The Sisters

by Claire Douglas

  Beatrice looks from me to Ben as I stare miserably at my hands. I’m surprised when I see, from my peripheral vision, her hand reach across the table towards me. I keep mine folded in my lap.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Abi,’ she says solemnly. ‘I should never have accused you of stealing from me.’

  ‘So you’ve found the bracelet?’ Ben’s voice is sharp.

  She shakes her head and I almost feel sorry for her. ‘No, no, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. As you said, Abi. I can make another one for my client. No big deal.’

  Ben glances at me and I see it, doubt clouding his hazel eyes, but he remains silent.

  ‘I’m sorry I sounded so flippant earlier. But I didn’t take it, Beatrice. I’m not a thief.’

  I think of all the people I’ve taken from: Lucy, Alicia, and yes, even Beatrice. Maybe I am a thief after all.

  When I reach my bedroom there is a missed call and a voicemail on my mobile phone. I listen to the message from Miranda while pacing the length of the room. From my window I see Beatrice heading out of the garden gate. Where is she off to at this time of night? I push thoughts of Beatrice from my mind and try to concentrate on what Miranda is telling me. The Patricia Lipton interview is mine if I’m still interested. She’s arranged for a night stay in a hotel and I leave the day after tomorrow. Adrenalin and purpose surge through me, and I know that Nia was right when she urged me not to give up my job. Getting away from this house, even for a couple of days, would be the best thing for me. For my sanity.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beatrice marches down the street without an umbrella, not caring that the wind is whipping at her red mackintosh or that the rain splashes against her bare legs, not even noticing how soaked her leopard-print pumps are. The sky is dark, moonless, she shouldn’t be out this time of night on her own, but it’s Bath. She feels safer out here in the wind and rain than she does in her own house at the moment.

  She shelters in the doorway of the café in the high street and lights a cigarette. She’s started smoking more since Abi moved in. Her fingers tremble as she puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, savouring the sickly taste of the tobacco as it burns the back of her throat. She’s still reeling from the argument with Abi and at the way she was cast as the bad guy at dinner tonight; her heart races when she recalls it. How can they treat her this way? After everything she’s done. For both of them.

  She had made an effort to be polite when she asked Abi to return her clothes this afternoon. True, she wanted them back, but it had been two weeks, surely Abi could have bought some summer clothes by now? And anyhow, she didn’t want to see Abi wearing her dresses. Not after everything. Even so, she had been shocked when Abi angrily pulled her precious dresses from their respective hangers and almost threw them at her as if they were nothing more than rags. Then her facetious remark about making another bracelet, like it didn’t matter about the first one, it was nothing that Beatrice’s reputation was on the line, her hard work down the drain.

  It had made Beatrice want to smack her smug face.

  She takes another drag of her cigarette. Maybe I was wrong to accuse Abi of stealing the bracelet, she thinks as she exhales smoke into the damp night air. She tried to apologize at dinner, but it infuriated her to see how Abi had obviously gone running to Ben, making out that she, Abi, was the victim in all this. She had the gall to sit there, clutching Ben’s hand, her face contorted with worry, playing the innocent little girl act while Ben sat next to her, big and protective and on her side.

  Are you trying to turn Ben against me?

  She had noticed the maroon tea-dress hanging in Abi’s wardrobe this afternoon as well as the brand-new, still in the box, Dunlop Green Flash trainers on the shelf. Beatrice wonders if it has occurred to Abi how similar the two of them look. The same heart-shaped faces, ski-slope noses, fair hair, slim frame?

  Are you trying to replace me, Abi? Is that what this is all about? Is that why you bought identical trainers? The type of dress I’d wear? This thought makes her shiver and she wraps her coat further around her body.

  There would have been a time when Beatrice would have felt secure in the knowledge that she was Ben’s number one girl, his priority. But now she’s not so sure. It’s true that she might have had an ulterior motive when she asked Abi to move in initially, but this is the last thing she thought would happen.

