Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4)

Shopaholic and Sister (Shopaholic #4) Page 111

Bright yellow. Human-waterproof-climbing-gear yellow. I don’t believe it. There’s someone else on the mountain. There’s someone else! I’m saved!

“Hi!” I yell. “Halloo! Over here!” But my voice is carried the wrong way by the wind and the rain.

I can’t see whoever it is properly, because the overhanging rock is in the way. Very slowly and cautiously I maneuver myself around the lip of the ledge until I have a better view. And then I see her clearly.

It’s Jess.

She’s on the slope below, wearing a yellow cagoule and a backpack. Some kind of rope thing is attaching her to the mountainside, and she’s digging carefully at a rock with a metal knife.

“Jess!” I shout, but my voice sounds hardly bigger than a squeak above the wind. “Jess! Jess!”

At last her head turns — and her whole face contracts in shock.

“Jesus Christ! Becky! What the hell are you doing up here?”

“I came to tell you we’re sisters!” I shout back, but I’m not sure if she can hear me through the buffeting rain. “Sisters!” I yell again, taking a step forward, cupping my mouth. “We’re SISTERS!”

“Stop!” shouts Jess. “That ledge is dangerous!”

“I’m fine!”

“Get back!”

“I’m OK, honestly,” I call. But she looks so alarmed, I obediently take a step back, away from the edge.

And that’s when my shoe slips on the wet mud.

I can’t regain my balance and I scrabble frantically at the rocks, trying to hold on to anything, trying to save myself, but everything’s too slippery. My fingers close round the roots of a shrub, but they’re wet with the rain. I can’t get a proper grip.

“Becky!” I hear Jess’s scream as the roots slip out of my desperate fingers. “Becky!”

Then I’m falling in a rush of terror, and all I can hear is screaming, and I have a glimpse of sky and then something thwacks my head, hard.

And then everything goes black.

Maida Vale Chronicle

Saturday, 7 June 2003

FEARS FOR

MISSING GIRL

Fears were growing last night for the safety of Maida Vale resident Rebecca Brandon, 27. Mrs Brandon (née Bloomwood) disappeared on Thursday from the luxury flat she shares with husband Luke Brandon and has not been seen or heard from since. The alarm was raised by Mrs Brandon’s friend Susan Cleath-Stuart, who arrived in London for a surprise visit.

SHOPPING

CCTV footage shows Mrs Brandon in local shop Anna’s Delicatessen, shortly before her disappearance, apparently agitated. “She just dropped her shopping and left,” said shop assistant Marie Fuller. “She didn’t buy anything.”

CHAOS

There were scenes of chaos aboard the Mind Body Spirit cruise ship currently touring the Mediterranean as Mrs Brandon’s parents, Graham and Jane Bloomwood, insisted the boat be turned around. “You can stuff bloody tranquility!” a hysterical Mrs Bloomwood was reported as shouting. “My daughter’s missing!”

STORMS

Meanwhile, storms have prevented Mrs Brandon’s husband, Luke Brandon, from leaving Cyprus, where he has been working. He was said yesterday to be “desperately worried” and in close contact with police. His business associate, Nathan Temple, has issued a reward for information leading to the recovery of Mrs Brandon. He commented yesterday, “If anyone harms a hair of that young lady’s head I will personally break all their bones. Twice.” Mr Temple was convicted in 1984 for grievous bodily harm.

Twenty-two

OW.

Ouuuch.

God, my head is in agony. Oww. And my ankle’s throbbing, and I feel like I might be sick any moment, and something sharp is pressing into my shoulder… Where am I, anyway? Why do I feel so weird?

With a huge struggle I manage to open my eyes and get a flash of blue before they close again. Hmm. Blue. Makes no sense. Maybe I’ll go to sleep.

“Becky? Beckeee!” A voice is calling me from a huge distance. “Wake up!”

I force my eyes open again and find myself looking at a face. A blurred face against a blue background.

Jess.

Blimey, it’s Jess. And she’s all anxious-looking. Maybe she lost something. A rock. That must be it.

“Can you see me?” she says urgently. “Can you count my fingers?”

She thrusts her hand in front of me and I peer at it woozily. Boy, that girl needs a manicure.

“How many fingers?” she keeps saying. “Can you see? Can you hear me?”

Oh, right. Yes.

“Er… three?”

Jess stares at me for a moment, then sinks back on her knees and buries her head in her hands. “Thank God. Thank God.”