The Santiago Sisters (26 page)

England

S
imone Geddes peeled back the loft curtain of her Kensington townhouse like someone peeking inside a boxful of cockroaches, then immediately closed it again.

‘Simone! Simone! We know you’re in there—come out, Simone!’

The paparazzi’s cries sailed up on the damp March air. Shrouded in darkness, Simone slumped to the floor and buried her face in her hands. Downstairs, the phone rang, less than a minute since it had last stopped. She had tried disconnecting it but Brian had rigged such a complicated network that there was always at least one receiver bleating in some far corner of the mansion.
Brian.
Simone gulped.

Where was he now?

Poor, pathetic Brian, he didn’t deserve any of this.

Nor did I deserve my joke of a marriage
! But the words rang empty. Despite Brian’s awfulness, she knew she had committed a heinous and unforgivable crime.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Ms Geddes?’ squeaked a voice. Vera.

‘What?’ Simone croaked.

‘They would like to come in,’ said the Spanish maid in her
stilted accent, which all of a sudden made Simone want to kick open the door and push her down the stairs. ‘They ring the bell constantly. I cannot get rid of them.’

‘Keep everything locked—and do
not
answer the goddamned phone!’

A brief pause, before: ‘Ms Horner is at the gate. Should I let her in?’

Great. That was the last thing Simone needed: a barbed piece of Michelle’s mind. Still, she couldn’t get away from it. ‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Do it.’

Waiting for Michelle was like waiting for the guillotine. As she heard her manager’s footsteps climb the loft steps, she was reminded of her grandmother—that severe, terrorising tread as it approached the attic to snatch her baby … Then, like now, she had got herself in trouble. She had done something bad. Something terrible.

Brian’s face danced in her memory, that subtle shifting of expression, disbelief to horror to anger, his features contorted and crumpled until for the first time in his emasculated life he had reacted to something, punching the wall with a balled-up fist and smashing one of her prized Cretan vases on the dining room floor.

‘
Anyone
,’ he had raged, ‘
anyone else I might have got my head around—but this? My son? My own flesh and blood …
?’

Simone tried to blame him, aware as she was doing so that the claim was contemptible.
‘You drove me to it! What else was I supposed to do
?’

‘
Me
?’ Brian had shaken like a felled tree. ‘
It’s you who won’t fucking put out! It’s you who’s given up on this marriage, you toxic hag
!’

‘Simone?’ came Michelle’s whippet’s yap. ‘Open this door right now.’

Oh God, it was her grandmother all over again. Simone closed her eyes, tried to distance herself from the ghosts. Back then, she would gaze wistfully at the tiny square attic window and wonder if she might force herself out; it didn’t matter where she landed or how, anything to be out of this room and the inevitable confrontation. Some days she fantasised that she might not land at all, just spread her arms wide and find the magic to fly. She would fly away with her newborn son and never come back.

‘Right now, Simone!’

She obeyed. It wasn’t like Michelle to issue commands, much less for Simone to follow them, but these were extraordinary circumstances.

‘Christ alive,’ said Michelle, ‘you look awful!’

‘What do you expect? They’re baying for blood.’

Michelle followed her in. ‘I was trailed all the way over. Simone, it’s bad.’

‘Statement of the bleeding obvious.’

‘
Lysander
?’

Simone flopped on to a chaise. ‘It happened. No point going over old ground.’

‘How long?’

‘A few years,’ she mumbled.

‘Bloody hell.’ Michelle looked down at her, disappointment scratched all over her face—worse,
pity.
‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done to Brian?’ she asked.

‘What about what he’s done to me?’

Michelle’s eyes widened. ‘He hit you?’ she exclaimed.

‘Of course bloody not.’ Simone stamped out her remorse and focused on the excuse she had always given. ‘He was terrible in bed. I dried up like a fucking husk.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He went to his brother’s.’

‘Not Brian, Lysander.’

Simone tensed at the sound of his name; a noble, romantic poem. ‘He caught on that Emily was ready to blow. Took the first flight out of London yesterday.’

‘Where to?’

‘Australia.’

‘As far as he could get.’ Michelle snorted.

‘He shouldn’t be here—it would only make things worse.’

‘Did he say anything else to you?’

‘No.’ Simone’s lips twisted around the lie. Lysander had said that he loved her. He’d said he’d be back, and when he was they would be together. He’d said that Emily’s disclosure meant zero. If anything it proved to him beyond hesitation that he was willing to risk it all. ‘Fucking Emily Chilcott!’ Simone spat. ‘That girl had it in for me, right from the start. I bet she couldn’t wait to spill the beans. This is nothing but revenge on dear old Daddy for not loving her enough.’

‘Brian dotes on his kids.’

