‘I’m going into London today,’ said Beth purposefully. ‘Things to do.’
‘I thought you didn’t know anyone in the city,’ said Kit.
‘I don’t.’ She smiled. ‘That’s the appeal. I can do normal things without worrying that everyone’s talking about me. I can walk up Oxford Street and not know a soul.’
After breakfast, we leaned over the balcony and watched her go, in a daffodil sundress and those same old silver Chipies she’d worn in Cornwall.
‘How long does she expect to stay here?’ said Kit, grinning through gritted teeth as she turned and waved.
‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘But you can see how much she needs us. And I can’t chuck her out after what she’s been through.’ Kit knuckled his eyes. ‘I’m not asking you to. It’s just, the timing’s not ideal, is it, to have to stand on ceremony in my own house.’
‘She’s only been here like four nights. God, Kit. You act like I’m choosing her over you. It’s not an either/or situation.’
Anger rippled beneath the surface of his face. ‘Isn’t it?’
I exploded. ‘D’you know what? If you don’t develop a bit of fucking empathy, it might be.’
The plum half-moons under his bloodshot eyes seemed to darken and I wished I could take it back. I took in for the first time how awful he was looking, how uncared-for. He’d had the same T-shirt on for days and his hair was starting to curl at the collar. He turned his gaze towards the common.
I was about to apologise when he blurted, ‘If we were identical, do you think I’d be like Mac? Like Dad was?’
The apparent non-sequitur showed me that our thoughts were travelling in parallel and I forced myself to ride his tracks. The moment to talk about this me-or-her nonsense with Beth was gone, never to return. ‘God, Kit, I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it.’
‘I almost wish I was, sometimes. No, I don’t mean that. I wish I could get inside him and understand how his brain works. If he goes the same way as Dad . . .’
‘Hey.’ I took Kit’s hand. His palm was warm, dry and smooth. ‘Mac’s years younger than your dad was, and he’s got us. We’ll catch this in time.’ We stood in silence for a while, Kit staring into the middle distance, me looking down over the balcony. Red buses owned the street.
‘About Beth,’ I said tentatively, when I thought enough time had passed. He didn’t say anything but I felt his irritation in the squeeze of his hand on mine. ‘No, hear me out. I wanted to say, we’ll just indulge her for the day, ok? Come on. You’ve got your lost cause. I’ve got mine.’
I’d meant it as a joke, but I’d offended him.
‘How can you even compare the two? Mac’s my twin.’
I knew then that there was no way Kit would understand the bond I felt with Beth. You can’t compete with blood.
‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ Beth called, laughing her way up the stairs. Kit confined his irritation to an eye-roll. She was lightly caked in the grime of the city and laden with 7–11 carrier bags full of onions, tins and wine. A stick of fresh lemongrass poked from the top.
‘I’m cooking for you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve tried my Thai green curry.’
‘I love Thai,’ I said, loud enough to cover Kit’s snapped, ‘There’s really no need.’
If Beth heard him, she chose to ignore it. ‘We’ve got something to celebrate. My solicitor called. Those pictures are down off the site.’
‘That’s great news,’ I said.
‘There’s a chance we can sue, but I don’t know if I want that. I’d rather put it behind me, you know? I’ve had enough of lawyers and courts.’ She laid out her ingredients – jasmine rice, coconut milk, a knuckle of root ginger, three fat chicken breasts – on our worktop, then rummaged in her vast handbag. ‘I got you something,’ she said, suddenly shy. ‘To say thank you for letting me stay, and –,’ she looked meaningfully at me, – ‘generally going the extra mile. You first.’ She produced a little gift-wrapped box the size of a house brick and watched expectantly as I opened it. I could tell before the paper was off that it was a Blood Roses candle. In 1999 scented candles were not quite the ubiquitous gift items that they are today, and you couldn’t get the Blood Roses range anywhere but an obscure little shop in Marylebone. Beth must have memorised the label and then done her homework. She had bought me a gift set: three fat candles, their wicks untrimmed. The sweet, heady scent filled the room before they were even lit. They must have cost her a hundred pounds.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, it’s my fault, really. I fell asleep with it on, that first night, burned it right down to the wick.’ She nodded apologetically at the empty glass on the mantel. ‘I love flames, and it’s such a soothing smell.’
Kit narrowed his eyes: it was his job to keep in me in Blood Roses candles. I returned his sulky look; Beth wasn’t to know she had trodden on his toes.
‘And Kit, this is for you. It’s only second-hand, but it’s in perfect condition.’ It was the telephoto lens she’d been talking about. ‘They’re amazing in low light.’ She’d shocked his manners out of him. ‘You’ve got one already.’ Her voice seemed to hover over the words.
‘No, no I haven’t.’ His voice was flat. ‘Thank you.’
‘I think Kit just feels awkward because . . .’ I looked at him, but he was impossible to read. ‘I think Kit just feels awkward because you don’t need to keep thanking us.’
‘Yes,’ said Kit. ‘All we did in court was say what we saw.’ His tone was detached, which meant he was boiling with embarrassment.