Best Mistake Ever

Chapter 1

1

BEATRICE

My father has always made the job of being CEO of his own company look so simple, but then he’s the tenacious type.

He’s a brilliant man. Brilliant . But it’s a lot to live up to.

When my sister, Delilah, and I were ten years old, he and my mother went through a really nasty divorce and it caused such a cataclysmic rift in our family, Dee and I are still living through the shockwaves of it. It tore our childhood apart, with each of us preferring a different parent to live with when my mother moved out of the family home and into an arty commune across town: me with Dad, Dee with Mum.

You see, despite being identical twins, Dee and I are polar opposites in personality. Our mother maintains that when the egg split, I got all of our father’s ‘shrewd genes’ and Dee got her ‘fun genes’, which, despite our best efforts, seem to have informed the way we’ve lived our lives up till now.

Dee, for her part, seems to think I’m naturally good at everything I do, which is patently nonsense. I just work really hard and I don’t give up easily.

Being good at things takes practice and discipline, but Dee doesn’t seem to be naturally predisposed to either of these things.

It’s good to have her living nearby again though. Despite our differences, I’ve missed her while I’ve been away at university in London and she at art college in Exeter, and we’ve grown a lot closer since we’ve been living in the same city again.

It was great when, last year, she moved into a very tiny, but super cute, attic flat that I found for her a few streets away from me. She’d hoped Bath, where I settled after graduating, would be a better place to forge ahead with her dream of being an artist, after struggling to make it happen in Devon.

But it’s not worked out so far.

Trouble is, she’s not been able to stick at any of the jobs she’s done to pay the bills since graduating either.

To be fair to her though, she’s been trying hard to readjust her life’s trajectory since our father laid into her about it at an excruciating family meal a few months ago.

Over the years, she’s learnt to let his criticism of her go right over her head, but unfortunately, this time he caught her on a bad day.

She totally lost it with him, telling him he needed to ‘butt the hell out’ of her life now that she’s an adult and that she didn’t ‘need his bloody advice’.

To which he replied, ‘Okay then, I guess that means you don’t need my money either. I’m stopping your allowance.’

Even though all the blood seemed to drain from her face, she said, ‘Fine. I don’t want anything from you any more anyway,’ before she stormed off.

But despite the torrent of tears I found her in later, this change in circumstances seems to have lit something inside her.

So, I was delighted for her when she managed to land a well-paid job as an Events and Marketing Manager at a new boutique hotel near Frome, which is about half an hour’s drive south of Bath.

I’ve never seen her so relieved about something, especially when our hard-as-nails father made a point of calling to tell her how proud he was of her for securing it. As I well know, getting any kind of recognition out of him is a tough task.

When Dee told me he’d contacted her, I could tell by the emotion in her voice it meant the world to finally get some credit from him. You see, deep down – once you get past the blustery bravado – she’s actually quite an insecure person with a gentle soul. She’s had the rough end of the stick from our father since she was little and she’s been desperate to prove him wrong about her lack of decisiveness and control over the direction of her life.

Which is funny because I want to prove him right about the things he says about me: that I’m built to run my own company and to be as successful as he is.

Like I say, it’s a lot to live up to, but I’m down for it.

Just as I’m thinking this, my business partner, Jem, appears in our office.

Well, when I say ‘office’, I actually mean a basement room in a town house that my father bought recently and is allowing me to live in rent-free while it’s being turned into individual flats. The deal is that I take in any out-of-hours deliveries, liaise with the project manager when he can’t get hold of my dad and make sure the place looks lived-in to deter potential squatters and thieves. They’re patently trumped-up excuses so my dad can feel he’s supporting me in some way, since I’ve out and out refused to take a loan from him for my fledgling business. But this way, we can both pretend we’re helping each other out without it feeling loaded.

I’m staying in the already converted garden flat, which consists of a kitchen-diner, a bathroom, a bedroom and the aforementioned living room that’s doubling as the office, which we’ve been able to squeeze two desks into.

You see, Jem and I aren’t quite at the stage where we can afford to pay rent for proper office space yet – or to pay ourselves wages – but we’re working on it.

Getting a start-up business off the ground is really hard – harder than I’d ever imagined – and less fun than I’d thought it would be too, but both Jem and I are fully committed to making it work.

We’ve actually been good friends since the day we met during the first lecture of our degree course. I chose to sit next to him, thinking he looked like my kind of person with all his notes, books and stationery laid out neatly on the desk in front of him, and with an expression of focused attention on his face that reflected my own need to make the most of the three years ahead of me.