‘Not as far as Emily’s concerned: she assumed he’d open the pearly gates for her and make her the next Keira Knightley. Trouble is, she’s a fucking terrible actress. I suppose she had to do something to secure her moment in the sun.’

‘That reminds me, today’s tabloids aren’t too complimentary.’

Simone scoffed. ‘There’s a surprise.’

Michelle stood, briskly down to business. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘this is the plan. You’ll stay
out
of the public eye, Simone. Do not speak to or see anyone. Dress demurely. Dress like a widow. Avoid anything luxurious or enjoyable and whatever you do,
never smile.
You’re hurt—remember? Damaged.
You’re
the victim.’

‘I am?’

‘You were subjected to a neglectful marriage, and, for the sake of your sanity, you were forced to be with another. I shall be sole spokesperson in this matter. Oh, and on that note, I’ve heard that Brian wishes to see you in court.’ She raised a hand at Simone’s stunned expression. ‘Don’t worry. I have it under control. Brian is in shock. Once he gets over that, he’ll see sense. We’ll eat him for breakfast.’

‘Even though I was the one banging around?’

‘It’s moot. You didn’t
choose
Lysander, you never would—what kind of creature are you?’ Michelle stopped, and Simone wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not. She finished: ‘You took comfort in the closest arms you could find.’

‘Hmm, yes, OK. I like the sound of that.’

‘In the meantime, you’ll focus on your relationship with Tess. You’re still vulnerable after her spell in hospital. This has been a tough time for you all and
she’s
your priority now—not Brian, and certainly not Lysander. Remember, Tess was a venture you took on independently from Brian and she remains your achievement.’

‘I’ll call her.’

‘Good.’

Michelle was right. Tess was the thing that would keep her going. Tess always had. With Tess, Simone could blot out those areas of her life that didn’t quite fit the picture—her long-lost son, her crappy marriage, and her climbing years—and embrace the triumph of the present. Like a shot in the arm, Tess had enabled her to discover Lysander, to see that a fresh relationship was still within her grasp, even at her age.

She hadn’t realised how much she’d been lacking until Tess came along.

‘Michelle?’ Simone whispered as her manager left. ‘Will I get past this?’

Her manager didn’t skip a beat. ‘Yes. Simone, this is my job. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll be a brighter star than ever: it’s a question of how we present it.’

‘Do you think the affair was wrong?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’

‘It does to me.’

‘Then, yes. It was wrong.’

Simone nodded. ‘I love him, you know.’

It was unclear whom she was talking about. Michelle decided it was irrelevant in any case, and opened the door and went downstairs.

T
wo weeks later, Tess’s plane landed in London. Interest in the breakdown of Simone and Brian’s marriage showed no signs of abating. The papers were full of it:

Cameras lunged as she passed through Arrivals. ‘Tess, did you know? Have you spoken to Simone? How about Brian? Lysander? Is divorce on the cards?’

It was a relief when she met her driver. The car door slammed behind her, the paparazzi’s caterwauls receding into the distance. She was tired, had considered getting a hotel for the night then decided against it. An ash cloud in Europe had disrupted flights to and from the airport and places near-site were bearing the overflow. Her transport left the airport and joined the motorway going north.

Seeing Mia would be just the tonic she needed; it had been too long. Simone’s scandal had been the final nudge she’d needed to leave LA: her home was bombarded with press calls
day and night, and Maximilian had advised her to slip off until the frenzy cooled. Hopefully Mia’s Lake District hideaway would be the perfect place.

Disgracefully, though, it hadn’t been her first choice. Before booking flights to the UK, Tess had called Vittorio and appealed for sanctuary in Italy. She had expected her lover to jump at the chance—but he hadn’t. Instead, he had turned her away, evasive, saying he was busy with work and it wasn’t the right time.

It wasn’t like Tess to lose herself over a man, but Vittorio broke the rules. Since that first erotic encounter in the armoury cellar at Glen Cove, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. A week later, they’d had sex in the swimming pool at his LA mansion, where, beneath a star-strewn sky, Tess had momentarily blacked out on hitting orgasm. Vittorio made her crazy. In between visits, she hungered for him.

Vittorio made her hope. She could get away from Steven. There was still time.

Her husband had no idea, as ignorant of her thoughts and feelings as he had always been. Determined to prove how much she needed him, he had taken to holding her career to ransom. He denied it, but Tess knew better. Each time she made a date with the city’s big hitters—lunch with the sassiest producer in town, a meet with an eminent fashion designer, coffee with Steven’s director friends—at the last moment, her appointment would back out. When she challenged Steven about it, he picked food out of his teeth and raised a lazy eyebrow and said, ‘Beats me, honey.’

She was convinced it was part of his plan.
Be my wife again or I’ll ruin you.

