The Sisters Read online

  Beatrice bites the inside of her lip to stop herself from crying, from telling Cass everything. All these years she’s kept their secret, even though it has been eating her up inside, as if she’s a pumpkin with its flesh hollowed out so that eventually it sags and decays, withering into mush. She needs someone to fill her up again, to replace her insides, to make her glow. She’s already shed one skin, one persona. She thought Beatrice Price would be something different entirely, but at the end of the day she’s still the same person, except maybe she’s not, maybe she’s worse than the person she was trying to escape from.

  Cass is still staring at her quizzically, her head to one side. She’s so young, so fresh, so guileless. She knows Cass would never hurt her, but would she still care about her if she knew the truth? Would anyone?

  ‘I’m sorry, Cass. I didn’t mean to walk off, I’m in my own world.’

  Cass smiles in relief and links her arm through Beatrice’s. ‘Are you upset about Ben?’

  Beatrice nods and they walk the rest of the way in silence. As they turn the corner into their street Cass asks if they should have a game of tennis before it gets dark. ‘Why not,’ Beatrice says, knowing that this is Cass’s way of trying to cheer her up, of taking her mind off Ben and his imminent departure.

  When they reach the gate to the house, Beatrice pauses. Abi is rushing out the front door grappling with a large holdall. Her face is deathly pale, her eyes red and alarm bells begin to ring in Beatrice’s head. ‘Abi?’ She pushes open the gate with a creak. Abi stops on the pathway when she notices them, her face anguished, almost fearful. ‘Where are you going? Are you okay?’ Have you finally lost it, Abi?

  Abi blinks at them, her face changing from fear to anger, her big green eyes wild, and Beatrice instinctively pulls away from Cass. Lowering her voice, she urges her to go into the house. Cass glances from one to the other wordlessly, but does as she’s told; always compliant, thinks Beatrice, always so trusting.

  Abi drops the bag on to the black-and-white-tiled pathway where it lands with a smacking sound. With her dishevelled hair and wild eyes she looks as though she belongs in some mental facility and Beatrice’s heart begins to beat a little bit faster, nervous that Abi might attack her as she did Alicia. I knew you were fucked up, Abi. How can you not be, after everything that’s happened to you? She grips the gate, ready to swing it shut if Abi makes a lunge for her.

  ‘I’m going to stay with Nia for a bit,’ says Abi. Beatrice remains silent, worried about saying the wrong thing, not wanting to provoke Abi when she’s obviously lost it. ‘Your mother turned up here yesterday, I doubt Ben’s told you. It seems Ben is very good at hiding things.’ She laughs. It’s the laughter of a person who is teetering towards hysteria and the sound of it unnerves Beatrice.

  ‘What are you talking about? My mother is dead.’

  Abi stares at her and Beatrice squirms under her scrutinizing gaze, all the while trying to figure out what to do. Should she call Ben? She can’t let Abi wander off alone when she’s having some kind of breakdown. ‘Where’s Ben, Abi? Shall I ask him to come home from work?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says, the blood draining from her face. ‘You don’t know, do you? And all this time I thought it was you.’

  ‘Thought what was me? Abi, you’re scaring me.’

  ‘Join the club,’ says Abi, wrenching her bag from the floor and over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift. ‘I’ve been scared for months, Beatrice. Fucking months.’ She stalks towards her and Beatrice instinctively backs out of the gate. ‘I thought I was losing my mind – and trust me, it wouldn’t be that hard. But that’s what he wants, isn’t it? He wants me to think I’m going mad. I don’t understand why.’

  ‘Who?’ A coldness washes over Beatrice and goosebumps pop up on her legs. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Ben,’ she hisses. ‘Your precious brother.’ She stops when she reaches Beatrice and her eyes soften. ‘I’m sorry I thought it was you. But you were so possessive of him, so jealous. And I can understand it. I’m a twinless twin now. But I can still understand.’ She looks so sad that tears spring into Beatrice’s eyes.

  A twinless twin. Beatrice knows exactly how that feels. A tear escapes and trickles down her nose. ‘Are you leaving Ben?’ she sniffs. She still doesn’t understand what Abi is trying to tell her. What do you know, Abi? What do you know about my mum?