So, when he asked me to form this company with him, I jumped at the chance, even though business software wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined choosing to develop for my first company. It could turn out to be a real money-maker though – and money is something Jem is going to need a lot of.

Thankfully, he’s turning out to be a fantastic business partner: dedicated, smart and determined. The only thing that bothers me is that there’s sometimes an odd, far-away look in his eye, and I’m never quite sure what he’s thinking. He can be a bit of a closed book like that.

‘Morning,’ he says now, as he strides through the room and sits in his office chair, surveying his impeccably neat workstation and adjusting his keyboard so it lines up exactly with the edge of his desk. He does this every morning and this little ritual always makes me smile. I don’t think he even realises he’s doing it.

‘Morning,’ I reply. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Yeah, good, thanks. I spent most of it coding.’

I shake my head at him. ‘You’re going to burn yourself out.’

He flips me a grin and his face lights up with it. He’s a really attractive guy, though he doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact. At least he doesn’t act like he is.

I can’t understand why he doesn’t have women crawling all over him.

He’s not mentioned having gone on any dates recently so I suspect he’s thinking along the same lines as me: stay single and laser-focused until we’ve got this business off the ground.

I have wondered, on occasion, whether he’s actually asexual because I don’t remember him ever talking about a partner whilst at uni either. Though I suspect that was because he had a lot on his plate, what with managing the heavy workload of the course and also having to regularly travel back to the assisted living complex in Bath where his mum now lives, to deal with her increasing health needs.

Dementia is a horrific affliction, made doubly hard by the fact his dad passed away from a heart attack in Jem’s second year and his mum gets confused and forgets that he died.

I can’t imagine how hard all that must be for him to deal with. Not that he ever complains.

‘Tea?’ he asks me, already rising from his chair.

‘Love one, thanks,’ I say, running a hand through my hair and finding a couple of knots at the very end which I work free with my fingers. My hair is the physical feature I like most about myself. I’ve not cut it for years, barring the odd trim to neaten up split ends, and it hangs right down to the base of my spine now. I love the heavy weight of it across my shoulders. It’s a bit like a comfort blanket, I guess.

I’ve managed to check through all the new emails that have appeared in my inbox since Friday – does everyone work at the weekends now? – before Jem returns with two mugs brimming with tea.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur, as he places one carefully next to my keyboard so as not to slosh any hot liquid onto my desk.

‘Have we heard back about the funding round yet?’ he asks hopefully, peering over my shoulder at my computer screen.

He smells like minty shower gel and fresh air.

I shake my head, pressing my mouth down at the corners. ‘Not yet. But hopefully soon. When I chased it on Friday, they said they’ll let us know by the end of this month.’ I check the date on my watch. ‘So in about two weeks’ time.’

Jem nods. ‘Okay.’ He runs his hand over his jaw which, unusually, is covered in stubble this morning. ‘God, I hope we get it. It’ll be great to be able to start hiring so we can really get things off the ground. And start paying ourselves,’ he adds.

I grimace. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. My savings are disappearing fast and I really don’t want to have to ask my dad for a loan.’

Jem nods sagely. He knows all about the delicately balanced relationship I have with my father. They’ve met each other a few times now and to my amazement seem to get on pretty well, which is a real plus. The last thing I need is my dad on my back about the suitability of my business partner. Not that it’s any of his business – and I intend to keep it that way.

Glancing down at my mobile, which is lying next to my keyboard, I see I have a message from my friend, Pete. Opening it up, I scan the text.

Hey, Bea. You’re still in Bath, right? I know this is a long shot, but Jay’s looking for a venue near you for his festival which is planned for next weekend (last minute, I know, but the place he booked just outside Bath has just had a nearby river break its banks and flood the grounds so camping there is impossible now). If you can think of anywhere he can approach, will you let me know? He’s found somewhere available in Gloucestershire but they want an arm and a leg for it, which will just about bankrupt him. He’s sold a lot of tickets though and doesn’t want to let people down this late in the day, especially not after all the work he’s put into it. He’s in bits, poor thing. If you could pass this message on to anyone you can think might be able to help, we’d really appreciate it.

Love ya!

I pull a face, feeling a huge amount of pity for Jay, who’s worked really hard to get his festivals up and running over the last couple of years. I wonder whether the hotel where Dee is working might be able to help.

