.

leather jacket. I loved him, I remind myself. But he too is wrapped up in the memories of that night. He’s been sullied for ever, as has everything else.

      ‘What did he want?’ I’m trying to sound nonchalant but I know Nia won’t be fooled. She’s my best friend and she was there, she knows how much he meant to me.

      ‘He asked me for your number. He wants to talk.’

      ‘Shit, Nia,’ I gasp, taking ragged breaths. ‘Did you give it to him? Does he know where I live? If he knows, he’ll tell Luke. You promised me that you wouldn’t tell them where I’ve moved to. You promised.’ My voice is rising as I think of Luke’s face the last time I saw him, frozen in grief as he told me calmly that he would never forgive me for Lucy’s death. His words, along with his detachment, were as painful as the blade I took to my wrists.

      ‘Abi, calm down,’ she urges. ‘I haven’t told him anything. I don’t even think Callum lives with Luke any more.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp, making an effort to suppress my anxiety, my fear. ‘I can’t speak to him. I can’t. Ever again …’

      ‘It’s okay, Abi. Don’t worry. I haven’t told him anything about you. I have his number, if you ever decide that you’re ready to speak to him …’ she trails off.

      I stay silent, knowing I’ll never be ready. Because to speak to him would mean revisiting the night I killed my sister.

       Chapter Two

      Beatrice’s house stands on the left-hand side of a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Huge Georgian terraces that reach up to the cloudless sky in all their Bath stone, five-storeyed glory stand proudly on both sides of the road, and where the street widens, there are gated tennis courts, presumably for the private use of the residents.

      The sun is at last blazing as if in celebration of the first day of the May bank holiday weekend and I can hear the buzz of a lawnmower in the distance, the yappy bark of a dog. I shrug off my leather jacket, bundling it up and cramming it under my arm as I hover on the pavement outside the address in Pope’s Avenue that I’ve memorized from Beatrice’s leaflet. A white Fiat 500 with two parallel stripes in green and red is parked on the road in front of the wrought-iron gate. Large stone steps lead up to a wide royal-blue door with the number nineteen etched in the glass of the fanlight above. Can this be the right place? It all seems too monied, too posh. It’s certainly not the student digs I’d been expecting.

      Before I can talk myself into leaving I’m pushing open the gate and walking up the short black-and-white-tiled pathway, past a fat ginger cat cleaning itself on the manicured lawn. I hesitate, my throat dry, before pulling back the old-fashioned brass doorbell. A wave of nausea washes over me as the ding-dong of the bell reverberates behind that ornate door that any minute will open on to the next stage of my life.

      I wait, heart thumping. Then I hear the dull thud of footsteps and the door is thrown back to reveal Beatrice, a huge grin on her face. She’s barefoot with black nail varnish decorating her toes; a wispy charcoal dress falls to her knees in sharp contrast to a pretty silver pendant which hangs between her two small breasts. A delicate tattoo of a flower weaves its way around her ankle like a vine.

      ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She looks genuinely pleased to see me. ‘Come in.’ She guides me into a long wide hallway with creamy flagstones that match the outside of the house and I take in the elaborate coloured chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, the coat stand that looks as if it might buckle under the weight of all the coats hanging off it, the daisy-shaped fairy lights that weave along the balustrade of the stairs leading to a higher floor, the daisy-shaped rugs (she must have a thing about daisies) and the old-fashioned school-type radiator that’s been painted pink. The house smells of Parma violets mixed with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

      ‘Wow,’ I can’t help but say as my eyes sweep the hallway. A vase of fresh daisies sits on an antique console table next to a small glass ashtray which is overflowing with bunches of keys. The leopard-print pumps she wore yesterday sit neatly next to the radiator. ‘This place is amazing. Whose is it?’

      She looks at me in astonishment for a second, before emitting her already familiar tinkly laugh. ‘It’s mine, of course. Well, mine and Ben’s. Come on, everyone’s downstairs.’ She leaves the door on the latch, so that she doesn’t have to keep answering it, she explains. Not that she wants to take it for granted that people will come. ‘It’s my first open studio,’ she says. ‘There are quite a lot of us in this street who are opening their houses up this weekend and a few in other streets, so all in all it should generate some interest.’ She seems jittery, excited, pink-cheeked and almost skips down the hallway. I follow, wanting to know who this Ben person is that she mentioned. If she’s married it might change things.

      We pass two big reception rooms, one with a paint-splattered canvas propped on to a large easel and the other with a strange smooth white sculpture that resembles Cerberus, the Greek mythical three-headed dog. It gives me the creeps.

      The flagstone staircase curves down into a big square basement kitchen with hand-painted chunky units in a dove grey. The worktops are pale marble with a darker vein snaking through it that reminds me of a Stilton. A wooden table dominates the room where two young girls and one man sit drinking and chatting. A broad-shouldered plump woman with nose piercings and frizzy dyed-black hair pulled back so tightly that her eyebrows arch up in surprise, stands at an old Aga nursing a cup of something hot, judging by the steam coming off it. When she notices me hovering behind Beatrice she smiles warmly, flashing a gold tooth. ‘Hi, I’m Pam,’ she says in a thick West Country accent. ‘Are you Beatrice’s sister? You’re like two peas in a pod.’

      Beatrice laughs a little too loudly. ‘I haven’t got a sister,’ she says, before turning to me. ‘I’ve always wanted one though,’ and a lump forms in my throat when I think of Lucy, and I know that my instincts are right about Beatrice.

      She places an arm over my shoulder protectively. ‘Everyone, this is Abi. She’s our first … what would you call it? Potential client?’ Beatrice raises an eyebrow questioningly. I’m aware of all these pairs of eyes on me and it makes me want to run straight back to the security of my little flat. I’m not used to meeting new people, not any more. I spend my life – my new life – keeping my head down and my emotions in check, and here I am in this massive, funkily decorated house with strangers.

      ‘You’ve come to see our art?’ says Pam. ‘That’s splendid. It’s probably obvious we haven’t done this before?’ She laughs, it’s loud and booming and I warm to her straight away.

      I stand mutely. When did I become inept at making small talk? Although I know the answer. Lucy was always the gregarious one out of the two of us. Beatrice squeezes my shoulder as if she can read my thoughts and I’m grateful to her. I know she understands me already.

      ‘Pam paints amazing pictures and she lives in one of the attic rooms,’ says Beatrice. Taking her arm away from my shoulder she turns to indicate the pretty girl with a bleached blonde pixie cut perched at the table. ‘And this is Cass, she’s a fantastic photographer. She lives here too and sitting next to her is Jodie. She’s a sculptor.’ I nod at Cass, and then at Jodie, who looks not much older than Cass, with mousy brown hair, striking blue eyes and a sulky mouth. I imagine she’s responsible for the three-headed monstrosity upstairs.

      Beatrice leaves my side to skip over to the only man in the kitchen, the man I’ve been trying to avoid looking at even though I’ve sensed his eyes on me since I walked into the room. He stands up as she approaches, lanky but substantially built. ‘And this is my Ben,’ she says, wrapping her arms around his waist. She only comes up to his shoulder. He looks a similar age to Beatrice, with a freckled face, hazel eyes and tousled sandy-coloured hair. With a jolt of realization