The Sisters: A gripping psychological suspense

‘Isn’t this place amazing?’ she says, in an effort to lighten the mood, linking her arm through mine. ‘Monty is minted. Ha, Minted Monty, that’s what we should call him.’ She laughs at her own, rather feeble joke while my heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest.

Beatrice told me she’d met Paul Montgomery, or Monty for short, after he’d given a talk while she was studying for her MA at the university, and they had become ‘great friends’ apparently. ‘He’s gay and very flamboyant,’ she says. ‘And quite a successful artist. His parties are legendary.’

I take a deep breath before we push our way through the heavy front door and the heat hits me like an invisible wall. I find it hard to swallow, my tongue sticking to the dry roof of my mouth. There are people everywhere, clusters of them on the landing, milling about the hallway, languishing against door frames with easy smiles, glasses of bubbly in their hands. Waiters dressed in black and white manoeuvre expertly through the crowds, refilling glasses surreptitiously and handing out hors d’oeuvres from silver trays. The music pulsates in my ears, making my heart beat even faster, my pulse pounding painfully in my throat. I always knew this was going to be difficult, the first party without Lucy.

I suddenly glimpse her amongst the knots of people gathered on the sweeping staircase, a floaty scarf around her long neck, her familiar encouraging smile playing on her too-large mouth, but when I blink again she’s gone. Beatrice glances at me, mouthing if I’m okay and when I nod she squeezes my hand reassuringly, telling me I’m doing fine and to stay close to her. I follow her swishy bob, my hand gripping hers as we snake our way through the hordes of jostling bodies, in the same way I used to follow my sister whenever we went to parties or clubs.

It was always Lucy and Abi Cavendish and never the other way around. She was two minutes older than me, my better half, the brighter, shinier, more intelligent twin. I was the runt of the litter. As my mum was always so fond of telling us, as a baby I was the sickly one who suffered from acid reflux, whereas Lucy thrived, consuming all the milk and solids that she could get her chubby little mitts on. In the faded photographs taken with Dad’s instant Polaroid camera from the mid-1980s, square-shaped and yellowing, the corners curled with age, Lucy and I sit together on a sheepskin rug in front of a stone fireplace or on a picnic blanket on the lawn of our garden, two almost identical toddlers dressed in matching clothes, her pudgy-thighed and cute and me, her stunted skinny twin, Lucy’s distorted mirror image.

Even at school she made friends easier than I did; she had a natural, breezy way about her, whereas I was too intense. When she suggested we join in with the other girls in the playground I would stick out my lower lip and shake my head, which infuriated her. She was a social butterfly and I was clipping her wings. I wanted her all to myself, as if I somehow knew, even then, that the time we had together would be short, finite. When Lucy did play Hide and Seek or Tag with the other kids, I would drift around the playground by myself, inventing stories in my head of the great adventures we would have, just the two of us.

It was only at university that I stepped out of Lucy’s shadow. I had no choice. With her brains she was always going to be accepted at a red-brick, Russell Group university; my parents wanted her to be a doctor, and she didn’t disappoint them. I, on the other hand, only ever aspired to the local poly, although I think I surprised everyone, myself included, when I got into Cardiff to study journalism.

Lucy would have walked into this party with her head held high, as if she belonged in this world of wealth and art and I would have followed, her confidence rubbing off on me like body glitter.

‘Beatrice, my pretty darling,’ booms a loud voice and a big bear of a man with a frizzy beard, who looks to be at least fifty years old, parts the crowd. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’ He’s wearing a dazzling print shirt that’s open at the neck and strains over his ample stomach. They busily air-kiss each other and then turn to me. ‘So, this is Abi,’ he says, his chocolate brown eyes meeting mine. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Monty.’ He gives my hand a hearty shake. ‘Come and get a drink.’

They walk off together, leaving me trailing behind them. I can see the strap of a blood-red bra poking out of Beatrice’s black vest top and cutting into the flesh of her shoulder. I can’t quite catch what they are saying above the boom of the music.

