The Santiago Sisters (18 page)

December 2014

Night

T
he person stood before her, a black, faceless, nameless shape.

‘Who are you?’

But the words didn’t form. They came up her throat and hit the back of her mouth but they didn’t make it. Instead they were absorbed by the hot, saliva-soaked gag, and she screamed, but it was hard to scream and breathe at the same time and her heart pounded wild and fast, beating so hard she thought she would pass out, or die, and she hoped she would die because this wasn’t her life, this wasn’t her life …

A hand reached down, soft and hairless, and loosened the gag. It fell from her in a sticky, chemical-scented mess. The feel of air on her tongue was like water.

For a few seconds, she fell for the trick. Then she gasped.

‘Water.’ Her mouth was parched. ‘I need water …’

The person moved at leisure in the dark, no rush, and she strained to catch any clue she recognised. She detected a familiarity in the way they moved, something deeply reminiscent, like the forgotten touch of a long-ago lover’s hand.

Light pooled at the person’s feet, teased her by glowing, and then vanished.

The water was brought. The person knelt but not too close. She fought to catch something from their body, warmth or scent, because she knew them.

She felt certain she knew them.

She gulped the water but the glass kept moving out of reach. Helpless as a newborn, she nodded after it, begging for more. The liquid travelled into her like life; she sensed it move down her throat and into her belly and through all the veins and arteries that kept her body moving. She loved and hated it for keeping her alive.

‘What do you want?’ she managed. Her voice was rusty, clogged with the fog of her unconsciousness. A question surfaced in her mind:
How long have I been here?

‘I want to talk to you,’ the person said.

Her captor sat with their back against the wall. Now they had spoken again, any last doubt was eradicated. Fear surged. Fear and need, and longing …

‘I’m sorry
—’
she began, anything to make it stop.

‘It isn’t enough.’

For the first time, her kidnapper’s emotions got the better of them. The person remained in the dark, head bowed. The words came again. ‘It isn’t enough.’

‘We can talk,’ she pleaded. ‘Please, there isn’t any
—’

‘I don’t want to talk.’ The tone changed. She shrank back. Her head was pounding. Snow continued to dust the windowpanes, an endless suffocation. In the corner loomed the sharp and piercing shape of a tree, undecorated.

‘Let me go,’ she managed. ‘Please, just let me go.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said the voice. ‘You did a bad
thing to me—and I don’t like people doing bad things to me. If someone does a bad thing to me, I have to do a bad thing back.’ The person’s face came close, their breath, hot and hungry, on her neck. ‘I’m going to hurt you now. But don’t worry: it won’t last long.’

2006–2010

Los Angeles

T
he man had been staring at her all night. Plenty of people admired Tess Geddes, some more surreptitiously than others, but few had the confidence to eyeball her.

Her first premiere—at least for a movie she had starred in—was held at the Fernbank Theater on Sunset. Every big hitter in Hollywood was involved in the run-up to
White Candle.
Tess and Simone arrived on the red carpet to a barrage of roaring fans. Thousands of eyes roamed her fishtail Monique Lhuillier dress, drinking in the vision that had set this town alight, and Simone’s hand guided her like the protective mentor and mother she was. Tess had been the golden girl of LA for the past twelve months, but this was her moment. Tonight marked her official arrival.

Tess held her head high and bathed in their praise and adulation. She was proud of the venture and her work. She loved to read the rave reviews:
Tess Geddes isn’t just a pretty face … Her beauty surpassed only by her talent … You think her looks are all she’s about? Then you’re mistaken
… She relished the idea that the girls at Sainte-Marthe would see this, that Madame Aubert and her
professeurs
would be pleased,
that somewhere, perhaps, Señorita Gonzalez would watch her debut movie and it would chew her up inside. She only wished that Calida could see it.

See what you gave up.

The screening went brilliantly. Caitlin Wood could put no foot wrong, and, with Tess’s chrysalis-to-butterfly transformation, her performance was lifted from marvellous to masterpiece. The audience of VIPs laughed in the right places, fell reverentially silent where they should, gasped at the twist where Harry Duvall’s character confesses his love for Tess, and, at the end, erupted in ear-splitting applause. Tess and her cast were encouraged to stand to receive their praise.

At the after-party, she returned the man’s scrutiny. A flicker of a smile danced on his lips. If he wanted a staring match, fine, she would give him one.

‘Hello.’ He took this as an invitation to come over. ‘I’m Steven.’

‘I know who you are.’

Steven Krakowski was an illustrious producer. At thirty, after a string of box-office triumphs, he had just gone into partnership with Miller & Mount, one of the biggest studios in town. He had neatly cut ash-blond hair and handsome features.

‘Tess,’ she said. They shook hands.

‘Congratulations. You’re an immense talent.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I bet your mom’s angling for the awards circuit.’

‘I don’t need her to win an award.’

Steven liked her spunk. ‘Why don’t I doubt that?’

Tess smiled. Her mind was working. Tonight’s attention, the glory she was receiving as an actress, it was all well and good—but she craved more. She could achieve more. She saw
what Caitlin Wood had, the other kickass female producers and directors in LA, and she wanted it. She didn’t have to be someone’s puppet.