  A streetlamp hums and flickers, its orange halo illuminating the fine rain that continues to fall. She takes another drag of her cigarette then stubs it out against the wall, flicking the stub behind her.

  Whatever game you’re playing, Abi, she decides resolutely as she thrusts her hands deep into her pockets and heads back into the rain, towards home, I won’t let you win. I’ve got too much to lose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Mini, red and disconcertingly shiny, is parked just across from where I disembarked from the ferry, and the slightly built Asian man with a pretty, almost feminine face, ushers me towards it, unaware of my discomfort, my fear.

  ‘Have you driven a Mini before, Miss Cavendish?’ he says, clutching his clipboard to his chest. Regardless of his diminutive stature I have to trot to keep up with him. I shake my head. I’m finding it difficult to swallow. When we get to the vehicle he makes notes with a scratchy ballpoint pen on to a car-shaped diagram as to its current condition, and I hope it will still be scratch free when I return it tomorrow. He opens the door and leans inside to demonstrate how to start the engine, where the controls and indicators are, and how to use the built-in sat nav. And then he drops the key fob into the palm of my trembling hand and leaves me standing there, unsure if I have the nerve to get behind the wheel after all this time.

  In London it was easy not to drive, what with a tube station a short walk from our house. Even in Bath I can take the bus whenever I need to go into town, or to visit my parents. It’s a waste of money running a car, I say to Mum and Dad when they express concern about the fact I’ve hardly driven since the accident. My Audi was a write-off, but my insurance company had given me a couple of grand for the car and everyone had insisted I needed to buy another one, that I needed to ‘get back on the horse’ as it were. But then I met Alicia, followed by my attempted suicide, my breakdown. And when I was well enough to leave the psychiatric hospital to live with my parents, there was no need for a car. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But the truth of it is that I’m scared. The last time I got behind a wheel I ended up killing my own twin sister. What if I ended up endangering the life of someone else?

  Swallowing down the bile that’s rising in my throat, I slide into the driver’s seat and touch the wheel gingerly. Surely I can’t do much damage in a Mini? A young mother pushing a pram crosses the road in front of where I’m parked, and I shudder as I imagine ploughing into her, the bonnet of the car lifting the pram high into the air, the screams of the baby … I fight the urge to retch. I don’t know if I can do this.

  I wait as the young mother manoeuvres her pram safely on to the pavement before I have the courage to push the key fob into the dashboard, and I press the ignition button with a timorous hand. I sit there for a while, the car purring away, nauseous at the thought of driving through the streets of Cowes. I turn my head. The glisten of the late afternoon sun bounces off the sea in the distance, the white triangular sail of a boat bobs up and down. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of salt in the air, and I close my eyes, reminding myself of the mantra that Janice taught me, becoming calmer as I concentrate on breathing in and out. In and out.

  Then I hear Lucy’s soft voice in my ear, so clearly it’s as though she’s sitting in the front passenger seat next to me. It wasn’t your fault. You can do this, Abi. I press my foot down on the clutch, push the gearstick into first and gently tap the accelerator, amazed as the car begins to crawl slowly away from the kerb and on to the road.

  And I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face as I hear Lucy whooping and
cheering beside me as I drive, actually drive, towards Cowes.

  The bed and breakfast that Miranda has booked for me has a view of the marina and a landlady who reminds me of my late grandmother. She fusses around me when I arrive, asking if she can make me a cooked breakfast in the morning and if I wish for my one solitary holdall to be taken up to the bedroom. I politely turn down any offers of help and escape to the sanctuary of my room, which is small but pleasant in a shabby-chic kind of way. I quickly unpack my wash bag and hang up the trousers I will be wearing for the interview tomorrow in the white painted wardrobe, a frisson of nerves mixed with excitement that I’ve been given this chance to interview Patricia Lipton. The room is chilly even though the sun is out. I unravel my cardigan, briefly putting it to my nose to inhale the comforting scent of home. Beatrice’s home. I wrap it around me and head out in the vague direction of the marina, the breeze whipping my hair back, the smell of fish and chips in the air, the melancholy call of seagulls, and I’m reminded of Lucy and of my childhood at seaside places reminiscent of this, of me chasing her – always chasing her, although I could never quite catch her – dressed in our red swimsuits with the frills around the bottom, her yellow ponytail swinging as she ran, our laughter ringing out as we clutched our plastic windmills in our chubby hands, faces smeared with ice cream, and Mum and Dad trailing behind us with proud smiles as strangers stopped to comment on how pretty we were, how identical. Too identical, as it turns out.

