Shadow Sister (10 page)

‘Listen, Lydia,’ Raoul says. ‘I’ve been worried about you ever since you went to work at that school, and you know it. You were coming home with stories that made me think things would seriously go wrong there at some point. I advised you to leave, to look for a safer school, or to come and work at Software International, but you wouldn’t. Now you’re angry because I’m not pacing about wringing my hands. Of course I’m happy that nothing happened to you. But if I tell you what I think, you get angry. Then I’m the egoist who won’t let you have a career. So, if you must know – yes, I’m worried sick, I’m happy that you’re
safe, but I’m really pissed off that the car is fucked up.’

Now it’s my turn to be quiet.

‘I’m not sure if it was Bilal,’ I say, finally.

‘If it was a different student it would only make this worse –you’d have two guys to watch out for!’ The words poured out of him: school management should take better care of its staff. Aren’t weapons regularly found in pockets and lockers? Why haven’t they done anything against this? Why haven’t they installed walk-through metal detectors? He rages on and on.

‘I don’t know what to do! I only know that I don’t want to lose my job. And it would be nice if I had a bit of support instead of blame.’

I wasn’t intending to, but I burst into tears. Naturally Raoul isn’t immune to that. He might seem tough but he isn’t impenetrable. He pulls me to him and enfolds me in his arms.

We stay like that for a long time.

At dinner, once we’ve calmed down, I tell Raoul about my row with Nora and the speed with which Bilal’s actions were wiped from the table during the departmental meeting. Raoul shakes his head, but doesn’t comment.

Then I tell him about Bilal on the street.

Raoul’s expression is grim. ‘That little bastard.’

‘What’s a little bastard?’ Valerie asks.

‘Nothing,’ Raoul says, because Valerie tends to put every word we do explain into use. Preferably at school, in the group discussion with her teacher.

‘I’m not a little bastard, am I?’ Valerie says. ‘I’m a big bastard.’

Our fit of laughing clears the air.

That evening, when Valerie is in bed, Raoul and I sit down together. We have a glass of wine and watch a film on television, but my thoughts are elsewhere. I get up halfway through the
film. Never mind Nicholas Cage, I’m going to have a bath and go to bed. Raoul’s coat is lying on the tiles underneath the rack in the hall. I pick it up and hang it on the peg. There’s a small box where it was lying on the floor. Elongated, dark blue and unmistakably from a jeweller’s. A silver swan announces a Swarovski trinket. I pick it up in wonder. A sparkling, crystal bracelet is nestled inside. At that moment Raoul comes into the hall.

He stops abruptly, shocked. His expression turns to regret. ‘Ah, so now you’ve found it,’ he says. ‘I wanted to give it to you on our wedding anniversary.’

‘That’s two months away.’

‘I know, but I saw it and thought it was perfect for you.’ Raoul takes the box from me and with a tender, almost dutiful gesture, fastens the glittering bracelet around my wrist.

‘Now that you’ve found it…’ he says with a smile.

The crystals conjure up new colours with every turn of my wrist. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

Raoul holds my wrists at my side, kissing me. Then his hand slides to my breasts.

‘If we’re going to celebrate our anniversary, we might as well do it properly,’ he whispers.

I hesitate, but it would be silly to go to bed alone now, with this beautiful bracelet on my wrist.

‘Champagne?’ Raoul says, his lips to my ear.

Champagne. Why not. Raoul goes to the kitchen to open a bottle as I sink into the sofa and hope with all my heart that the bracelet was intended for me. The jewellery around my wrist is as fragile as my confidence.

Do women sense when they’re being cheated on? Is it possible that I’ve got a sixth sense for it?

All I know is that Raoul is not always honest. He lies to me. The problem is that I don’t know when he’s lying. All those meetings and appointments out of the office, those business
dinners and trips…A man who is that attractive to women is exposed to a lot of temptation.

That sixth sense tells me that some meetings aren’t the same as others, and neither are some telephone conversations. For the last few weeks, Raoul has been making calls on his mobile in the evenings when he goes outside for a smoke, and in February he received an anonymous Valentine’s card. I wouldn’t have been so suspicious if he hadn’t played up his own surprise. He was too adamant that he didn’t know who had sent the card.

