‘I think you do,’ she adds, her eyes bright. ‘He’s my twin, he’s the other half of me, Abi. And he needs help. You know that, right? I want to help him get better.’
She turns to go, but I grab her arm. ‘Beatrice, there’s one thing I need to tell you. I haven’t been totally honest with you. I … I was jealous too. Of your relationship. I tried to stir trouble a few times, I made out to Ben that you were hiding my antidepressants … I wanted him to … I don’t know … defend me, believe me.’
‘Shh, Abi. I understand.’ She stands there in her leopard-print pumps, the soft cotton of her dress brushing her knees and with the sun casting its weak light over her face, the highlights in her fair hair. I draw a breath at the similarity to Lucy. It’s as though I’m losing her all over again.
‘Take care, Bea,’ I sniff.
‘You too, Abi,’ she says sadly. ‘You too.’
She bends down to scoop up her fat ginger cat, then turns away from me and walks back into the house.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I’ve been living in London for six months now and with every day that passes I become a little stronger, a little more hopeful about the future. Miranda offered me my old job back on the features desk and Nia suggested that we rent a bigger flat together in Muswell Hill. Neither of us says it, of course, but each telepathically agrees that staying north of the river is less painful somehow; not so many memories of our old way of life.
Living with Nia is gloriously uncomplicated after everything.
I’ve only heard from Bea once. A month ago she emailed me to tell me she has sold the town house in Bath and that she and Ben have moved away, somewhere nobody knows them. She never gave a forwarding address. Reading between the lines, I suspect they’ve renewed their relationship and are living as a couple. Nothing would surprise me any more.
I still see Lucy in the most unexpected places. Sometimes she’s in front of me on the bus, the same swishy blonde bob and long, elegant neck, until she turns around and it is as if she’s wearing a mask, some other person’s face is superimposed in place of hers. Other times she’s at a party that Nia and I are attending, or eating popcorn in the row in front of us at the cinema. Last week I thought I saw her behind the till in Sainsbury’s, except she was young – too young. Lucy in her teenage years.
And each time I see her I make sure I walk in the opposite direction. Because she’s not Lucy. I know that now. As I know how dangerous my mind can be, how little I can trust my own judgement. After all, I got it so wrong with Bea.
Today, a sunny breezy Tuesday in early March, I’m meandering through Hyde Park in my lunch hour, killing time while waiting to interview some up-and-coming actor at the Ritz. I’m wearing the tea-dress that I bought last year in the vintage shop in Bath, with a long grey cardigan. I’m feeling happy, confident, when I see her. She’s sitting on a wooden bench reading a book, a Burberry mac is wrapped around her slim body, her legs, encased in black skinny jeans, are crossed at the knee. She has wire-framed glasses pushed back on to her blonde hair, and she frowns in concentration, her eyes flicking back and forth across the page. Despite the promises I’ve made to myself, I can’t help but stare at her wistfully, imagining sitting next to her, and striking up a conversation. Instead I hoist my bag firmly on to my shoulder and go to walk past her.
As if aware that I’m watching her, she lifts her head and fixes her big green eyes on me, and my heart stutters in my chest as if I’ve been punched. She resembles Lucy more than anyone I’ve ever seen, apart from myself; more than Beatrice, more than Alicia. She smiles such a warm inviting smile that it stops me in my tracks, my resolve weakening.
‘Hi,’ I say shyly, standing before her. ‘Can I join you?’
She places the book she’s reading face down on her lap. ‘Of course.’ She has an accent. Possibly Scandinavian. If she’s alone in this country she might need a friend. It gives me a little thrill.
‘I’m Ingrid,’ she says, extending a delicate hand with a playful giggle. Her laugh is high and tinkly, it’s just like Lucy’s. And I’m sold.
I take her hand and perch next to her, so close that I can smell the coconut scent of her hair and I know that I’ve finally found her. She’s the one. I took my eye off the ball before, I allowed myself to become distracted. But not this time. This time everything will work out. I’ll make sure of it.
‘I’m Abi,’ I say, pulling the tea-dress firmly over my knees. ‘But you can call me Bee.’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for making this book possible:
To HarperCollins and Marie Claire magazine for holding the debut novel competition; the fantastic team at Harper, in particular my editors Martha Ashby and Kimberley Young for their great advice, guidance and enthusiasm; to my wonderful agent, Juliet at The Agency Group (I feel incredibly lucky to be on Team Mushens!); to my talented writer friend, Fiona Mitchell, for encouraging me to enter the competition; to my mother, Linda, father, Ken, step parents, Laura and John, brother, David, and sister, Sam, for all their unwavering support throughout the years; to my two beautiful children, Claudia and Isaac (who won’t be allowed to read this book for a long, long time) and last, but definitely not least, I’d like to thank my lovely husband, Ty, for his patience, understanding and belief in me (and for being a comma guru!).
About the Author
Claire Douglas has worked as a journalist for fifteen years writing features for women’s magazines and national newspapers, but she’s dreamed of being a novelist since the age of seven. She finally got her wish after winning the Marie Claire Debut Novel Award, with her first novel, THE SISTERS. She lives in Bath with her husband and two children.
She can be found on Twitter at @Dougieclaire, where she’d love to hear from you.
About the Publisher
Australia
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HarperCollins Canada
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http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
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http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
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