Predictably, Simone appeared at her side. ‘Tess, may I have a word …?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘It won’t take a minute.’ She was shooting Steven daggers.

Steven was diplomatic. ‘I’m due a refill,’ he said. ‘Ladies?’

Tess shook her head. Steven smiled cordially and moved off. ‘What was that about?’ Tess asked through gritted teeth. She was sick to death of her adoptive mother interfering. What now—Steven needed the Simone Geddes Seal of Approval in order to warrant being spoken to? Courtesy of Simone, the year had seen a reel of industry guys come knocking on the Malibu villa. She was determined to snag Tess a boyfriend and each time Tess tried to squirm out of it—’We didn’t have much in common’ or, ‘I couldn’t make him smile all night!’ when in fact her date had spent all evening talking about himself or had no discernible sense of humour—Simone would pout, wounded. How could she explain that she would
never
find a man who made her spark? That she was incapable of that? She was ruined, frigid, frightened of sex?

‘I hate that man,’ said Simone.

‘Why?’ Steven seemed perfectly decent to her.

‘There are whispers in this town. I don’t like it.’

‘What kind of whispers?’

‘Krakowski has his fingers in too many pies. You figure it out.’

‘You mean he’s a young guy tearing up Hollywood and your old-school buddies don’t like it? I’ll be making my own mind up about Steven.’

‘Don’t get lippy with me, young lady. You take my advice.’

‘I’ll see who I like.’

‘Oh, you’re seeing him now, are you?’

‘He strikes me as friendly, honest, and respectful.’

Simone spluttered, ‘You’ve divined this after two minutes of talking to him?’

‘And you’ve divined your opinion based on rumour and hearsay?’

‘Trust me: rumour in this town is as good as fact.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You just keep away from Steven Krakowski, Tess. Do you understand?’

Tess brushed past her in search of the bar.

Simone’s veto succeeded only in making Steven an attractive prospect. Tess didn’t have the hots for him, the thought of sleeping with him brought her out in the usual psychological rash, but then that was no change.
What’s
important,
she instructed herself,
is what Steven can do for you.
And Steven could do plenty of things. He was at the beating heart of the movie business. He could make or break a career with the click of his fingers. Befriending him would inject her straight into the core of the power set: a set that had nothing whatsoever to do with Simone Geddes. Tess had imagined herself with an actor—but why choose that when she could go straight to the cogs of the machine? Acting would only sustain her for so long. She wished to produce, to create: to be the woman in charge. Steven could help her achieve that.

And so she agreed to a date.

Steven picked her up from the villa on Friday night. He seemed anxious, which she found endearing, and, rather than
the usual prescribed supper of chickpea
panisse
at Château Marmont, he took her down the informal route and to a cosy table at Casa Vega. Despite it transpiring halfway through the meal that Steven had chosen the place because he thought she was Mexican, it was the most agreeable first date she’d had. Steven was intelligent and articulate, interested in her, fascinated by all she had to say and attentive to her thoughts. He welcomed her ambition: he himself had come from humble beginnings and not a day passed when he didn’t count his blessings and thank God for how far he had come. Tess offered him an edited version of her life, Simone’s version, where she was the grateful orphan and Simone the beneficent donor. She decided she would wait to tell him the truth … if she ever did.

As the wine went to her head, Tess reflected on how refreshing it was to meet a man who didn’t put beauty first. So many men did. Alex Dalton, for one. Shallow. Vain. Predictable. Last week she’d read that Alex had begun dating a Victoria’s Secret model. Before that it had been a catwalk queen, before that, a darling from London Fashion week who had stolen the headlines for walking the runway in a see-through Marc Jacobs. Each time Tess clapped eyes on him, yachting in Italy with his girlfriends, partying with A-listers or attending some function in Boston, she wished so hard that she could take it back. Her confession. Her weakness. It was as if Alex carried with him a tiny, vulnerable piece of her, whose existence threatened all she had built. Only he knew the chink in her armour. Only he had seen her at her worst.

I’m not making that mistake again.

She didn’t have to. In Steven’s eyes, she was a strong, capable woman: a woman who would grab this town by the throat and make it her own.

‘Well, would you …?’ Steven was saying.

Tess blinked. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Argentina,’ he prompted. ‘Would you go back? My friend has a ranch down there—I know it well. Outside Bariloche.’

‘Oh.’

‘We should head out there some time.’

‘Sure. That’d be nice.’ She necked the rest of her wine.

Over the next few weeks, Steven embarked on a dedicated campaign of wooing. Simone caught wind of it and screeched her disapproval down the phone, but was unable to do a thing about it. Her censure made Tess enjoy it more.
See? You’re not my boss.
Enormous sprays of flowers arrived at the Malibu house, together with jewellery, purses, exquisite tiered boxes of cocoa-dusted truffles.

