Eventually, the need to stretch my legs outweighed my weird hesitancy to step inside my sister’s home. ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I told myself, jumping at the way my words echoed against the soundtrack of waves hitting the shore. I gave my eyes a minute or two to adjust and finally the velvet blackness began to separate out into clumps of rough grass and endless sand dunes. I turned towards Amelia’s home and the other three cottages that shared this stretch of beach. They were spread some distance apart on the sand and always reminded me of miniature Monopoly houses that had been randomly dropped somewhere they didn’t belong. Three of the cottages were in total darkness. That was hardly surprising as two of them were holiday rentals that were occupied by a constant stream of visitors in the summer months, but at this time of year stood empty, waiting for the seasons to turn. The final cottage in the row was owned bythe last salty sea dog on this stretch of coastline– or at least that’s how Amelia always described her irascible elderly neighbour. She actually knew very little about Tom Butler, the retired fisherman who’d lived there for most of his life, which apparently was just the way he liked to keep things.
I dragged my case to Amelia’s front door and dug in my coat pocket for the spare key Mum had slipped off the not inconsiderable bunch she carried around. I’ve no idea which locks they all opened, but the gleaming bronze key slid smoothly into the one in front of me.
I experienced a peculiar moment of uncertainty as I approached the house, convinced that the entrance would be obscured behind criss-crossed yellow tape, emblazoned with the wordsPolice. Do Not Enter.I laughed nervously when I saw no such thing.Nowwho’d been watching (or reading) too many thrillers? Mum had already told me the police had found nothing untoward when they’d visited the cottage, so they’d simply closed Amelia’s front door and left. Which meant there was no reason at all for my heart to be pounding in my chest as I pushed open the door.
‘Why don’t you bring in the heavy stuff; you’re much stronger than I am,’ I called over my shoulder to an imaginary companion. I paused on the threshold, adrenaline coursing through me in preparation for flight, but the cottage was silent and, more importantly, it was also completely empty.
Even so, I grabbed a meat tenderiser from the jar of kitchen utensils and brandished it like a cudgel as I climbed the rickety staircase to the upper floor. Every single tread creaked while I kept up a one-sided conversation with my non-existent muscular friend on the ground floor. Eventually, I had to concede that the police had done their job properly, or that any intruder in the cottage was so deaf it would be easy to sneak up behind them.
The door to Amelia’s bedroom was wide open and my footsteps slowed to a halt as I approached her bed. It was unmade, the pillows still bearing the dent from her head, the duvet thrown back as though she’d left in a hurry. It told its own story. Face down on the bedside table was a current bestseller – it was one I’d recommended to her just before Christmas. I turned it over, my smile sad as I noted she was just about to get to the good bit. ‘Always an editor,’ I murmured on a laugh that wasn’t quite as steady as I would have liked.
The room smelled of Amelia and the urge to fall on to her bed and burrow my face in her pillows was worryingly strong.Stop this, I told myself firmly. She’ll be back here in no time. She will get better. Shehasto get better.
The bathroom held no clues as to what had happened in the cottage two nights ago. Nor did the second bedroom, although finding the bed already made up and a little stack of clean towels on the room’s small armchair shook me somewhat. It was almost as though she’d been expecting me.
I made Amelia’s bed before going back downstairs to bring the rest of the things in from the car. I have no idea why it seemed important to do it, I just knew that it did.
I phoned Mum to let her know I’d arrived safely and saw I’d missed two new messages from Jeff. We’d spoken briefly earlier in the day and although he’d asked all the right questions and said all the right things, something about the whole conversation had felt ‘off’. It was worrying how little that seemed to matter now there was an ocean between us. Or perhaps there always had been one, and I’d just needed the physical distance to realise it. We’d been on borrowed time for quite a while, I knew that, but it didn’t make failing any easier. It never did.
I unpacked Mum’s collection of emergency provisions, squeezing them into Amelia’s already well-stocked fridge and cupboards. I was shifting things around to make space on the lower shelf of her fridge when I found the pack of beers tucked away behind two cartons of juice. I stared at my discovery for so long the fridge began beeping angrily at me to close the door. Amelia didn’t drink much, except for the odd glass of wine now and then. She claimed not to like the taste. It was – undoubtedly – one of the weirdest differences between us. She certainly didn’t drink beer. But someone did. I pulled the pack to the front of the shelf. There were two cans missing from the carton. Who’d drunk them? Sam?
I slammed the fridge door shut on the crazy idea, as though to trap it inside. Therewasno Sam, I told myself furiously. I would willingly go along with whatever pretence the doctors suggested, but that’s all that it was, a charade. Sam Wilson was a phantom husband and the quicker we managed to exorcise him from Amelia’s head, the better.
*
After spending much of the day in the ridiculously overheated hospital, I was longing for a shower before bed. But fifteen frustrating minutes later, I still hadn’t managed to coax Amelia’s ancient boiler into life. I glared angrily at the unit; it had failed to respond to a barrage of swear wordsandtwo resounding thumps, which had hurt me far more than the boiler.
