‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Then just listen, Please, Grace.’
‘No.’
‘I love you.’
I catch the words and screw them up, before throwing them back down at him in their new form. ‘I hate you.’
‘You don’t, and I’m not moving until I’ve said what I came to say.’
‘Suit yourself.’ I try to slam the sash down but it sticks and I have to rock it left to right to inch it shut. I feel my face burn as Dan pleads on the street below. His voice grows fainter as the window closes and I swish the curtains together, sit cross-legged on the floor with my back against the radiator. Part of me wants to hear what he has to say, but I don’t move to let him in.
The flat grows darker although it’s only two o’clock, and a bolt of lightning illuminates the room, rumbling thunder hot on its tail. Rain lashes against the windows and I tug the curtains apart, peer out onto the gloomy street below. Dan is shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands thrust into pockets, hair plastered to his scalp. A white van zooms past and a sea of water covers him. He splutters, wipes his eyes.
‘Please,’ he mouths as he spots me at the window.
I hesitate, nod and pull on a hoodie, run a brush through my hair before I open the door.
Dan peels off his T-shirt and rubs a towel hard against his skin. I busy myself carrying the kettle over to the sink, even though I know it already contains enough water to make tea. I don’t want to look at Dan’s chest. See the freckles I’ve kissed. The shoulders I have cried against. I set mugs on the coffee table and perch at the opposite end of the sofa. The silence expands between us, filling the room, sucking out the air. I chew the inside of my cheek. I won’t be the first to speak. I’ll listen to what Dan has to say calmly and then I’ll watch him leave as I stay here with my dignity.
Dan drains his tea. Leans back. He clasps his fingers together and rests them behind his head, elbows jutting out to the side. He may look relaxed but his right knee is jiggling up and down and I know that inside he is squirming. He clears his throat.
‘My behaviour was inexcusable.’
‘Which part? Letting me believe I’d found Charlie’s sister or bringing your mistress into our home?’
‘She was never my mistress, Grace. It was a one-off. A mistake.’
‘A mistake that I’ve paid for. You killed my cat, destroyed our home. I nearly died. Is that what you wanted? To get rid of me?’
Dan looks stricken. ‘No. I didn’t. I want…’
‘I don’t care what you want.’ I’m sick of his excuses.
‘I don’t blame you…’
‘That’s big of you.’
‘Grace, please…’
‘Please what? Please forgive me even though I’m a lying, cheating bastard? Why… Are… You… Here?’ My pulse is rapid. I lean forward. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Molten lava flows through my veins.
‘To talk.’ His voice is low and quiet.
‘I don’t want to listen!’ I’m afraid of what he might say, but at the same time I’m desperate to hear. I don’t know what to do.
‘So why did you let me in? Look, I know that I’ve been—’ his voice breaks. He inhales, begins again. ‘I know that I’ve been a dick.’
I nod. That much, at least, is true.
‘When Charlie died, you became so insular. So separate. I didn’t know how to reach you.’
‘I’m so sorry my best friend died, she…’ Sarcasm drips from my voice.
‘She wasn’t just your friend though was she, Grace? But my feelings weren’t important. It was all about you.’
I sit back, speechless.
‘I’m not saying that’s wrong. I know Charlie dying brought back memories of your dad. You had a lot to deal with, but so did I.’
I twist a tissue in my fingers.
‘Remember, Grace. Remember how it was. You completely shut yourself off from everything. I was trying to support you emotionally, keep the house going, do the cooking – and you know how crap I am at that. I was scared to take time off because they were making redundancies. I wasn’t sure if you’d ever go back to work and I was worried we’d only have my wage to rely on. I was so stressed.’
‘You never said,’ I mumble.
‘You never asked how I was. Not once.’
I raise my head and his eyes, dark-ringed and bloodshot, lock onto mine. The same eyes that have watched me grow up, seen me grieve, drank in the sight of my naked body.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say and I am. ‘But… Anna…’
‘Anna meant nothing to me. She served pints and listened and it felt good to be listened to. To be able to talk about Charlie, and she seemed interested…’
‘Interested in you.’
