The Stepsister Read online

  The Stepsister

  by Jenny O’Brien

  Copyright © 2018 by Jenny O’Brien

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead is entirely co-incidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All Rights reserved

  By Jenny O’Brien

  The Irish Series:

  Ideal Girl

  Girl Descending

  Unhappy Ever After Girl

  The English Series

  Englishman in Blackpool

  Englishwoman in Paris

  Englishwoman in Scotland

  Englishwoman in Manhattan

  Englishwoman at Christmas

  For Children

  Boy Brainy

  Granny’s Gone AWOL in Guernsey

  Historical

  Rescuing Robert - Dunkirk

  Thrillers

  The Stepsister

  Coming soon

  Finding Baby

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Epilogue

  About this book

  Acknowledgements

  Coming soon

  To Jo Robertson, with love.

  Prologue

  I died yesterday, or so I’ve been told.

  Yesterday is the day my life changed but how or why is still a mystery. There are things I know and there are things they’ve told me but I can’t seem to trust any of it.

  I know I’m a woman but I don’t know my age. I know how to hold a cup in the same way I know it’s rude to stick the end of a knife in my mouth. So, somewhere along the way, someone cared enough to drill manners into me. Those are the things I know, the things I can trust but as for the rest…

  They tell me I’m in Holland but can I believe them? I don’t remember if I’m Dutch but I also don’t remember if I’m not. I can’t speak Dutch. I’ve been trying all morning but can one lose a language overnight? I seem to have lost everything else. Who knows? Maybe I took the wrong train or something and just rolled up in the wrong city. That would make sense, except that it’s not just my sense of place that’s missing. It’s my sense of everything. I have no name, no age and no identity. Yesterday I died and today I’m still here.

  They’ve left me alone now while they puzzle out what to do. In the meantime I’m going to try to remember stuff. I don’t know how long they’ll leave me alone but I need to take this opportunity to come up with some answers to all the questions they’ve been throwing at me like who the hell I am?

  Slipping out of bed, I recoil as bare feet meets cold tiles, but that’s not going to stop me. Pulling the back of the hospital gown closed in an effort to retain some degree of dignity, I shuffle over to the bathroom and then the mirror only to stare into the face of a stranger.

  It doesn’t matter what I look like or that I’m suffering from the worst case of bed-head known to man. It doesn’t matter that my eyes are green or that my hair is that shade of nondescript mouse that keeps colourists in business. The only thing that matters is my reflection, which holds no clues to my identity.

  I’m a stranger to them. I’m a stranger to me.

  My body holds a clue though - just one.

  I push up my sleeve again to stare at the tattoo on my arm. The tattoo puzzles me. It’s not me, or part of me or who I think I am and yet it’s there, a large indelible letter V.

  I have no idea what it stands for. Oh, I’m not stupid or anything or, at least, I don’t think I am. I can’t quote which exams I’ve passed or if indeed I’ve ever attended school but I do know V stands for victory. But what does it mean to me? Am I victorious? Am I making a statement about something? It must be important because it’s the only tattoo I have. It’s also the only clue.

  I’m tired now. My eyelids collapse over my eyes and I remember the cocktail the nurse told me to swallow like a good girl. I want everything to go away. I want to hide under the blankets and forget. I’ve already forgotten…

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Past

  ‘Why on earth would someone leave us a house, Vee?’

  ‘I don’t know and more to the point, I don’t care.’

  I push the letter across the table with a frown. The frown isn’t for the letter or the fact that my stepsister has deigned to visit. The frown is for the tip of my nail-bitten finger which should be long and red instead of short and stubby. But the state of my nails is the least of my worries. My eyes drift back to the pile of brown envelopes that will need some sort of action on my part - I’ll get around to them but not yet.

  ‘That's even more bizarre given your background,’ her eyes shifting to glance down at the letter. ‘After all, it's not as if you have any relatives or even any next-of-kin.’

  ‘I had thought that you were—?’

  ‘Get real. You know what I mean,’ she says, fingering the small bunch of keys that accompanied the letter. ‘There must be some mistake. Why did they leave it to you as well when you’re a…?’

  ‘A what? An orphan? A foundling? A charity case?’

  ‘Don’t get all smart with me, Vee. Everyone around here knows all about your history so there’s no need to rub it in.’

  Everyone except me, but I let that old argument rest. If I start dragging up memories I’ll never be rid of her. Instead, I decide to go on the offensive if only to make her go away.

  ‘Look, Nessie. I have no idea why anyone would leave us both a house. Well, maybe you with all your rich clients,’ I say with a smile. ‘But me? I’ve no idea why anyone would leave me anything and, quite frankly, I don’t care. I have no interest in travelling to the Netherlands for what is most likely a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘You agree?’

