The Sisters (27 page)

Why has she painted twins? Did she do it before I moved in? I can’t remember seeing the painting in May when I first looked around the house. Is it a coincidence that the girls in the painting resemble me and Lucy?

I force myself to leave the room. I can’t be distracted, there isn’t much time.

Cass has the bigger of the two attic rooms. It’s pretty, with sloping ceilings and framed black-and-white prints hanging on pale green walls. The double bed is unmade, the duvet bunched up at the foot of the bed revealing crumpled sheets. I look around the room wildly, unsure where to start. I walk around the bed, spotting another door, different from all the rest, heavy, a firedoor. I push it open, expecting to see a wardrobe or en suite. Instead it’s a darkroom. A strong acidic smell hangs in the air. Above the sink, photographs are pinned up on a makeshift washing line with wooden pegs. I blink in the darkness, grappling along the wall for a light switch. I find it and click it on and the room is flooded by a dull red glow. I quickly glance behind me to make sure I am alone before walking further into the room. I pick up a contact sheet with its rows of miniature photographs and I gasp as my eyes scan every one. They are all of Beatrice. Some look as though she’s been taken unaware, some are obviously posed for.

I’m thinking how obsessed Cass must be with Beatrice when the door slams behind me, trapping me in the little room.

The walls begin to close in on me. For a few seconds I can’t do anything, I’m frozen to the spot. Then the adrenaline kicks in and I run to the door and wrench it open, relieved that I’m not locked in. I prop the door open with my foot while leafing through the pile of photographs on the worktop. I pause when I notice that one stands out from the rest. I pull it down from its peg to get a better look. It’s a side profile of Beatrice’s face, and next to it a side profile of mine, superimposed together so that it makes up a whole, disjointed face. The result is unsettling. The print is sticky in my hand. I’m not sure what to do with it or even if it proves anything. I’ve only got half-thought-out theories as to why Cass would do this to me anyway.

I leave the room, letting the door swing shut behind me, the photograph still in my hand. As I dart down the stairs I’m startled to see Ben lumbering up the main staircase, his hair slick with rain, the bottom of his jeans wet and heavy. His features are set in a scowl so that he looks drawn, troubled, until he sees me, and then he regains his normal good-natured repose.

He takes in the photograph that I’m clutching to my chest and my location. ‘What are you doing?’ His expression darkens again.

I pause and it crosses my mind to lie to him. Except I’ve got a photograph in my hand and it’s obvious I’m coming from the attic. I wait for him to reach the landing before handing it to him. ‘I found this in Cass’s bedroom.’

He takes it from me and glances at it. ‘Bit freaky,’ he says half-heartedly, handing it back to me. ‘Why were you in her room?’

So I tell him about the sinister message that appeared on Lucy’s timeline and the photograph and my suspicions that Cass is behind it. ‘I bumped into Jodie, she told me that Cass is in love with Beatrice and they had a fling. Maybe Cass is jealous.’

I expect Ben to understand, even sympathize, but he’s staring at me, his jaw tensed. ‘You met up with Jodie?’ he says in an unnaturally quiet voice. His face is white. ‘She’s a silly little liar. Why would you believe anything she said? You know nothing about her.’

‘I … I bumped into her …’

‘And you believe that Cass and my sister had, what? A lesbian fling? That’s an outrageous lie.’

I remain silent, fiddling self-consciously with the photograph.

‘Let me see your computer. I want to have a look at this message and photo for myself.’ He pushes past me and marches into my room.

I follow. ‘They’ve been wiped off,’ I say, as he grabs my laptop from the bed.

‘Of course they have.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh and drops the laptop so that it lands softly on the mattress. ‘Because they were never there, were they, Abi?’

His words are a slap in the face. ‘They were,’ I insist. ‘I’m not lying.’

Ben slumps on to my bed, his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know who to believe any more,’ he murmurs through his fingers. He looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve recently had an argument with Beatrice. She thinks that you have some mental disorder. She thinks you’re confusing reality with fantasy and that you have a split personality, that you sometimes think you’re Lucy and do these weird things. And I stuck up for you.’

