The Sisters: A gripping psychological suspense

‘Wow,’ I say, going over to the jewellery. ‘Did you make all of these? They’re brilliant.’

‘Thank you,’ she says shyly. She’s standing behind me so I can’t see her face, but by the tone of her voice I imagine she’s blushing at my compliment, and I find it endearing that she doesn’t know how talented she is.

And then I see it, hanging from one of the branches. A short silver chain with raised daisies intricately arranged in the shape of a letter A. My heart flutters. That necklace is meant for me, I’m sure of it. It’s as if Beatrice somehow knew a girl would come into her life with this very initial. I reach over and touch it, running my fingers over the daisies.

‘Do you like it?’ Beatrice is so close her breath brushes the back of my neck.

‘I love it. How much is it?’

She steps in front of me and lifts the necklace from the stand, draping it over the palm of her hand. She holds it out towards me. ‘Here, I want you to have it.’

‘I couldn’t …’ I begin, but she hushes me, tells me to turn around so that I can try the necklace on. I lift my hair away from my neck to allow her to place the chain around my throat. Her fingers are cool against my skin.

‘There,’ she says, her hands on my shoulders, gently steering me so that I’m facing her. ‘Perfect.’

‘Please let me pay you for it,’ I say, uncomfortable with her generosity.

She waves her hand dismissively. ‘Call it a thank you for helping me out this afternoon.’ She wrinkles her nose in concern. ‘You will stay and help, won’t you?’

I touch the necklace at my throat. ‘How can I resist now?’ I joke, not wanting her to know that it was always my intention to stay. And that I would have done so for free.

The afternoon flies by as a steady stream of people trickle into Beatrice’s room to view her jewellery. Some are time wasters who have come purely to nose around Beatrice’s lovely home, a few are on the way down from the attic rooms after buying one of Cass’s photographs, or Pam’s paintings. We quickly fall into our roles, Beatrice as the sales person, me as the cashier, and in spite of how busy it gets I find that I’m enjoying myself. Beatrice interacts with everyone with such confidence and aplomb that I can’t help but admire her. I’m disappointed when Pam pops her head around the door at seven to ask if they should call it a day.

‘Definitely, I’m exhausted,’ says Beatrice as she flops on to her bed. Pam rolls her eyes good-naturedly and I can hear her heavy footsteps as she disappears off down the corridor. ‘Well, that was good fun. You will stay for a glass of wine?’ Beatrice asks me. ‘I think we need to celebrate.’

‘I’d love to,’ I say, although I would prefer to stay up here with her. We’ve had such a lovely afternoon, the two of us and I’ve enjoyed her company more than I thought possible. We were a team and I don’t want it to end. If we go downstairs I would have to make small talk with the others. I’d have to share Beatrice. I feel slightly deflated as I help her pack the few items of jewellery she has left into their respective boxes.

‘I wonder what Ben’s been doing all afternoon?’ she muses as she forces the lid shut on a bangle. ‘I think he wanted to steer clear of the whole thing.’ She gives a small sharp laugh but I sense her disappointment that Ben didn’t come up to see how she was getting on.

‘Is he older than you?’ I say as I hand her a pair of earrings.

She takes the earrings from me and shoves them in a drawer. ‘Only by a couple of minutes. We’re twins.’

I’m aware of the blood draining from my face. Twins.

Beatrice pauses. ‘Are you okay, Abi? You’ve gone pale.’

I clear my throat. ‘It’s … well, I’m also a twin. Was a twin. Am a twin.’ I’m rambling because I hate telling people about Lucy. I hate the way they look at me, with a mixture of pity and embarrassment, terrified that I might dissolve into tears. Inevitably there is an awkward silence, then they turn away to glance at their shoes, or at their hands, anywhere but at me, while mumbling how sorry they are before they change the subject, leaving meworrying if I’ve made amassive faux pas by mentioning my dead sister. Some of my old friends have avoided me since Lucy died. Nia assures me it’s because they don’t know what to say to me, but why can’t they understand that saying something, anything, is better than not acknowledging it at all?

I hold my breath, expecting something similar from Beatrice. But she stops what she’s doing and looks me directly in the eye. ‘What happened?’ she asks, and I can tell she genuinely wants to know. She’s not pushing me away, afraid of my grief. She’s not embarrassed by it. She’s facing it head on. I’m so relieved that she’s not like everyone else that I want to hug her.

‘She … she died.’ Tears cloud my vision. And it was my fault, I want to add. But I don’t. If she knew the truth about me it would ruin everything.

‘Abi, I’m so sorry,’ she says and she places a hand on my arm. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I pause, knowing I can’t talk about Lucy. What is there to say? That she was my identical twin sister, that I loved her more than anyone else in the world, that she was the other part of me, my other half, my better half, and that without her I am lost, in limbo, that it doesn’t seem right being alive without her, that it’s my fault and that I can never forgive myself even if the courts of law did exonerate me. I shake my head.

‘I understand,’ she says, her voice gentle. ‘Our parents died when Ben and I were small but I still find it hard to talk about it, even after all this time. I don’t think you ever get over losing a loved one.’

