Bad Twins

by Rebecca Chance

  She pulled the Audi into the driveway, next to Thomas’s. His car being home, however, did not mean that he was. As always, he had taken a cab to the airport. Thomas, a senior commodity trader, travelled a great deal for work. He had given Bella to understand that this would change once they were married, but it had not, and when she reproached him, he had acted surprised and pointed out that he had only been speculating on what his work would allow; he had never made any kind of definite promise.

  It was true: he hadn’t. He had said he would try to modify his travel schedule, but so far, it hadn’t altered in the slightest. And as Bella locked her car and walked across the neatly maintained path to her front door, she looked across the street at the neighbours’ perfectly maintained hedges, and considered bitterly that when Thomas was in London, he probably spent as much time at the Hampstead Garden Suburb Trust offices on the Finchley Road, sitting through endless meetings to debate hedge heights and the latest batch of applications to build garden sheds and conservatories, as he did at home.

  The house was as quiet inside as the most demanding resident of the Suburb could possibly have wished. It was so full of soft furnishings that any noise would have been muffled by the curtains and pelmets and carpets and cushions and armchairs. Nothing if not comfortable, it was, however, distinctly old-fashioned. Bella had often thought that it was as if she had deliberately reproduced the very classic, dated style of the Sachs hotels in her own home, while Charlotte was the Sash brand, hip and cutting-edge.

  But she was trying to update the Sachs hotels, she reminded herself now as she deposited her handbag on the console table in the hallway. Her design team was coordinating with Charlotte’s on the hugely cumbersome project of shifting them into the twenty-first century, updating the rather tired, though imposing, fittings and furnishings into something fresher and more modern, closer to Charlotte’s Sash hotels, with their witty touches and sleeker lines. On the table sat a large china vase, a wedding present from Thomas’s parents, which was filled with an elaborate arrangement of pink and white flowers, stiff and formal, a world away from Charlotte’s magic white flowers submerged in tinted liquid.

  The flower arrangements were delivered on a weekly basis from a local, very traditional florist in Temple Fortune. But Bella found herself wondering now if they might be able to manage something fresher, more modern, if she asked them. They wouldn’t have floating flowers, of course, not in Temple Fortune. But maybe they could come up with something that looked as if it belonged in the house of a thirty-four-year-old, rather than an elderly dowager? After all, Bella was a grown woman, very successful in business, in the running to become CEO of a world-famous company: shouldn’t she have flowers in her house that she liked?

  The trouble was, this was exactly Thomas’s taste: the formal flowers, the heavy dark-wood furniture, the beige and bottle-green colour scheme, the thermal-lined curtains that kept the house warm and peaceful. Everything within these walls was as traditional and conventional as possible. This Sunday, Bella would cook a roast lunch, as she always did when both of them were in London for the weekend. She had already ordered the ingredients, to be delivered Saturday morning by Ocado in their weekly pre-paid time slot, 10 to 11 a.m.: the sirloin of beef on the bone, the prepped vegetables, the Yorkshire puddings, the meat stock for gravy, the lemon syllabub, the redcurrants to decorate it. The wine cellar was stocked with expensive reds, most definitely not ordered from Ocado, to accompany the meal.

  And after a few glasses of St Émilion, Thomas would doze off in the living room in front of whatever sport was on, while Bella would stack the dishwasher. It was almost parodic, but they enjoyed the cosiness of it all. They lived in the Suburb, and they had the most quintessential of suburban Sundays. Fresh from the family atmosphere of Charlotte and Paul’s, Bella found herself suddenly craving Thomas’s return. Yes, he would be jet-lagged on Saturday, needing to sleep till lunchtime, but then they would have the rest of the weekend to cuddle up together in marital happiness . . .

  In his continuing quest for tranquillity, Thomas had deactivated the beep on the answering machine, so whenever Bella came home she automatically put her head into his study to glance at it. Seeing a red light flashing, she went over to click the ‘play’ button.

