One Step Too Far Page 7

  I wake up with a jolt and have no idea what time it is and I'm panicky again. What the hell was I doing sleeping, especially with all this cash on me, how foolish is that? I decide I must try to open a bank account after all, I can't keep walking around with so much money on me, especially round here, so I head back roughly the way I came, through similar unloved streets, past more untaxed cars and scuffed front doors, feeling anxious this time about being mugged. I can’t find a bank anywhere and don’t like the look of anyone to ask, I’m being paranoid now, so I walk quickly, keeping going until finally I find one on the Holloway Road. I think I can open some type of pre-paid account which will be good enough for the time being, and it should be easy enough: I really am Catherine Emily Brown, it says so on my passport. I’m oddly grateful to my mother now for being adamant my names sounded better that way round, as if she didn’t have enough to worry about when she’d just had twins. It makes the practicalities easier at least.

  The branch is small and dismal, and I wait for ages watching people come and go until a bustling woman in a black polyester suit comes out from the back and leads me to a dreary little office with a half empty leaflet dispenser drawing the line between me and her across the desk. She’s cordial enough but I can tell she’s suspicious that I have no proof of address and nearly £2,000 in fifty pound notes in my handbag. I tell her this rubbish story even though she doesn’t ask, about how I’ve recently come back from living abroad and I don’t think she believes me but she opens the account anyway, she must have seen all sorts in this branch.

  I feel calmer now and carry on with my aimless shopping, drifting in and out of shops, barely noticing what’s for sale, oblivious to the other customers, but in one of the street’s many charity shops I find a dusty old print of those men in New York sat on a crane, dangling their feet high in the sky, nonchalant, God-like. I’m not sure I like the picture much, it’s a bit vertigo-inducing, but it’s only £7 and I think of the blank bumpy wall above the length of my bed, and the proportions are right, so I buy it anyway. I go into the supermarket two doors down and it's busy, full of joyless people buying multi-packs of crisps and jumbo bottles of fizzy drink for their already fat children. Look after them, I want to shout. You’re lucky to have them. I am officially a nutter.

  I hold my nerve for long enough to buy cereal, fruit, salad in a bag, chocolate (will it be safe in the house, dare I?) and several ready meals, I’m not up to cooking from scratch yet. They have paper plates in the supermarket and I’m tempted, but I think that looks a bit weird, to use my own plates, so I try not to think about Bev and her unsavoury habits and resolve to get on with it – she’s probably right about washing up liquid anyway. It’s hard to carry my food shopping as well as the picture, it's heavy, I bought more stuff than I meant to. The plastic handles are digging deep into my wrists and I'm reminded of Caroline. I wonder fleetingly what she’ll think when she finds out I’ve disappeared, whether she’ll be upset, but it seems I don’t care how she feels anymore, not one iota. I sit at the front of the half-empty bus facing backwards, in the seats you’re meant to give up for disabled people. The other passengers look sad and hot, as if they’re melting, and I remind myself that I’m not the only one with a history. The lady opposite me is swelling at the ankle joints and as she shifts in her seat there's a whiff of fresh sweat. She’s wearing a Barry Manilow T-shirt, I didn’t think they made them anymore, and then I wonder that I even notice. Maybe it’s another sign, after the laughter with Angel and the thrill of my decorating frenzy, that I’m slowly waking up at last, getting my senses back, rearranging the threads of my personality so I can be Cat Brown now instead of Emily Coleman. I realise that Cat seems to be different from Emily already, brittler, perhaps more like Caroline? I shudder. It’s all too strange. Here I am, Ms Catherine Brown, sat on a bus in Holloway. I officially live in London, it says so on my bank statement. Here I am, out here, alive, unfindable.

  12

  Emily had warned Ben about her family, and so he was prepared, to an extent. “My mum’s lovely and I adore my dad," she'd said. "Although he does seem a little distant at times, you’ll see what I mean. But I'm afraid Caroline can be a bit difficult if the mood takes her. She’s great once you get to know her though, and I’m sure she’s going to love you.”

