White Bodies(18)

Tilda doesn’t smile, but she holds out her hand politely and says hello. Daphne starts talking too much, in a high voice, telling her how I’m such a great employee, always on time, committed to the book trade, and she adds, “I’m very fond of Callie, very serious about making sure she’s okay and looked after.” I hate this effect Tilda has on people, making them fall over themselves to impress her or make themselves likable, even someone like Daphne, who’s a confident person. And it’s typical to talk about me in a patronizing 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 pub. 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 skeptical 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 anymore? 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 socializing. 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?”