About Books: The Invisible Twin

 

This book was the one that took me the longest to write. It was two years or so in the making. I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe I simply wanted to make sure everything was accurate. I had a vague idea what happens and much of the information is gleaned from diaries. That meant that I had to make diary entries as well as writing a novel. The novel is in two parts.

My motivation for writing this one was exploring the relationship between identical twins. What happens when one dies? How does the other learn to cope?

As the child of an identical twin, I had a unique glimpse into that world. There are things about twins that singles don’t generally encounter. I noticed things about my mother and my aunt as I grew up, and heard some of the silly questions they were asked.

People frequently asked me, once they found out my mother was a twin, how I could tell them apart. That was easy. I never thought they looked all that much alike. I never mistook one for the other when our families were together, although occasionally a couple of my cousins did.

My mother and her sister were frequently asked what it was like to be a twin. I found that to be a strange question. How would a twin know what it’s like not to be a twin?

Some twins experience something where one is considered the sympathetic twin. This is the phenomenon in which one twin feels pain or some other sensation when something happens to the other twin. My mother felt labor pains every time my aunt had a baby. And my aunt’s varicose veins often gave her – and my mother – trouble. My mother’s legs would ache, and it had nothing to do with anything she was doing. She’d call my aunt and tell her to sit down and put her feet up. My family always found it funny. And my mother always knew when something happened to my aunt.

In fact, I used to worry about what would happen if my aunt died first. That could have dire consequences. My mother died about six years before my aunt, so we never found out if death had an effect.

Only when my aunt was in her 70s or 80s did I discover that she sometimes experienced pain when my mother was hurt. Once, when my mother smashed her knee cap, my aunt responded to being told with, “So that’s why my knee was bothering me.” But it seemed, from what she told me, the sensation wasn’t as great as it was for my mother.

Twins also, as babies, tend to develop their own special language. They understand each other when they speak what seems to others like gibberish. Most outgrow this in their first few years, and while it may delay regular speech a little, they learn to talk like everyone else.

Twins have their own individual personalities. For however identical they may be, there are differences, even in looks. I always thought my aunt looked slightly more like her father’s side of the family, while my mother looked more like their mother’s side, yet they were, indeed, identical. Even looking at their baby pictures, I could tell which one was which.

My mother was somewhat of an introvert. My aunt was an extrovert. They had different friends, although some were the same. And even after not seeing each other for a time, they could pick up the conversation as if only minutes had passed. They had certain looks they gave each other as a kind of unspoken code.

While some identical twins are what people sometimes call “mirror image” twins, where one is left-handed and the other is right handed, my mother and her sister were not. My aunt did say once that she thought she should’ve been left-handed. Of course, they grew up in an era where that wasn’t tolerated.

Armed with this information, I knew how characters who were twins would behave.

My twins are teenage boys who live in Wales, Kit (Christopher) and Bryn. At the start of the story they’re just shy of 18, and on their way to a party, a rare one where friends of both of them will be in attendance. Just before they reach the house where the party is, they’re in an accident. Kit is hurt; Bryn doesn’t survive.

Through a series of flashbacks to when they were between 15 and 17, as well as parts of Bryn’s journal, Bryn is revealed, and we learn the relationship between the boys, their hopes, dreams, similarities and differences.

The boys have a way of identifying people who only hang around them because they’re twins: twin groupies. Most are harmless, if annoying, but a few are less than friendly, and use one or both of the boys for their own purposes.

Many people are devastated by Bryn’s death, none more so than Kit. The entire family has difficulty for a while, barely managing to cope. They put up a front for Kit’s benefit. But Kit isn’t about to wallow in self-pity. He has to learn to cope in the world without Bryn, and seeks out help on his own.

Kit acts in the school plays, and always planned to become a professional actor. Bryn wanted to be a footballer, possibly for Manchester United if he was good enough.

The story is set in the 1980s, with all of the hair, makeup and music of the time. Each chapter is titled with a song from the British top 40 charts from the week in the 1980s in which that chapter takes place.

Kit’s first challenge after losing Bryn is to finish his final year in sixth form. He takes his A Levels (Something like SATs) over the objections of his parents, who think he’s been through too much to pass. They encourage him to wait. Typical of a 17-year-old, he’s not about to listen.

While most are supportive of him, he has a few people who end up playing games with him. He discovers his own resilience, and that many of Bryn’s sports friends actually like him.

The second part of the story revolves around his life in university and beyond and the many starts and stops in his healing process. He believes it’s important for him to succeed, not just for himself, but for his brother, too.

He tries to keep the fact that he had a brother who died a secret, with some disastrous results. He doesn’t want the pity. He discovers that’s only a momentary experience compared to backlash from people who believe he’d lied to them.

While he studies to become an actor, his instructors, while trying to hone his acting skills,  inadvertently give him suggestions that, at times, wreak havoc with his real life.

Through the roles he eventually gets, he manages to move forward with his life, and, he hopes, make Bryn proud.

Segments

 

Hayley swam toward the shore, giving it her all. She was so close.  She was one of the few who actually put on a life vest when they were given out on the boat. Others chuckled like the aristocracy on the Titanic. This was, after all, a small craft out for a whale watch, not some ocean liner. She remembered as a child seeing large ships out on the horizon when she was at the shore. This little boat was nowhere near as far out. She wasn’t even sure why it capsized. Too tight of a turn? Had one of those whales they were watching for slid under the boat.         

When she went into the water there was a feeling of panic, which most of those thrown into the water felt. 10-20 people, all plunged into the chill water, all scrambling to find something safe, let out a chorus of screams and cries. But Hayley felt somewhat calmer than the others as she realized she wore a life vest.

That feeling of calm didn’t last long. Other, seeing her with what they’d jokingly cast aside, now tried to pull the vest from her body. She had to fight off the self-important who thought they had more right to live than she had. But her fasteners were on tight, and she was able to get away from the others before she was deluged with an overwhelming clutch of hands. If only they’d relax and tread water, they’d be fine until a coast guard cruiser picked them up. 

She had started swimming toward the shore, which didn’t appear terribly far, just to get away from them. It was farther than she was used to swimming, but she didn’t want to take the chance that someone from the tour would grab at her again, and possibly drown her in their attempt to get her life vest. With the vest, she was fairly certain she could make it to the shore, even though she was certain that one of those people on the beach had seen the boat capsize, and would at least call 911.