I freeze at his words, turning cold all over. My legs give way beneath me and I slump to the floor. ‘You think I’ve got some personality disorder?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not saying I believe it. But Beatrice certainly does.’

I think of the paranoia, the survivor’s guilt, the post-traumatic stress disorder, of all the things I’ve been diagnosed with since Lucy died. Could Beatrice be right? I think of the flowers addressed to myself but from Lucy, the florist describing me. ‘That’s unfair of Beatrice,’ I snap. ‘The florist described me, but it could be her description too, remember?’ The accusation hangs in the air between us, something bad, rancid, like a fart.

I think of the Facebook stuff when I’m the only one who has Lucy’s password, her log-in details. Unless her account has been hacked, it would be impossible for someone else to write those things on her wall. Especially Cass. Even the photograph I’m still holding doesn’t mean anything. Okay, Cass is in love with Beatrice. They may or may not have had a sexual relationship, Cass might have been a bit jealous when I moved in, but I’m with Ben. She knows that. I’m no threat. So why would she do it?

And that leaves his sister, his twin …

‘Beatrice is doing this to me,’ I insist, getting to my knees. Ben puts his head in his hands and groans. ‘Don’t you see, Ben? Can’t you see what she’s doing?’ I can hear the desperation in my voice but Ben shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you believe me? Why do you always think she’s right?’

‘Here we go again,’ he mutters, partly under his breath. His head shoots up and I notice how exhausted he looks.

‘Here we go again?’ I mimic, standing up, my heart thumping. ‘Is that what you think? That I’m bleating on and on …’

He stands up too, so that we’re facing each other. His hands are clenched by his sides. ‘We keep having the same fucking argument, Abi.’

‘Because you don’t believe me,’ I cry.

‘Don’t shout at me,’ he says calmly.

I want to hit him, I want to pummel my fists into his chest, I want to shake him until he sees that I’m not making this up. Instead I hurl the photograph at him, but because it’s light, almost weightless, it drifts to the floor. Then I sink on to the carpet and burst into helpless tears. I can’t stand it any more. I can’t bear him thinking I’m always the one who’s being unreasonable, or paranoid. ‘I can’t do this any more,’ I cry. ‘I’ve had enough.’

For a moment Ben is silent and then I feel his arms about me.

‘Abi, don’t say that.’

‘Then tell me you believe me. Tell me you think Beatrice is talking nonsense.’

He hesitates and I pull away from him. ‘I’m moving out,’ I say into my hands. ‘I can go and live with my parents again.’

He’s kneeling next to me but I shift away so that my back is to him. ‘Abi, I don’t want you to do that,’ he says. ‘You have to understand how hard it is for me. She’s my sister …’

‘And I’m your girlfriend.’

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, filled with resignation. We keep going around in circles, but nothing will ever change. I know that our relationship is over, it’s almost a relief. Beatrice has won.

‘Abi, look at me,’ his voice is urgent, panicked. I turn reluctantly towards him. ‘Let’s move out. Together. It’s obvious it’s never going to work, the three of us living under one roof. And I’m too old to still be living with my sister.’ He gives a rueful smile.

Yesterday I would have been delighted to hear this. But it’s too late. I shake my head, pleased to note the hurt in his eyes.

‘You don’t believe me,’ I say. ‘So what’s the point?’

‘Oh, Abi. I do believe you. Please … I love you. I want to be with you.’

My resolve is weakening. Sensing it, Ben pulls me into his arms and we sit there, on the champagne-coloured carpet with its moth-shaped stain, gently rocking in sync with one another. Then he says quietly into my hair, ‘I’ve got enough cash now. We can rent somewhere soon. What do you think?’

I pull away so that I can see his expression, to make sure he’s serious. ‘You would do that? Even if I am a bit wacko?’ I attempt to laugh through my tears.

‘I want you, Abi. We can’t be together here. This thing with you and Beatrice, it’s never going to stop, is it? Always blaming each other, this power struggle you have.’ I open my mouth to protest but he shoots me a warning look. ‘Come on, it’s obvious. And I’m flattered. But I have to make a choice. And I choose you.’

