The Sisters (14 page)

I turn down Northumberland Passage, grateful for the break in relentless sunshine due to the shade from the narrowness of the buildings that rear up on either side of me. The street is rammed with people; swarming outside the stall that sells oilcloth bags; peering through the shop windows at trinkets, or ornaments, or children’s clothes; perched at bistro tables, nursing a latte or cappuccino. The smell of cheese pasties permeates the air.

I meander along the lane, taking in the atmosphere, pausing when I come to a little vintage shop that sells the type of dresses that Beatrice wears. Naturally, I’m compelled to go inside. It’s empty apart from the assistant perched behind a Victorian-type counter, talking in bored tones into an old-fashioned phone. I flick through the dresses; there is everything from a 1980s ballgown to a 1920s flapper dress. And then I see it, and my heart quickens. It’s a crinoline tea-dress from the 1940s, maroon with tiny white swallows, a Peter Pan collar and cap sleeves. It’s exactly the kind of dress Beatrice wears. I snatch it from the hanger, letting the material run through my fingers, and I can’t contain my thrill when I see that it’s my size. It’s expensive, and I can’t afford it, yet I buy it anyway.

I’m crossing the square in front of the Roman Baths, clutching my new dress in its brown paper bag, when I hear someone calling out Beatrice’s name. A large woman in a colourful printed kaftan is hurrying towards me, a wide smile on her mouth, her hand raised, but as she gets closer I notice the flicker of doubt in her eyes, her features rearranged into a frown. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I thought …’ Her hands flap around her dark hair, suddenly awkward. She composes herself. ‘I thought you were Beatrice. It’s Abi, isn’t it? We met about two weeks ago at Bea’s house. It’s Maria,’ she clarifies when I stare at her blankly. Of course, one of Beatrice’s friends. We make stilted small talk for a couple of minutes before she makes her excuses and heads back towards the Abbey. I watch her go, bemused that she would think I was Beatrice, probably because I’m wearing her green Alice Temperley dress. Nevertheless, I’m flattered to be mistaken for her.

I can hear faint chatter coming from the kitchen when I get back to the house. Beatrice and Ben are huddled at the wooden table, deep in conversation, but when I walk in they fall silent.

‘You’re home,’ Beatrice says flatly, lifting her eyes to me. They are red and puffy as if she’s been crying. Ben pulls back his chair and goes to the coffee machine. ‘It’s too hot for coffee,’ she says when Ben offers her one. She begins picking at some nonexistent scab on her smooth, tanned arm.

My stomach clenches as I take the seat opposite her, dropping the bag containing my new dress at my feet. I can tell by the hostility emanating from Beatrice that Ben has finally admitted to her that we’re seeing each other. I’m suddenly aware that was why he rushed out earlier, to catch up with his sister. I wish he had included me. That we could have told Beatrice together, put up a united front. I feel excluded, pushed out, and it pisses me off.

‘So,’ she says when Ben sits back down, sliding a coffee in my direction. ‘Ben’s told me about the two of you.’

‘I’ve gathered,’ I want to say, but I keep quiet.

‘You didn’t have to hide it from me,’ she says coldly. ‘I thought you were my friend, Abi.’

‘I am your friend, you know I am. I … we didn’t know what to tell you. We weren’t sure what was going on ourselves at first …’ I splutter, trying to suppress the swell of indignation that I’m having to explain myself while Ben sits there silently.

She assesses us both, her pupils flicking from me to Ben and back to me again. And then she grabs one of our hands in each of hers. ‘I’m pleased for you both, of course I am,’ she says, as if to reinforce this fact to herself. ‘But please don’t lie to me again. I’ve had a lifetime of lies.’ She glances pointedly at Ben, but he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on a knot of wood on the oak table.

I open my mouth to explain that I’ve been haranguing Ben to tell her since I moved in, that it was his decision not to, but instead I close my mouth and hang my head and dutifully apologize, relieved that at least she knows now. No more secrets.

