Once I’ve grabbed my overnight bag, I leave the hotel as quickly as possible. I drive home, even though I know I shouldn’t, not in the state I’m in. My tears blur the road and my entire body trembles, adrenaline still swilling in my veins. I all but abandon the car outside my house before going inside. It is deathly quiet. I trudge upstairs to my room and curl up on the bed. But, the moment I close my eyes, the last few hours ricochet back.
Fucking answer me! You killed her. Fucking answer me! You killed her.
It took less than ten minutes to ruin my entire life.
I’m too numb to cry. I have done something that can’t be undone. I’ve said things that can’t be unsaid. I have proved myself to be deranged in front of hundreds of people. In front of Laura, a parent from my school. Could I lose my job on top of everything else? My best friend, my fiancé, my dignity, maybe even my parents.
Florence’s pained, heartbroken face flashes behind my closed eyelids. God, the way she looked at me. As though I’m an unhinged stranger. I blink, trying to dispel it, but the image is seared into my brain. I think of all the money she and Daniel poured into that wedding, all the time and effort and planning. All of it ruined. Because of me.
The longer I lie here, the longer I dwell. I get up and cast around the room for a distraction when my gaze lands on the painting above the headboard. Me and Oscar alone in that art room, him down on one knee. I loved telling my friends the story of how he proposed. I’d even felt a little smug because it was thoughtful and romantic and tailored especially for me. I enjoyed how people swooned when they heard it. Everyone loves a good proposal story. But it was all pretend. A means to an end. I don’t know why, at my lowest point, I’m revisiting this break-up, deciding now is the perfect time to dig in and inspect the gaping wound Oscar has left in my heart. I’m punishing myself, I think, but this act of self-flagellation, doesn’t undo anything. I turn from the painting and start marching around the house. I go from room to room but in each one I see Oscar’s absence. The dirty clothes he left in the wash bin, his spare phone charger still plugged in beside the bed, the gold watch his father gave him for his thirtieth birthday lying forgotten by the bathroom sink.
I am so alone. I consider calling Gemma and telling her everything, but she’s thousands of miles away and I don’t want to burden her in the first few days of her trip. Still, I need to talk to someone. Before I can stop myself, I am calling the only person I have left.
‘Caitie, are you OK?’ His familiar Irish brogue is like cooling balm on sunburn.
‘No.’
I hear the rustle of material and imagine Gideon sitting up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Can you meet me?’
I don’t bother to change out of my dress, but I do slip my feet into the brand-new white Converse I bought for the wedding reception. I drive the twenty minutes to Bath and start walking towards our rendezvous point at the park. As I get closer, though, a fluttery panic takes flight in my chest as I replay the day’s events. I’m surprised no one called the police after the assault. God, what if they have called the police? I feel sick. There’s no way I’ll ever make this up to Florence. You get one wedding day. One. I am light-headed and uneasy on my feet. I try to remember the last time I ate. I was too agitated last night and there was no time this morning. Guilt and regret and devastation churn in my empty stomach. The park is just across the street. I think I see Gideon waiting at the cast-iron gate but a rush of dizziness takes hold and my vision cartwheels.
I stumble into the road.
Tyres squeal. I whip towards the sound.
Then Gideon slams into me. His hands, strong and firm, are on me, driving me back onto the pavement. We crash into a front garden fence. As the car that almost hit me pulls away, the driver leans out the window to yell.
I could’ve been killed. If Gideon hadn’t shoved me aside, that car would’ve smashed into me. I hear bones snapping against speeding metal. I see myself rolling over the bonnet and feel the cobweb-splintering of glass beneath me before I am flung onto the tarmac with bone-breaking force.
Gideon stares down at me, chest heaving, his face creased with concern. His hands are still on me. I’m pressed between him and the fence but I’m shaking so hard I’m sure without the support my knees would buckle.
‘Are you OK?’ he pants.
I force the violent images away and nod even as my heart beats so fast it makes my head spin.
His eyes roam my face. ‘I don’t think you are. Do you need to see a doctor? Go to hospital?’
