He never kissed me. He kissed my sister.

  ‘John.’ I say his name aloud.

  The thought of him makes me dizzy. I have spent years imagining him fishing by a river staring into the sun, swinging sticks through bracken, or laughing with his brother while they mended some old car, oil on their hands. But he stuck a knife into his brother; he watched him die. He’s spent years in an institution. And I didn’t know.

  When people die, you lose the way they loved you. You lose the way they saw you. Nobody can replace that. Nobody will love me as my mother loved me. I cannot be a daughter to anybody else. Nobody will see me as John saw me. Loving me, he’d understood the truth of me: how I existed in layers, like a painting. He could see the separate me, distinctly and delicately alone, transparent as a watercolour sketch. But he knew that that girl was conditioned by the magnetic pull of the picture underneath, the bold and vivid brushstrokes of Viola-and-Issy. He understood, because, like me, he was hooked into the implacable equation of being two.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, slippery silk against the hard curve of my ribs, I sink to the floor, folding myself up; and I allow myself to feel the ache I have inside: the terrible ache for him.

  41

  ‘Morning.’ Ben nuzzles into the back of her neck and she catches a whiff of the Chinese meal they’d shared last night, a faint trace of his aftershave and stale morning breath. She sniffs, wanting the other smell lingering underneath, the one she loves. The smell of him.

  Their familiarity thrills her. She can read Ben’s mannerisms, like his habit of pulling his left earlobe when he’s concentrating. Inside his trainers she knows that he has bony, battered feet with fallen arches and under his floppy hair an obstinate whirl grows in a spiral at the nape of his neck.

  The jolt she gets from his sheer physicality, his broad bones and twisting thigh muscles has never left her. He confronts her with his unapologetic, absolute male need. ‘Let me see you,’ he’d said, the first time, pulling the sheet away from her. She’d been insecure, resentful, until she realised that he really liked the slight droop of her breasts, the spongy texture on the back of her thighs, the spidery stretchmarks on her hips. The imperfections she hid from men are impossible to keep from Ben. ‘I want all of you,’ he told her.

  ‘So,’ he says now, sliding his hands between her thighs, ‘I’m not working till this afternoon… How does a nice long lie-in sound?’

  Isolte squints at the clock on the bedside table, propping herself up on her elbows regretfully. ‘Think I should get home, I don’t want to leave Viola for too long.’

  Ben sighs and pulls her to him for a quick hug. ‘Oh well, another time.’

  ‘I’ll have a shower and breakfast at home.’

  ‘I’ll drive you.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly, it’s your morning off. I’ll get a bus or something.’

  But Ben has already thrown the covers back and hauled himself out of bed; he’s pulling on a jumper, pushing his bony feet into trainers.

  ‘I’ll have a shower when I get back–we can be filthy together.’ He sniffs at his arm. ‘Hmmm, nice… you’re on my skin.’

  After last night, Isolte can smell a salty hum on herself. She likes to have the sticky residue of Ben on her, tightening like glue on her skin. Her body is alive, tingling with nerves. She pulls on her clothes, tugs a brush through her hair; the perm has dropped out, leaving a few last curls.

  ‘So, not even a cup of tea?’ He’s picked up the car keys. ‘Last chance?’

  She shakes her head, noticing some estate agent’s details on the hall table. She picks it up. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh, that’s the place I was telling you about.’ He plucks an apple from the fruit bowl and bites into it. ‘It’s on the market so we’ll have to get in fast if we want to shoot there.’

  Isolte glances down at a photograph of a Georgian cottage with a neat front garden and picket fence.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit small for a location?’ she says.

  ‘It doesn’t have many rooms but it has the dimensions of a much larger house. Big doorways and windows–it’s got a kind of quirky, Alice in Wonderland feel.’

  She reads, plaster cornices and coving, picture rails and skirting boards, south facing. ‘Sounds lovely.’ She accepts a bite of his apple. The sour-sweet flesh fills her mouth. She crunches and swallows. ‘Let’s go see it later this week; I’ll get some ideas together, call in some clothes.’

