Authors: Claire Douglas
The Sisters (9 page)
‘This one’s been damaged,’ she says innocently, and then I notice that the box is squashed and the brown tape holding the two flaps together, its lid, has come apart so the top is gaping open, revealing a hint of the coloured envelopes beneath. Frowning, I take the box from her.
‘I’ll go and see where Ben’s got to with that wine,’ she says, brushing past me, a look I can’t read in her eyes. When she’s gone I slump on to my sagging mattress, the box on my lap. Peeling back the flap of cardboard I take out the stack of pastel-coloured envelopes bound with an elastic band, and idly flick through them. Then, with a spark of realization and dawning horror, I go through them again, carefully counting them, knowing there should be twenty-seven, but even though I leaf through them five times, each time more frenzied, desperate, I can only count twenty-six. A letter is missing. My heart thuds in my chest, bile scratching the back of my throat. One of my precious letters is missing, the only tangible thing I have left of my twin, the only way I still get to hear her voice. It’s missing and I know that only Beatrice could have taken it.
The lasagne from dinner curdles uncomfortably in my stomach. Why would she do this to me?
I remember how Beatrice acted in the garden at Monty’s party, her calm nonchalance when she saw me with Ben, the way she stared at us both at the table tonight during dinner, and I’m suddenly painfully aware why she would do such a thing.
Beatrice suspects that I fancy Ben and this is her way of punishing me.
I’m bent double, trying to breathe deeply, my chest tight, my head swimming, and I don’t hear Beatrice walking back into the room until she’s standing over me with a glass of red wine in each hand.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, handing me one of the wine glasses, which I take and place on the chest of drawers next to me. There’s something tucked under her arm, a flash of coloured paper. She seems to notice the shocked expression that must be evident on my face and follows my line of vision.
‘Oh, I think this belongs to you, it has your name on the envelope. I found it on the stairs. It probably fell out of the box when I carried it up earlier.’ She smiles at me serenely, retrieving Lucy’s letter from under her armpit, and I take it with a trembling hand, confusion clouding my thoughts. Surely I would have noticed the pastel-pink envelope against the cream flagstones? I’ve been up and down this staircase enough times since she carried the box for me.
‘Come on,’ she says cheerfully, seeming not to notice my anguish. ‘Let’s get some of these boxes unpacked. Ben won’t be able to help after all, I’m afraid. Monty’s popped over and taken him out for a drink.’
Why doesn’t this surprise me?
I replace Lucy’s precious letter back into the bundle with the others and when Beatrice’s back is turned and she’s engrossed in sorting through my clothes, I reach up and shove the box on top of the wardrobe, away from her prying eyes.
Beatrice hates lies, despises the havoc, the pain that they invariably cause. She remembers only too well the impact, the devastation that ensues when the truth is finally revealed; it is all still fresh in her mind. And now, the all too familiar feelings of betrayal have resurfaced. Why can’t she stop thinking about
him
?
She rolls over on to her back, kicking the quilt to the bottom of the bed. The room is musty even though the window is ajar, her legs are slick with sweat, her nightdress sticking to her body like a second skin. She turns on her side, a shaft of light evident underneath her closed bedroom door. Who is still awake at this late hour? Is Abi having trouble sleeping in her new home? Or Ben, unable to relax knowing the object of his affection is across the corridor? She sighs, sitting up and switching on her bedside lamp and reaching for her phone to see the time. It’s gone 1 a.m. It’s no use, how is she supposed to sleep, knowing that Abi is next door with only a wall between them, with only a landing separating her from her twin brother?
Of course she knows it’s only a matter of time before they get together. She can see the attraction between them, as if they have their very own forcefield. It was obvious at Monty’s party; did they think she was blind, not to see the way they were looking at each other in the garden that night? She had never even considered asking Abi to Monty’s party, but Abi had left numerous messages on her mobile, wanting to know if they could meet up before she moved in. Beatrice had begun to feel harried and in the end invited her mainly to appease her.
Even her stupid house rules will be powerless to stop them, she thinks. She won’t be able to keep them apart for much longer and she’s naïve to think otherwise. Unless …
She swings her legs out of bed and goes to her dressing table, gently touching the jewellery that she’s laid out between her face creams and make-up, calming down, as she always does at the thought of her new, burgeoning business. At last she’s found something that she’s good at, something that helps make up for all the pain in her past.
Oh, Abi
, she thinks as she touches a silver daisy-chained bracelet interlaced with sapphires, the piece of jewellery she’s most proud of creating,
we’ve got more in common than you could possibly know.
Sitting at her dressing table she opens one of the drawers and retrieves a ripped-out page from a newspaper, creased and dog-eared and already beginning to turn to the colour of milky tea. She places it on her lap, smoothing it flat in a futile attempt to iron out the lines where it has been repeatedly folded, and reads the article for the hundredth time.
Identical Twin Not Guilty of Causing Sister’s Death by Careless Driving
A WOMAN who killed her identical twin sister in a crash on the A31 near Guildford, Surrey, has been found not guilty of death by careless driving, a court heard.
A jury of seven women and five men took less than an hour to return the not guilty verdict on Abigail Cavendish, 28, from Balham, South London at Southwark Crown Court yesterday.
Ms Cavendish, her twin sister Lucy, who was a front seat passenger, and three others were travelling home from a Halloween party on 31 October last year when her Audi A3 came off the road in torrential rain and turned over into a ditch. A breathalyser test taken at the scene showed that the accused was not over the legal drink-drive limit.