  I carry on walking, past the marina with its cluster of sailboats in white and blue, through the cobbled pavements of the town centre, on to the promenade with pensioners reclining on wooden benches looking out to sea, until I get to the beach. I pick my way over the shingles, amazed how quiet it is for July. There are a few families making the most of the last of the day’s sunshine and a scattering of couples sitting holding hands or lolling against the wall. I make my way to the water’s edge in my flip-flops and my jeans turned up at the ankle, enjoying the warm sea lapping at my toes. My thirtieth birthday is at the beginning of next month. Every time I think of it I get a stabbing pain under my ribs, the sense of loss, of going through life alone instead of sharing these milestones with Lucy. I’m getting older while my twin sister will forever be twenty-eight.

  As I turn and glance back towards the road, I freeze. She’s sitting on the wall, her long legs crossed at the ankle, her pale bob skimming her tanned shoulders, slim fingers fanned out to shield her eyes from the sunshine. At first I’m convinced it’s Lucy, until I notice the dark markings of a flower weaving its way around her ankle. I squint to get a better look. Has she caught the train to Southampton and boarded the ferry to follow me here? I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping that when I open them again she would have evaporated like the optical illusion I’m hoping she is, because surely I must be imagining her sitting there. It’s my illness, my paranoia. But when I open my eyes she’s still there. There’s nothing for it, I think, but to confront her, to ask her what the hell she’s playing at. But as soon as I take a step forward she gets up, dusting down her summer dress, and hops off the wall with the agility of a cat, disappearing into the clusters of people on the street, leaving me staring after her, terrified that I’m losing my mind.

  I spend most of the night tossing and turning in the double bed, as if my body is aware that it’s meant for two. My head is full of all of them: Lucy, Nia, Callum, Luke, Ben, Beatrice, Cass, Jodie and Pam. Their faces are interchangeable as they race through my thoughts; a television recording on fast forward. Would Beatrice follow me here, and if so, why? I eventually fall asleep to the shriek of gulls as the sun filters through the slats in the wooden shutters.

  But I can’t shake the uneasiness that envelops me as I shower and dress. I pull on my smart black trousers that I’ve hardly had the need to wear since Lucy died. Now they gape slightly at the waist. The sun is high in the sky, but I throw on my denim jacket over my cotton blouse to be on the safe side. Then I pack the rest of my meagre items in the holdall and go down for breakfast.

  The dining room has the same view of the marina as my bedroom. I’m surprisingly hungry and enjoy the sausage, bacon and eggs the landlady has made for me, nodding politely as she talks about the local sights.

  The drive to Patricia’s house is a pleasant one along slow coastal roads, and, thanks to the built-in sat nav, I don’t get lost. My knees still tremble at being behind the wheel, but I am reassured by the car’s compactness, the fact that I’m not carrying any passengers who I can inadvertently kill. I’m even confident enough to turn the radio on. Katy Perry is singing about fireworks as I drive past couples holding hands as they meander along the front, and children skipping in sunhats, eating ice creams. Then I turn into an unadopted side road that’s little more than a track, the rough terrain causing the Mini to shudder and lurch over potholes until I get to wrought-iron gates that stand open, revealing a pretty Edwardian country house. I park next to a black VW Golf, wondering if the photographer is already here as I step out on to the gravel and crunch my way to the arch-shaped wooden front door, heart banging in my chest. I’m worried I will mess up and look stupid in front of an intelligent woman like Patricia. A woman who has written countless bestsellers, most of which I’ve read. She’s one of my idols, and the thought of meeting her, of talking to her about her life, makes me forget everything else for a few minutes.

