doyenne.

by Anne Malcom

  But that was impossible, an interaction—albeit a life and death interaction—lasting less than five minutes could not change fifteen years of habits.

  I learned a lot of things in fifteen years, one of the most important being that almost nothing was impossible.

  The stifling feeling followed me as I wandered around my open plan living room, decorated by the best designer in the city, tasteful, elegant, expensive and not a touch of personality in it. Apart from a scattering of framed pictures Molly had given me for Christmas every year since I could remember.

  Thinking of my erratic, beautiful and completely opposite twin had me yearning for her.

  I’d lied to her, for the first time in...forever when she’d called earlier today.

  We might not be identical, her naturally blonde hair was dyed to a shade of midnight, cut into choppy layers that brushed her shoulders with dipped tips of purple which seemed to reflect off her iridescent skin. She was the same height as me, yet she was much thinner, with no muscle as she flat out refused exercise. It was offensive to her mantra of ‘do no harm.’

  “Who are you harming when you exercise?” I’d asked her after the ridiculous statement was uttered.

  “Myself, of course,” she deadpanned.

  That was not where our differences stopped. In fact, the only similarities we had were our eyes and the fact we’d shared the same womb.

  She was a vegan and I loved a tenderloin. Her entire left arm was covered from shoulder to wrist with an ornate and colorful sleeve tattoo. She shopped at thrift stores, and I doubt she owned anything black. Everything about her was bright, warm, exciting.

  Me? I dressed in the uniform of the elite, not a single patch of ink decorated my body, I’d never dream to put a color in my brunette head, and I’d go insane without the structure I lived for.

  My home mirrored my life, angular, cold and not a single speck of dust out of place.

  Her loft apartment in Chelsea was always littered with paint, to-go boxes and more often than not, various people strewn about the surfaces after some sort of party.

  I owned the apartment, gifted it to her and I paid for what she’d let me, which wasn’t much. Though her paintings were starting to sell so she might be able to pay it herself in the near future.

  Not that she would.

  I was three minutes older. Therefore I’d take care of her.

  Always.

  My sister. My best friend. If soulmates existed, then she was mine.

  And even with her, the one I shared a womb with, there was a distance I couldn’t find it in me to cross.

  An entire universe.

  If there was any more evidence I was emotionally handicapped, it was that. I couldn’t even let down my guard with the one person who loved me unconditionally. The person I’d literally come into this world with.

  So, instead of reaching for the phone that was always near my person, I walked to the fridge.

  Inside was a rather destitute situation that conflicted the wealth of the apartment, of the white marble kitchen and of the huge, industrial refrigerator. It was empty apart from wine, a couple of condiments, a sad looking lettuce and a packet of string cheese.

  Not even mine.

  Molly’s.

  It was the rubbery vegan kind that had more chemicals than toilet cleaner, yet she ate disturbing amounts of it.

  I liked to shop for myself, yet Antonia, my housekeeper, begged me to let her do it the last time she saw the state of my fridge. And the five hundred times before that.

  The large Italian woman with five sons and thirteen grandchildren nearly had a heart attack seeing no food gracing the shelves. She already knew she couldn’t bring around her home cooking because I didn’t eat carbs.

  Another thing she almost had a stroke at.

  Yet I didn’t let her shop for me.

  It was the one thing I had that gave me peace. Even though I waded through the crowds of the East Village as I did it, it was the part of my week where I had quiet. Quiet amongst the crowd.

  I hadn’t had my quiet in a while, what with this merger eating up my time for peace. And for anything. Apart from mugging and attempted murders. I was able to squeeze those in.

  I shuddered away the feeling of foreboding that came with that rogue thought.

  It was a one-off. This is New York. It was bound to happen.

  Why didn’t I believe that? Why did the prickling still remain at the back of my neck like premonition? Why couldn’t those wolf eyes be banished along with that prickle?

  It needed to be. I worried that Molly would sense something was up.

