I glance at my bedside table; my antidepressants aren’t in their usual place. Maybe I forgot to take one last night? I crawl around on the floor on my hands and knees, in case the packet has fallen or slipped down behind the bedside table or my chest of drawers. And then I see the familiar cardboard packet poking out from under my bed. With relief I retrieve it, pulling the silver foil from within its cardboard mouth, like a dentist extracting a filling, but when I look there are no pills left. How could I have been so stupid? I check the date; my last prescription was almost three months ago, but there still should be a strip left. I shake the packet but the foils that fall on to the carpet are empty, their oblong blisters deflated. Panic rises in me, the darkness closing in. Did I take the Prozac before I went to bed? Why can’t I remember? Things have been so hectic; moving in here, my relationship with Ben, that I can’t remember when I last took one.
Ben had come to bed with me last night, although we lay fully clothed on top of the duvet, talking quietly. Then I must have fallen asleep because when I woke in the night, Ben had gone back to his room and I was still dressed in the jeans and jumper I had worn to the pub. My mouth was dry and sticky so I padded downstairs to the kitchen to get some water. Had I taken the tablet when I came back up? I don’t think so. Janice told me it was dangerous to stop taking the medication and that I needed to be weaned off them gradually, when the time was right. It’s still early, surely I can make an emergency appointment with my GP or Janice? It will be okay, I tell myself. There’s no need to panic. Surely missing one pill won’t hurt, I’ve done it before. But what if I’ve missed more than one?
I sit on the floor against the bed, its iron frame digging uncomfortably into my back, but I don’t care, welcoming the pain. I pull my shaky knees up to my chest and a sob escapes my lips. How could I have thought that those blasted pills would make everything okay? Now Lucy’s gone I will always feel this way, as if I’m on the brink of a precipice and one false move could send me toppling over.
I’ve managed to avoid her all day.
I’ve spent the morning ringing around my contacts and I’m relieved when Miranda, my old boss, sounds pleased to hear from me, even telling me she might have a commission for me. ‘Patricia Lipton has agreed to be interviewed for our arts pages, I know how you love her novels,’ she tells me. It will mean travelling to the Isle of Wight as Patricia hates telephone interviews, but that might be what I need: to get away from Beatrice for a bit, to clear my head.
I manage to get an emergency appointment with my GP for more antidepressants. Afterwards I pop into town to buy a duvet cover that will match my new walls. I’m shouldering my way through the door around tea-time, carrier bag in one hand and umbrella in the other, when I hear her voice carry down the hallway in a breezy hello and I see her emerging from her studio. Even though the temperature is cool, she’s wearing one of her cotton dresses, her feet are bare and she has a silver anklet that drapes elegantly over her tattoo.
‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was Ben.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘Been shopping? I didn’t think you had any money?’ She glances pointedly at the carrier bag I’m clutching.
My face heats up at her directness. ‘I … it was in the sale. It’s a duvet cover. I need a new one, after the bird …’
‘Right.’ Her eyes are cold as they sweep over me. I push the front door closed and dump my bags and umbrella at my feet while I shake off my parka, hanging it on the coat stand.
She’s still standing there, slim arms folded across her body, assessing me, and I squirm under her scrutinizing gaze. ‘Those dresses I let you borrow,’ she says. ‘Have you finished with them?’
‘Yes, thank you. It’s not so hot now so I don’t need them any more. Do you want me to get them?’
‘Please.’ She inclines her head towards the stairs and I walk up them, becoming more dejected with each step. I can hear the sound of her bare feet against the stone, sense her breath on the back of my neck as she follows closely behind.
I open the wardrobe to retrieve her clothes, leaving one dress on the hanger. The one that I bought at the vintage shop. The only one that belongs to me. I see Beatrice’s eyes flicker to it but she doesn’t say anything about it.
‘Here.’ I hand her the clothes and she drapes them over her forearm. ‘Thanks for letting me borrow them. I’ve still got the green Alice Temperley, it needs washing but I’ll do it.’
She shrugs but makes no move to leave. ‘Do you have anything else that’s mine, Abi?’ Her voice is cold. I wasn’t mistaken earlier, she knows I’ve stolen something from her.
‘Like?’ I meet her gaze.
‘A sapphire bracelet, for example.’
I remember admiring the bracelet the day after I moved in, where it sat on her desk in her studio. ‘Why would I have it?’
She sighs. ‘I don’t want to play games. If you have it then please return it. I’ve been paid for it already, it’s for a new client and I don’t want to let him down. It’s a present for his wife.’
‘Can’t you make him another one?’ This is obviously the wrong answer as her cheeks redden and her eyes narrow so that they are two slits in her face and she actually draws breath.
‘I can’t believe you,’ she hisses. ‘I’ve been a good friend to you. I invited you to live here, rent free, when I hardly knew you. I tried to help you deal with your grief over Lucy, and this is how you repay me. I know you’ve taken it, Abi. I don’t know why, but I know it’s you.’
I open my mouth to protest but she slams out of the room before I can utter another word.
I’m stretched out on top of my new duvet cover, too afraid to venture downstairs in case Beatrice has told Pam and Cass about the bracelet. I know they are all sitting around the kitchen table eating a delicious meal (most probably prepared by Eva) and I can’t bear to see their disappointed stares or hear their accusatory words. It doesn’t matter what I say, she’s made up her mind that I’ve stolen her precious bracelet. How I hate confrontation.
But hiding away makes you look guilty, I think. How have I managed to get myself into this situation? Have I made the same mistake as I did with Alicia?
The creak of my bedroom door makes me look up and I see Ben standing there, his usual lopsided smile on his face. ‘Can I come in? I’ve missed you today.’ He looks tired, the smudge of dark circles under his eyes noticeable despite his tan. I nod miserably, and then, as he takes a seat next to me on the too-soft mattress, I burst into tears. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ he says, pulling me to him. I bury my head in his chest, comforted by the familiar scent of the fabric softener of his crisp white shirt mixed with a musty office smell. Tearfully I explain about what I heard this morning and Beatrice’s coldness towards me tonight.
‘I can’t believe she spoke to you like that,’ he says angrily when I’ve finished. ‘She can’t go around accusing people. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’
‘You don’t think I stole her bracelet, do you, Ben?’
He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face towards his and gently wipes away a tear. ‘Of course not. She’s over-reacting as always. She’s probably moved it and has forgotten where she’s put it. She’s always doing that type of thing, don’t worry.’
I lean against him, relieved. As long as Ben’s on my side I can face anything. He asks me if I’ve eaten and when I explain I’ve been too embarrassed to face the others he takes me by the hand and leads me down to the kitchen. As I pass the large ornate mirror on the landing I catch a glimpse of my puffy eyes, my swollen clown’s mouth. I’ve never been