The Sisters (17 page)

I open my mouth to protest but she slams out of the room before I can utter another word.

I’m stretched out on top of my new duvet cover, too afraid to venture downstairs in case Beatrice has told Pam and Cass about the bracelet. I know they are all sitting around the kitchen table eating a delicious meal (most probably prepared by Eva) and I can’t bear to see their disappointed stares or hear their accusatory words. It doesn’t matter what I say, she’s made up her mind that I’ve stolen her precious bracelet. How I hate confrontation.

But hiding away makes you look guilty,
I think.
How have I
managed to get myself into this situation? Have I made the same mistake as I did with Alicia?

The creak of my bedroom door makes me look up and I see Ben standing there, his usual lopsided smile on his face. ‘Can I come in? I’ve missed you today.’ He looks tired, the smudge of dark circles under his eyes noticeable despite his tan. I nod miserably, and then, as he takes a seat next to me on the too-soft mattress, I burst into tears. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ he says, pulling me to him. I bury my head in his chest, comforted by the familiar scent of the fabric softener of his crisp white shirt mixed with a musty office smell. Tearfully I explain about what I heard this morning and Beatrice’s coldness towards me tonight.

‘I can’t believe she spoke to you like that,’ he says angrily when I’ve finished. ‘She can’t go around accusing people. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’

‘You don’t think I stole her bracelet, do you, Ben?’

He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face towards his and gently wipes away a tear. ‘Of course not. She’s over-reacting as always. She’s probably moved it and has forgotten where she’s put it. She’s always doing that type of thing, don’t worry.’

I lean against him, relieved. As long as Ben’s on my side I can face anything. He asks me if I’ve eaten and when I explain I’ve been too embarrassed to face the others he takes me by the hand and leads me down to the kitchen. As I pass the large ornate mirror on the landing I catch a glimpse of my puffy eyes, my swollen clown’s mouth. I’ve never been an attractive crier.

Beatrice and Pam are sitting at the table when we come in and they both glance at us, quickly looking away again. So Beatrice has told Pam about the bracelet, just as I thought she would.

‘Is there any dinner left?’ asks Ben. He’s still holding my hand and I grip it like it’s a life raft.

‘Eva made a fish pie. There’s some left in the oven,’ says Beatrice, ignoring me. Their plates are empty and so are their wine glasses, plus the two bottles in the middle of the table. Ben lets go of my hand and walks to the Aga and I take a seat opposite Beatrice.

‘Beatrice …’ I begin. There’s so much I want to say, but I know I’m not very good at confronting things. I’m interrupted by Ben placing a plateful of fish pie in front of me but I know if I take a mouthful I will vomit. He sits next to me, handing me cutlery and a wine glass with a reassuring look in his eyes. I find it endearing that he’s taking control, that he’s looking after me.

‘I see you’ve downed all the wine.’ His voice is devoid of its usual warmth as he addresses his sister.

Pam looks uncomfortable and, making some excuse about having to call her boyfriend, hurries from the kitchen. The pitter patter of rain on glass, the occasional gust of wind rattling the windowpanes, are the only sounds to be heard. I pick at my food but Ben shovels his down with gusto, not put off by the tense atmosphere in the room that makes me claustrophobic. I yearn to run up to the sanctuary of my bedroom. I take a small forkful of pie before putting my cutlery down.

Beatrice looks from me to Ben as I stare miserably at my hands. I’m surprised when I see, from my peripheral vision, her hand reach across the table towards me. I keep mine folded in my lap.

‘I’m so sorry, Abi,’ she says solemnly. ‘I should never have accused you of stealing from me.’

‘So you’ve found the bracelet?’ Ben’s voice is sharp.

She shakes her head and I almost feel sorry for her. ‘No, no, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. As you said, Abi. I can make another one for my client. No big deal.’

Ben glances at me and I see it, doubt clouding his hazel eyes, but he remains silent.