  I was not into spiritual things, ghosts, magic, psychics. I believed in science and reason. But there was one exception. Me and Molly. Ever since we were born, we were two parts of a whole. Our father used to say that as soon as the other cried the next would join in. As if we could feel each other’s hunger.

  Or pain.

  When Molly was five, she fell from the steps in our old apartment and broke her wrist, Dad said that I cried out in pain.

  We had been at the park four blocks away.

  Mom was watching her.

  Or at least meant to be.

  My father had rushed home because he knew of that connection and didn’t second guess it.

  Neither did I.

  Though in times like this that I wanted my sister naïve and happy, I resented it.

  A text dinged as soon as I reached into the fridge to get the wine bottle.

  Molly: I’m sending someone to kidnap you and take you to a small deserted island with no cell signal. Don’t be disturbed.

  Molly: I’ll also be buying you some form of pet. You need a companion. I’m thinking German Sheperd or Poodle. A cat will just eat off your face when you drop dead from exhaustion.

  Molly: And don’t worry, he’s also attractive. The man I’m sending to kidnap you, not the German Sheperd. Though I’m sure he’s attractive too. He’s here to treat your work addiction and give you another one entirely. Again, man not dog.

  I smiled, shaking my head as I reached into a frosted glass cupboard for a wine glass.

  The pop of the bottle echoed through the quiet apartment.

  Molly had a lot of energy. And even more ideas. Hence the fact she could never just send one short text. It was always at least three and usually more than five. Each of them was like shaking up a snow globe, her thoughts whipping through the screen like little snowflakes. But it was her. I loved that about her. That she didn’t need rigid control over herself to stay sane. Or at least her version of sane.

  I used structure and order to stave off the bitter and cruel insanity that lurked in the dark corners of my mind. She fought fire with fire. Warm, kind and beautiful insanity to counteract the thing that lurked in our DNA.

  Then again, she didn’t have the memories that I did. Thankfully I could shield her from that.

  I couldn’t see her. Not yet. We were twins. We were something more. Our connection was deep and that meant the moment she laid eyes on me, she’d see. And I’d see the reflection of myself in her eyes. I wasn’t ready for that.

  Me: Can you give me a raincheck? Kidnapping doesn’t fit into my schedule today. How about a week from Friday?

  The responding text was immediate. I imagined Molly in some loud, dirty and crowded bar in the Meat Packing District, glued to her phone while doing a shot of something. In the city that never slept, neither did Molly.

  Molly: Fine. I’ll just get him to kidnap me instead. We’re having brunch on Saturday. No excuses or I’ll burn your office to the ground.

  Love you

  xxx

  I rolled my eyes and treated myself to a small smile before it disappeared.

  Me: Being arrested for arson is something you can tick off your bucket list. You’ll look great in orange.

  X

  I set the phone down, not turning it off, it was never off.

  I let the sweet wine kiss my lips and roll down my throat, s
tinging my teeth slightly as I did so. It was rather amusing, if one thought of it, that the glass I was sipping from was ten times more expensive than the bottle itself.

  I glanced down at the crudely designed pink label. The bottle teenage girls got their hands on, sharing sips from, giggling as the rancid sweetness of the bubbles sent their toes numb and gave them confidence to talk to the captain of the football team. That was, of course, before their renewed confidence and lowered inhibitions had them losing their virginity to the captain of the football team in an awkward, painful and so not the romance books experience.

  The really unlucky ones got a souvenir nine months later thanks to that pink bottle and a broken condom.

  My experience was pretty much that exact story, thankfully sans the screaming and filthy child.

  I could afford the stuff that was made by monks, aged for years, could be used as the down payment on a house. I certainly drank it whenever I was out—I had to keep up appearances after all. A billionairess didn’t drink wine for...simple people.

  What would Page Six say?

  But when the weight of my own world started to pinch at that spot at the back of my neck even New York’s best masseuse couldn’t reach, I reached for the cheap and nasty pink wine.

