Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Olivia Isaac-Henry 2019
Cover design © Alison Groom 2019
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock
Olivia Isaac-Henry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2019; ISBN: 9780008317751
Version: 2018-12-12
For Sylvia and Kester
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Tess: June 2018
Walking home, it’s nearly light. The constant drum of water on my skull melts into the bass beats still looping through my head and the slap of my feet on the pavement. The weather’s broken, thunderstorms have driven people from the streets and I have London to myself. Almost. I can hear Edie behind me, the faint splash of her footsteps.
I come in and drink a glass of water. Until it touches my lips, I don’t realise how thirsty I am. I down two more. Only when I finish do I notice the trail of mud and rain through the flat. I can’t be bothered to mop it up.
In the bathroom, I rough-dry my hair and put it into a topknot, then tiptoe to the bedroom, pull on an old T-shirt and creep in next to Max. It’s my turn to take the lounge, but I can’t face a night alone on the lumpy sofa. Asleep, Max forgets we’re no longer together. He rolls over to put an arm across me and I curl up against his chest, absorbing the warmth of his body. Feeling his bulk and soft breath against my skin lets me pretend nothing has changed, until I catch the faint whiff of perfume, Chanel, not mine. Has he found someone else already? I don’t care. I can’t be alone tonight.
I close my eyes, but sleep is far away. At some level I’m aware my body is tired and my limbs ache. But my mind is running fast. Images of bars, dancers, grubby hands grabbing at me in grubby cubicles … Then Edie. Always Edie.
Twenty years have passed quickly, but the individual days are long and the nights even longer. Wherever I’ve been, whomever I’m with, whatever I’ve taken, it’s never enough, I always see her.
*
‘Tess.’
Edie’s voice. I sit up. My mobile’s ringing. It feels like seconds since I shut my eyes. Max’s imprint in the sheets is cold. He must have gone to the gym hours ago. Was he angry with me for sneaking in next to him when I should be on the sofa, or did he wake, his arms around me, and wish for a moment that we were still together? I look to the bedside table in hope. There’s no mug. He used to make me a cup of tea before leaving in the morning.
The mobile’s still ringing. I pick up.
‘Tess, it’s Cassie. You’re late.’
‘Shit.’
I look at the clock, it’s nearly ten.
‘Nadine’s asking for you. You better get in quick; there’s a meeting at half eleven.’
‘I’m on my way.’
I roll off the bed. Pain runs up my ribs and back and I land on my knees. I slip my fingers under my T-shirt. Some of the material is stuck to me. I peel it back. The sharp sting makes me shudder. A thin scratch runs from the bottom of my shoulder blade to under my left breast and my front ribs are bruised, not too bad but a little raised. I think back but can’t remember hurting myself.
The blood leaves a faint iron smell. And I smell. Not of me, but of other people’s clammy bodies.
The shower is as hot as I can take it. Water and steam scald my skin, the pain doesn’t matter. I have to cleanse myself of last night.
Afterwards, I dab at the scratch with TCP. I don’t have to worry about Max noticing now he’s broken up with me. Judging by the lingering scent of Coco Mademoiselle last night, he’s not changing his mind.
Cassie once asked why I was with someone as dull as Max. Maybe because he is dull. He reminded me of Dad, quiet and caring. ‘Be careful of the road,’ became ‘You shouldn’t drink so much, you shouldn’t take that stuff, you don’t sleep enough or eat properly.’ I never did. He was familiar, safe and knew me from back home; he knew Edie, too. So there’s none of the awkward pauses I get when I tell people about her, a shuffle of the feet, oh I’m so sorry, then change the subject. We’re two mixed-race kids from a nowhere Midlands town who’ve lost their mothers. Mine was killed by a drunk lorry driver. Max’s ran off with his school physics teacher, Mr Kent. Max always changes the vowel. There’s nothing to hide or explain. Being with Max was easy. He’s kept me anchored. Without him, I’m worried I’ll float away, adrift in disarray. Last night was just a glimpse of the chaos waiting to swallow me up once he goes and I’m alone again. If ther
e wasn’t three months still to run on the tenancy agreement, which neither of us can afford on our own, he’d have left already. I don’t even know where I’ll go. Back to a room in a shared house, my milk missing from the fridge, other people’s hair stuck to the side of the bath. And what else? Meeting men in bars, lost weekends, lost jobs, Dad having to come and take me home because I’ve stopped getting out of bed. I’m nearly thirty-five. Other women my age have houses, husbands and children. I’m on the verge of being homeless and alone.