She’ll be driving there right now though, in heavy traffic, and I don’t want to distract her. Deciding to call her at lunchtime, I wrap my hand around the mug of tea Jem delivered to me, enjoying the heat against my palm, and I’m about to lift it to my mouth when my mobile rings. I glance at the caller ID and – speak of the Devil – I’m bemused to see Dee’s name lit up on the screen.

Huh .

That’s really strange. She never calls me this early in the morning. Since she started her new job at the hotel, she’s been careful not to be late – something she’s been fired for at previous jobs. In fact, she told me the other day that she’s been leaving an hour early most mornings to be on the safe side.

I pick up my phone and accept the call, my heart beating a little faster as a strange sense of foreboding licks at the edges of my mind. We’re not the type of twins that feel each other’s emotions, like some claim to be able to do, but there’s something about the timing of this call that’s setting my nerves on edge.

‘Hey, you. Everything okay?’ I ask.

There’s a short pause, then the sound of my sister drawing in a raspy breath.

Uh oh.

‘Um. Not really,’ she says in a small, shaky-sounding voice.

My whole body goes on high alert, blood pumping hard through my veins.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I… er. I’ve hurt my ankle.’

‘Okay,’ I say, crossing my fingers that she’s not underplaying this only to lead me in gently to the true horror of her injury. I’m ashamed to say that I’m not good with physical wounds, as she well knows. The sight of them does something weird to me, sending my blood sugar through the floor and on occasion making me faint.

It’s my fatal flaw.

In all other respects, I’m a very practical person. But not with things like this.

I can already feel myself starting to sweat.

‘It’s a bit embarrassing actually,’ she says, in an unusually discomfited voice. This isn’t like Dee at all. She’s normally full of bluster, even in the most trying of circumstances.

‘What happened?’ I ask tentatively.

‘Well, the thing is, I bought some new shoes at the weekend and they have a bit more of a heel on them than I’m used to,’ she says in a more conversational tone now.

I begin to relax, reassuring myself she wouldn’t be launching into one of her stories if she was lying broken on the floor.

‘I thought they’d make me look more professional, you know, at my job. I want my boss to think I’m one of those powerful, intimidating women that Dad’s always dating.’ I’m reminded of the rapt look on her face when she described her new employer to me the other day. He’s the son of a famous rock star and a well-known musician himself – a guitarist, I think – though I couldn’t name one of his band’s songs right now. I don’t think they released many before they imploded. From what little I know about him, he led a pretty wild celebrity lifestyle – drink and drugs, the usual nonsense – and ended up being booted out of the band for not turning up for gigs.

Apparently, he went from being well respected to utterly disdained for being an over-privileged nepo baby in the space of about a year. And now he’s using his family’s wealth and connections to front the boutique hotel that Dee landed her job at and is proving to be a pretty testing boss. Whatever that means.

‘Okay, but I think it’ll take more than a pair of six-inch heels to make that a reality,’ I say a little impatiently, wishing she’d get to the point.

I glance up to see Jem is looking over at me with a concerned frown on his face. I smile and mouth, ‘It’s just Dee,’ to reassure him there’s no real problem here.

He nods and looks back at his screen. He’s met Dee a few times, so he knows exactly what I mean by that.

‘Anyway,’ she says, seeming to sense my frustration. ‘I was on my way out to the car and my ankle went over when I was coming down the stairs.’

‘You walked down those narrow stairs in new high heels?’ I say, unable to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

‘I know, I know, but I wanted to make sure I could manage stairs in them before wearing them around the hotel all day.’ Her voice is shaky again now, like she’s on the brink of tears.

Empathy shoots through me. I really should be kinder to her; she’s trying hard to make this new opportunity work out and she doesn’t need me criticising her too.

‘How bad is it? Can you walk?’ I ask.

She lets out a long sigh. ‘See, that’s the problem. I don’t think I can. My ankle’s blown up like a balloon and it’s too painful to put any weight on it. I had to hop to the car in my bare feet – well, foot – but I don’t think it’s safe for me to drive.’

I shake my head and grimace at my desk, glad she can’t see me right now. How does she manage to get into these scrapes all the time? It’s baffling to me.

‘Bea?’ she says in a querulous voice into the silence.

And I know exactly what’s coming next. I can see the rest of my day disappearing in a blur of hours sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, drinking bitter-tasting, watery instant coffee in the waiting room of the A&E department.

But to my surprise, she doesn’t ask me to take her to the hospital.

Instead, she says, ‘I need you to save my life and pretend to be me.’