  In the street, she leans against Ben, his arm over her shoulder. There is a light wind teasing leaves off the trees, sending them turning, flickering through the air.

  ‘Did you know,’ she says, ‘that catching a falling leaf gives you luck for the year?’

  Ben springs into a run. Dashing towards a leaf he makes a snatch and misses. Spinning on his heels he lunges for another one. The leaves twist and turn, changing direction and speed. A woman walking on the other side of the road turns to stare as he flails, nearly falls, and springs again recklessly for the leaves. Isolte puts her hands over her mouth, laughing, as he hops and swears, staring up into the sky. A large maple leaf floats close and he stretches out his fingers to it, clutching it inside his fist. ‘There.’ He presents it to her, breathless. ‘Luck for a year.’

  She takes the leaf, yellowed and splashed with age spots, and laughs. ‘Who knew you believed?’

  ‘Load of old bollocks,’ he says. ‘But I like a challenge.’

  In the car, Ben slaps his hand on his forehead. ‘Nearly forgot to tell you. It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary soon.’

  The car idles across Chelsea Bridge, inching through rush-hour traffic. Isolte looks out at the wide stretch of river. Low tide. Brown water laps against mud banks. Albert Bridge shines in the distance.

  ‘They’re having a dinner party. It’ll be a formal affair–all the best silver out. It’s one we can’t get out of, I’m afraid.’

  ‘When?’ She feels guilty. Ben will have to negotiate this gridlock to get home again.

  ‘Fifteenth of October,’ Ben says, turning into her street and pulling the car over. Parking outside Isolte’s flat, he adds, ‘We won’t stay the night–I know you’ll want to get back. I’ll stay sober to pay the penalty for my appalling parents.’

  42

  As Isolte enters her flat, she falters. The matter of Polly’s ghost remains here like a palpable presence, waiting for her attention. She doesn’t want to talk about it. But they must. She feels resentment, a twinge of irritation. Why is Viola so dramatic, so difficult?

  The flat is dim, the blinds drawn against the bright morning. At first she thinks that Viola must still be in bed. But the sofa bed isn’t out and she sees the back of Viola’s head. She’s sitting in the living room, motionless. Isolte calls her name quietly. Viola rises from her seat, fumbling towards the sound of her name like a blind person.

  ‘What are you doing, sitting in the dark? It’s beautiful outside.’ Isolte goes to the window and pulls the blind. She turns to her sister, but they don’t touch. They stand apart.

  Viola looks tired and shaky. She blinks in the sudden daylight. Her eyes are smudged with grey make-up and for some reason she is wearing one of Isolte’s evening dresses, a column of silk that gapes and sags on her tiny frame, making her look like a child dressing up in her mother’s clothes. The fabric is creased as if it’s been slept in.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Isolte bites her lip, feeling the pleasure in her body draining away.

  ‘Nothing.’ Viola sways slightly. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to bed at all?’ Isolte moves towards her. ‘You must be exhausted. Come and lie down.’ Isolte gestures towards her room. ‘Use my bed.’

  Viola is obedient. She curls up like a foetus, her face pressed into the pillow.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Isolte sits on the bed and strokes the cold skin of her shoulder between the silky straps.

  Viola shakes her head. ‘I just keep thinking about things. You know–about John and Michael. About what’s happened to them.’

  Isolte catches a sudden hint of Ben on her own musty skin. The smell of life. She wants Viola to have this warmth, this joy.

  ‘Look at me,’ she whispers.

  Viola turns on the pillow and stares up. Isolte sees a wariness, a watchful passivity in her face. Feeling love and frustration, Isolte places her hands either side of Viola’s face, leans forward to press her lips briefly against her sister’s. She feels the give of Viola’s chapped skin, the softness of flesh. The bottom lip is fatter, a deeper cushion. She tastes her breath.

  ‘You have to get better, Viola.’ She looks down at her and the urgency of her words brings tears to her eyes. ‘You must.’

