in and they both glance at us, quickly looking away again. So Beatrice has told Pam about the bracelet, just as I thought she would.
‘Is there any dinner left?’ asks Ben. He’s still holding my hand and I grip it like it’s a life raft.
‘Eva made a fish pie. There’s some left in the oven,’ says Beatrice, ignoring me. Their plates are empty and so are their wine glasses, plus the two bottles in the middle of the table. Ben lets go of my hand and walks to the Aga and I take a seat opposite Beatrice.
‘Beatrice …’ I begin. There’s so much I want to say, but I know I’m not very good at confronting things. I’m interrupted by Ben placing a plateful of fish pie in front of me but I know if I take a mouthful I will vomit. He sits next to me, handing me cutlery and a wine glass with a reassuring look in his eyes. I find it endearing that he’s taking control, that he’s looking after me.
‘I see you’ve downed all the wine.’ His voice is devoid of its usual warmth as he addresses his sister.
Pam looks uncomfortable and, making some excuse about having to call her boyfriend, hurries from the kitchen. The pitter patter of rain on glass, the occasional gust of wind rattling the windowpanes, are the only sounds to be heard. I pick at my food but Ben shovels his down with gusto, not put off by the tense atmosphere in the room that makes me claustrophobic. I yearn to run up to the sanctuary of my bedroom. I take a small forkful of pie before putting my cutlery down.
Beatrice looks from me to Ben as I stare miserably at my hands. I’m surprised when I see, from my peripheral vision, her hand reach across the table towards me. I keep mine folded in my lap.
‘I’m so sorry, Abi,’ she says solemnly. ‘I should never have accused you of stealing from me.’
‘So you’ve found the bracelet?’ Ben’s voice is sharp.
She shakes her head and I almost feel sorry for her. ‘No, no, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. As you said, Abi. I can make another one for my client. No big deal.’
Ben glances at me and I see it, doubt clouding his hazel eyes, but he remains silent.
‘I’m sorry I sounded so flippant earlier. But I didn’t take it, Beatrice. I’m not a thief.’
I think of all the people I’ve taken from: Lucy, Alicia, and yes, even Beatrice. Maybe I am a thief after all.
When I reach my bedroom there is a missed call and a voicemail on my mobile phone. I listen to the message from Miranda while pacing the length of the room. From my window I see Beatrice heading out of the garden gate. Where is she off to at this time of night? I push thoughts of Beatrice from my mind and try to concentrate on what Miranda is telling me. The Patricia Lipton interview is mine if I’m still interested. She’s arranged for a night stay in a hotel and I leave the day after tomorrow. Adrenalin and purpose surge through me, and I know that Nia was right when she urged me not to give up my job. Getting away from this house, even for a couple of days, would be the best thing for me. For my sanity.
Beatrice marches down the street without an umbrella, not caring that the wind is whipping at her red mackintosh or that the rain splashes against her bare legs, not even noticing how soaked her leopard-print pumps are. The sky is dark, moonless, she shouldn’t be out this time of night on her own, but it’s Bath. She feels safer out here in the wind and rain than she does in her own house at the moment.
She shelters in the doorway of the café in the high street and lights a cigarette. She’s started smoking more since Abi moved in. Her fingers tremble as she puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, savouring the sickly taste of the tobacco as it burns the back of her throat. She’s still reeling from the argument with Abi and at the way she was cast as the bad guy at dinner tonight; her heart races when she recalls it. How can they treat her this way? After everything she’s done. For both of them.
She had made an effort to be polite when she asked Abi to return her clothes this afternoon. True, she wanted them back, but it had been two weeks, surely Abi could have bought some summer clothes by now? And anyhow, she didn’t want to see Abi wearing her dresses. Not after everything. Even so, she had been shocked when Abi angrily pulled her precious dresses from their respective hangers and almost threw them at her as if they were nothing more than rags. Then her facetious remark about making another bracelet, like it didn’t matter about the first one, it was nothing that Beatrice’s reputation was on the line, her hard work down the drain.
It had made Beatrice want to smack her smug face.
She takes another drag of her cigarette. Maybe I was wrong to accuse Abi of stealing the bracelet, she thinks as she exhales smoke into the damp night air. She tried to apologize at dinner, but it infuriated her to see how Abi had obviously gone running to Ben, making out that she, Abi, was the victim in all this. She had the gall to sit there, clutching Ben’s hand, her face contorted with worry, playing the innocent little girl act while Ben sat next to her, big and protective and on her side.
Are you trying to turn Ben against me?
She had noticed the maroon tea-dress hanging in Abi’s wardrobe this afternoon as well as the brand-new, still in the box, Dunlop Green Flash trainers on the shelf. Beatrice wonders if it has occurred to Abi how similar the two of them look. The same heart-shaped faces, ski-slope noses, fair hair, slim frame?
Are you trying to replace me, Abi? Is that what this is all about? Is that why you bought identical trainers? The type of dress I’d wear? This thought makes her shiver and she wraps her coat further around her body.
There would have been a time when Beatrice would have felt secure in the knowledge that she was Ben’s number one girl, his priority. But now she’s not so sure. It’s true that she might have had an ulterior motive when she asked Abi to move in initially, but this is the last thing she thought would happen.
A streetlamp hums and flickers, its orange halo illuminating the fine rain that continues to fall. She takes another drag of her cigarette then stubs it out against the wall, flicking the stub behind her.
Whatever game you’re playing, Abi, she decides resolutely as she thrusts her hands deep into her pockets and heads back into the rain, towards home, I won’t let you win. I’ve got too much to lose.
The Mini, red and disconcertingly shiny, is parked just across from where I disembarked from the ferry, and the slightly built Asian man with a pretty, almost feminine face, ushers me towards it, unaware of my discomfort, my fear.
‘Have you driven a Mini before, Miss Cavendish?’ he says, clutching his clipboard to his chest. Regardless of his diminutive stature I have to trot to keep up with him. I shake my head. I’m finding it difficult to swallow. When we get to the vehicle he makes notes with a scratchy ballpoint pen on to a car-shaped diagram as to its current condition, and I hope it will still be scratch free when I return it tomorrow. He opens the door and leans inside to demonstrate how to start the engine, where the controls and indicators are, and how to use the built-in sat nav. And then he drops the key fob into the palm of my trembling hand and leaves me standing there, unsure if I have the nerve to get behind the wheel after all this time.
In London it was easy not to drive, what with a tube station a short walk from our house. Even in Bath I can take the bus whenever I