Shopaholic & Sister (34 page)

“Er . . . yes. I’m fine, thanks.”

Oh God. This is a pity visit. Maybe they’re worried I’m going to slash my wrists or something. As Robin takes breath to speak again, I cut in.

“Really. Everybody. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s very sweet of you to be concerned. But I’ll be all right. I’m just going to go to bed, and catch the train home tomorrow, and . . . just take it from there.”

“Er . . . that’s not why we’re here,” says Robin, ruffling his hair awkwardly. “We wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Right.”

“We wondered . . . all of us . . . if you’d help us with the protest.” He looks about as though for support, and everyone nods.

“
Help
you?” I stare back, bewildered. “But . . . I don’t know anything about it. Jess was right.” Even the memory is painful. “I was making it all up. I don’t even know about hedgehogs.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Robin. “You’ve got loads of ideas, and that’s what we need. You’re right. We
should
think big. And Jim likes the idea of the party. Don’t you, Jim?”

“If it gets folk into the shop before four o’clock, it can’t be bad,” says Jim.

“You’ve got experience with these kind of events,” chimes in the white-haired man who challenged me at the meeting. “You know how to go about it. We don’t.”

“When you left the meeting we had a quick straw poll,” says Robin. “And it was practically unanimous. We’d like to invite you onto the action committee. Everyone’s waiting back at the hall, to hear.”

All their faces are so warm and friendly, I feel tears pricking at my eyes.

“I can’t.” I look away. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. There’s no need for me to be in Scully anymore. I’ve got to get back to London.”

“Why’s that, then?” says Jim.

“I have . . . things to do,” I say. “Commitments. You know.”

“What commitments would they be?” Jim says mildly. “You don’t have a job. Your husband’s abroad. Your flat’s empty.”

This is why you shouldn’t pour out your entire sob story to people you’ve just met. I gaze at Edie’s pink and purple swirly carpet, trying to get my thoughts straight. Then I raise my head.

“What does Jess think about all this?”

I look around the group, but no one replies. Robin won’t quite meet my eyes. The white-haired man is gazing at the ceiling. Jim just has that same sad expression he had at the village hall.

“I bet she’s the only one who voted against me, isn’t she?” I try to smile, but my voice wobbles.

“Jess has . . . certain opinions,” begins Robin. “But she doesn’t have to come into it—”

“She
does
! Of course she does! She’s the whole reason I’m here! Look, I’m sorry. But I can’t come on your committee. I hope your protest goes really well . . . but I can’t stay.”

I can see Robin drawing breath to speak again.

“I can’t.” I look directly at Jim. “You have to understand. I can’t.”

And I can see it in his eyes. He does understand.

“Fair enough,” he says at last. “It was worth a try.” He nods at the others as though to say “It’s over.”

They awkwardly murmur goodbyes and good lucks and file out of the little room. The front door bangs shut and I’m left alone, feeling flatter than ever.

When I wake up the next morning the sky is dark and swollen with gray clouds. Edie serves me a full English breakfast complete with black pudding, but I manage only a cup of tea. I pay her with the rest of my cash, then head upstairs to get ready to leave. Out the window I can just see the hills in the distance, stretching into the mist.

I’ll probably never see those hills again. Which is fine by me, I think defiantly. I hate the country. I never wanted to be here in the first place.

I put the last of my things in my red case, then decide to change into my turquoise kitten heels with diamanté straps. They always make me feel cheerful. As I step into them I feel something small and nubby under my toes and reach down, puzzled. I pull out a small wrapped object and look at it in sudden realization.

It’s the bean. It’s the silver Tiffany bean necklace that I was going to give Jess, still in its little blue bag.

God, that seems a lifetime ago.

I shove it into my pocket, then pick up my cases and stripy hatbox and head downstairs, passing the pay phone in the hall.

Maybe I should call Luke. . . . But then, what’s the point?

Edie’s nowhere to be seen, so I just pull the door of the bed-and-breakfast closed behind me and trundle my cases across the green to the shop. I want to say goodbye to Jim before I leave.

As I push open the door with its familiar tinkle, Jim looks up from pricing cans of beans. He sees my suitcases and gives a resigned nod.

“So you’re off.”

“Yes. I’m off.”

“Don’t go!” Kelly says mournfully from behind the counter, where she has
Julius Caesar
propped up behind
100 Hot Hair Styles
.