Thank God for Vittorio Da Strovisi. His devotion softened the blow. Knowing he craved her as much as she craved him.
That he couldn’t bear to be without her. He told her she was different to other women, the only one who could bring him to his knees. In the past he had bedded several lovers at a time, but not any more, he promised. She was the only one for him. As long as they were together he had need for no one else.

Which was why Vittorio’s rebuff seemed strange, out of character. Tess tried not to dwell on it—he couldn’t make time for her whenever she clicked her fingers.

She felt sure that Vittorio would do the right thing and break it off with his wife before too long. He had sworn it enough times. Then she could really stick it to Steven Krakowski, who imagined he was the be all and end all of her lifespan in this city. He could think again. Vittorio tore the balls from men like Steven every day of his life. Once she had Vittorio on her arm, she’d be more powerful than them all.

Tess slept on and off through the six-hour journey, and each time she woke the sky was a little darker and the motorway lights a little brighter.

Her phone buzzed with a message from her PA.

Bleary-eyed, she took it in:

Tess had heard of XS Studios—Ryan Xiao’s new venture. He had a new protégée; she’d heard whispers on the grape-vine of a brilliant talent, models queueing up to get snapped. Vaguely she was flattered that they had asked her—but it was bad timing. Right now the last thing she needed was to court yet more publicity. Then again … She mulled the proposition
over, fiddling with the gold locket around her neck as she did so. It had been years since she had worn the necklace; she’d uncovered it the other day and decided to wear it. Had Calida’s been buried with her?

Finally she tapped out a decline, read her other messages and registered faint disappointment that Vittorio hadn’t been in touch. Scratch that, major disappointment.

He’s
married. He’s
with his wife.

Maybe now he was telling Scarlet. That was why he couldn’t see her, because he had more important matters to attend to—matters that could enable their future together. Calmed by a shoot of hope, Tess returned to sleep and didn’t wake up until the car was rumbling down a stone track, and an owl hooted on a far-off branch.

At the door to her cottage, Mia Ferraris embraced her as tight and as Mia-like as she had been for the past ten years. Now twenty-five, Mia had lost the puppy fat that had defined her teenage days, and had cut her hair short in a choppy, friendly bob. ‘Let me get a look at you.’ Her best friend stepped back. ‘You look so well, Tess. You had us worried there for a while.’ She squeezed her hand.

‘I had myself worried,’ said Tess. ‘But that’s over now. I’m me again.’

Mia led the way inside. The cottage smelled of a smouldering coal fire and the sweet homeliness of a freshly made cake. It was in the middle of nowhere; grey slate with twin smoking chimneys, and, from the kitchen window, Tess could see through leaves to a wild, fragrant garden, at the foot of which shone a purple lake.

‘Wow, look at this place,’ Tess said.

‘It makes me happy,’ Mia admitted. ‘I’ve gone a bit stir-crazy, to be honest, being miles from anything and drowning in this book. But it’s been good.’

Back in the kitchen, Mia brought through a battered tin, prised the lid off and dipped a hand inside. The last time Tess had seen Mia turn her hand in the cookery department were the hefty slabs of buttered toast she had fixed for them both at Sainte-Marthe, to the disgust of their twig-thin dorm-mates.

‘I never knew you baked,’ Tess teased.

‘I’m trying.’

‘Go on, then, let’s have a taste of the masterpiece.’

Mia produced the cake, which wasn’t quite a masterpiece, rather a toppling three-tiered mess slathered in pink icing and looking rather like the infected nipple they used to exclaim at on page 73 of Madame Labelle’s Science textbook; Tess felt a welcome twinge of relief because Mia would always be Mia, and she would always love her, and Mia was the one thing that would never change.

‘Delicious!’ said Tess, as Mia gave her a wry smile and cut into it.

‘How’s Steven?’ Mia asked.

‘Same as ever,’ Tess lied. ‘I’m relieved to be out of LA, though.’

Mia nodded sympathetically. ‘I bet. Can you believe it about Simone?’

‘I kind of already knew.’

‘You
did
?’

‘Yeah. For a while.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

Tess picked at the cake. ‘The crash changed the way I see a lot of things, Mia. Simone’s been good to me. She’s given me so much. I was never going to rag.’

‘You don’t seem that freaked.’ Mia wanted the gore. ‘He’s your
stepbrother
!’

Tess lost her appetite and pushed the plate away, remembering Emily’s call after the news struck. It seemed she had got drunk, had a massive fall-out with Brian about his reluctance to support her acting career, had thrown a plant at him, then when that failed blurted out all she knew of Lysander and Simone’s liaison. Brian hadn’t believed it. Who would? Much as he made her skin creep, Tess felt sorry for him.

‘I know,’ she said bleakly.

‘It’s gross.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Kind of kinky, though.’

Tess flicked a cake crumb at her. ‘Don’t even go there.’

