This isn’t happening. None of this is happening. I spread butter on the toast and take a huge bite. It reminds me of mystepmum who has always said that toast and butter is the real food of the gods. It’s something Rachel and Cesca always bonded over; Cesca calls it an ‘S-tier’ meal. Sometimes simple is best and to be fair none of us Ravens have refined palates.
I put the knife and plate into the dishwasher and wipe down the crumbs from the counter. Then I quickly whip round the rest of the flat, making sure everything is neat and tidy and put back where I found it. I want to leave it nice for this Bethany when she comes home. I just need to get through the day and go to bed, and then I will wake up in the morning and everything will be back to normal and I will ring Cesca and we will go to the Pancake House and she will listen to my story with her mouth agape and we will laugh and then go to a bar and get drunk and everything will be okay again.
Yes, that is the plan. Head down. Do what I need to do. Get home.
Everything will be all right.
Chapter Seven
I do not wake up to find that everything is fine.
Instead, I wake up to discover my duvet cover has been replaced with one that feels decidedly more luxurious. Now I know that doesn’t exactly sound like a negative, but we do not earn the kind of salary that allows for a 400-thread-count sheets level of swankiness. Even though I have to admit it feels fantastic; cool to the touch and just the right level of decadence. Perhaps this Bethany is just really good at hunting down a bargain?
She certainly appears to have a talent. The sofa in the living room is an electric recliner with built-in drinks holders, in the most buttery-soft leather I’ve ever touched. Then there’s an accent chair with a matching footstool. A stack of fluffy blankets in a wicker basket. One of those terrariums that holds an entire ecosystem in perfect miniature.
The notebook is a jet-black vegan leather, a black Parker rollerball balanced carefully on top of it. I don’t pick it up immediately, padding back to the bedroom to get dressed. I find a range of quality loungewear in the wardrobe: joggers and T-shirts hung on expensive padded hangers. Jesus Christ. How much debt is this Bethany racking up on all this fancy shit?
In the kitchen – complete with a kettle that actuallymatches the toaster – I open the fridge, wondering what this fancy-pants Bethany eats. I grin.
Now this is more like it. This Bethany is a damn pig with her diet. Ready meals from Tesco, a lot of condiments, a few bottles of a wine brand that even I normally consider just too cheap to actually drink, and the real stash. Our guilty little secret of loving the shittiest chocolate known to man. Bars from the budget range of three major supermarkets jostle together and I feel my mouth watering at the mere thought of that slightly oily sweetness dissolving on my tongue. Cesca and I would devour bars and bars of the stuff every Christmas, eating until we were almost sick and lying on the floor unable to function.
I wonder what Cesca will think of this version of her big sister. I assume she will think it’s hilarious that there’s a Bethany who must be racking up a fortune in debt to afford this stuff for the flat but won’t splash out more than £6 for a bottle of wine, or more than a quid for a large bar of chocolate.
I pick up the phone and pull up my recent call log, muscle memory about to tap the last call made. But it isn’t Cesca’s name listed. It’s Alesha from the office. Who I called last night at nine p.m. like some kind of lunatic who doesn’t understand the concept of work/life balance. Ugh. I’m such a loser. And why didn’t I call Cesca yesterday? I scroll down my log. Why didn’t I call Cesca this week?
The realization crushes me. I am not this Bethany. And this is not my Cesca. This Cesca will almost certainly have an opinion about this Bethany, and it doesn’t look like it’s a particularly good one. We have spoken three times in the last month. Once for ten minutes. Twice for less than five. So who does this Bethany talk to late into the night? Who does this Bethany share all her secrets and hopes and dreams with? Please tell me she isn’t so lonely she harangues her research assistant into pretending to be her friend?
I go digging in this Bethany’s phone, looking for clues on who she is and what kind of life she lives. There are photos of a few work nights out, the ones I normally go to for an hour or two and then make up some vague apology so I can slope off early to hang out with my favourite sister instead. I look a bit tipsy, red-faced, a forced smile pasted on my face to maintain the lie that I’m actually having fun.
I find out that Alesha has invited me to a gallery this evening, some friend of hers from university has an exhibition. The worst thing is that I’ve accepted the invitation. Now, I don’t want you to think badly of me, but I’m not really an art fan. I think it’s just because I don’t understand it; my family are heathens when it comes to art, and music, and movies, and basically most things. We are big readers and even bigger science nerds, and I think we just never had enough time growing up to learn to appreciate other things. My stepmum has tried to make us more normal but so far she’s pretty much failed, and an art exhibition is one of my least favourite things to do. Perhaps this Bethany is more adventurous and open to trying something new than I am? Or perhaps she’s just so desperate for company?
There’s an app on the home screen, a pale blue circle on a dark blue background. It sparks a vague memory, something Cesca told me once, but it’s too wily and I can’t grasp the edges of what it means. I open the app to find it’s one of those discount shopping things and I am averyloyal customer. My order history is crazy, pages of bargains I’ve snapped up over the last six months or so. That gorgeous sofa? One hundred and ninety-nine pounds. Those sheets? Fifteen. The terrarium? Just twelve. These prices are insane; there has to be a catch here.
Google pulls up a whole list of catches. Violations of the modern slavery act. A total lack of any conscience from a sustainability perspective. A delivery team forced to urinatein bottles because they don’t have enough time on a shift to use the bathroom. The picture is grim.
I stand in the centre of all this excess I have bought with so little regard for the moralities of paying next to nothing and I feel sick. Cesca would go ballistic if she saw this place.
Alesha picks me up at seven; the exhibition is in a warehouse just out of town and practically inaccessible by public transport.
I ask her about the discount shopping app and she rolls her eyes at me. ‘I get that everything is so cheap. But …’ She leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, my cheeks beginning to burn.
‘What you need is a rich boyfriend,’ she tells me matter-of-factly. ‘What about that Tyler?’
‘Tyler?’ I try not to splutter at the thought.
‘Tyler Adams. He’s hot. You’re hot. You could do a hell of a lot worse.’ She grins. ‘You know I’m right.’
She is absolutely not right. Although I have to say I like this version of Alesha. She’s more relaxed with me than the Alesha in my world who treats me with a reverence I really don’t deserve.
The exhibition is oddly fascinating. A collection of what appear to be holiday snaps, taken from balconies and sunloungers and jetties. At first glance anyway. But when you look more closely you see all the hidden lives layered underneath. The couple on the opposite terrace, holding hands as they watch the sunset. The family strolling along the promenade; the little girl swinging between her dads, hairflying and head back in delight. The steward on the fancy yacht taking a moment of calm on the deck before a new glut of passengers arrive.
I message Cesca:
At an art exhibition and I actually think you’d love it xx
‘Ooh, who are you texting? A mystery man?’ Alesha asks, looking over my shoulder.
