White Bodies: A gripping psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh and Lisa Jewell. Jane Robins
after.’ I hate this effect Tilda has on people, making them fall over themselves to impress her or make themselves likeable, even someone like Daphne, who’s a confident person. And it’s typical to talk about me in a patronising voice, and to assume that Tilda is the older sister. But we are twins. And, if only they knew, I’m the one looking after her.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
I’m aware that I’ve left Wilf without a decision on his next book, and I mutter a ‘Sorry’ as I pick up my bag, registering a forlorn look on his face that is somehow hound-like, like a big scruffy dog that’s been told he’s not going for a walk. ‘Daphne can sort you out,’ I tell him, thinking that, as soon as we leave, Daphne will start talking about Tilda, about how she was so fabulous in some TV drama and how she looks so strange now. And how she hasn’t been in anything recently. I just know it.
I take Tilda’s arm and steer her swiftly along the street to the Albany. It’s only a couple of minutes away, and there’s nothing fancy about it – a plain wooden floor, rickety tables that wobble until you put a beer mat under one of the legs. We find an empty table in a corner. ‘This is on me,’ I say. ‘What would you like?’
She looks over at the bar. ‘God, I don’t know.’ Her voice sounds weary, like the pub and its food has failed to meet her high standards. ‘I’ll have one of those blueberry muffins and a glass of white wine.’
An odd choice for lunch, but I don’t question it and I order myself a cheese-and-Marmite toasted sandwich and a Coke, then walk back to the table, carefully balancing everything on a tray, while Tilda sits leaning on one elbow and looking around nervously. She has put her man’s hat on a spare chair but she still has her coat on, and is shivering as she runs her hands through her hair to mush it up, and I notice how spindly her wrists are, how her skin is dull and pale. I want to force up the sleeves to see if she has marks on her arms. But I don’t, and I can see that, despite everything, the thin face and cracked lips, she still looks starry. She has these wide-apart blue eyes that people like and high cheekbones. If you didn’t know her like I do, you might think her paleness was sort of chic or romantic.
‘So, Callie, how’s everything?’
‘It’s been two months.’
‘I know. I’ve just been so hunkered down. Reading crappy scripts. You’ve no idea the pile of shit that comes my way, and I have to wade through it all metaphorically barefoot. It’s tiring.’
I give her a sceptical look.
‘How’s Felix?’
She stares at her muffin and when her answer comes it’s in a rat-tat-tat way, like she’s typing at me.
‘He’s fine. He got some humungous bonus at work, and we’re thinking of going away to celebrate. I’m desperate for sunshine. We might go to Martinique… where no one knows me.’
I have no idea where Martinique even is, and I note that London is in the middle of a heat wave. But I don’t want to be diverted, and I say, ‘How come you never invite me to your flat any more? It’s Felix, isn’t it? He doesn’t like you seeing me.’ So much for subtle.
She looks at me now, and changes her voice into a kind of pleading.
‘Really… Nothing personal. He’s forgiven your crazy outburst – but he thinks it was damaging for him and me. Really, it’s just that he works so fucking hard that he’s got no energy left for socialising. We haven’t done much lately – no parties or concerts or anything. Actually we’ve become really boring. Just work, sleep, work, sleep.’
Except in her case, she isn’t working.
‘Does he know you’re seeing me today?’
Now she’s pulling her muffin into small pieces, moving them round the plate with the tip of her finger.
‘No, I didn’t tell him I was going to see you… And, to be honest, why should I…? Don’t look like that, Callie, I just prefer an easy life.’
Her phone is on the table, and at this moment – on cue – it rings. She presses a button to ignore the call but I know who it is, checking up on her. I want to come to the point but I’m nervous, thinking I’ve already gone too far, probing her on Felix. If I’m not careful, it’ll be another two months before I see her again… But I can’t stop myself.
‘I’m worried… You’re so isolated these days. And why aren’t you working? Didn’t the BBC want you for something in My Cousin Rachel?’
She laughs. ‘Yes, Rachel. The lead role. But it’s nothing sinister. I’m just taking my time over scripts, not accepting anything that isn’t right. And with all these parts, there’s often a lot of talk – oh, you’d be so perfect as this or that – and then it doesn’t come to anything. And, yes, Felix helps me with scripts, and he’s great…’
‘Only, with Felix in charge, no script will ever be good enough…’
‘Callie! This is why it’s not so great seeing you… You have to accept Felix, he’s part of my life and will stay part of my life. For the long term. Understand?’
Now, despite the hot day, I feel as shivery as Tilda seems to be. The long term fills me with dread. I spend some time chewing on my toasted sandwich, considering how I might sound supportive and, importantly, reasonable.
‘I realise you’re not telling me everything,’ I begin, in a measured, even tone, ‘and I just want you to know that I understand men like Felix, and I know that they can be dangerous. So, if you ever need me, I’m here. I’ll look after you…’
‘Oh, I can’t stand this! Felix is wonderful – adorable not dangerous. I don’t need or want you to look after me. Can you get that into your tiny, pea-like brain? If you can’t I won’t spend time with you. You’re way too toxic…’ She’s downing the last of her wine, grabbing her hat, and I panic.
‘Please, please, Tilda. Face facts. Felix has poisoned you against me. And he’s violent. You have to leave him!’
She looks right into my eyes and I think for a second that she’s going to cry, then she shakes her head slightly before checking the time on her phone and saying that she doesn’t want coffee and needs to go home. So we collect up our bags and leave. Tilda, I notice, has left her muffin in a state of devastation all over the plate. As she walks to the door, I gather up some crumbs and put them in my pocket.
At the Tube she puts her hat on and some big sunglasses, and as we part she calms down and says, ‘Please don’t get carried away. It’s all in your head, you know.’
I get back to the bookshop and Daphne says, ‘That was short. Nice lunch?’ Then we resume our normal day, except for me it’s far from normal. I’m churned up inside, terrified that by arguing with Tilda I’ve driven home the wedge between us and made her situation a whole lot worse. In one of the many quiet moments, I eat the crumbs from her muffin.
When I get home I make supper, a microwave bacon risotto, and write up my meeting with Tilda for the dossier, letting out all my frustration and anxiety. I’m not ready to talk to Scarlet and Belle about this, but I’m looking forward to hearing their news when I log into The Zone at 7.30. To prepare myself I go online and check up on the Chloey Percival case, but nothing much has happened. She’s still in intensive care because of the stabbing, and Travis Scott’s still missing. The police say he mustn’t be approached by members of the public and that he has a distinctive tattoo that criss-crosses his neck – in the picture it looks like his head is held up by barbed wire. The only new details are totally predictable. Travis Scott was identified as Chloey’s ex-boyfriend, and she had dumped him when he became too ‘possessive’. Travis had never had a girlfriend as pretty as Chloey, and his Facebook page had been plastered with couply pictures of the two of them – sharing a bag of chips, up to their waists in choppy