  ‘Hey, darling,’ came the voice of her husband. ‘It’s me. Sorry not to catch you on your mobile. Bad news, I’m afraid! I’m stuck here till at least Monday. The client’s being unexpectedly tricksy and I’ve got to hang on until we’ve ironed out all the creases. Can we freeze the beef? I was so looking forward to my roast! I’ll ring again when I’ve got things firmed up. Much love.’

  Bella checked her handbag, extracting her mobile from its compartment. She had forgotten to turn on the ringer again after silencing it for the meeting with her father. However, that would have made no difference, as there were no missed incoming calls. This wasn’t the first time Thomas had claimed to have tried her mobile, leaving a message on the home phone when he knew she would be out, and it was always with bad news involving his staying away longer than had been planned.

  She sighed; she had half expected this. Even when she had told Charlotte that Thomas was due back on the red-eye Saturday morning, she had doubted whether he would actually be on the plane. It seemed to be happening more and more, and the worst part was that he denied that a pattern was forming of his business trips increasingly covering weekends. He would get irritated if she tried to point out the dates that they had been supposed to spend lazy Sundays together only for a last-minute message to arrive, telling her to put the meat in the freezer . . .

  Put the meat in the freezer. The words rang in her head, taking on an extra meaning, as she walked into the kitchen. Because it wasn’t just the sirloin she was putting on ice, but their Sunday morning sex. This was the only time they did it all week, the routine they had established once they had settled into married life. The excitement of courtship over, Thomas explained that he was generally too preoccupied by work to have sex on weekdays, and on Saturdays he was still distracted, so Sunday was the one day he could fully relax and get in the mood.

  It was frustrating for Bella, who wanted sex more often than her husband, especially because she knew he had no difficulty getting an erection. If she grazed his crotch playfully with her hand, as she had used to do at the start of their relationship, before he had made it clear he didn’t like her to touch him there spontaneously, his penis would instantly respond. Bella had said jokingly that maybe Thomas could stay out of it, letting her and his cock get on with things between themselves, and he had smiled politely and simply let the remark fall into the space between them.

  The power of passive resistance in a marriage was extraordinary, she had discovered. Thomas was an immovable object, while Bella was no irresistible force. He got his way, and she adapted to it. She had stopped asking for sex any other time, stopped trying to seduce him, as the quiet continual rejection was intolerable to her. Besides, he made her feel thoughtless and unreasonable for not respecting his wishes. He had, effectively, trained her into expecting only what he wanted to give.

  But what if he was now training her even more, getting her to stop expecting even the once-a-week sex? It had been difficult enough to accept the swift dwindling in frequency as soon as they had got married, but Bella shivered in fear at the idea that it would be cut down further . . . or a worse possibility, that she would lose not only the sex, but her husband’s company at the weekends, because he wasn’t able to address whatever issue he had and preferred to stay away as an avoidance tactic . . .

  After all, you get married not only for regular sex, but to have someone to spend the weekends with, she thought as she opened the fridge and stared at the cheese compartment. It was packed with an enticing selection her housekeeper had purchased from the local French delicatessen: Cambozola, Gorgonzola and mascarpone layered with pesto and pine nuts, pecorino aged in chestnut leaves, ridiculously expensive pea shoots to garnish. Both Bella and Thomas lov
ed good cheese, and Bella had also got the housekeeper to buy delicate seeded crackers and deliciously crusty bread from the deli. She had been planning to arrange a plate for Thomas. When he walked in the front door the next morning, jet-lagged and bleary-eyed, he would have been delighted to have something yummy to snack on before he took a long nap.

  The cheese, the bread, the wonderfully crusty bread with its soft doughy centre, spread with slabs of unsalted butter . . . Bella’s mouth watered. She needed comfort, and here it was, just sitting in her kitchen waiting for her to eat it up. But then she thought of the courgette spaghetti Paul was making for him and the kids, of Paul’s perfect lean body, of Charlotte so slender in her belted suede dress, and she shut the fridge so smartly that the plumbed-in water dispenser rattled.

