Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (12 page)

When she returned to Havenstone that night she’d demanded to know why he had never revealed his business partnership with her uncle. ‘Albert assumed I knew everything about his loan,’ she’d said. ‘How dare you keep that information from me?’

‘Why are you so upset?’ He’d been surprised by her agitation. She seldom showed any interest in Della Designs and, as the politician had insisted on secrecy, Peter had never considered discussing his investment with her. ‘It wasn’t a loan,’ he’d argued. ‘It was an investment and he’ll be well rewarded for it.’

‘That’s not the point,’ she’d replied. ‘I’m your wife. I’ve a right to know about your financial dealings when they involve my family.’

The row that had followed was bitter, her anger moving so far inwards that it seemed as if he had assumed another identity and it was easy for her to hate him. He’d never found a way to avoid such rows or the aftermath, when she would lie in bed without speaking, turning from him when he tried to comfort her, shaking her head vehemently if he suggested a psychologist, a psychiatrist, anyone who could help. Her tablets were hidden from him but he’d found a prescription once and realised she was on antidepressants. She’d refused to discuss the reasons with him. Then, somehow, drawing strength from deep within herself, she would grow strong again, absorbing herself in her work, trying to make amends to him in small ways that he had ceased to appreciate.

When he’d moved into his father’s bedroom she’d accepted his decision, displaying neither regret nor relief. Alone in the room of a man who’d once collected paintings of saints with tortured expressions, their skin sculpted down to bare bone and illuminated from within, Peter had wondered if it was that same translucence that had drawn him to Sara, the hope that he could unveil her mystery and rouse her to the heights of his own passion.

There had been other women. Brief affairs that had given him fleeting satisfaction but had also forced him to accept the abnormality of his relationship with his wife. For this reason such affairs ended cleanly, without regret. His marriage had nowhere to go yet he kept believing that his love for her would eventually triumph. How many times did he try? How many times did he fail? When did it cease to matter?

He hung her dress back in the wardrobe. Her mirrors glinted on the white walls. They looked mysterious, slightly decadent, promising much. He grimaced at the irony, at the juxtaposition: a bedroom of mirrors; a cold, unloving wife.

She had collected them on her trips abroad, her firm voice haggling with traders in oriental marketplaces and on the cobbled streets of old European cities. He’d been with her when she bought the first one, a tiny mirror set into a lump of crystal. The street trader’s dark eyes had lit with pleasure when she haggled with him over the price he demanded for it.

‘The mirror of the soul,’ she’d said when she showed it to Peter. ‘Such a small lost soul.’

T
he news
that Marjory was spending Christmas in Kieran Grant’s handsome brownstone house was an enormous relief to Beth. Marjory, who had always spent Christmas in Havenstone, had vowed never to darken Peter’s door again. To invite her to Estuary View Heights would have meant uninviting Connie, who always spent Christmas Day with them. The thought of the two women meeting face to face was as unthinkable now as it had been all those painful years ago.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through Christmas without my darling child,’ Marjory had said when she’d phoned. ‘Albert is taking care of everything. Where would I be without him these days?’

Her thin, quavering voice had been like a nail on Beth’s skin. ‘Will you come and stay with us in the new year?’ she’d asked. A token gesture. She already knew the answer.

Kieran Grant was a successful stockbroker. A Wall Street dandy with spotted bow ties and finely plucked eyebrows, he would treat Marjory with kindly condescension and she, impressed by his wealth, would find solace in his attention. Every Christmas, he sent Beth a personalised greeting card, a photograph of his family smiling their wide, white American smiles, accompanied by a computerised letter outlining their many achievements throughout the year. But the letter he wrote after Sara’s death was for her eyes only. It rambled nostalgically through the past. Sunshine days in Anaskeagh and endless games of tennis in the back garden of Cherry Vale. So be it. Everyone was entitled to their own reality.

C
hristmas morning
in Estuary View Heights was filled with enforced gaiety, endured for the children’s sake, especially Gail’s, whose belief in Santa was ferociously indulged by everyone. Preparing dinner was Stewart’s prerogative, a tradition that had started the first year they were married. His family arrived at noon, bringing the excitement to a higher pitch as hugs were exchanged and parcels unwrapped.

Marina McKeever, in her full-length faux fur coat and jungle-print tights, was as exuberant as ever.

‘Help has arrived, big brother,’ she announced, invading the kitchen where Stewart was basting the turkey. She cast a wary eye over the preparations and edged towards the door.

‘I’ll be out to do my shift as soon as I sink my first gin and tonic. Call me when you need me. Cheers, darlings.’

‘Thank God for the gin bottle.’ Stewart grinned at Beth. ‘At least it will keep her out of my hair for the rest of the day.’

Peter was equally loud and jovial when he called. Everyone seemed determined to defeat the atmosphere with noise. He dispensed his presents: gift vouchers for the children, boxes of chocolates for Connie and Marina. Beth received perfume, gift-wrapped, expensive, impersonal. It was obvious he’d been drinking. His cheek was swollen in a purple bruise that bagged the skin under his right eye and emphasised his pallor. Gail cried out in terror when he lifted her high in the air, bewildered by his exuberance. He shook his head when Beth repeated her invitation to dine with them.