All night the girls exchanged news. Tess told her the truth about Steven, and didn’t feel as bad as she might when Mia burst out laughing and a shower of tea exploded from her mouth. Last month the great Krakowski had declared himself a sex addict. Tess doubted he was disclosing the precise nature of his urges to the shrink—he certainly wasn’t to the press—and when Mia commented that Steven ought to get offered apple rings with his coffee instead of doughnuts, she gave in and got the giggles herself. If she didn’t laugh she would cry, and, besides, it was kind of funny.

Things got serious when she confided about her affair.

‘Vittorio Da Strovisi is married,’ Mia said gravely. ‘By definition he’s an asshole. I don’t blame you for going elsewhere, but what about his wife?’

‘Scarlet doesn’t love him any more. It’s a marriage of convenience.’

‘Can you hear what a cliché you sound?’

‘That’s what he told me, and I believe him.’

‘And he’s promising to leave her, right?’

‘That’s what he says.’

‘And you’re the only one? No other women keeping his bed warm?’

‘No.’

‘Because that’s what he said, right?’

Tess stood her ground. As much as Mia’s words made sense, she chose not to hear them. What was she meant to do—sign on for a life of celibacy?

‘Mia, you should meet him,’ she said. ‘He’s the most amazing …’

Mia rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t need to finish.’

Tess knocked her arm. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you must have had this before. Someone you can’t keep your hands off? Someone you can never stop thinking about?’ At Mia’s blush, she pounced. ‘There
is
someone! Who is it? Do I know him?’

Mia had gone the colour of a beetroot. ‘Actually, you do.’

‘Who?’

Mia waited a moment, then said quietly: ‘Alex.’

‘Alex?’ His name didn’t belong in this conversation; it seemed an anachronism, a credit card in a 1950s movie. ‘As in Alex Dalton?’

‘Yeah.’ Mia smiled shyly.

‘Oh.’ Tess didn’t know what to say.

‘He’s been up here a couple of times already. I didn’t know whether to tell you—I guess I didn’t want to jinx it. I mean I’m fully aware he’s way out of my league. I couldn’t believe when it happened once, let alone when it happened again …’

‘He’s not out of your league,’ objected Tess. ‘You’re out of his.’

‘Hardly!’

‘When did you … When did he …?’

Why can’t I get the words out?

‘We got together in LA. It was over you, I suppose. We were both so worried when you were in hospital. After visiting hours, we went for dinner. It sort of seemed like … the natural thing. You know, drowning our sorrows and then one thing led to another … He’s so nice, Tess.’ She shook her head. ‘Alex is just
so nice.’

No, he wasn’t. He was an arrogant playboy who made her feel small.

‘Don’t you find him up himself?’

‘He’s lovely.’

Tess could think of many words to describe Alex Dalton but lovely wasn’t one of them. She tried to get her head around it, and couldn’t.

‘Are you OK?’ Mia asked. ‘You’re cool with this?’

‘I guess I just never saw you together.’

‘Neither did I! He was always, like, the ultimate, wasn’t he? Do you remember how Emily and Fifi used to get about him? He’s so sexy,’ she said dreamily, ‘and clever, and kind …’ She bit her lip. ‘And rich! Not that that matters …’

‘As long as you’re happy,’ said Tess. Why did she sound so tight?

‘And he was always your friend. To be honest, before Steven, I thought you guys would get together for sure … We all did.’

‘All?’

‘Emily used to say so. Said Alex had it bad for you. Said he liked you so much he couldn’t even look at you.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

Mia nodded. ‘Alex said so, too. Which is a relief!’

Tess forced a smile.

‘He adores you, though,’ said Mia. ‘We both do. He thinks the world of you.’

Because he feels sorry for me …

‘I am happy, Tess. Happier than I’ve ever been.’

‘I’m glad.’

Mia wore a naughty expression. ‘So … I’ve been
dying
to tell someone, and since you’ve shared about Vittorio … Alex is
so
hot in bed! My God, he’s, like,
the best.
I was so paranoid about all those supermodels he’s been with, but he told me he only dated them because he was trying to get over someone, and anyway he loves my curves and he says I have the dirtiest laugh. We have such fun together …’

Tess tuned out.
You don’t want to hear this.
And she didn’t. She really didn’t.

All the amazing sex she was having with Vittorio: that was what she should be focusing on. She splashed her friend with water.

‘Shut up,’ she said.

Mia grinned. ‘OK, OK, I get it, TMI. You’re sure it’s not weirded you out?’

‘A bit,’ Tess admitted, and quashed her misgivings because a faint instinct told her they were not in Mia’s interests; they were in hers. ‘But I know what I want. Vittorio’s the man for me—just you watch.’

Mia raised her mug for a toast.

‘To happy ever afters,’ she said.

Tess took a mouthful, too much at once. It burned.