The Twin Sister: A BRAND NEW totally addictive psychological thriller with twists that will make you gasp, page 21
How I’ve tried to consign Sol and what he did to me to a deep, hard-to-reach place. To keep it marked as unremembered, or, better still, deleted. Memories scrubbed out like faint stains. And I was succeeding. I finally had the upper hand until that day at Cate’s house. I saw that van, and it’s as if the floodgates have opened and the violent memories are going to assault me all over again. Kill me, even. As he promised.
I look down at my laptop, suck in air and click on the link. He’s there. His picture. His services. Testimonials. Sol has moved to south-west London and set up his own business, as he always said he would. It was his van I saw parked on the driveway at Cate’s house. On the side there was a yellow sun motif. Symbolising Sol: Maximillian Solomon — The Garden Butler.
I want to run. I shouldn’t have chosen this part of London. Estúpida. Stupid. This city will never be big enough — I need a new country. I could pack, leave now and be on a plane by tonight. But I know I’m not going to. Not yet. I need to get some more money together first and start to set up a life somewhere else. How much should I take off David? Fleece him totally or part empty his accounts? I do care about him — but not enough to stay. I’ll have to keep up my pretence for a while longer. How can he not see what’s happening right under his nose? Not just me. Beth.
My other dilemma — I can’t stop thinking about BethCate. Is she safe with Sol at her house? I’d be amazed if he hasn’t taken an interest in her. Should I warn her? What would I say? Beware of your garden man — he’s a psycho. I pick up my mobile and find her number in my contacts. Cate Mildenhall. Except you’re not, are you? You’re a deceiver like me. A fellow interloper. My thumb hovers over the call icon.
I throw the phone back on the bed, peel back the duvet and leap up. I’ve got other stuff to do. She’s not my problem — she’s part of the problem.
Chapter 37
Beth
I’m sprawled out on the sofa, propped up by cushions. I’m too afraid to go out again since my confrontation with Max. His deadline is looming. Ted plays with a wooden Noah’s Ark and some toy cars on a play mat. Normally, I’d be down on the rug with him. We’d be exploring the toys together and I’d be encouraging him to fill the Ark with the varying-size animal shapes that fit the different holes in the roof. But today I only have the strength to watch as his little pudgy fingers grasp the animals. He gives the grey elephant a good suck before he bashes it against the Ark’s roof.
‘I know how you feel, buddy.’
Ted looks up at me and grins. A gorgeous smile that dimples his cheeks, making my heart melt. I have to find a way to go on for his sake. I can’t let him be taken away from me. But what do we do about Max?
You’ll think of something, Mummy. Don’t worry — we’re a team.
I’ve hardly slept. I’m going to fail. Fail through circumstances I could never have predicted. Fail through odds I cannot overcome. Fear takes complete hold of me now, like icy fingers stroking my skin. I’m exhausted, constantly nauseous and I’m so terrified I want to pee all the time.
I’m trapped. I’m such an idiot. Max knew Cate — he was intimate with Cate. And I’ve been behaving like the Ice Queen. Appearances might deceive, but this journey never had a road map showing me all the side roads, cul-de-sacs and dead ends. Would I have embarked on it if I’d known? I could have avoided Sleepless Street and Terror Terrace if I had. Too late now. I painfully, truly, now know the meaning of the phrase, ‘Be careful what you wish for’. I’m miserable, lonely, isolated and traumatised by rape. Only Ted keeps me going.
I’ve spent too long pretending I can pull this off, but many more days like this one and I fear my courage and bravado are going to desert me completely. Now Max has called my bluff. Help me, Cate, please! You seem to have abandoned me of late. Tell me what to do about Max?
Magdalena appears and loiters by the sitting-room doors.
‘May I come in, Mrs Mildenhall? I throw out some of the old newspapers?’ She points to a pile of Sunday papers and supplements built up on the coffee table.
‘Sure. No problem. Come on in.’
Magdalena gets down on her knees to sort through the pile. Does she too suspect I’m not Cate? She’s here most days. She’s observed me more than anyone, but she’s never uttered a word. Magdalena has been only deferential, kind and respectful. Magdalena the house fairy was another of Cate’s secrets. I’m reminded of the time back at the beginning when Jess, my appointed FLO, asked me the cat’s name. Magdalena came to the rescue. Did she step in to save me that day or was it pure coincidence?