There was a crowd of people standing in a group on the beach, watching those from the boat splashing and shouting. Others watched for a bit, and then returned to their sunbathing or swimming. It surprised her that no one on shore seemed particularly alarmed, and no one seemed to be taking action.

Hayley wasn’t sure why she had taken this boat ride in the first place. She had never been much interested in whales – or other sea life, really. Fish were things on other people’s plates in restaurants, something she didn’t care for. She was far more interested in dogs and cats.

Tom had encouraged her to get out of her comfort zone and try something new. Where was Tom, anyway? He hadn’t come on this excursion. He was probably still in bed at the hotel, since the whale watch started before he wanted to get up.

The others floundered in the water, no closer to shore than when they were thrown into the water. Still, there was no sign of the coast guard. She was nearly to the shore, although still farther out than the farthest beach-goer.

Suddenly, she felt a tug on her foot, followed by excruciating pain. She turned and saw a shark. She pulled her foot toward her body, and saw the shark’s teeth embedded in her heel.

“Oh, no you don’t, you bastard. You’re not getting my foot! I will not be a cripple because of a stupid suggestion Tom made.”

She slammed her fist into the shark’s head once, twice, a third time, and it let go. Wasting no time, she swam off to the shore, making it faster than she thought possible. She had to get to shore before she bled to death.

Those on the beach watched silently as she swam, the shark following the trail of blood she was leaving. No one made any attempt to rescue her. Where were the lifeguards? Surely, they were supposed to help anyone in distress? They had a boat besides whatever gear they used for people closer in. Why weren’t they helping?

The waves finally began to push her closer to the beach, the final one pushing her into such shallow water that she scraped her face and knees on the sand. Still, no one moved. The sunbathers didn’t even seem to notice. The standing crowd watched like automatons that hadn’t been programmed with empathy or the ability to move.

 She managed to stand up, blood trailing behind her as she limped toward the crowd.

“Help me,” she said.

 No one moved.

She limped toward them, and saw one young man with a towel draped over his shoulders. She grabbed it, and sat to wrap it around her bleeding foot.

“Hey!” he said when she took it. “That’s mine. Give it back.”

“What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see I’m injured? I was just attacked by a shark! I was thrown off a capsized boat. There are people out there who are going to drown if someone doesn’t help them. I need to get to a hospital!”

The crowd looked uneasy. The man whose towel she had taken took a single step forward, but then thought better of it. 

“Give him back his towel,” another man ordered. The others grumbled assent.

 She saw a policeman walking down the beach toward her.

 “Finally!” she said. “Officer, the boat I was on capsized. There are people out there in the water who are going to drown. Someone needs to get them. I was bitten by a shark just before I reached the beach. You want to warn people not to go in the water here. And I need to go to a hospital. She was beginning to feel light-headed, and wasn’t sure how long she’d remain conscious.

“She stole my towel. Arrest her!”

“Oh, here, take your towel,” she said, unwrapping her foot and tossing it at him. The man backed away.

“I don’t want it now. It’s got blood all over it.”

The policeman stared at her, briefly looking at her foot. It was badly torn and blood oozed from the tears the shark’s teeth had made. She might well lose the foot.

“Did you steal his towel?”

“I wasn’t planning on keeping it. If you could get an ambulance – or if you have first aid equipment in your car, maybe we could bandage this foot properly until I get to the hospital. He can have his towel. I only borrowed it.”

“You ruined it!” the man, probably in his late teens, said. “You should buy me a new one.”

 “Fine. Get me to a hospital, and when they fix my foot, I’ll get you a new towel. God! Some people are such babies. I’m going to bleed to death and none of you seems to care.

“All right, miss, you need to come with me,” the policeman said, helping her to her feet.

 

*

She woke up and looked around. Odd, her foot didn’t hurt. The room didn’t look much like a hospital, either. The walls were a calm, pale blue, almost grey, with pictures on the walls, and delicate furniture. There was no wheeled table with a water pitcher and cup on it, as one might expect in a hospital room, and the lamps were actually pretty, rather than functional, ugly hospital lamps. There was no garish glare. 

She wiggled her toes, and felt all of them. The movement caused no pain. She was about to pull the covers of and look at her foot when someone knocked on her door.

 “Come in,” she said.

A tall woman with creamy caramel skin and dark hair pulled back in a bun entered the room. Her burgundy suit accented her trim figure, the skirt ending just below her knees, showing off well-formed legs that ended in burgundy velvet stiletto heeled peep-toe shoes.

“You’re not up yet?” the woman asked.

“I wouldn’t think I should be having just had surgery.”

“What?” the woman asked with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“The shark attack.”

“I don’t know what you were drinking last night, but it sounds like it hasn’t worked its way out of your system. Miranda, you have a book signing today at noon.”

“Miranda? Don’t you mean Hayley?”

 “I don’t know who Hayley is, but you’re Miranda Valente. You are in your own home, and you had no surgery. There was no shark attack.”

“Oh, I don’t know! Just so I get on the right track, what is your name?

“It’s Anne, although you frequently refer to me as Maria.”

“Is there a Maria?”

“There is,” she said sounding disapproving. “She’s the maid. And I am your personal assistant. I am not and never have been a maid.”

  Miranda pulled back the covers and saw her own well-formed legs were perfect. There were no bandages, no casts, no shark teeth marks in her foot. This was all very odd. One minute she’d been about to be arrested on a beach somewhere – she didn’t even know where – and the next, it was like someone had turned the page and started a new story, leaving Hayley and Tom behind for another day. Now she was author Miranda Valente.

She sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then fell in a heap on the floor

“What?” She turned and touched the bedsheet. “Why are there satin sheets on my bed? I detest satin sheets.”

“A gift from Larry, your publicist. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind trying them out with you one of these days.”

“Fat chance,” Miranda replied. “I’ll keep the pillow case. I’ve heard satin pillow cases are good for preventing wrinkles and good for your hair. But I want these sheets replaced with some nice, soft cotton ones.”

“I’ll let staff know. Now, you need to get yourself dressed.”

 Anne turned and left the room.

By the time Miranda was up, showered and dressed, her brain was back in order. Gone were any thoughts of Hayley Watkins and her husband, Tom. She was fully Miranda Valente, author of the book The Tear Collector.

Her light brown hair was combed, and curled slightly on her shoulders. She wore a pants suit of dove grey with a royal blue satin blouse. A necklace with a heart-shaped diamond was her only adornment. She wore lower heeled shoes than Anna.