  Viola lies back on the pillow for a moment, touching her lips. She looks dazed. And then she gives a faint smile. ‘Do you remember,’ she says, ‘how Mum kissed us goodnight sometimes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Isolte sits up, opening her mouth to laugh. ‘Pretending we were people in films. Lovers. Her hair used to fall into my face.’

  ‘She smelt of cherries.’

  ‘She’d want you to get well, Viola,’ Isolte says. ‘She’d want you to be happy.’

  ‘She was happy with Frank, wasn’t she?’ Viola rubs her eyes. ‘He was good for her. I don’t know why we had to spoil that. We ruined it all. She went back to drinking because of us. She killed herself because of us…’

  ‘Stop.’ Isolte grabs her hand, holds it tight. ‘We didn’t know. We were just children. We can’t bring her back. All we can do now is live lives that she would wish for us.’

  ‘To seize life with both hands,’ Viola answers immediately. She smiles. ‘To be joyful. To be curious.’

  ‘Yes. Can’t you just hear her? She wasn’t always right about things. But she did love us.’

  Viola nods in recognition.

  Isolte says in a serious voice, ‘You know she wouldn’t want you to be like this.’

  Viola nods again, tilts her face to look at her sister. ‘And she thought we had each other, didn’t she? When she died. She didn’t know that we were going to drift apart.’

  There is silence. Isolte grimaces. ‘I’m sorry. I know I was selfish. It was the only way I could cope. I needed to fit in. You were so determined not to. I didn’t know how to help you. But,’ she touches Viola’s hand, ‘here we are, we’ve survived somehow. We still have each other, don’t we? We can make things better. We mustn’t screw it up this time–I mustn’t.’

  ‘And now there’s John too…’

  ‘Listen,’ Isolte says quickly, ‘Dot is going to help John get into art school. He has a chance to start over again. It’s not up to us any more.’

  ‘No.’ Viola shakes her head in disagreement. ‘I want to see him, help him.’

  ‘He’s not the boy you knew, Viola,’ Isolte persists. ‘John has changed. We’ve changed. Life moves on. You have to let go of the past. Think about the future.’

  Viola has opened her mouth to argue again.

  Isolte changes tack. ‘What do you think Polly’s ghost was trying to tell you?’ she asks.

  Viola looks surprised. ‘You said you didn’t believe in that.’

  ‘The point is,’ Isolte struggles to find the words, ‘you saw her. That’s what counts. She came with forgiveness. That’s it, isn’t it? You needed to see her. You needed her to let you go.’ She frowns. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Viola–you are right about Polly. She is dead.’ Isolte blinks. ‘However much we wish it was different, there’s nothing you or I can do–don’t you think you could try and forgive yourself? You’re talented and bright. There’s so much you could do with your life if you gave yourself a chance.’

  Viola sits up. ‘It’s hard to let go, Issy. It’s just so hard. I’m not as strong as you.’ She looks at her sister. ‘Just tell me one thing–I need to know. Did John talk about me? Did he ask about me?’

  Isolte pauses for a moment and then shakes her head. She clears her throat. ‘Well, of course he asked how you were. But I could see he didn’t want to get lost in the past. To be honest, he didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me.’ She looks down at the floor. ‘He needs a fresh start. The best thing you can do is let him have that.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’s thinking about us, about me…’

  Isolte sighs. ‘Why should he? We’ve been out of his life for years.’

  Isolte has got off the bed. The mattress dips and moves under her weight. She’s standing, pushing her hair behind her ears. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asks. ‘I could make scrambled eggs.’

  There’s something about Isolte’s brisk, practical manner that reminds me of the nurses. Although actually being a carer is not natural to my sister, just as it wasn’t to our mother. She is impatient with illness, with anything that demands a continuous sacrifice from her. Her energy brims at the skin’s edge, childlike, eager. But she has honed her temperament for me, to take care of me. I can feel the effort it requires. What I see in my sister is her strength, her courage. Isolte isn’t like me. She could exist alone.

