Letters From My Sister

To my sister, Helen. And to Sophie, for inspiring the story.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Morning, Eddie.’

‘The usual, Katie?’ He turns to operate the cappuccino machine. ‘You’ve been away, haven’t you?’

‘Well, I was in Paris for two weeks on business. Catwalk shows …’

‘Paris and models? Sounds like a holiday to me.’

‘And racking through three thousand designers’ clothes. After a while it’s not much fun, I promise! It was like a cattle market.’

‘One cappuccino, organic chocolate on the top.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Busy day ahead?’

‘Yes, very. Never stops, does it?’

‘You’ve changed your hair again,’ he notes.

I nod. ‘It’s my fashion show tonight.’ I rummage in my purse, trying to find the right change. ‘I’ve got plenty of tickets left, Eddie.’

He laughs. ‘Maybe next time. See you tomorrow.’

*

‘Five minutes!’ I call out to the models. The dressing room has an overpowering smell of hair spray and styling solutions. I pace the corridor. Where is Sam? I punch in his number on my mobile.

‘Katie, I’m on my way, promise,’ he says. ‘In a cab right now.’ He makes car noises. ‘Yes, left here, mate.’

‘Sam!’ I can hear a phone ringing in the background. ‘You’re still in the office, aren’t you?’

‘Half an hour, tops,’ he tells me.

‘Sam, I really need you here.’

‘Don’t pull my hair so tightly,’ I overhear Henrietta, one of the models, screeching. ‘Are you
sure
you’re a professional?’

‘Please get here soon.’ I hang up, take a deep breath and walk back into the dressing room. Hen sits in the corner, stroking a strand of her blonde hair protectively. ‘Hen, five minutes,’ I say, counting them off on my fingers. ‘One, two, three, four, five. No more tantrums, OK? Let her do your hair.’

I look at the chaos of high-heeled shoes and the racks of black clothes waiting to be modelled. I own a shop in Turnham Green called FIB, which stands for Female In Black, selling day and evening wear and accessories, and tonight is the summer fashion show. The clothes, of course, are mainly black, except for the odd accessory and the occasional burst of colour for contrast. I have started to organize fashion shows twice a year, it’s hard work but it pays off. This one is being held at a house in Chiswick, owned by a client of Sam’s. The house is so big you could run a marathon in it. It’s a perfect location for a show because my local customers won’t have to travel far. The owners have gone for the minimal look: stripped floorboards, white walls, spotlights, modern paintings, gilded mirrors. In fact, it’s almost a clone of Sam’s house, except his is half the size.

I can hear the audience taking their seats, there’s that familiar sound of shuffling and scraping chairs. This is the point when my nerves start to kick in. I pick up a half-full glass of champagne, pink lipstick smudged around the rim.

The first thing Sam ever said to me was, ‘Is your glass half-full or half-empty?’ followed by, ‘Allow me to get you a refill,’ finished off with a wink.

If he had been less attractive I probably would have politely refused. I had to look around to make sure he was talking to me; that he had picked up
my
glass of vodka and tonic.

Eve, who works for me at FIB, tells me the photographer wants a quick word before we start, and someone from the press has just arrived. ‘Good luck, girls,’ I say. ‘Look the part, feel the part and you ARE the part.’ Was one of the models rolling her eyes at me?

Quick look in the mirror. I’m wearing one of the outfits we are showing tonight: a black halter-neck dress that floats below the knee. There’s a panel of silver beading around the neckline and bust, and it’s cut low at the back and fastened with sparkling silver buttons. My outfit is finished off with slip-on silver heels. My dark brown hair has been dyed black and is half scooped back with a white rose.

*

The show begins with a model striding out in a satin top and black hipster skirt, offset by a handcrafted black and silver beaded belt that shimmers under the lights. In one hand she clutches a black satin bag with a small silver clasp. In the other she holds a cocktail glass. I wanted to kick-start the evening with a heady injection of glamour. She glides up to the fireplace, smoke weaving its way across the wooden floorboards. The audience marvels at it and claps as the model leaves the room. I see Emma, my old school friend, taking a seat at the back. You can never miss her entry into a room. She’s nearly six foot tall and always played goalkeeper in school netball classes. She mouths ‘Hello’ to me and looks at her programme.
Sam
,
where are you?

