Chapter 26
Rose
I’m in floods of tears as I close Phoebe’s purple journal, my fingers trembling as I reattach the tiny padlock. That was her final entry, the last of her lovely, loping handwriting, and she’s gone now, for good.
I’ve had her teenage diary in my possession for over a year since finding it in the loft on the same day that I uncovered Eliza’s. But I never had any intention of reading Phoebe’s – I had too much respect for her for that. I’m afraid the same couldn’t be said for Eliza. My curiosity overruled any sense of right and wrong when it came to reading hers and no doubt she’s still cross with me about it.
Back in May, when the anniversary of Phoebe’s death was almost upon us, I went to bed feeling desperately sad. I wanted so much to feel close to her, to hear her voice again, so I dug out her old diary and I’ve been reading it on and off ever since.
I’ve tried to keep her alive by making it last for as long as possible, which goes against all of my instincts to devour it in one go, but now I’ve reached the end and it’s like I’ve lost her all over again. It’s so painful. I can’t bear it.
I loved the way she wrote. I felt like I was right there with her as she had her ‘proper pinch me moment’, sitting on the balcony of her apartment in Argentière as she watched the sun set over the mountains. I lived through all of the climbs she did with Remy and their various adventures, like paragliding and daytrips to the ice grotto. Just a moment ago, I stood on top of Mont Blanc with her and Dad, after she’d finally persuaded him to visit her that summer. It was the last big climb they ever did together. And, of course, I also suffered her nightmares with her when she dreamed about Eliza kissing Angus, and Dad dying on a mountain. It all seems oddly prophetic.
I curl up into a ball on my bed and surrender to my emotions. Angus isn’t around to hear me cry. He stayed at a hotel last night – he’s writing a feature, apparently. I asked him outright if he was seeing someone, but he denied it.
I know he’ll get another girlfriend eventually, but I will never get another sister. Despite what people think when they look at us, Phoebe was one of a kind. And she can’t be replaced.
Sometimes I go back to the day Mum received the phone call, the one that told us we’d lost her. Eliza and I had been having a blazing row on the doorstep when the phone rang and Mum shouted out, ‘IT’S PHOEBE!’
We automatically assumed that Phoebe was actually on the other end of the line and Eliza threatened to tell her everything about Angus, but then Mum let out the most agonising, inhuman sound, like her heart was being ripped from her chest. Eliza and I stared at each other in shock for only a split-second before racing inside. Mum was slumped on the floor in the kitchen, the phone clutched to her ear. I took the phone from her and the moment I discovered it was Josie, I knew.
‘Phoebe was caught in an avalanche,’ Josie managed to get out between sobs.
My triplet, one third of me, was gone forever.
‘What’s wrong?’ Toby asks when I go into work. I did the best job I could with my concealer, but my eyes must still be red from crying.
‘Nothing,’ I mumble as his expression radiates concern. A moment later, my vision is obscured by tears.
‘Hey,’ he says gently, striding over to the front door. I hear him lock it.
‘Don’t, Toby, it’s fine,’ I protest. ‘We can’t open up late.’ But he comes over and takes my arm, guiding me into the bakery.
‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ he demands.
I crumble and a moment later his arms are around me, holding me as I cry.
‘When you asked me if I was an identical triplet, I couldn’t answer,’ I say to him a little while later when I’ve calmed down enough to talk. We’re sitting outside on the garden furniture from home. I painted the wall the weekend before last, but I haven’t finished prepping the soil for the plants so we’re still surrounded by plastic pots.
‘It was the first time anyone had used the words “identical triplet” to me since Phoebe died,’ I explain. ‘And it shocked me when it occurred to me that I’m not sure if I technically am any more. Am I still a triplet, when one of the three of us is gone?’ My voice sounds choked and I’m struggling to keep my tears under control.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies quietly. ‘Do you still feel like one?’
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘Then there’s your answer.’
A sob escapes my mouth. He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer.
‘Shhh,’ he says soothingly, his warm breath tickling the top of my head. It feels as though our roles have been reversed. Now he’s the adult, comforting the child. He’s quite good at it, actually.
‘You should go and open up,’ I say eventually. ‘The customers will be pounding down the door.’
‘They can wait.’
‘No, Toby, really, it’s fine. Your dad wouldn’t like it. Please go. I’ll come back in shortly.’
‘Okay.’ He seems reluctant to leave, but leave he does.
I stay outside for another fifteen minutes, digging over the soil in the planter box to keep me busy and hoping the redness in my face will die down. There was a thunderstorm in the middle of the night and the ground is wet, so I make good progress.
When I’m feeling a bit more like myself, I head inside and wash my hands at the bakery sink before returning to the shop floor. Toby flashes me an encouraging smile as he finishes up with a customer. ‘You okay?’ he asks when they’ve gone. There are still a couple of mums with babies drinking coffee in the small café area so we speak quietly.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Mind if I pop outside for a fag?’ he asks with a raised eyebrow.
