The Stranger in Our Home. Sophie Draper

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      ‘I mean it. I could never do something like that.’ She smiled. Her arms waved expansively and her coat parted, another glimpse of red.

      I shrugged. ‘Thank you.’

      She’d cared enough to look me up, when had she done that? It was unexpected. I was suddenly conscious that I knew very little about her, what she did for a living. Was she married? Did she have children? I didn’t even know that. She was seven years older than me and it was quite possible that she had a family of her own by now. I eyed her flat stomach, the clothes. No, I thought, no children. Somehow, I couldn’t see her with children.

      A movement caught at the corner of my eye, the curtains at one of the windows flapping in a draught from a broken pane.

      ‘Can we go somewhere else?’ Steph’s voice dropped. ‘Anywhere you like, but not here.’

      I swallowed. It made sense to refuse, my head screaming at me to walk away. It was almost twenty years since she’d left home, when I was nine. She’d been sixteen. We’d had no contact at all since then, despite all my attempts to stay in touch. Christmas, birthdays, they’d meant nothing. Perhaps my early cards had ended up at the wrong address.

      But I wanted to. I really did.

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘I got a job at a hotel in London, manning reception.’

      My sister’s voice was measured and quiet. I could imagine her smart and sleek behind a desk.

      We’d found a café in the small town of Ashbourne a few miles away. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and vanilla seedpods cut across the muted chatter in the room and I lifted my cup to hold its warmth against my fingers.

      ‘Then they offered me a job in the marketing department.’

      She flicked her hair across her shoulders. Blonde, but no roots – it had been brown when we were young. She must have dyed it, I thought.

      ‘I moved to Head Office and worked my way up. Then I joined the US team. I’ve been based in New York now for six years.’

      There was a pause. Her eyes travelled across my thin, gawky frame. Six years. In New York. Yet there had been so many more years when she’d been in London, in the UK. Close enough and yet so far. I didn’t reply, struggling to find a common ground.

      We both took another sip from our respective drinks. The traffic beeped through the glass window, a sludge of rainwater washing onto the pavement, green and red traffic lights reflected in the puddles. Colours, I saw everything in colours.

      ‘And you? Where did you study?’ Steph leaned in over her cup.

      ‘Manchester. Art and Creative Design.’ I tucked my fingers into the palms of my hands, feeling my short nails scratch against my skin.

      ‘Really? I somehow thought you’d have gone as far as possible from Derbyshire.’

      I bristled. Manchester was only an hour and a half from the village by car, but by bus and coach it was much longer, and you still had to get from the house at Larkstone Farm to the village bus stop. Manchester had seemed a million miles away. The bustling big city, new people, a whole new life.

      ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked.

      ‘Yes, I did. The course was brilliant.’

      I side-stepped the truth: my self-imposed isolation; my lack of confidence; my distant manner.

      ‘I’m glad.’ Steph stretched out the fingers of her hand, wriggling each one before folding them back into her palm.

      There was another silence.

      ‘And now you’re in London. Bet it’s nice being self-employed, working whenever you want.’ She smiled encouragingly.

      ‘Hmmm, depends how you look at it. There are so many other illustrators out there, vying for the same jobs for not much pay. It’s not an easy way to make a living.’

      Already I was saying too much, filling the space with words, justifying my own ineptitude. Why should I feel defensive?

      ‘I can imagine.’ My sister nodded, sipping her coffee again. There was a soft chink as she placed the cup carefully back on its saucer. A waft of perfume made me lift my head up. I wasn’t a fan of any kind of perfume.

      ‘How did it happen?’ Steph’s voice broke.

      I flashed a look of surprise at her. Did she even care? I scanned her face, the perfect arch of her eyebrows, the smooth forehead, no lines, as if she never frowned, or even smiled. Like a Greek statue, head turned away, poised in her indifference. Except … the voice was at odds with her face.

      ‘They didn’t tell me anything,’ she said.

      It had been the family lawyer who’d made the call to her. I felt a pang of guilt.

      ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring. But I didn’t have your address or a telephone number. It was the lawyers that tracked you down.’

      They’d organised the whole thing, the funeral, the reception, much to my relief. They’d rung me too.

      ‘That’s alright, I understand.’ Steph watched me still, ignoring the implied criticism, waiting for an answer.

      I threw a glance at the neighbouring tables, but the occupants were all too engrossed in their conversations to pay any attention to ours. I drew a breath, bringing my hand up to my head, thrusting my fingers into my hair.

      ‘I … that is, she … she fell,’ I said. ‘Over the banisters from the first floor. Some time during the morning, they said, though apparently she was still in her dressing gown.’

      ‘How could she fall over the banisters?’ Steph asked.

      ‘I don’t know. Some kind of accident, I was told. She was found face down on the rug in the hall below. Broken neck. Bit of a mess.’

      I thought it best to stop there.

      ‘Ah.’ Steph hesitated. She cast her eyes to her lap, folding her napkin.

      Then she reached out a hand, covering my own. ‘So, it’s only us now.’

      I nodded. My eyes searched the fine cracks on the back of her hand. Expert make-up could disguise an older face, but not the hands.

      ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘It is.’

      ‘I’m in London after this, for a few weeks at least, in a hotel near Tottenham Court Road.’ She drew a breath. ‘Can we start again?’

      I looked up.

      ‘It’s been too long, I know.’ Her hand was cool over mine, her face earnest.

      I held my hand still, resisting the urge to move it. I really did want to believe this different Steph. What had happened to her? I’d never understood whatever it was that had gone on between us. Or between her and Elizabeth.

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