‘Sorry, I should be helping you. I’m feeling a bit useless and unwell today.’
Magdalena gives me a knowing smile.
‘My job,’ she says, bobbing her head down as if it is capable of its own curtsy.
‘Magdalena, can I ask you something?’ She looks up at me expectantly. ‘Why do you give Max money?’ Her expression changes. She looks sad, forlorn . . . guilty? I can’t fathom which.
‘Mrs Mildenhall, I’m so sorry.’ The expression is now fear. ‘I-I—’
‘It’s okay, Magdalena. You’re safe here. No judgements.’ I clasp my hands together and bring them to my heart to demonstrate reassurance. I almost said, ‘No secrets,’ but thought better of it. Magdalena puts down the pile of papers and inhales deeply. She goes to speak, but nothing comes out, her mouth frozen open.
‘Whatever it is, I promise you can trust me.’
‘I don’t have proper working visa, madam. It’s fake.’ She pauses and sips in a breath.
‘I will leave. If madam thinks that is better? Whatever madam wish. So sorry. I never meant to be—’
‘No way. Ted and I would never manage without you. You’re not going anywhere. But where does Max come into all this?’ I think I already know. ‘Is he blackmailing you?’
Magdalena nods her head disconsolately.
Seriously. Am I trying to convince myself that I knew nothing about this? Of course I knew. Somewhere in my heart I acknowledged something untoward was happening between Max and Magdalena. I’ve seen her handing him money, for God’s sake. And I’ve done nothing about it. I’ve been so busy playing Cate that I’m becoming Cate.
‘But how does he know?’
‘My fault. He ask me about how long I be in England. Where I work before. I got muddle. The words came out wrong. I got scared. My face tell too much.’ She gesticulates her hand around her eyes and cheeks.
‘You poor thing. Max has no right. I’m very angry with him. How much are you giving him?’
‘It’s now four hundred a month. It’s very difficult for me now to manage.’
‘Four hundred? You’ve got to be kidding. Oh, Magdalena, no. This is terrible!’
‘What to do?’ Magdalena says, shaking her head. ‘I have no choice. Mr Max report me.’
‘No, he won’t. Leave it with me. I’ll put a stop to this. I promise. I will. And I’ll pay back whatever he’s taken from you.’ Magdalena bows her head and puts her hands together in thanks.
‘I’ll also look into how we can get you a proper visa. I’ll be careful — don’t worry,’ I add, seeing alarm spreading on Magdalena’s face.
Michael will be able to help with this, I’m sure. ‘Anything you need, only ask,’ he’s always telling me. He used to work in a government department of some sort. He’ll know what to do.
‘It’s not an area I know much about, but we’re going to get this sorted,’ I say, heaving myself up on my elbows and swinging my legs over the edge of the sofa, planting Cate’s seriously expensive mule slippers on the hideously expensive rug. I skirt around to the side of the coffee table where Magdalena is crouched and rest my hand on her shoulder.
‘No, back down — sit, madam.’ Magdalena rises and puts a hand up towards me. ‘You will be needing this rest. Yes? And I very, very grateful. Big thank you.’ She puts her hands together again as if in prayer. She then does something strange. She pats my stomach and looks up at me with a little smile.
Magdalena registers the surprise on my face and looks crestfallen. Panic spreads across her face.
‘So sorry. I thought—’
‘Magdalena . . . you think . . . what?’
Blimey. She thinks I’m pregnant? I must be getting fat through being a couch potato. Magdalena, if only you knew. I have never, in my life, been pregnant. I only wish. I’ve lost two children in the most tragic of circumstances and my baby is right here playing happily on the rug at my feet — but I have never carried a child. Magdalena continues to look at me nervously.
‘Madam has been very tired. And sick, yes? Mr Ocado man — he not bring any of the Tampax for a while. And I not see the little tubes and green papers in the bin.’