I shake my head. I’ve caused more than enough drama.
He frowns. ‘I can drive you home?’
‘My car’s here.’
‘You can’t drive. Not yet.’ His brow creases. He glances up and down the empty street. ‘My house isn’t far.’
I hesitate; not sure it’s right to seek refuge in my therapist’s house. Still, I feel safe with Gideon in a way I haven’t felt safe in a long time. I reach for words but they’re lost to me, dissipating like bonfire smoke as I try to grasp them. His hands cup my face and I feel like a horse blinkered by its owner but in a way that is comforting. Then I let him lead me down residential streets and across a small field. We arrive at a back gate. Gideon takes out a key and opens it. He ushers me through the garden. It’s pretty, with a pond and decking. We slip in through the bifold doors. I imagine we’ve entered the house through the back because he doesn’t want anyone to see him bringing home a patient. This must be a risk for him. Can he get in trouble with some sort of medical board if we’re caught?
He asks if I want hot tea or a cold water. I spot the wine rack. ‘Red please.’
He takes two glasses from the cabinet. ‘Have you eaten today?’
‘No,’ I admit.
‘You should eat.’ Nodding at my dress, he says, ‘I can wash that for you.’
I glance down at the dirty, crumpled gown. ‘I don’t have anything else to wear.’
He comes around the kitchen island. ‘You can borrow something of mine.’
There’s an intimacy in wearing another person’s clothes. Material that has brushed their skin, lain against it, now lying against yours. I nod.
‘There’s a chance I can be persuaded to make us something for dinner while we wait for your dress to dry.’
And despite this awful, ugly day, I smile.
He shows me to the bathroom and hands me a bundle of clean clothes. Once he’s gone, I take off the dress. As Florence’s only maid of honour at the time, I had free rein in choosing it. I tried on a hundred of them and when I slipped into this one, we both knew it was perfect. Afterwards, giddy and triumphant, we celebrated with fruity, expensive cocktails. What will I do with the dress now? Post it back to her? Give it to a charity shop? Keep it as a reminder of one of the worst days of my life?
The jogging bottoms Gideon’s given me are far too big and keep sliding past my hips, so I abandon them in favour of the black boxers and long grey T-shirt that falls mid-thigh. They smell of him, of sea salt and sage, lemongrass and fabric softener.
When I open the bathroom door I’m greeted by music that rises through the floor. I dither self-consciously at the top of the stairs. Am I really about to have dinner with my therapist, in his house, wearing nothing but his T-shirt and boxers? I should leave, but what do I have to go back to? A ready meal for one with nothing but silence for company. The loneliness is suffocating and being around Gideon makes me feel as though I can breathe again.
Taking a moment to calm myself, I look around the large landing. His house is tasteful; all bare woods, autumnal tones and William Morris prints. A far cry from the black furniture and chrome fixtures of a typical bachelor pad. Then I see the console table drawer is partway open. Inside are a few pieces of loose paper which I ignore in favour of the downturned photograph in a gold frame. I carefully slide it free. It’s of a young, attractive brunette in a lace and silk wedding dress. She’s posing on the steps of a church and smiling demurely into the camera. Gideon’s wife. I don’t stop to analyse why seeing she is dark-haired like me and not fair-haired like Olivia makes excitement trill through me. I slip the frame back in the drawer and go downstairs.
Surprise flashes across his face when he notes my bare legs but he recovers quickly, giving me his widest smile. I hand him the dress and he loads it into the washing machine.
I eye the bowls of tomato and basil pasta. ‘Can I help?’
‘Sure.’
He hands me a grater and a block of Parmesan. It’s the fancy kind from a deli, not the shop-bought powder. When I look up from my task, I notice Gideon staring at my legs. He catches my gaze, smiles, looks away.
By the time we sit down, my mouth is watering. Aware that alcohol and an empty stomach is a terrible mix, I don’t take a sip of wine until I’m halfway through dinner. We talk as if we’re old friends. It doesn’t seem to matter to him whether I’m delving into my darkest insecurities or chatting about my favourite Italian dish; he listens just as intently.