  Ben found it peculiar that Emily had an identical twin. He found himself thinking weird things like what if he got the two of them mixed up, what if he found Caroline attractive, how can there be two Emilies in the world? As the car pulled up he felt unusually anxious. He knew he was in love with Emily, even knew he wanted to marry her one day – though he hadn’t actually asked her yet, it was still much too soon – so meeting her family was a big deal. He needed them to like him.

  The house was a steep-roofed modern house, built in the seventies, with white-washed wood cladding, four bedrooms, a neat front garden and a shiny BMW in the driveway. It was a bit too ordinary for someone as special as Emily, he felt, and he thought of his own family’s detached house with crunchy gravel and sweeping front garden, and decided that that was the kind of place they'd have one day – what with him being an accountant and Emily a lawyer, they’d be able to afford it eventually. He found it odd that he was thinking like this, that it had still only been a month since the night he’d paid a fortune for a cab-trip from Manchester to Emily’s place in Chester. But there again the parachute trip had been three months before that, and he’d thought about her pretty much constantly since then. He couldn’t believe they’d never run into each other at work, he’d been on the lookout for her every single day. And then when he had finally bumped into her it had been out on the street and he’d been unprepared and, worse, on the way to a course with Yasmin, his deeply annoying colleague. So all he’d managed in his shock was to say hello – he hadn’t even stopped to ask Emily how she was, whether she’d got over the trauma of her jump, anything to show that he liked her, as friends at least, that would have been a start. Ben smiled, as he remembered how pissed off he’d been all day at his course, how he hadn’t been able to concentrate, how he might as well have not gone at all, he was so angry with himself for blowing it.

  It was just so strange that now here he was in her car, about to meet her parents, and he'd assumed until he got her email that, whatever attempts he made, he actually stood zero chance, she was so insurmountably gorgeous. When he’d picked up Emily’s mail, half-drunk from the pub, he’d jumped up and down and punched the air, like he was actually at Old Trafford instead of just down the road from it. He’d called her before he even realised what time it was, though he would have called her anyway.

  Emily parked her car behind her father’s BMW so its boot hung just onto the pavement. Before Ben even had time to get out, the white plastic front door opened and Emily’s mother waved hello. She was blonde, pleasant-looking, her face having lost the faint bitterness it had held for so many years. In its place was weary acceptance – of her characterless house, of her weak-willed husband (oh she knew), of her nightmare youngest daughter.

  “Hello, you must be Ben,” she said as she shook his hand. “I’ve been dying to meet you. Emily doesn’t normally let us meet her boyfriends, so we’ve been terribly excited.”

  “Muum,” said Emily, embarrassed, but it was true. Emily had never been interested in boys, largely because she couldn’t bear fighting with Caroline over them. It was as if once Caroline had finally made peace with their mother, there’d become less need for competition over Frances, and so the next battleground she'd chosen was boys. It had put Emily right off the whole thing, and she’d left Caroline to it, preferring to spend time with her friends and her books. And as Emily got older boys never really approached her anyway – she didn’t seem to know how to give off the right signals – and so she began to assume she just wasn’t attractive. The few boyfriends she had had were kept well away from her family, just in case.

  With Ben it was different, it seemed natural to bring him for Sunday lunch. She’d
been scared at first to even ask, as though she was being too forward, too serious, but Ben had said yes immediately, that he’d love to. That was what she adored about Ben, that there was no side to him, just complete straight-forwardness and apparently genuine enthusiasm for her. She found it odd though how they were still too scared to spell out how they felt, where they saw it going, as if voicing it would spoil it, so for now they skirted around the words, and their eyes and their bodies told them instead.

  “Emily, hello!” said Frances. “I said, do you want tea or coffee?”

  “Oh, sorry Mum, coffee would be lovely.”

  “Come and sit down Ben, Andrew will be in in a minute, he’s just finishing off in the greenhouse. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Where’s Caroline?” said Emily, changing the subject.

  “Oh, she had to pop out love, she’ll be back soon.”

