it up earlier.’ She smiles at me serenely, retrieving Lucy’s letter from under her armpit, and I take it with a trembling hand, confusion clouding my thoughts. Surely I would have noticed the pastel-pink envelope against the cream flagstones? I’ve been up and down this staircase enough times since she carried the box for me.
‘Come on,’ she says cheerfully, seeming not to notice my anguish. ‘Let’s get some of these boxes unpacked. Ben won’t be able to help after all, I’m afraid. Monty’s popped over and taken him out for a drink.’
Why doesn’t this surprise me?
I replace Lucy’s precious letter back into the bundle with the others and when Beatrice’s back is turned and she’s engrossed in sorting through my clothes, I reach up and shove the box on top of the wardrobe, away from her prying eyes.
Beatrice hates lies, despises the havoc, the pain that they invariably cause. She remembers only too well the impact, the devastation that ensues when the truth is finally revealed; it is all still fresh in her mind. And now, the all too familiar feelings of betrayal have resurfaced. Why can’t she stop thinking about him?
She rolls over on to her back, kicking the quilt to the bottom of the bed. The room is musty even though the window is ajar, her legs are slick with sweat, her nightdress sticking to her body like a second skin. She turns on her side, a shaft of light evident underneath her closed bedroom door. Who is still awake at this late hour? Is Abi having trouble sleeping in her new home? Or Ben, unable to relax knowing the object of his affection is across the corridor? She sighs, sitting up and switching on her bedside lamp and reaching for her phone to see the time. It’s gone 1 a.m. It’s no use, how is she supposed to sleep, knowing that Abi is next door with only a wall between them, with only a landing separating her from her twin brother?
Of course she knows it’s only a matter of time before they get together. She can see the attraction between them, as if they have their very own forcefield. It was obvious at Monty’s party; did they think she was blind, not to see the way they were looking at each other in the garden that night? She had never even considered asking Abi to Monty’s party, but Abi had left numerous messages on her mobile, wanting to know if they could meet up before she moved in. Beatrice had begun to feel harried and in the end invited her mainly to appease her.
Even her stupid house rules will be powerless to stop them, she thinks. She won’t be able to keep them apart for much longer and she’s naïve to think otherwise. Unless …
She swings her legs out of bed and goes to her dressing table, gently touching the jewellery that she’s laid out between her face creams and make-up, calming down, as she always does at the thought of her new, burgeoning business. At last she’s found something that she’s good at, something that helps make up for all the pain in her past. Oh, Abi, she thinks as she touches a silver daisy-chained bracelet interlaced with sapphires, the piece of jewellery she’s most proud of creating, we’ve got more in common than you could possibly know.
Sitting at her dressing table she opens one of the drawers and retrieves a ripped-out page from a newspaper, creased and dog-eared and already beginning to turn to the colour of milky tea. She places it on her lap, smoothing it flat in a futile attempt to iron out the lines where it has been repeatedly folded, and reads the article for the hundredth time.
Identical Twin Not Guilty of Causing Sister’s Death by Careless Driving
A WOMAN who killed her identical twin sister in a crash on the A31 near Guildford, Surrey, has been found not guilty of death by careless driving, a court heard.
A jury of seven women and five men took less than an hour to return the not guilty verdict on Abigail Cavendish, 28, from Balham, South London at Southwark Crown Court yesterday.
Ms Cavendish, her twin sister Lucy, who was a front seat passenger, and three others were travelling home from a Halloween party on 31 October last year when her Audi A3 came off the road in torrential rain and turned over into a ditch. A breathalyser test taken at the scene showed that the accused was not over the legal drink-drive limit.
The prosecution had claimed Ms Cavendish was driving too fast in the rain and hadn’t been concentrating on the notoriously dangerous road. A statement from a passenger, a Mr Luke Munroe, the deceased’s boyfriend, stated that an ongoing argument had clouded Ms Cavendish’s judgement on the night in question, causing her to drive erratically.
Judge Ruth Millstow, QC, told the court that Lucy Cavendish’s death was the result of a tragic accident brought on by severe weather conditions.
Beatrice peers at the accompanying photograph, at the twin sisters’ happy, smiling faces, mirror images of one another. She would never be able to tell them apart if she had seen them both together. The photograph looks as if it was taken on a holiday, a palm tree frozen mid-sway in the background, the twins tanned and blonde, the shoe-string straps of a vest or a dress evident in the head-and-shoulders shot.
Beatrice had been on the tube, visiting a friend in Islington, when she saw the piece in the local free newspaper that someone had left discarded on the seat next to her. She had flicked through it idly, barely paying attention to the depressing stories about knifed youths or grannies robbed in broad daylight, until the photograph had caught her eye. The sisters, blonde, slim, with heart-shaped faces and full mouths, could be related to her, so similar were their looks. And when she noticed the headline she felt a rush of empathy. Twins – like her and Ben – and as she read on she actually gasped out loud as her eyes alighted on Luke’s name. Her stomach contracted painfully. Would she ever escape her past? Luke had been the dead sister’s boyfriend. He had obviously chosen someone who resembled her. Was the universe trying to tell her something?
She’d tucked the newspaper into her bag, had come home and carefully cut the piece out, knowing that one day it would come in handy.
She surveys herself in the mirror: her pale hair, slightly slick with sweat, her too-pink cheeks in the soft glow of her lamp. It doesn’t matter how she feels about what might be taking place under her very nose, about the way they are trying to keep her in the dark, laughing at her behind her back. It is her duty to help Abi, she must remember that, even if Ben seems happy to forget it.
You’re not the only one who can’t forgive yourself, Abi.
Beatrice carefully refolds the newspaper article neatly into quarters and slips it back into her drawer. And as she gets back into bed and settles underneath the sheets, she knows she has to intervene. Before it’s too late.
It takes me a few seconds to register that I’m at Beatrice’s house when I open my eyes the next morning. The tinny sound of a radio playing floats up from somewhere within the bowels of the house and the sun’s rays filter through the gap in Jodie’s threadbare navy-blue curtains, creating oblong reflections on the ceiling. I gaze up at the shifting patterns, unsure of what to do, how to act, now that I’m finally here. It’s been so long since I’ve lived with people my own age, my peers, that I’m immobilized with a kind of stage fright.
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