‘It wasn’t like that. I wish I hadn’t…’
‘Fucked her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Dan, why did Charlie leave so suddenly when we were eighteen? What did she mean by the note? What did she need to be forgiven for? I know I’ve asked you before, but if you’re holding out on me, you have to tell me. ’
Dan scrunches his face in confusion. ‘I don’t know. But…’
‘Why did you move Anna into our home?’ I fire questions at him, not giving him time to think. He normally clasps his hands together like he’s praying whenever he lies, but his palms remain on his knees.
‘I didn’t want to. I was so scared she’d forward the film to everyone. You were doing so well: back at work, we were getting closer again. I didn’t want to blow it.’
‘She must have family, friends. Has she never heard of a hotel?’
‘She said she had no one. I thought about paying for a B&B, but you’d have seen it on the credit card statements. I couldn’t have explained it.’
‘Pretending to be Charlie’s sister, though? That was deliberate and cruel.’
‘I panicked. She called the night we set up the blog and everything. I didn’t know how I’d explain her any other way. I told her she could store her things and sleep in the spare room but not to get friendly with you.’
‘Friendly? She almost killed me.’
‘What she did was unforgivable, but…’
‘What you both did was unforgivable.’
‘I know. I never meant to hurt you. I thought she’d stay for a few days until she got herself sorted and then she’d go. You’d never find out about us. I’ve come to say I’m sorry. I really am.’ Dan drops his face into his hands and I know he’s crying, but I can’t comfort him, I just can’t. I collect up the mugs. Flick on the kettle.
When he is still and silent I pad over to the sofa.
‘Dan, you have to go.’
‘Come home with me.’
‘I can’t. It isn’t safe. Not that it’s safe here.’
‘What do you mean?’
His forehead creases as I tell him what happened at the Tube station.
‘My God. Come back, Grace. Let me look after you. Please.’
He lifts a tendril of hair and tucks it behind my ear, trails the tips of his fingers along my cheekbone.
‘Dan…’ I draw back, but he cups my face, rests his forehead against mine, and I don’t move, can’t move. My breathing is ragged; the rest of the room is sucked away until there is Dan, only Dan, and our lips touch, feather-soft. He releases my face but I don’t move; I groan as he thumbs my nipples. My thighs are wet and I squirm in my seat. Clothes are tugged, heaped on the floor, and I straddle him, his hands clasping my waist. It is quick. He grunts my name and pulls me close to him. Afterwards, I can’t believe what just happened. I scoop up my clothes, holding them in front of me like a shield.
‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are,’ says Dan. ‘Don’t get dressed. Where’s the bedroom? Let’s lie down.’
The word ‘lie’ echoes around the room, bouncing off e
very surface until it slaps me to my senses. No matter what happened, or why, he deliberately tried to cover up what happened with Anna and I can’t forgive him for that.
‘I can’t do this.’ I wriggle back into my knickers, clasp my bra. ‘This was a mistake.’
‘It didn’t feel like a mistake. We’re good together.’
‘There has to be more than good sex…’
‘Great sex…’
I zip up my hoodie. ‘Things haven’t been right between us for a long time, Dan. It’s not just about Anna.’
‘I know. There’s Charlie…’ Dan pulls his T-shirt on.
‘It isn’t about Charlie, either. We’ve grown apart. I like staying in; you love going out. I like things tidy; you think I have OCD. I’ve always been too clingy, terrified of being alone, scared of losing you the way I lost my dad.’
‘You haven’t lost me…’
‘But I did, and you know what? The world didn’t come to an end. I’m still here, and I think, that despite everything, I’m doing OK. I think I need this. To be on my own. Figure out what it is I really want. Be honest: were you happy, before this, before Charlie?’
The words spill from my tongue and come to rest in a giant question mark in front of Dan, demanding an answer.
Dan pauses for the longest time. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
There’s nothing to be heard but the sound of our own breathing. Of hearts that used to beat together now marching to their own separate rhythm. Strangers become friends, become lovers, become everything – and then become nothing. A full circle.
