‘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.
Chapter Eight
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.
Chapter Nine
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 nerve
s 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.
I make my way down the many flights of stairs and my disappointment grows with each step when I fail to bump into Beatrice or her brother. Apart from the lachrymose tones that I recognize as Lana Del Ray’s, growing louder as I descend, the house is quiet. It sounds as if the music is coming from the kitchen and I hope that Beatrice or Ben is there waiting for me.
When I get to the hallway and pass the reception room that used to house Jodie’s three-headed sculpture, a flash of colour makes me stop and double back on myself. Popping my head around the door I’m surprised to see that the walls have been painted an acid lime green that perfectly contrasts with the bright white ceiling and coving and, instead of Jodie’s sculpture dominating the room, in its place is a huge leather sofa and a desk. Before I know what I’m doing I push the door open further. It’s a stunning room with doors that lead out on to a long and neatly manicured rear garden. I go to the desk that’s been pushed up by the wall. Some of Beatrice’s earrings and necklaces have been laid out as if on display in a boutique and my eye catches a familiar yellow, daisy-shaped earring and I pick it up, recalling that it was the one she wore when we first met. I hold it in the palm of my hand, marvelling at the way she has designed the flower, so intricate, so delicate. I fold my fingers around it and close my eyes, letting the memory of the first time I saw her linger like the unforgettable lyrics of a love song, and I fight the sudden urge, the sudden need, to put it in the pocket of my dressing gown. I touch the necklace at my throat, the one I never take off, reminding myself I have a little piece of Beatrice already, and I place the yellow earring back on to the top of the wooden desk where I found it. Then I notice the bracelet. It’s stunning, interspersed with sapphires, but a few of the stones are missing, as if she hasn’t quite finished it yet. As I leave the room I think how lucky Beatrice is to have all this: the house, the money, the talent, and most importantly, her twin.
The music gets louder – Lana Del Ray has been replaced by the Arctic Monkeys – as I round the stairs to the kitchen and when I get to the bottom step I jolt in surprise. I’d been expecting, hoping, that one of them would be here, waiting for me. But the only person in the room is a short, rotund woman with a greying blonde bob whom I don’t recognize. She seems oblivious to me as she leans over the table so that her large, heavy breasts, encased in a floral apron, are almost touching the wood as she quickly, and quite aggressively, kneads dough.
A glance at the kitchen clock tells me it’s just gone ten. I clear my throat to announce my presence and the woman looks up. Her eyes are small and dark, two currants in her rounded fleshy face, which is the colour of the dough that she is vigorously kneading.
She swivels on chubby ankles to turn down the Roberts radio that sits on the worktop behind her and her small eyes sweep over me, no doubt taking in my state of undress. ‘Ah, another one,’ she says in a thick accent that I guess has its origins somewhere in Eastern Europe, although I can’t be sure. ‘You are like little stray dogs,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘Pretty little stray dogs. You girls, you come and stay a while and then you go, never to be seen again …’ She shakes her head as if she’s trying to displace the memories of these ‘girls’.
I want to tell her I’m not planning on going anywhere and to ask her who the hell she is anyway, and why is she making what I assume is bread in Beatrice’s kitchen. (I can’t help but think of the house as Beatrice’s even though I know it belongs to Ben as well.)
‘I’m Abi,’ I say as I shuffle towards the table, the tiles sticky under my feet, pulling my dressing gown around me and suppressing a shiver. The large sash window is open and, although the day is warm, the kitchen is cold due to its basement location, deprived of the sun that blazes outside.
She smiles enigmatically but doesn’t offer her name. Who are you? I want to shout, and what are you doing here?
‘Where are the others?’ I ask instead.
‘Ah, the others,’ she replies as she digs her elbows vigorously into the dough. ‘They are out playing tennis.’
I feel a stab of hurt that they would go off and play tennis without asking me.
She goes to the Aga and, kneeling in front of it, places the bread tin carefully in one of its four compartments. ‘Shall I make you a coffee?’ She stands up, wiping her hands on the skirt of her apron. I nod gratefully, muttering my thanks, making sure I take a seat opposite the entrance to the kitchen so that I can see them as soon as they return from their game of tennis. I listen as she chatters over a different, more upbeat song on the radio, while fiddling with the coffee machine’s intricate workings. She tells me her name is Eva, she’s from Poland and she’s been a housekeeper for Beatrice and Ben for six years, ever since they moved to Bath.
‘The poor lambs,’ she says conspiratorially, as she hands me my coffee cup with surprisingly tiny delicate hands for such a large lady. ‘They were so in need of mothering when I met them. They lost their parents you know, a long time ago.’
I take a sip of my coffee as a surge of anticipation rushes through me that, at last, I might get to find out more about them.
Eva takes a seat next to me and launches into a story of when she first came to work for them. Although her words are heavily accented so that I sometimes miss exactly what she’s saying, I can tell by the relish with which she talks that this woman likes to gossip, and I think that this could work to my advantage.
‘I’m local so I don’t need to live in,’ she explains. ‘But I try to come over every day and make them a meal that they can cook up later or freeze.’ So, the delicious lasagne that we had for dinner last night was one of Eva’s offerings. ‘I also do a bit of cleaning for them,’ she continues. ‘Ben particularly likes things tidy. They have a gardener as well. They do need looking after.’
They’re thirty-two years old, I want to shout. They’re hardly children. But I stay silent, not wanting to interrupt her flow. She pauses and glances at me quickly, and I can see that she’s assessing whether she can trust me. She obviously thinks she can as she goes on: ‘When Beatrice first moved to Bath she seemed very fragile, she would keep bursting into tears, telling me she didn’t know what to do – about what, I neve
r found out. She never told me what happened before moving here, but I got the impression she was running away from something, or someone. This house was in total – how do you say it? – total disrepair?’ I nod encouragingly. ‘She threw herself into doing it up. Spent a year having it modernized – it must have cost her a fortune. Then Ben moved in too and she seemed happier, more secure.’
I’m intrigued to find out who, or what, Beatrice was running from. I find the fact that she has a history that I know nothing about disconcerting. I want to know everything about her, otherwise it makes us little more than strangers. I take a sip of the coffee, savouring its bitter taste. ‘How did their parents die?’
‘I think it was a car accident.’ Another coincidence, another thing we have in common. ‘The twins were babies, maybe toddlers, I can’t remember exactly.’ She frowns. ‘They were brought up by their grandparents and, from what I understand, they were very wealthy. When they died, their money was put in trust for when the twins turned twenty-five.’
So that’s where all their money has come from. That’s how they can afford this magnificent house and why they don’t need to charge any rent.
I think of the three-bedroom semi on a small housing estate in Farnham, Surrey where Lucy and I grew up. It wasn’t a bad place to live, our parents always kept it clean, tidy and cosy and we knew no different, it was our home, but it was worlds away from a house such as this. I imagine Beatrice and Ben as children, the orphan twins, running through large draughty rooms of their grandparents’ rambling mansion with extensive gardens and a sweeping driveway, a completely different type of estate to the one where we spent our childhood.
The Grip Lit Collection Page 7