Downstairs, she sat at the kitchen table and ate an English muffin and an egg, washing it down with tea served in a china teacup decorated around the rim with tiny purple flowers. She was careful not to spill anything on her suit. The tiniest speck of food on her jacket or blouse would cause a flurry of expletives and ordering people about like serfs from Larry. She smiled. He’d have an ulcer or a heart attack before he was 40 if he weren’t careful.

 

                                                                *

The whole story started – when? I can’t say precisely that there is a beginning to it or when that might have been. I lived my life as I’d always done, and somewhere along the way the whole mess rather evolved.

First of all, let me introduce myself. My name is Christopher Elliot. I am at this writing twenty-seven. I have lived most of my life in a small town in Brecon, Wales, where, I’m told, nothing exciting ever happens. My life seemed to me a series of exciting things. Let me say the exciting things seldom happened outside my own imaginings.

“Christopher!” I often heard my mam say to get my attention. Simon told me it was often the third or fourth increasingly harsh repetition of my name that got my attention. “Whatever are you daydreaming about?”

 I would shrug my shoulders and wonder something aloud, at which she’d skewer me with a puzzled look.

“I wish I knew what was going on in your head.”

 She’d be half frightened to death if she ever knew how my mind worked. The twisted lanes and alleys of it, some leading nowhere, others leading to the very depths would drive away even the most loyal friend. Perhaps that’s why I’ve had so few loyal friends in my life.

But I digress. That was my childhood, and events I wish to relate occurred in some form when I was sixteen.

I had returned to school after our usual summer holiday. Being sixteen was not easy for me. I don’t suppose it is for anyone, but at the time I didn’t know that. I only knew that life for me seemed difficult. When I looked around me I saw the other boys successful at sports, attracting girls and bragging of their conquest of those same girls.

 I had no way of knowing whether or not the bragging of the other boys had any whisper of truth to it; I had no close friends in whom I could  confide and have confirmed the tales I’d heard. The other boys knew me only as Elliot. A few spoke of me as the mad hatter, owing to a particular cap I wore to school. Not as many as five actually called me Chris.

Sixteen was that half-light time in which one is not quite a man, although the pretension is there, and not quite done with childhood – at least I was not. Dragons, goblins and faery folk would still make their way through my mind, offering a magic world of escape from the harsh, lonely reality of the social side of school.

“Head still tucked neatly into a book, Elliot?” one of my classmates asked as I passed through the corridor. I knew from his tone that something was about to happen. If I said nothing he was likely to become physical in the attempt to get my attention.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with the concept of books,” I replied, smiling. I hoped the smile would soften the comment, but nothing softens determination made of stone.

 “You think you’re quite the scholar then, don’t you?” he asked, blocking my way along with a couple of his friends.

 “I don’t think I’m anything, but I have a class to get to.”

He tried to stare me down, although he was barely five centimeters taller than I. For my part, I tried to look bored or patient, and hope I didn’t look as scared as I felt. He was at least a stone heaver. Mam used to remark that I was thin as a reed and someday a good puff of wind would have the best of me. The last thing I wanted was to be involved in a fight in the corridor. Worse, I wanted this dispersed now to avoid being accosted on the way home.

A moment of silence seemed to grow before a subtle shift occurred – no doubt a teacher had appeared at the opposite end of the hall.

“Oh, let Miss Elliot go to her class,” one of his friends said, and they moved aside. I passed without a look back.

This sort of scene played itself out on a nearly weekly basis, one boy making a remark in the company of his friends and my attempt to either ignore it or make a witty remark. Sometimes I avoided confrontation by some miracle. Occasionally a friend would come to my assistance.

On one particular occasion the boy in question knocked my books out of my hand. My notes scattered in the hallway. As I retrieved my books and papers, he managed to grab a few pages.

“Those are mine,” I said, making an attempt to take back my papers.

 “Oh, what have we here?” he asked and immediately fell into a dramatic reading of a story I had started writing.

“Give it back!” I said making another attempt to get my papers. He stepped back.

“Oh, Miss Elliot wants to be a writer,” he taunted.

“Give it back, Andy!”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.”

I gave him a look and made another lunge to retrieve my work. He again stepped back, only this time he backed into the headmaster.

“Brooks, are those your papers?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then I suggest you give them to Elliot and both of you go to your appropriate classes. Whatever the problem is, settle it outside school. I’ll have no shenanigans in the corridors.”

Even Andy Brooks knew better than to oppose the head. He grudgingly handed me my papers, and went on his way.

Of all things, a girl rescued me. Sian Bowen was one of the girls many of the boys longed for. Since none of the hopeful boys had ever dated her, each held to the vain hope that he would be the one. What they didn’t realize was that she wasn’t allowed to date, and wasn’t interested in boys like Andy Brooks.

Still, she’d heard what happened and had also had an earful of Andy’s dramatic reading of what he’d seen of my story.

“I hear you write,” she said, approaching me after school.

 Not knowing her very well, I didn’t know whether or not this was some sort of taunt.

 

[Sometimes a writer will start an idea on any available piece of paper – including paper towels – while in a waiting room or at lunch alone, and not having time to finish, will file it away, only to start something completely different the next time. This is separate from writing a complete story, to which access might only be available at home, and requires more time and discipline. I would imagine most writers have a file of some sort of story ideas like this. They serve a purpose. It allows one to doodle to fill up a time space, and also provides a prompt for writing at a future time. I have a dozen or so of these, some only a sentence or two, some at least as long as the ones presented here. Some are terrible, and would never go anywhere, kind of like drawing cross-hatches along the border of a paper. Others look like they might be interesting enough to turn into actual stories once the ones currently in progress are finished.

You have just had a taste of the writing mind. Be afraid. Be very afraid. ]

 

 

     

 

The Invisible Twin: Epilogue

 

 

            When Amy entered the house, no one was home. She looked around and noticed everything was as tidy as a museum; this wasn’t at all like the cozy home it had been when she and her younger twin brothers were growing up.

            The only thing besides the worn, folded blanket on the back of the sofa that spoke of a lived-in home was the book on the side able. She looked at the title, and recognized the book Kit had forgotten from his visit. Since she’d be in Cardiff at the end of the week, he’d asked her to stop by for it. She had deliberately chosen a time when her mother would be out and her father was still at work.

            While she loved visiting her parents, today she had quite a bit to do, and simply didn’t want to be delayed.

            As she picked up the book, what looked like a letter fell out of it. She stooped to pick it up and saw, “To Brynn Michael Evans from Christopher Morgan Evans, Bangor, Wales.” scrolled across the empty back page . The handwriting wasn’t the scrawl of his childhood, but his adult penmanship.