‘You should go.’ I feel as though I could sleep for a week.
He stands. ‘I am sorry, Grace. For everything.’
I nod. ‘I know.’
‘But you’re wrong about one thing.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve gone through life thinking you needed me. That you couldn’t cope if I were to leave you, like your dad did, like Charlie. But it doesn’t matter how anxious you get or how afraid you feel, you keep going. You never give up. It wasn’t you that needed me, Grace. It was me that needed you. You’re the strong one. You can do anything. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself. None of it was your fault.’
His words slap me and I feel dizzy as he opens the arms I once never wanted to leave. I step into them and inhale his Dan-scent. It’s over and we both know it. Memories of us will dwindle and fade until Dan becomes just a boy I once knew.
‘Friends?’ he whispers into my hair.
‘Maybe.’
Tears blur my eyes as I watch Dan slouch down the street until he disappears from view. My mobile vibrates and I half hope it’s him, asking if he can come back, until I remember that he doesn’t know I have a new phone. It’s a text from Lexie and I slide my thumb right to display it.
‘Urgent – I’m in hospital – can u come?’
40
Now
We could be anywhere as we rumble through the midnight-blue countryside. I peer out of the train window but all I can see is my pale, worried face reflected back at me. I lace my fingers together on my lap, try to relax.
Lexie was agitated when I called her, said she’d fallen down the stairs but was OK, just anxious to be discharged. Her neighbours heard her screaming – her lodger was away – and they called an ambulance. She said she’s already fed up of the ‘bleedin’ nurses fussing round’, and the ‘bleedin’ scratchy hospital gown’, and having ‘nothing to bleedin’ do’. She said she has something important to tell me but is insistent that she talks to me face to face. It’s about Charlie, she said. Visiting hours will be long over by the time I get back, but despite my wheedling, she wouldn’t give anything away on the phone, said she’d see me tomorrow at ten o’clock.
I ring Grandad from the train to tell him I’m on my way home but he doesn’t reply. Minutes later I get a text. ‘We can’t talk, our voices have disappeared. We’re tucked up in bed x’
I reply: ‘Do you need anything? x’
‘No, having a hot toddy, we’re going to go to sleep soon x’
‘Night xx’
I decide not to tell them I’m coming back. It doesn’t matter how poorly she feels, Grandma would get up and change sheets, bake a cake most likely. I’ll let them rest and call in to see them tomorrow. It’ll be a nice surprise. The cottage sounds habitable, anyway. The downstairs is finished. Grandad’s been overseeing the decorating, chivvying along the men as they clean and paint. Project manager, he calls himself. Grandma packs him off each morning with a Tupperware stuffed full of scones and flapjacks to placate the workmen.
I rest my head back, close my eyes, feel my body vibrating to the rhythm of the train. I can understand why children are lulled to sleep by moving vehicles. It only seems like seconds later that my head jerks upright as though I’ve received a small electric shock. The train is motionless. I wipe my mouth, hope I haven’t been dribbling, stretch, and recognise the station sign outside the train window.
‘Shit.’ I grab my bag, stumble down the steps. Home. I zip my jacket up, huddle on a bench and call for a cab.
There’s always noise at Esmée’s flat: the whirring of the dryers below; traffic whizzing past the window – even in the dead of night there’s the sound of sirens; lads on their way home, hollering at each other, dribbling empty cans down the road. The village, in contrast, is still and silent, as if a zombie apocalypse has taken place and all the residents have fled. Most of the houses are in darkness.
It’s late but I’m not tired and I ask the cab driver to drop me at Lexie’s. If the key’s still hidden in the same place, I can pick up her nightgown and toiletries, some of the trashy magazines she pores over, take them with me when I visit. The torch on my phone illuminates Brian the gnome, dull and chipped, forever grimacing as he fishes. Weeds have grown around his base and I yank hard to dislodge him. The silver Yale key is still underneath and I turn the cold metal over in my hand before unlocking the door.