*

Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s ‘Murder on the Dancefloor’ plays as the next model, Henrietta, walks on, looking miserable but determined, her hair scraped back into a ponytail. Her mother is in the front row, watching adoringly. ‘Henrietta and mother’ come together in one package, like bubble and squeak. Hen’s mother is lame but loaded, and after you have sat her down in the corner of my shop on the chaise longue, plied her with a few drinks and generally treated her like royalty, she buys her darling daughter Henrietta almost my entire stock. ‘Whatever you want, I don’t mind,’ she says in a steadily increasing haze. Sam often asks me if the ‘old soak in the corner’ has been in. He knows it’s his lucky night if she has.

As the song reaches its climax, Henrietta turns dramatically, looks at her mother, who grunts and stamps her stick on the ground with approval, and sashays out of the room. Going well so far, I think to myself. Everyone is talking, there’s a general buzz and people are looking at programmes with interest, writing down notes – always a good sign.

The next girl waltzes out in a zebra-printed evening dress worn with a scarlet wrap. This is one of my favourite outfits. Her hair is dyed jet-black with a sharp fringe,
Chicago
-style. ‘Superstition’ by Stevie Wonder starts playing. I shift in my seat. This song always reminds me of home. Being at school. ‘Turn that blasted noise off!’ I can hear from Mum’s studio when ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ was played over and over again from my sister’s bedroom. Another world now.

But I do think about Bells. I can still see her letter slipped into my leather diary, that neat familiar handwriting. I haven’t even opened it. I feel guilty receiving letters from her because I don’t write back. I intend to and then one thing happens after another – trips abroad, work, going out, yoga classes, parties, Sam …

‘How long does it take to write one letter?’ Dad nags me. ‘She really would love to hear from you.’

*

The photographer from
Tatler
takes a final picture of all the models standing together. ‘Lastly, and most importantly, I would like to thank Mr Todhunter for allowing me to use his fabulous home for the event, especially at such short notice,’ I announce. Everyone applauds as I shake his hand. ‘Please, everyone, do stay on for a drink, and thank you once again for coming tonight.’

I’m shaking hands, kissing cheeks, moving through them all in a blur of praise, hearing ‘
Loved
the show, Katie,’ or ‘Stunning,’ or ‘Darling! You look a million dollars,’ my glass of champagne constantly being refilled and the adrenalin kicking in wildly. Eve tells me the photographer would like to take a photograph of me for the article. I swing round to greet him and put on my best smile, while trying hard not to show too many teeth. ‘Thank you,’ he says after taking the shot. ‘Great show,’ he adds.

‘Well, thank you for coming,’ I reply, my balance going for a second. I’m already feeling quite drunk; I hope he airbrushes the telltale patches of red from my cheeks.

I feel a warm arm slide around my waist, and turn around. ‘Sam.’

‘Congratulations, babe, it was sensational.’ He kisses me, his smooth skin brushing against my cheek.

‘You missed half of it.’ But I smile, my earlier agitation melting at the sight of him.

‘I saw the better half.’

‘Sorry for snapping earlier, Sam. I was having my usual panic attack before the show.’

‘It’s cool, don’t worry about it.’ He loosens his tie and then leans towards me and whispers, ‘Is the old soak in the corner here?’

Emma makes her way towards me, dressed in sensible black working trousers and a turquoise cardigan vivid against her olive skin. She’s a clinical psychologist and has probably come straight from the hospital. But before we manage to say hello, ‘Katie darling, that was the best show yet,’ says Antonia, one of my customers who lives around the corner from the shop. ‘I need to get rid of my post-baby stomach though before I can even think of buying some of those slinky outfits.’

‘You’ve got your figure back so quickly, Antonia,’ I reassure her, ‘you could get away with wearing any of my clothes.’

‘Really?’ She blushes, touching her cheek. ‘Well, I might pop by tomorrow and have a trying-on session. I have an engagement party to go to. A very smart affair, dinner and all that jazz.’

‘Well, I’m sure FIB can sort you out. How’s the new baby?’