            She wondered when Kit would have even needed to write to Brynn. She couldn’t think of them ever being apart for more than the length of a class in school or one of Bryn’s football matches. Once Kit left for University in 1983, Brynn was gone.

            Curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the pages and read.

                                                                       

 

                                                                                                            17 April, 1990

Dear Brynn,

            To anyone reading this, I must surely seem mad. I was told by wiser heads that in order to move on, I need to confront my demons.

            Strange as it is for me to even think this, much less write it, you have been my demon for the last seven years. It’s only now that I can tell you what has disturbed me since the accident.

            Of course, regaining consciousness after my injuries to find you had not survived was the most exquisitely unbearable pain. For several days, despite my hopes and dreams for the future, I had no desire to remain on this earth since you were not on it.

Your hopes and dreams had been crushed by a vehicle driven by one who had no business behind the wheel. There was no satisfaction in knowing that driver had also perished; he had led a long and distinguished life.

My lack of desire for life was no match for the medical prowess of the doctors. Their refusal to allow me to give up kept me alive.

But before the hospital, before the crash, the two of us were happy knowing our own secrets, suspecting each other’s. I hoped a certain girl I’d met at the party where you lost your virginity – I knew that before you admitted it – would be at the one we were going to that night. Having read some of your journals since, I know you had similar expectations of seeing someone that night. Whether or not our expectations would have been met, I’ll never know.

            As the headlamps hurtled toward your door, I screamed, not from pain – yet – but horror at your being mangled. What I never told anyone, no matter how they pushed or why, was that you screamed, too. Your head was turned toward the car bearing down on ours. The doctors said that was why your spinal cord was severed. An internal decapitation, they called it. But in the seconds before impact you screamed, “Duw, dwi ddim eisiau marw! Kit, helpa fi!”

            I didn’t understand why you said, “God, don’t let me die! Kit, help me,” in Welsh. You seldom spoke Welsh, even to me.

            And in the interminable instant just before impact, we both reverted to our secret twin speak, the language everyone insisted we’d left behind before we started nursery. But we both know better. Simple phrases, the odd word, remain with us, even today. Someevie – our expression for “I love you,” came out of both of our mouths – or perhaps we only thought it to each other. I can hear, even now, your 17-year-old voice saying it. Someevie, Kit. Someevie, Brynn. Ekee nom: Be awesome.

            But as toddlers, we didn’t know the word awesome. Ekee nom was “be the whole world.” Only when we were older did ekee nom mean “be awesome.” You told me that every time before I went onstage. I still hear you say it every opening night, or before the first table read for a film or telly show.

            And as I was slammed against the side of the car, and you were crushed by the attacking car, I knew the instant your soul left your body, even though I told everyone I didn’t remember what happened. There was a horrid attempt for you to take a breath that couldn’t come because the nerves that allowed it had been severed, the moment you knew you were dying. A broken rib punctured one of my lungs, and as I tried to take a breath, I had a similar experience, although not from the same cause.

            And in that instant, my head was flooded with more twin speak words than I thought I knew, yet I understood it all. Someevie, Kit. Ekee nom alegat. Be awesome for us both.

            There was much more, far more than anyone outside the two of us would have accepted as possible in that instant. Yet, it was like someone was trying to fill a pitcher with the tap opened full, trying to fill it before the water was cut off. I know the things you said, and they were not things I would have thought to say. It’s still too painful to recall it all at once, much less translate it from twin speak.

            Your insistence at my being awesome likely had a good deal to do with my failure to die in the first few weeks.

            Surviving without you, trying to figure out a way forward, was sometimes more painful than my physical injuries. Mr. Mac, the psychologist I went to, was a great help. Yet, despite his having also been a twin who lost his other, sometimes he simply didn’t know what he was talking about. Actually, I was surprised Mam and Da even allowed me to seek psychological help.

            I started to read your journals to try to learn what I didn’t know about you as well as to find meaning in everything you poured into the instant before you died. If only I’d read certain entries early on, I could have avoided some emotional pain from others.

            I made the mistake of being taken in by Tegan Davies, your twin groupie nemesis. Had I only known about her from your experiences, I could have avoided her. Still, she burrowed in when I was most vulnerable, so any kindness, no matter how evilly intended, I drank in without a second thought.

            Even when I seemed to be moving forward, my desperation to protect you made me make the most egregious mistakes socially. But then, we both know I was the one without social skills.

            It took a few years of walking into emotional walls before I realized I was angry. Mr. Mac knew it – he’d gone through the same loss under different circumstances – and tried to get me to examine who I was angry with.

            I thought it was Mam – you were her boy as I was Da’s – and she was never comfortable with the things I did to heal. I frequently made her cry, although I didn’t mean to. 

            Sometimes I thought it was everyone. Perhaps Tegan. Perhaps a girl at Uni who did something similar to what Tegan did. But the girl at Uni was reacting to my cavalier behavior. In hindsight, I’m not proud of the way I treated her.

            But the anger stayed long after I’d healed from those experiences. Mr. Mac proved to be right in that instance. I was angry with you.

            I was angry with you for dying. I was angry because I felt I didn’t know you as well as I should, especially when several people – including Mam – said things about you that I didn’t think were true. And I began to doubt my understanding of you at all.

            I couldn’t tell any of those people the twin speak things you’d said. I began to doubt you’d said them at all. It might have been simply wishful thinking on my part. Maybe you didn’t say them. Perhaps you’d simply stolen my soul and left me with nothing.

            No, you were never like that in life. You couldn’t be that way in death, a death over which you had no control.

            When I recognized that, I finally started to heal.

            I confess I didn’t come to those conclusions on my own. Nancy made me recognize that.

            I don’t know if you knew Nancy. She’s the girl you teased me for snogging at the infamous party. She came back into my life at the end of Uni, and has continued as my Cariad to the present. No one else knows, but I intend to propose later this year.

She was supposed to be my date to the BAFTAs, but had to have an emergency appendectomy the day before. I asked Mam to go with me, but she didn’t think it was appropriate for a boy to take his mam. So, I asked Amy, and after some coaxing, she agreed. It turns out she wears the same size clothes as Nancy, and was, as she put it, going elegant in Nancy’s gown – Nancy insisted. Oh, and I won the BAFTA – for my first film, too – in case you were wondering.

            So, now I think I’ve got over being angry with you. None of it was your doing. I’ve been trying to make my life something of which you would be proud – since I’m living for us both.

