Authors: Claire Douglas
The Sisters (37 page)
Ben hangs his head, muttering of course he understands, that he wouldn’t dream of hurting me, that he wants my forgiveness and understanding for last night.
‘I can never forgive myself. What I did to Bea … and you …’
‘The truth of it is, you want Bea, but you can’t have her, so you chose me instead. Her carbon copy.’ It’s all I can do to get the words out; I’m trying to swallow the hurt I still feel at being lied to, manipulated, used.
He runs his hand through his thick hair. ‘That’s not true,’ he says, but he doesn’t sound convincing. ‘I did love you, Abi.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re a liar, Ben. If you loved me, why did you do the things you did?’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, or Beatrice,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I am sorry, Abi. I know you don’t believe me, but I am.’
He’s right, I don’t believe him. I can’t believe a word that comes out of his twisted, lying, manipulative mouth.
‘I’m assuming you wrote the Facebook messages? Planted the photograph that Cass took innocently, and then scratched my face off? The flowers? I must say, it was clever of you to pretend you rang the florist and to say that they described me. You knew I’d jump to conclusions and accuse Beatrice.’
‘I had to make sure you never found out about me and Bea,’ he says. ‘I did it all because I loved you, Abi.’
As I watch Ben, languishing in the doorway, with his arm around his sister, wearing his crisp Armani shirt and J Brand jeans, I know that there is more to it. He gets a kick out of playing with people, scaring them, messing with their heads.
‘I suppose it’s obvious,’ I say. ‘You being so good with computers. What did you do, Ben? Hack into her account?’ I don’t wait for an answer. ‘And Callum? How did you know I met up with him?’
‘I looked on your phone,’ he says. ‘Saw a message you sent to Nia. What’s the point of going over it all now, Abi? Huh? What’s done is done.’
I have a sudden urge to ram his head into the wall. ‘What kind of person are you, Ben?’
He stares at me, his face darkening and I’m worried that I’ve gone too far
Beatrice rubs his arm. ‘Abi,’ she says. ‘Ben is really sorry. He’s been under a lot of stress …’
I roll my eyes, my stomach curdling at the thought of them together. ‘You might have forgiven him, Bea. But I can’t.’
He looks at me, all the warmth gone from his eyes. ‘I can’t make you forgive me, Abi. But I am sorry. For what it’s worth.’
Which isn’t much, I want to say. But I don’t. With one last glance in my direction, Ben retreats into the hallway and I see him round the stairs into the basement kitchen. I know I’ll never see him again.
‘Your things are here, Abi,’ says Beatrice in a small voice. I see a pile of boxes stacked by the radiator and imagine Beatrice and Ben clearing out my room, getting rid of all evidence that I ever lived here.
Beatrice helps me carry the boxes to the car. Dad jumps out when he sees us approaching. ‘Everything all right?’ he says to me. I smile weakly and nod, handing him a box which he puts in the boot.
I hover by the passenger door after we’ve loaded all the boxes. I’m concerned for her. ‘Are you going to be okay, Bea?’
‘Of course.’ She smiles brightly and embraces me, I can smell the apple shampoo of her hair, the Parma Violet washing powder on her dress. ‘Thanks for everything you did last night. I’ll never forget it,’ she says quietly.
Dad, realizing this is girl talk, folds himself back into the driver’s seat.
‘Chuck him out,’ I urge. ‘You don’t need him, Bea.’
‘You know that I do,’ she says as she pulls away from me. ‘Please promise me one thing, Abi. Please don’t tell anyone about us.’
I look at my trainer-clad feet. ‘Nia knows.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘I won’t tell anyone else. I promise.’ I lift my head to look at her. ‘But I just don’t understand why you’re doing this.’
‘I think you do,’ she adds, her eyes bright. ‘He’s my twin, he’s the other half of me, Abi. And he needs help. You know that, right? I want to help him get better.’
She turns to go, but I grab her arm. ‘Beatrice, there’s one thing I need to tell you. I haven’t been totally honest with you. I … I was jealous too. Of your relationship. I tried to stir trouble a few times, I made out to Ben that you were hiding my antidepressants … I wanted him to … I don’t know … defend me, believe me.’