‘Oh, please do, Peter. You can’t be alone on a day like today.’ Marina linked his arm and fluttered her long eyelashes. ‘Pretty
please
?’

‘I’d be a killjoy,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll all come over for a meal after Christmas. I’ll give you a ring and arrange it early next week.’ He looked across at Beth. They both knew it was an empty promise.

She wanted to strike him and retreated to the end of the room, shaking with the force of her anger. His grief was so tarnished, tardy and self-pitying, his handsome face raddled under its force.

‘I can’t believe you drove over here in this condition,’ she said when he followed her, an empty glass in hand.

He stared beyond her, as if trying to position himself into some time frame or location. She drew back, repelled when he lurched forward and kissed her cheek. ‘My sweet, sensible Beth. My sister-in-law of mercy.’ Every few minutes he stared at his watch, holding his arm stiffly in front of him to inspect its face. He began to hum, a hoarse off-key chorus. ‘Goodbye lady, goodbye love. Goodbye lady. We hate to see you go.’

‘Stop it, Peter.’ She stayed calm, unable to bear the thought of a scene.

‘Sorry… Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It was a long night. Give me a drink – whiskey will do.’ He placed the glass on the bookcase table and took her hand. ‘I need a drink, Beth, not a lecture.’

She laced the whiskey heavily with water. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself? You must know Sara wouldn’t want to see you drinking so much.’

‘Don’t use platitudes on me, Beth. None of us ever had the slightest idea what Sara wanted.’ His voice was barely audible as he drained the glass.

She picked up her car keys, ignoring his protests. ‘I’m driving you home. You can come back here tomorrow to collect your car.’

The state of Havenstone depressed her. The drawing room, always the most elegant room and Sara’s favourite, was overlaid with dust. The large mirror above the fireplace, with its carved gilt frame, was cracked, a jagged line angling across the glass. Old newspapers were scattered on the floor, along with empty bottles and unwashed dishes. She lit a fire and prepared food, an omelette with mushrooms. She buttered some stale brown bread she found at the back of the fridge. Not exactly a feast but starvation on Christmas Day went against the dictates of tradition.

‘Beth, the dynamic homemaker,’ he muttered when she placed the dishes on an occasional table and ordered him to eat. ‘When did you first begin to disappear?’

‘Take a look in the mirror, Peter, and try answering that question yourself.’ She stood beside him and gazed at his distorted reflection. His eyes met hers in the glass but made no connection.

‘Can you hear it?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Her laughter. I hear it sometimes at night.’ He winced. ‘I can’t sleep, Beth. I’m going crazy from lack of sleep.’

‘See a doctor. A counsellor, if need be. Do something about it, Peter.’

‘Is that the best you can suggest? You were never inclined to clichés, Beth. Don’t start now.’ He touched the bruise on his cheek and peered deeper into the mirror. ‘I fell coming down the stairs last week. I’d been in the storage room looking at the Cat paintings. Remember them?’

She was surprised. ‘I thought you’d burned them years ago. That’s what you were going to do.’

‘But I didn’t. I took your advice and kept them for posterity.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Can you enlighten me as to what the hell I was doing?’

‘You were good, Peter.’

‘Sara could show more emotion in one photograph than I brought to that whole collection of pretentious shit.’ He held her gaze in the glass, his eyes suddenly alert, searching. ‘I married the wrong sister, you know that… Don’t you?’

‘That was your choice, Peter.’

‘You allowed me to make it. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

‘What truth?’ She was alert now, and guarded, her fingers clenching in an involuntary reaction against his question.

‘She told me about Lindsey… The last night we were together. Was she lying, Beth?’ His voice strengthened, as if his words had briefly sobered him. ‘Was she the reason you left Oldport so suddenly?’

‘You were in love with my sister. Was that not reason enough to leave?’

‘I loved you, too―’

‘Don’t try and romanticise our relationship, Peter. We had a passing fling―’

‘You’re wrong. We were in love and I squandered it shamefully.’

He was struggling between drunkenness and cold recollection. The same familiar memory welled up inside her. Sometimes it came in a flash, vivid in all its detail, and, on other occasions it was a pale canvas, as if that time when they’d loved each other with abandon belonged to the memory of someone else, a stranger Beth had difficulty recognising.

Della had been dead by then and Peter – who’d returned from Italy after Beth rang to tell him his mother had suffered a fatal stroke – was running the factory. Ostensibly, he was the managing director, but it was Beth who’d guided him through those early months. Their roles had reversed in a subtle but unmistakable way. The young girl who’d first come to his studio, awed by her surroundings and infatuated with him, had become a self-assured career woman while he, no longer needing to rebel against his mother’s iron will, had realised his talent was a mediocre thing, lacking passion and pain.

Together, they planned to change the staid image of Della Designs and create a new brand. Allure was aimed at attracting trendy, young customers and would be launched with an advertising campaign. Beth had placed a glossy fashion brochure in front of him and said, ‘Recognise anyone?’