On the table is a traveller’s guide to Indonesia. It’s face down beside a half-finished, stone-cold cup of tea. I imagine he was reading it before he rushed out to meet me. ‘You like to travel?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘I’ve been to a few places but I’d like to see more.’
He never mentioned this during our sessions, which I suppose is a sign of a good therapist. After all, he was being paid to listen to me, not the other way around. Now, though, something between us has shifted. The atmosphere is friendly, more intimate. I tell him about all the places I want to visit and admit the reason I never did was because of Oscar.
He sips his wine. ‘And where’s Oscar tonight?’
I swirl tagliatelle around on my plate without meeting his eye. ‘We broke up.’
This admission hangs in the air between us like ripe apples. I feel him plucking them free, holding them up and inspecting them. He takes a bite. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says but I don’t feel there’s any sincerity in his words. When I look up and meet his gaze, I feel the heat of it all the way to my toes.
‘I know he loved me but …’
‘Some people can’t love without destroying what they care for most,’ he says.
I take another sip of wine and think about how, every day, Oscar and I snuffed out each other’s dreams whilst clinging to one another with desperate, grasping fingers.
He clears his throat. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened today? Why you called to meet me and almost got hit by a car in the process?’
My cheeks flush. ‘I’ll need another glass of wine for that.’
He grins.
We move to the living room. It’s similar to his office, all dark wood and large rugs and brass hardware. We sit together on his cream sofa and I feel like I talk for hours about Oscar and his book, the wedding and everything that happened in the run up.
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ he insists. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress. Break-ups are hard enough but his book complicates things for you and your family. You were bound to explode.’
I wince at the memory of me screaming during the ceremony. ‘But coming apart like that at my best friend’s wedding …’
‘Olivia issued that warning the night before with the aim of shredding your nerves – your outburst occurred when you were operating on no sleep, no food and a broken heart – all of which Olivia was aware of, some of which she masterminded.’
‘So you agree she planned it?’
‘Meticulously.’
‘But why? Why is she targeting me?’
‘Only she has the answer to that question. Have you ever asked her?’
I think back. I’m not convinced I have ever been that direct with her. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not that I’m sure she’d give me the truth. I don’t understand how the DNA test came back a match. She can’t be the real Olivia.’
‘Why not?’
‘My sister would never hurt me like this.’
He sets his glass down on the coffee table before twisting to face me with an earnest expression. ‘You feel responsible for not acting quickly the night she was taken. Is it possible she feels the same?’
‘You think this is her revenge?’
He shrugs. ‘Perhaps. She’s jealous of you, Caitie.’ I’m about to ask how he knows this when I remember he’s her therapist, too. ‘From the outside, your life looks almost perfect. When Olivia returned, she saw you had a house, a career, a fiancé, doting parents, a loyal best friend that was once hers. All the things of which she’d been deprived.’
Guilt knots my stomach. ‘Because of me.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not because of you. No rational person would put blame at your door. But I don’t think she’s rational.’
I turn this theory over in my mind. It sounds plausible but only to those who never knew my sister. She wasn’t vengeful. She loved me. Really loved me. We weren’t siblings whose relationship was steeped in rivalry. The memory Florence shared about her buttercup-yellow dungarees encapsulates the girl I knew. The person she was. She was patient and taught me how to ride a bike. When our parents weren’t looking, she would fork the broccoli from my plate and stuff it into her mouth even though she hated it, too. She never let me put myself down. She believed in me even when I couldn’t believe in myself. That’s my sister. Not someone poisonous and out for blood. I tell him so.
‘But sixteen years is a long time, Caitie. She was away from you for longer than she was with you.’
I imagine her as an aureolin sunflower, growing straight, towards the sunlight, roots deep into the earth. I see his hand coming for her, yanking her from the ground and snapping her in two. Cut off from the earth, from her roots, she withers. Becomes unrecognisable. No amount of sunlight will repair the damage he’s done.
