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Sibling Rivalry

Denice Penrose

    My sister Janine is much prettier than me. If I’m honest, she’s beautiful. I am not. I am the ‘older sister’, but by bizarre symmetry, my life has been lived in her shadow. Not that I resent her for it – who could resent someone so bright and vivacious?
    I never felt that our parents loved her more than me. They encouraged both of us to be ourselves, and to do our best at whatever we chose to do. We were lucky – it could have been different, if they had favoured her. As children, we had squabbled – all siblings do. When we were younger, it was about toys and dolls, then boys, and later our parent’s car. We always made up again. Where there are siblings, there will always be rivalry.
    Predictably, she was the popular one at school. I was the scholarly one. Our friends mirrored our differences. Janine’s were beautiful and scatty, vacuous, given to irresponsible behaviour and pranks. My friends were sober and scholarly. The exceptions were the boys who asked me out just to meet Janine. In her defence, she never ‘stole’ a boy from me, most of them were of no interest to her. Those she took over dumped me first, so it couldn’t really be stealing. We inhabited such different spheres that rivalry was never an option. You can’t compete with someone who is not in your league.
    Once she stole one of my essays, trashing the spelling and grammar to make it appear like her writing. It didn’t work – her teacher recognised my work. When I found out, I responded in kind, venting my anger on her make up drawer. But, I couldn’t stay angry with her for long. She was upset because she failed the course as a result, and I couldn’t bear seeing her desolate. Even then, she knew how to manipulate my emotions. She never stole my work again. Instead she cajoled me to help her. She passed her O levels, and left school as soon as she could. I delighted in knowing she was dependent on me. In return, she taught me about makeup and fashion. When she did irritate me, she always knew how to charm me out of my most sullen and angry thoughts.
    We’ve remained friends through the years, and have both done well in our chosen careers. We’re both successful and respected. I am single; she goes through men faster than I do tissues. But it does occasionally niggle that she prances scantily clad down some fashion show aisle or pouts for a camera, and earns more than me and my PhD.
    She has always turned to me in times of crisis, and I’ve enjoyed the superior feeling it augured. Today was no different. We sat outside the trendy wine bar in the bright English sunshine (an oxymoron, I know!) and sipped our champagne (she only drank Dom Perignon). Her beautiful face was marred with worry. I wondered if a boyfriend had actually dumped her first.
    ‘I’m scared,’ she said, coming quickly to her concerns, voice taut with fear.
    ‘Of what?’ I asked in surprise. She was the most confident person I knew.
    ‘I think someone tried to kill me.’
    ‘You can’t be serious?’ Although, knowing her penchant for drama, I was not dreadfully surprised. ‘Why would anyone want to kill you? That sort of thing only happens in novels and on TV.’
    ‘Modelling is not known as a cut-throat career without reason,’ she responded. ‘A major cosmetic chain is shopping for a new face. I’ve heard I’m on the shortlist.’
    ‘What makes you think someone is trying to kill you?’ I asked sceptically.
    ‘I’ve sensed someone watching me,’ she whispered
    I had to restrain myself from laughing aloud. ‘Isn’t that the point of what you do?’
    ‘It’s not the same – it’s not like being admired or ogled, it’s weirder than that. Creepy even.’
    ‘So you think someone is trying to kill you because of a creepy feeling? Has anything actually happened to hurt you?’
    ‘A brick nearly hit me,’ she pouted, clearly upset by my lack of sympathy.
    I put my glass down sharply; the crystal shuddered, but didn’t fracture.
    ‘Where was this?’
    ‘I was walking home, and out of nowhere, a brick whistled past me, and shattered on the pavement.’
    Suddenly clarity came. ‘Aren’t they doing construction work in your street? I thought they were renovating that old Victorian house. Is it possible it was just an accident?’
    ‘Of course,’ she sighed like someone completing a difficult puzzle. ‘I didn’t think of that! I was walking past the scaffolding at the time. Although, there didn’t seem to be anyone around.’
    ‘Probably didn’t want to own up to dropping a brick – it was an accident. Surely you don’t think the construction workers would want to kill you?’
    ‘Oh no, they usually whistle or comment when I go past,’ she replied innocently.
    ‘See, it’s just your imagination. I’m sure no one is trying to hurt you,’ I soothed.
    ‘I knew you’d help me make sense of this’ she smiled, the shadows disappearing from her face. ‘I can always count on you. To my clever sister’ she raised her glass in salute.
    ‘To us,’ I echoed, and listened as she prattled on in her usual banal fashion, telling me the latest scandals. I laughed heartily at her stories of the season’s hottest designer’s tantrums, thinking again how different her world was to mine.
    When we met a few weeks later, the shadows were back, fear deeply etched in her face.
    ‘Someone is trying to kill me’ she whispered, as the waitress left to bring her a brandy and coke. That shook me – she was abandoning her trademark Dom. She was really scared.
    ‘We talked about this last time; no one would want to kill you. The brick was just an accident. ‘
    ‘It’s not the brick. I crashed my car.’
    ‘Are you okay? Were you hurt? What happened’ I fired out of concern.