We reach a huge, high-ceilinged drawing room with white walls, the coving and Georgian shutters painted a lead grey. Monty thrusts a glass of something orange into my hand and then resumes his conversation with Beatrice and I’m hit with a twinge of jealousy that he’s taking up so much of her time. I take a gulp of my cocktail; it’s so strong the alcohol burns the back of my throat, coating my anxiety, and before I know it I’ve finished the glass and taken another one from the tray of a passing waiter. I feel light-headed as my eyes sweep the room, noticing the many gilt-framed oil paintings of scantily clad, angelic-faced men and women, almost like modern versions of Botticelli, that adorn the walls. I recognize the paintings as being Monty’s own work. Beatrice had shoved a leaflet from his most recent exhibition under my nose while we were in the taxi on the way here. His paintings aren’t to my taste.

I catch snippets of conversations about artists I’ve never heard of or books I’ve never read, and I’m reminded of the parties in London that I attended with Nia and Lucy. They were similar to this; glossy, monied people, effortlessly cool and confident. But I didn’t mind that I never quite fitted in, because I had Nia and Lucy, and we usually only went along for a laugh and a free goody bag.

A cluster of thirty-somethings are dancing rather self-consciously in the corner to Happy Mondays. I turn my attention back to Beatrice, relieved when I see Monty drifting away from her to talk to an elegant woman in her mid-sixties. Beatrice raises her eyebrows at me and wrinkles her nose. ‘Is that woman wearing a real fur stole?’ she giggles. ‘Look, it’s even got a head.’ She seems to find this hilarious and I stare at her, perplexed; how many cocktails has she been plied with? ‘Come on, let’s go and explore,’ she says. ‘I’ve always wanted to have a nose around Monty’s place.’ She takes my hand and we make our way through the different rooms, all as huge and elaborate as the drawing room and filled with people drinking cocktails or champagne. It’s like being in a Stephen Poliakoff film. My heart pounds in my chest. Not with the usual anxiety but with a growing sense of exhilaration at being so near to Beatrice. Her confidence, her joy, is infectious. When I’m with her I experience that heady rush of adrenalin at being around someone who I admire so much. She makes me believe that I can do anything, be anyone.

Giggling and clutching each other, we stumble across a small music room and dump our now-empty cocktail glasses on top of a glossy cream piano. ‘At last,’ sighs Beatrice as she leaps on to a Chesterfield leather sofa, dangling her long legs over the arm. ‘A room with nobody in it. There’s too many people at this party. And my feet are killing me.’

To emphasize this point she kicks off her high heels and stretches her toes, webbed like a duck’s in her opaque tights. I plonk myself next to her, grateful for a break from the relentless music and chatter and noise that accompanied us around every room as if we were being chased by a swarm of bees. The lighting is dim and I’m flattered that Beatrice is comfortable enough with me to lean back against me. I breathe in her smell; her perfume, the apple shampoo from her hair. We sit this way for a while in companionable silence. Me, upright against the stiff back of the Chesterfield, with Beatrice using my lap for a pillow, her legs stretched out so that she takes up most of the sofa.

Without consciously thinking about it, I reach out and gingerly brush her fair hair back from her face. It’s so fine, the skin of her forehead as soft as velvet. Her eyes are closed and at my touch she exhales contentedly. And as I stare down at her beautiful face, so similar to Lucy’s yet so different, my feelings for her merge like the paints on a palette until they become murky, unclear. On one hand she’s becoming a friend, a sister … and yet, just out of reach, a shadow in my peripheral vision, I’m experiencing another, unfamiliar feeling. I lean over her, studying her delicate features. Her eyes are still closed, her long lashes casting shadows on her smooth cheeks and I suddenly long to kiss the freckles that fan across her nose, to touch the clavicle in her throat. I imagine kissing a girl would be softer, sweeter somehow. I lean over her, my mouth hovering above hers and time seems to slow down.

As if reading my thoughts, Beatrice opens her eyes and lifts her head from my lap in one swift movement and I shrink back against the sofa, my face burning at what I was almost compelled to do. What was I thinking? Those two cocktails have obviously gone to my head. I don’t fancy Beatrice. The feelings I have for her are confused in my mind, that’s all. I admire you, Beatrice, I want to yell. You remind me of Lucy. You’re the sort of person I wish I could be and you’re so beautiful. Reminiscent of a sculpture, a piece of art. But the words won’t come, it’s as if my brain has been stuffed with cotton wool, and I can only stare at her as she swings her legs from the arm of the sofa, bending forward to pull on her heels.