I instinctively raise my right hand to cover my mouth in disbelief. My brain calculates and goes into overdrive. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, jump for joy or scream. Could I be? I try to remember when I last had a period. I normally write everything down about my cycle to the exact minute, never mind hour, but since that fateful day I’ve not given it a second thought. I can’t remember. The last few months have been such a blur. I’ve a vague recollection of some light bleeding at some point, but that might have been a while ago. Anything else, I’ve put down to stress.
Time to go out for a little stroll, Ted. We need to pay a visit to the pharmacy.
* * *
I’m in the en-suite bathroom sitting on the loo seat, watching the two-minute counter I’ve set flick by on my phone. The indicator stick is perched on the edge of the sink. Six seconds, five seconds . . . four, three, two, one. Time to look. I take a deep breath. Pick it up. I have a plus sign in the window. It’s positive. Okay, I believe it now. I’m finally beginning to believe that this is happening as I lay the stick down next to the other three I’ve already peed on. Four sticks, four plus signs, one pregnancy.
I have waited a decade for this moment. It’s finally here. Blood rushes to my head with the maelstrom of emotions circulating. The euphoria of knowing a new life is growing inside me is weighted down by my sordid situation.
I can’t be sure who the father is. Is it David? After ten years of trying to conceive with that man, he finally gets me pregnant when he thought I was Cate? Or, a thousand times worse, is it Max? It’s too soon to be from the recent, brutal kitchen-counter sex, but it could be from the garden back in the summer.
Chapter 38
Beth
The morning is as sharp and crisp as a Granny Smith. Fallen leaves crunch under the buggy’s wheels.
‘Hear that?’ I say to Ted. ‘Shall we see if we can find any conkers in Richmond Park? And I’ll show you acorns. Ooh. And I wonder if we’ll get any snow this year? You wait until you see snow, little fella. It’s amazing in the park then. We can build our first snowman together. And when you’re a bit older we can go sledding. You’ll love—’
Stop wittering. What are you going to do? You need to be prepared.
I peer down at Ted. I do know he’s not really talking to me. Like Cate doesn’t either. But what harm does a little imagining do when I spend so much time on my own. Sad, I know, but it helps me think things through. That or I’m seriously unhinged.
‘You’re not old enough yet to start the backchat.’
Max’s deadline passed a week ago and I’ve done . . . nothing. Zero. Zilch. That’s my plan, Teddy, to do nothing. Call his bluff. I will not be blackmailed if he turns up again. Cate wouldn’t buckle and nor will I. I am Cate. What can he seriously do? I’ll accuse him of being an opportunist, a chancer. I’m praying that he’s not Ted’s father and I’ll find out the parentage soon.
‘Thanks for the swab and hair by the way.’
Thank God Cate and I share exact DNA. Biologically I am Ted’s mother. I figure there’s only one way Max can prove I’m not Cate. My tattoo. Did he ever see Cate’s? It’s a serious gamble, but I’m guessing that Cate’s relationship with him was more of a snatched moment in the shed thing rather than a full-naked-romp-in-bed opportunity. There’s nothing I can do about it now. No decent tattoo parlour will work on me pregnant and it’s not a risk I’m about to take. My plan to completely metamorphose into Cate will have to wait.
Once inside the park, we head straight for the Pembroke Lodge café before it gets too busy. I’m hungry and Ted always is. This time we have no problem in getting a table. After we’ve finished, I’m piling our plates back on the tray when I hear a voice behind me.
‘Well, if it’s not Cate with a C.’
I spin round to be greeted by a pair of smiling, piercing blue eyes framed by a mass of dark blond dishevelled hair. Harry is wearing ripped grey jeans with a navy pea coat and a red plaid scarf artistically draped around his collar. He’s holding Abbie’s hand. She is clutching her big white bunny.
‘Harry. Hi. And Abbie.’ I bend down to greet her.
‘It’s lovely to see you again. How are you? How have you been holding up,’ he says with concerned kindness, reaching out to grace my arm with a soft touch.
‘We’re good . . . but it can be tough . . . well, you know . . . small steps . . . one day at a time.’ I’m flustered. I’m out of practice talking to anyone, particularly attractive strangers.
‘You’re doing the right thing, Cate. It’s not an easy journey, but it does get more manageable.’ Harry pauses. ‘Cate, can I ask you something?’ A tingle touches me between the shoulder blades. ‘Have you got time for a walk? It’s lovely out there. Only if you’d like to, mind. Don’t want to intrude.’
