The Sisters Read online

  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?

  ‘Wow, you look beautiful in this one,’ says Cass. I can hear the admiration in her voice. I glance over at the photo. It’s a head-and-shoulders shot of a woman with light hair and a heart-shaped face. It’s Beatrice, but at a glance it could be Lucy. Or me. It looks as though she’s naked except for a necklace at her throat, silver interspersed with emeralds. Cass has managed to capture her almond-shaped eyes, her ski-slope nose and full mouth in a way that is flattering and the effect is stunning. Her freckles are just about noticeable across the bridge of her nose and she looks fresh-faced and natural, much younger than her thirty-two years.

  My heart pulls and I swallow back tears as Beatrice laughs, reminding me, as always, of Lucy. I take a bite of my toast and, leaning against the marble worktop, I watch as they continue to discuss websites, clients and commissions.

  ‘Ben’s already designed a brilliant website; once we’ve added these photos to it we can “go live” as he would say. A family collaboration.’ She exchanges a fond look with Cass.

  I clear my throat. ‘If you want I could write something for your website …’ I begin. But Beatrice waves her hand at me without looking up.

  ‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.’

  Cass says something in an indecipherable whisper and then Beatrice lets out her familiar tinkly laugh. This time her laugh unnerves me and I know that she’s punishing me again. Always punishing me because Ben and I care about each other, and I realize, as I survey her with her swishy hair and perfect clothes, that she doesn’t compare to my sister at all. Lucy was warm, kind and inclusive, whereas hidden behind their shared bubbly personalities there is something controlling about Beatrice, as if she deliberately enjoys tempting me into the sunshine merely in order to push me into the shade.

  My appetite has suddenly diminished. Without saying a word I leave my toast and mug on the worktop and walk out of the room.

  I take the bus into town and spend over an hour in a paint shop that stocks brands such as Little Greene and Farrow and Ball, deliberating over their array of colours with unusual names. My bedroom in Balham was an eau-de-nil green, Nia’s was yellow, and Lucy’s was duck-egg blue, so I steer clear of anything that resembles those colours so that I’m not reminded of my old life. In the end I choose a pale mauve, the colour of a Dolly Mixture sweet. Something new, fresh, with no memories associated with it.

  I sit on the bus with my tin of paint, roller and brushes at my feet, the posh cardboard bag the assistant put them in is wet and breaking up at the edges. An old woman who smells of wet dog is squashed between me and the window. She keeps nodding off and then waking up with a jolt and then falling asleep again, her chin to her chest, her head bobbing to the side so that it’s nearly on my shoulder. Outside, people are scurrying about with umbrellas and raincoats – the opposite of yesterday when it was so hot that everywhere you looked someone was baring more flesh than is flattering. How is it possible that one day temperatures are edging thirty degrees when the next day it’s cold, blowy and feels like we’ve all gone back in time to the spring?

  As the bus wheezes up the Wellsway and stops for a breather at the traffic lights in the high street, the blur of familiar platinum blonde hair catches my eye and I see Cass coming out of the deli. She’s linking arms with a girl with dark hair that I vaguely recognize. Of course, it’s Jodie. I didn’t know they kept in touch, always assuming that Jodie left under a bit of a cloud, although Beatrice has never confided in me about it. The bus moves on to the next stop and I clamber off, bag under my arm. I look around for them but they’ve disappeared.

  The house is silent and empty as I turn the key in the lock
and it hits me how big, how lonely it is when it’s not full of people, music, parties, wine. Shadows play in the corners of the ceiling like ghosts chasing each other, and I hurry up the two flights of stairs, a shiver running down my back.

  I push open my bedroom door and drop the tins of paint at my feet. Someone has been in my room. In my bed. The duvet, that I had meticulously straightened that morning, is rumpled and bunched together. Frowning, I edge closer and my mouth goes dry when I see something nestled within the folds of the fabric. Something dead and bloodied and smelling. I gasp. A bird. Headless. Its brown feathers matted with blood. I scream and stumble backwards, trembling all over. Who would have put something so disgusting, so horrible, on my bed?