  Before she could change her mind she left the kitchen, removing herself from temptation. She came to a halt in the hallway, though, asking herself what she could do to distract herself from thoughts of bread and cheese. They had a gym in the basement, with a treadmill, stair climber, exercise bike and free weights. Thomas worked out every weekday morning; Bella did not. She barely used the gym, as she absolutely hated exercising. But she could grab a magazine, climb on the bike, spend half an hour satisfying the demands of the stupid FitBit Thomas had bought her last year. Bicycling was sitting down, so it wasn’t really exercising, looked at in a certain way . . .

  And then you’ll get off that bike, walk up to the kitchen and dive into the cheese, Bella acknowledged to herself. You’ll convince yourself you deserve it after putting yourself through that, and you’ll end up eating way more calories than you’ve just burnt.

  There was no denying that Bella would almost certainly find herself back in front of the fridge some time that evening. She had never been good at being alone. To her, it had always been synonymous with loneliness. Charlotte, however, had seemed fine with it. Though, of course, the difference was that Charlotte had never needed to be alone. From their schooldays onwards, she had always been popular, surrounded by friends and admirers, with a string of boyfriends arriving in due course; when she was by herself, it was by choice, and that was entirely different.

  Charlotte, for instance, had never had to watch Bella get ready for the evening, dateless herself. Before their marriages, when they lived together in the huge flat their parents had bought them in Notting Hill, it had inevitably been Bella buzzing in whoever was lucky enough to be Charlotte’s date while her sister finished her hair and make-up and eventually emerged. Always at least half an hour late, she was so stunning that all the young man could do was gape at her in tribute.

  While there was Bella, on the sofa, downloading episodes of Charmed and telling herself that she was very happy to have an evening in with her favourite show. Bella, who looked so very like Charlotte, but without Charlotte’s sparkle and fizz. It wasn’t the extra pounds that made Bella so comparatively undatable. She did at least know that. The twins had curvaceous friends who got plenty of attention, but those girls also had strong personalities; they weren’t wallflowers. Any attempt Bella made to draw attention to herself made her feel like a weaker copy of Charlotte, and the men she attracted were, in their turn, weaker copies of Charlotte’s boyfriends. She was lesser all the way around. It was easier just not to try at all.

  So meeting Thomas at that dinner party had been a godsend. He had asked her, on their first date, if she’d had boyfriends of his age before, and on her responding in the negative he had looked genuinely taken aback. She had, he had told her, a quiet poise and gravity that was very unusual for a young woman in her mid twenties; he had thought she was older, would not have asked her out if he had realized how comparatively young she was. He hoped he was not too old for her, at forty. Was she all right with the age difference?

  Bella blossomed with excitement. Of course she was! Finally she was perceived as different from Charlotte in a positive way! Not shy, not insipid and boring, but grown-up for her age: composed, attractive to a man who wanted to settle down. Thomas expressed surprise that she was not regularly asked out by older men who did not want to go out with frivolous, squealing twenty-somethings but preferred women who were sensible, dignified, serious professionals.

  It had never occurred to Bella that she shouldn’t be dating her peers, but as soon as Thomas had voiced this she realized that he was absolutely right. Who had been most interested in what she had to say at university? Her professors, who had singled her out, asked her to join inner-circle reading and debate groups, invited her to sherry parties. Older people, who valued her brains and, as Thomas had put it, her poise and gravity. Who had rewarded her with a first-class degree in due course, and suggested she continue in academia.

  That had never been a possibility for Bella, however. She might be the only intellectual among the Sachs children, but that brainpower had been trained and developed entirely for use in the family firm.

  Now, however, it occurred to her that for all Thomas’s praise of her during their courtship, he was, for whatever reason, choosing to see less and less of the qualities that had so enchanted him back then. She remembered working her way through those episodes of Charmed in her single days, lying to herself that this was exactly how she wanted to spend her Friday nights. And here she was, married but still alone on too many Friday nights. On the drive home she had planned an early night so she could get up tomorrow, do her hair and make-up, make sure the house was perfect for Thomas’s return, arrange the cheese plate, and, as he snacked, tell him the amazing news about her father leaving Jade for Adrianna, and setting the six-month deadline at the end of which she or one of her siblings would be made CEO of the Sachs Organization . . .