  I pick up my mug for something to do. Ness agreeing with me is a first. But as a lawyer she obviously knows about such things.

  ‘Phew, that makes things easy then, doesn’t it?’ I throw her a smile, reaching for the letter. ‘We’ll bang this solicitor an email about mistaken identity and that’ll be the end of it.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. Just how stupid are you? We’ve been left a Canal House in the centre of Holland with no strings and you just want to give it away. Not only that,’ she adds, tapping the letter. ‘He has a cash offer, including all the contents. What if there’s something of value, like
a haul of diamonds?’

  ‘But it’s a mistake. It has to be.’

  ‘Mistake, my arse,’ she interrupts, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ll just bet you haven’t even thought about the children.’

  ‘But I don’t have any.’

  ‘Not yours. Mine.’

  ‘Ha. You don’t have any either, or is there something you’re not telling me?’ I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Now you’re being flippant. I have every intention of having kids one day and this is just the boost I’ll need.’

  ‘Er, you seem to have forgotten that this house has been left to the two of us and not just you.’

  ‘But, you’ve just said you don’t want it?’

  ‘Look Nessie, you’re the lawyer here. There is no way some stranger has left us something like a house. It’s the stuff of dreams and I, for one, don’t want to be arrested down the line for fraud or misappropriation of funds. I have a business to run.’

  ‘Oh, do listen. I’ve given up my Zumba class at Beau Sejour to come here and you can’t even be bothered to offer me a biscuit let alone an ear.’ she says, flicking back her hair. ‘Robert has left you and good riddance, if you ask me. It’s not as if you were married or anything. In fact, it’s a blessing he ran off with the office temp before the wedding. Now he won’t be legally entitled to a penny. The sooner you drag yourself out of the doldrums the better for all of us. You need to pull yourself together and get with the programme. There’s a lot of money at stake and moping around with your heart on your sleeve isn’t doing anyone any favours, least of all me,’ she snaps, pulling out a crumpled packet of cigarettes.

  Here we go. The old head versus the heart debate – give me a break.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the way I live my life.’

  ‘There’s nothing right. No wonder Robert…’

  ‘Just hold on a minute. I don’t interfere with your love life and I expect the same level of curtesy in return.’

  ‘Love life, is it? Your love life is as extinct as your sex one,’ she says, pulling a smirk. ‘Just when was the last time you got—’

  ‘Just because I happen to think there’s more to a relationship than what goes on below the waist.’

  ‘Well, you should know. You need to take a good long look in the mirror, Vee. You know I love you but moping about like something furry the cat’s dragged in isn’t helping anyone. Just look at you,’ she says, sucking in a lungful of nicotine before blowing it in my direction. ‘When was the last time you washed your hair, let alone had your nails done? Even a shower would be good,’ her nose wrinkling up in disgust. ‘And I’m not even going to start on the flat because pigs live in better.’

  ‘I’ll get around to it.’

  ‘Yes, you will, and now’s as good a time as any. Off you go and have a good old scrub. I’ll load the dishwasher and search for something to eat.’

  I don’t respond. What would be the point? Scraping my chair back I shuffle into the bedroom, my grungy slippers flapping against the laminate flooring.

  Stripping off my clothes in the direction of the overflowing wash basket I head into the tiny shower cubicle, one part of me, the previously fastidious part, agreeing with everything she’s just said. But the other part, the larger part, couldn’t give a damn. There’s no one to see; no one to smell and no one to suffer the silence.

  I’m holed up, twenty-four hours a day, with only four walls, interrupted by the odd window and door for company. There’s the TV but, trawling through all the Netflix series Robert and I used to watch is another form of agony and as for the iPad… Every song holds a memory, a secret code hidden between the notes; our first dance, our first kiss, our first Christmas. Ten years of togetherness means there are ten years of memories to eradicate. Not so easy when even the simple act of taking a shower brings a whole new set of images along with the first jet of spray. Huddled now on the bottom of the shower tray it doesn’t matter that the water raining down on my skin has turned ice-cold.

  Nothing matters anymore. I allow myself the luxury of grief wallowing. It’s something I’m becoming an expert in but, with the sound of the front door banging, I have all the time in the world for such self-indulgences.

  I stare at the water, swirling round and round in concentric circles down the plughole and I wish that I was brave enough to join it. It wouldn’t take much, just one slash from the blade even now winking at me from the shelf by the sink. With one slash I wouldn’t have to worry about Robert and his russet-haired floosy or where the next bill was coming from. With one sweep it would all be washed away in a stream of red and there wouldn’t be anyone to regret the loss.

  I have no family, very few friends and nothing to live for. Ness might miss me but she’d soon move on and she’d have the profits from the Dutch house to console her.

