they express concern about the fact I’ve hardly driven since the accident. My Audi was a write-off, but my insurance company had given me a couple of grand for the car and everyone had insisted I needed to buy another one, that I needed to ‘get back on the horse’ as it were. But then I met Alicia, followed by my attempted suicide, my breakdown. And when I was well enough to leave the psychiatric hospital to live with my parents, there was no need for a car. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But the truth of it is that I’m scared. The last time I got behind a wheel I ended up killing my own twin sister. What if I ended up endangering the life of someone else?
Swallowing down the bile that’s rising in my throat, I slide into the driver’s seat and touch the wheel gingerly. Surely I can’t do much damage in a Mini? A young mother pushing a pram crosses the road in front of where I’m parked, and I shudder as I imagine ploughing into her, the bonnet of the car lifting the pram high into the air, the screams of the baby … I fight the urge to retch. I don’t know if I can do this.
I wait as the young mother manoeuvres her pram safely on to the pavement before I have the courage to push the key fob into the dashboard, and I press the ignition button with a timorous hand. I sit there for a while, the car purring away, nauseous at the thought of driving through the streets of Cowes. I turn my head. The glisten of the late afternoon sun bounces off the sea in the distance, the white triangular sail of a boat bobs up and down. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of salt in the air, and I close my eyes, reminding myself of the mantra that Janice taught me, becoming calmer as I concentrate on breathing in and out. In and out.
Then I hear Lucy’s soft voice in my ear, so clearly it’s as though she’s sitting in the front passenger seat next to me. It wasn’t your fault. You can do this, Abi. I press my foot down on the clutch, push the gearstick into first and gently tap the accelerator, amazed as the car begins to crawl slowly away from the kerb and on to the road.
And I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face as I hear Lucy whooping and cheering beside me as I drive, actually drive, towards Cowes.
The bed and breakfast that Miranda has booked for me has a view of the marina and a landlady who reminds me of my late grandmother. She fusses around me when I arrive, asking if she can make me a cooked breakfast in the morning and if I wish for my one solitary holdall to be taken up to the bedroom. I politely turn down any offers of help and escape to the sanctuary of my room, which is small but pleasant in a shabby-chic kind of way. I quickly unpack my wash bag and hang up the trousers I will be wearing for the interview tomorrow in the white painted wardrobe, a frisson of nerves mixed with excitement that I’ve been given this chance to interview Patricia Lipton. The room is chilly even though the sun is out. I unravel my cardigan, briefly putting it to my nose to inhale the comforting scent of home. Beatrice’s home. I wrap it around me and head out in the vague direction of the marina, the breeze whipping my hair back, the smell of fish and chips in the air, the melancholy call of seagulls, and I’m reminded of Lucy and of my childhood at seaside places reminiscent of this, of me chasing her – always chasing her, although I could never quite catch her – dressed in our red swimsuits with the frills around the bottom, her yellow ponytail swinging as she ran, our laughter ringing out as we clutched our plastic windmills in our chubby hands, faces smeared with ice cream, and Mum and Dad trailing behind us with proud smiles as strangers stopped to comment on how pretty we were, how identical. Too identical, as it turns out.
I carry on walking, past the marina with its cluster of sailboats in white and blue, through the cobbled pavements of the town centre, on to the promenade with pensioners reclining on wooden benches looking out to sea, until I get to the beach. I pick my way over the shingles, amazed how quiet it is for July. There are a few families making the most of the last of the day’s sunshine and a scattering of couples sitting holding hands or lolling against the wall. I make my way to the water’s edge in my flip-flops and my jeans turned up at the ankle, enjoying the warm sea lapping at my toes. My thirtieth birthday is at the beginning of next month. Every time I think of it I get a stabbing pain under my ribs, the sense of loss, of going through life alone instead of sharing these milestones with Lucy. I’m getting older while my twin sister will forever be twenty-eight.
As I turn and glance back towards the road, I freeze. She’s sitting on the wall, her long legs crossed at the ankle, her pale bob skimming her tanned shoulders, slim fingers fanned out to shield her eyes from the sunshine. At first I’m convinced it’s Lucy, until I notice the dark markings of a flower weaving its way around her ankle. I squint to get a better look. Has she caught the train to Southampton and boarded the ferry to follow me here? I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping that when I open them again she would have evaporated like the optical illusion I’m hoping she is, because surely I must be imagining her sitting there. It’s my illness, my paranoia. But when I open my eyes she’s still there. There’s nothing for it, I think, but to confront her, to ask her what the hell she’s playing at. But as soon as I take a step forward she gets up, dusting down her summer dress, and hops off the wall with the agility of a cat, disappearing into the clusters of people on the street, leaving me staring after her, terrified that I’m losing my mind.
I spend most of the night tossing and turning in the double bed, as if my body is aware that it’s meant for two. My head is full of all of them: Lucy, Nia, Callum, Luke, Ben, Beatrice, Cass, Jodie and Pam. Their faces are interchangeable as they race through my thoughts; a television recording on fast forward. Would Beatrice follow me here, and if so, why? I eventually fall asleep to the shriek of gulls as the sun filters through the slats in the wooden shutters.
But I can’t shake the uneasiness that envelops me as I shower and dress. I pull on my smart black trousers that I’ve hardly had the need to wear since Lucy died. Now they gape slightly at the waist. The sun is high in the sky, but I throw on my denim jacket over my cotton blouse to be on the safe side. Then I pack the rest of my meagre items in the holdall and go down for breakfast.
The dining room has the same view of the marina as my bedroom. I’m surprisingly hungry and enjoy the sausage, bacon and eggs the landlady has made for me, nodding politely as she talks about the local sights.
The drive to Patricia’s house is a pleasant one along slow coastal roads, and, thanks to the built-in sat nav, I don’t get lost. My knees still tremble at being behind the wheel, but I am reassured by the car’s compactness, the fact that I’m not carrying any passengers who I can inadvertently kill. I’m even confident enough to turn the radio on. Katy Perry is singing about fireworks as I drive past couples holding hands as they meander along the front, and children skipping in sunhats, eating ice creams. Then I turn into an unadopted side road that’s little more than a track, the rough terrain causing the Mini to shudder and lurch over potholes until I get to wrought-iron gates that stand open, revealing a pretty Edwardian country house. I park next to a black VW Golf, wondering if the photographer is already here as I step out on to the gravel and crunch my way to the arch-shaped wooden front door, heart banging in my chest. I’m worried I will mess up and look stupid in front of an intelligent woman like Patricia. A woman who has written countless bestsellers, most of which I’ve read. She’s one of my idols, and the thought of meeting her, of talking to her about her life, makes me forget everything else for a few minutes.
Patricia answers, tall and elegant and not looking her sixty-eight years. I introduce myself as she shakes my hand, aware that mine is clammy, and she ushers me into a large drawing room the same size as Beatrice’s, except whereas Bea’s is crammed full of brightly coloured sofas and eclectic artefacts, Patricia’s reminds me of a sepia photograph with all its cream and brown hues. For all its beauty, the room has a lived-in look about it: a stack of books on the coffee table, dog hairs on the sofa, a cat’s scratching post by the patio doors. I perch on the sofa while she takes a seat in an elegant armchair opposite me, next to a brick fireplace. The room has a view of a large back garden with an orchard in the distance, and I slowly begin to relax. I decline the offer of tea and we sit down.
‘The photographer is setting up in the garden,’ she says and although I’m a little intimidated by her, I realize I like her already, that she’s not a disappointment. I pull out my notepad from my bag.
We spend nearly an hour talking about her