Raoul returns with the champagne and proffers me a glass with a flamboyant gesture. I’m not ready to accept it.

‘Why did you buy that bracelet again? We usually choose something together, don’t we?

‘This time we didn’t.’ Raoul clinks his glass gently against mine. He’s sitting very close, but suddenly pulls back. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘It’s stunning.’

But I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. The bracelet is too delicate, it’s not practical. I like jewellery that can take a knock, that can be worn every day. I’m not that into bling. Raoul knows that. I’ve said it to him often enough.

I pretend not to notice that Raoul is getting more affectionate. He sits with his arm around me, stroking my upper arm.

It’s at least a month since we last made love and just as long since we cuddled. Men seem to take these moments as a sign that sex is on the cards, but I’m often content not to take it further. I can’t face the thought of being stroked all over and having to get into the mood. The only thing I want is a hot shower and then to fall asleep with Raoul’s arms around me. One glance at his face tells me that I’m not going to get away with it.

When he announces that he’s going to bed, much earlier than normal, I know what that means. He takes his empty glass to the kitchen, returns to the sitting room and asks, ‘Are you coming?’

‘Just a bit more TV.’ I turn on the television and look at the screen as if I’m immersed, as if what he’s really asking has passed me by.

Raoul looks at the screen where two politicians are arguing.

‘Politics?’ he says. ‘I thought it always sent you to sleep.’

‘Not always.’ I turn up the sound.

‘So you’re coming soon?’ Raoul says.

I look at the clock. ‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ll go and shave.’

Raoul’s gaze lingers on me, then he leaves the room. When the program has finished, I tidy the room so thoroughly it looks immaculate. I empty the dishwasher, put everything away and lay the table for breakfast.

Finally I go upstairs. I can hear Raoul’s snoring from the landing. It will disturb me all night if I sleep beside him. Instead, I make my way to the guest bedroom.

There once was a time, not that long ago, when Raoul and I slept close to each other. We even shared a single bed comfortably. My pregnancy put an end to that and Valerie’s arrival marked the beginning of a new chapter. For the first two years, sleep was a luxury that only childless people knew.

Valerie was a poor sleeper. As a baby she cried all night, but we got through it by telling ourselves that all babies did, that the phase would pass. It didn’t. By the time she was two, she still didn’t fall asleep until late in the evening, and we were dragged out of our bed several times a night. At first we’d let her get into bed with us, but she’d lie crossways and push us to the edges. So we decided she had to stay in her own bed. When she tried to sneak in we’d push her away, literally, with our elbows, our arms, our legs. It felt like something bitter had been poured over my heart, but my need for sleep was more acute.

It worked. Finally Valerie stayed in her own bed, but all that time spent defending every square centimetre of the bed had an effect on our relationship. The time of spooning was long past.
If Raoul invaded my side of the bed, I’d push him away. He’d do the same – it had become a reflex.

I don’t know when the bottom fell out of our sex life. Of course there comes a time when you no longer claw the wallpaper off with excitement when your beloved comes home, but it’s not that I’ve gone off Raoul. I still enjoy sex with him. Just not late at night when I’ve spent the evening marking tests then struggled up to bed semi-conscious after a consolatory glass of wine.

The urge usually takes me at inappropriate moments. We’ll be walking hand in hand through the amusement park as our daughter runs ahead to the fairytale woods. Or we’re in town on a Saturday morning and I see other women looking at Raoul. Recently, we were in the car on a warm spring day and Raoul rolled up his shirt sleeves to reveal brown, muscular arms. I wanted him so badly I nearly told him to pull over. We could have; we didn’t have Valerie with us. But the thought of moving the child seat and tidying up all the dolls on the backseat ruined the moment before it had even begun. Instead I just fantasised about it.

But it’s not just my fault that there’s been so little to report on that front these past two years.

At the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in an envelope, there’s a photograph. It’s an enlargement of Raoul and me taken during a Software International company outing. We’re not gazing into each other’s eyes and we’re not hand in hand on a beach backlit by the setting sun. We were on a survival weekend in the Ardennes: a team-building exercise. As I took so many photos for the company, I was invited. Naturally I went.

