Page 61 of High Season

FORTY-EIGHT

THE DAY OF THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Blake had heard a thousand times how lucky he was to be a twin.

For all his life, people found it fascinating.

The idea of being bound to someone, like he was to Tamara.

The fact of your entire existence being so inexorably tied to another being that the very concept of you barely made sense without the other.

The thought that you had never, from the moment of your conception, truly been alone.

Blake always nodded when people said this. He always smiled politely; always said, truthfully, that he could not imagine a world without his sister.

But the truth of the matter was that Blake had always hated being a twin.

He and Tamara were close when they were younger, of course.

How could they not be? They had never known anything different.

Back then, Blake didn’t quite understand that other people didn’t know what it was like to have every sentence finished for you, every thought understood, every formative experience shared.

Tamara always said that there was a connection between them, something that fizzed in the air, just short of mind reading.

Whenever she said that, Blake would think how ridiculous the entire idea was.

How could Tamara know that there was something different between them, when neither of them had ever been anyone else?

How could she possibly discern the kind of twin-magic she believed in from plain familiarity?

To Blake, the twin-speak that they created was a symptom of boredom, a language that formed naturally from the patterns of their lives, in-jokes and linguistic tricks that anyone could learn.

The psychic connection that Tamara claimed was just simple cognition.

It was easy to know what someone was thinking when you had been present for almost every thought that they had ever had, every word they had ever said.

But the older they got, the more Blake felt his own personality, his own desires twisting out of him, the more that the intimate knowledge that his sister held over him felt cursed.

He would see the way that she looked at him.

The way that she judged him. The way that she would adopt a slightly pained expression when he talked about girls, and about parties, about the things he and Barnaby would do when they were away at school once he and Tamara had separated for single-sex sixth forms.

Not that he was doing anything wrong. They were young, weren’t they?

They were supposed to be doing things that they would one day regret.

Things they wouldn’t tell their mother about (although, of course, having a mother like Evelyn Drayton shifted the dial of acceptability somewhat).

And it wasn’t as if Tamara didn’t have secrets.

It wasn’t as if Tamara was perfect herself.

Sometimes, he felt like Tamara saw things in black-and-white.

Sometimes he felt that she saw them as not the same, but opposite sides of the same battered coin.

That only one of them could be good. That her role in their relationship was to always, always be the one watching over him.

Looking out for him. Judging him. That somehow this made her better than him.

The thought angered him; made something seethe and twist inside, a resentment that had been boiling for what felt like a very long time.

When Tamara glanced up at him from her position on the terrace she looked tired.

He held the drink out toward her.

“Peace offering,” he said.

She hesitated before shifting over on the deckchair. She took the drink out of his hand. For a while, neither of them spoke. Blake tried, for a moment, to feel that connection that Tamara always swore was between them. Instead, he found only space. Only air. Only heat.

“I don’t understand,” Tamara said at last. “What happened to us. We used to be close, didn’t we? We used to be more than just siblings. More than twins, even.”

She turned to face him then. Her face was raw with sadness.

“What happened?” she said. “What happened to you, Blake? I don’t feel like I know you anymore.”

Because you don’t, Blake wanted to say. Because maybe you never did.

“The Blake I know would never do this,” Tamara said quietly. She lifted the phone.

“Tam, please.”

“Please what, Blake? I have to say it. Someone has to say it to you, or I’m scared you won’t stop.”

Her voice trembled in a way that Blake knew preceded tears. This, he supposed, is what Tamara meant by their connection—knowing someone so well that you knew exactly what they would do next.

But this was Tamara’s mistake. Because Tamara did not know what Blake would do to her next. She still trusted him. That was why she was still holding her drink; still taking small, desperate gulps to hide the threat of her tears.

“Sometimes I think,” she said, once she’d composed herself. “That there’s something wrong with you.”

He snorted then, in spite of himself.

“Something wrong with me?”

“You hurt people, Blake. And you don’t seem to care. It scares me.”

“Because I took some pictures? Jesus, Tamara—”

“It’s not just the pictures, Blake. It’s all of it.”

“All of what ?”

She shook her head.

“Tam? Tam, say something.”

She lifted her head.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t let you do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The pictures. I’m going to send them to Hannah. And to Cordelia. They have a right to know they exist, to know what you did.”