If Beatrice suspects the internal struggle I’m having with my emotions, if she knows I was moments away from kissing her, from making the biggest fool of myself, she doesn’t let on. Instead she jumps up and offers her hand to me. ‘Come on,’ she says, her usual bright bubbly self. ‘Let’s go and dance.’

I take her hand and follow her humbly from the room.

The mood has changed when we re-enter the drawing room. Someone has dimmed the lighting and a monotonous house tune that is devoid of a chorus or verse is thumping away. Monty is swaying in the middle of the floor with a drink in his hand and his eyes closed.

I open my mouth to comment when I see a girl I recognize weaving her way through the sweating, heaving crowd towards us. She’s wearing a cute babydoll dress that suits her petite figure and her bleach-blonde pixie crop has been gelled off her face. Her large dark eyes are entirely focused on Beatrice. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ she says querulously when she reaches us. Her voice is thin and reedy. And then it hits me who she is: Cass, the photographer who lives with Beatrice.

‘Cass, you remember Abi?’ Beatrice says. ‘She’s going to be our new housemate.’

Cass drags her eyes reluctantly from Beatrice to murmur a hello before turning her gaze back to her. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she says.

‘Okay,’ says Beatrice, taking her hand, as she did with me half an hour earlier. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she says, flashing me an apologetic smile and I have no choice but to watch as they walk hand in hand further into the room and I can’t help the white-hot flame of hurt that flickers in the pit of my stomach.

I consider calling a taxi and leaving. I’m humiliated by what happened with Beatrice in the music room, and now I’ve been jettisoned for Cass. There is no reason for me to stay. I hover in the doorway self-consciously and I’m about to make a run for it when I spot a familiar face in the crowd by the large bay window. He’s dancing with two guys and a girl I’ve never met and he doesn’t notice me at first. I watch as he moves his body with the confidence of someone who knows they can dance. A waiter breezes past and I take another cocktail from his silver tray and sip it while staring at Ben; at his long legs encased in dark indigo jeans, at the crisp white shirt that’s open exactly the right amount to show off his tanned neck and contrasts with his expensive fitted charcoal blazer. I’d forgotten how attractive, how sexy, Beatrice’s twin brother is.

Then, as if he’s sensed me assessing him, he lifts his hazel eyes in my direction and he grins at me and I draw breath. He is extremely good looking. He stops dancing and we drift towards each other like two magnets and I’m unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. He’s so tall, taller than I remember, his sandy hair longer and more tousled, and before I know it we’re face to face. I suddenly have the urge to throw myself into his arms, to nuzzle against his chest, inhaling his lemony scent. He’s so different to Callum, the eternal student with his scruffy trainers and mussed-up hair. Ben seems more sophisticated, more grown-up somehow, even though at thirty-two they are the same age.

I process Ben’s full sensual mouth, his freckles scattered across the bridge of his straight nose. They belong to him but they are part of Beatrice’s beautiful face too and it suddenly occurs to me, in that moment, that some of Ben’s attraction is that he’s her brother, her twin. He’s the male version of her.

‘Abi,’ he says, his lips twisted in a smirk. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Hi, Ben,’ I say shyly. ‘I came with Beatrice.’

‘Of course you did.’ He’s smiling but I notice a coldness to his tone and his eyes flicker to where Beatrice is standing with Cass. She turns in our direction, a scowl decorating her pretty face and it has the same effect on me as a child’s scribble would have on a famous painting.

‘Have you two had a row?’ I ask, shocked at the animosity I detect in Beatrice’s eyes. Or was that aimed at me?

‘You could say that,’ murmurs Ben, much to my relief. Ben doesn’t take his eyes off Beatrice. It’s almost as if they’re having a staring-out contest, maybe a game from their childhood and I’m frozen out, invisible, it’s the two of them, always the two of them. How can there be room for a third? I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting.

Then his gaze snaps back to meet mine and I exhale, grateful that I’ve got his attention again. ‘I’m desperate for a cigarette,’ he says. ‘Do you want to join me in the garden?’

