Shadow Sister (7 page)

‘Because you’ve got one on now! Those are the clothes you bought with Lydia – that last time you went shopping together?’

I sigh and look to see if the waiter is coming. I should never have told Thomas about the shopping trip. It was a lovely afternoon – I’ve got precious memories of it – and it’s annoying that he’s bringing up that one false note. What does it matter if Lydia wanted to give me a makeover? What does it matter that she wouldn’t take no for an answer, that I was more or less forced to buy these clothes? She meant well. And I’m wearing the clothes a lot now.

Thomas had come round that evening after I’d been shopping with Lydia. The clothes were spread out on the sofa.

‘What’s all this?’ He held the bright skirt and top up, his eyebrows raised.

‘I bought them with Lydia.’

‘Aha,’ Thomas said.

That was all, but his voice was layered with many different things.

‘I like them,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to wearing skirts, but I don’t have to wear trousers my whole life, do I?’

‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘But you also don’t have to wear exactly what Lydia likes.’

Thomas used to make comments like that a lot. Of course I wasn’t blind to the fact that things hadn’t clicked between him and Lydia. It was a shame, but Thomas and Sylvie – who Lydia didn’t like either – were my friends and it wasn’t the end of the world if Lydia didn’t like them.

‘What do you like about Thomas?’ Lydia once asked when we were sitting in her back garden. ‘He sticks to you like a limpet. It’d drive me crazy.’

It was a hot day last year. Valerie was in the paddling pool and I was explaining how I’d helped Thomas to photograph a disgraced politician for the
Rotterdam Daily.
That’s to say, I was planning to tell her about it in detail, but Lydia didn’t give me the chance.

‘He might be a bit different,’ I said, ‘but he’s a very good friend.’

‘A bit different?’ Lydia’s manner was disapproving. ‘He’s a weirdo. He doesn’t look at you, he leers at you. And when he smiles it’s like his mouth is twitching.’

She was exaggerating, but the grain of truth in her words made me uncomfortable. Instead of defending Thomas or telling Lydia how horrible I felt when she attacked him, I kept silent. I turned my head away, in exactly the same way as she
always did. I saw the movement reflected in the window of the house and Lydia did too. You could say a lot about her, but not that she didn’t pick up signals.

‘I guess you form a bond when you’ve known each other as long as you have,’ she said. ‘And you’ve never had that many friends.’

As if I was socially handicapped. But I didn’t feel like a fight, so I didn’t let my irritation show. Instead, I looked over at Valerie, who was stretched out on her stomach in the pool, and I pretended to be shocked every time she splashed me. When I looked up again, Lydia was studying me.

‘Elisa,’ she said. ‘You’re not in love with him, are you?’

‘Certainly not, we’re just friends.’

‘It just worries me. I don’t think Thomas is good for you, not even as a friend.’

I frowned and wanted to snap at her, which is unusual for me, but she changed the subject.

‘How do you like Valerie’s new bikini?’ Valerie stood up proudly. ‘Nice, isn’t it? She chose it herself!’

Lydia should see Thomas now. A warm tide of affection washes over me. So many people have tried to console me: some have tried to talk me out of my grief, others have ignored it. I’ve heard so many meaningless expressions – ‘life goes on’, ‘you’ve still got so much to be thankful for’. Thomas and Sylvie have never made that mistake. Well, Sylvie sometimes, but she’s also been so supportive that I forgive her. But Thomas has always been able to adapt to my mood. If I don’t feel like talking, he doesn’t either. If my tone is light, so is his. And if I need to cry, he wraps his arms around me and I see that his eyes are brimming.

I look on with some sympathy while Thomas pulls a beer mat apart, searching for something to talk about. I feel sorry for him through my grief. It’s the first time since Lydia died that I’ve
worried about what another person is feeling. Perhaps that’s a good sign. I make an effort to chat, but after a while the inevitable silence descends. I look into Thomas’s eyes. Warm, brown, with a small splash of yellow-gold in the middle.

‘How’s the police investigation going?’ he asks.

The question sends us back to the subject he was just trying to avoid. ‘I don’t think the police are any further than they were at the start. First they cross-examined Raoul, then me, then my parents, Lydia’s colleagues and students, but I don’t know what they’re doing now. Bilal Assrouti has an alibi.’