With this, fear darted through Blake. He thought that Tamara might tell Hannah, might even tell Cordelia. But now, he realized that his sister had the ability to destroy him.

“Tamara.” He leaned toward her. “Give me the phone.”

She stood, holding it at arm’s length away from him. Like they were children again, fighting over a toy.

“No.”

“Tam, don’t be stupid.”

They were not acting the way he had hoped they would, the sleeping pills he had dissolved into Tamara’s drink.

They had taken effect on Hannah so quickly.

She had been dopey within five minutes, unconscious in fifteen.

Shouldn’t Tamara have at least been dizzy by now?

He should have been able to slip the phone away from her, to delete the pictures while she was still woozy.

But his sister stood, her legs planted firmly on the ground, the phone tight in her grip. Wholly alive, and strong, and certain.

“I’m not being stupid,” she said. “I’m doing the right thing, Blake.”

She stepped back, the phone held out of his reach.

“I’m not going to fight you on this,” she said.

But really, she did not have a choice.

Because this, for Blake, was a fight for his life. For the life that he had always wanted, a life that he was so close to achieving.

He lunged at his sister, grasping hold of her arm. She staggered back, shocked. He was stronger than her, and an inch taller. He had been born first. He had existed for thirteen whole minutes in this world without her. Thirteen minutes that would always be the difference between him and her.

He wrenched the phone from her hand, tearing it away triumphantly.

He did not mean to push her.

He had only meant to press his hand against the center of her chest to keep her away. To stop her from wrestling the phone back from him.

He did not mean for her foot to catch on the low stone border that ringed the terrace. Did not mean for her to stagger backward, dangerously close to the edge.

As one arm reached out, he meant, perhaps, to save her. Her arms flailed, and their eyes met, hers wide, pleading.

He had not meant for this to be the last time he looked at his sister and saw her looking back.

Briefly, stupidly, Blake was reminded of a magic trick he had seen at one of their end-of-term balls at boarding school.

Tamara had volunteered and had been folded into a glittering, person-sized box.

The lights had gleamed, the box opened, and Tamara was gone.

She refused to tell Blake how the trick had worked afterward, had only tapped the side of her nose, whispering that it must have been magic.

And now, as Blake watched, she disappeared again. One moment she was there, balanced, one foot still on the terrace’s edge. And then, she was gone. Only empty space where his sister had stood. Only the air. The sky. The sea.

He dived toward the edge after her. His feet skittered against the stone, stopping just short of where Tamara had fallen. Below them, he saw the pool. Tamara. For just a second, he felt a wash of relief. She had landed in the water. She would be alright.

Then, he saw the dark bloom that came from her head. The blood, almost black against the pale blue of the pool, dissipating into the water. He saw the streak of red on the side of the pool, a mess of something that must have come from his sister’s skull. The way that she was facedown. Unmoving.

Later, he would think back to that moment. He would go over and over those few unthinking seconds. That half breath when he should have turned and run downstairs. When maybe—just maybe—he could have saved his sister.

But Blake stayed still. He stood, his fists clenched, looking down at the water. The blood. Tamara.

And in that moment, Blake felt an unexpected sweep of peace. His fears of a few minutes ago were gone, and for a fraction of a second, something terrible crossed Blake’s mind. Something that, although he would never tell anyone, he would always remember thinking:

This solves everything.

So Blake did not move.

He simply stood and watched as the blue water turned a strange, pale shade of red.

At the start of Blake’s life, he had had thirteen minutes without his sister. Thirteen small, precious minutes alone. And then, kicking and screaming, there she had been.

As the life bleeds out of his sister, Blake thinks about the next thirteen minutes, and the next. He thinks about an entire existence made up of thirteen-minute increments. An entire life stretching out ahead of him, without Tamara.

He feels something give then, like a muscle snapping in his chest. An overwhelming feeling that he doesn’t recognize flooding through him. A sensation that he has only experienced once before, for exactly thirteen minutes.

The feeling that he is entirely alone.

This is when Blake knows that she is gone. When he knows that his sister is beyond saving. When he finally understands that his sister was right about the magic that existed between them.

This is when Blake knows that he has made the biggest mistake of his life.