            Do you remember when we used to laugh when people would ask us what it was like to be a twin? We always said we didn’t know what it was like not to be a twin. Well, now I do.  I can’t say it holds a candle to being a twin. I don’t know if singles-from-birth feel the loneliness. That’s the hardest part. It’s a loneliness that no one else can fill.

            You were the best brother. Diolch yn fawr.

            And in case you didn’t know, Someeve, Brynn. Ekee nom.

            Love from this side of the abyss,

            Kit

 

            Amy folded the pages of the letter, and returned them to the back of the book.

            She thought, after Brynn’s death, that she and Kit had become closer. Some people even suggested she was a surrogate for Brynn. Now she knew they were wrong.

            Kit’s openness in what he’d written – perhaps believing that no one would ever see it while he was alive – was shocking. She wasn’t sure she could take it all in. And she’d have to pretend she didn’t know these things. He wouldn’t tell anyone, especially if he hadn’t told Mr. Mac.

            She did wonder why he’d committed this information to paper. Brynn had been so good at keeping a journal, and Kit had been so rubbish at it. Perhaps bursts of candor were the closest he could come.

            Armed with the book Kit had asked for, she left the house.

           

The Invisible Twin: Chapter 1

                                                                1983

            Kit opened the thick journal. He remembered getting one the same year; the cover color was the only difference. At the time he couldn’t imagine having enough to say, even in a whole year, to fill the book. Flipping through Brynn’s 1974 book, he noticed it was completely full. Of course, the large, sprawling handwriting of the writer explained some of the fullness of it. This was the first journal Brynn had ever done.

            January, 1974: My name is Brynn Michael Evans. I am 8 ½ years old. When I grow up, I would like to play football for Manchester United. I don’t think my family will like that, since we’re Welsh, and my dad prefers the London team over Manchester. Maybe I’ll play for Cardiff.

            I am a twin. That’s the first thing that anyone ever knows about me, so I didn’t put it first. Sometimes I wish I weren’t a twin. People assume Kit and I are exactly alike in everything. We’re not. I wish he liked playing football.

Sometimes it makes me mad that other people assume they only have to ask one of us something to know about both of us. If Kit says something that other people don’t agree with, they get mad at me. It’s so unfair! I like Kit, but I wish sometimes he was just my brother and not my twin.

Kit smiled sadly. He understood about wishing they weren’t twins sometimes.

Kit thought he knew what had happened the day Brynn started the journal. The two of them had had one of their rare fights. Kit hadn’t known about the other kids blaming Brynn for something Kit had said, but it made sense. He remembered Brynn shouting at him, “Why can’t you just shut up sometimes!” It hadn’t made sense to Kit at the time, but it had affected his interactions with their friends, making him less communicative, Brynn’s words ringing in memory every time he thought of answering a question or making a comment. It had probably been about that time that Kit started having friends of his own separate from Brynn’s.

Kit put the journal on the desk and picked up another at random. It was from when they were 15.

Brynn’s Journal 1980:  We won the match today. Some of us went to the chippy afterwards. I felt bad. Kit would like to have gone, I’m sure, but since he wasn’t at the game, I couldn’t invite him. I guess we’ll go another time.

            There was a girl from our class there. She’s been following me around lately, or at least showing up where I do. I don’t think she can tell us apart, but it’s not any of the other blokes she’s interested in. In any case, she’s everything I’m not looking for in a girlfriend. It’s possibly only the fact that I’m a twin and that makes me relatively interesting to her. I’ve met people like that before. Twin-groupies. Then, once they find out you’re not that interesting, out you go.

 

            A twin groupie. Yes, Kit well knew the type. He and Bryn would shrug when someone disappeared from their circle.

            “A twin groupie,” they’d say, knowing the fascination with the twins had worn off.

            Some people treated them like a science project. It was annoying, but by the time they were teens, they could spot the type almost immediately.

 

1980

            Tessa Langford surreptitiously watched the two boys who reclined on lounge chairs on the other side of the pool. She appeared to be reading the novel in her hand, and the oversized sunglasses and floppy straw hat helped to hide the fact that her eyes were elsewhere.

            She thought they were twins, and hoped they were wearing sun cream on that pale skin, or they’d look like lobsters by sunset. Both wore sunglasses and swim trunks, but each had his own style and color. They couldn’t have been more than about 16, she thought, feeling a little predatory because of her admiration of their bodies.

            They were gorgeous, she thought, tall, but not yet to their full adult height, slim, compact bodies, although one looked just a touch heavier than the other. She was surprised, when one of them stretched and crossed his arms behind his head, that the hair under his arms was light brown, while the thick hair on his head was several shades darker.

            The other twin, lightly running the fingers of his left hand up and down his right arm as one might do to comfort an anxious child, said something she couldn’t hear to his brother. The brother laughed, a rich chuckle that was a little deeper than she expected. He made a comment back, but they were too far away for their words to carry, and combined with the noise from the people actually using the pool between them and her, she heard nothing.

            She wondered about their names. Simon and Sam. No. Simon might fit the one, but neither was a Sam. Giles and Gerry. Yes, that would fit. The one with the laugh was Giles. Gerry was the shy one, possibly with a stammer. Giles would put him up to whatever challenges he took on.

            There was no self-consciousness about either boy. She almost wished she had a reason to meet them. Still, at 19, Tessa had too much of a gap in age with the boys.

           

            “Do you see that woman on the other side of the pool?” Kit asked.

            “The one with the floppy hat? Yeah. I was admiring the view.”

            “Really?”

            “Not your type?” Brynn asked.

            “Well, she’s too old. She must be in her 20s, so she wouldn’t be interested in either of us. Besides, she’s a bit too –” he hesitated, not wanting to make any overt gesture – “chesty.”

            Brynn laughed. “You’ve been listening to Gran too long! Really, do you think?”

            “Well, the bikini doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

            “That’s rather the point. I think she’s nice to look at,” Brynn replied.

            In a smooth, sinuous movement, Brynn stood up.

            “Going to chat her up?” Kit asked, grinning.

            “No, I was going to get something to drink. Do you want something?”

            “The fizzy orange in the round bottle.”

            “Orangina?”

            “Yes.” Kit was always forgetting the names of things.

            As Brynn started around the edge of the pool, Tessa’s hat blew off. Brynn took a couple of quick steps and retrieved it. He held it out to her as she stood.

            “Thank you –?” her thanks came out as a question, mainly because she almost called him Giles.