  I don’t know what stops me except perhaps cowardice. I don’t have anything to live for but, funnily enough, I also don’t want to die. Dying would be the easy way out. No, I’ll find a way back to some sort of equilibrium and if it kills me along the way then so be it.

  She’s left but not without leaving the stale smell of cigarettes behind and her lipstick-smeared mug. But she’s also taken something. She’s taken the letter, not that I mind. The letter is the least of my problems. I have no intention of travelling to Holland to see some barge house or other. I have no intention of doing anything except what I’m already doing, which is trying to get my life back on some kind of track. She’s right about one thing. I don’t mind about the house and I certainly don’t mind about the money. She can have the lot and, when the cops come to hear about it, she can be the one banged-up abroad and good riddance.

  Drifting back into the kitchen I must admit that she’s done a good job at cleaning up. Of course, everything will be in the wrong place but it’s a start. I reach for the kettle and my favourite mug only to slam it back down on the counter. Even the mugs have memories. I stare at the image of the Eiffel Tower etched into the pottery. We were on a mini-break in Paris when he dropped a diamond ring into the bottom of my expresso cup, the cup I insisted on smuggling out from under the watchful eye of the waiter.

  It’s funny how one thought, one memory is one too many. I root around the cupboard under the sink for a roll of bin bags. Ness, for all her bossy overbearing ways, has actually done me a huge favour as I start stripping out everything and anything with even a hint of Robert. The pile, started by that poor stolen mug, grows steadily. I layer the kitchen table with anything we’d bought together. The plates we bought in Rome. The salad bowl his mother gave us last Christmas. The steak knives we won in that raffle.

  With the cupboards and drawers empty I head for the bedroom and the wardrobe; the wardrobe we chose together. But, as I’m not prepared to lug it down three flights of stairs, it’s going to have to stay. Pulling the doors back I stare at the empty space where his Armani suits and Oxford shirts used to hang but he’s even taken the hangers. What’s left lingers in the bottom of the ironing pile and I feel the first giggle burst forth at the thought of his dress shirt. He’d bought it in Paris and, when he comes looking for it, I’ll happily direct him to the Mont Cuet rubbish dump.

  I hesitate over my wardrobe. As an artist I live in jeans and t-shirts but I do have a few nice pieces that he’s either bought or persuaded me to buy. But now is not the time for the faint-hearted. I pluck the peach ball gown off the hanger and start searching for the matching shoes. I won’t wear it again. I won’t wear any of it again and so the pile grows.

  I end up with nine bin sacks and a streamlined flat. If it’s any more streamlined, I’ll be eating with my fingers. I take a sip from the only mug that’s left. Placing it down on the counter, with all the gentleness it deserves, I spread butter on my toast and eat it standing over the sink while I add side-plates to the short list of non-Robert essentials. It has to be a short list because, without the extra money from his lawyer’s job, I’m going to struggle to live, let alone eat. My mind flicks back to th
e shower and my thoughts of earlier. Then I wanted to die. Now I want to make a success of life, if only to show Robert I can.

  Chapter Two

  I first notice him in Dix Neuf over the top of my latte. I probably wouldn’t have looked up from my notebook except for the sensation of being watched. One second I’m trying to think of a way to reduce the cost of the flat and the next I’m conscious of the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention.

  Lifting my head, I scan the packed café. It’s only a quick glance but I notice him straight away. He’s the only one sitting alone and the only one that appears to be studiously avoiding everything as he scowls into his cup. It must be him and yet how can it? Surely there’s nothing about me that could possibly be of interest to someone like him? He’s large in every way possible; large but not fat. Broad shoulders, wide back, long legs and hammer-throwing hands curled into fists. I focus on his hands and the white-tipped knuckles before veering my attention back to the figures scattered across the page.

  Those hands worry me. He worries me and yet I have no reason to feel threatened by some angry stranger in the busy arcade brasserie. This isn’t London or New York. This is little ole Guernsey where the closest we come to crime is who stole the cabbages off Martel’s veg stall. But that doesn’t change the fact I know he was staring. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d raised his head and thrown me a smile from those brown, green, blue eyes of his. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d started a rambling conversation about this and that. It wouldn’t be so bad. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman and, even though it’s been a while, I do still remember what it’s like to be chatted up.

  I settle my cup back against the saucer with an abnormally steady hand. Artists must have steady hands. They must have the ability to shut out all distractions while concentrating on their current masterpiece or, in this case, the disparity between my list of incomings and outgoings. I shouldn’t be sitting in a café frittering away both time and money. I should be squirreled away in my attic with distant views over Castle Cornet while I work on thumbnail sketches for my current storyboard. But I’m not in the mood. I don’t know what I’m in the mood for but work isn’t it.