She was flattered. Hundreds, thousands of women hankered after Steven, yet he saw something different in her: she wasn’t just a
Vogue
cover. Moreover, there was nothing about Steven that made her afraid. Thus far her experiences with men had all been variations on a theme: the perpetrator and the victim, their bodies, solid and overpowering, backing her into a corner and bringing her out in a panic. On the contrary, Steven was patient. After their second date he kissed her chastely on the lips. After their third, he kissed her again, for a bit longer this time. After their fourth, he put his tongue in her mouth, gently and softly, not unpleasantly. Like wading little by little into a cool sea, the water creeping gingerly up her knees, he persuaded her.

The first time they slept together held no surprises. Steven took Tess back to his mansion and she had known what was going to happen. He fixed her a drink, lay down with her on the couch and began to kiss her, his hands roaming her body and his fingers peeling the dress straps off her shoulders.
He treated her tenderly, reverently, and not at all like Felix Bazinet. He consulted every inch of her body, a piece at a time, tracing his tongue across her breasts, sucking her nipples, pressing his lips in a chain down her stomach until he reached the mound of hair between her legs. He groaned at this, commenting on how nice it was that she was ‘natural’, and dipped his head. Tess had never had a man go down on her before. Mia had raved about how hot it was, and Tess had read that it was a man’s ultimate expression of devotion, but right then it just felt a bit gross and wet. Steven’s tongue seemed huge as it lapped her in wide, upward strokes, his breath hot and the liquid click of his saliva punctuating each movement. Several times he circled her opening and then dipped the tip of his tongue inside, as if this were a die-hard successful trick he had learned, but really it achieved nothing. Tess faked her engagement because there was nothing else to be done. Every so often she caught Steven looking up at her to gauge her reaction.

When he entered her, she pinched with pain, but quicker and lighter than with Felix. His erection wasn’t as big as Felix’s and, even when he thrust as deep as he could, she was only letting him in a few inches. Steven moaned on top of her, rocking back and forth, the palm of his hand sliding beneath her ass and lifting her hips to his. She caught his aftershave, a trace of lavender, and her eyes stung with tears.

Steven took this for approval and whispered in her ear, ‘I know, baby, I know …’ as he quickened his pace and the arm of the couch slammed against the wall.

He ejaculated in a series of quivering spasms, and then slumped on top of her. He was very heavy and Tess adjusted her weight to support him. He was holding one of her breasts like a security blanket, fascinated by it, saying over and over
how amazing she was and how she had just blown his mind. All she’d done was lie there. ‘We’re so compatible,’ Steven murmured. ‘I’ve waited for this connection, Tess. I feel like I can be anything with you. I feel like I can tell you anything.’

At last, he withdrew. His cock had shrunk to nothing, the condom hanging off the end of it resembling a sock on a peg. He shrugged out of his trousers and padded naked to the bathroom. Tess listened to him whistle as he started the shower.

What mattered was that Steven was a good and decent man. He signified escape from Simone Geddes. He could engineer great things for her in America, in excess of her former goals: true, lasting power, what it meant to win her own fortunes and not someone else’s.
Money is power. If you have power, you have everything.
What Julia hadn’t said was that the money could be hers. The power could be hers.

It didn’t have to be a man’s at all.

In February, on Valentine’s Day, Steven surprised her with a trip to his beach house in Santa Barbara. He had instructed her to meet him at his LA home; he’d be a little late coming in from the studio but would be there as soon as he could. Waiting at the mansion was an explosion of white roses. Tess was touched. She hoped he would like the Cartier watch she had picked out, and hadn’t gone to more extravagance.

At six o’clock, she heard a rumbling in the distance. Tess stepped on to the terrace, her hair and skirt whipping up in the wind. The noise was deafening. As the helicopter came to land like a giant dragonfly, the lawn below shivered and flattened.

Once it had landed, a man stepped out and saluted her. She thought Steven might jump out after him, or even, at one stage, the president. The man handed her a white card:

She had never been in a helicopter before. As the craft’s nose dipped, hovered, then soared off into the sky, she looked down at Steven’s mansion becoming smaller and smaller until it was swallowed by the grid of the Angel City. It was tight in the cabin, but exciting. Through a set of headphones she could hear the pilots on their frequency, liaising with each other and Air Traffic in codes and coordinates she didn’t understand. Soon after, they began the descent over Santa Barbara. She spotted Steven on the headland, yet more white roses cradled in his arms, grinning madly.

‘You came!’ He ran to her and locked her in his arms. It was reminiscent of the end scene in the movie she was filming, where two lovers reunite after years torn apart by war. She and Steven had been torn apart by a sunny day in LA.

‘That was … unbelievable,’ she said. ‘I loved it.’

‘I knew you would.’ Steven piled the bouquet into her arms as though he was offloading a puppy. ‘Wait until you see what I’ve got planned.’

She hadn’t been to his place in Santa Barbara before, but he wasn’t interested in showing her round. Instead Steven led her down to the water, to where a sleek fifty-metre yacht was moored. As twilight blossomed, the sky turned to peach Melba. Indigo water lapped at the boat’s flanks. ‘Climb aboard,’ he encouraged.