‘Please.’ The note of despair I hear in his voice makes me turn towards him and I meet his gaze full on. It still hurts to look at him. To remember …
I swallow, my throat is scratchy and raw. I give the briefest of nods.
His face brightens. ‘There’s a pub on the main road. It’s called the White Hart. Can we meet there in half an hour?’
‘I’ll think about it. You should get back. It’s not professional to keep Patricia waiting,’ I say before winding the window up, shutting him out. I can see him from my rear-view mirror as I pull away, gradually getting smaller and smaller until I round the corner and he’s out of sight.
Against my better judgement I’m sitting at a round table in the pub’s dark, gloomy snug with mahogany wood panelling on the walls, sipping a Coke. Am I doing the right thing? Wouldn’t it be wiser to let the past stay that way, rather than sit here and rehash it, apportioning blame?
I fire off a quick text to Nia, explaining the situation and asking what I should do. She replies within minutes, encouraging me to meet him. Don’t you want answers? I text back that she’s right, I do want answers. I’m at last ready to hear what he’s got to say, however painful. I’ve just dropped my mobile into my bag when I spot Callum walking in. He saunters to the bar, probably ordering his usual pint of Stella, and then he joins me by the square leaded window with the faded red curtains.
‘Do you want to sit outside?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine in here.’ I want to snap at him, tell him that this isn’t a date. I don’t want to join everyone else at benches in the beer garden, I want to get this over and done with.
‘So, how have you been?’ His legs are so long that his knees are almost under his chin as he perches on a velvet-topped stool. He places his heavy Canon digital camera on to the table next to his pint.
‘What do you think?’
He sighs. I’m not going to make this easy for him. ‘Nia said you’ve moved out of London,’ he tries again. ‘She didn’t say where.’
‘I told her not to.’
There’s a pause as he takes a swig of his lager, I can tell he’s trying to think what to say next. I remain silent, sullen. He puts his pint down, surveys me. ‘You’re looking well.’ And I know he’s remembering the last time we saw each other. I can remember it too, the shock in his usually laughing eyes as I lay curled up on my side, legs pulled up to my tummy on that narrow bed in that sterile green room with nothing but a sheet over me, a drip in my arm and bandages on my wrists, and I recall how a tear crept out of his eye and snaked its way along his nose; he thought I hadn’t noticed as he quickly wiped it away. Proper men don’t cry, do they, Callum?
The sun streams through the window, illuminating the dust motes floating above our table, before it disappears behind a cloud again, the room gloomy once more.
‘You know …’ He doesn’t look at me, instead he picks up a beer mat, his long fingers working away at the cardboard edges. ‘It’s not such a coincidence that I’m here today. Mike told me you were interviewing Patricia Lipton. I wanted to see you, but I was still surprised you actually came. I know you haven’t been working …’
‘I’ve done the odd piece for Miranda since I moved out of London,’ I say, defensively.
He holds up his hands. ‘Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I wanted to see you, to see if you were okay.’
‘To assuage your guilt.’
He hangs his head and I know it’s a low blow. How can I blame him when it’s my fault too? ‘Does Luke still hate me?’ I say in a small voice.
He lifts his head and a jolt of desire rips through me. I know, in spite of everything that happened, he will always be special to me, my first love.
‘I don’t know, we don’t talk about it. I’ve hardly seen him since he moved out.’
I remember how it was still raining when the ambulance arrived. Luke was cradling her in his arms. He followed the stretcher on to the ambulance as if it was his God-given right, leaving me slumped by the tree, too scared to move while a paramedic checked me over. Lucy never made it as far as the hospital and I wasn’t with her when she died. We entered the world together but she left it without me by her side. Extensive head injuries, they said, while the rest of us escaped the car crash with sprains, cuts and bruises.
‘He said he’d never forgive me,’ I mutter.
‘He didn’t mean it, Abi. He was devastated. His girlfriend had recently died.’