And in that moment I sense it, the bond between us; formed over a shared grief and the special relationship that can only be understood by twins.

By midnight I’ve lost count of the amount of champagne I’ve consumed to stem my nerves and give me the confidence to talk to all of Beatrice’s friends. I excuse myself from her gathering and lock myself in the downstairs loo, afraid I’m going to be sick. I should have eaten more. I lean over the sink and take deep breaths until the nausea subsides. I need to go home, I think as I splash cold water on my face and assess myself in the glass of the bathroom cabinet. As always, I jolt at my reflection; at the dark circles under my eyes, the blonde hair that has long grown out of its neat bob, the too-big mouth that always gives the impression of jollity even when I’m anything but happy.

I see Lucy everywhere, but never more than when I look in the mirror.

Chapter Three (#u6342040e-b91d-5cfe-803f-64555465c128)

The front door slams. Beatrice moves to her bedroom window just in time to see two dark figures weaving out of the front gate and towards the bus stop at the end of the road. They’re giggling, stumbling, quite obviously a little drunk. He has his arms about her slim waist as if to keep her from folding in on herself and their pose reminds her of a puppet-master holding up his marionette.

They pass a streetlamp, thrusting them into the spotlight and her stomach falls when she realizes it’s Ben. And Abi.

The number fourteen bus trundles past her window like a lethargic old man, the brakes squeaking against the still-hot tarmac as it halts. Beatrice watches as Abi disappears on to it, watches as Ben continues to wave even after the bus has rounded the corner out of sight. It’s too dark to see the expression on her brother’s face, but she can imagine it. The twinkle in his hazel eyes, the crooked smile on his full lips. It’s the look of a man who’s been stupefied, it’s a look she’s only ever seen on his face once before.

And as he turns slowly, reluctantly back towards the house, she knows – in that special way that only a twin can – that this is the start of something.

Beatrice thrusts the curtains together so vigorously that they continue to swing even when she turns away from them to pace the room. She refrains from switching the light on, preferring to listen out for the telltale sounds of the key in the lock, the clip-clop of Ben’s Chelsea boots on the flagstone hallway, the thud as he climbs the stairs two at a time to her room. Why does the realization that her brother might have found someone he likes make her want to cry?

He flings open the door, flooding the bedroom with light from the landing.

‘Why are you in the dark, you mad cow?’ he laughs, flicking the switch.

She shrugs and perches at her dressing table. Ben sits heavily on her double bed, the mattress sighs under his weight. ‘Cass and Jodie have gone out and Pam has fallen asleep at her easel again. So, how do you think it went?’ He seems genuinely concerned for her, which tugs at her heart.

‘Okay, I guess.’ She pulls the earrings from her ears. ‘I sold some pieces of jewellery. I gave Abi a necklace.’ She watches Ben’s expression carefully in the mirror, looking for signs. She notices the shy smile at the mention of Abi’s name, then his eyes meet hers and the smile snaps off his face.

He frowns. ‘Are you okay, Bea?’

‘I saw you with Abi.’ She knows she shouldn’t but she can’t help it. ‘You fancy her, don’t you? That wasn’t in the plan, Ben.’

‘Plan?’ A pulse throbs in Ben’s jaw and Beatrice knows she’s made him angry. ‘There is no plan. We all spent some time together, got a little drunk, had a laugh, and then I walked her to the bus stop. Not much to tell.’

‘You know what I mean. You have to be careful. You know what she’s been through.’

‘She’s a big girl.’ Ben lays back on the bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She notices he still has his boots on and this irritates her.

‘I’m supposed to be the one helping her,’ she snaps. ‘And I don’t think getting emotionally involved is good for her at the moment.’

‘Whatever, Bea. You’ve obviously decided she’s another one of your projects.’

‘Projects?’ she says querulously. ‘This is more than a coincidence, Ben … It’s a sign.’

‘I know, you’ve already said.’ Ben sits up again and sighs. ‘Look, I’ve had a lot to drink. I’m going to bed.’ He gets up and leaves the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Beatrice stares at herself in the mirror. She refuses to cry. Instead she swipes at her eyes with a cotton pad doused in oily make-up remover, then cleanses her face and throat in rhythmic strokes.

She’d known as soon as she met Abi who she was. Those big green eyes had tugged at her memory before she even had the chance to reveal her name. But the name had cemented it, of course. Abi Cavendish. The Cavendish twins. Their delicate heart-shaped faces had peered endearingly out of the newspaper reports at the time, unknowing of the future that lay ahead for them. She’d got home yesterday – was it only yesterday? – and retrieved the newspaper cutting hidden between her bras and knickers in her underwear drawer and shown it to Ben, prodding it with an excitable finger, telling him that it must mean something. Didn’t he see, she urged, didn’t he see that this was fate? She’d cut that piece out of the paper over a year ago, and now, nearly a year to the day, she meets the very girl from the story. She told him that if Abi turned up for the open studio then it was a sign that this was the woman that Beatrice was meant to help.

And she did turn up. See, Ben? Fate.