            “Brynn.”

            “Oh, hello, Brynn. I’m Tessa. Is that other boy your brother?” she asked, putting her hat back on.

            Brynn gave her an amused look. “Yes. Kit.”

            “Kit?”

            Short for Christopher. When we were learning to talk, apparently, he pronounced Chris as Kiss, and my parents decided a different nickname was in order. So he’s named in honor of Marlowe.”

            “A shame you weren’t named Will in honor of Shakespeare, then,” she said. He laughed and the chuckle seemed to resonate inside her.

            “I think my parents would probably have gone for Dylan Thomas instead,” he said.

            That was it! The accent she couldn’t quite place.

            “Oh, you’re Welsh!”

            “Yes,” he said, waiting for some odd comment, but it didn’t come.

            “I just couldn’t quite place your accent.”

            “Mmm,” he replied in teenage fashion, running his hands through his hair to push back what the breeze had blown in his eyes.

            The breeze blew his hair again, and Tessa put her hand on the crown of her hat to keep it from flying off.

            “Well, I won’t keep you,” she said, backing away.

            “Ah, well, my brother’s likely parched by now, so I’d best go get our drinks.”

            She smiled, and he went into the small shop inside the hotel.

            When he returned to Kit a few minutes later, he handed the round bottle to him, and sat down on the lounge chair.

            “Are you engaged yet?” Kit asked, grinning, opening the bottle and taking a drink.

“She asked if we were brothers.”

            Kit laughed. “And you told her she needed glasses because there’s only one of us?” He drank half the bottle in one long drink, and then wrinkled his nose at the fizz.

            Brynn laughed. “I’ve never understood people needing to ask if we’re twins. I guess she didn’t want to sound cliché.” He sipped his drink, but he’d started on the way out, so they were both nearly finished.

            “It’s like asking about the weather. It’s an easy conversation starter. But are we brothers? That’s new.”

            They both drank their drinks and watched the people in the pool.

            “Are you finished?” Brynn asked.

            Kit nodded.

            “Then let’s not waste this pool.” They put their sunglasses with their towels, dropped the bottles into the bin and sauntered to the pool.

            Brynn approached the side, and dove in. Kit sat on the edge for a moment, his feet dangling in the water, and then pitched forward in a sort of half dive.

            Ah, so he was the cautious one, Tessa thought, watching them again for a moment before resuming her reading.

            Kit was the stronger swimmer, but he’d never managed to learn how to dive decently. Brynn made it all look so graceful. He used the forward propulsion of the dive to keep from needing to work so hard at the swim itself.

            They raced, of course. Kit won. But Brynn wasn’t above the hijinks of a teenage boy. He tried to dunk Kit’s head under the water, but Kit out-maneuvered him.

            They had the pool to themselves for a while. Just as they decided to get out, their sister, Amelia, came out of the hotel. She looked around and saw them drying off by the lounge chairs. Kit was busy drying his hair, and didn’t see her at first. Brynn had just draped his towel around his neck, and waved to her.

            Amelia – Amy – had strawberry blonde hair, and green eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Her trim figure was in a more modest bikini than what Tessa wore.

            Kit put his sunglasses back on and used his fingers to try to calm the hair that stuck out in all directions. Brynn, who had just finished using a comb on his own hair, handed it to Kit.

            “Oh, I was hoping to get to swim with you,” Amy said.

            “We’ll stay and watch, if you want,” Brynn offered.

            “I was just going to go to the beach,” Kit said. “I want to go into the channel.”

            “Oh, that sounds fun,” she said. “Let’s all go.”

            The boys put on T-shirts and slipped their sandals on. Amy had a shoulder bag that held her towel and whatever amenities she might need. She pulled out a button-front shirt and put it on over the bathing suit, leaving it unbuttoned. Once they were attired, they left the hotel, and went down to the beach.

            Two years older than the boys, the 17-year-old girl didn’t mind being in their company. They were finally taller than she was, so she didn’t feel like she was minding children when she was with them.

            The three had always got on well. When they were all together, both boys enjoyed clowning around and telling her stories. At home they might stop to climb a tree. They could be very silly, but they were never mean.

            By himself, Kit tended to be quiet, living in his own thoughts unless someone engaged him in conversation. Brynn was outgoing whether Kit was with him or not. He’d always been more gregarious than Kit, and Amy teased him by calling him Prince Charming.

            “And who am I, please?” Kit had asked her once.

            “You are the sorcerer,” she replied.

            Brynn had called him Emrys, saying Merlin was too obvious.

            “And Charming isn’t?” Kit asked.

            “I didn’t name me.”

            “I’d rather be Taliesin,” Kit replied.

            “You have to write something first,” Amy said.

            “And who are you, then?” Brynn asked her.

            “The Lady of Shallot, of course.”

            The siblings spent the afternoon searching the beach for sea glass and romping in the waves. Once the tide started coming in, they dried off and returned to the hotel.

            When they returned from the beach, the three of them showered and dressed for dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Evans always made one evening a dress-up dinner evening. The children thought it was silly that they did this, since most people weren’t as formal these days, but they went along with it.

            Amy wore a pale yellow dress with a flowing skirt, petal-shaped capped sleeves, and only the slightest shoulder pads. Her feathered shoulder-length hair was held in place with hairspray. Completing her outfit were beige ankle-strap sandals with a two-inch heel. She insisted she couldn’t walk in higher heeled shoes.

            Brynn wore black linen trousers, black dress shoes, and a white dress shirt without a tie, and a light blue linen suit jacket with a white silk scarf hanging loose under the jacket lapels. His hair was a shorter version of his sister’s cut, more hair sprayed, and looking like a member of one of the newer pop bands.

            Kit wore white linen trousers, tan oxfords, and a loose white linen shirt under a tan sports coat. He wore his hair much like Brynn’s but without the hair spray, and wearing a tan fedora on the back of his head.

            Their father looked at the three of them. He was pleased that they didn’t balk at dressing up, but thought the boys overdid it a bit.

            “Kit, are you wearing makeup?” he asked.

            “Just a bit of guy liner,” he replied.

            “Guy liner?”

            “It’s a thing, Dad. Lots of guys use a bit of eyeliner. And Brynn’s wearing it, too. It was his idea, by the way.”

            “They do, Dad,” Amy said.     

            Mr. Evans shook his head with a grin.