  “How’s it going having her back home?” Emily winked at Ben.

  “Oh, you know, we can’t get in the bathroom, she plays her terrible music far too loud, it’s like she never left really.” Frances paused. “But I think she realises it’s for the best, just for the moment.” She looked at Ben. “I expect Emily’s told you Caroline had a breakdown?”

  “Mum!” said Emily. Even though she had told Ben, she didn’t know why her mother was being so indiscreet, it was most unlike her. Ben looked down embarrassed, at the thin lines of grey grout between the square white tiles, and he thought they looked too clean, too spick, like in a hospital perhaps.

  “Sorry darling. I just thought it was best that we all know where we are, so we can have a nice lunch, that’s all.”

  “How’s she doing?” said Emily.

  “OK under the circumstances, I think.” Frances turned to Ben. “We thought she’d done so well – living in London, great job in fashion, but you never really know what’s going on with some people, do you?”

  Ben nodded nervously, not knowing what to say.

  Has she gone stark raving mad, thought Emily. She’d never seen her mother like this, it was alarming.

  “I just think Ben needs to know, that’s all,” said Frances. “If we’re going to have a nice lunch together,” and then Emily understood. Frances was warning Ben – she obviously still didn’t trust Caroline not to steal her own twin’s boyfriend.

  The key scraped in the door. Caroline slouched in, looking amazing. She had streaks of amber through her hair and it was cut shorter than Emily’s, a long asymmetric bob. Her style was distinct, all bold lines and sharp contrasts, and she looked sleek and dangerous. Her eyes glittered and Ben saw what the other two didn’t, but said nothing.

  “Hi Ems,” she said and air-kissed her sister. “How’s things? Is this your boyfriend?” And she said it like she was still 16, not 26, and Emily cringed.

  “Hello,” said Ben. “Great to meet you.” He felt relieved to see for himself that she was so different from Emily, that they were definitely two separate people, and he caught Emily’s eye to show her it was going to be OK, after all.

  Caroline took off her blazer, ostentatiously, revealing a tight orange T-shirt with “Let’s talk” in clashing aquamarine splashed brazenly across her skinny chest, and then she slung the jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and sat down.

  “Hear you two really fell for each other,” said Caroline. “Sweet.”

  Before Emily could think what to say in reply, Andrew came in from the garden. His jeans were ill-fitting, high-waisted, his hands were filthy, his hair had drifted out of place. He’s almost got a comb-over, Emily noticed for the first time, with a stab of sympathy for him. Andrew had always been so handsome, it was a bit pathetic to see him like this.

  “Hi, Dad, this is Ben,” she said. Ben held out his hand instinctively and as Andrew shook it clumps of earth fell on the sparkling white floor. Everyone laughed, nervously, except Caroline.

  “Come to ask permission, have you?” she sneered, and Emily wondered for the millionth time why Caroline went out of her way to alienate people.

  “Not this time,” replied Ben, and Emily thought that that was such the perfect answer, she loved him even more.

  Over lunch Ben noticed that Caroline topped up her glass before Andrew offered and before anyone else was ready. He was surprised that they let her, but she was no longer a child, so short of having her sectioned again what were they meant to do? Caroline was a continuing shock to him. He’d been stunned when Emily had told him that first night in Chester that she had an identical twin. He couldn’t believe that there was someone else out there, who looked like Emily, sounded like Emily but that he didn’t know and wasn’t mad about. It was freaky.