  I think about the adult John. A man with muscled shoulders and a steady gaze. Of course, what Isolte said is true. Whatever childish, romantic ideas I’ve hung on to, the truth is that I don’t know him any more. Part of me thought that he might have asked Isolte to pass a message on–even just to say hello. Stupid. Of course, he has more important things on his mind. I am just a reminder of everything he wants to forget.

  As Isolte stands in her kitchen cracking eggs into a bowl, I get up and move slowly through the small spaces of the flat, looking at my sister’s things: her camel-bone boxes, African tribal figures, her bowls filled with coloured beads, and postcards leaning against the mirror and stuck on the fridge, notes from her friends, people I’ve never met; and I realise that she has made a home. She has been able to do something that I haven’t managed. She has lived a life.

  Pleasure was the word that Dr Feaver had been looking for–the answer she’d wanted me to give. But pleasure has not been something I have deserved.

  Through John I felt that I would reach Polly too. Through him I thought that I could fall through time into my childhood, into the forest, winding everything back to a fresh beginning when we could all be new and whole again. None of us can have that. Polly has gone and that will never change. There is no way around it.

  43

  Issy and Ben procrastinate, finding things to delay their departure to the Hadley supper. Even after they leave, Isolte dashes back in, breathless and noisy, to take a forgotten bottle of champagne out of the fridge, Ben sounding the horn impatiently outside.

  She clatters down the stairs again, shouting her goodbye. ‘Back tonight!’

  The air molecules swirl around the remains of sound. I watch the car accelerate away to the end of the street, brake lights flashing at the crossroads. The atmosphere settles, a calm descending. It’s a relief to have the flat to myself again, to wander from room to room, to be alone with my thoughts.

  It’s windy outside. The trees in the square are lashing their branches. The sky flares violet across the rooftops. There are no birds. No black rooks hopping across the grass in the square or flapping heavily across the skyline.

  I won’t see John again. Isolte is right. I am nothing to him now. I should leave him in peace to begin his new life. I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror, turning away from the sharp lines of my jaw and cheeks, and the ridge of nose. He wouldn’t even recognise me, I think. My body feels numb, lifeless. I wonder how I am going to get through the evening, and then the rest of my life. There is no point in cooking a meal and going through the charade of eating it, no point in trying to distract myself with a book or a TV programme. I stand in the darkening flat staring out at the windy square for a stretch of unmeasurable time, until I rub my eyes and force myself to turn back into the room.

  There’s a mess of unopened letters piled up on the hall table. For something to do, I pick them up and begin to arrange them into piles, putting private letters on one side and bills on the other. A small brown envelope has my name on it. I hold it closer, looking at it in surprise. I don’t know the handwriting, but my heart has begun to beat faster as I rip it open, tearing through Sellotape and brown paper.

  I pull out a small painting of two children’s faces and immediately recognise John and myself. We look out of the painting, exactly as we were all those years ago. He’s painted me without my scar and we are both smiling. With shaking fingers I turn it over to see if there is a message. There are no words. On the other side is a painting of John as a grown-up, as he must be now. His eyes stare steadily into mine.

  Frustrated by the lack of words, I examine the envelope and discover a lump tucked into a corner. Slipping my fingers inside, I touch something cool and hard, and feel the crackle of paper. With a shake, I dislodge the lump and it falls into my hand: a pebble wrapped in a folded letter.

  Vi–I’ve kept this safe. It’s the only thing I have that’s part of you so it’s hard to give it up. But I made it for you. I know we were just kids–but it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve never felt the same for anybody. The thought of you has kept me going. I was planning to hitch to London to try and find you. Michael said I was a fool. He said that even if I found you, you wouldn’t want me. We got into one of our fights. Only it got out of hand. I picked up a knife. By now you’ll know the rest. It scares me to think that you might be disgusted by me. I don’t need to explain to you how much I regret what I did and how much I miss him.

  Your sister said you were ill and I’ve been worrying about it ever since. I want to take care of you, Viola. Will you let me? We never used to need words, and it’s taken me a long time to think of how to say all this. If I could see you now, I’d hold you in my arms, and we wouldn’t need to speak.