Dinner is a rather subdued affair. Beatrice doesn’t say much while pushing her chicken salad around her plate with a fork. Cass, as usual, is morose and Ben and I sit side by side, as if we are two chastised children. Only Pam natters away in her warm West Country accent.

Later I go to find Ben in his bedroom. The sun has gone down and the balcony doors are propped open with a large Egyptian cat carved out of a sleek black stone, an expensive artefact – so he informed me once – that he picked up on his travels. The air is still, the voile curtains hardly moving in the nonexistent breeze. Ben has stripped down to his boxer shorts and lies on top of his sheets with his eyes closed. His bedroom, as always, is meticulously tidy and minimalist. I notice what looks like a satellite dish with wooden legs in the corner of the room. It’s huge and futuristic with a Scandinavian elegance. I remember him showing it to me in the window of Bang and Olufsen, bending my ear about what an amazing sound it produces, how it would be great for parties. It cost a small fortune. I can’t believe he went out and spent all that money on it.

Ben opens his eyes when he sees me. I go to him, kissing him passionately, wanting him more than ever. I pull away to step out of my dress, hurriedly unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m taking off my clothes, what are you doing?’ I climb into bed and sidle up to him again, inching his boxer shorts over his hips, ‘Here, I can help.’ He grabs my hands. At first I think he’s fooling around, that this is a new game, but when I turn to look at him in the semi-darkness I can just make out the disgust distorting his features.

‘Stop it, Abi,’ he says, shifting away from me and pulling his boxers back up. ‘Can you put something on?’

In anger I whip the sheet from under him and wrap it around me, shocked at his rejection as I scramble from his bed. ‘What do you mean?’ I can hardly bring myself to say it but the words come out in a rush, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you fancy me any more?’

The moonlight from the window illuminates him as he sits in the middle of the bed, his legs pulled up to his chin. I long to go to him, to put my arms around him, to kiss his neck, his chest, but it’s as though I don’t know him any more. If there was one thing I was certain of, it was Ben’s feelings for me.

‘Oh, Abi,’ his voice catches. My chest is heavy. ‘Of course I do. Only, I don’t think we should be having sex.’

‘But why not? What’s going on?’

His eyes are dark and intense. ‘It’s Bea. She’s funny about us sleeping together.’

I laugh. Surely he’s joking. ‘Why would she care?’

‘It’s not particularly respectful, is it? Would you want to sleep with me if we were staying with your parents?’

I consider this. ‘Well, no, but that’s different. We live here, Ben.’

He sighs. ‘Look. We’ve already flouted her house rules. I don’t want to piss her off even more. You’re the first girlfriend I’ve had in years. I think she’s a bit threatened by you. She’s always been possessive. It’s only ever been her and me, Abi. Let her get used to us being together first. She’ll come around to the idea.’

‘What about what I want? Doesn’t that come into it? Do I always have to bow down to what darling Bea wants?’ I’m so angry I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop myself saying something I will regret.

‘It’s not like that. Come on, Abi. Be reasonable. Surely you can see her side of it? I’m the only family she’s got. She’s a bit possessive, that’s all. And it is gross to think your sibling is having sex in the room next door.’

‘So I’m the one being unreasonable?’ Hot angry tears spring to my eyes as I gather up my clothes. ‘I want to sleep alone tonight,’ I say, throwing the sheet back at him. It lands on his lap but he doesn’t touch it, as if it’s been contaminated by my nakedness. ‘Maybe you should talk to Beatrice instead. It’s obvious you only care about her feelings.’

It’s not until I’m back in my own bed, wrapped in the duvet which smells of Ben, that I allow myself to cry.

Chapter Thirteen

The weather breaks.

I’m awake most of the night, listening to the rain drumming on the roof tiles, hoping Ben is also tossing and turning in his room across the landing. For the last two weeks I’ve spent most nights curled up against his chest, only sneaking out in the early hours of the morning so that Beatrice didn’t catch us. I pull the quilt over my head to block out the shards of light from the streetlamp that filter through the thin fabric of Jodie’s horrible blue curtains. Maybe this is what I deserve, I think. Beatrice has been good to me, inviting me to move in here, being a friend when I needed one so badly, and I’ve repaid her by shagging her twin brother behind her back.