  Patricia answers, tall and elegant and not looking her sixty-eight years. I introduce myself as she shakes my hand, aware that mine is clammy, and she ushers me into a large drawing room the same size as Beatrice’s, except whereas Bea’s is crammed full of brightly coloured sofas and eclectic artefacts, Patricia’s reminds me of a sepia photograph with all its cream and brown hues. For all its beauty, the room has a lived-in look about it: a stack of books on the coffee table, dog hairs on the sofa, a cat’s scratching post by the patio doors. I perch on the sofa while she takes a seat in an elegant armchair opposite me, next to a brick fireplace. The room has a view of a large back garden with an orchard in the distance, and I slowly begin to relax. I decline the offer of tea and we sit down.

  ‘The photographer is setting up in the garden,’ she says and although I’m a little intimidated by her, I realize I like her already, that she’s not a disappointment. I pull out my notepad from my bag.

  We spend nearly an hour talking about her childhood, how she came to be published and what inspires her to write her sagas, and as we talk I find that my confidence is coming back with every squiggle of shorthand I write on the page. I’m about to finish up with some tips for hopeful writers when the patio doors open, letting in a waft of the fresh summer air, the smell of hollyhocks, and I look up, shock searing through me so that my pen and notepad fall to the seagrass carpet. At first I think this must be another optical illusion. But no, it is him. He has a camera slung around his neck, his usual nonplussed expression on his face as he walks over the threshold, as tall and lanky as Ben. I haven’t seen him since that day in hospital, a few months after Lucy died, but his beauty still makes the breath catch in my throat. He hasn’t noticed me.

  ‘We’re ready for you, Mrs Lipton, if you’re finished in here,’ Callum says in his familiar South London drawl. I stand up and our eyes meet. He hasn’t changed a bit, he’s still as scruffy as a student in the same black leather jacket that he wore when we were together, faded jeans, beat-up retro trainers. His hair is shorter now, a few new lines around his face, his eyes the deep shade of royal blue that haunted me in my dreams and my nightmares for months after we split up.

  ‘Abi …’ His voice is gentle, our eyes locked. I’m unable to tear my gaze away from him and it’s as though I’m transported back in time, that the last eighteen months have all been a horrible mistake.

  I force myself to look away from him, and continue to talk to Patricia, determined not to let the fact that I’m in the same room as Callum stop me from being professional. I thank Patricia for her time, trying to keep my voice level and, ignoring Cal
lum completely, I gather up my notepad and pen and hurriedly stuff them in my bag. Patricia walks me to the front door. If she’s noticed the tension between me and her photographer she does a good job of pretending otherwise.

  I wait until I’m safely in the car, and Patricia has gone back into the house, before falling apart. I lean over the steering wheel, gasping for breath, heart hammering. I’m shaking all over. Concentrate on your breathing, I tell myself. I can’t drive in this state, I have to calm down. But seeing Callum again after all this time has given me such a shock I feel physically sick.

  Eventually my legs stop trembling and my heart slows. What is Callum doing here? He must have engineered it, it can’t be a coincidence. I look towards the house. There is no sign of him, thankfully. I need to get out of here, I don’t want to talk to him.

  I push the key fob into the ignition and start up the car. I’m putting the gearstick into reverse when I hear Callum’s shouts and I see him striding across the gravel, camera slung around his neck. ‘Abi, wait!’ he cries as he reaches the car. I wind my window down.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ I can’t look at him, I force myself to stare out of the windscreen instead. I have a view of a field of cows.

  ‘Please, Abi. I was hoping you’d be here. Will you meet me for a drink in half an hour?’

  ‘I didn’t know you still worked for Miranda,’ I say stiffly, still looking at the cows.

  ‘I don’t. I’m freelance. But Mike on Picture Desk called me about this job—’

  ‘There’s no point,’ I cut him off. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ My voice is cold, steely. I rev the engine pointedly.