But what Max wants, moving back home and having children, terrifies me more than the chaos. How could I ever have a child and stay sane? She’d not be allowed to walk to school alone or go to sleepovers or have boyfriends. I’d never leave her side knowing one day she could disappear like Edie and I’d be left forever wondering. A child raised in a glass cage. And what sort of life is that for a child or for me? Max always thought I’d change my mind about having children. I won’t.
My phone beeps with an incoming text. Cassie: GET A MOVE ON.
Half an hour of dawdling between the bedroom and bathroom to clean my teeth, spray on deodorant, put on a loose-fitting blouse, jeans and strappy sandals, comb my hair, drag mascara across my lashes and I’m ready to leave the flat. Last night’s rain has raised the humidity and the tube’s heat and claustrophobia will be too much today, so I catch the bus. It’s slower but I’m already late and at least I’ll be able to breathe.
A red light halts our two yards of progress along the Caledonian Road. From the top deck I watch a girl pass by on the street below. She’s in school uniform with curly hair that hangs to her waist. It’s not her. I know it’s not her. I’m not going to look. The bus lurches forwards. I turn around. Sensing my stare, the girl glances up. Other than the hair, she’s nothing like Edie and she’s a schoolgirl. I forget Edie’s grown up now. I have to believe she’s grown up.
*
At work, the office intern is hovering by the door. I smile at him.
‘Be a love and get me a coffee will you, Oliver?’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘And it’s Oscar.’
‘Of course, sorry. Oscar. Americano.’
‘No milk, no sugar. I remember.’
‘You’re a star.’
I head for my desk. It’s not unusual for people in our office to turn up late and dishevelled. In advertising sales most of our pay is commission, so it’s your own loss. And on my good days I bring in a lot of sales. Only there haven’t been so many good days recently and I can’t remember the last time I was at my desk by nine. The laptop flickers to life and I lean back in my chair. I used to be able to switch myself on and off like that computer. Not any more. Now the previous evening lingers until early afternoon.
My coffee arrives. Oscar tries to make small talk. I tell him I’ve too much work to do to sit around chatting. I sip the coffee and stare at my screen for ten minutes then open a spreadsheet. My mobile rings. It’s Dad. He works for his brother, my uncle Ray, so gets away with doing very little. He often rings up during the day to pass the time and chats on about the weather, how it’s affected the garden or the mid-week West Brom match. He asks after me and after Max. We never mention Edie. From our conversations, you’d never know I had a twin.
I’m not in the mood today and send his call to voicemail.
*
Whatever was keeping me buzzing last night has long since left my system and my mind has gone the same way as my body. Caffeine isn’t doing the trick. I need rest, so head for the toilets. As I walk past, Nadine taps her watch.
‘Ten minutes,’ she says.
Not enough time for a nap.
Instead, I splash water on my face.
‘Your mascara’s gonna run.’
A figure emerges from the cubicle behind me. Flawless skin, neat hair, ironed clothes. Cassie. The last time I’d seen her was about 3 a.m., when she was dancing with some vaguely famous DJ. Now, she turns up looking like someone who’s had eight hours’ sleep whilst being drip-fed wheatgrass.
‘How do you manage it, Cass?’ I say. ‘Weren’t you out as late as me?’
‘Out, but not out of it. You need to slow down, Tess Piper.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say.
I pat my face dry with a paper towel. Its rough texture scrapes against my skin.
‘Seriously, you look terrible,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Anytime.’
We laugh, which hurts my ribs.