“I have to.” I put my cases down. “But I’ve got some more Stila stuff for you. A goodbye present.”

As I hand her a selection of lip glosses and eye glazes, her face lights up.

“I’ve got a present for you too, Becky,” she says abruptly. She pulls a friendship bracelet off her wrist and hands it to me. “So you won’t forget me.”

I’m unable to speak. The simple plaited band in my hand is just like the bracelets Luke and I were given in the Masai Mara ceremony. Luke took his off when he went back to corporate life.

I’ve still got mine on.

“That’s . . . fab.” I rouse myself and smile. “I’ll always wear it.” I slip it onto my wrist and give Kelly a tight hug.

“I wish you weren’t going.” Kelly’s bottom lip sticks out. “Will you ever come back to Scully?”

“I don’t know,” I say after a pause. “I don’t think so. But listen, if you ever come to London, give me a call. OK?”

“OK.” Kelly brightens. “Can we go to Topshop?”

“Of course!”

“Should I start saving now?” Jim says ruefully, and we both start giggling.

A tinkle at the door interrupts us and we all look up to see Edie walking into the shop in her green head scarf, together with Lorna and the well-dressed lady from the night before. They’re all looking exceedingly self-conscious.

“Edie!” says Jim, glancing at his watch in surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“Morning, Jim,” says Edie, avoiding his eye. “I’d like some bread, please. A wholemeal and a bloomer.”

“Bread?” says Jim, looking dumbfounded. “But Edie . . . it’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“I know the time, thank you,” she retorts stiffly.

“But . . . it’s full price.”

“I’d like some bread,” she snaps. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Of . . . course not!” says Jim, still looking dazed. He gets down the loaves and wraps them in paper. “That’ll be . . . one pound ninety-six.”

There’s a pause, and I can hear Edie breathe in sharply. Then she rummages in her bag for her purse and unclips it.

“Two pounds,” she says, handing over the coins. “Much obliged.”

I do not believe it. Kelly and I just sit there, goggling in silence, as the other two women buy three loaves of bread and a bag of sandwich rolls between them. Lorna even throws in a couple of Chelsea buns at the last moment.

As the door closes behind them, Jim sinks down onto his stool.

“Well. Who would have thought it?” He shakes his head in wonder, then points at me. “That’s you, Becky.”

“It’s not
me
,” I say, flushing a little. “They probably just needed bread.”

“It was you!” says Kelly. “It was what you said! Mum told me all about the meeting,” she adds. “She said you seemed a nice girl, even if you were a bit—”

“Kelly,” Jim puts in quickly. “Why don’t you make Becky a cup of tea?”

“No, it’s OK. I’m going.” I hesitate, then reach into my pocket and pull out the little Tiffany bag. “Jim, I wanted to ask you a favor. Could you give this to Jess? It’s something I bought for her a while ago. I know everything’s different now . . . but still.”

“I’m heading up to her house just now, to take a delivery,” says Jim. “Why not leave it there yourself?”

“Oh.” I shrink back. “No. I . . . I don’t want to see her.”

“She won’t be there. They’ve all gone off for the endurance hike. I’ve got a key to her house.”

“Oh, right.” I hesitate.

“I could do with the company,” Jim adds with a shrug, and picks up a sack of potatoes.

“Well . . .” I put the Tiffany bag back in my pocket. “OK. I’ll come.”

The clouds are growing thicker as we walk along the empty streets, and I can feel spots of rain on my face. I’m aware of Jim shooting me the odd concerned glance.

“You’ll be all right, back in London?” he says eventually.

“I guess.”

“Have you spoken to your husband?”

“No.” I bite my lip. “I haven’t.”

Jim pauses, and transfers his potatoes to the other shoulder.

“So,” he says easily. “How did a nice girl like you end up with a marriage in trouble?”

“It’s my own fault. I did some . . . stupid things. And my husband got really angry. He said . . . he said he wished I were more like Jess.”

“Did he?” Jim looks a bit taken aback. “I mean, Jess is a fine lass,” he hastily amends. “But I wouldn’t have . . . anyway, that’s not here or there.” He coughs and rubs his nose.

“That’s why I came up here. To learn from her. But it was a stupid idea.”

We’ve reached the end of Jess’s street, and Jim pauses for a rest before climbing the steep incline. The gray stone houses are glistening in the drizzle, stark against the distant misty hills. I can just see a flock of sheep grazing high up, like dots of cotton wool on the green.