I feel a burst of indignation. ‘He took over, I’ll never forgive him for that. It was his fault I wasn’t there when she died.’ I press my fingers into my palms and concentrate on the pain my nails are causing my flesh, rather than the tears that threaten.
‘We all loved her.’ He says it quietly and I know that, at last, I’m ready to hear the truth. I need to know what happened that night. For the last eighteen months I’ve tried to block it out, avoiding the issue even if Janice encouraged me to face it, to talk to Callum. But I didn’t want to revisit that awful night, to remember that my last words to Lucy had been said in anger.
‘That night … You said you thought Lucy was me, but that wasn’t the case at all, was it, Callum?’ He chews his lip and I know he’s considering whether to be honest with me, whether it might send me over the edge again. I place my hand on his. ‘I need to know the truth now. I was hiding from it before, but it’s better to face up to it. I’m not angry with her. I’ve never been angry with her. But please tell me the truth. Were you in love with Lucy?’
He shakes his head. ‘Oh, Abi. Of course I wasn’t in love with her. Not in the way you think. Your crazy jealousy always gnawed at our relationship. Lucy was my friend, that’s all.’
A flare of anger flickers inside me, but just as quickly it’s gone. He’s right, I know he’s right. I can’t lie to myself about it any longer. But I take my hand away from his and cup my glass.
‘I know I was jealous—’ I begin.
‘I liked that you were jealous,’ interrupts Callum. ‘At first, anyway. You were possessive, but it made me feel as though you loved me. But after a while it got tiring.’
I lift my eyes to look at him. ‘You can’t blame me for being jealous. Before you met me, you went out with Lucy.’
‘And how many times did I have to tell you that it was for two weeks, Abi? Two bloody weeks, months before I met you. You know that we only went on a couple of dates, but it came to nothing. After that she met Luke. We didn’t have much in common. Whereas with you …’ He lets his voice trail off. He doesn’t have to say it. We were together for four years, we shared everything. We had a passion for the same music, the same films, and each other.
‘The night of the Halloween party. You kissed her, Callum.’
He sighs. ‘I thought she was you,’ he says gently. ‘You were both dressed as witches. It was dark. You were identical twins, Abi. I kissed her thinking she was you. I told you all this at the time.’ I can hear a touch of exasperation in his voice and I think back to our relationship, to all of the times when he had to reassure me that he didn’t fancy one of my friends, or didn’t still harbour feelings for Lucy, that I was the one he wanted to be with. I can see how it must have been tiring. It must have been exhausting.
When I saw Callum kissing my sister that night, I pulled them apart with a ferociousness, a strength, I never knew I possessed and stormed out of the party with both of them following behind me, protesting their innocence. But I hadn’t believed them. I hadn’t wanted to believe them, I was so consumed with jealousy. Luke had been right when he made that statement to the police saying my judgement was impaired when my car went off the road. I had been screaming at Lucy. I can’t bear to think how I accused her of fancying my boyfriend. Even Luke had told me I was talking nonsense, but I had been on a roll. All my insecurities bubbled over and spewed out of me. The last thing I remember before I lost control of the car was Nia telling me to calm down. Calm down, she had said. If I had remained calm, we might never have crashed.
If Callum hadn’t kissed my sister, my last words to her wouldn’t have been vicious ones and she probably wouldn’t have died. So many ifs. We were so close, the five of us, we did everything together, and in one night everything changed for ever.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say in a small voice. My jealousy cost you your life, Lucy. A tear snakes down my cheek and I don’t bother to brush it away.
Callum grabs my hand in both of his. ‘Abi, you finished with me and refused to speak to me after the accident. I know you blamed me, but it was a stupid mistake that I wish I could take back.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I would do anything to take it back.’
I sniff. ‘I know, I wanted someone else to take it out on, but really I blamed myself. I still blame myself.’
‘Abi, you can’t blame yourself. It was an accident.’
I shake my head. I will never believe it wasn’t my fault, regardless of what anyone else says. ‘After the accident, my head was a mess. The truth was, I suppose I was always a little jealous of Lucy. I always felt she was everything that I wasn’t. She was cleverer, nicer, easier to be with. I always joked with her that she was my better half. She denied it, of course, but she was.’
