‘I take that as the highest compliment.’
It’s only when I’m back in my room and tugging the Alice Temperley dress over my head that it hits me. I’ve never told either Beatrice or Ben my sister’s name.
How do you know she was called Lucy?
Beatrice’s friends are supposed to be coming over at seven, but when I walk into the drawing room at five past, it’s empty. The French doors leading on to the terrace are open and the sun streams in, bleaching the wooden floorboards. The white embroidered voile that Beatrice picked up ‘for a bargain, darling’ in India flutters in the gentle breeze and from somewhere I can smell the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke.
I make my way around the room, picking up, examining, then replacing a wooden Buddha, a Ming vase, a framed photograph of a young couple with arms wrapped around each other that I take to be their parents, and all the while I try to quash the disconcerting sensation that sits heavily in the pit of my stomach.
Beatrice said my sister’s name, she must have googled me.
She obviously knows a lot more about me than she’s let on; Ben, too, probably. I’m suddenly hot with shame that they know I caused Lucy’s death. How can Ben even bear to look at me, let alone kiss me? How can Beatrice invite me to live in this house? I gaze into the faces of the young couple in the photograph. They look to be in their early twenties, in their first flush of love as they laze against the trunk of a huge oak tree. The woman wears flared jeans and a cheesecloth top and has the same honey-coloured eyes and ski-slope nose as her daughter. The man, with his feather cut and sideburns, is gazing at her adoringly, and he’s the image of Ben. They died too, just like Lucy, the difference being that Beatrice and Ben have nothing to reproach themselves for.
‘Our parents.’ Beatrice’s voice makes me jump and I turn to see her waft through the open doors. She’s changed again and is now wearing a floaty calf-length cream dress that makes her look ethereal. She must have been out on the terrace this whole time. I grip the photograph, paralysed, as if I’ve been caught with the crown jewels.
‘I wasn’t prying,’ I stammer.
Beatrice shakes her head. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She takes the photograph from my hands, softly stroking the glass frame with her thumb. She smells of cigarettes. ‘Her name was Daisy. I’ve always thought that was such a pretty name. I wish I could remember her – well, both of them – but we were so young when they died.’
I realize that this daisy-themed house and the jewellery she designs is Beatrice’s homage to a mother she hardly knew. I take a deep breath. I need to say it, to clear the air. ‘You know, don’t you? About how my twin, Lucy, died?’
She stiffens and slowly replaces the photograph on the mantelpiece before turning to look at me. ‘Oh, Abi.’ She takes my hand and leads me to one of the sofas. ‘I remember reading it in the newspaper, that’s all. It resonated with me because I’m a twin too. I wasn’t prying either.’
It sounds plausible, and I recall detecting a flash of recognition in her eyes that first day we met, when I mentioned my name. Cavendish isn’t a surname you hear every day, it probably is the sort of name that would stick in someone’s mind. It doesn’t mean she’s been researching me.
‘So you know I killed her?’ I fold my hands in the silk lap of the green tea-dress, unable to meet her gaze.
‘You didn’t kill her, Abi.’
‘The car accident was my fault.’ A sob bubbles in my throat, nausea overwhelming me when I think of that night and all that happened afterwards. ‘I was driving. It was my fault.’
‘It was an accident. An accident . The weather was bad, it was dark, it could have happened to anyone. Please … you have to stop this.’
‘I don’t think that I can,’ I say, tears threatening. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to stop punishing
It’s only when I’m back in my room and tugging the Alice Temperley dress over my head that it hits me. I’ve never told either Beatrice or Ben my sister’s name.
How do you know she was called Lucy?
Beatrice’s friends are supposed to be coming over at seven, but when I walk into the drawing room at five past, it’s empty. The French doors leading on to the terrace are open and the sun streams in, bleaching the wooden floorboards. The white embroidered voile that Beatrice picked up ‘for a bargain, darling’ in India flutters in the gentle breeze and from somewhere I can smell the distinct aroma of cigarette smoke.
I make my way around the room, picking up, examining, then replacing a wooden Buddha, a Ming vase, a framed photograph of a young couple with arms wrapped around each other that I take to be their parents, and all the while I try to quash the disconcerting sensation that sits heavily in the pit of my stomach.
Beatrice said my sister’s name, she must have googled me.
She obviously knows a lot more about me than she’s let on; Ben, too, probably. I’m suddenly hot with shame that they know I caused Lucy’s death. How can Ben even bear to look at me, let alone kiss me? How can Beatrice invite me to live in this house? I gaze into the faces of the young couple in the photograph. They look to be in their early twenties, in their first flush of love as they laze against the trunk of a huge oak tree. The woman wears flared jeans and a cheesecloth top and has the same honey-coloured eyes and ski-slope nose as her daughter. The man, with his feather cut and sideburns, is gazing at her adoringly, and he’s the image of Ben. They died too, just like Lucy, the difference being that Beatrice and Ben have nothing to reproach themselves for.
‘Our parents.’ Beatrice’s voice makes me jump and I turn to see her waft through the open doors. She’s changed again and is now wearing a floaty calf-length cream dress that makes her look ethereal. She must have been out on the terrace this whole time. I grip the photograph, paralysed, as if I’ve been caught with the crown jewels.
‘I wasn’t prying,’ I stammer.
Beatrice shakes her head. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She takes the photograph from my hands, softly stroking the glass frame with her thumb. She smells of cigarettes. ‘Her name was Daisy. I’ve always thought that was such a pretty name. I wish I could remember her – well, both of them – but we were so young when they died.’
I realize that this daisy-themed house and the jewellery she designs is Beatrice’s homage to a mother she hardly knew. I take a deep breath. I need to say it, to clear the air. ‘You know, don’t you? About how my twin, Lucy, died?’
She stiffens and slowly replaces the photograph on the mantelpiece before turning to look at me. ‘Oh, Abi.’ She takes my hand and leads me to one of the sofas. ‘I remember reading it in the newspaper, that’s all. It resonated with me because I’m a twin too. I wasn’t prying either.’
It sounds plausible, and I recall detecting a flash of recognition in her eyes that first day we met, when I mentioned my name. Cavendish isn’t a surname you hear every day, it probably is the sort of name that would stick in someone’s mind. It doesn’t mean she’s been researching me.
‘So you know I killed her?’ I fold my hands in the silk lap of the green tea-dress, unable to meet her gaze.
‘You didn’t kill her, Abi.’
‘The car accident was my fault.’ A sob bubbles in my throat, nausea overwhelming me when I think of that night and all that happened afterwards. ‘I was driving. It was my fault.’
‘It was an accident. An accident . The weather was bad, it was dark, it could have happened to anyone. Please … you have to stop this.’
‘I don’t think that I can,’ I say, tears threatening. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to stop punishing
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