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.
I turn down Northumberland Passage, grateful for the break in relentless sunshine due to the shade from the narrowness of the buildings that rear up on either side of me. The street is rammed with people; swarming outside the stall that sells oilcloth bags; peering through the shop windows at trinkets, or ornaments, or children’s clothes; perched at bistro tables, nursing a latte or cappuccino. The smell of cheese pasties permeates the air.
I meander along the lane, taking in the atmosphere, pausing when I come to a little vintage shop that sells the type of dresses that Beatrice wears. Naturally, I’m compelled to go inside. It’s empty apart from the assistant perched behind a Victorian-type counter, talking in bored tones into an old-fashioned phone. I flick through the dresses; there is everything from a 1980s ballgown to a 1920s flapper dress. And then I see it, and my heart quickens. It’s a crinoline tea-dress from the 1940s, maroon with tiny white swallows, a Peter Pan collar and cap sleeves. It’s exactly the kind of dress Beatrice wears. I snatch it from the hanger, letting the material run through my fingers, and I can’t contain my thrill when I see that it’s my size. It’s expensive, and I can’t afford it, yet I buy it anyway.
I’m crossing the square in front of the Roman Baths, clutching my new dress in its brown paper bag, when I hear someone calling out Beatrice’s name. A large woman in a colourful printed kaftan is hurrying towards me, a wide smile on her mouth, her hand raised, but as she gets closer I notice the flicker of doubt in her eyes, her features rearranged into a frown. ‘Oh, I’m sorry … I thought …’ Her hands flap around her dark hair, suddenly awkward. She composes herself. ‘I thought you were Beatrice. It’s Abi, isn’t it? We met about two weeks ago at Bea’s house. It’s Maria,’ she clarifies when I stare at her blankly. Of course, one of Beatrice’s friends. We make stilted small talk for a couple of minutes before she makes her excuses and heads back towards the Abbey. I watch her go, bemused that she would think I was Beatrice, probably because I’m wearing her green Alice Temperley dress. Nevertheless, I’m flattered to be mistaken for her.
I can hear faint chatter coming from the kitchen when I get back to the house. Beatrice and Ben are huddled at the wooden table, deep in conversation, but when I walk in they fall silent.
‘You’re home,’ Beatrice says flatly, lifting her eyes to me. They are red and puffy as if she’s been crying. Ben pulls back his chair and goes to the coffee machine. ‘It’s too hot for coffee,’ she says when Ben offers her one. She begins picking at some nonexistent scab on her smooth, tanned arm.
My stomach clenches as I take the seat opposite her, dropping the bag containing my new dress at my feet. I can tell by the hostility emanating from Beatrice that Ben has finally admitted to her that we’re seeing each other. I’m suddenly aware that was why he rushed out earlier, to catch up with his sister. I wish he had included me. That we could have told Beatrice together, put up a united front. I feel excluded, pushed out, and it pisses me off.
‘So,’ she says when Ben sits back down, sliding a coffee in my direction. ‘Ben’s told me about the two of you.’
‘I’ve gathered,’ I want to say, but I keep quiet.
‘You didn’t have to hide it from me,’ she says coldly. ‘I thought you were my friend, Abi.’
‘I am your friend, you know I am. I … we didn’t know what to tell you. We weren’t sure what was going