The prosecution had claimed Ms Cavendish was driving too fast in the rain and hadn’t been concentrating on the notoriously dangerous road. A statement from a passenger, a Mr Luke Munroe, the deceased’s boyfriend, stated that an ongoing argument had clouded Ms Cavendish’s judgement on the night in question, causing her to drive erratically.
Judge Ruth Millstow, QC, told the court that Lucy Cavendish’s death was the result of a tragic accident brought on by severe weather conditions.
Beatrice peers at the accompanying photograph, at the twin sisters’ happy, smiling faces, mirror images of one another. She would never be able to tell them apart if she had seen them both together. The photograph looks as if it was taken on a holiday, a palm tree frozen mid-sway in the background, the twins tanned and blonde, the shoe-string straps of a vest or a dress evident in the head-and-shoulders shot.
Beatrice had been on the tube, visiting a friend in Islington, when she saw the piece in the local free newspaper that someone had left discarded on the seat next to her. She had flicked through it idly, barely paying attention to the depressing stories about knifed youths or grannies robbed in broad daylight, until the photograph had caught her eye. The sisters, blonde, slim, with heart-shaped faces and full mouths, could be related to her, so similar were their looks. And when she noticed the headline she felt a rush of empathy. Twins – like her and Ben – and as she read on she actually gasped out loud as her eyes alighted on Luke’s name. Her stomach contracted painfully. Would she ever escape her past? Luke had been the dead sister’s boyfriend. He had obviously chosen someone who resembled her. Was the universe trying to tell her something?
She’d tucked the newspaper into her bag, had come home and carefully cut the piece out, knowing that one day it would come in handy.
She surveys herself in the mirror: her pale hair, slightly slick with sweat, her too-pink cheeks in the soft glow of her lamp. It doesn’t matter how she feels about what might be taking place under her very nose, about the way they are trying to keep her in the dark, laughing at her behind her back. It is her duty to help Abi, she must remember that, even if Ben seems happy to forget it.
You’re not the only one who can’t forgive yourself, Abi.
Beatrice carefully refolds the newspaper article neatly into quarters and slips it back into her drawer. And as she gets back into bed and settles underneath the sheets, she knows she has to intervene. Before it’s too late.
It takes me a few seconds to register that I’m at Beatrice’s house when I open my eyes the next morning. The tinny sound of a radio playing floats up from somewhere within the bowels of the house and the sun’s rays filter through the gap in Jodie’s threadbare navy-blue curtains, creating oblong reflections on the ceiling. I gaze up at the shifting patterns, unsure of what to do, how to act, now that I’m finally here. It’s been so long since I’ve lived with people my own age, my peers, that I’m immobilized with a kind of stage fright.
I wince with embarrassment when I remember last night and my overreaction to Lucy’s lost letter. I had been so convinced that Beatrice had taken it, to punish me for the growing feelings she must know I have for Ben, that I could hardly concentrate on a word she was saying as she helped me unpack afterwards. If she noticed my odd behaviour, she did a good job of pretending otherwise as she sipped her red wine and exclaimed about the state of my wardrobe and how we had to go shopping for some new clothes. ‘You’ve got nothing but ripped jeans, holey jumpers and baggy T-shirts, Abi.’ When she finally left me alone to go to bed, throwing me a concerned look over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, I slumped in the middle of the bedroom, hugging my knees, surrounded by a fortress of empty cardboard boxes. Sweat bubbled above my eyebrows and top lip, my heart racing so much that I began to think I might die. In the end I was so petrified I dialled Janice’s number, even though it was past midnight.
She talked me down, assuring me it was only another panic attack, reminding me of all the coping mechanisms she had taught me. ‘Believing that Beatrice would steal Lucy’s letter is your way of punishing yourself because you’re happy,’ she explained in her usual calm, logical way, her soothing voice coating my frayed nerves like antiseptic cream on a graze. ‘And you feel guilty for being happy. It’s called survivors’ guilt, Abi. We’ve talked about this before, remember? It’s a symptom of your post-traumatic stress disorder. Don’t let these destructive thoughts ruin your friendships.’
I know now, in the cold light of day, that Beatrice isn’t cruel, that she wouldn’t deliberately try and hurt me. She would surely know how important those letters are to me. I’ve got a bond with Beatrice, she’s been amazing, allowing me to become part of her life. It is as if she knew, even at our first meeting, how much I needed her friendship. I have to trust her; that was Janice’s advice last night. I have to allow myself to get close to people and allow them to get to know me.
My mobile buzzes on my bedside cabinet and I shuffle to the edge of the bed, turning on to my front to reach out and retrieve it, pleased when I see it is a text from Nia asking how I am, and my heart sinks when I remember that I haven’t told her about my new living arrangements, knowing she will be sceptical and worried for me. I sit up, resting my head against the uncomfortable iron headboard, bunching the duvet up around my armpits as I dutifully reply, telling her I’m fine and will ring her in a few days. Putting off the inevitable.
Wrapping myself in my grey velour dressing gown I scurry to the vast bathroom across the hall, relieved when I don’t bump into Beatrice or her brother before I’ve had a chance to clean my teeth and wash my face. The utilitarian white tiles are cold against the soles of my feet and I stare at my bleary-eyed reflection in the large mirror, wiping away the remnants of last night’s mascara from under my eyelashes, assessing the all too familiar gauntness of my face, of
her
face. I drag a brush through my blonde hair, noticing my widening parting and the hint of pink scalp beneath, the side effects of stress and the prescription drugs I wash down my throat every day.