I spend most of the day in my bedroom with my laptop, only venturing down to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup or to grab a sandwich. I bump into Eva in the kitchen making some sort of pie, her delicate hands busily kneading the dough, while Pam languishes by the Aga, chattering away so quickly in her broad accent that I doubt Eva is able to understand a word of what she’s saying. Neither of them acknowledge me as I prepare my lunch.
Miranda, pleased with my Patricia Lipton feature, has commissioned me to do a telephone interview with a well-known comedian. It turns out the comedian is only funny on television, his answers are monosyllabic and he moans about having a cold, which I infer is a euphemism for a hangover. Desperate to get away from the house, after I’ve finished interviewing him I put my laptop in my bag and walk to the little coffee shop in the high street, where I rattle off a thousand words and email it to Miranda.
Later, as the clouds obscure the sunshine, turning everything grey, I close my laptop and head back. I’ve had two cups of strong coffee and I’m shaky and bilious as I turn into the street. I slow down as I see them coming through the gate of number nineteen, Beatrice with one arm linked through Ben’s and the other clasping Cass’s hand, Pam and her boyfriend trailing behind. They turn left in the direction of the tennis courts and I watch their retreating backs, the squeal of laughter floating towards me, Beatrice’s head thrown back in glee, the proverbial Queen Bee, and I think that she’s winning. I can’t go back there. I’m no longer able to spend nights with Ben because of the sex ban, I’m no longer welcome to join in when Beatrice organizes some jaunt. She’s trying to push me out, she’s reminding me that they are all her friends, not mine. None of them are mine.
I turn back towards the high street, hoisting my bag firmly over my shoulder, and I keep walking, away from that house, away from them.
It’s a two-minute stroll from the bus stop, down a hill and past the canal with its many pretty barges and pubs overlooking the water. Rain, wispy and insubstantial, but the kind that can drench you in minutes, begins to fall.
My parents live in a terraced cottage in the village of Bathampton. It’s the type of cottage you read about in children’s books, with stone mullioned windows and roses around the door, the sort where a wolf is waiting to trick you, dressed in your grandmother’s clothes. But I know there are no wolves waiting to ensnare me here; I’ve left those at home. My mum answers the door, a surprised expression on her kind, familiar face, and as soon as I see her I burst into tears.
‘Abi?’ Her voice is sharp with alarm as she ushers me over the threshold and into their small square hallway. Dad comes rushing out of the sitting room and they both crowd around me, asking in urgent, panicked voices if I’m okay, asking if I’ve tried to harm myself. I tell them, through tears and snot, that of course I haven’t tried to kill myself and they laugh with relief, pushing me firmly by the shoulders into the armchair by the television. Their favourite programme, Emmerdale, has been paused so that a woman with black hair, her mouth open as if about to shout an insult, is frozen on the screen. Their pug, Belle, a deliberate misnomer even though we think she’s gorgeous, jumps on to my lap and begins nuzzling my armpit. I cuddle her to me, taking in her familiar malodorous doggy smell. She’s been in the family for nearly fifteen years and as I cling to her neck I often think how she must miss Lucy too. Although it’s the end of July, the wood burner is on and the room is stifling, but my parents can’t abide the cold; they always planned to emigrate when they retired, but they’ve decided against that now. Because of me. Dad sits on the adjoining sofa, not speaking, but watching me and Belle, waiting for me to talk. Mum returns with a cup of tea – her cure for everything – which she thrusts into my hands. ‘Ooh, you must be freezing, you’re only wearing a little T-shirt. I can see goosebumps on your arms,’ she says and rushes upstairs to retrieve a cardigan. It’s good to be here, to be looked after, and as I settle back in my seat with the dog on my lap, I wonder why I resisted moving back here. I glance up at the photographs that adorn the fireplace, my eyes halting on the graduation shot of Lucy. There are hardly any of us on our own, but this one, larger than the rest, domineering, taking precedence over the smaller six-by-four-inch frames, is the exception. Dr Lucy Cavendish.
Mum comes back with a chunky beige cardigan that she wraps around my shoulders. ‘The spare room is made up, if you want to stay the night, love?’ she says as she perches next to my dad.
‘What’s going on, Abi?’ says Dad. They both wait and I open my mouth to tell them everything: how I’ve fallen in love with Ben, how I felt safe in his arms at night, that he kept the nightmares, the guilt, at bay, how he made me feel worthy again, but after several weeks of great sex he’s suddenly decided it’s against his possessive sister’s house rules to continue sleeping with me; about Beatrice and how she reminds me of Lucy in so many ways, except she has a controlling side to her nature, a side that Lucy never had, and that she’s angry, perhaps jealous of my relationship with Ben; that she’s leaving nasty things in my room to scare me into moving out, and that she’s succeeding, that I’m constantly terrified of what else she will do or say, that she’s already turned the rest of the house against me and now I’m worried that slowly, insidiously, she will turn Ben against me too – after all, there is only room for one woman in his life and surely that has to be his twin sister? Because, as you know, Mum and Dad, there is no greater bond than that of a twin.
But how can I say any of this? Especially to them? So I close my mouth and sip my tea and tell them what they want to hear, that I’ve had a bad day, that I’ve been working too hard and that I’m tired. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing to worry about,’ I say. And if it wasn’t for the quick look they exchange when they think I’m unaware, I would have thought I had convinced them.
I’m drifting off to sleep in the spare room under the eaves, in the double bed, snuggled under a Cath Kidston duvet cover, when my mobile vibrates on the pine bedside table next to me.
It’s gone midnight but I lean on my elbow to see who’s calling. Ben’s name flashes up. I answer it.
‘Abi? Where are you? I’ve been so worried.’ Even though his voice is urgent, panicked, I can’t help but think he hasn’t been that worried, considering this is the first time he’s tried to ring me.
‘I’m at my parents’ house.’
‘Aren’t you coming home?’
I lay back on the pillows, watching the light from the moon dance on the ceiling. ‘Not tonight, no.’
He falls silent. In the background I can hear the Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint It Black’, the familiar cacophony of voices, the clinking of glasses that tell me a party is in full swing. ‘Beatrice thought it would be nice to hold a small soiree.’ He says this last word with a self-conscious laugh. ‘I hoped you would be here.’
‘I didn’t know about it.’
‘Well, it was sort of impromptu.’ He sounds tipsy.
‘I needed to get away for a bit.’
‘Away from me?’ His voice is unusually thin and reedy.
‘Not from you.’ I close my eyes, imagining the party that’s going on without me, imagining who she invited.
‘Abi …’ he says, I can hear him breathing through the phone. ‘I know you and Beatrice haven’t been getting on that well. But she’s sorry, I know she is. She should be more understanding.’
More understanding of the mentally unstable, paranoid girlfriend, you mean, Ben? But I don’t say it. I haven’t got the energy for an argument.
‘I will be back tomorrow.’
His voice brightens. ‘That’s great, because we need to talk about what we’re going to do for your birthday next Saturday. We can do anything you want. It’s