  Abi seems to consider this, her eyes never leaving Beatrice’s. ‘I want to know why he lied to me. But I need to get away, can you tell him that? Tell him I need some time by myself, but I will be back.’ She reaches over to give Beatrice a hug, but the holdall gets in the way, swinging into Beatrice so that the hug is awkward. ‘We could have been good friends I think, if it wasn’t for Ben. But that’s my fault.’

  She pulls away, hoisting the holdall more firmly on to her shoulder, and walks out the gate, her fine blonde hair blowing around her face. As she rounds the corner out of sight the heavens open, drenching Beatrice in seconds. She rushes into the hallway, slamming the front door behind her and sinking on to the bottom step.

  Oh, Ben, she thinks as Abi’s words swarm around in her mind like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that are jostling to be put in the right order so that the whole picture can become clearer. What have you done?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I lean my head against the window as the train pulls out of the station and watch as the mellow brick of the city recedes behind the rain-spattered glass; a watercolour with the paint running. Everything has changed, nobody who lives in that house is who I thought they were. Even you, Ben. Even you. I disguise a sob by taking a sip of the bitter coffee that I managed to grab at the station, thankful that there is nobody sitting next to me, the carriage is nearly empty. It seems not many people want to head into Waterloo at 5.13 p.m. on a wet Wednesday afternoon.

  My coat is so saturated that the rain has seeped through to the back of my top. I shuffle out of the parka and discard it on the seat next to me. My head is pounding and I want to throw up, my whole body is trembling from a mixture of cold and shock.

  When I discovered Ben’s stash, I couldn’t take in what I was seeing, what it meant. My first thought was that Beatrice had put the things there in a bid to frame Ben, to split us up, but deep down I know she wouldn’t do that, even if she doesn’t want us to be together. She loves Ben too much to make him out to be the bad guy. I snatched the letters, clasping them to my chest as if Lucy’s words could penetrate my heart, relieved that at least I had them back, but I left the bracelet where it lay in the ridge of the spare wheel, not daring to touch it, and replaced the boot’s floor. Then I slammed the door shut and rushed into the house, my mind whirling. I called Nia straight away, sobbing down the phone, barely comprehensible.

  ‘You need to get out of the house, Abi, and quickly, before he comes back.’ I shiver now when I think of her words. She urged me to get out of Bath and to come and stay with her. I managed to grab my never-been-worn maroon vintage tea-dress as well as the green Alice Temperley of Beatrice’s that I’ve never gotten around to giving back to her, and all of Lucy’s letters and photographs, the things that are too precious to be left behind.

  I wasn’t expecting to see Beatrice as I was coming out of the house, and it occurs to me now that I never told her about finding the bracelet or letters, that, instead, I just ranted at her about what a liar her brother is. I could tell by her open, puzzled face that she had no idea what I was talking about. I think I know her well enough by now to be able to read her expressions, to gauge her feelings, but maybe not. I’m obviously not a very good judge of character; I fell in love with Ben and I thought Beatrice was trying to terrorize me. The good twin and the bad twin. Could I have mixed them up?

  The sky darkens and the lights flicker on in the carriage. They are too bright, intensifying the pounding in my head. It hurts to look at them so I keep my eyes firmly shut as I try to remember everything that has happened in the months since I moved in. My head
is fuzzy, I’m finding it hard to formulate anything constructive in my mind. What I do know though, what has become obvious, is that Ben led me to believe Beatrice took Lucy’s letters and that she did so because she thought I had stolen her bracelet. And all the time he knew this to be untrue because he had them hidden in his car. A fresh wave of nausea engulfs me.

  At some point I doze off, because when I open my eyes again the carriage is half full and a bald man wearing a North Face waterproof is hovering by the seat next to me, silently pressurizing me to move my coat. I drape it over my lap, the dampness filtrating into my jeans. It’s too dark to look beyond the window, all I can see are the passengers in the carriage reflected back at me, and my face, her face; too pale, eyes dark, haunted.