            Mr. Evans wore a traditional business suit in light grey, with a blue shirt and dark blue tie. His wife wore a dress similar to, but not quite as modern as Amy’s. Her light brown hair was neatly combed in a usual above-the-shoulders “mum cut” as Amy called it. She wore flat slip-ons. At 42, she had no sign of grey in her hair. Her husband’s dark hair, still thick, showed a bit of grey.

            The family went downstairs to the restaurant. They were seated at a table near a window. The view of the sea and a few sailboats returning late made Kit want to wander along the beach in the evening sun. He could tell there was a light breeze blowing. But hunger won out – as if he had the choice.

            Over dinner, the children recounted their adventures of the day.

            “Oh, and Brynn was chatting up a woman by the pool,” Kit said.

            “I was not chatting her up!” Brynn protested. “Her hat blew off. I simply returned it for her on my way to get something to drink.”

            “Yes, I supposed you could do better than someone who actually asked if we were brothers,” Kit replied.

            Their parents and sister chuckled.

            “I’m sure she was trying to tactfully make conversation,” Mrs. Evans said.

            “Isn’t that what talking about the weather is for?” Amy asked.

            “You boys look a bit pink. Did you get too much sun?” Mrs. Evans asked.

            “Perhaps,” Brynn replied.

            “I feel fine,” Kit responded.

 

            There was a dance scheduled at the hotel that evening. The teens wanted to go, and their parents went along to watch. People of various ages were there, but as yet no one was dancing.    

            Kit swayed in time to the music.

            “Isn’t anyone going to dance?” he asked.

            “Usually people wait a few songs to see who’s there and who’s dancing,” Mr. Evans said.

            “Maybe they just need someone to show them how.”

            “Really?” Amy asked sarcastically. “And who’s going to show them?”

            “We are. Come on,” he said, grabbing his sister’s hand.

            “Are you kidding?”

            “No. Come on. You can’t let your dance lessons go to waste,” Kit replied.

            The two of them started to dance to a pop song that was playing. Kit was quite good, his parents discovered. They knew Amy could dance, but no one had ever seen Kit dancing before. Their normally quiet, somewhat shy son became quite the performance artist on the dance floor.

            “Did you know he could dance like that?” Mrs. Evans asked Brynn.

            “No. I just thought he could sing and play guitar.”

            Kit was completely unselfconscious as his body moved.

            Halfway through the song other people joined Amy and Kit on the dance floor. This wasn’t the kind of dancing Amy did in class, but she was able to follow Kit’s lead.

            Kit and Amy danced to a few more fast songs, then a slow dance started, and they left the dance floor.

            “You aren’t going to slow dance?” a girl who had been watching them asked.

            “Not with my sister,” Kit replied. “But if you would be interested, I’ll dance the next slow one with you.”

            She blushed and nodded.

            “Wow, what did you do with my brother, Christopher?” Amy asked. “That was rather cheeky of you.”

            Kit laughed, and wiped some sweat from his forehead. His shirt felt damp against his skin.

            “Do you think?” he asked. “You’re always telling me to be more daring.”

            “I think the three of us should go out when they play some faster stuff,” she said as they reached the table.

            “I don’t think I could do as well as you,” Brynn said.

            “I do.” Kit sounded certain.

            Once they had returned to the table with their family, Kit took off his sports jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair. His parents remarked on his skill at dancing. This was a side of him they’d never seen.

            “I’ve had years of watching Amy, not to mention Top of the Pops.”

            When the DJ played a faster song, both Kit and Brynn went to the dance floor with Amy. Brynn watched Kit, and imitated his moves. Before long, he seemed as comfortable as Kit. Kit took his hat and put it on Brynn’s head. The girl who had spoken to Kit earlier approached and, not knowing which boy she’d spoken to, looked at the three and asked if she could join them.

            “Here, take your hat back. You’re confusing people,” Brynn said with a grin. He put Kit’s hat on him dipped in the front like a 1940s private eye from an American film.

            “I’m Liz,” she said.

            The others introduced themselves.

            When the song ended, a slower one started.

            “Can I take you up on my offer?” Kit asked. Liz smiled, and they started to slow dance while Brynn and Amy returned to the table.

            Liz was petite with layered brown hair. She wore quite a bit more makeup than Amy. She was shy. Kit’s remark only went as far as asking her to dance, so theirs was a quiet dance.

            When Kit started back toward the table, the woman from the afternoon was passing by.

            “Brynn, isn’t it?” she asked, thinking it couldn’t be the quiet one.

            “Kit,” he said. “And you are?”

            “Tessa Langford. Sorry. I was talking with your brother this afternoon.”

            “Yes, the lady with the hat,” he said.

            “Oh, you make me sound so old! I’m only nineteen.”

            “I shall be that, too, one day,” he replied with a grin.

            “You dance very well.”

            “Thank you.”

            He started back toward the table.

            “Oh, who’s chatting up the ladies now?” Brynn asked, laughing.

            “She’s nineteen, and told me that calling her a lady made her sound too old. But she did call me Brynn. I guess she assumed you were the dancing twin.”

            “So, are you engaged yet?” Brynn asked, echoing Kit’s earlier comment. The two of them laughed.

“I gave it my best shot. At least she knows you’re not the dancing twin.”

            They saw Tessa dancing with a man more her own age several times during the evening. Neither of the boys attempted a conversation with her, since they assumed she had satisfied her curiosity about the twins.

            Liz joined them dancing several more times. Kit wished she lived near them at home, but Birmingham was too far away to consider her more than an interesting holiday friend.

            Amy found herself the object of interest for a few young university boys, so she didn’t lack for dance partners or someone to chat her up.

            “I wonder if Lancelot over there realizes Amy’s with her family.” Brynn said.

            “Lancelot?” Kit replied, looking at the blond with the clean-cut hair and the body of someone pursuing weight training who was currently talking with his sister across the room.

            “Well, I’m Prince Charming, and isn’t that the name of all of the fairy tale princes?”

            “I’d have said Arnold Schwarzenegger, not Lancelot,” Kit said.

            “Not quite that built up, but I see your point.”

            “Besides,” Kit added, “wasn’t Lancelot pure of heart before his entanglement with Guinevere?”

            “Unless Amy’s Guinevere, he doesn’t exactly pass the purity of heart test, judging by his look,” Brynn said, and Kit burst out laughing.

            “Think she needs rescuing?” Kit asked.

            “Not yet.”

            Liz approached with another girl a bit taller than herself, with long, light brown hair and brown eyes.    

            “You two look serious,” Liz said.

            “No, just making sure that bloke chatting up our sister doesn’t have less than honorable intentions,” Brynn said.