‘That he was at a night club with a group of friends?’ Thomas says, his voice doubtful. ‘Don’t the police keep you informed about any new developments?’

‘If there’s been any.’

‘Perhaps it was random after all – a mugging gone wrong,’ Thomas says.

‘Someone lay in wait for her, someone who knew what time she’d get home, someone who waited for their chance and…’ My voice breaks and Thomas looks at me with concern. I swallow, take a sip of water. ‘You know what…’

Thomas looks at me.

‘Sometimes I get the feeling.’ I fall silent, but after a while I go on, choosing my words with care. ‘Every now and again I get the feeling that Lydia is here. Like she’s standing behind me and looking over my shoulder.’

Thomas involuntarily looks at the spot behind me.

‘When my grandfather died, I didn’t really feel like he was gone for good and I was just a child then. I had intense dreams about him and sometimes I got the feeling that he was in my bedroom.’

‘Really?’

I know what he’s thinking. Thomas is a down-to-earth person, he’s not that into mystical experiences.

‘You don’t believe in all that, do you?’

‘No,’ Thomas says, and I laugh. That’s why I like him so much. He’ll never agree just because he’s afraid of upsetting me, he always stays true to himself. It’s good. I don’t need my friends to be acting differently right now.

Thomas sips his beer. ‘There are so many of those stories. People have regression therapy and think they once lived in the time of the Pharaohs, people say they see spirits and communicate with them.’

‘Have you ever seen that program with Char?’ I ask.

Char is an American medium who claims to be able to contact the dead. I always watch her, but Thomas is clearly less impressed with her paranormal gifts. He pulls a face and does a good impression of Char, bending towards me, taking my hand and reciting all the letters of the alphabet in a serious tone. Then he imitates the client bursting into tears after a session with Char and sobbing, ‘Yes, M! My mother’s name is Johanna but her fourth middle name is Maria!’

I can’t help but laugh.

‘It’s all guesswork,’ Thomas says in his normal voice.

‘Yep.’ I survey the last piece of steak on my plate. After a long pause, I look up and say, ‘But I still believe in it.’

Thomas looks at me, his expression troubled again. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘it might be good for you to believe in that.’

Raoul is the only person I feel comfortable with at the moment. He’s the only one who knows how it feels. And my parents, of course, but their grief is too large to leave room for me.

We go for a walk in the Bergse woods and end up having coffee on the outdoor terrace of a restaurant. Valerie’s spending the day with Raoul’s parents.

‘How are you getting on now?’ I say. ‘Are you coping?’

I’m asked that question so often myself that it makes me feel ill. How do people expect you to be getting on? And of course you’re coping, you have to, you can hardly give up breathing. But my own grief gives me the right to ask such a clichéd question and I have to because Raoul looks dreadful. So dreadful my stomach bunches up.

Raoul stares at the black liquid in his mug as if he’s wondering why he would have any need for it now. Why carry on eating, drinking, and all those other trivial acts when so much emotion and pain is racing through your body?

‘Do you know what kills me?’ he says. ‘All those people who say “time heals” or that I should be “grateful” for all the lovely memories I have of Lydia. That she’s gone to a “better place”. She’s lying under the cold ground!’

I remain silent, not at all taken aback by his outburst.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I constantly get the feeling that Lydia is close by.’

The very second I say that there’s a gust of wind. We should be sheltered by the restaurant building.

‘I keep dreaming about her,’ I continue. ‘About earlier, when we were little, and our childhood. We had so many rows.’

Raoul looks up from his coffee. ‘I always argued with my sister too.’

‘I know it’s normal, but I regret it now. Every nasty word I said to her, every mean thought.’ My voice quavers.

Raoul puts his hand on top of mine.

‘You mustn’t start thinking like that, Elisa, or you’ll go under. Do you think I don’t suffer from regrets?’

I avoid meeting his eyes.

I take a tissue from my handbag, blow my nose and sit there holding it. When I look up, Raoul is staring straight at me and for a couple of breathtaking seconds our eyes lock.

‘We’ve all got something we could reproach ourselves for,’ he says. ‘I was always nagging her – about not being home enough, about the school taking over her life, about there not being enough time left for me.’ He laughs briefly and joylessly.

