Page 31 of The Other Twin
I take it all in, and the contrast makes me almost dizzy – the world outside is cold, hard, and indifferent, whereas in here, it’s a thermal blanket of cosiness and tradition.
I let myself drift for a bit, half listening to their friendly banter, sipping my sherry and gazing out of the bay window on to the frosty drive. If I squint, I can almost convince myself that nothing in the world is wrong. That the only anxiety in my life is whether Mum will go easy on me at Scrabble later, or if Dad’s remembered the pigs-in-blankets – Reece’s favourite. But the tension in my skull keeps humming.
At the table – set for four but able to seat twelve – Dad has gone all out. He’s plated everything with restaurant precision, garnishing the potatoes with sprigs of rosemary and the parsnips with a glazed honey drizzle. We settle in around the table, napkins folded just so, ruby red wine glinting in cut-glass goblets. The conversation is easy, everyone on their best entertaining behaviour, but thelonger it goes on, the more aware I am of my inability to join in fully. I keep fussing with my hair, shifting in my chair, refilling my glass before it’s empty.
I know Mum can tell something’s off. She keeps glancing at me with the same look she used when I came home with a grazed knee or an unexplained D on a maths test – concern fused with a desire not to make a fuss.
As the food and alcohol cruise through my system, instead of feeling more relaxed my anxiety heightens, but I need to keep it in check because I don’t want my parents to worry about me, especially not Dad.
‘Everything all right at work, darling?’ Mum asks gently, as Dad and Reece argue about the world’s most overrated football manager.
‘Yes, of course. Just a bit of a frantic week, that’s all.’
She gives me a searching look. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Mum purses her lips in that way she does when she knows my surface-level answer is a lie, but she lets it go and tries to lighten the mood. I know she’s also wary of opening a can of worms that could load any stress on to Dad. ‘You’re not working yourself ragged, I hope. Reece, you’ve got to make sure she actually sleeps. If she comes home looking like a raccoon at Christmas, I’ll have words.’
Reece laughs. ‘Noted, Penni. But you know Bella and her commitment to Newbury’s.’
Dad’s already refilling my glass. ‘Hardest-working woman I know, our Bee.’
They mean it affectionately, but each time they say something like that, I feel the weight of pressure increase. I hope my smile looks genuine. I try to make more of an effort, contributing half-remembered stories – the water balloon incident in year 6, my brief and spectacular failure at dressage, the time Dad burnt an entire Christmas pudding to a blackened meteor and tried to salvage itwith brandy. I’m performing an expected normality – the amusing daughter, the loving girlfriend, the stable adult with an apartment, a business, and a bank account that definitely isn’t running on fumes.
Because I can’t tell my parents about the looming threat of the Inland Revenue or the avalanche of other business troubles that are crashing down on me. Not now, not when Dad’s health is finally stable and they’re enjoying their retirement. They’ve worked so hard all their lives – too hard. They deserve a break from the stress. I have no choice but to handle this storm on my own. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fix it and they’ll never find out. Although I know that’s probably wishful thinking. I’m frantically trying to keep a lid on it all, to stop the chaos from boiling over. Yet the fear grips me, a paralysing dread that it will all detonate in my face, leaving nothing but ruins.
‘You’re sure you’re fine?’ Mum says later, while we’re in the kitchen clearing up, stacking plates like it’s a competitive event.
I nod, too quickly. ‘Promise. It’s just the Sunday evening blues. I’ll be a different person in the morning.’
She leans in and kisses my temple. ‘I hope not, Bee. I like you exactly as you are.’
I nearly tell her everything in that moment, but the words snag on my teeth. I want to confess, but I can’t bear the look I imagine passing over her face – the flash of worry, then shame, then effortful reassurance. I am supposed to be the perfect daughter who doesn’t need rescuing.
When the dishes are done, we find the boys in the lounge. I burrow in beside Reece, feeling suddenly childlike, listening to the grown-ups talk as if I’m not one of them. We do the ritual of leftovers and drinks and, eventually, round two of pudding and coffee. My anxiety thaws a little with the heat of the fire and the gentle hit of the sherry. I get quietly giggly and cling to Reece, who cradles me with a tenderness we don’t usually have time for.
It should be enough, this warm room and this safe moment, to insulate me from what’s coming. But the spiral is tightening again,even on a Sunday, the phone in my handbag vibrating with a new email, and already I’m running disaster scenarios in my head and rehearsing apologies I hope I won’t need.
When Dad falls asleep in his chair and Mum starts dropping not-so-subtle hints about ‘young lovebirds’ needing their privacy, Reece and I take our leave with the promise we’ll be back to the main house for an early breakfast before we need to dash off to work.
The night air nips my face as we cross the drive to the little garden cottage. Inside, the heating is cranked, and the room smells faintly of clean linen and Mum’s perfume. We head up the rickety stairs to the bigger of the two bedrooms, where Reece strips to his boxers and dives under the covers, patting the space next to him.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
I nod, climbing in beside him. He wraps himself around me.
‘You’re stressed,’ he says.
‘No, I’m not.’
He snorts. ‘I can feel the tension in your whole body. Bells, what’s going on? Have I done something to upset you?’
Again, I want to hand him the whole story. I want to say,I am failing, I am terrified, I can’t do this, and I don’t know why anyone ever thought I could. But, again, I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I brush it off. ‘Course not. It’s just work stuff.’
He doesn’t push it. Just burrows closer and kisses my forehead.
For a second, the pressure lets up just enough to allow me to breathe. The smell of Mum’s fabric softener and the faint whoosh of the ancient radiator soothe me. I lie very still, listening to Reece’s breathing as it slows, and the far-off hoot of an owl. I could stay here forever, safe in this womb of luxury, but already my mind has gone to the alerts on my phone, the emails, the voice memos lined up like dominoes. At some point, I know I might have to tell them the truth about everything. But not yet. Tomorrow, I will get dressed, eat toast with proper jam, and be the Bella they all want to see.