‘Listen, Abs, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a twin, or how it must feel now. But you have to know, I never thought Lucy was your better half. Lucy was Lucy. And you are you. And I loved you. Do you believe me? About that night? It’s important to me that you do.’
‘I believe you,’ I say truthfully. We sit in silence for a while and then he asks about my life now. I tell him about moving to Bath, about meeting Beatrice, and Ben.
‘You know, they’re twins too. It seems destined somehow, that I was meant to meet them, although …’ He raises an eyebrow to prompt me to continue. ‘Beatrice is very over-protective of Ben. She seemed to want to be my friend at first, but since Ben and I got together …’ I glance at him to gauge his reaction; if it bothers him that I’m with someone else, he doesn’t let it show. ‘Well, Beatrice has distanced herself from me. And then I thought I saw her yesterday.’
‘Here? On the Isle of Wight?’
‘Yes.’ I reveal everything, about Janice, my post-traumatic stress disorder, my paranoia, but I can’t bring myself to tell him about the bracelet. ‘So I know, deep down, that it couldn’t have been her. It makes no sense.’
Callum nods, gently squeezing my hand. ‘Don’t let jealousy or paranoia cloud your judgement or ruin what you have with Ben.’ His next words hang in the air, unspoken. Like you did with us.
Chapter Eighteen
They fall through the door, laughing and windswept. Beatrice can smell the sea salt on his hair and she thinks how she’s missed this, their easiness with each other. It’s dusk, her favourite time of day in the summer. The house is quiet with no sign of Pam or Cass and she’s relieved that she’s able to have him all to herself for a while longer.
‘Thanks for today, Bea.’ He pushes the door closed with the sole of his trainer and throws his car keys in the direction of the hallway table where they clatter into a ceramic dish. ‘You always know how to cheer me up.’
‘We deserved a treat.’ She reaches up and squeezes his upper arm affectionately, marvelling at his strong, toned muscles. ‘Now go and put the kettle on, I need to pop upstairs.’
‘You’re very bossy,’ he jokes as he strides down the hallway. She waits until he’s rounding the steps that lead to the kitchen, then she kicks off her sandals and dumps her canvas bag with its bucket and spade, suncream and Evian, and races up the two flights of stairs before she has a chance to change her mind. She knows he will come looking for her soon.
Abi’s room is immaculate. The new duvet cover that Beatrice suspects is from the White Company – I thought you had no money, Abi? – has been pulled tight across the bed, the walls are now painted a pretty lavender and the smell of Jodie has been replaced by something floral, familiar. Four books are stacked neatly on her night stand, next to a silver framed photograph of Abi and Lucy, smiling, tanned, their arms around each other’s necks. It’s the photo from the newspaper cutting, but in colour instead of black and white. Beatrice picks it up and examines it, trying to see the variations in their faces, but it’s like a game of spot the difference. Lucy’s eyebrows are more arched, as if she’s had them threaded, a pink gloss staining her lips, her hair neater, straighter, and it’s obvious that Lucy took more care in her appearance, was more feminine, but apart from these small concessions to fashion, to beauty, they are mirror images of one another. Beatrice finds their likeliness uncanny.
She replaces the photograph and then her eye catches the large plastic daisy on top of a curvaceous perfume bottle that sits in the middle of a cluster of face creams and body lotions, and a chill runs down her back.
Daisy by Marc Jacobs. It’s the same scent that she wears.
Why would you do that, Abi? Why would you deliberately buy the same perfume as me?
Beatrice picks up the book on the top of the pile, it’s a hardback with a ripped plastic cover, possibly a charity shop find or, as she discovers from flipping over the front page and noticing the inky stamp mark, from Bath Central Library. Patricia Lipton, the author’s name, rings a faint bell. She turns it over to read the synopsis on the back, some boring story about a workhouse that Catherine Cookson would be proud of. Beatrice replaces it. It’s not her type of thing at all. She opens the drawer, her heart lurching when she notices a blister pack of pills. Surely they aren’t contraception pills? The pack has no indentations, no pills have been removed.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice is sharp, causing her to spring away from the drawer, dropping the pills on the floor.