And as he bends to kiss me I think,
I’ve won
.
He’s chosen me over her.
So why do I not feel as triumphant, as delighted, as I should?

As the three of us sit around the kitchen table later that evening, avoiding eye contact, Ben tells Beatrice of the choice he’s made. She’s silent for a while, chewing the inside of her lip, but I notice that her face pales, her eyes shine too brightly. She hangs her head in resignation after making one last sad attempt to change his mind, looking as though she might throw up. I sit silently sipping my tea, gripped by guilt as she hangs her head, her perfect bob falling around her beautiful face. She lifts her head with a sigh and narrows her eyes, and it’s as if she’s weighing up something in her mind. ‘Are you sure about this, Ben?’ she says softly, not looking in my direction. ‘Does Abi make you happy?’

He takes my hand and tells her that yes, I do make him happy, that I’m what he wants, what he’s been waiting for.

‘So this is the end?’ she sighs and her shoulders slump. ‘I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy, Ben. Please believe that.’

She pushes back her chair and walks silently out of the room. We both stare at the coffee cup, the one with the bird on the front, her favourite, noticing the pink lipstick stain on the rim, and I feel a tinge of unease. Why didn’t she put up more of a fight? Has she accepted defeat so readily? Will she really let him go?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I wander through the house trying to imprint it on my memory. I touch the daisy-shaped lights that are wound around the banister, run my hand along the tastefully painted walls, enjoy the warmth from the underfloor heating through the limestone tiles under my feet, lounge on the squashy velvet sofa in the drawing room, stand on the terrace overlooking the garden below, swing my legs over the arm of the tatty antique armchair in the kitchen, as Beatrice and Cass did the first morning after I moved in. I bask in its beauty.
I will miss this house
, I think. Because for a while I was happy here, for a while the house held within its walls the promise of a life I was desperate to be part of. A life that was so different, so much more glamorous than the one I had been trying to escape from.

One morning two days later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, ostensibly typing up an interview for Miranda, but really surfing the net for places that Ben and I can rent together. The house is eerily quiet apart from the clunking sound of the old school radiators as the boiler cools down. Ben is at work, and the others have gone to see a friend of Beatrice’s who is opening an artists’ studio in Frome. I wasn’t invited to join them.

I’m scrolling through the details of a flat in Walcot Street when a loud ding dong reverberates around the quiet house, causing me to jump.
It’s someone at the front door,
I tell myself as my heart begins its familiar war dance and I tear myself away from the computer, and the fashionable flat in Walcot Street, to answer it. A crumpled-looking woman with short, greying hair and ruddy cheeks hovers on the step. She’s older, perhaps in her late fifties, early sixties at a push. ‘Hello,’ she says in a thick Scottish accent. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. She’s barely five foot tall and plump, wearing a faded blue mackintosh and sturdy brown boots under a long skirt. She’s holding a large handbag in the crook of her arm. Behind her the street is quiet, the sun balloons in the china blue sky. The air smells fresh after a recent shower. ‘I’m looking for Ben.’ Her eyes dart hopefully behind me into the hallway.

‘Ben?’ Why is she looking for Ben? ‘He’s at work, he won’t be home until tonight.’

‘Oh,’ her face falls in disappointment. ‘Of course he is, I didn’t think about that. I’ll come back later.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, apologizing because she looks so crestfallen. ‘Can I tell him who called?’ I can’t let this woman walk away without knowing who she is. She glances about her, as if she expects he will walk down the street at any moment.

‘I’m his mum, lovey. Don’t worry, I’ll catch him later. I’m staying with his brother in Bristol for the week, so there will be other opportunities. I tried to ring him, but he never answers his phone and I’m worried, you see. After his father’s death …’ She pauses, her chin wobbling, then she makes an effort to compose herself. ‘… I saw Ben only last week. There was an argument … I want …’ She stops and her eyes widen in panic, as if she’s said too much. ‘Never mind, I’ll come over again tonight – will you tell him that, lovey? Will you tell him I’ll come back this evening, around eight?’