  Because, to me, that pink wine didn’t taste like too much sugar and teenage pregnancy. No. It tasted like the happiest day of my life. One that just happened to be followed by the very worst in my existence, seventeen years earlier.

  I woke to Cyndi Lauper screaming in my ear that girls just wanted to have fun.

  “Wakey wakey, my princess number one,” Mom’s husky voice floated over the music.

  I snapped my eyes open to see my mother holding two tall stemmed wine glasses in one hand and a crown in the other.

  She pushed it onto my mussed curls as soon as I pushed up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. She had a feather boa around her neck and was still wearing her dusky pink silk nightgown that hugged her slender body and lace trim where it ended at her ankles.

  It was Dad’s birthday present to her.

  She loved it.

  So much so, sometimes she didn’t take it off for days.

  On good days.

  I took the glass of pink bubbly liquid, taking in Mom’s smile and eyes that were full of sparks and beauty.

  Today was a good day then.

  “Mom, it’s a school day,” I reminded her back as she twirled around, snatching another glass off my bedside table and moving to the doorway just in time for Molly to come prancing in, her choppy hair mussed from sleep, topped with a crown of her own. She was already dancing to the music and grinned from ear to ear as she took her glass off Mom, taking a huge gulp of the pink liquid without hesitation.

  Molly never hesitated. Never. She jumped in with both feet. Which was what everyone loved about her. She was willing to try anything. That’s why she was not only the captain of the cheerleading squad but also the chess club. She tore through stereotypes as if she didn’t even know they were there.

  Me? I cradled the glass with more than hesitation. I didn’t jump. I dipped my toe in, testing the water before making an informed decision. That’s why I was president of the study body. And editor of the school paper. Things required order, control.

  Mom whirled once more, then stopped.

  “School?” she repeated, screwing her nose up. “We don’t have school on holidays!”

  I sat up, careful not to spill the liquid that filled the glass to the rim. “It’s not a holiday.”

  Mom continued to sway to the music, her bright green eyes glowing as they met mine. “It is my beautiful daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Of course it’s a holiday, it’s only the best day on the planet. When the sun shone a little dimmer because you stole some of its light.”

  She whirled, feathers shedding off the cheap boa and floating silently to the ground.

  “School,” she scoffed. “No. We are having a girl’s day. And girl’s days must have these things. Crowns, because we are royalty.” She pointed at the plastic crown on her own head. “Pink wine, because you are always happy with pink wine.” She sipped her glass.

  “And my beautiful girls.” She snatched Molly’s hand, then mine, sloshing some liquid on it and barely noticing it. “The two most precious treasures I could ever hold in my two hands.”

  And so the day was spent with wine, and laughter, and dressing up. And happiness.

  It was a hollow kind of happiness.

  I didn’t know that until the day after. Then I looked back at saw into my memories. That slosh of wine on my hand, the way Mom’s eyes shined just that little bit too bright to be merely happy. The way madness flirted with her gaze. I was too busy at the time to see that.

  Molly still visited her. Every Wednesday. She said she seemed better on Wednesdays.

  I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t gone in fifteen years. Not since the first time.

  I didn’t go to visit my father’s grave either.

  I didn’t see the point in staring at cold stone meant to represent a soul long gone from this world. Standing on the grass atop his bones. He wasn’t there, in some desolate graveyard where life had no place even shadowing the headstones.

  It was the same with Mom. She wasn’t in this world anymore. Not really. Her gravestone was just a little different than Dad’s. Not cold, unyielding stone. Flesh built to look like the woman who’d let me wear fairy wings to believe I could make magic. Who told me the world was mine, hers and Molly’s and that nothing bad ever truly happened. Who let us drink pink wine for breakfast on our sixteenth birthday. Her light had left this world and I had no intention of ever staring at the reminder of that. At the empty eyes devoid of sparkle, instead the glassy stare of nothingness welcoming me to the party. Or the funeral.

  Why would I?