  A flood of endorphins surged through her at the words ‘made CEO’. It was the first time that the reality of it truly hit home. Her legs felt suddenly weak. There was a chair in the hallway next to the console table, one of those pointless hallway chairs that no one ever used. Until now. She sank down onto it as slowly and carefully as if she had arthritis, physically shaking. Only now, alone, was she able to absorb the fact that she was in with a genuine chance to take over from her father and run Sachs.

  Bella could taste the rush of excitement in her mouth like iron. She had a first-class PPE degree from Oxford. She ran her department with superb efficiency. She wasn’t creative, like Charlotte, but she had an excellent MBA, which Charlotte didn’t. Conway had one too, but he hadn’t graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Business School. First her studies, then her business career: this had always been the part of her life over which Bella had absolute control.

  She knew that she could do it. And not only could she run Sachs, she wanted to. When Charlotte had asked her if she did, Bella had hemmed and hawed. Had she not been sure, or was it that she had not wanted to admit it in front of her sister, her rival? Perhaps she had been sure, and had already started to play the six-months-long game?

  Bella realized in shock that the iron taste in her mouth was because she had bitten into her lip enough to draw blood. It was painful, but strangely, the pain felt good, a release for her pent-up feelings. The small red smudge of blood as she wiped her mouth on her hand looked hugely symbolic, as if she had made a pact with herself.

  Bella could not bring Thomas home from Dubai tomorrow morning. She could not make him have sex with her when she wanted, only when he did. It was the first time she had fully admitted this to herself. She had tried and tried to think of ways to make him want her more, stay home more: welcome him home with hair and make-up done at nine in the morning, dress to be seductive, make the house perfect, spend a fortune on cheese and bread and pea shoots, for fuck’s sake, to make a platter for his arrival, and it had been an utter and total waste of energy which she could have diverted somewhere much more productive.

  No more trying to control her husband’s actions. The release that rushed through her once she had made that resolution was so huge she was glad she was sitting down. Instinctively, she reached out and put her hand on the co
nsole table to brace herself. She still felt lonely, but it was different now. She was no longer fighting her loneliness; she could admit the truth.

  Instead, with all that energy, Bella would throw herself into this quest for the next six months. She would create some extraordinary achievement that would convince her father she was the best candidate of the four, stand in a spotlight she had never realized that she wanted. It was a revelation. She pictured herself on a stage, the applause deafening, a bouquet in her arms, a smile irradiating her face. It felt wonderful. Even deserved.

  The weakness had passed. Bella jumped to her feet, grabbed her handbag and keys, headed for the front door. She was going back to work. And the first thing she would do, once back at her desk, was to ring her security team and ask if they knew of a reliable PI they could recommend.

  Charlotte was right. Conway had such a huge built-in advantage as the oldest child, the son and presumed heir, that she would never win this battle fighting clean. A couple of hours ago the thought of setting a PI to dig up dirt on her brother had been a profound shock to Bella. It was very telling that now she had admitted her ambition to herself, she was making it a priority.

  Much more of a priority, in fact, than ringing her husband. Because it hadn’t even occurred to her to call Thomas back.

  Chapter Seven

  Mummy doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Charlotte thought smugly as her driver dropped her off at Claridge’s. You can have it all. And I do – well, almost! When I’m made CEO of Sachs, then I’ll really be able to say I do.

  She set her jaw in determination.

  And that’s a when, not an if.

  The Range Rover pulled up not at the main entrance of the hotel, but the door on Davies Street which led to the bar. Charlotte was, after all, heading for a business meeting. Just before entering, she reached into the Birkin slung over her arm and extracted a pair of tinted Elizabeth and James sunglasses, slipping them on. They were fashionably oversized, large enough to conceal a considerable part of her face. She walked straight through the bar, slipping easily past the row of big red leather stools. Head ducked, glancing briefly from side to side behind the huge sunglasses, she did not spot anyone she knew. Nor, as far as she could tell, had she been recognized.