Cuckoo: A haunting psychological thriller you need to read this Christmas. Sophie Draper

manner.

      ‘I’m glad.’ Steph stretched out the fingers of her hand, wriggling each one before folding them back into her palm.

      There was another silence.

      ‘And now you’re in London. Bet it’s nice being self-employed, working whenever you want.’ She smiled encouragingly.

      ‘Hmmm, depends how you look at it. There are so many other illustrators out there, vying for the same jobs for not much pay. It’s not an easy way to make a living.’

      Already I was saying too much, filling the space with words, justifying my own ineptitude. Why should I feel defensive?

      ‘I can imagine.’ My sister nodded, sipping her coffee again. There was a soft chink as she placed the cup carefully back on its saucer. A waft of perfume made me lift my head up. I wasn’t a fan of any kind of perfume.

      ‘How did it happen?’ Steph’s voice broke.

      I flashed a look of surprise at her. Did she even care? I scanned her face, the perfect arch of her eyebrows, the smooth forehead, no lines, as if she never frowned, or even smiled. Like a Greek statue, head turned away, poised in her indifference. Except … the voice was at odds with her face.

      ‘They didn’t tell me anything,’ she said.

      It had been the family lawyer who’d made the call to her. I felt a pang of guilt.

      ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring. But I didn’t have your address or a telephone number. It was the lawyers that tracked you down.’

      They’d organised the whole thing, the funeral, the reception, much to my relief. They’d rung me too.

      ‘That’s alright, I understand.’ Steph watched me still, ignoring the implied criticism, waiting for an answer.

      I threw a glance at the neighbouring tables, but the occupants were all too engrossed in their conversations to pay any attention to ours. I drew a breath, bringing my hand up to my head, thrusting my fingers into my hair.

      ‘I … that is, she … she fell,’ I said. ‘Over the banisters from the first floor. Some time during the morning, they said, though apparently she was still in her dressing gown.’

      ‘How could she fall over the banisters?’ Steph asked.

      ‘I don’t know. Some kind of accident, I was told. She was found face down on the rug in the hall below. Broken neck. Bit of a mess.’

      I thought it best to stop there.

      ‘Ah.’ Steph hesitated. She cast her eyes to her lap, folding her napkin.

      Then she reached out a hand, covering my own. ‘So, it’s only us now.’

      I nodded. My eyes searched the fine cracks on the back of her hand. Expert make-up could disguise an older face, but not the hands.

      ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘It is.’

      ‘I’m in London after this, for a few weeks at least, in a hotel near Tottenham Court Road.’ She drew a breath. ‘Can we start again?’

      I looked up.

      ‘It’s been too long, I know.’ Her hand was cool over mine, her face earnest.

      I held my hand still, resisting the urge to move it. I really did want to believe this different Steph. What had happened to her? I’d never understood whatever it was that had gone on between us. Or between her and Elizabeth.

      Her eyes held mine. They were blue. Mine were brown. The street lights wobbled in the wet glass of the café windows, amber yellow.

      Steph’s lips parted.

      I nodded again. ‘Yes.’

      I thought of my stepmother. I tried to picture her body lying on the hall floor. The blood smeared on her lips, pooling on the rug, her red-painted face still smiling, as if to say, as she’d often said:

      ‘Shall we start again, Caroline?’

       CHAPTER 2

      The phone rang.

      ‘Caro?’ It was Steph. She’d promised to ring before she left the UK. I was back home in London and hadn’t heard a thing for days and now suddenly there she was.

      ‘Hi.’ I could hear crackling over the phone line.

      ‘Fancy a curry? My treat.’

      I caught my breath. ‘That sounds great. When?’

      ‘Tonight? We need to talk.’ She named a restaurant.

      ‘Sure, what time?’

      ‘Seven.’

      ‘Okay.’

      I put the phone down slowly. It felt strange talking to my sister like that, as if we were friends.

      We met up, Steph and I, in a curry house behind Leicester Square. We chatted about not very much, avoiding anything to do with the funeral or our childhood.

      ‘My office is amazing, in one of those skyscrapers overlooking Central Park. I thought I’d faint when I first looked out of the window and realised how high we were!’

      I found myself following each word, each lift of an eyebrow, each smile, wondering what Steph was really saying as she talked about her work, her apartment in New York, the glamour of Fifth Avenue boutiques and constant traffic, flashing advertising boards leaching light into a sleepless city sky. Look at me, she was saying, how fabulous my life is, how lucky I am – unlike you, my little sister. That’s what she was really saying, wasn’t she? I caught my bottom lip between my teeth. I didn’t want to feel like this. I wanted Steph to be my friend, to be my sister.

      It was the end of the meal when Steph finally brought it up.

      ‘What about the house?’ she said.

      ‘Larkstone Farm?’

      The house where we grew up. I couldn’t call it home. The waiter was hovering, leaning in to whisk away a plate, his eyes sliding down towards Steph’s long legs.

      ‘Yes. It’s sitting there empty. It’s not good for the place. And someone’s going to have to go through all that stuff, sort out the paperwork, ready the house for sale. Unless you want to move back up there?’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘It’s ours. Except I don’t want it. Why would I ever want to go back to that place!’ She sounded bitter. ‘Besides, my home is in the States now. I’m seeing this guy … But you – you could go back and live there.’ She hesitated. ‘If you wanted.’

      ‘Ours? I don’t get it. I mean, Elizabeth had a cousin, didn’t she? It wouldn’t come to us, surely? We were only her stepdaughters.’

      ‘No, that’s not how Dad arranged it. I went to see the lawyer. When Dad married Elizabeth, he set up a trust. Elizabeth didn’t own the house after he died. She had use of it whilst she was alive, but it reverts to us on her death.’

      My sister’s words sank in. And then the thought flashed into my head: she’d been to see the lawyer, on her own? But then hadn’t I been avoiding it myself? I hadn’t wanted to think about the house, all that stuff that had once been Elizabeth’s, that had once been my dad’s.

      ‘We’ll inherit the house?’ I said. The two of us?

      I sat up. I couldn’t quite believe what she was saying.

      ‘Yes. Except, like I said, I don’t want any of it. It’s been on my mind a lot ever since I found out, I didn’t know what to say to you. But I realise now that I really don’t need it. My life’s in New York and I have more than enough money.