            “That’s nice that you look out for her,” Liz replied, glancing at Amy and the young man.

            “We’re not just pesky little brothers, you see,” Kit said, and the girls giggled.

            “This is my friend, Heather,” Liz said.

            The boys introduced each other, as they sometimes did, and within a short time the foursome were on the dance floor.

            Brynn had a feeling about Lancelot. Other young men approached Amy, danced with her and chatted, but they seemed harmless. He could relax and enjoy himself when she was with them. But when Lancelot returned, something in his manner put Brynn on alert.

            When one of the songs they’d been dancing to ended, Brynn asked the girls if they’d excuse Kit and himself for a moment.

            “What’s up?” Kit asked.

            “I think a rescue mission is in order.”

            “You don’t think she can take care of herself?”

            “Does she look happy?” Brynn countered.

            Kit had to admit she didn’t.

            The boys strolled to where their sister stood looking flustered. The serious-looking Lance seemed to be lecturing her. They came up on either side of her.

            “Sorry to interrupt,” Brynn started.

            “You little boys go bother someone else,” Lance cut in.

            “Sorry, mate,” Brynn continued, “but our sister has been summoned by our dad. And you don’t want to go contradicting him.”

            Amy’s smile looked like one of relief.

            “Sorry, Dan, if my dad wants to see me –”

            “You’ll come back, though?”

            Only then did Kit notice Dan was American.

            “I don’t think so,” she said with a placid smile. “Nice meeting you, though.”

            She and the boys wasted no time moving away from Dan.

            “Dad doesn’t want to see me, does he?” she said once they were far enough away from him not to be overheard.”

            “Of course not. You just didn’t look happy.”

            “I owe you! He acted like he owned me just because I danced with him. He was lecturing me because I danced with a few other blokes! The complete nerve!”

            “I didn’t like the look of him,” Brynn said.

            “Well, thanks for noticing. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get away from him without causing a scene.”

            The threesome returned to the girls the twins had been with, and the boys introduced their sister to Heather. They all chatted for a bit.

            “We were watching the three of you,” Heather said, “and that bloke did not look happy when you left.”

            “An American boy,” Amy said. “If he’s typical of the breed, they assume ownership after one dance.”

            “You should have told him to sod off,” Heather replied, and the others looked momentarily shocked. Brynn laughed.

            “Sorry,” she said, ducking her head.

            “I was just trying to picture Amy saying that,” Brynn said. “And the American probably wouldn’t understand the expression.”

            “I’ll let you lot go dance,” Amy said. She returned to the table with her parents and the others headed for the dance floor.

            They danced to fast and slow songs, and finally the girls begged off, needing refreshments.

            The girls started toward the drinks bar. They noticed the boys didn’t follow, but stood conferring.

            “Aren’t you coming?” Liz asked.

            “We didn’t want to appear to assume ownership,” Brynn said with a smile.

            “We’ve already decided you’re not like that. You can come if you’d like,” She blushed as she spoke, Kit noticed.

            Once they each had a glass in hand, they looked for an empty table. Some of the adults had decided they’d had enough of the younger generation’s music, and had gone, so there were available tables. Mr. And Mrs. Evans enjoyed the music, and when the DJ played their generation’s music, they even got up to dance. But they let their teenaged children decide whether or not to sit with them.

            Liz had just pointed out a table with a good view when someone bumped Brynn’s shoulder, nearly spilling his Coke. Brynn turned to see Dan standing menacingly at his side.

            “You ought to learn to mind your own business,” Dan said.

            “I believe the response you’re looking for is, ‘Oh, sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to bump into you,’” Brynn replied, brazening out Dan’s attempt to play the tough. They were roughly the same height, and Brynn assumed he was faster than the bulky American.

            “Don’t play stupid, boy. Your sister doesn’t need you running interference for her.”

            “Indeed, she doesn’t, bachgen. She also doesn’t like being hovered over by wankers. So, why don’t you just lick your wounds and bother some other girl? Or stick with American birds. Perhaps they like that behavior.”

            “You stay out of my business,” Dan said.

            “Sod off!” Brynn said, only half under his breath, and led the others toward the table.

            “Apologies for the language,” he said to the girls.

            “Oh, he deserved it,” Heather said. “What was that word you called him? Was it something bad?”

            Kit chuckled. “Bachgen. It means ‘boy’ in Welsh. It was meant as an insult, and the fact that he almost certainly doesn’t speak Welsh, I’m sure he thought Brynn swore at him.”

            They all laughed.

            Anywhere but a family-friendly hotel, Brynn might have come to blows with the American. But here, he was relatively certain Dan wouldn’t risk being thrown out of the hotel over words with a 15-year-old.

            A little while later, Mr. Evans appeared at their table.

            “We’re going up. Do you have your key?”

            “I do,” Kit replied. “Is Amy going up as well?”

            “She is. Don’t be too late.”

            That was Mr. Evans’ way of letting the boys decide to take their leave or stay a bit longer. The boys both knew their parents expected them back shortly after the dance ended, at the latest.

            “We should  probably go up as well,” Kit said once his father had gone. “We have to leave in the morning.”

            “Yes, we should probably go, too,” Heather said. “What a shame you’re not here longer.”

            They walked the girls to the lobby. Heather kissed Brynn on the cheek.

            “I was hoping for a proper kiss,” he said. She smiled and he gave her said kiss.

            Kit looked at Liz, a questioning expression on his face. She nodded.

            Once he kissed her, the girls walked toward the corridor of ground floor rooms, and the boys went to the lifts. Just as the door to the lift was about to close, a couple dashed in. It was Tessa and her date.

            “Oh, hello again,” she said to the boys, and smiled.

            “Hello,” they said in unison.

            “This is Derek. Derek, this is Kit and Brynn, the boys I was telling you about.

            “You mentioned us?” Brynn asked, grinning.

            Tessa laughed. “Yes, after I saw your run-in with that dreadful man.”

            “The American?” Kit asked.

            “Yes. I thought you handled yourselves quite well. I was afraid you’d come to blows when he intentionally walked into you. Derek was prepared to sort him out if he got too aggressive.”

            “Thanks, awfully,” Brynn said. “I was just brazening it out, hoping he didn’t punch me. He was rather uncivil to my sister.”

            “You did the right thing,” Derek said.

            The lift stopped, and the door opened. “This is our floor,” Kit said.

            “Good night then.”

            “Good night,” the boys said.

            “And thank you,” Brynn added.