  It wouldn’t change anything.

  My father would still be dead. She would still have said goodbye to the person that she was. My mother was dead.

  The best thing I could do for either of them was to remember that I wasn’t. And maybe try to forget that they were.

  3

  “I don’t think you understand the gravity of refusing this merger,” Abe, my CFO told me across the boardroom table.

  Outside of this room, he was also my uncle, the man that took my sister and me into his expensive and emotionally cold brownstone for two years before we both escaped into adulthood, into two very different versions of it.

  He wasn’t exactly the warm and kind uncle who kept candy in his pockets and doled out cheesy jokes, but he was there for us when we needed him and gave us whatever his limited emotional capacity enabled. And he’d supported me growing my company, even when my success surpassed his own, he came on as my CFO without hesitation. He was integral to the company. Because he saw things a different way and didn’t mind disagreeing with me when he saw fit.

  Sometimes he was right. Others, he was wrong. Like this time.

  He may have been my uncle outside the boardroom, but I rarely saw him anywhere else and I treated him exactly like I would all of my other employees.

  I rose my brows at him and glanced around the room at the scattering of people wearing expensive suits and a variety of stifling perfume. The men wore more than the women. Because they didn’t know the delicate touch was all that was needed.

  Luckily, the women sat out the table outnumbered the men. Because I’d made it my mission to source as many of the best women in the field into my employ. I scouted colleges for extraordinary young women, paid for the rest of their tuitions and gave them internships right out of school. I gave them chances that even now, their gender wouldn’t normally afford them. But they still had to work hard to get seats at the table. I wanted the best.

  “I assure you, I do have all of the information and understand what is at stake,” I replied, my voice even and flat.

  His caterpillar-like brows narrowed. “If you understood what was at stake, then you wouldn’t be using your controlling sha
res to stop a merger with one of the world’s top security firms. I understand that you might not understand the logistics of the company, being young and...” he paused, eyes trailing over my slim fitting white sheath dress, lingering far too long on my breasts. Not in a sexual way, he wasn’t that kind of uncle either. Everything he did was to make a point. “Inexperienced,” he finished instead of stating ‘a woman.’ Verbally at least. “I’ve been in the business for years. I know these men. I also know mistakes.”

  I took an even breath, schooling my expression so none of my frustration showed. Emotion had no place in the boardroom.

  My life was the boardroom, everything was careful, measured, emotionless.

  “And you think it would be a mistake not to get into bed with a company who is headed by a man with no less than three rape convictions that were conveniently dropped when the women disappeared, and whose offshoot security firm was involved in a massacre in Eastern Sudan where a village was looted and all women and children brutalized?” I asked, my tone flat.

  People moved uncomfortably around me. Stephanie, my in-house counsel, bit her lip to hide a grin.

  Abe’s eyes flared slightly at my speech. He hadn’t expected me to know this. All this information was buried deep. I knew how to find skeletons in the closet, because I invented the best hiding places.

  “I do my homework before signing over my life’s work and information about millions of clients to a ‘top security firm,” I informed him. “The money they’re offering isn’t worth the price I’d have to pay.”

  The flesh on his neck above his expensive shirt bulged and turned a crimson color as he struggled to compose himself. My uncle stood to make a lot of money from this deal too, I had no doubt he not only knew about this but actively tried to hide it from me. Not to sabotage me, but because he thought he knew what was best. Men always thought they knew what was best for women.

  “I understand that such incidents are...upsetting,” he said through gritted teeth. “But we need to take emotion out of business decisions. I understand that will be harder for you.” He paused long, purposefully. “It’s just...nature. But, with all due respect, you should reconsider. It might take a little more hard work than you’re used to, but getting your hands dirty is sometimes necessary in this business,” he finished, his tone superior and patronizing. “A conscience is all well and good in theory, but in this business, it’s about as useless as tits on a bull. And your shareholders would not respond well to your conscience, costing them a fuck of a lot of money.”