I follow him back through the chequered-tiled hallway, edging past a group of lads hanging out in the kitchen and dump my half-empty glass on the worktop before stepping into a large garden. It’s a fresh spring night and I wrap my arms around my thin blouse, wishing I had brought a coat but relieved that at least I’m wearing jeans and not the one skirt that I possess.

‘Here, have this, you look freezing,’ he says, inching off his blazer and placing it over my shoulders. The light from the kitchen casts a glow over us and I can see the outline of his slim body through the cotton fabric of his shirt. He huddles nearer to me, cupping his hands around his lighter as he sparks up his cigarette, the tip crackling and glowing as he takes a puff and then offers the packet to me. I haven’t smoked in a long time, but I take one gratefully, thankful that I have a use for my hands. He lights it for me and I inhale deeply, instantly calmer as the nicotine travels to my lungs. Oh, I’ve missed this.

‘So,’ he says, exhaling puffs of smoke that disappear into the dark night. ‘I hear we’re going to be housemates.’

I stamp my feet against the cold and nod. ‘Not until mid-June. I’ve got to give my landlord a month’s notice on my flat.’ I take another drag on my cigarette.

‘It’s a shame you’re moving in,’ he says, a shy smile on his lips. I stare at him mutely, disappointment coursing through me that Ben doesn’t want me to move in. Have I offended him in some way? We seemed to get on well at the party on the night of the open studio.

‘We have a house rule, you see,’ he says gravely. ‘No romances between housemates. Beatrice is very particular about it.’

My face flames and I try and hide it by blowing on my hands theatrically even though it’s not that cold.

‘And I was hoping that maybe you would come out for a drink with me sometime? But I’m not sure that would go down too well, now that you’re going to be moving in.’ He regards me intently over the tip of his cigarette.

I’m speechless. He’s attracted to me, I can hardly believe it. He flicks his cigarette butt into the flower bed where it glows orange against the brown soil before slowly burning out.

‘Well, I’m not a housemate yet,’ I say shyly.

‘That is true.’

We stare at each other and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me; my heart bangs against my chest at this unexpected turn of events.

‘So you will come out for a drink with me?’ His voice is hopeful, his pupils dark as he inches closer.

‘I will,’ I almost whisper, without breaking eye contact. We stand together for a few moments, neither of us speaking. Come on, kiss me, I think.

A far-off peal of laughter breaks the moment and he moves away from me slightly to retrieve his mobile from the back pocket of his jeans. When he asks me for my mobile number, I reel it off to him and he taps it into his phone. Then he rings my mobile so his number is stored on my phone as well.

‘No excuses, no saying you’ve lost my number,’ he jokes. ‘The joys of modern technology.’

I laugh, knowing I’d never have the nerve to ring him unless he called me first. I’m about to open my mouth to say something when I notice Ben stiffen. His eyes shift away from me to look at someone or something over my shoulder. I turn and see Beatrice standing in the doorway, her long fingers toying with the stem of a champagne glass, staring at us thoughtfully. Cass is nowhere to be seen. She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and I can tell she’s annoyed about something. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ I’m unsure if she’s talking to me or Ben.

‘I’m having a cigarette,’ says Ben.

‘Oh, Ben, you’re so naughty,’ she laughs, although I’m not sure she’s really amused. She steps on to the patio and stands next to her brother, holding out the palm of her hand and batting her eyelashes at him. Ben sighs and rolls his eyes at me in mock annoyance then rummages in his pocket for his cigarette packet, taps one out on to his hand and places it between her lips where he dutifully lights it. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she says to nobody in particular, snaking her arm around his waist while his languishes over her shoulder and I’m envious of their closeness.

She takes a few heavy puffs. ‘Pam and Cass are here too, somewhere,’ she says, turning towards Ben and avoiding meeting my eyes. I feel a stab of panic at the thought that I’m being slighted by her. Since she’s come outside she hasn’t glanced my way once. What if she suspects that I was tempted to kiss her earlier and no longer wants to be friends with me, regrets asking me to move in? I couldn’t bear to be cast aside now, not after everything. I don’t want to go back to my own, lonely life, rattling around that flat, terrified every time the sun goes down because I’ll be alone with my thoughts. I want to move in with her, be part of her life. ‘They’re having a great time,’ she continues, still not looking at me, ‘although Pam’s a little drunk and flirting with Monty. She’s convinced she can turn him.’

