Shopaholic And Sister Part 44

Eventually she says, "Last time I climbed the Pike I saw some ammonite specimens. I wanted to collect one. It's a bit foolhardy, but I don't expect you to understand-"

"No! I do understand!" I interrupt, and struggle onto my elbows. I have to tell her.

"Jess, I understand. I've seen your rocks. They're fantastic. They're beautiful."

"Lie down," she says, looking worried. "Take it easy."

"I don't want to take it easy! Jess, listen. We're sisters. We're honestly and truly sisters. That's why I came up the mountain. I had to tell you."

Jess frowns. "Becky, you've had a b.u.mp on the head . . . you've probably got a concussion-"

"It's not that!" The louder my voice rises the more my head throbs, but I can't stop myself. "I know we have the same blood. I know it! I went to your house."

"You what?" Jess looks appalled. "Who let you in?"

"Jim. I saw your rock cupboard. It's identical to my shoe cupboard in London. Identical. The lights . . . the shelves . . . everything!"

For the first time ever, I see Jess's composure slip a little.

"So what?" she says in brusque tones.

"So we're the same!" I sit up eagerly, ignoring the swirling in front of my eyes. "Jess, you know the way you feel about a really amazing rock? That's the way I feel about a great pair of shoes! Or a dress. I have to have it. Nothing else matters. And I know you feel the same way about your rock collection."

"I don't," she says, turning away.

"You do! I know you do!" I clutch her arm. "You're just as obsessed as me! You just hide it better! Oh G.o.d, my head. Ow."

I collapse back down, my head pounding.

"I'll get you a painkiller," Jess says distractedly-but she doesn't move. She's just standing there, lost in her own thoughts.

I can see I've got to her.

"You came up a mountain in a storm just to tell me this?" Jess says at last.

"Yes! Of course!"

She turns her head to look at me. Her face is paler than ever and kind of wary, as though someone's trying to trick her.

"Why? Why would you do that?"

"Because . . . because it's important! It matters to me!"

"No one's ever done anything like that for me before," she says, and immediately looks away, fiddling in the tin again. "Those cuts need antiseptic on them."

She starts dabbing my legs with a cotton-wool pad, and I try not to flinch as the antiseptic stings my raw flesh.

"So . . . do you believe me?" I say. "Do you believe we're sisters?"

For a few moments Jess just focuses on her feet, which are encased in thick socks and brown hiking boots. She raises her head and surveys my turquoise diamante kitten heels, all sc.r.a.ped and covered in mud. My Marc Jacobs skirt. My ruined glittery T-s.h.i.+rt. Then she lifts her eyes to my bruised, battered face, and we just look at each other.

"Yes," she says at last. "I believe you."

Three extra-strong painkillers later, and I'm really feeling quite a lot better. In fact, I can't stop gabbling.

"I knew we were sisters," I'm saying, as Jess puts a plaster on my gashed knee. "I knew it! I think I'm a bit psychic, actually. I felt your presence on the mountain."

"Mmm," says Jess, rolling her eyes.

"And the other thing is, I'm getting quite similar to you. Like I was thinking I might crop my hair short. It would really suit me. And I've started taking a real interest in rocks-"

"Becky," interrupts Jess. "We don't have to be the same."

"What?" I look at her uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe we're sisters." She sits back on her heels. "But that doesn't mean we both have to have cropped hair. Or like rocks." She reaches for another plaster and rips it open.

"Or potatoes," I add before I can stop myself.

"Or potatoes," agrees Jess. She pauses. "Or . . . overpriced designer lipsticks that go out of fas.h.i.+on in three weeks."

There's a little glint in her eyes as she looks at me, and I gape in astonishment. Jess is teasing me?

"I suppose you're right," I say, trying to stay nonchalant. "Just because we're biologically related, it doesn't mean we both have to like boring workouts with water bottles instead of cool weights."

"Exactly. Or . . . mindless magazines full of ridiculous ads."

"Or drinking coffee out of a horrible old flask."

Jess's mouth is twitching.

"Or stupid rip-off cappuccinos."

There's a clap of thunder, and we both jump in fright. Rain is beating on the tent like drumsticks. Jess puts a final plaster on my legs and shuts the little tin.

"I don't suppose you brought anything to eat?" she says.

"Er . . . no."

"I've got some, but it isn't much." Her brow wrinkles. "Not if we're stuck here for hours. We won't be able to move, even when the storm's died down."