‘Go for it.’
He returns five minutes later.
‘When are you going to put the plants in?’ he asks.
‘I planned to do it last weekend, but I was too zonked after our all-night baking session. Where are you going to go for your fag breaks when it’s finished?’ I ask pertinently.
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe I’ll quit. Smoking costs a packet. It’s wiping me out.’
‘Is that your only reason for stopping? Not the fact that it’s incredibly bad for your health and makes your breath smell like sick?’
He looks a little put out.
‘Sorry, that sounded worse than I meant it to.’
‘Forget it,’ he replies, staring at the blank space on the counter where the cupcakes used to be. His mum is due to come out of hospital tomorrow, but she won’t be baking for a while.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asks suddenly, looking at me.
‘Nothing, why?’
‘Want to come to a gig in the city with me?’
‘Er...’
‘Have you already got plans?’ he asks.
‘No, but—’
‘What? Something better to do on a Monday night? Come on, Rose, live a little. It’ll do you good.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather go with someone your own age? One of your friends?’ I ask.
‘I don’t have any friends my own age around here.’
‘Neither do I,’ I admit. ‘Well, not any more. They’ve all moved away.’
He gives me a meaningful look.
‘What about Vanessa?’ I ask. ‘She’s young and beautiful.’
‘Vanessa is dull,’ he states.
‘Fine,’ I reply on a whim. ‘I’ll drive you there.’
‘Jeez, Rose, you’re not my mother.’ He comes over and grasps my upper arms, giving me a little shake. ‘Let’s catch the Metro, have a few drinks. Let your hair down.’ He glances at my bun and then back at my face.
‘I think you’d get on better with my other sister,’ I say sardonically.
I should have known the comment would come back to bite me. As soon as Toby and I are at the bar that night with drinks in our hands, he asks me about Eliza.
‘We’re not really talking to each other right now,’ I explain, but of course, that utterance demands another explanation.
‘We’ve got an hour before the band comes on,’ he says. ‘Spill.’
I take a deep breath and sigh loudly.
‘I’m your only friend,’ he reminds me, pretend seriously. ‘Talk to me.’
I smirk at him. ‘I do have one other friend in this city, you know. Angus, my flatmate. We’ve known each other since we were seventeen,’ I explain.
‘And he’s just your flatmate?’ He raises one eyebrow.
‘Yeah.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘I thought I was in love with him once, but he was with Phoebe. They were engaged to be married.’
‘Whoa,’ he says, his eyes widening.
‘Before you start thinking I’m a horrible person, I should also tell you that Eliza fell for him, too, so it wasn’t just me.’
‘Christ, that’s messed up.’
It’s not the direction I was hoping this conversation would take, but I only belatedly realise my mistake.
I purse my lips. ‘Yeah. You won’t get any argument from us on that front,’ I mutter.
‘Did Phoebe know you both had the hots for him?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
He gives me a long, weighty stare.
‘Eliza!’ the big, burly man behind the bar suddenly exclaims. It doesn’t take a genius to work out he’s talking to me.
‘I’m her sister,’ I reply, used to this sort of thing happening, though it hasn’t for a long while.
His jaw drops. ‘You look just like each other.’
I shrug. ‘We’re identical...’
‘Twins!’ he finishes my sentence. ‘I’m Joe,’ he introduces himself.
‘Rose,’ I reply, bracing myself. Even Toby stiffened at the twins comment.
‘You don’t sing, do you? You two would look great up there.’
My expression is one of horror. ‘No, I have no musical talent whatsoever.’
He shrugs, nonplussed. ‘Well, maybe you could give your sis one of these when you next see her. I’ve just had them mocked up.’ He pulls out a photocopy of a flier from under the bar and hands it over. There’s a picture of Eliza sitting on a stool, holding her guitar, mid-performance. She looks pensive. I feel a pinch as I stare at her image and then Toby distracts me by peering over my shoulder.
‘Of course,’ I tell Joe. He nods and goes off to serve another customer.
‘Is she any good?’ Toby asks me.
‘You’d probably like her music.’ I fold up the piece of paper, putting it into my bag. ‘Can we go and find a table somewhere?’ I want somewhere dark, somewhere private, where no one else is likely to mistake me for Eliza.
‘Sure.’ He picks up his drink and follows me because I’m already on my way.
My edginess melts away after my third vodka and cranberry, and when the band comes on – an indie-rock four-piece – I’m in a top mood. Toby went up to join the throng a few minutes ago, surprised that I wanted to stay seated. In fact, he looked at me like I had horns growing out of my head. I’m just worried about people mistaking me for Eliza, or Eliza herself lurking around somewhere. She’s obviously a regular.
I catch a glimpse of Toby. He’s wearing a dark T-shirt and jeans. I’m so used to seeing him in light-coloured clothing at the bakery, but black suits him. I feel a twinge of regret that I’m sitting here by myself, being boring. I’m out on the town at last – why aren’t I making the most of it? What’s the big deal if another person mistakes me?