There’s something about Cass that reminds me of Edie. Despite being cousins, they don’t look alike. It’s more the elegance she gives her clothes. If I wore a tight-fitting top with short feather sleeves, I’d look like a drag queen. Cassie looks like a model, long-necked and glossy. You’d imagine her to be highly strung, but she’s easy-going and fun. Nadine passes on our not so infrequent fuck-ups to her and soon the clients are cooing.
She pulls a can of Red Bull from her bag.
‘Even with a good night’s sleep you’d need one of these to get through Nadine’s strategy meetings.’
‘Thanks.’
I take it and tug on the ring pull. It smells of bubble gum and makes me wrinkle my nose.
‘Drink it,’ she says. ‘You shouldn’t even be here in your state.’
‘I’ve come in worse.’
‘But y’know … with what you told me.’
The drink’s sickly sweetness bubbles on my stomach. What the hell did I tell her?
‘You’ve been with Max for nine years. You’re not going to get over it in one night.’
I don’t remember telling her this. I’ve made a point of not telling anyone, hoping Max will change his mind and we can limp on as we are.
‘Cass, I’m fine.’
My stomach contracts. I think I’m going to throw up.
Cassie finishes washing her hands.
‘Maybe you two can still work things out.’
I give a non-committal, ‘Hmm.’
Cassie gives me a quick smile and squeezes my shoulder.
‘Three minutes,’ she says.
I wait till the click of her heels disappears down the corridor, then dive into the nearest cubicle. All the sugary red fizz shoots straight up my nose as I retch into the bowl. Cass is right, I need to slow down. I shouldn’t have told her about Max.
I return to the sink and rinse my mouth out. It’s less than one minute till the meeting and Nadine always starts on time. In the mirror I look old and the strip light gives my skin a muddy-green tinge, my face looks drawn and puffy at the same time. Maybe in natural light I only look tired.
I sit down at the central desk just as Nadine is organising her papers. The meeting starts with Nadine banging on about professionalism and commitment. I look round the table, as if this applies to everyone but me. My phone rings. Dad again. Nadine glares at me.
‘We turn our phones to silent before meetings,’ she says in the manner of a teacher reprimanding a troublesome pupil.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter and send Dad to voicemail again.
Nadine moves on to monthly targets. I stare out of the window. Last night’s rain is just a memory and a relentless heat, unnatural to the English summer, reclaims the city. Hot air shimmers off the buildings and people huddle in bus shelters, desperately seeking out the tiniest sliver of shade.
Why can’t I remember what I said to Cass? I need to remember. I need to slow down. Something has to change.
I look round the table. Soraya’s my age. She’ll have dropped her kids off for nursery before work and has a nutritionally balanced packed lunch to put in the fridge. Her linen dress looks freshly pressed and her shoes are dust-free. Adrianne’s a couple of years younger than me. She and her boyfriend have bought and renovated a house in Tufnell Park. They regularly eat at Le Gavroche and attend cultural events at The Barbican. Her city shorts and cotton blouse strike just the right balance between fashionable and professional. These are the women I should be emulating, not the chaotic twenty-somethings like Cas
sie, who can go out all night and wake up in the morning daisy fresh. For them it’s a phase, in two or three years they’ll morph into Soraya and Adrianne. By then I’ll be nearly forty.
I don’t notice the meeting has finished until people stand up and start drifting away. Nadine is still tapping on her laptop.
‘A word before you go, Tess,’ she says, still typing.
‘Sorry about being so late, there was— ’
‘Yes, I know,’ she says. ‘The traffic, the trains. I didn’t realise you were the only person in the office who uses public transport.’ She looks up. ‘I don’t want to have to take this to HR, so it’s an informal chat this time.’ She lets her words sink in. My mouth’s still open mid excuse when she continues, ‘But you’re not adding much value to the team right now. The lateness, missing targets, complaints from clients.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m looking for a bit of passion or, better still, some new ideas. It’s why we hired you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. Things have been a bit difficult lately. I’ll sort myself out.’ I can’t lose my job on top of everything else. ‘And I’ve got some ideas, good ideas, new social media strategies. I’ve been working through them this week. I’m just not ready to present.’