I laugh as if this is the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. Beatrice turns to me and flashes me a puzzled smile. ‘Are you okay, Abi?’

‘Actually, I’ve got a headache coming on.’ I urgently need to get away from this party, from this situation. ‘I think I’ll go home.’

Ben’s hazel eyes fill with concern. ‘Do you want me to see you home?’

‘I will see her home.’ She shoots Ben a warning look and uncoils herself from him. ‘Come on, Abi. I’ll call a taxi.’ She puts an arm around my shoulder and steers me back into the house, away from the garden and away from her twin brother.

Chapter Seven

It’s the second Saturday in June when I finally move in. The sky is a cloudless powder blue and as we drive by the tennis courts I notice a couple of teenage girls in short swishy skirts, showing off tanned, lean legs, rackets insouciantly slung over their shoulders as they chat by the net, and I feel it, the unfamiliar stirrings of excitement at the thought that this is my new life. A new me. For once I am optimistic about the future, hopeful that maybe I can have a semblance of a life without Lucy.

‘Nice part of town,’ says Dad. He reverses his Mazda in between two parked cars to the right of Beatrice’s house. My house. I peer out the window and with a twinge of disappointment I see no sign of Ben’s little Fiat. Dad switches off the engine and points to number nineteen. ‘Is that it?’ When I nod he lets out a low whistle of approval. ‘You’ve done all right for yourself.’ He chuckles. ‘And you don’t even have to pay rent.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ I admit. ‘Mum said I should insist.’

Dad shrugs, then tells me, as he always does, that my mum is probably right, before climbing down on to the kerb. I snatch my mobile phone from the dashboard and follow him around to the back of the car as he opens the boot, revealing my life packed up in an array of cardboard boxes and black bags. He turns to me and my heart pangs at the concerned look in his sea-green eyes. ‘Are you sure about this, sweetheart? You can always come and live with us if you don’t want to be on your own. Your mum was never happy about you moving into that flat by yourself, and after everything …’ He clears his throat, but when he speaks again his voice is gruffer. ‘Anyway, you don’t really know much about these people, do you?’

His concern brings a lump to my throat. A stranger wouldn’t be able to see it – his grief – but I can. He wears it like a heavy trench coat, one that he refuses to remove so that he’s buckling underneath its weight. It’s evident in the greying of his dark eyebrows, the hollowness of his once-rounded face, in the new lines etched into his sallow skin, and I think, I’ve caused this. For a man of nearly six foot two, he seems diminished, shrunken, older.

‘I want to move in here, Dad,’ I say. If only he knew how much. ‘Beatrice has become a friend, she understands me.’

Dad opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by shrieks as Beatrice and Cass bound out of the house and towards us with Pam ambling after them, grinning good-naturedly.

Since Monty’s party I’ve only seen Bea a handful of times; the vintage fair a couple of weeks ago where she bought two expensive tea-dresses, a trendy bar in the centre of Bath one evening and last Saturday she asked me to accompany her to a showing of one of her favourite artists at the Holburne Museum. Afterwards we met up with Pam and Cass for afternoon tea in the café downstairs. The day was pleasant enough, I enjoyed the company of the other girls, even if Pam did monopolize me, regaling me with tales of her past, living with a nudist painter, and I tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but it was difficult with Beatrice and Cass murmuring to each other in the corner, the usual pained expression on Cass’s pretty elfin face, making me curious as to what they were talking about. I haven’t seen Ben since Monty’s party. He never did call to arrange to take me out for a drink, and maybe, on reflection, that’s for the best. I can’t deny that there is an attraction between us, but it’s probably not a good idea to get romantically involved with a housemate, particularly Beatrice’s twin brother. I sense that she’s quite over protective, maybe a little possessive of him.

‘Abi,’ shrieks Beatrice, throwing her arms around my neck as if she’s known me for years. ‘Happy Moving In Day!’ She laughs her familiar tinkly laugh. Then she unlinks her arms from me and turns to Dad to introduce herself, and I’m amused to see the flush of pink staining his rough skin as she bends in to kiss him on the check, informing him how happy she is to finally meet him.