    ‘I wasn’t going fast. The car just wouldn’t stop, and I drove into a tree. I wasn’t hurt. Jeremy has a few cuts, but I’m fine. The car’s a write-off.’
    ‘That must have hurt’ I murmured, thinking of her fondness for the Aston Martin DB9. I’d always mocked her JB obsession. She’d already met the new Bond, and told me he was just as gorgeous in the flesh as on screen.
    ‘Never mind the car. Someone’s trying to kill me.’ She said desperately.
    ‘Why do you think that? You had an accident. Had you been drinking?
    ‘No, you know I don’t drive if I’ve been drinking. The mechanic said that the brakes might of been tampered with.’
    ‘Might have been tampered with?’ I sat up. ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘He couldn’t tell for sure – there was too much damage from the accident. He said it was possible.’
    ‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘You scared me. He only said it was possible? Why do you keep thinking that someone is trying to kill you? Who would want to?’
    ‘You don’t believe me,’ she sulked.
    ‘It’s not that. You’re talking about accidents, and maybes, and feelings. There’s no evidence.’
    ‘That’s so like you! I don’t need proof. I’m not imagining things. The brakes weren’t working,’ her voice cracked with barely restrained hysteria.
    I hugged her, patting her back, as one does with a frightened child, as she cried in my arms.
    ‘You must think I’m ridiculous,’ she hiccupped, dabbing at her eyes.
    ‘No you’ve just had a nasty fright. Why would anyone want to kill you? You’ve already told me plenty of other ways to get rid of competition.’
     ‘I guess you’re right, I am overreacting. Thanks.’ She hugged me, but I noticed that she downed the brandy quickly before calling for a bottle of Dom.
    A week later, the phone rang. Janine was so distraught I couldn’t understand the words she garbled. I dressed, and rushed round to her flat. She answered the door wrapped in her dressing gown. She was wet, dripping a trail of water as she led me to the lounge. By now I was familiar with what was coming next. This time, she’d woken unable to breathe, under water in the Jacuzzi. She’d been to a party, and barely remembered arriving home. In her delusion, she thought she’d seen me in the flat. I assured her I’d been snug in my bed. I pointed to the bottles on the floor. She admitted she’d had a lot to drink. I suggested that the alcohol was responsible. She wanted to call the police. I made her some strong sweet tea, comforted her. I persuaded her that she didn’t need the police, there was no threat. I suggested counselling instead – she was delusional and paranoid, or was it just the Dom? She said she’d think about it.
    The next time we met, she was her usual elegant composed self. She didn’t speak of the incident, and I didn’t ask. I told her instead of my new boss whose incessant, pedantic demands were driving me demented. She laughed, and topped my stories with the whims and demands of a model she knew. She was cheerful and animated. Whichever counsellor she was seeing, he was good. Or perhaps he had prescribed something particularly effective?
    My working life became incredibly busy, and I didn’t see her for a while. I presented a paper on my research at a conference in America, and returned to find my boss had quit, leaving the lab in shambles. I spent so much time in my lab, my plants died. Finally, I was promoted, and able to hire someone to fill my former post. I was busier, but life assumed a new rhythm. I made a mental note to see Janine.
    The phone shocked me awake. Janine was in hospital. She was asking for me. They wouldn’t tell me any more. I dressed quickly, breaking the speed limit to be with her. I was shocked at her pale and waif-like figure.
    ‘She’ll be fine. She’s very lucky. ’ the doctor reassured me. Her current lover had found her unconscious in the bathroom. She’d eaten some poisonous mushrooms, but her habit of regurgitating food, meant that only a minute amount of poison had escaped into her system. A larger dose would have been fatal.
    ‘Now do you believe me?’ she whispered. I nodded, and admitted I had been wrong. The police evidently took her seriously. As part of their investigation, they questioned me. ‘Mushrooms are her thing, not mine,’ I told them. ‘I don’t touch the things.’ I blamed myself for not seeing her for so long, and I confessed that I hadn’t taken her earlier ‘accidents’ more seriously.
    She was very fond of rare mushrooms, and particularly truffles. A box had arrived from her favourite deli. Assuming it was a gift from an admirer, she had eagerly cooked a mushroom omelette, savouring every bite, before disposing of it all the calories. It had saved her life. The deli had no record of the delivery, and there were no other leads.
    Janine’s body recovered quickly, but the haunted look was permanently unmasked. I could no longer mock, or laugh at her fears. I knew she was right. Someone was trying to kill her.
    She returned to her bright and scant clothes, I to my sterile lab coat. We spoke often, met monthly with Dom, and gradually the shadows disappeared. A year passed.
    We were going to Paris for the weekend, and I went to her flat to collect her. I opened the door with the key she’d given me. She lay at the foot of the stairs. The angle of her neck and stillness of her body told a clear tale. I knelt to check her pulse.
    Quickly I replaced the screws in the top stair, and put away the screwdriver. I stepped calmly over her lifeless form to dial 999. ‘I need to report an accident,’ I sobbed.

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