‘Well, that was true,’ I say. ‘She was always going out in the evenings, or having to telephone one of her students…I found it irritating, but at the same time I admired her for it. If Lydia dedicated herself to something she did it body and soul.’

Raoul’s hand balls into a fist. ‘And to think that one of her beloved students put a bullet through her head.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I say.

‘I do know that!’ Raoul rages. ‘I should never have let her go
out on her own. I should never have left her alone for a second! Damn, damn, damn!’

People around us look up in surprise. He hides his face in his hands and makes choking noises.

I shunt my chair closer to his and put my arm around him.

I can still remember the day Lydia brought Raoul home for the first time. We were twenty-two. She was still living at home and I was living in Amsterdam. It was Sunday and we’d arranged to have lunch at our parents’ house.

Lydia had gone away for the night with Raoul. I came alone and waited with my parents for them to return. We were in the garden. It was a warm spring day – much more pleasant to be in my parents’ park-like garden than in my tiny, roasting apartment.

‘It’s so beautiful here.’ I looked around in admiration. ‘It’s so green. And Dad, your flower beds!’

My father sipped his beer and surveyed his garden, his great love. ‘Thanks, doll,’ he said. ‘If you need any more cuttings for your balcony, just let me know.’

‘I can’t fit anything else on it,’ I said. ‘But one day I’ll buy a house with a garden and then you can get to work on it, okay?’

‘You’ve got a deal.’

‘Have you already met this boyfriend of Lydia’s, Elisa?’ my mother asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I think she’s only just met him herself.’

‘What’s only just?’

‘A few weeks at the most,’ I said. ‘They met on the train, I believe.’

‘I wonder what he’s like,’ my mother said.

I wondered too. Despite the fact that Lydia and I are twins, we didn’t like the same type of men and we’d often criticised each other’s choices. Or to be more accurate, she’d criticised mine.

But the moment Lydia strolled into the garden with Raoul, I knew that it was different this time. And when he shook my hand and looked into my eyes, I knew that I had a problem.

Initially I hoped that he’d be a total asshole, but he wasn’t. As well as being gorgeous, Raoul was also considerate, witty, affectionate and warm-hearted. At first, I avoided him as much as possible. I arranged to meet Lydia when I was sure that Raoul wouldn’t be there. But there was no avoiding him on occasions like birthdays. Then I’d withdraw into a corner and listen to my sister’s happy chattering. Lydia had always been more outgoing and over time I got the impression that it annoyed Raoul a little. Lydia’s impulsive, lively character meant that she sometimes cut other people off when they were talking. Once I saw Raoul looking at her in a way that made me wonder, and that night, his eyes rested on me for a few seconds.

When it was time to say goodbye, he pulled me tightly to him. I couldn’t help but feel nourished in his embrace. I smelled him, heard his heartbeat and tried to imprint every second into my memory, so I could think back to it later as I lay alone in my bed.

Did Lydia ever notice anything? Did she see how I looked at Raoul when I thought I was unobserved? Did it ever occur to her that Raoul and I were drawn to each other at birthday parties or nights out with friends? Did she suspect anything when Raoul sent job after job my way when I started work as a photographer?

I never acted on my feelings, but ran headlong into a series of relationships that had nothing to offer, could never have anything to offer. I never broached the subject with Raoul and he’s never said anything to me. But those feeling are there…still.

Wouldn’t I like to go home with him for a bit? We could eat together, perhaps even go to a restaurant. The house is so quiet and there’s no one to talk to.

It doesn’t seem like a sensible thing to do. I can’t help Raoul with his loneliness and I don’t want to. I’m not afraid of the silence of my own home, perhaps because I’m used to it, perhaps because I don’t really feel like I’m alone. Lydia tells me what to do, still. Every time I make a decision I know what she would have said about it, and nine times out of ten I hear her saying it. In a way she interferes as much in my life from beyond the grave as she used to when she was alive.

Only now do I realise how tightly Lydia and I were bound together, though our whole lives we tried to be individuals.

When Lydia decided she liked jewellery, I refused to have my ears pierced. If Lydia wanted to go somewhere hot and sunny for our holidays, I got travel brochures for Scandinavia. Once when I was about fourteen I had my hair cut so short
my scalp shone through the stubble.