‘I’m sorry I sounded so flippant earlier. But I didn’t take it, Beatrice. I’m not a thief.’

I think of all the people I’ve taken from: Lucy, Alicia, and yes, even Beatrice. Maybe I am a thief after all.

When I reach my bedroom there is a missed call and a voicemail on my mobile phone. I listen to the message from Miranda while pacing the length of the room. From my window I see Beatrice heading out of the garden gate. Where is she off to at this time of night? I push thoughts of Beatrice from my mind and try to concentrate on what Miranda is telling me. The Patricia Lipton interview is mine if I’m still interested. She’s arranged for a night stay in a hotel and I leave the day after tomorrow. Adrenalin and purpose surge through me, and I know that Nia was right when she urged me not to give up my job. Getting away from this house, even for a couple of days, would be the best thing for me. For my sanity.

Chapter Sixteen

Beatrice marches down the street without an umbrella, not caring that the wind is whipping at her red mackintosh or that the rain splashes against her bare legs, not even noticing how soaked her leopard-print pumps are. The sky is dark, moonless, she shouldn’t be out this time of night on her own, but it’s Bath. She feels safer out here in the wind and rain than she does in her own house at the moment.

She shelters in the doorway of the café in the high street and lights a cigarette. She’s started smoking more since Abi moved in. Her fingers tremble as she puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, savouring the sickly taste of the tobacco as it burns the back of her throat. She’s still reeling from the argument with Abi and at the way she was cast as the bad guy at dinner tonight; her heart races when she recalls it. How can they treat her this way? After everything she’s done. For both of them.

She had made an effort to be polite when she asked Abi to return her clothes this afternoon. True, she wanted them back, but it had been two weeks, surely Abi could have bought some summer clothes by now? And anyhow, she didn’t want to see Abi wearing her dresses. Not after everything. Even so, she had been shocked when Abi angrily pulled her precious dresses from their respective hangers and almost threw them at her as if they were nothing more than rags. Then her facetious remark about making another bracelet, like it didn’t matter about the first one, it was nothing that Beatrice’s reputation was on the line, her hard work down the drain.

It had made Beatrice want to smack her smug face.

She takes another drag of her cigarette.
Maybe I was wrong to accuse Abi of stealing the bracelet,
she thinks as she exhales smoke into the damp night air. She tried to apologize at dinner, but it infuriated her to see how Abi had obviously gone running to Ben, making out that she, Abi, was the victim in all this. She had the gall to sit there, clutching Ben’s hand, her face contorted with worry, playing the innocent little girl act while Ben sat next to her, big and protective and on her side.

Are you trying to turn Ben against me?

She had noticed the maroon tea-dress hanging in Abi’s wardrobe this afternoon as well as the brand-new, still in the box, Dunlop Green Flash trainers on the shelf. Beatrice wonders if it has occurred to Abi how similar the two of them look. The same heart-shaped faces, ski-slope noses, fair hair, slim frame?

Are you trying to replace me, Abi? Is that what this is all about? Is that why you bought identical trainers? The type of dress I’d wear?
This thought makes her shiver and she wraps her coat further around her body.

There would have been a time when Beatrice would have felt secure in the knowledge that she was Ben’s number one girl, his priority. But now she’s not so sure. It’s true that she might have had an ulterior motive when she asked Abi to move in initially, but this is the last thing she thought would happen.

A streetlamp hums and flickers, its orange halo illuminating the fine rain that continues to fall. She takes another drag of her cigarette then stubs it out against the wall, flicking the stub behind her.

Whatever game you’re playing, Abi,
she decides resolutely as she thrusts her hands deep into her pockets and heads back into the rain, towards home,
I won’t let you win. I’ve got too much to lose.

Chapter Seventeen

The Mini, red and disconcertingly shiny, is parked just across from where I disembarked from the ferry, and the slightly built Asian man with a pretty, almost feminine face, ushers me towards it, unaware of my discomfort, my
fear
.

