The Sisters (32 page)

‘Luke went out with Beatrice at uni? What a small world.’

‘Why has she changed her name, Nia? Why did she never mention to Luke about having a twin brother? Why are they lying about their parents?’

‘I don’t know, but what I do know,’ she says, barely able to contain her excitement as she rummages around in her bag, ‘is this—’

She pulls out a yellow Post-it note with the enthusiasm of a little girl showing her mum what she made at school. She thrusts it at me. I take the Post-it note and on it, scribbled in Nia’s familiar scrawl, is an address in Streatham, South London.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the address for a Morag Jones.’

My head pounds and I slump on to the bed, my shoulders sagging. ‘How do you know it’s the right address? Ben’s surname is Price.’

‘I’ve done some digging, called in a few favours. It’s the only Morag registered in London with a Ben living at the same address. You did say she lived in Streatham, right?’

‘Yes, but it could be a coincidence.’

‘Well, come on then. Let’s go over there and see. What have we got to lose?’

‘But …’ I sigh. ‘Morag was in Bath two days ago. She’s probably not even in London now.’

‘I know that,’ she says patiently, as if talking to one of her minions at work. ‘But somebody might be there. And they might tell us everything we need to know.’

‘I don’t know … I …’

‘Come on, Abi. You’re a journalist, for crying out loud! You search for the truth for a living.’ She grabs my hand and pulls me from the bed. She’s surprisingly strong for someone so tiny. ‘It’s not even five yet. We can probably be there before it gets dark.’

And despite my reservations I can’t help a frisson of excitement as I shoulder on my parka and follow Nia out on to the windy street, because, at last, I might finally get some answers.

Chapter Thirty-One

Beatrice stands at the window and watches as Ben ferrets around in the boot of his car.
What are you doing, Ben?
She could never understand why such a tall man wants to own such a small car. Maybe he likes the idea of overpowering it. Maybe it makes him feel masculine, sitting in the driver’s seat so that his head is nearly touching the ceiling, the seat pushed as far back as it will go in order to give his long legs enough room to reach the pedals. She flinches as he slams the door shut and kicks the bumper with the toe of his Chelsea boot. Then he bangs the wrought-iron gate behind him as he stomps into the house, slamming the front door with such force she’s half expecting to hear the shattering of broken glass.

Ben’s behaviour is beginning to worry Beatrice. He hasn’t gone to work in the two days since Abi left, he’s barely speaking to her and she gets the impression that somehow he blames her for Abi’s abrupt departure. Her heart sinks as she hears his feet clomping up the stairs, and she braces herself as he throws open her bedroom door so that the back of it crashes into the wall behind, making her wince.

‘Beatrice,’ he barks and she reluctantly moves away from the window. His sandy hair is greasy, his polo shirt is creased and he looks as if he hasn’t washed or showered in days. She hates what he’s doing to himself, what he’s going through. If only she could make everything better.

He strides over to her. ‘You have to tell me again. What exactly did Abi say to you when she left?’

She sighs. ‘Ben, we’ve been through this. I’ve told you everything I can remember.’ He groans and covers his face with his hands. She goes to him, wraps her arms around his back, his top is damp with sweat. ‘Please don’t do this to yourself.’

‘I can’t bear it,’ he says through his fingers. His body is trembling.
Oh, Ben
.

‘She said you lied to her, I’ve told you this. But she didn’t say what you’ve lied about. Does she know, Ben? Does she know our secret?’

He pulls away from her and begins pacing the room. ‘Morag turned up here.’

‘What?’ Beatrice stares at him in horror. ‘You didn’t say.’

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ He stops and turns to her. ‘Do you think that’s what Abi meant, about me lying?’

She frowns, trying to remember. ‘She did say something about my mum but I thought she was being … well, a bit weird. Is that what she meant? She thinks Morag is my mum?’

‘Of course,’ he snaps. ‘She thinks she’s
my
mum.’

‘She is your mum, Ben.’ He glares at her so that she shrinks,
shrivels up
, under his scrutiny.

His next words are spoken slowly, coldly. ‘You know that’s not true.’

Guilt worms its way into Beatrice’s heart. When Abi left she looked so freaked out with her wide eyes and her pale face. She always had been on the wrong side of skinny but with her baggy jumper and her oversized parka she had looked positively waiflike and Beatrice had jumped to the conclusion that Abi had finally lost her marbles; it was the most logical explanation, knowing her past history. But she had been talking sense after all. ‘You know,’ she says. ‘She’s been acting so oddly, Ben. Stealing my bracelet and that earring. Not taking her medication. I know she thinks I sent her those flowers on her birthday, but I didn’t.’ She pauses, watching Ben carefully. ‘You have to believe me when I say that.’

Ben is staring at her, but by his glazed expression she can see that he’s looking right through her and that he hasn’t heard a word she’s said. She wants to shake him.

‘How can she fucking leave?’ he mutters, almost to himself. ‘Why won’t she answer my phone calls? I need to speak to her now. Nobody walks out on me.’

Beatrice bites her lip, refraining from telling him that, of course, it was always going to end this way. They’ve kept too much from Abi. Their past was always going to come knocking on their door. ‘She knows you’re lying to her about something, Ben. She said she’s been scared for months, that you want her to think that she’s going mad – what did she mean by that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can’t you tell her the truth? She knows about Morag now.’

