‘You okay?’ I ask, reaching out a hand to move a strand of hair from her face.
She moves away from my touch. ‘Fine.’ Her tone is prim.
She evidently isn’t fine. But is it me who is the problem here? Do this Bethany and this Cesca not interact like this, with an easy physicality forced by years of sisterly intimacy? Or did something happen to break it?
‘You remember Helen?’ she asks, motioning to the woman next to her.
‘Of course,’ I lie and move to hug her. ‘Happy birthday,’ I say. She too is stiff in my embrace.
The next half hour is one of the most excruciatingly awkward periods of my life. I want to giggle with my sister, share stories and anecdotes, all the funny things that happen in our days that we never fail to dress up into something absurd we can laugh about. But instead we discuss the weather here in London. And Rachel and Dad’s impending anniversary. And then the weather again, albeit this time it’s the weather in Spain.
‘I’ll get another round,’ I say motioning to our empty glasses.
‘Cesca?’ Helen says pointedly, looking at my sister with a schoolmistress expression.
‘Just a water for me,’ Cesca says, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
‘No more wine?’ I ask, failing to hide my surprise.
‘Cesca is watching her alcohol intake,’ Helen tells me in a way that makes it clear that in factsheis the one watching Cesca’s alcohol intake. What the hell is that all about?
It doesn’t take long for me to realize I can’t talk to Helen because I have no idea who she is or what she does. And so all I can do is judge her and the way she treats Cesca. I do not like it one bit.
I down the dregs of my wine and announce that I need to pee. A slight grimace flashes across Helen’s pretty mouth at my unladylike behaviour. Jeez, I really am starting to dislike her very, very much.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Cesca says, not looking at Helen. But I see the disapproval on her face.
We weave through the other patrons towards the toilets at the back of the bar. She waits until we’re in the two cubicles, side by side but with a gulf between us far bigger than theplywood wall of the stalls. ‘What’s up with you, Bethany?’ she asks.
‘With me?’ I say as if there is absolutely nothing wrong and I’m not a completely different Bethany to the one she knows and I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’m meant to say or do.
‘You seem distracted.’
Oh, do I? ‘Just busy, you know,’ I say. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it, when someone thinks you’re acting out of sorts. Not that you’re in a parallel universe that is growing increasingly like theTwilight Zone. ‘Are you okay, Cesca?’ I ask gently.
‘Of course,’ she replies, too brightly.
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You can talk to me, you know. I’m here for you,’ I say, but I’m not actually sure this Bethany really is here for her sister.
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Even with Helen,’ I prompt, desperate for her to open up, to tell me the truth.
‘Of course! Everything’s perfect with Helen.’ It’s a complete lie and we both know it.
When did my sister become the kind of woman who would let someone treat her like that? And why hasn’t this world’s Bethany rescued her?
We leave the bathroom, all the unspoken words hanging like a mist between us, threatening to smother us as we head back to Helen.
I stop in my tracks and Cesca bumps into me. ‘Woah—’ she says, then stops herself.
‘What ishedoing here?’ I ask.
‘Who? Helen’s brother.’