I flick the light switch – dust motes dance under the weak electric bulb – and trudge straight up the stairs. The door to Charlie’s room is ajar and I resist the temptation to peek my head in, mindful that it’s now someone else’s space. Lexie’s room has hardly changed: clothes are still strewn over every surface, much as they had been when we used to play dress-up in here. I remember Charlie wriggling into a Lycra mini skirt and bra top, stuffing the cups with toilet tissue. Look at me, dah-ling, I’m fabulous. I wait for the sting of tears, for the lump in my throat – but instead, find myself smiling at the memory.
A tiny black silk slip trimmed with lace is stuffed under Lexie’s pillow, and I pull open drawers trying to find something more suitable for the hospital; something that will, at least, cover her bottom. The clothes in here are neatly folded, barely worn, and I find a large white T-shirt, ‘RELAX’ written across the front in bold black lettering. There’s a hessian bag on the floor and I place the T-shirt inside, add clean underwear and toiletries, the latest copy of Cosmo and, because it’s Lexie, a red lipstick and hairbrush. I’m just about to leave, am pulling the door behind me, when I think of slippers. There was nothing by Lexie’s bed and I try to recall whether I’ve ever seen her wearing slippers. I don’t think I have, but I remember Grandma buying her some moccasins one Christmas. I bet they’ve never been worn.
Back upstairs, I slide the doors to the wardrobe open and step back as clothes avalanche from the top shelf. I fold them, stack them neatly and then drop to my knees, looking for the shoebox with the slippers in. There are several boxes at the back and I ease them out, pop lids off. Some of the shoes look brand new: red shiny stripper heels, gold gladiator sandals. I lift the lid from the last box. Papers spring up and tumble to the ground. I bunch them together, putting them back, when I notice a birth certificate, and smooth it open.
Charlotte Elizabeth Fisher, born 1st September 1990. Mother – Alexandra Claire Fisher. Father – Paul Michael Lawson.
I take care
to stick to the original creases as I fold it back up, but then I notice an identical piece of cream paper. I think it must be Lexie’s birth certificate, but as I read the name, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
Annabelle Laura Fisher, born 1st September 1990. Mother – Alexandra Claire Fisher. Father – Paul Michael Lawson.
The same birth date as Charlie. Annabelle. Belle. She’s real. Charlie’s imaginary friend. Belle.
Annabelle. Belle. Charlie’s sister.
Anna.
Letters scatter over the threadbare carpet as I upend the shoebox. I grab the one nearest to me, pull the paper from the envelope.
Mum,
Why won’t you answer my letters? What did I ever do wrong? Why didn’t you keep me?
Belle x
I read another.
Dear Bitch,
I know you were there when I came to see you – why didn’t you answer the door? Have you any idea how much the train fare fucking cost?
I hate you.
Belle
I feel as though I’m on a fairground ride. My head spins and I can’t properly focus. I sink back onto my heels. Anna. Annabelle. Belle. I call Lexie’s mobile. This can’t wait until morning, but it goes straight to voicemail. I ring the hospital direct. Tell them it’s an emergency, that I need to see Lexie, speak to her at the very least, but when they ask who I am, I stumble and stutter before I hang up the phone in frustration. I should have prepared a story. I never could lie. Not like Lexie. Not like Anna.
The kitchen smells of rotting food but I don’t care. The table is littered and I sweep piles of unpaid bills, nail varnishes and empty cigarette packets to the floor. An ashtray shatters as it hits the floor; shards of glass scatter like confetti but I don’t clear them up.
The fridge is empty but I find vodka in the freezer. I rinse out a glass, cough as the icy alcohol hits my chest. It’s only when I am halfway down my second glass that I sit, study the postmarks on the envelopes and put the letters into date order. I read the earliest.
Dear Mum,
I hope you can read my writing – my hand’s shaking with excitement!!!
At last I’m eighteen!!!! I’m sure you’ve been waiting for this day as much as me. I know you’re not allowed to make first contact and I bet the time has passed so slowly for you. The adoption bastards wouldn’t give me your details so I saved up all my babysitting money and used a private detective agency just like in a film! They found your address straight away. It cost a fortune, but it will be worth it when we’re together, won’t it?
The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Page 24