As I wander around the studio, I can’t help feeling like an intruder.
In the centre of the room is the London commission he’s been working on. To my untrained eye, it looks complete and would grace any wall beautifully, but I know, to Luke, there is still much to do. It’s all in the detail, he often tells me.
My gaze fixes on a canvas at the back of the studio. It’s on an easel but is draped with a white cloth. I know instinctively what the subject is and I can’t help myself going over to it and lifting the sheet. And there she is. Alice. My sister. That familiar feeling of jealousy kicks me hard in the stomach. My hand reaches out to the worktop at the side and my fingers curl around something metal. I draw it towards me and look down at my hand. The silver cross-hatched handle fits neatly in my palm. The triangular tip of the Stanley blade pokes out about an inch from the end. Luke never slides the blade away safely. I look back at the picture. ‘Bitch,’ I mutter, as the jealousy gives a two-footed flying kick inside me.
That night, when I get back into bed, I cuddle up against Luke’s back, slipping my arm around his body. He stirs in his sleep and mumbles incoherently before rolling over to face me. His hand slides up my waist and cups my breast.
‘Love you, Babe,’ he slurs through his unconsciousness.
He takes a deep breath and, sliding his hand down to my hip, pulls me towards him. For a moment I think we might make love, but Luke’s breathing deepens and he slips back into sleep. I’m a little disappointed, but considering the time and the fact that I have work tomorrow, it’s probably best to get some sleep myself.
In the morning, I wake before the alarm and go about my usual routine. It’s all back to normal today for school and nursery. As I take Chloe downstairs, stopping in Hannah’s room to wake her, I go back over last night’s tête-à-tête with Alice. I’m not sure how it’s going to play out now, but I feel slightly regretful, as this is not how I envisaged my relationship with Alice going. I remind myself of the traumatic time she’s had, what with her dad passing away and then finding me and Mum and then coming over and meeting us. It must be difficult for her. I should ignore the little transgression of last night. I make up my mind to be more accommodating and less, dare I say, paranoid about her every move and motive behind it.
As if by thinking about her, I’ve conjured her up. Alice is already in the kitchen, setting the table for breakfast. She’s humming to herself, which I recognise as ‘Whistle While You Work’ from Disney’s Snow White. She turns and smiles at me as I sit Chloe at the table.
‘Morning, Clare. Morning, Chloe. I’ve just made a fresh pot of tea. Toast?’
I’m taken aback by this cheery greeting. It’s as if nothing happened between us last night and I feel a certain amount of relief. Perhaps I’ve blown it all out of proportion.
‘Alice, about last night,’ I begin.
‘Last night?’ she looks confused.
‘On the stairs,’ I offer, as a memory prompt.
She still looks blank. ‘The stairs?’
‘Yes. When I came out of my bedroom and you were leaning against the banister.’
She waves a hand at me, as if wafting away a fly. ‘Oh, that. Forget it.’ She comes over and gives me a hug. ‘We were both tired. Now let me make you a cup of tea.’ She turns back to the kettle and pours the boiling water into the teapot.
‘Thanks,’ I say, recalling last night’s conversation. There was definitely a sinister tone to it. At least, that’s what I recall.
Alice turns to look at me. ‘Honestly, Clare, don’t sweat it. You’re under a lot of pressure. It can do funny things to people, you know. I remember once, my sister was under so much stress trying to put herself through college and bring up a young baby on her own, that one day, when she asked if she could borrow some money from me and I said no because I didn’t have any, she totally overreacted. Thought I was holding out on her. She accused me of all sorts. We had a terrible row. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when she had a mental breakdown, that we all realised how much pressure she was under and how it was affecting her. Since then, I’ve been so much more tolerant. That’s the thing with mental illness; you can’t see, and you don’t always recognise, the signs. I’m much more aware of these things now.’
I sit for a moment trying to take it in. Something is not right. And then it occurs to me. ‘Your sister?’
‘Aha.’
‘Who’s your sister?’
Alice has her back to me now so I can’t see her face, but I don’t miss the tension in her shoulders. Then she turns and flashes me with a smile. ‘I mean my stepsister. You know, Roma’s daughter. She lived with us for a while.’
‘Oh, right. I haven’t heard you mention her before.’