It was out of character, but I could feel tears of despair stinging my eyes at my defeat.
‘You’re just tired,’ I told myself, ‘and a little punchy,’ I added on a nervous laugh as I realised I was talking to myself again.
I rummaged in my case for my warmest pyjamas and hurriedly pulled them on, while outside the cottage windows the wind continued to pick up. It was hurling grains of sand against the panes, which sounded like the scratch of an intruder’s fingernails. Suddenly, Mum’s tiny couch didn’t sound like such a bad option after all.
I climbed beneath the duvet and pulled it up to my chin. Eventually, the cottage creaked and groaned its way into silence, but the wind and the sea were as loud as ever. Amelia claimed the sound of the waves was soothing and lulled her to sleep. But they were having the opposite effect on me – and I was tired enough to sleep standing up! Finally, I gave up trying and clicked on the bedside lamp.
I’d spoken to my manager in New York earlier in the day and although she had sympathetically agreed to me taking some ‘personal time’ – albeit out of my vacation allowance – she’d nevertheless managed to squeeze in a reminder that they would need a decision on the job offer very soon. I understood the urgency. The promotion to executive editor with my very own imprint was a huge opportunity, which most editors would kill for. But those editors didn’t have to face the dilemma of putting down roots thousands of miles away from their loved ones. The last four years in New York had felt like an extended work adventure, but taking the promotion was a commitment to make America my long-term home, and that was what was stopping me from pulling the trigger.
Although my ‘out-of-office’ was on, no one had bothered to inform my body clock, which was still firmly set on American time. So I decided to put my insomnia to good use and read one of the many pending submissions waiting on my Kindle.
Two hours later I was halfway through a novel, but I’d have been hard-pressed to name any of the characters. It might be the next industry bestseller or total rubbish, I had no idea which. My thoughts kept straying away from the plot and circling back to Amelia’s inexplicable claim, like a plane with nowhere to land. Why had my sister’s subconscious created a fictitious husband? Could this Sam person be someone she actually knew in real life? Someone she hadn’t wanted to tell her family about? Could Amelia be having a secret affair?
Out of all the questions carouselling in my head, that one was surely the most ridiculous. Amelia wouldn’t do that. But then again, if you’d asked me if she’d ever go walkabout on the beach in the middle of the night, I’d have said ‘No’ to that one too.
I fell asleep with the beginnings of a headache that was still there four hours later, when a bunch of noisy seagulls decided it was time for me to wake up. Thankfully, the uncooperative boiler had undergone a change of heart and decided to heat a tankful of water. I drained at least half of it beneath the jets of a shower so hot that I emerged from the cubicle in a cloud of steam, like in the movies, with my skin a new and interesting shade of lobster pink.
I’d packed for the trip in such a rush that many of my essential toiletries were still sitting in my New York bathroom. But Amelia had grown up with a younger sister constantly borrowing her things, and it felt rather comforting to be doing so once again. During my search of her bathroom, I unearthed an empty toiletry bag into which I began packing essentials to take to the hospital. There’s a thin line between searching and prying, and I could feel myself crossing it as I began to look for items that Amelia would have no use for in hospital, or anywhere else come to that. On my own bathroom shelf were Jeff’s spare razor, his shaving gel and deodorant – and he didn’t even stay over at mine all that often. But Amelia’s cupboard held nothing similar. I closed the cabinet and caught the dual expressions of guilt and relief in the mirrored doors. If Samhadbeen real, then it meant I didn’t know my sister nearly as well as I’d thought. But then again, the woman who claimed I’d been her bridesmaid two years ago was just as much of a stranger to me.
There was enough food in the kitchen to feed a small army, so it felt wasteful that all I wanted was a slice of toast. I took it – and the mug of strong coffee I’d made – to Amelia’s door. The wind had died down considerably overnight, but it was still cold enough for me to reach for the chunky cardigan my sister had hung on a hook beside the door.
The sky was the dark purple of a bruise, but slowly daubs of deep pink tinged the horizon and began working their way higher and higher. The sea changed from black to violet as dawn pushed the night out of the way. I’ve seen sunrises on both sides of the world, but none that have taken my breath away in the same way as this one did. It felt primal and elemental and there was a beauty and a wildness to the beach that I’d never really appreciated before. It was as though I was seeing it through Amelia’s eyes and not my own.
I felt strangely calmer as I returned to the cottage, as if I was no longer alone. Even though she was miles away from me in a hospital bed, I felt closer to Amelia than I had done in a very long time. It was a sister thing… a twin thing, and I hadn’t even realised I’d missed it until unexpectedly I found it again.
*
Opinion has always been split in our family as to whether there reallywasan inexplicable connection between Amelia and me.They’re sisters, that’s all there is to it, I remember my no-nonsense maternal grandmother saying with an authoritative harrumph. It was the sound she finished practically every sentence with.
‘They’re more than just sisters – they’re twins,’ Mum had firmly corrected.