‘I … um …’ she turns to see Ben in the doorway, his eyes narrowed. It only takes a few strides before Ben’s standing before her. He bends down to pick up the packet, his eyebrows drawn together.
‘I can’t believe you’re going through her things. What are you playing at? And what are these?’ He turns them over in his hands. ‘Fluoxetine. Put them back,’ he snaps.
She takes them from him. ‘Are these antidepressants?’
He nods, his jaw clenched.
‘Then shouldn’t she have taken them with her? I’m obviously no doctor, Ben, but surely she can’t miss a dose?’
‘It’s not right being in her room without her knowledge,’ he says. He wanders to the window, pulling aside the curtains that Abi still hasn’t got around to replacing and that are at odds with the rest of the bedroom, and peers out the window. Beatrice goes to stand behind him, her fingers still wrapped around the packet of antidepressants. Over his shoulder she notices the lamplights on the street below fluttering into life.
‘I’m sorry. I thought … the bracelet, you know.’
He sighs. ‘Can’t you just let it go?’
She pulls his arm. ‘Look at me, Ben.’ He turns to face her, his eyes downcast. ‘I think she stole that bracelet. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s jealous, maybe she wants to sabotage my new business. Maybe she wanted it for herself, or needed some money. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I realize you’re fond of her, but …’
‘I love her, Bea.’ His voice is unusually soft and the sound of it makes Beatrice reel. For a moment she thinks she might be sick. He tilts his eyes up to meet hers, searching her face as if waiting for her reaction, and there is something behind his expression, a smugness, as if he’s used those words on purpose, to provoke her, to hurt her.
‘Even though she may be a thief?’ She knows it’s a low blow, but she can’t resist.
‘I don’t think she is. But if she did take your bracelet, as you claim, she needs our help.’
His words shame her.
‘You’re right.’ She walks towards Abi’s bedside cabinet and puts the packet of antidepressants back in the drawer where she found them. She’s about to close it when something sparkles, catching her eye. Nestled in the corner, almost hidden by the scented drawer-liner dotted with rosebuds, is an earring.
&n
bsp; ‘Ben, look at this.’ And she can’t help a sense of satisfaction as she places the earring triumphantly in the palm of his hand where it sits, unaware of its significance, delicate and daisy-shaped and yellow as the sun.
Chapter Nineteen
Somebody has been in my bedroom. It’s barely perceptible but I can tell by the curtains that are pulled back a fraction too much; the wrinkled indentation on my duvet cover where someone has been sitting on my bed; the drawer to my night stand that has been left ajar; the Patricia Lipton novel that has been replaced upside down.
I dump my bag next to the bed and hurry to the wardrobe. Throwing open the doors, I stand on my tiptoes to reach for the box containing Lucy’s letters, hidden on the shelf above my meagre selection of clothes. Relief surges through me as my hands grasp it, but when I bring it down I can tell straight away that someone has been rifling through them. The letters, that I had taken such pains to bind with an elastic band, are now loose so that they swim across from one end to the other like unfettered fish as I carry the box to the bed. Feverishly, I count the letters and my heart drops. This time there is no mistake; three of the letters are missing.
I take a deep breath to fight the nausea, thinking of Beatrice, painfully aware why she’s done this.
I’m about to replace the lid when I notice something shiny shoved in one of the envelopes. Is it a photograph? Puzzled, I pull it out while at the same time thinking that I never keep photos in with Lucy’s letters. I freeze in shock, letting the box slip off my lap and fall on to the carpet, spilling letters everywhere.
A chill runs down my spine.
The photograph is one I’ve never seen before. It’s a six-by-four inch black and white, head-and-shoulders shot. By the mid-length fair hair I suspect the picture is of me. Except I can’t tell for sure because someone has deliberately, and by the look of it, quite violently, scratched the face off.
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