Part 44 (1/2)
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.”