Just Like the Other Girls - Claire Douglas Page 0,25
a thought strikes me. Maybe she doesn’t know. She took the necklace from me earlier and said she’d post it to her. Why would she do that if she knew she was dead?
I ask her if there is anything I can do to help, even though it’s my day off.
She smiles and, for once, it seems genuine. ‘No. Thank you. Ed is with the boys so I’m staying over tonight. Just in case Mother needs me. I do it every Wednesday and Saturday. She doesn’t like to be in this huge house by herself at night.’
‘But I’m here.’
‘I know. But it gives you the chance to stay elsewhere, if you want to.’ I frown. It seems a bit odd. Where else would I stay? They know I’m single. I’m sure it’s just Kathryn wanting to make herself seem indispensable to Elspeth. She lowers her voice in case Elspeth can hear, although she’s in the other room. ‘She’s been in bed this afternoon. She’s not feeling well.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
She continues as though I haven’t spoken. ‘Mother should sell this house, really. Get something smaller.’
‘How long has she been living here?’
‘I was eleven,’ she says, without missing a beat. Something dark passes across her face, like an eclipse. I sense she doesn’t want me to ask any more questions. She stiffens and clutches the banister tighter.
‘Okay, well, I’d better get into the shower,’ I say, holding a tendril of my wet hair to illustrate my point, wondering why Kathryn is being weird.
She nods curtly and I carry on up the stairs to my room, grateful to be away from her. How can what I consider to be an anodyne question provoke such a change in her? It was the same with Elspeth when I asked about the tree house. Maybe this is what posh people are like. Maybe it’s not the done thing to ask questions.
I’m beginning to realize that this house and the family within it are full of secrets.
I feel uneasy as I shower. I pull on my jeans and a long-sleeved fitted top, thinking of the girls who lived in this room before me, now dead. I sit on the edge of my bed and towel-dry my hair. What would Mum make of all this? What would she say to me if I could ring her now and admit that I feel scared because two other girls who lived here before me have died? Girls who looked like me. She would tell me not to let my imagination run away with me. That I have a good job. That Kathryn and Elspeth are harmless. That Matilde had an unfortunate accident and Jemima must have been suffering from depression. The two things are unrelated. Completely different circumstances.
I get out my phone and log on to Instagram. It takes a while to load, but when it does I find myself searching for Jemima Freeman. She might not have had an account. I scroll through a few Jemimas until I pause on a photo of a familiar-looking girl. She has sea salt in her hair, a healthy tan on her face, and she stands smiling on a beach with the most brilliant blue skies I’ve ever seen. My stomach drops. Is this the girl from the locket? I scroll through more of her photos: more beach scenes, then market stalls and the exotic streets of foreign countries that I dream of visiting. She resembles the locket girl, just like she resembles me and Matilde, but I can’t be sure if it’s the same person. The girl in the locket looked younger, maybe mid-teens, with finer eyebrows.
A shout from the garden shakes me from my thoughts. I drop my phone onto the bed and rush to the window, cupping my hands around my face to block out the light in my room. It’s dark outside, but the patio lights are on, illuminating two figures. A man and a woman. I blink, and crane my neck to get a better view. I’m four floors up so it’s difficult to tell, but the man looks like Lewis. He has his beanie pulled down over his hair and he’s gesticulating. The woman has her hands on her hips and her hair in its famous chignon. It’s Elspeth. What is she doing out in the cold and rain? Kathryn will be furious.
I open my sash window a fraction so that I can hear, cringing when the hinges screech, hoping they haven’t heard and can’t