The Sisters (13 page)

He hesitates. ‘Abi means a lot to me, you know.’

A chill creeps around the back of her neck, despite the heat. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I want to give things a go properly with Abi. And I want you to take us seriously and stop this jealousy, Bea. I know it’s hard for you, you’ve always been the most important woman in my life. I get that. But I don’t see why Abi can’t be my girlfriend and your friend. We don’t have to bicker over her.’

‘I don’t think it’s the right time for her to be getting into a relationship,’ she says weakly. ‘I thought that if I could help her then it would make everything else okay, somehow.’

‘Not this karma shit again, Bea?’ He sighs. ‘Nothing is going to make up for the past, for what we did. You know that, right?’

Her head is spinning and she leans against the wall of someone’s front garden for support. How can she explain it to him so that he understands? She’s losing control, over him, over their life. She was only trying to help Abi, but instead it’s all been thrown back in her face. She closes her eyes and massages her temples. She needs to think, to figure things out in her head. When she opens her eyes again, Ben is watching her very intently, a guarded expression on his face. Her gaze falls to his Armani shorts, his cherry-red Ralph Lauren polo shirt and finally to the very expensive and brand-new Tom Ford sunglasses that are perched on top of his sandy hair. Even working in IT he doesn’t earn that much money, and she knows that to get through to him she has to hit him below the belt, to where it hurts.

I hold the power, Ben. I could ruin everything for you.

‘Nice sunglasses,’ she says pointedly, and by the blush that creeps up his throat she can tell he understands exactly what she’s implying. He’s always been the clever one, after all. When she offers her arm this time he doesn’t brush her away but takes it and they slowly make their way down the hill towards home, in silence.

Chapter Twelve

The country is in the grip of a heatwave, the likes of which we haven’t seen for seven years apparently, and our days are spent languishing under the trees in Beatrice’s garden, playing tennis or sunbathing in Alexandra Park with the city of Bath spread out like a model village beneath us. We pack picnics, consisting mostly of cigarettes and wine, and sit for hours, chatting until the sun turns into a burnt-orange ball and goes down over the city. Sometimes, usually when Beatrice is working on her jewellery, Ben and I manage to steal off by ourselves to the botanical gardens, where we kiss, hidden by huge flowering shrubs with exotic names. Occasionally we talk about Lucy and I find myself opening up about her, my guilt, and he assures me, as his sister has before him, that it was an accident. When I tell him I can never forgive myself, he stares at me with a faraway look in his eye, as if he’s not seeing me at all but is trapped in a memory of his own. ‘I know how you feel,’ he says eventually, as if snapping out of a trance. He tells me a bit about growing up in Scotland, but when I begin asking him questions about his mum and dad and his grandparents, automatically reverting to journalist mode, he clams up and changes the subject, and I sense that, even after all these years, it’s still painful for him. Will there ever be a time when I will be able to talk about Lucy without that familiar pressure in my chest as if I’m being sat on by a sumo wrestler, without having to fight back tears?

Ben has turned down two contract offers in the past few weeks. ‘I’m not going to work in this heat,’ he says, and it’s as though I’m a student again with no job to go to and no responsibilities, although I know it can’t go on. I’ve eaten into the last of my savings and I can’t keep living off of Beatrice’s generosity.

One morning I find Niall asleep on one of the sofas, his mouth open and snoring gently, his guitar carefully propped up at his feet, surrounded by wine bottles and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, but most surprisingly of all, I find Beatrice wrapped around him, her long tanned legs intertwined with his, her head on his chest. They are both fully dressed.

A fortnight after I move in, I’m in the kitchen emptying the washing machine of the few clothes that I possess, plus the dresses that Beatrice let me borrow, into a plastic laundry basket. It took me weeks to identify the Parma violet scent that I detected on Beatrice and in this house when I first visited. I eventually tracked it down to their detergent. I bury my face in my wet clothes, inhaling the wonderful smell that I love so much; it’s the scent of this house, the scent of them. I fold the clothes up and make myself a coffee using the posh coffee machine, thinking how at home I am, when Ben clatters down the stairs, a concerned frown on his face.

