Читать книгу The Grip Lit Collection: The Sisters, Mother, Mother and Dark Rooms - Koren Zailckas, Claire Douglas - Страница 39
ОглавлениеThey fall through the door, laughing and windswept. Beatrice can smell the sea salt on his hair and she thinks how she’s missed this, their easiness with each other. It’s dusk, her favourite time of day in the summer. The house is quiet with no sign of Pam or Cass and she’s relieved that she’s able to have him all to herself for a while longer.
‘Thanks for today, Bea.’ He pushes the door closed with the sole of his trainer and throws his car keys in the direction of the hallway table where they clatter into a ceramic dish. ‘You always know how to cheer me up.’
‘We deserved a treat.’ She reaches up and squeezes his upper arm affectionately, marvelling at his strong, toned muscles. ‘Now go and put the kettle on, I need to pop upstairs.’
‘You’re very bossy,’ he jokes as he strides down the hallway. She waits until he’s rounding the steps that lead to the kitchen, then she kicks off her sandals and dumps her canvas bag with its bucket and spade, suncream and Evian, and races up the two flights of stairs before she has a chance to change her mind. She knows he will come looking for her soon.
Abi’s room is immaculate. The new duvet cover that Beatrice suspects is from the White Company – I thought you had no money, Abi? – has been pulled tight across the bed, the walls are now painted a pretty lavender and the smell of Jodie has been replaced by something floral, familiar. Four books are stacked neatly on her night stand, next to a silver framed photograph of Abi and Lucy, smiling, tanned, their arms around each other’s necks. It’s the photo from the newspaper cutting, but in colour instead of black and white. Beatrice picks it up and examines it, trying to see the variations in their faces, but it’s like a game of spot the difference. Lucy’s eyebrows are more arched, as if she’s had them threaded, a pink gloss staining her lips, her hair neater, straighter, and it’s obvious that Lucy took more care in her appearance, was more feminine, but apart from these small concessions to fashion, to beauty, they are mirror images of one another. Beatrice finds their likeliness uncanny.
She replaces the photograph and then her eye catches the large plastic daisy on top of a curvaceous perfume bottle that sits in the middle of a cluster of face creams and body lotions, and a chill runs down her back.
Daisy by Marc Jacobs. It’s the same scent that she wears.
Why would you do that, Abi? Why would you deliberately buy the same perfume as me?
Beatrice picks up the book on the top of the pile, it’s a hardback with a ripped plastic cover, possibly a charity shop find or, as she discovers from flipping over the front page and noticing the inky stamp mark, from Bath Central Library. Patricia Lipton, the author’s name, rings a faint bell. She turns it over to read the synopsis on the back, some boring story about a workhouse that Catherine Cookson would be proud of. Beatrice replaces it. It’s not her type of thing at all. She opens the drawer, her heart lurching when she notices a blister pack of pills. Surely they aren’t contraception pills? The pack has no indentations, no pills have been removed.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice is sharp, causing her to spring away from the drawer, dropping the pills on the floor.
‘I … um …’ she turns to see Ben in the doorway, his eyes narrowed. It only takes a few strides before Ben’s standing before her. He bends down to pick up the packet, his eyebrows drawn together.
‘I can’t believe you’re going through her things. What are you playing at? And what are these?’ He turns them over in his hands. ‘Fluoxetine. Put them back,’ he snaps.
She takes them from him. ‘Are these antidepressants?’
He nods, his jaw clenched.
‘Then shouldn’t she have taken them with her? I’m obviously no doctor, Ben, but surely she can’t miss a dose?’
‘It’s not right being in her room without her knowledge,’ he says. He wanders to the window, pulling aside the curtains that Abi still hasn’t got around to replacing and that are at odds with the rest of the bedroom, and peers out the window. Beatrice goes to stand behind him, her fingers still wrapped around the packet of antidepressants. Over his shoulder she notices the lamplights on the street below fluttering into life.
‘I’m sorry. I thought … the bracelet, you know.’
He sighs. ‘Can’t you just let it go?’
She pulls his arm. ‘Look at me, Ben.’ He turns to face her, his eyes downcast. ‘I think she stole that bracelet. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s jealous, maybe she wants to sabotage my new business. Maybe she wanted it for herself, or needed some money. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I realize you’re fond of her, but …’
‘I love her, Bea.’ His voice is unusually soft and the sound of it makes Beatrice reel. For a moment she thinks she might be sick. He tilts his eyes up to meet hers, searching her face as if waiting for her reaction, and there is something behind his expression, a smugness, as if he’s used those words on purpose, to provoke her, to hurt her.
‘Even though she may be a thief?’ She knows it’s a low blow, but she can’t resist.
‘I don’t think she is. But if she did take your bracelet, as you claim, she needs our help.’
His words shame her.
‘You’re right.’ She walks towards Abi’s bedside cabinet and puts the packet of antidepressants back in the drawer where she found them. She’s about to close it when something sparkles, catching her eye. Nestled in the corner, almost hidden by the scented drawer-liner dotted with rosebuds, is an earring.
‘Ben, look at this.’ And she can’t help a sense of satisfaction as she places the earring triumphantly in the palm of his hand where it sits, unaware of its significance, delicate and daisy-shaped and yellow as the sun.