“Too bad about you and Jess,” says Jim, and he does sound genuinely sorry. “It’s a shame, that is.”

“It’s just one of those things.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I should have known all along. We’re so different.”

“You’re different, all right.” His face crinkles in amusement.

“She just seems so . . .
cold
.” I hunch my shoulders, feeling a familiar resentment rising. “You know, I made every effort. I really did. But she never showed any pleasure . . . or feelings, even. She doesn’t seem to care about anything! She doesn’t seem to have any passions!”

Jim seems surprised.

“Oh . . . Jess has got passions,” he says. “She’s got passions, all right. When we get to the house, I’ll show you something.”

He picks up the sack of potatoes and we resume walking up the hill. As we get nearer Jess’s house, I start to feel tiny prickles of curiosity. Not that she’s anything to do with me anymore, but still.

As we reach the door, Jim roots in his pocket for a large key ring, selects a Yale key, and unlocks it. I walk into the hall and look around. But the place doesn’t give much away. It’s a bit like Jess herself. Two tidy sofas in the sitting room. A plain white kitchen. A couple of well-tended potted plants.

I head upstairs and cautiously push open the door to her bedroom. It’s immaculate. Plain cotton duvet cover, plain cotton curtains, a couple of boring prints.

“Here.” Jim is behind me. “You want to see Jess’s real passion? Take a look at this.”

He heads over to a door set into the wall of the landing, then turns the key and beckons me over.

“Here are the famous rocks,” he says, swinging the door open. “She had this cupboard made especially to house them. Designed it herself down to the last detail, lights and all. Makes an impressive sight, don’t you think . . .” He trails off in surprise at my face. “Becky? Are you OK, love?”

I can’t speak.

It’s my shoe cupboard.

It’s my shoe cupboard, exactly. The same doors. The same shelves. The same lights. Except instead of shoes displayed on the shelves, there are rocks. Rows and rows of carefully labeled rocks.

And . . . they’re beautiful. Some are gray, some crystal, some smooth, some iridescent and sparkling. There are fossils . . . amethysts . . . chunks of jet, all shiny under the lights. . . .

“I had no idea. . . .They’re stunning.”

“You’re talking about passion?” Jim laughs. “This is a true passion. An obsession, you might say.” He picks up a speckled gray rock and turns it over in his fingers. “You know how she got that leg injury of hers? Clambering after some blasted rock on a mountain somewhere. She was that determined to get it, she’d risk her own safety.” Jim grins at my expression. “Then there was the time she was arrested at Customs, for smuggling some precious crystal in under her jumper. . . .”

I gape at him.

“Jess?
Arrested
?”

“They let her off.” He waves a hand. “But I know she’d do it again. If there’s a particular kind of rock that girl wants, she has to have it.” He wrinkles his brow in amusement. “She gets a compulsion. It’s like a mania! Nothing’ll stop her!”

My head is spinning. I’m staring at a row of rocks, all different shades of red. Just like my row of red shoes.

“She keeps all this pretty quiet.” Jim puts down the speckled rock. “I guess she thinks people wouldn’t understand—”

“I understand.” I cut him off in a shaky voice. “Completely.”

I’m trembling all over. She’s my sister.

Jess is my sister. I know it more certainly than I’ve ever known anything.

I have to find her. I have to tell her. Now.

“Jim . . .” I take a deep breath. “I need to find Jess. Right away.”

“She’s doing the sponsored endurance hike,” Jim reminds me. “Starts in half an hour.”

“Then I have to go,” I say in agitation. “I have to see her. How do I get there? Can I walk?”

“It’s a fair way away,” Jim says, and cocks his head quizzically. “Do you want a lift?”

I KNEW WE were sisters. I knew it. I
knew
it.

And we’re not just sisters—we’re kindred spirits! After all those false starts. After all those misunderstandings. After I thought I would never have one single thing in common with her, ever.

She’s the same as me. I understand her.

I understand Jess!

Everything Jim said chimed a chord. Everything! How many times have I smuggled pairs of shoes in from America? How many times have I risked my own safety at the sales? I even got a leg injury, just like her! It was when I saw someone heading for the last reduced Orla Kiely purse in Selfridges, and I leapt off the escalator from about eight steps up.