  ‘Are you okay?’ I jump and spin round. Beatrice looms in the doorway, dressed in a long black dress, and for a moment, in my frazzled state, she resembles a spectre of doom. She glances past me and to the bed. ‘Oh, that’s Sebby I expect, bringing you a present.’

  ‘W—what?’ I thought she was out. Yet she was here all the time. Was she waiting for me to find this? Hoping to freak me out? Is it some sort of punishment, some omen for ensnaring her brother? I long to tell her she shouldn’t have bothered. He’s already rejected me. Chosen her needs over my own.

  ‘Sebby. My cat,’ she clarifies, walking further into the room. ‘He does this a lot. Do you want me to help you change the bed?’

  I nod, unable to speak. My tongue is suddenly too thick for my throat. I watch in silence as she carefully rolls down the duvet cover so that the dead bird doesn’t fall on to the carpet. ‘It’s ruined now, I’m afraid. I’ve got a spare one you can have though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter. And then she’s gone, taking the soiled duvet cover and the bird’s corpse with her.

  By the time Ben gets home late that evening, I’ve finished painting the bedroom and stand back to admire my handiwork. The new mauve walls clash with the garish green bed linen I’ve borrowed from Beatrice. ‘It’s a spare one of Pam’s, but she won’t mind,’ she said as she handed me the duvet cover earlier.

  I hear his heavy tread on the stone staircase, sense him pausing outside my bedroom as if contemplating whether he’s welcome, and then the creak of the door.

  ‘Wow, you’ve done well, Abi.’

  I shrug, roller in hand. I don’t know whether to shout at him or kiss him.

  The sky darkens and I can hear a growl of thunder in the distance.

  ‘I think we need to talk,’ he says. He’s still wearing his suit and his hair has been flattened by the rain. His white shirt brings out his tan and I’m not sure if it’s because his body is now out of bounds, but I desire him more than ever.

  ‘I don’t know if there’s anything to discuss,’ I say, placing the roller back into the tray. ‘Anyway, I have to wash my hands and face. I’ve got paint everywhere.’

  I make to leave the room but he grabs me around the waist. He’s holding me so tightly that I’m winded. ‘Please, Abi. I can’t lose you.’ Pain flickers in his eyes and a lump forms in my throat. ‘I know it sounds silly, and I know we haven’t been together that long, but I’m falling for you.’

  Tears prick the back of my eyelids. ‘Ben …’ but my resistance fails as his mouth finds mine and he kisses me urgently.

  Reluctantly I pull away from him, knowing it can’t lead anywhere.

  ‘Let’s go out for something to eat. To talk. Just the two of us,’ he says.

  My stomach rumbles. I’ve not eaten since breakfast, so I agree.

  After I’ve showered the paint out of my hair and changed into clean clothes, we walk to the pub around the corner, away from Beatrice and away from that house. We order at the bar and then find a seat at a wooden table at the back. A candle flickers between us and I think how I miss being on my own with him, away from his twin sister.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘I’m so sorry about last night, springing it on you in that way. I’m sure when she gets used to the idea of the two of us, things will be different.’

  ‘I found a dead bird in my bed today. It had no head,’ I blurt out. I’m pleased to note the shock on his face.

  ‘What happened?’

  I shrug. ‘How should I know? Beatrice said it was her cat.’

  ‘Sebby?’ He laughs. ‘How weird. Beatrice always jokes that Sebby is missing the mice-chasing gene. That he couldn’t catch and eat anything, even if it was right under his nose.’

  ‘So you’re saying he’s never done this before?’ My scalp tightens, my appetite diminishing.

  ‘He’s definitely not done that before. How disgusting. Must have given you a fright.’

  ‘It did,’ I admit, and then I say lightly, ‘I hope it wasn’t Beatrice’s way of trying to warn me off you.’

  Irritation passes across his face. ‘She wouldn’t do that,’ he says, too quickly.