I gulp down the last of my vodka and stand up. I’ll start by going to the bar.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ a man asks me within moments of me trying to flag down the bargirl. He’s not bad looking. Kind of ordinary, but then so was Gerard and he managed to have two women on the go at the same time.
‘Oh, it’s fine, I’m getting two,’ I reply.
‘Have we met before?’ he asks. ‘You look kind of familiar.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say innocently.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
‘Rose.’
‘That’s a beautiful name,’ he says. ‘And you are a beautiful girl’
I stifle a snort, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he introduces himself. ‘I’m Alan.’
A pair of hands land on my shoulders and I glance behind me to see Toby staring down at me with a slight frown. ‘I couldn’t see you at the table,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘Nah, just came to the bar. This is Adam,’ I explain.
‘Alan,’ he corrects me, then: ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t know she was with you.’
Alan makes himself scarce and I crack up laughing. ‘Do I look younger than I am or do you look older?’
‘Maybe a bit of both,’ Toby says with wry amusement. ‘You don’t look twenty-eight.’
‘Brilliant,’ I reply with delight. ‘You look older than twenty-one. You’re older than your years,’ I add wisely, trying to keep a straight face.
‘You’re pissed,’ he points out the obvious, a smile tipping the corner of his lips.
He lifts his hand to get the bargirl’s attention. She comes straight over.
‘Can I get a glass of tap water?’ he asks her. ‘Large.’
‘And I’ll have a vodka and cranberry!’ I chip in.
‘And a beer,’ he adds drily, passing me the water when it appears. ‘Just drink it,’ he says when I begin to protest.
‘I’m supposed to be letting my hair down,’ I say self-righteously. In fact, dammit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I reach up and pull out the bobby pins, one by one, from my hair. It swings down into a ponytail. Nope. Don’t want that. I tug out my hair tie and shake out my blonde locks.
Toby watches with a raised eyebrow, then gets his money out to pay the bargirl. ‘Thanks.’ He takes a sip of his beer and nods at the water. ‘I don’t want you to throw up on me later. I’ve got enough on my plate.’
I humph, but do as he asks, gulping it down in one go. I slam the empty glass back on the bar top.
‘Come on, let’s go and watch the band,’ I say, hopping to my feet and heading towards the crowd with my vodka in hand.
Any cares I had about being recognised – or more likely, mistaken – have flown out of the window. I’m pissed as a newt and ready to enjoy myself!
‘Urgh,’ I say half an hour later when I’m hunched over a plant pot on the pavement.
‘This would be easier if you hadn’t let your hair down,’ Toby muses acerbically, as he scoops back my hair into a makeshift ponytail.
‘I don’t think I’m going to be sick,’ I tell him bravely, and he lets go of my hair as I straighten back up. I regard him with confusion. ‘Did we eat?’
‘No.’ He half laughs.
‘That was pretty stupid,’ I state.
‘Yeah. I guess. You want something?’
‘Maybe we should.’
We set off down the street. ‘How are you so sober?’ I grumble.
‘I’m not. I’m actually pretty drunk, just not in comparison to you.’
This gives me the giggles again.
‘You don’t get out much, do you?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I fall silent. ‘You’re hanging out with a loser. Congratulations.’
‘You’re not a loser,’ he says warmly, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. He’s so tall. And really very good-looking. Imagine what he’s going to be like in a few years’ time!
Hot. As. Hell.
‘Hey, how about a burger?’ he asks, distracting me from my wayward thoughts.
We come to a stop outside a restaurant called Roxy’s. The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.
And then I see her. But of course. Mum told me that Eliza works here.
‘No,’ I say, backing away.
‘Is that your sister?’ Toby asks with amazement, following the line of my sight.
I come to a standstill on the pavement. I’m still staring at her. She’s wearing a uniform: a red dress with a white apron, and her hair has been pulled up into a high ponytail. But despite the hairstyle she doesn’t look like Phoebe. She looks too thin to be Phoebe. But she’s still beautiful.
Even if I do say so myself.
I come to my senses, sobering up momentarily. Toby is still standing on the pavement, staring.
‘You know, if you were a bit older, you’d be completely her type.’
I don’t know why I just told him that.
‘Really?’ He raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t stop looking at her. He seems fascinated.
I turn and walk away.
‘Oi!’ he calls, running after me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home. I think I need my bed more than food at this moment.’
‘The Metro’s this way.’ He snatches my hand and tugs me to a stop.
In the same movement, I spin around to face him.
‘I like you, Toby,’ I find myself solemnly declaring. ‘You’re going to be a really good catch for someone one day.’
His dark eyes stare down at me. My stomach churns, but not from nausea. I suddenly feel very strange as I watch his eyebrows pull together. Then he breaks eye contact and stares over my head.
‘Come on, Rose,’ he says quietly. ‘Let’s get you home.’