"Can't you forage on the mountainside for roots and berries?" I say hopefully.

Jess gives me a look.

"Becky, I'm not Tarzan." She hunches her shoulders and wraps her arms round her legs. "We'll just have to sit it out."

"So . . . you don't take a mobile when you go climbing?" I venture.

"I don't have one. I don't usually need one."

"I suppose you don't usually have a stupid injured sister with you."

"Not normally, no." She s.h.i.+fts on the groundsheet and reaches behind her. "I picked up some of your stuff, by the way. It got scattered when you fell."

"Thank you," I say, taking the handful of things from her. A mini hairspray. My manicure set. A compact.

"I couldn't find your bag, I'm afraid," adds Jess. "G.o.d knows where it went."

My heart stops.

My Angel bag.

My two-thousand-euro movie-star bag. The bag that everyone in the world is clamoring for. After all that, it's gone. Lost on a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

"It-it doesn't matter." Somehow I force myself to smile. "These things happen."

With sore, stiff fingers I open my compact-and amazingly, the mirror's still intact. Cautiously I take a look at myself and recoil. I look like a beaten-up scarecrow. My hair is everywhere, and both my cheeks are grazed, and there's a huge lump on my forehead.

"What are we going to do?" I snap the compact shut.

"We'll have to stay here until the storm dies down," says Jess.

"Yes, but I mean . . . what shall we do? While we wait in the tent."

Jess's expression is unreadable.

"I thought we could watch When Harry Met Sally and eat popcorn," she says.

I can't help giggling. Jess does actually have a sense of humor. Underneath it all.

"Shall I do your nails?" I suggest. "I've got my stuff here."

"Do my nails?" says Jess. "Becky . . . you realize we're on a mountain."

"Yes!" I say eagerly. "That's the whole point! It's extra-tough lacquer that lasts whatever you do. Look at this!" I show her the bottle of nail polish. "The model's actually climbing a mountain in the picture."

"Unbelievable," says Jess, taking the bottle from me and peering at it. "And people fall for this?"

"Come on! What else are we going to do?" I pause innocently. "I mean, it's not like we've got anything fun to do, like our accounts. . . ."

Jess's eyes flash at me.

"OK," she says. "You win. Do my nails."

While the storm rages around us, we paint each other's nails a bright sparkly pink.

"That's great!" I say in admiration as Jess finishes my left hand. "You could be a manicurist!"

"Thanks," she says dryly. "You've made my day."

I wave my fingers in the torchlight, then get out my compact to admire my reflection.

"You need to learn to put one finger thoughtfully to your mouth," I explain, demonstrating. "It's the same when you get a new ring or bracelet. Just to let people see." I offer her the mirror, but she turns away, her face closing up.

"No, thanks."

I put away the compact, thinking hard. I want to ask her why she hates mirrors. But I have to put it tactfully.

"Jess . . ." I say at last.

"Yes?"

"Why do you hate mirrors?"

The only sound is the whistling of the wind. At last Jess lifts her head.

"I dunno," she says. "I suppose because every time I looked into a mirror when I was young, my dad told me not to be vain."

"Vain?" I look at her, wide-eyed. "What, every time?"

"Most of the time." She shrugs, then sees my face. "Why? What did yours say?"

"My parents used to say . . ." Now I'm a bit embarra.s.sed. "They used to say I was the most beautiful little angel who had ever fallen down from heaven."

"Well." Jess hunches her shoulders as though to say "Go figure."

"G.o.d, you're right," I say suddenly. "I've been spoiled. My parents have always given me everything. I've never had to stand on my own two feet. Ever. I've always had people there for me. Mum and Dad . . . then Suze . . . then Luke."

"I had to stand on my feet right from the word go," says Jess. Her face is in the torch's shadow, and I can't make out her expression.

"He sounds quite . . . tough, your dad," I say tentatively.

"Dad never really expressed emotion," she says at last. "Never really told you when he was proud. He felt it," she adds vehemently. "But in our family we don't go blabbing about everything, the way you do."

A sudden gust of wind loosens up a corner of the tent, blowing in a flurry of rain. Jess grabs the flap and reaches for a metal pin.

"I'm the same," she says, banging the metal pin into the ground with a rock. "Just because I don't say things doesn't mean I don't feel them." She looks round and meets my eyes with a visible effort. "Becky, when I came to visit your flat, I didn't mean to be unfriendly. Or . . . cold."

"I should never have called you that," I say in a flood of remorse. "I'm really sorry-"