‘Have you driven a Mini before, Miss Cavendish?’ he says, clutching his clipboard to his chest. Regardless of his diminutive stature I have to trot to keep up with him. I shake my head. I’m finding it difficult to swallow. When we get to the vehicle he makes notes with a scratchy ballpoint pen on to a car-shaped diagram as to its current condition, and I hope it will still be scratch free when I return it tomorrow. He opens the door and leans inside to demonstrate how to start the engine, where the controls and indicators are, and how to use the built-in sat nav. And then he drops the key fob into the palm of my trembling hand and leaves me standing there, unsure if I have the nerve to get behind the wheel after all this time.

In London it was easy not to drive, what with a tube station a short walk from our house. Even in Bath I can take the bus whenever I need to go into town, or to visit my parents. It’s a waste of money running a car, I say to Mum and Dad when they express concern about the fact I’ve hardly driven since the accident. My Audi was a write-off, but my insurance company had given me a couple of grand for the car and everyone had insisted I needed to buy another one, that I needed to ‘get back on the horse’ as it were. But then I met Alicia, followed by my attempted suicide, my breakdown. And when I was well enough to leave the psychiatric hospital to live with my parents, there was no need for a car. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But the truth of it is that I’m scared. The last time I got behind a wheel I ended up killing my own twin sister. What if I ended up endangering the life of someone else?

Swallowing down the bile that’s rising in my throat, I slide into the driver’s seat and touch the wheel gingerly. Surely I can’t do much damage in a Mini? A young mother pushing a pram crosses the road in front of where I’m parked, and I shudder as I imagine ploughing into her, the bonnet of the car lifting the pram high into the air, the screams of the baby … I fight the urge to retch.
I don’t know if I can do this.

I wait as the young mother manoeuvres her pram safely on to the pavement before I have the courage to push the key fob into the dashboard, and I press the ignition button with a timorous hand. I sit there for a while, the car purring away, nauseous at the thought of driving through the streets of Cowes. I turn my head. The glisten of the late afternoon sun bounces off the sea in the distance, the white triangular sail of a boat bobs up and down. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of salt in the air, and I close my eyes, reminding myself of the mantra that Janice taught me, becoming calmer as I concentrate on breathing in and out. In and out.

Then I hear Lucy’s soft voice in my ear, so clearly it’s as though she’s sitting in the front passenger seat next to me.
It wasn’t your fault. You can do this, Abi.
I press my foot down on the clutch, push the gearstick into first and gently tap the accelerator, amazed as the car begins to crawl slowly away from the kerb and on to the road.

And I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face as I hear Lucy whooping and cheering beside me as I drive,
actually drive
, towards Cowes.

The bed and breakfast that Miranda has booked for me has a view of the marina and a landlady who reminds me of my late grandmother. She fusses around me when I arrive, asking if she can make me a cooked breakfast in the morning and if I wish for my one solitary holdall to be taken up to the bedroom. I politely turn down any offers of help and escape to the sanctuary of my room, which is small but pleasant in a shabby-chic kind of way. I quickly unpack my wash bag and hang up the trousers I will be wearing for the interview tomorrow in the white painted wardrobe, a frisson of nerves mixed with excitement that I’ve been given this chance to interview Patricia Lipton. The room is chilly even though the sun is out. I unravel my cardigan, briefly putting it to my nose to inhale the comforting scent of home. Beatrice’s home. I wrap it around me and head out in the vague direction of the marina, the breeze whipping my hair back, the smell of fish and chips in the air, the melancholy call of seagulls, and I’m reminded of Lucy and of my childhood at seaside places reminiscent of this, of me chasing her – always chasing her, although I could never quite catch her – dressed in our red swimsuits with the frills around the bottom, her yellow ponytail swinging as she ran, our laughter ringing out as we clutched our plastic windmills in our chubby hands, faces smeared with ice cream, and Mum and Dad trailing behind us with proud smiles as strangers stopped to comment on how pretty we were, how
identical
. Too identical, as it turns out.