Sister

force how much I needed you.

I parked by the top of the steps to your flat. Alongside its tall pristine neighbors your building looked like a poor relative that hadn’t been able to afford a new coat of white paint for years. Carrying the case of your clothes, I went down the steep icy steps to the basement. An orange streetlamp gave barely enough light to see by. How did you manage not to break an ankle in the last three years?

I pressed your doorbell, my fingers numb with cold. For a few seconds I actually hoped that you might answer. Then I started looking under your flowerpots. I knew you hid your front-door key under one of the pots and had told me the name of the occupying plant, but I couldn’t remember it. You and Mum have always been the gardeners. Besides, I was too focused on lecturing you on your lack of security. How could anyone leave their front-door key under a flowerpot right by their door? And in London. It was ridiculously irresponsible. Just inviting burglars right on in.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked a voice above me. I looked up to see your landlord. The last time I’d seen him he was a storybook grandpa—stick a white beard on him and he’d be a regular Father Christmas. Now his mouth was drawn into a hard scowl, he was unshaven, his eyes glared with the ferocity of a younger man.

“I’m Beatrice Hemming, Tess’s sister. We met once before.”

His mouth softened, his eyes became old. “Amias Thornton. I’m sorry. Memory not what it was.”

He carefully came down the slippery basement steps. “Tess stopped hiding her spare key under the pink cyclamen. Gave it to me.” He unzipped the coin compartment of his wallet and took out a key. You had completely ignored my lecture in the past, so what had made you suddenly so security conscious?

“I let the police in two days ago,” continued Amias. “So they could look for some clue. Is there any news?” He was near to tears.

“I’m afraid not, no.”

My mobile phone rang. Both of us started—I answered it hurriedly. He watched me, so hopeful. “Hello?”

“Hi, darling.” Todd’s voice.

I shook my head at Amias.

“No one’s seen her and she’s been getting weird calls,” I said, startled by the judder in my own voice. “There’s going to be a police reconstruction on TV this evening. I had to pretend to be her.”

“But you look nothing like her,” Todd replied. I found his pragmatism comforting. He was more interested in the casting decision than in the film itself. He obviously thought the reconstruction an absurd overreaction.

“I can look like her. Kind of.”

Amias was carefully going back up the steps toward his own front door.

“Is there a letter from her? The police say she bought airmail stamps just before she went missing.”

“No, there was nothing in the mail.”

But a letter might not have had time to reach New York.

“Can I call you back? I want to keep this phone free in case she tries to ring.”

“Okay, if that’s what you’d prefer.” He sounded annoyed and I was glad you still irritated him. He clearly thought you’d turn up safe and sound and he’d be first in line to lecture you.

I unlocked the door to your flat and went in. I’d only been to your flat, what, two or three times before, and I’d never actually stayed. We were all relieved, I think, that there wasn’t room for Todd and me so the only option was a hotel. I’d never appreciated how badly fitting your windows are. Squalls of sleet-cold air were coming through the gaps. Your walls were impregnated with damp, moist and cold to touch. Your ecofriendly lightbulbs took ages to throw off any decent light. I turned your central heating up to maximum, but only the top two inches of the radiators gave off any heat. Do you simply not notice such things or are you just more stoical than me?

I saw that your phone was disconnected. Was that why your phone had been engaged when I’d tried to ring you over the last few days? But surely you wouldn’t have left it unplugged all that time. I tried to cool my prickling anxiety—you often disconnect the phone when you’re painting or listening to music, resenting its hectoring demand for undeserved attention; so the last time you were here you must have just forgotten to plug it in again.

I started putting your suitcase of clothes away in your wardrobe, welcoming my customary surge of irritation.

“But why on earth can’t you put your wardrobe in the bedroom, where it’s designed to go? It looks ridiculous in here.”

My first visit, wondering why on earth your tiny sitting room was full of a large wardrobe.

“I’ve made my bedroom into a studio,” you replied, laughing before you’d finished your sentence. “Studio” was such a grand name for your tiny basement bedroom.

One of the things I love about you is that you find yourself ridiculous faster than anyone else and laugh at yourself first. You’re the only person I know who finds her own absurdities genuinely funny. Unfortunately, it’s not a family trait.

As I hung up your clothes, I saw a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled it out. Inside were your baby things. Everything in your flat was just so shabby: your clothes were from charity shops, your furniture third hand, and these baby clothes were brand-new and expensive. I took out a pale-blue cashmere baby blanket and a tiny hat, so soft my hands felt coarse. They were beautiful. It was like finding an Eames chair in a bus stop. You couldn’t possibly have afforded them, so who’d given you the money? I thought Emilio Codi had tried to force you to have an abortion. What was going on, Tess?

The doorbell rang and I ran to answer it. I had “Tess” in my mouth, almost out, as I opened the door. A young woman was on the doorstep. I swallowed “Tess.” Some words have a taste. I realized I was shaking from the adrenaline rush.

She was more than six months pregnant but despite the cold, her Lycra top was cropped, showing her distended belly and pierced tummy button. I found her overt pregnancy as cheap as her yellow hair color.