  ‘I’m joking, Ben.’ Although I’m not.

  We stare at each other for a while. The silence between us is thick, brooding, like the air before a thunderstorm.

  The waiter appears with our food. Ben starts tucking into his steak as soon as his plate is placed in front of him, mumbling through a mouthful of meat that he is starving. A group of men are gathered at the bar, drinking and laughing. The noise is abrasive and makes me flinch. One of the men, youngish with a sharp jaw, meets my eye and winks. I look away, blushing. I take a slug of water. ‘I don’t think Beatrice will ever accept our relationship,’ I say, replacing my glass on to the table. ‘I’m not sure if it’s because I was her friend first, or because she doesn’t want to be knocked off her perch.’

  A flush appears at his throat and inches up his neck. ‘She’s fine about it. Happy for us, actually.’

  I know he’s lying.

  I stare back at him until he looks away and resumes eating his steak.

  ‘She didn’t seem that happy with me today,’ I say as I toy with the salmon. ‘She practically ignored me this morning when she was with Cass. And then the bird thing.’

  A pulse thumps in Ben’s jaw, his mouth set hard. He doesn’t look at me. ‘She’s a bit hurt, that’s all. We did sneak around behind her back. I’m sure she didn’t mean to ignore you. Beatrice thinks a lot of you.’

  He’s sticking up for her, of course he is. She’s his twin. A stab of guilt pierces the scaffolding I’ve constructed around my heart. How must it be for you, Ben, stuck in the middle of the two most important women in your life? I think. Maybe he’s right. Beatrice is my friend, she wouldn’t ignore me on purpose, she was busy sorting out her website, that’s all. It takes nothing to say good morning, to be polite. I shake my head, dispelling this disloyal thought. I’ve been shagging her twin brother behind her back, she’s got a right to be a little pissed off with me. And she’ll get used to it, in time.

  I take his hand and squeeze it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘So, you’re okay with taking things a bit slower,’ he lowers his voice, ‘on the sex front, for now? You still want us to be together?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say with relief, and suddenly the room seems brighter, the laughter less abrasive. ‘And I’ll apologize to Beatrice as well. She’s got a right to be pissed off with me.’

  ‘She’s not pissed off with you. Look, it’s probably best to leave it.’ He sounds annoyed. ‘Let’s get the bill and go into town.’ He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a battered wallet and taking out two crumpled notes he throws them on to the table. It’s barely enough to cover his half of the bill, let alone mine. Not that I expect him to pay for me. He’s smiling at me, his tone lighter, but it seems fake somehow, giving me the impression that he’s hiding something.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rain batters against the French doors and Beatrice cups her hands around her face to block out the light from her studio so that she can see into the garden. Where is he? The sky is cluttered with fast-moving, angry clouds and she longs for the hot temperatures of yesterday.
How she wishes it could always be summer. Thunder rolls across the sky in a low roar, followed by the inevitable flash momentarily lighting up the garden. Beatrice jumps back from the window; she’s always had a fear of being struck by lightning, imagining its electric fingers reaching through the glass to electrocute her.

  She shivers, pulls her cardigan around her body. It’s nearly midnight. Where is Ben? She doesn’t feel safe until he’s home, hates the fact the house is empty apart from her. She’s at her happiest when the house is full of people, with Ben at her side. She fights the urge to call his mobile, not wanting to appear needy, even though she knows she is. She paces the room instead, trying to dispel the energy from her legs, her arms, her hands that are twitching to reach for the phone. Her eyes fall on to the velvet box next to her mobile. The lid is open exposing the sapphire bracelet nestled against the satin fabric, the piece that she’s most proud of creating. She’s promised to post it to her client in the morning. She’s been paid handsomely for the bracelet, although it’s not about the money, it’s about the recognition of her talent.

  Beatrice never thought she would end up as an artist. She wanted to be a lawyer when she began her degree at university all those years ago, the degree she never finished because everything went horribly wrong and she was forced to run away from it all.