‘My God… Marina McKeever.’ He gasped and laughed. ‘She actually made it.’

She’d smiled, flicking pages. ‘We should ask her to model the collection. I’ll contact Sara, my sister. She’s also based in London and she’s an excellent photographer.’

Shortly afterwards, their first order had come from the Fashion Lynx chain store. They’d celebrated in Havenstone with Louise Clifford, the Allure designer, and Stewart, toasting the future with champagne and an Indian takeaway. Beth had sat on the floor, her back resting against Peter’s knees. Smoke had spiralled lazily through his fingers as he and Louise had passed a joint back and forth between them. Smoking hash belonged to his student days, lazy sessions in his studio, the Cat pictures. It had seemed so long ago, daft afternoons. He’d inhaled deeply before bending down and offering it to Beth.

‘Relax and live,’ he’d murmured. ‘Life is not a sweatshop, no matter how much you insist on making it one. This is our golden time, Beth. We’ve earned it.’

He’d placed the joint between her fingers, moist where his lips had touched it. Flickering pain in her stomach, swooping on the verge of pleasure. Stewart had been watching, his expression grim, and it had annoyed her, this sense that he was waiting and hoping, always hoping. She’d relaxed, expanding outwards instead of inwards, the air around her sweet, languorous, heavy. Peter’s hand had reached under her hair and stroked her neck. A light pressure that had begged her to stay when it was time for the others to leave.

Stewart had been reluctant to go. His hurt eyes pleaded with her until Louise propelled him firmly towards her car.

‘He’s one jealous man.’ Peter had stood beside her at the drawing-room window. ‘We’re breaking his heart.’

She hadn’t wanted to talk about Stewart. She hadn’t wanted to do anything except watch the stars shimmering, orbs of milky light stretching into infinity, while she’d waited for Peter to make the next move.

‘Look at you, trembling like a leaf and I haven’t even kissed you yet.’ With his fingers he’d traced her lips, a crushed flower opening. She’d stood perfectly still while he stroked the warmth within her. This time there’d been no monster in the wardrobe, no whimpering of newborn pups, and when Beth floated, falling far far down beneath him, her body feather light, she’d known there was nothing to stop the moment.

‘Open your eyes and look at me, Beth,’ he’d whispered.

No reason for shame, for false modesty. This was pleasure of the mind, of the body. Her eyes drowning in pleasure. Lost. Stoned on pot. Stoned on love.

Now they were older, middle-aged and immune to spent passions, or so she told herself as she stepped away from him and his dangerous memories.

‘If I had wounds they healed a long time ago,’ she said.

‘You’re wrong,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes it’s impossible to avoid opening old wounds. You know what Sara told me, don’t you?’

‘No… And I don’t want to know. Do you understand me, Peter? This conversation has to stop right now.’

‘She said Lindsey is my daughter.’ He ignored her cry of protest. ‘If I thought for one minute that that was true—’

‘It’s a lie, Peter. I’ve no idea why Sara should tell such a cruel lie. I never want you to mention it again.’

She spun on her heel and walked away from him. When she tried to leave the room he stood in front of her and gripped her arms. She thought he was going to shake her. The belief was so strong that her head lolled forward as if the strength had gone from her spine.

‘Please, Beth, listen!’ he cried. ‘I need you to listen to me.’

‘No! You listen to
me
. Lindsey is Stewart’s daughter. He’s the most precious part of my life… and Lindsey’s. I’d savage anyone who tries to hurt him or her. We’ve nothing more to say on this subject.’ She struck his chest with her fist and he stumbled backwards from her fury.

‘She deliberately set out to split us up.’ His words were beginning to slur again. ‘She was laughing when she told me―’

‘And she succeeded because you wanted her to succeed,’ she interrupted him harshly. ‘Don’t blame Sara for decisions you made yourself. Whatever torments she had, let them rest in peace with her.’

‘How can I let her rest in peace when she’s tearing my mind to shreds. Sixteen years of marriage! She owed me an explanation.’

‘What explanation could she give? And would it really have made any difference?’

‘She didn’t have to die to escape from me.’

‘You had nothing to do with it, Peter. Sara died to escape from herself.’

He stood at the door of Havenstone and watched her drive away. Tall trees lined the driveway. Bare and knuckled with the rigours of winter, they leaned their ancient boughs over her: oak and elm, chestnut and sycamore, ancient roots enduring while love and passion had withered and died.

Stewart had taken the turkey from the oven when she returned. She always found it difficult to tell when he was angry, to notice the little signs – his mouth tightening, a grimace, almost imagined. On this occasion his annoyance was immediately apparent.

‘Dinner’s been ready for ages,’ he said.

‘I haven’t been gone that long, Stewart.’ She kept her tone light as she shrugged out of her coat. This was not the time or the occasion to dwell on the hurts of the past. ‘I’m quite sure the turkey hasn’t been complaining.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I cooked him something. You saw what he was like.’

‘You’re not his nursemaid, Beth. I could have driven him home if you’d asked.’