I’d expected Lydia to be there, but I wasn’t surprised she stayed home. Survival is not really her thing.

Raoul and I spent every minute together. It was a relief to be by his side without feeling Lydia’s eyes on my back.

I take out the envelope.

It’s a good photo. We’re in a canoe in high spirits, riding the rapids. The foam splashes around us and we may capsize at any moment, but we’re both smiling, paddles in hand. I’m up front and Raoul is behind me. He looks tanned and burly, in his element. He sits diagonally of the lens and smiles over my
shoulder, his face close to mine, at whoever is standing on the riverbank taking the picture.

Later, when I saw the photo it struck me that we were smiling in exactly the same way, high on adventure and danger. If Lydia had been in my place she’d have had a poor facsimile of a smile. Her expression would be anxious. That’s what I tell myself.

The picture is so precious to me. I wish I could hang it in a nice frame and look at it all day.

I put the phone down and stretch. These days I force myself to go to my studio, but all my work is backlog. I don’t take on any new projects. I can’t focus. Will I ever regain that tingling feeling I used to get when I was busy doing my job? Will I ever enjoy doing anything again?

Sunlight falls through the window, onto my computer screen, bleaching out the colours and text. The layer of dust stands out even more than usual. I draw a line in it with my index finger, then a downwards arch, and another, until a large L appears in the dust.

‘Lydia,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’

In the middle of the night, somewhere between sleeping and waking, a voice whispers inside my head.

‘Do you remember,’ the voice says, ‘do you remember the holiday at Benidorm? All those drunken idiots there. You taking photos of them striking poses for us. How we laughed. We were happy then, weren’t we?’

I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming because then we’re in Benidorm, swimming in the sea, the sun bathing us in a bright warm light. Every evening we have dinner on the terrace of a small restaurant, a ceiling of vines above us.

Even after Lydia was married and had Valerie, we still went away together once a year. To the Maldives, the Canary Islands, Crete, Curaçao…

‘This is so wonderful,’ I say as I float on my back in the warm
sea. ‘Why can’t it stay like this forever?’

Lydia swims in circles around me. I feel the water shifting with each stroke, I hear her breath.

‘One day it will be like this forever,’ she promises. ‘Nothing can separate us.’

She talks some more, but her voice fades away. I try to catch her words. By then I’m fully awake.

It’s 1:20. My skin is gooseflesh and I’m shivering.

The duvet, which seemed too thick when I got into bed, is no longer warm enough.

I switch on the lamp, get out of bed and put on flannelette pyjamas over my thin nightdress. I even put on a pair of socks, but under the duvet I’m still not warm enough. Could I be getting the flu?

The clock turns 2:00. It turns 2:45.

I push thoughts of Lydia away. Think of something else. Raoul. Walking through the Bergse Woods. Apple tart with cream in the restaurant. The way we consoled each other. But then I feel his hand on mine again and Lydia looks at me accusingly. I don’t want to think about Lydia.

I drift off. A noise wakens me again, an unexpected and insistent noise in the darkness. I’m confused for a moment, registering the noise but not understanding it. And then I do.

A door is creaking open.

Steeling myself to sit up, I turn on the light and get out of bed. On the way to the bathroom, I switch on every light I come across, the standing lamp in the bedroom, the main light in the hall and then the bathroom light.

My familiar house appears reassuringly from the darkness and I sigh with relief. I sip cold water from the tap, then return to the bedroom. And then there’s someone standing in front of me.

Lydia.

I scream, my hand in front of my mouth, until I see my own likeness screaming back.

What I’d thought was Lydia is nothing more than my own shadowy reflection in the dark window.

I go downstairs, my legs shaking. The sitting room door is half open, and I can’t remember whether I closed it. All the doors upstairs were open too, so which door did I hear opening? Did I hear it, or did I dream it?

I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the night. After a while I go back upstairs. In my bedroom, I have a curious feeling, as if somebody is waiting for me.

‘Lydia…’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’

My bedroom is quiet and familiar. There are no noises, nothing stirs.