  Nia is waiting for me at Waterloo station by WHSmith as arranged, nervously jigging about in her too-large navy duffle coat so that she looks about twelve years old. As I edge through the crowd, it strikes me that this is the first time I’ve been back to London since I was discharged from the psychiatric ward over eighteen months ago. Her face lights up when she sees me and she rushes over, pulling me into a hug.

  ‘Oh, Abi, thank goodness,’ she says. I always forget how dinky Nia is, she barely reaches my shoulders. ‘Are you okay? You don’t look well,’ she says as she takes my arm and leads me towards the tube.

  I nod, assuring her I’m still in shock, but I’m disorientated by all the people, the noise, the smells. This used to be my life, yet it feels so alien to me now.

  The tube is packed even though it’s gone seven and we have to stand as the train hurtles along the Northern line, veering around bends at a terrifying speed; a miasma of damp clothes and bad breath hangs in the air, even though a window is open. My face is too close to some stranger’s armpit. I’m concentrating hard on not becoming panicky and claustrophobic, while Nia, sensing my discomfort, chatters on about her day in the office, a pitch that she had to do to land a new client. Eventually the train stops at East Finchley and we stumble off, but before I can even get my breath back we are whisked along the platform, up the numerous steps and around winding corridors until we reach the street. I take in lungfuls of fresh air, the rain on my tongue.

  ‘Muswell Hill is about a fifteen-minute walk from here, so let’s catch the bus,’ says Nia as she takes my hand and leads me to the bus stop. My holdall is digging into my shoulder and my mouth is dry, but I summon up the energy to drag myself on to the bus and then five minutes later to drag myself off of it and down two leafy streets to Nia’s flat. It’s on the top floor of a Victorian red-brick house. ‘It’s only a one-bedroom, but I have a sofa bed in the living room,’ she says as she turns the key in the front door. It reminds me of the flat I had in Bath before I moved in with Beatrice and Ben. There are even two bicycles pushed up against the wall in the communal hallway and letters and flyers littering the welcome mat. She picks them up and flicks through them before shoving them through the letter box of the downstairs flat. ‘They’re never in,’ she tells me. I follow her up two flights of stairs to the top floor. Her flat is small and cosy, with a living room that leads directly on to an open-plan kitchen separated by a kind of breakfast bar. I dump my bag and flop exhausted on to the brown linen sofa while Nia puts the kettle on. She takes my holdall into her bedroom, telling me I can have her bed tonight. I want to cry with gratitude.

  ‘Here,’ she hands me a cup of tea and joins me on the sofa. ‘You look done in.’

  ‘Thanks, Nia,’ I whisper. I can sense the beginnings of a sore throat. I take a sip and rest my head against the back of the sofa. ‘So, how is it, living in North London?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she smiles as she cradles her cup. ‘I miss you though. I miss our Balham days. It’s lovely here, but …’ She lets the rest of her sentence hang between us and I understand, perhaps for the first time, that her life too has drastically changed since Lucy died.

  I glance around the living room, at the magnolia woodchip walls, at the drab curtains at the window, at the melamine kitchen cupboards that someone has attempted to paint red, at the fat armchair with its multicoloured patchwork throw that I bet Nia’s mum knitted, and the place reminds me of a well-worn but comfortable dressing gown. A bit shabby, but cosy, warm, real. It’s a far cry from Beatrice and Ben’s huge, five-storeyed Georgian town house with its artwork and artefacts and pretensions.

  And as the rain hammers ferociously on to the roof and rattles the rotting window frames, as I snuggle down on to the unfashionable sofa, drinking tea from a chipped mug with Nia by my side, my oldest friend, the person who I trust implicitly, I know where I would rather be.

  Ben has tried to ring me eleven times and he’s left two voice messages. I perch on the edge of Nia’s bed with the phone pressed to my ear and listen as his familiar Scottish voice pleads with me to contact him, that he’s worried about me, that he can explain everything if only I would ring him. I so want to believe him, but I’m not convinced that he won’t spout more lies. How can there ever be a reasonable explanation as to why he hid my letters and Beatrice’s bracelet in the boot of his car, and sat back and watched as we accused each other? What about the other stuff? The bird, the photograph, the sinister Facebook messages, the flowers …? And this woman – Morag. Is she his mother? And if she is, why did he tell me she was dead? I want to gag when I think of it all, the lies, the manipulation.