‘Shh, Abi. I understand.’ She stands there in her leopard-print pumps, the soft cotton of her dress brushing her knees and with the sun casting its weak light over her face, the highlights in her fair hair. I draw a breath at the similarity to Lucy. It’s as though I’m losing her all over again.
‘Take care, Bea,’ I sniff.
‘You too, Abi,’ she says sadly. ‘You too.’
She bends down to scoop up her fat ginger cat, then turns away from me and walks back into the house.
I’ve been living in London for six months now and with every day that passes I become a little stronger, a little more hopeful about the future. Miranda offered me my old job back on the features desk and Nia suggested that we rent a bigger flat together in Muswell Hill. Neither of us says it, of course, but each telepathically agrees that staying north of the river is less painful somehow; not so many memories of our old way of life.
Living with Nia is gloriously uncomplicated after everything.
I’ve only heard from Bea once. A month ago she emailed me to tell me she has sold the town house in Bath and that she and Ben have moved away, somewhere nobody knows them. She never gave a forwarding address. Reading between the lines, I suspect they’ve renewed their relationship and are living as a couple. Nothing would surprise me any more.
I still see Lucy in the most unexpected places. Sometimes she’s in front of me on the bus, the same swishy blonde bob and long, elegant neck, until she turns around and it is as if she’s wearing a mask, some other person’s face is superimposed in place of hers. Other times she’s at a party that Nia and I are attending, or eating popcorn in the row in front of us at the cinema. Last week I thought I saw her behind the till in Sainsbury’s, except she was young – too young. Lucy in her teenage years.
And each time I see her I make sure I walk in the opposite direction. Because she’s not Lucy. I know that now. As I know how dangerous my mind can be, how little I can trust my own judgement. After all, I got it so wrong with Bea.
Today, a sunny breezy Tuesday in early March, I’m meandering through Hyde Park in my lunch hour, killing time while waiting to interview some up-and-coming actor at the Ritz. I’m wearing the tea-dress that I bought last year in the vintage shop in Bath, with a long grey cardigan. I’m feeling happy, confident, when I see her. She’s sitting on a wooden bench reading a book, a Burberry mac is wrapped around her slim body, her legs, encased in black skinny jeans, are crossed at the knee. She has wire-framed glasses pushed back on to her blonde hair, and she frowns in concentration, her eyes flicking back and forth across the page. Despite the promises I’ve made to myself, I can’t help but stare at her wistfully, imagining sitting next to her, and striking up a conversation. Instead I hoist my bag firmly on to my shoulder and go to walk past her.
As if aware that I’m watching her, she lifts her head and fixes her big green eyes on me, and my heart stutters in my chest as if I’ve been punched. She resembles Lucy more than anyone I’ve ever seen, apart from myself; more than Beatrice, more than Alicia. She smiles such a warm inviting smile that it stops me in my tracks, my resolve weakening.
‘Hi,’ I say shyly, standing before her. ‘Can I join you?’
She places the book she’s reading face down on her lap. ‘Of course.’ She has an accent. Possibly Scandinavian. If she’s alone in this country she might need a friend. It gives me a little thrill.
‘I’m Ingrid,’ she says, extending a delicate hand with a playful giggle. Her laugh is high and tinkly, it’s just like Lucy’s. And I’m sold.
I take her hand and perch next to her, so close that I can smell the coconut scent of her hair and I know that I’ve finally found her. She’s the one. I took my eye off the ball before, I allowed myself to become distracted. But not this time. This time everything will work out. I’ll make sure of it.
‘I’m Abi,’ I say, pulling the tea-dress firmly over my knees. ‘But you can call me Bee.’
I would like to thank the following people for making this book possible:
To HarperCollins and
Marie Claire
magazine for holding the debut novel competition; the fantastic team at Harper, in particular my editors Martha Ashby and Kimberley Young for their great advice, guidance and enthusiasm; to my wonderful agent, Juliet at The Agency Group (I feel incredibly lucky to be on Team Mushens!); to my talented writer friend, Fiona Mitchell, for encouraging me to enter the competition; to my mother, Linda, father, Ken, step parents, Laura and John, brother, David, and sister, Sam, for all their unwavering support throughout the years; to my two beautiful children, Claudia and Isaac (who won’t be allowed to read this book for a long, long time) and last, but definitely not least, I’d like to thank my lovely husband, Ty, for his patience, understanding and belief in me (and for being a comma guru!).
