replaces the photograph and then her eye catches the large plastic daisy on top of a curvaceous perfume bottle that sits in the middle of a cluster of face creams and body lotions, and a chill runs down her back.
Daisy by Marc Jacobs. It’s the same scent that she wears.
Why would you do that, Abi? Why would you deliberately buy the same perfume as me?
Beatrice picks up the book on the top of the pile, it’s a hardback with a ripped plastic cover, possibly a charity shop find or, as she discovers from flipping over the front page and noticing the inky stamp mark, from Bath Central Library. Patricia Lipton, the author’s name, rings a faint bell. She turns it over to read the synopsis on the back, some boring story about a workhouse that Catherine Cookson would be proud of. Beatrice replaces it. It’s not her type of thing at all. She opens the drawer, her heart lurching when she notices a blister pack of pills. Surely they aren’t contraception pills? The pack has no indentations, no pills have been removed.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice is sharp, causing her to spring away from the drawer, dropping the pills on the floor.
‘I … um …’ she turns to see Ben in the doorway, his eyes narrowed. It only takes a few strides before Ben’s standing before her. He bends down to pick up the packet, his eyebrows drawn together.
‘I can’t believe you’re going through her things. What are you playing at? And what are these?’ He turns them over in his hands. ‘Fluoxetine. Put them back,’ he snaps.
She takes them from him. ‘Are these antidepressants?’
He nods, his jaw clenched.
‘Then shouldn’t she have taken them with her? I’m obviously no doctor, Ben, but surely she can’t miss a dose?’
‘It’s not right being in her room without her knowledge,’ he says. He wanders to the window, pulling aside the curtains that Abi still hasn’t got around to replacing and that are at odds with the rest of the bedroom, and peers out the window. Beatrice goes to stand behind him, her fingers still wrapped around the packet of antidepressants. Over his shoulder she notices the lamplights on the street below fluttering into life.
‘I’m sorry. I thought … the bracelet, you know.’
He sighs. ‘Can’t you just let it go?’
She pulls his arm. ‘Look at me, Ben.’ He turns to face her, his eyes downcast. ‘I think she stole that bracelet. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s jealous, maybe she wants to sabotage my new business. Maybe she wanted it for herself, or needed some money. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I realize you’re fond of her, but …’
‘I love her, Bea.’ His voice is unusually soft and the sound of it makes Beatrice reel. For a moment she thinks she might be sick. He tilts his eyes up to meet hers, searching her face as if waiting for her reaction, and there is something behind his expression, a smugness, as if he’s used those words on purpose, to provoke her, to hurt her.
‘Even though she may be a thief?’ She knows it’s a low blow, but she can’t resist.
‘I don’t think she is. But if she did take your bracelet, as you claim, she needs our help.’
His words shame her.
‘You’re right.’ She walks towards Abi’s bedside cabinet and puts the packet of antidepressants back in the drawer where she found them. She’s about to close it when something sparkles, catching her eye. Nestled in the corner, almost hidden by the scented drawer-liner dotted with rosebuds, is an earring.
‘Ben, look at this.’ And she can’t help a sense of satisfaction as she places the earring triumphantly in the palm of his hand where it sits, unaware of its significance, delicate and daisy-shaped and yellow as the sun.
Somebody has been in my bedroom. It’s barely perceptible but I can tell by the curtains that are pulled back a fraction too much; the wrinkled indentation on my duvet cover where someone has been sitting on my bed; the drawer to my night stand that has been left ajar; the Patricia Lipton novel that has been replaced upside down.
I dump my bag next to the bed and hurry to the wardrobe. Throwing open the doors, I stand on my tiptoes to reach for the box containing Lucy’s letters, hidden on the shelf above my meagre selection of clothes. Relief surges through me as my hands grasp it, but when I bring it down I can tell straight away that someone has been rifling through them. The letters, that I had taken such pains to bind with an elastic band, are now loose so that they swim across from one end to the other like unfettered fish as I carry the box to the bed. Feverishly, I count the letters and my heart drops. This time there is no mistake; three of the letters are missing.
I take a deep breath to fight the nausea, thinking of Beatrice, painfully aware why she’s done this.
I’m about to replace the lid when I notice something shiny shoved in one of the envelopes. Is it a photograph? Puzzled, I pull it out while at the same time thinking that I never keep photos in with Lucy’s letters. I freeze in shock, letting the box slip off my lap and fall on to the carpet, spilling letters everywhere.
A chill runs down my spine.
The photograph is one I’ve never seen before. It’s a six-by-four inch black and white, head-and-shoulders shot. By the mid-length fair hair I suspect the picture is of me. Except I can’t tell for sure because someone has deliberately, and by the look of it, quite violently, scratched the face off.
I know I have to bide my time before mentioning the letters, and the photograph, to Ben. I get my chance a few days later.
We’re sprawled out on the stripy sun-loungers that are a permanent feature on the terrace since the heatwave. At our feet are empty glasses, half-eaten packets of crisps, an ashtray and a bottle of sunscreen that Ben earlier slathered over his freckled nose. His face is turned up to the cloudy sky, his eyes closed, although the sun isn’t strong enough to provide any real warmth and I’m covered up in jeans and a cardigan.
Both of us have skirted around the issue of Beatrice and the missing bracelet since I returned from the Isle of Wight. I’ve hardly seen her, it’s almost as if she’s been going out of her way to avoid me, and when we do bump into each other at breakfast, or pass each other on the stairs, our conversation is anodyne, courteous. In spite of everything, the cold-shouldering, the petulance over my relationship with her brother, her accusations, her stealing Lucy’s precious letters, the dead bird, the creepy photograph, I am sad that it’s come to this. In my weaker moments, I want to rush up to her, to apologize for everything that’s gone wrong and to resume our friendship. But I know that can never happen, not while I’m dating Ben. I was mistaken, thinking I could have them both. I’ve been too greedy.
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous about how to broach the subject with Ben, but I’m desperate to get those letters back, and short of returning the favour and going through Beatrice’s room, I’m at a loss as to what to do. The game I’ve been forced to play has reached stalemate.
Ben turns over on to his elbow, squinting up at me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Uh oh, is this serious?’ he jokes. But he adjusts his lounger into an upright position, like mine, and stubs out his cigarette.
‘When I was in the Isle of Wight …’ I begin.
‘You met up with your ex-boyfriend,’ he finishes. His smile slips from his face and for a moment, a millisecond really, I glimpse another side to him. A side I haven’t seen before; hard probing eyes, set jawline;