Rosamund Lupton - Sister

I started putting your suitcase of clothes away in your wardrobe, welcoming my customary surge of irritation.

“But why on earth can’t you put your wardrobe in the bedroom, where it’s designed to go? It looks ridiculous in here.”

My first visit, wondering why on earth your tiny sitting room was full of a large wardrobe .

“I’ve made my bedroom into a studio,” you replied, laughing before you’d finished your sentence. “Studio” was such a grand name for your tiny basement bedroom .

One of the things I love about you is that you find yourself ridiculous faster than anyone else and laugh at yourself first. You’re the only person I know who finds her own absurdities genuinely funny. Unfortunately, it’s not a family trait.

As I hung up your clothes, I saw a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled it out. Inside were your baby things. Everything in your flat was just so shabby: your clothes were from charity shops, your furniture third hand, and these baby clothes were brand-new and expensive. I took out a pale-blue cashmere baby blanket and a tiny hat, so soft my hands felt coarse. They were beautiful. It was like finding an Eames chair in a bus stop. You couldn’t possibly have afforded them, so who’d given you the money? I thought Emilio Codi had tried to force you to have an abortion. What was going on, Tess?

The doorbell rang and I ran to answer it. I had “Tess” in my mouth, almost out, as I opened the door. A young woman was on the doorstep. I swallowed “Tess.” Some words have a taste. I realized I was shaking from the adrenaline rush.

She was more than six months pregnant but despite the cold, her Lycra top was cropped, showing her distended belly and pierced tummy button. I found her overt pregnancy as cheap as her yellow hair color.

“Is Tess here?” she asked.

“Are you a friend of hers?”

“Yes. Friend. I am Kasia.”

I remembered you telling me about Kasia, your Polish friend, but your description didn’t tally with the reality on the doorstep. You’d been flattering to the point of distortion, lending her a gloss that she simply didn’t have. Standing there in her absurd miniskirt, her legs textured by goose bumps and the raised veins of pregnancy, I thought her far from a “Donatello drawing.”

“Me and Tess met at clinic. No boyfriend too.”

I noted her poor English rather than what she was saying. She looked up at a Ford Escort, parked by the top of the steps. “He came back. Three weeks.”

I hoped my face showed its complete lack of interest in the state of her personal life.

“When will Tess home?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows where she is.” My voice started to wobble, but I’d be damned if I’d show emotion to this girl. The snob in Mum has been healthily passed on to me. I continued briskly, “She hasn’t been seen since last Thursday. Do you know where she might be?”

Kasia shook her head. “We’ve been holiday. Majorca. Making up.”

The man in the Ford Escort was leaning on the horn. Kasia waved up at him and I saw she looked nervous. She asked me to tell you she’d been to see you, in her fractured English, and then hurried up the steps.

Yes, Miss Freud, I was angry she wasn’t you. Not her fault.

I went up the basement steps and rang Amias’s doorbell. He answered it, fiddling with the chain.

“Do you know how Tess got all those expensive baby clothes?” I asked.

“She had a spree in the Brompton Road,” he replied. “She was really chuffed with—”

I impatiently interrupted him, “I meant how did she afford it?”

“I didn’t like to ask.”

It was a reprimand; he had good manners, but I did not.

“Why did you report her missing?” I asked.

“She didn’t come and have supper with me. She’d promised she would and she never broke her promise, even to an old man like me.”

He unhooked the chain. Despite his age, he was still tall and un-stooped, a good few inches taller than I am.

“Maybe you should give the baby things away,” he said.

I was repelled by him and furious. “It’s a little premature to give up on her, isn’t it?”

I turned away from him and walked hurriedly down the steps. He called something after me, but I couldn’t be bothered to try to make it out. I went into your flat.

“ J ust another ten minutes, and we’ll call it a day,” Mr. Wright says, and I’m grateful. I hadn’t known how physically draining this would be.

“Did you go into her bathroom?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Did you look in her bathroom cabinet?”

I shake my head.

“So you didn’t see anything untoward?”

“Yes, I did.”

I felt exhausted, grimy and bone cold. I longed for a hot shower. It was still two hours till the reconstruction was on TV, so I had plenty of time but I was worried that I wouldn’t hear you if you phoned. So that made me think it was a good idea—following that logic which says your crush is bound to turn up on the doorstep the minute you’ve put on a face mask and your grungiest pajamas. Okay, I agree: logic is hardly the name for it, but I hoped having a shower would make you phone. Besides, I also knew my mobile took messages.

I went into your bathroom. Of course there wasn’t a shower—just your bath with its chipped enamel and mold around the taps. I was struck by the contrast to my bathroom in New York, an homage to modernist chic in chrome and limestone. I wondered how you could possibly feel clean after being in there. I had a familiar moment of feeling superior and then I saw it: a shelf with your toothbrush, toothpaste, contact lens solutions and a hairbrush with long hairs trapped among the bristles.

I realized I’d been harboring the hope that you’d done something silly and studentlike and gone off to whatever festival or protest was on at the moment, that you’d been your usual irresponsible self and hang the consequences of being more than eight months pregnant and camping in a snowy field. I’d fantasized about lecturing you for your crass thoughtlessness. Your shelf of toiletries crashed my fantasy. There was no harbor for hope. Wherever you were, you hadn’t intended to go there.

M r. Wright switches off the tape machine. “Let’s end it there.” I nod, trying to blink away the image of your long hairs in the bristles of your hairbrush.

A matronly secretary comes in and tells us that the press outside your flat has become alarming in number. Mr. Wright is solicitous, asking me if I’d like him to find me somewhere else to stay.

“No. Thank you. I want to be at home.”

I call your flat home now, if that’s okay with you. I have been living there for two months and it feels that way.

“Would you like me to give you a lift?” he asks. He must see my surprise because he smiles. “It’s no trouble. And I’m sure today has been an ordeal.”

The printed polyester tie was a present. He is a nice man.

I politely turn down his offer and he escorts me to the lift. “Your statement will take several days. I hope that’s all right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“It’s because you were the principal investigator as well as being our principal witness.”

“Investigator” sounds too professional for what I did. The lift arrives and Mr. Wright holds the door open for me, making sure I get safely inside.

“Your testimony is going to seal our case,” he tells me, and as I go down in the crowded lift, I imagine my words being like tar, coating the hull of the prosecution boat, making it watertight.