‘Tell her the truth?’ He’s finally listening, she thinks as his head snaps up, but his expression is contorted, his face unusually ugly. ‘Tell her what exactly?’ he snarls. ‘About what happened at university? Oh yes, I’m sure she’ll come running to me with open arms then.’ His fists are clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. ‘I can’t lose her,’ he mutters. ‘I can’t, Beatrice. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love her.’

‘Not even me?’ She hates herself for voicing her fears. Why has he always made her feel so weak?

His eyes are cold, his jaw set tightly as though he’s making an enormous effort to keep a lid on his anger. And his next words are like a knife to her ribs as he says with a quiet menace, ‘Sometimes I wish I’d never met you.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

The address on Nia’s Post-it note leads us to a narrow tree-lined street in Streatham Hill where all the houses look the same; red-brick, three-storey Victorian terraces with large bay windows. The sky has turned an inky blue and lights in living rooms are being switched on all along the street, emitting a warm amber glow from the windows as we pass, making me wish I was settled in front of a television somewhere with a cup of tea instead of pounding the streets in the cold, being blown about by the wind.

We stop outside number fifty-three. The house isn’t as smart as its neighbours with their box hedges and diamond-shaped black-and-white tiled pathways. The red door needs a paint, the windowpanes are rotting, an old, stained mattress is propped up in the garden behind a couple of overflowing dustbins, and a bike missing its rear wheel has been left to rust in the overgrown grass.

‘Do you think this is the right address?’ I say, frowning over Nia’s shoulder to view the Post-it note she’s still clutching. A sudden gust of wind buffets against us, propelling us into the small front garden and causing one of the bins to topple over so that it spews its debris into our path. The Post-it note flutters out of Nia’s hand and we both watch in dismay as it joins a swarm of leaves that have been tossed into the air, the yellow paper conspicuous against the burnt orange as they swirl around each other and dance down the street.

‘I bloody hope so now,’ says Nia, staring after the note helplessly. She links her arm through mine and we step gingerly over the empty baked-bin tins and soggy newspaper that is strewn across the path. Nia raps loudly at the front door with her knuckles. My mouth is dry as we listen out for telltale signs that someone is home and I bite back my disappointment when we don’t hear any.

‘It might not be the right Morag,’ I say. ‘And even if it is, she could still be in Bath.’

Nia unlinks her arm from mine and moves towards the door, cupping her hands around her face to peer in through the rectangular pane of glass. ‘I think I can hear someone, there’s a light on, I can smell something cooking,’ she says, her hands muffling her words. ‘I can see … oh!’ she stumbles forward as the door is wrenched open, causing her to trip over the threshold. A short plump woman is standing staring at us in bewilderment and my heart beats faster as I realize it’s her.

‘What’s going on?’ She looks down at Nia sprawled on the floor. ‘What are you playing at? And what have you done to my bins? I don’t want any trouble.’

Nia stands up blushing and apologizing. I move forward so that the light from the hallway illuminates me. When she recognizes me, all the colour drains from her face.

‘What … what are you doing here?’ And I know that Ben has warned her, that any information I was hoping to retrieve from her isn’t going to be forthcoming and I berate myself for allowing my shock to prevent me questioning her more thoroughly the other day.

‘Mrs Jones. Morag,’ I begin, but she puts her hands up and backs away from me as if I’m about to mug her.

‘Please, I don’t know how you found me, but I can’t talk to you.’ She goes to shut the door on us but I wedge my foot in the small crack, to prevent her from closing it.

‘Has Ben told you not to?’

‘I shouldn’t have turned up the other day. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’ I’m shocked by the desperation on her face. The fear. ‘Please move your foot. You need to go away.’

‘But I’m his girlfriend, I’m Abi.’ Tears sting my eyes. ‘I just want to understand what’s going on.’

‘It’s not my business,’ she repeats, and reluctantly I move my foot so that she can slam the door on us. It bangs with resounding finality.

We both stare at the door in dismay. Eventually Nia says into the darkness, ‘I think you need to go home and demand that Beatrice and Ben tell you everything. And then move out of there. Do you want me to come with you?’

I shake my head. ‘The thing is, Ben’s too clever. He will turn it around on me, make out it’s my fault, that I’m being paranoid.’ We are so close to finding out the truth and now I might never know what they’ve been hiding from me. Who have I been living with for the past four months? But Nia is right about one thing: I need to end it with Ben. Our relationship is over.

The thought of leaving Ben makes my heart ache. I still love him, or maybe it’s the idea of him. After all, how can I love a man who deliberately manipulated me for months? I was in love with the carefree, privileged life that both he and Beatrice represented. I wanted to fall into their world, like Alice in Wonderland, in a bid to escape my own. But they’ve lied to me from the moment I walked into their lives.

‘Let’s go,’ Nia says, tucking her arm in mine again. We are about to turn and walk away when the front door creaks open, flooding the pathway with light once more. I expect to see Morag standing in the doorway, so am surprised when a man in his early twenties leans against the doorframe, backlit by the glow from the hallway. He has closely cropped hair and a silvery scar in his right eyebrow. He’s wearing a charcoal hoodie and jeans slung so low on his hips I’m amazed they don’t fall down.

‘Abi?’ he calls.

‘Who wants to know?’ says Nia.

He’s wearing grubby white socks as he steps over the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him. There is a faint drizzle in the air and he tugs his hood over his head.

‘I’m Abi,’ I say from behind Nia. Has he come to see us off the premises?