‘Why not,’ I say, while thinking, you bet. ‘That would be lovely. We were planning a walk and would welcome the company.’ I’m praying I don’t blush as I notice the freckles underneath his eyes and on the bridge of his nose. I’ve got those too.
We follow a path to make it easier for me to push Ted. The parkland is a riot of colour, the trees standing proud like towers of red, yellow and gold. The intermingling colours flare against the low autumn sun, which warms our faces. Turns out, now that Abbie has started nursery, they’ve switched their Richmond Park day to a Wednesday. It’s a fortuitous encounter. Since first meeting Harry in August, I never did make it back here on a Tuesday. Not after Max. Harry has been good enough not to mention my no-show.
We walk back to Pembroke Lodge where Harry has left his car. My phone vibrates with a message from Mum’s care home. As I put it back in my pocket, Harry says, ‘May I?’ and indicates my phone. I hand it over. His fingers skim over it. His golden mop flops across his eyes as he’s looking downwards. He flicks it back with a swift head movement as he hands me back my phone.
‘Now you have me, Harry, under H,’ he says with a cheeky grin.
* * *
‘What a lovely time,’ I say to Ted as we walk back through the Richmond Park gates.
Admit it. You like him, don’t you? You were definitely getting a little bit flirty-flirty!
‘I so was not. Was I? Seriously — is that what it looked like? You’ve got me worried now. What must Harry think of me? I’m a widow and bereaved mother of only four months — I shouldn’t be flirting with cute sculptors. He’s probably got a girlfriend anyway.’
But he did give me his number, I think with a warm glow as we head home.
It doesn’t last long. As I approach the house, the fear and paranoia start to crawl across me again. Like an itch I can’t reach. We’ve just had the most amazing time in the park with Harry and Abigail — a few snatched hours where I could pretend this sordid mess doesn’t exist.
I lift Ted, still in his buggy, up the limestone steps to the front door. I’m relieved to see Max’s Garden Butler van is not parked in the driveway.
‘At least it will just be us and the kitties.’ It’s Magdalena’s afternoon off. ‘Gosh, you’re getting heavier. Won’t be long and I’m not going to be able to carry you like this anymore; you’ll be walking up on your own.’ I don’t get a response. Ted must be getting bored of my little chat game.
With Ted safely in the hallway, I close the front door with a satisfying click. How I love to shut the world out. I want to continue to bask in the glow of having spent a few real-time hours with Harry and Abigail.
I bend down to pick up the post off the jute mat that’s inlaid around the doorway. It’s arrived. There’s a white A4 envelope stamped with the logo of the DNA testing centre.
‘Brace yourself, Ted.’
I stare at the envelope, addressed to Mrs Catherine Rose Mildenhall. I’ve gone for the full-works testing in case Cate has any more surprises lurking in her closet. Ted starts to writhe in his buggy and lets out a disgruntled whine.
‘Sorry, sweetheart. Let’s take you to the lounge. I think I want to be in a comfortable spot in case I fall over when we open this.’
Ted and I settle among the cushions on the sofa. I’m still staring at the envelope. Acid gnaws at my insides. It’s like getting your exam results, only worse. Ted leans to grab the envelope as if telling me that he will open the damn thing if I won’t.
‘OK. Hint taken. Let’s do this.’
There’s a covering letter and numerous sheets of test results. I frantically scan each one, but can’t focus for the panic. Tables of numbers were never my thing. They start to swim in front of my eyes, coagulating into a fuzzy blur.
Take a deep breath, Mum. Read the covering letter.
It’s explaining how to read the genetic-system tables included, something to do with allele sizes. I move through the sheets more slowly. I see the term Alleged Father, meaning Giles, in a column above a series of unfathomable numbers. Adjacent is Ted’s name with more numbers.
Then I see it. Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%.
Thank you. Thank you!
‘Ted . . . look at this,’ I say, pointing out the number. Max has been playing me.
I scan the other sheets. I am the biological mother of all three Mildenhall children. Who knew? I never doubted it, but Giles is also the father of Charlie and Georgie. Sorry, Cate, thought best to check. Hair and toothbrushes having allowed me to do so.