  I lie awake most of the night listening to the wind shaking the little attic window and staring at the brown edges of a water stain on the ceiling. When I do eventually fall asleep I dream of Ben who morphs into Beatrice who morphs into Lucy. When I wake up I’m more exhausted than I was before I went to bed.

  The next morning Nia stands over a frying pan, sizzling on the hob. She always was the first one up, the most organized out of all of us. Seeing her standing there, in her familiar flannel pyjamas and sheepskin slippers, I have a flashback to the past, to the house we all shared in Balham. I half expect Lucy to emerge from the bathroom with a distracted look on her face as she hurries to find her keys, her phone, her overlarge satchel, late for the doctors’ practice as usual.

  Nia turns to see me standing there. ‘Are you okay?’ she says. She places two plates of bacon and eggs on the breakfast bar with the expertise of a waitress, thanks to the three years working at Sam’s Café in Cardiff to fund university. ‘I know you probably haven’t got much appetite, but try and eat something,’ she says as she slides on to one of the leather-topped bar stools. ‘You’re looking too thin.’

  I’ve missed her forthrightness. What you see is what you get with Nia, no mind games, no saying one thing when she means another. For perhaps the first time, I appreciate how easy she is to live with, and how I took that for granted.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’

  Her cheeks turn pink and she looks shamefaced. ‘I rang in sick. I didn’t want to leave you on your own. You’ve had a shock.’

  ‘Nia, you didn’t have to. But thanks.’ I sit next to her and, for her benefit, try to swallow the eggs that taste of rubber. ‘Ben keeps trying to ring me,’ I say as I push the food around my plate.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Her brown eyes are full of concern.

  I sigh and put down my knife and fork. I’ve hardly touched my food, but Nia does a great job of pretending not to notice. ‘I honestly can’t get my head around all of this.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ she says, taking a swig of coffee.

  ‘Why would he do all this? Why would he hide the letters, the bracelet? Does that mean he sent the flowers too? Oh God, Nia.’ My heart races. ‘And who is Morag? How can she be Ben’s mum?’

  Nia shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand it either.’

  ‘I’ve been such an idiot. I moved in with them when I hardly knew them, got involved in their lives, fell in love.’

  ‘You were vulnerable and they preyed on that,’ she says, her eyes narrowing in anger. ‘It actually makes me fucking angry.’ She slams her mug down and regar
ds me thoughtfully. ‘You know, I can’t help but think that Ben must be some kind of sociopath. Maybe he gets his kicks out of scaring vulnerable women.’

  Did I really get Ben so wrong? Caring, dependable, funny, sexy. How can he be a sociopath? I can’t believe that he would do this to me. The version of Ben that I have in my head is shifting, moulding into someone else entirely different, yet I can’t quite believe in this new, warped Ben.

  ‘Have I made a terrible mistake, Nia? There must be an explanation for all that stuff in his boot …’ I push my plate away, my stomach is in knots.

  ‘Abi,’ she says with a warning tone. ‘How can there be a mistake?’

  ‘Maybe someone else put those things there to turn me against him? There are other people in the house. What about Cass? I found that weird photograph of us, I think she’s in love with Beatrice.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then surely she wouldn’t want to split you and Ben up?’

  ‘Maybe she sees how upset Beatrice is because Ben is moving out to be with me, and she wants to stop it from happening, so this is her attempt to split us up?’ I jump up from my stool and begin pacing the room, hope giving me a renewed energy. ‘That sounds plausible, doesn’t it?’

  Nia shrugs as she tucks into her breakfast. ‘Not especially, no,’ she mumbles through a mouthful of egg. ‘Firstly, your letters disappeared months ago and so did the bracelet. Why would she have taken them so long ago? She couldn’t have known then that Ben was thinking about moving in with you?’

  The hope seeps out of me.

  ‘Also,’ she continues relentlessly, not realizing that every word she speaks is as if I’m being stabbed in the chest, ‘what’s all this about his mother? He’s obviously lying to you about that. He got in a car with them yesterday, remember?’