben.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘Been shopping? I didn’t think you had any money?’ She glances pointedly at the carrier bag I’m clutching.

  My face heats up at her directness. ‘I … it was in the sale. It’s a duvet cover. I need a new one, after the bird …’

  ‘Right.’ Her eyes are cold as they sweep over me. I push the front door closed and dump my bags and umbrella at my feet while I shake off my parka, hanging it on the coat stand.

  She’s still standing there, slim arms folded across her body, assessing me, and I squirm under her scrutinizing gaze. ‘Those dresses I let you borrow,’ she says. ‘Have you finished with them?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s not so hot now so I don’t need them any more. Do you want me to get them?’

  ‘Please.’ She inclines her head towards the stairs and I walk up them, becoming more dejected with each step. I can hear the sound of her bare feet against the stone, sense her breath on the back of my neck as she follows closely behind.

  I open the wardrobe to retrieve her clothes, leaving one dress on the hanger. The one that I bought at the vintage shop. The only one that belongs to me. I see Beatrice’s eyes flicker to it but she doesn’t say anything about it.

  ‘Here.’ I hand her the clothes and she drapes them over her forearm. ‘Thanks for letting me borrow them. I’ve still got the green Alice Temperley, it needs washing but I’ll do it.’

  She shrugs but makes no move to leave. ‘Do you have anything else that’s mine, Abi?’ Her voice is cold. I wasn’t mistaken earlier, she knows I’ve stolen something from her.

  ‘Like?’ I meet her gaze.

  ‘A sapphire bracelet, for example.’

  I remember admiring the bracelet the day after I moved in, where it sat on her desk in her studio. ‘Why would I have it?’

  She sighs. ‘I don’t want to play games. If you have it then please return it. I’ve been paid for it already, it’s for a new client and I don’t want to let him down. It’s a present for his wife.’

  ‘Can’t you make him another one?’ This is obviously the wrong answer as her cheeks redden and her eyes narrow so that they are two slits in her face and she actually draws breath.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ she hisses. ‘I’ve been a good friend to you. I invited you to live here, rent free, when I hardly knew you. I tried to help you deal with your grief over Lucy, and this is how you repay me. I know you’ve taken it, Abi. I don’t know why, but I know it’s you.’

  I open my mouth to protest but she slams out of the room before I can utter another word.

  I’m stretched out on top of my new duvet cover, too afraid to venture downstairs in case Beatrice has told Pam and Cass about the bracelet. I know they are all sitting around the kitchen table eating a delicious meal (most probably prepared by Eva) and I can’t bear to see their disappointed stares or hear their accusatory words. It doesn’t matter what I say, she’s made up her mind that I’ve stolen her precious bracelet. How I hate confrontation.

  But hiding away makes you look guilty, I think. How have I managed to get myself into this situation? Have I made the same mistake as I did with Alicia?

  The creak of my bedroom door makes me look up and I see Ben standing there, his usual lopsided smile on his face. ‘Can I come in? I’ve missed you today.’ He looks tired, the smudge of dark circles under his eyes noticeable despite his tan. I nod miserably, and then, as he takes a seat next to me on the too-soft mattress, I burst into tears. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ he says, pulling me to him. I bury my head in his chest, comforted by the familiar scent of the fabric softener of his crisp white shirt mixed with a musty office smell. Tearfully I explain about what I heard this morning and Beatrice’s coldness towards me tonight.

  ‘I can’t believe she spoke to you like that,’ he says angrily when I’ve finished. ‘She can’t go around accusing people. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’

  ‘You don’t think I stole her bracelet, do you, Ben?’

  He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face towards his and gently wipes away a tear. ‘Of course not. She’s over-reacting as always. She’s probably moved it and has forgotten where she’s put it. She’
s always doing that type of thing, don’t worry.’

  I lean against him, relieved. As long as Ben’s on my side I can face anything. He asks me if I’ve eaten and when I explain I’ve been too embarrassed to face the others he takes me by the hand and leads me down to the kitchen. As I pass the large ornate mirror on the landing I catch a glimpse of my puffy eyes, my swollen clown’s mouth. I’ve never been an attractive crier.

  Beatrice and Pam are sitting at the table when we come in and they both glance at us, quickly looking away again. So Beatrice has told Pam about the bracelet, just as I thought she would.

  ‘Is there any dinner left?’ asks Ben. He’s still holding my hand and I grip it like it’s a life raft.

  ‘Eva made a fish pie. There’s some left in the oven,’ says Beatrice, ignoring me. Their plates are empty and so are their wine glasses, plus the two bottles in the middle of the table. Ben lets go of my hand and walks to the Aga and I take a seat opposite Beatrice.

  ‘Beatrice …’ I begin. There’s so much I want to say, but I know I’m not very good at confronting things. I’m interrupted by Ben placing a plateful of fish pie in front of me but I know if I take a mouthful I will vomit. He sits next to me, handing me cutlery and a wine glass with a reassuring look in his eyes. I find it endearing that he’s taking control, that he’s looking after me.

  ‘I see you’ve downed all the wine.’ His voice is devoid of its usual warmth as he addresses his sister.

  Pam looks uncomfortable and, making some excuse about having to call her boyfriend, hurries from the kitchen. The pitter patter of rain on glass, the occasional gust of wind rattling the windowpanes, are the only sounds to be heard. I pick at my food but Ben shovels his down with gusto, not put off by the tense atmosphere in the room that makes me claustrophobic. I yearn to run up to the sanctuary of my bedroom. I take a small forkful of pie before putting my cutlery down.