‘Has Bea gone out?’ he asks, as I spoon frothy milk into my cup. For some reason the shortening of her name sends a spark of irritation through me.

‘She said she was going for a walk, to clear her head.’

‘When was this?’ He stands over me, silently demanding a quick answer.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know, about ten minutes ago. Do you want to—?’

Before I can finish my sentence he turns and runs back up the stairs, two at a time. I follow him, mug in hand, and catch him as he rushes out of the ornate front door, bumping into Cass on her way in. He mumbles an apology but continues down the garden path without a backward glance.

‘What’s the hurry?’ she says, a bemused look on her face, her bleach-blonde crop dishevelled. Standing there in the doorway, wearing a striped Breton T-shirt and black shorts, she reminds me of an actress from a 1960s French New Wave film and, with a twinge of envy, I think how beautiful and young she is. She can’t be older than about twenty-two. She’s holding a can of something chemical in one hand and a wedge of glossy A4 sheets in the other and, as she walks further into the hallway, she kicks the door closed behind her. I stand staring at her mutely. Out of everyone I’ve met through Beatrice, Cass makes me feel the most uncomfortable and I can’t put my finger on why this is. Perhaps because she’s so quiet, only ever having in-depth conversations with Beatrice, following her around like a dainty poodle. Maybe because she’s self-assured in a way I never was when I was her age. But she’s a complete enigma to me. I don’t think the two of us have had a proper conversation in the short time I’ve known her.

‘I’ve just made a coffee, if you want one,’ I say, lifting up my mug in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence. It’s the one Beatrice normally drinks from. White bone china with a black line drawing of a bird with its wings spread.

She glances at the cup, brow furrowed, and then at me. ‘No thanks,’ she says coolly. ‘I’ve got to develop some photographs.’

‘You have your own darkroom?’ I’m impressed. I don’t know much about photography but did dabble with it as part of my media studies A-level.

‘Beatrice had one installed for me in what was once the en suite. It’s tiny, but it serves its purpose.’ She blushes as if she’s said too much, and, clutching the paper to her chest, hurries up the winding staircase, leaving me standing in the hallway alone wondering what sort of photographs she takes and whether she’s at college or university.

I follow her up the stairs, and as she continues up to her attic room, I head into the drawing room to sit on the terrace that overlooks the long and neatly manicured garden. If I look up I can see a terrace above me, but smaller, more of a Juliet balcony, which I know to be Ben’s room. It’s another hot, airless day and I’m grateful that Beatrice let me borrow so many of her lovely clothes, although Ben keeps on at me to buy some of my own.

I’m reclining on one of the wooden sun-loungers when my mobile phone buzzes in the pocket of my skirt. Nia’s name flashes up on the screen and I contemplate not answering it. How am I going to explain to her all that’s happened in the last few weeks without causing her to worry? But if I don’t speak to her, she will assume the worst. After everything I put her through that day, over a year ago, when she found me semi-conscious in the bath with blood oozing out of my freshly slit wrists, I know I owe it to her to be honest.

‘Nia, hi,’ I say brightly. My jovial voice sounds fake even to my own ears and perspiration prickles my armpits, only partly caused by the heat. I rest my coffee cup on the arm of the recliner.

‘What’s going on, Abs?’ I can hear the hum of cars in the background, the beep of a horn, the faint indecipherable chatter of voices, the clinking of a spoon against china. I imagine her sitting outside a café somewhere in Muswell Hill, a part of London I’m not familiar with, which is probably her reason for choosing to move there. I imagine her toying with her coffee, skimming the froth off her cappuccino with a spoon and licking it in the way she always does, her dark hair falling around her pale face, her brown eyes serious. ‘You haven’t spoken to me for weeks, I only get the odd text telling me you’re okay. And are you? Are you okay?’