  She’d told him it all in a rush then, as she lay in her bed beside him, their arms and legs intertwined – about how she and Caroline had never really got on, how at 15 Caroline had been hospitalised for anorexia but then had appeared to recover so quickly, her relationship with her mother somehow miraculously improved – how she’d sailed through all her exams and taken a place at Central St Martin’s, studying fashion. She’d told him how they’d all been so proud of Caroline when she’d done her final show and had sent the models down the catwalk dressed as exotic giant spiders, and it had even made the press. She had glamorous boyfriends, trails of them, and she got herself a trendy flat near Spitalfields and everyone thought she was fine. It was her friend Danielle who had finally found Frances’s number on Caroline’s mobile, and begged her to come down – now – as Caroline was convinced there were terrorists in the walls and fist-sized spiders down the plug-holes. Frances hadn’t seen her daughter for a couple of months, and she’d been shocked by her daughter’s state. Frances had put it down to Caroline witnessing that horrendous nail-bombing in Soho a few years earlier (and of course she couldn’t bear to think of any other reasons): Caroline and her boyfriend had been caught right in the middle of it and she’d still been so young. It had taken time to take a toll on Caroline’s mind, but the years of hard living and the brittle relationships and her tendency to melodrama anyway had all come together to send her quite mad, and Frances hadn’t known what else to do but call 999.

  The ambulance drivers were unsympathetic, unmoved, they just recommended she take her daughter and get her assessed (“It’s for the best love”), and anyway they were about to go off shift so they needed everyone to hurry up. Caroline was in the hospital for just eight weeks, and when she came out she seemed fine again, a little subdued maybe, but definitely on the mend. Frances wouldn’t let her stay in London though, she put her foot down for a change and made Caroline move home again – just for a while, she'd said, just until you get your strength back.

  Ben had been stunned. The only histrionics that had occurred in his family was when his mother had reversed his father’s beloved Rover into the garden wall, and, oh yes, one of his cousins had shockingly left his wife within a year of marriage. But that was about it. His family didn’t do drama.

  “What've you been doing in the garden?” Ben asked Andrew, as he took the last mouthful of his Sunday dinner.

  “Oh, you know, a spot of weeding, pricking out my tomato seedlings, watering the nasturtiums, just a bit of a spring clean now the weather seems to have finally turned.” Ben didn’t know what pricking out was or what kind of plants nasturtiums were, and he nodded politely, unsure what to say.

  “More potatoes, Ben?” Frances asked.

  “Yes, thanks, they’re great, really crispy.”

  Caroline smirked. “Have some more gravy, Ben,” she said, and she shoved the oval gravy boat with the brown flecked pattern that matched the plates, across the tablecloth, over the placemats, towards him.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, and her fingers brushed his as he tried to take it by the small looped handle and the boat tipped dangerously.

  “So what is it you do for a living, Ben?” Andrew asked, although he already knew, Frances had told him that morning.

  “I’m afraid that I’m an accountant,” Ben said.


  “Wow, that sounds exciting,” said Caroline. “You two must have so much to talk about.”

  Emily scowled at her sister. “The beef was nice mum, where’s that from?”

  “Oh, I got it from the butcher in the town, darling, I find it's so much better than what the supermarkets sell.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Caroline. “I find dead meat is so much nicer when it’s local, don’t you?”

  “Caroline,” said Andrew, mildly. No-one spoke. Ben’s fork scraped agonisingly on his plate. Emily took a sip of her red wine.

  “We thought we might take the dog out after lunch,” she said, to break the silence. “It’s such a lovely day, we could take him down by the river.”

  “Good idea, mind if I join you?” said Caroline.

  “Of course,” said Ben quickly. “In fact, we could all go.”

  “Oh, I need to get cleared up,” said Frances. “And Andrew is bound to need to finish up in the garden." She hesitated. "You youngsters go.”

  “OK, it’s just us three then,” said Caroline. “Super.”

  “Actually, thinking about it, maybe we should give it a miss if that's OK,” said Ben. “I’ve got some work to do, so we probably need to be getting back quite soon anyhow. D'you mind, Emily?”

  “Of course not, whatever,” said Emily.

  “Shame,” said Caroline, toying with her vegetables, pushing them around the plate as if she was tormenting them. “I do love a nice Sunday afternoon stroll.”

  Ben looked across the table and wondered again how Caroline could seem so normal – a bitch certainly, and well on the way to being drunk – but not mad, not anorexic. She caught Ben watching her and raised her glass to him with a mocking smile. “Chin chin,” she said, and took a long swig.