to gather up my shampoos and body wash. I take a shower, energized as the water sluices over my body. I’m disappointed that it’s too cold to wear the new tea-dress I bought yesterday. Instead I pull on a pair of faded skinny jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt, feeling like me again. The heat of the last few weeks has been so intense, so relentless, that I’m almost glad of the rain, the drop in temperature. I think of Beatrice’s clothes hanging in a brightly coloured row in my wardrobe. Perhaps it’s time to return them, to stop pretending to be something that I’m so obviously not.
Beatrice and Cass are perched next to each other at the kitchen table, their heads so close together that they are almost touching, poring over a sheaf of shiny black-and-white photographs. They barely glance up as I wander in.
‘Morning,’ I say, clicking the kettle on. The kitchen is dark despite the glow from the overhead light. Every now and again I hear the swoosh of car tyres slicing through puddles on the wet road above our heads.
‘All right,’ mumbles Beatrice without looking up.
‘What are you doing?’ I pull out a chair and take a seat opposite them.
‘This one is fab,’ says Beatrice, turning to Cass and ignoring me. My body tenses. ‘I love the way the light falls on to the bracelet. It actually looks as if the jewels are sparkling.’ Blood pounds in my ears and I feel the familiar tightness across my chest. You’re being paranoid, Abi. They aren’t ignoring you.
‘I agree.’ Cass is dewy-eyed and flushed. ‘What about this one?’
‘Are these your photographs?’ I direct my question at Cass. She raises her eyes to me and inclines her head ever so slightly in answer. I’m assuming it’s a nod. Beatrice continues to stare at the print.
I get up and make myself a cup of tea without offering them one, then stick two pieces of bread in the toaster. My cheeks are hot as I butter the toast, listening to them exclaiming over one photograph and how the light falls on to another. Is that what Cass was developing yesterday, and, if so, why is she taking photos of Beatrice’s jewellery?
‘Wow, you look beautiful in this one,’ says Cass. I can hear the admiration in her voice. I glance over at the photo. It’s a head-and-shoulders shot of a woman with light hair and a heart-shaped face. It’s Beatrice, but at a glance it could be Lucy. Or me. It looks as though she’s naked except for a necklace at her throat, silver interspersed with emeralds. Cass has managed to capture her almond-shaped eyes, her ski-slope nose and full mouth in a way that is flattering and the effect is stunning. Her freckles are just about noticeable across the bridge of her nose and she looks fresh-faced and natural, much younger than her thirty-two years.
My heart pulls and I swallow back tears as Beatrice laughs, reminding me, as always, of Lucy. I take a bite of my toast and, leaning against the marble worktop, I watch as they continue to discuss websites, clients and commissions.
‘Ben’s already designed a brilliant website; once we’ve added these photos to it we can “go live” as he would say. A family collaboration.’ She exchanges a fond look with Cass.
I clear my throat. ‘If you want I could write something for your website …’ I begin. But Beatrice waves her hand at me without looking up.
‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.’
Cass says something in an indecipherable whisper and then Beatrice lets out her familiar tinkly laugh. This time her laugh unnerves me and I know that she’s punishing me again. Always punishing me because Ben and I care about each other, and I realize, as I survey her with her swishy hair and perfect clothes, that she doesn’t compare to my sister at all. Lucy was warm, kind and inclusive, whereas hidden behind their shared bubbly personalities there is something controlling about Beatrice, as if she deliberately enjoys tempting me into the sunshine merely in order to push me into the shade.
My appetite has suddenly diminished. Without saying a word I leave my toast and mug on the worktop and walk out of the room.
I take the bus into town and spend over an hour in a paint shop that stocks brands such as Little Greene and Farrow and Ball, deliberating over their array of colours with unusual names. My bedroom in Balham was an eau-de-nil green, Nia’s was yellow, and Lucy’s was duck-egg blue, so I steer clear of anything that resembles those colours so that I’m not reminded of my old life. In the end I choose a pale mauve, the colour of a Dolly Mixture sweet. Something new, fresh, with no memories associated with it.
I sit on the bus with my tin of paint, roller and brushes at my feet, the posh cardboard bag the assistant put them in is wet and breaking up at the edges. An old woman who smells of wet dog is squashed between me and the window. She keeps nodding off and then waking up with a jolt and then falling asleep again, her chin to her chest, her head bobbing to the side so that it’s nearly on my shoulder. Outside, people are scurrying about with umbrellas and raincoats – the opposite of yesterday when it was so hot that everywhere you looked someone was baring more flesh than is flattering. How is it possible that one day temperatures are edging thirty degrees when the next day it’s cold, blowy and feels like we’ve all gone back in time to the spring?
As the bus wheezes up the Wellsway and stops for a breather at the traffic lights in the high street, the blur of familiar platinum blonde hair catches my eye and I see Cass coming out of the deli. She’s linking arms with a girl with dark hair that I vaguely recognize. Of course, it’s Jodie. I didn’t know they kept in touch, always assuming that Jodie left under a bit of a cloud, although Beatrice has never confided in me about it. The bus moves on to the next stop and I clamber off, bag under my arm. I look around for them but they’ve disappeared.
The house is silent and empty as I turn the key in the lock and it hits me how big, how lonely it is when it’s not full of people, music, parties, wine. Shadows play in the corners of the ceiling like ghosts chasing each other, and I hurry up the two flights of stairs, a shiver running down my back.
I push open my bedroom door and drop the tins of paint at my feet. Someone has been in my room. In my bed. The duvet, that I had meticulously straightened that morning, is rumpled and bunched together. Frowning, I edge closer and my mouth goes dry when I see something nestled within the folds of the fabric. Something dead and bloodied and smelling. I gasp. A bird. Headless. Its brown feathers matted with blood. I scream and stumble backwards, trembling all over. Who would have put something so disgusting, so horrible, on my bed?
‘Are you okay?’ I jump and spin round. Beatrice looms in the doorway, dressed in a long black dress, and for a moment, in my frazzled state, she resembles a spectre of doom. She glances past me and to the bed. ‘Oh, that’s Sebby I expect, bringing you a present.’
‘W—what?’ I thought she was out. Yet she was here all the time. Was she waiting for me to find this? Hoping to freak me out? Is it some sort of punishment, some omen for ensnaring her brother? I long to tell her she shouldn’t have bothered. He’s already rejected me. Chosen her needs over my own.
‘Sebby. My cat,’ she clarifies, walking further into the room. ‘He does this a lot. Do you want me to help you change the bed?’
I nod, unable to speak. My tongue is suddenly too thick for my throat. I watch in silence as she carefully rolls down the duvet cover so that the dead bird doesn’t fall on to the carpet. ‘It’s ruined now, I’m afraid. I’ve got a spare one you can have though.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. And then she’s gone, taking the soiled duvet cover and the bird’s corpse with her.
By the time Ben gets home late that evening, I’ve finished painting the bedroom and stand back to admire my handiwork. The new mauve walls clash with the garish green bed linen I’ve borrowed from Beatrice. ‘It’s a spare one of Pam’s, but she won’t mind,’ she said as she handed me the duvet cover earlier.
I hear his heavy tread on the stone staircase, sense him pausing outside my bedroom as if contemplating whether he’s welcome, and then the creak of the door.
‘Wow, you’ve done well, Abi.’