The way I feel about her over-protectiveness flows and ebbs like the sea lapping at the shoreline. Most of the time I understand it’s because she’s got my best interests at heart, that she cares about me, that she doesn’t want a repeat performance of what happened before, but occasionally I find it stifling. Doesn’t she understand that, much as I love her, speaking to her reminds me of my old life, which makes the yearning to turn the clock back so intense that it’s as if I’ve received a physical blow?

‘I’m okay, honestly, Nia. I’ve been busy, that’s all … I …’

‘Have you been working?’ I can hear the hope in her voice, she knows how much my job meant to me before Lucy died.

‘Not exactly. I’ve … well, I’ve met someone. He’s lovely, I know you’ll think he’s great. And his sister, Beatrice. She reminds me so much of Lucy, she …’

‘Oh, Abi,’ she says and I can sense the panic in her voice. ‘This isn’t Alicia all over again, is it?’

My cheeks flame with indignation. ‘It’s not like that at all. Beatrice has become a good friend. In fact, I’m living with her, and him. His name’s Ben Price. They’re twins, can you believe it? They’ve got this amazing house and she doesn’t even charge me rent, instead we all put some money in a kitty to buy food and they have a housekeeper who comes in and cooks for us.’

There is a long, loaded silence on the end of the phone and, for a moment, I think she’s hung up on me, something that Nia has never done. In all the years we’ve been friends we’ve taken pains to avoid a serious argument, in the way some people avoid meat or dairy products. There might have been times when we’ve been tempted, but we’ve always fought the urge rather than each other. I’d known she would disapprove of this though, which is why I’ve been putting off telling her about it. I touch the necklace at my throat, running my fingers over the letter A. How I can convince her that living here is good for me?

‘Nia? Are you still there?’

‘Of course.’

‘Please try to understand.’ I tell her about meeting Beatrice that rainy day at the end of April, how we became friends and how through her I met Ben and came to move in.

‘And it’s not like Alicia?’ she repeats.

I assure her that it’s totally different. I hope I’ve managed to sound convincing.

‘It all seems rather quick. And what about your job?’ she ploughs on. ‘You loved being a journalist, Abi. And now what? You just live off this
Beatrice
,’ she spits out her name as if it tastes nasty and I grip my phone, fighting the urge to cry.

‘It’s harder than I thought, freelancing …’

‘Have you even tried?’

‘Who are you? My mum?’ I snap.

I can hear Nia taking a deep breath, in an effort to suppress all she wants to say. My hand trembles as I hold my mobile to my ear. I can hear laughter in the background, the scraping of a metal chair on tarmac. Tears threaten. Why can’t she try and see things from my point of view? ‘Look, Nia,’ I say, in an effort to placate her. ‘Why don’t you come and visit? You haven’t been to Bath for ages. I would love you to meet them, to get to know them a bit. Then you’ll understand.’

‘Understand what, Abi?’

‘How important they are to me …’ I pause. ‘Nia, I was in a bad place when I met Beatrice that day. Yes, I was better than I was, but I still wasn’t good. And I was lonely, living in that flat by myself.’

‘I live by myself.’

‘I know. But, Nia, you’re not listening …’ I hesitate, but she doesn’t interject so I continue. ‘I feel that Beatrice and Ben, well …’ I swallow a lump that’s formed in my throat. ‘They’ve saved me somehow.’

‘Oh, Abi,’ she says, and I can hear the desperation in her voice. ‘You have to stop looking for someone else to save you. Only you can do that for yourself.’

Despite her disapproval, Nia agrees to come and visit around my birthday in a few weeks’ time. As I hang up, I’m hopeful that we are back on an even keel, an argument narrowly avoided.

I’m fed up with waiting for Beatrice and Ben to get back from wherever it is they’ve gone, so I take the bus into the centre and, as I wander around the side streets, the conversation with Nia plays on my mind. I know she’s right, I shouldn’t be living off Beatrice, I should be trying to freelance. I’ve wanted to be a journalist since I was eleven years old, am I really going to throw all my hard work away? I’ve been living in a bubble these last few weeks and I know that it can’t continue. I make a resolution to myself that tomorrow I will call my contacts, even the ones who I’ve felt have been less than supportive since the court case.