When she sees me she mutters something about having a lot to do and, snatching a triangle of toast from her plate, hurries from the room. I’m aware of Nia’s eyes following me as I go to a cupboard to retrieve a mug to put under the coffee machine.
‘I’m so sorry, Abi,’ she blurts out as soon as I sit down opposite her. Irrespective of the fresh white blouse she’s wearing she looks as if she’s hardly slept. ‘I was worried about you, but I shouldn’t have told Beatrice about Alicia. It wasn’t my place.’
I tell her that she’s right, she shouldn’t have said anything, but I acknowledge how persuasive Beatrice can be, an animal ready to pounce on her prey, how she won’t give up until she’s got it firmly between her teeth. ‘I probably should have told them about Alicia anyway,’ I concede, sipping my coffee. Nothing can dampen my mood this morning, or wipe the memory of my night with Ben.
‘So you’re not angry with me?’ She smiles weakly, hopefully.
‘Not any more.’ I reach out and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I know you only told her because you were worried about me. I do trust you, Nia.’
She slumps back against the chair with obvious relief.
‘And it’s lovely to have you here,’ I say. ‘What do you think of the house? Of the twins?’
She tells me how amazing the house is, how I’ve landed on my feet, that it’s such a coincidence, that I should find myself in a house with twins, after everything. ‘And they look so alike, don’t they? Facially, I mean. He’s the male equivalent of her,’ she finishes.
‘Except for their eyes,’ I say, thinking of Ben’s hazel eyes in comparison to Beatrice’s almond-shaped honey-coloured ones.
‘Is that why you were first drawn to her, Abi? Be honest. Was it because she resembles Lucy? And you?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose. She caught my eye because of her similarity to Lucy. But her bubbly personality is like Lucy’s too. Although not this nasty side … that was something I wasn’t expecting.’
‘Are you disappointed not to have gone to Lyme Regis?’ she asks.
‘I was, but it’s all worked out for the best. Something changed last night. Ben, well, he … we …’ I laugh as Nia squeals in disbelief. We sit in silence for a couple of seconds and then Nia adds warily, ‘I do feel sorry for her though. I know she’s over-protective, but I still don’t fully understand what you’ve got against her, Abi. Why did you rush off last night? Was it because you were disappointed about not going away? Or was there another reason?’
And then I explain everything.
She frowns as I talk, her eyes creasing up so that I can see the beginnings of crow’s feet, another reminder of how we are both ageing when Lucy isn’t. She stays silent but her face pales as I describe the dead bird on my bed, the malicious photograph, the flowers claiming to be from Lucy, and when I finally finish, slightly out of breath and dry-mouthed, she leans back in her chair, her face grave. ‘That’s fucked up. Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?’
‘I didn’t get the chance, and I was worried that you would think I’m being paranoid, what with my history.’
She considers this for a moment. ‘It sounds as though Beatrice is being very manipulative. I’m worried for you. The photograph, the flowers – there’s real malice in those things. Abi …’ She pauses as Cass skips down the steps into the kitchen. Beatrice’s ally. Beatrice’s spy. We watch in silence as Cass busies herself with the coffee machine, completely ignoring us, in a world of her own. When she takes her mug and scuttles from the kitchen, Nia speaks again. This time her voice is more insistent, threaded with fear. ‘I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here, Abi. You need to move out.’
‘They’re in the kitchen, having some sort of pow-wow,’ says Cass, handing Beatrice a cup of coffee. ‘I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. When I came in they fell silent.’
‘Thanks,’ says Beatrice, taking the mug and sipping it slowly. She’s nauseous, jittery, she has too much nervous energy flowing through her veins. She pushes Sebby off her lap as she stands up from the sofa and he jumps to the floor with a disgruntled mew at having his sleep rudely disturbed. She pads over to the French doors, goosebumps on her arms as she cups her hands around her mug. It rained overnight, the sun-loungers are wet and littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The detritus from Abi’s party is still evident on the carpet, the coffee table and the mantelpiece: fag ends, wine stains, crisp packets, empty and half-filled glasses of bubbly. The room smells of stale body odour and bad breath. Eva will be in later to make everything look as new again; she knows how Ben can’t stand mess, that it makes him stressed.
Cass comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay, Bea?’ she asks softly, and Beatrice shakes her head, biting her lip to stop herself from crying. How can she explain to Cass this grief that she feels? As if she’s losing Ben all over again. She thought she was doing a nice thing – a kind thing – for Abi by throwing her a party. She thought it might make up for all the bad things that have happened, that it would get Ben on side. But no, Abi still manages to find a way to throw it back in her face, to turn everything on its head so that she’s the bad guy. Even hearing that his darling girlfriend is an obsessive stalker who attacked her own neighbour hasn’t put Ben off her. What will it take, Ben? For you to see her true colours?
‘She’s a bunny boiler,’ she says, her voice sounding raw, hoarse, in the silent room. ‘Don’t you think, Cass? I think she’s fucking dangerous. I want her out of this house.’
Cass squeezes her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says softly, reassuringly. ‘I think she will be gone very soon.’
The tension around my birthday somehow dissipates and the rest of August goes by harmoniously enough. Nia rings me most days, urging me to come to London to live with her, but I tell her I can’t move out. At least not yet, and not without Ben.
I refuse to let Beatrice win.
Beatrice is holed up in her studio, setting stones into silver rings or necklaces; Ben takes on a short contract with a big technical firm along the M4 corridor and I receive more and more commissions from Miranda. On the occasions we are all home, we spend evenings together eating Eva’s homemade cottage pies or casseroles while sharing a bottle or two of wine. Sometimes Beatrice throws an impromptu party, and I’m not surprised when she declares happily one day that she and Niall have started dating. She seems joyful, reminiscent of how she was when we first met. If she’s noticed that I’m sneaking into Ben’s room every night, she doesn’t comment on it, and it’s as if she’s no longer interested, no longer cares what the two of us get up to. On the surface, at least, we are getting along fine, but I don’t trust her completely. I find I’m still wary, still waiting for her next move.
Before