‘I might take it back to the store,’ she chuckles at her own joke, ‘and ask for a refund. Just a few nights’ sleep would be nice.’

Sam, Emma and I make understanding noises, although we don’t really have a clue. Emma is the nearest of us to having children, as she’s engaged to Jonnie. For me, the idea of a baby is terrifying. I’d rather live on a compost heap than go through all the traumas that Mum went through. ‘Antonia, this is Emma, an old school and family friend, and Sam, my …’ Partner? Other half? No. ‘My boyfriend,’ I finish.

‘Well, I strongly advise that you two take precautions.’ She nods at Sam and me, laughing again at her own humour. ‘It is
exhausting
. If I’m honest, I never wanted to have more than one child, but poor little Billy really wanted a brother or sister. My husband says it’s selfish to have only one child. They always say only children are spoilt brats, don’t they?’

‘I’m an only child,’ chips in Sam, running one hand through his hair. I see him wink at Emma.

Antonia reddens again. ‘Do you have family, Katie? I’m sure they’re so proud of you and what you’ve achieved. To have your own business and be doing all of this.’ She glances around the room. ‘Are they here tonight?’

‘No, sadly they couldn’t make it.’ I look at Emma and Sam, hoping they might change the subject. Instead Sam asks me where the loos are and excuses himself.

‘That’s a shame. Do you have brothers? Sisters?’ she asks inquisitively.

I look around. Sam is out of earshot. ‘No, it’s just me.’ Emma gives me a long hard look. It’s funny how one small question can have an instantly sobering effect.

‘Oh,’ Antonia says. ‘Well, never mind. It’s OK to be an only child, I mean, like I said, I would have stopped at one,’ she continues, digging herself an even deeper hole.

‘Emma, don’t,’ I warn her as we finally move away from Antonia.

‘It’s up to you,’ she says in a spiky tone that makes me feel uneasy.

‘It’s easier, then I don’t get awkward questions or those awful sympathetic smiles.’

‘It’s fine,’ Emma says, but her tone is no more forgiving. ‘If you think it’s best, you carry on.’

I hate it when she gets all self-righteous. The drinks come round again and we each take a glass.

‘Right, back to business,’ I say, making my way over to Hen’s mother with a glass of champagne.

*

Sam turns the key and we walk inside. He and I have been going out for nine months, and I moved in with him after only three. Sam works in the City. He used to be a currency trader. Now he works in ‘mergers and acquisitions’, or ‘M & A’ as he calls it. He lives in Notting Hill, a stone’s throw from Portobello Market, the famous travel bookshop and the Electric Cinema. It was an impulsive move on my part, but neither of us could see the point of being apart because I was staying with him almost every night. It’s easy for me living here, as it’s only a bus journey away from my shop. Also, Sam has a widescreen television in every room, and a steam room on the top floor. How could I say no?

Mum was immediately suspicious, firing questions at me. ‘Who is this man? Are you sure you’re ready, Katie? You jump from one relationship to another like there’s no tomorrow.’ Her reaction didn’t altogether surprise me but it made me want to move in with him even more.

Sam picks up the mail, mostly junk – pizza delivery companies, cab firms touting for business, a card saying the electricity meter man came but no one was in. ‘Nothing that can’t wait here,’ he says, chucking it on to the small table in the hallway. He wraps his arms around me.

‘I’m tired and happy,’ I tell him. ‘Tonight went really well, didn’t it?’

‘You are a fashion goddess, my darling.’

I kiss him. ‘Thanks so much for helping me organize this evening.’ I know Sam went out of his way to ask Mr Todhunter if we could use his house for the show. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’

Sam’s face burns with pride. ‘My pleasure. We’re a team, you and me.’

‘Well, I think we’re a top team.’

‘The best.’

I look over his shoulder. The red answer-machine light is flashing.

‘How about a liqueur?’ Sam hums as he skips downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Love one.’ I slip off my high heels, my feet ache. I stare at the machine again, certain the message is for me.

‘A steam?’ Sam suggests as I’m about to press the button. He’s holding two glasses and a bottle of cognac. ‘Leave it till tomorrow, it’ll only be Maguire. Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

I turn away and follow him upstairs.