Still, I’m struggling to come to terms with the idea that the woman who has taunted me, attacked my relationships, threatened me, is my sister. More than likely this imposter was held captive with the real Olivia – maybe by Simon Briggs – and that’s how she knows so much about my sister’s life. It’s how she was in possession of the DNA sample she used to cheat the test. I’m sure. That’s the only explanation. But what does that mean for my sister? Is she alive? Is it possible my sister killed Briggs? Poisoned him to save herself and the imposter, and now she’s too scared to come forward? Perhaps my sister is the person behind the mask, observing us, trying to see if it’s safe for her to return. Or maybe the imposter murdered Briggs, and my sister witnessed it. If she is dead, buried like I was told, it would make sense that the reason she was killed is to cover up a crime and to make it possible for the imposter to assume my sister’s identity to escape police detection. But then, do I even believe the real Olivia is dead? The thought has grief curling cold fingers around my throat.
I take a breath and stare down at the rug. I start naming all the colours in it. Midnight-blue, burgundy, mustard yellow.
‘Caitie, are you OK?’
I drain my wine glass to soothe my nerves. I’ll have to drive home at some point so this second glass is my last.
‘You don’t deserve any of this,’ offers Gideon. ‘And Oscar’s the biggest idiot of them all.’
I tilt my face up to his. ‘Why?’
‘Because he let you go.’
It’s simple. Effective. And from him, it is sincere. Something simmers between us. Something electric that makes me lean into it. Into him. When I breathe in, I taste sea salt and sage, lemongrass and clean skin. I run my eyes over his glossy, coffee curls, his long lashes, his stubble, and cleft chin. His broad shoulders and narrow waist. I want him. I want him, even though Oscar’s scent still lingers on his pillow. Does that make me a bad person? I can tell by the way Gideon is looking at me that he wants me just as much. It’s been so long since I felt desired. There’s power in being desirable. In knowing you can turn the most confident, attractive man you know into a sweating, lust-fuelled animal.
I become all too aware of my own body. Of the soft T-shirt that rides up my thighs as I move, of my accelerated breathing, of how I am arching towards him. I think of flowers again, searching for light. Then I am reaching for him. Winding my fingers through his hair and pulling him to me. He presses his lips to my collarbone, my throat, and everywhere his skin meets mine, heat radiates. His teeth graze my neck and his mouth moves across my jaw. I part my lips, wanting to taste him, wanting to—
He pulls back. Gets to his feet. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I start now, I won’t be able to stop.’
I get to my feet, too. ‘What if I don’t want you to stop?’
‘You’re at a crossroads now, Caitie. What’s happened to you, is still happening, feels like this awful thing, but it doesn’t have to be. At least, not all of it. You wanted to travel. Now is your chance. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t go.’ He scrubs a hand over his face as though he can’t quite believe what he is saying. He takes a breath then comes to me. His fingers lace through mine, warm and strong. ‘I want you to know, I’ll be here when you get back. Whenever that is.’ He smiles. ‘Maybe I can even fly out and meet you, if that’s what you want.’
‘I can’t just leave.’
‘Why not? What’s to stop you going right now? This mess isn’t going to be fixed overnight. Aren’t you tired of living your life for other people?’
He knows I am. I know I am. I want to be braver. The main character in my own life. A person who makes things happen. I have enough savings to go, and not many reasons to stay. Gideon’s eyes are on my mouth. He wants me. It would be easy to fall into a life with him, like I did with Oscar. But Gideon isn’t Oscar, he’s doing the most selfless thing he can. He cares enough about me to encourage me to chase my ambitions, not to stand in the way of them.
‘This is your opportunity to go and do something for yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And, if I’m honest, I want you as far away from this drama as possible and from whoever’s been following you.’
‘Is it right to run from your problems?’
‘You’re not running,’ he says wryly. ‘You’re walking. Calmly. And into an airport lounge.’
Beneath the hesitation, a frisson of excitement is unfurling at the warmth of his faith in me. ‘So I just send my parents a message telling them I’m leaving the country?’
‘I’m old-fashioned. Personally, I’d suggest a handwritten letter.’ His smile is a little sad. He touches a lock of my hair. ‘But the sooner you’re gone, the sooner you’ll come back.’