Ben’s hazel eyes haunt me. I see them every time I close my eyes. Deep pools of honey flecked with green. How could I have resisted him?
Even for you, Beatrice.

I am engulfed by a loneliness so intense I feel as though I’m suffocating.

It’s times such as this when I miss you, Lucy. I miss you so much. If only I could talk to you now, what would you advise me to do? Losing you has killed a part of me, so that I’m no longer a whole person. I don’t know how to live without you, Lucy. I don’t know how to be me, without you.

I long to sink into nothingness, the release of not having to think any more, of not having to be me, and my mind wanders to that dark night in Balham, when I was determined to end it all. I was in a bad place, I know that now, just as I know that I would never do anything like it again. But how living hurts sometimes, as much as the incisions I made in my wrists; the scars a constant reminder of my guilt, my grief.

I must eventually fall asleep because it’s starting to get light when the creak of a door wakes me, the heavy tread of footsteps cuts across the darkness and I sense him climbing into my bed, the mattress dipping with his weight as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, his familiar lemony scent evident as he nuzzles into my neck. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. I feel safe, enveloped by him, and I slip back into unconsciousness, hoping that everything will be okay after all.

He’s gone when I wake up and if it wasn’t for the smell of his aftershave on my pillow, I would doubt he was ever here at all.

I pull aside the curtains, the fabric thin and slightly sticky under my grasp. The sky is a smoke grey, the streets drenched and shiny from last night’s downpour and I experience a sudden pang of loss; for the end of the heatwave. For Ben.

I’m about to turn away from the window when I hear the clunk of the wrought-iron gate, the blip of a car unlocking, and I glimpse Ben, smartly dressed in a suit and tie, folding his lanky body into his Fiat. I remember him telling me he had a new contract, some company in Swindon. As I watch him drive out of the street I wonder if I am being unreasonable. Beatrice is possessive of Ben, but surely that’s understandable after the childhood they’ve had, with no mum and dad and, by the sound of it, grandparents who were wealthy but disinterested.

I move away from the window to gather up my shampoos and body wash. I take a shower, energized as the water sluices over my body. I’m disappointed that it’s too cold to wear the new tea-dress I bought yesterday. Instead I pull on a pair of faded skinny jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt, feeling like me again. The heat of the last few weeks has been so intense, so relentless, that I’m almost glad of the rain, the drop in temperature. I think of Beatrice’s clothes hanging in a brightly coloured row in my wardrobe. Perhaps it’s time to return them, to stop pretending to be something that I’m so obviously not.

Beatrice and Cass are perched next to each other at the kitchen table, their heads so close together that they are almost touching, poring over a sheaf of shiny black-and-white photographs. They barely glance up as I wander in.

‘Morning,’ I say, clicking the kettle on. The kitchen is dark despite the glow from the overhead light. Every now and again I hear the swoosh of car tyres slicing through puddles on the wet road above our heads.

‘All right,’ mumbles Beatrice without looking up.

‘What are you doing?’ I pull out a chair and take a seat opposite them.

‘This one is fab,’ says Beatrice, turning to Cass and ignoring me. My body tenses. ‘I love the way the light falls on to the bracelet. It actually looks as if the jewels are sparkling.’ Blood pounds in my ears and I feel the familiar tightness across my chest.
You’re being paranoid, Abi. They aren’t ignoring you.

‘I agree.’ Cass is dewy-eyed and flushed. ‘What about this one?’

‘Are these your photographs?’ I direct my question at Cass. She raises her eyes to me and inclines her head ever so slightly in answer. I’m assuming it’s a nod. Beatrice continues to stare at the print.

I get up and make myself a cup of tea without offering them one, then stick two pieces of bread in the toaster. My cheeks are hot as I butter the toast, listening to them exclaiming over one photograph and how the light falls on to another. Is that what Cass was developing yesterday, and, if so, why is she taking photos of Beatrice’s jewellery?