by Helen Eve
Chapter Thirty-three
Siena
Just as the Starlets never eat but are always present at meals, my mother arrives promptly in the breakfast room at eight, the kitchen at one, and the dining room at seven, to sit before menus she’s chosen but will barely touch. This morning my sisters flank her in black velveteen dresses with white collars as I take my place opposite her, willing her to refocus on me after our unbearably silent night. Syrena, after all, is doing nothing more diverting than smearing porridge on the tablecloth and dropping melon balls for a cat which rubs decorously against her in hopes of more, and humming as she energetically colours a picture.
Seraphina’s attention is trained on Stella, whose china plate is unmarred by food residue. Stella half rises to greet me, but, after glancing at Seraphina, she sinks back into her seat, giving me a polite nod instead of her usual smile and taking a sip of black coffee from a china cup.
‘How long will you be staying with us, Siena?’ Seraphina asks with the chilly courtesy of a host losing patience with a tiresome house guest.
‘A few days?’ I say, wondering where I’ll go if this is unacceptable. ‘Perhaps I could stay until term begins?’
She’s teaching Stella how to appear to enjoy a meal without ingesting anything. It’s a trick she taught me when I was younger than Stella, but now, even knowing how valuable it will be to her, I find myself wishing that Stella would copy her little sister in this regard and show interest at the prospect of food, even if she’s never allowed to eat any.
In a house devoid of refined sugar, Syrena Marianne Dreams herself a birthday tea of cake and roast potatoes and purple Quality Streets in wax crayons.
‘Visualization is an effective dietary technique,’ Seraphina notes as she takes the drawing from her and pins it to a fridge that holds only green olives and champagne. ‘You would do well to remember it on days of temptation such as this.’ She pats Syrena’s head and blanches at her gap-toothed smile.
I feel an inappropriate urge to laugh as I remember the year that Syrena, refusing to go low-carb, appeared at her birthday party with her face and neck covered in chocolate, pink hair plastered to her scalp. Seraphina could scarcely have been more horrified if Syrena had been spattered in the blood of her first murder victim.
‘Paula, what is the meaning of this?’ she gasped.
Paula stood firm. ‘Syrena is three years old. This is what three-year-olds do.’
Seraphina took a threatening step towards Syrena, but immediately Stella was in front of her little sister like a shield. ‘No,’ she told Seraphina furiously. ‘No.’
Dragging Syrena by her sticky, dripping hand, Stella sat her fully clothed in the shower until the water ran Neapolitan and Syrena was Syrena again.
‘Stella has good instincts,’ said Paula, behind me. ‘I would have done the same, but made the water cold.’
‘Where did Syrena find ice cream?’ I asked. ‘Did she raid a convenience store?’
‘Not this time,’ said Paula in a low voice. ‘She found the ice cream in its usual place, behind the frozen spinach. It is your mother’s, for emergencies only.’
In a way that I expect will one day enrage our mother, Syrena is thinner than any of us; but then again, she never stands still. She blazes through the house, shimmering like Tinker Bell, and, no matter how many pairs of shoes she’s given, resolutely barefoot.
‘There’s a dinner party tonight,’ Seraphina tells me. ‘You may wish to know that Mr Lawrence has declined his invitation.’
I swallow to hide a sinking feeling at the mention of Jack’s father. This shouldn’t be unexpected, but I feel responsible for denying my mother one of her most valued companions.
‘I’ll be there anyway.’ I make up my mind to throw myself back into my inaugural training ground until I can recommence my role as a daughter she can be proud of. ‘We’ll invite someone in his place, and I’ll do all I can to make it a success.’
Paula has spirited Syrena away to her kitchen domain and I watch through the door as she surveys two piles of presents, rejecting the professionally wrapped Fortnum’s rectangles in favour of Paula’s chaotic primary colours. I’m wishing that I’d sent Syrena a toy instead of a scarf with a brand name she can’t even pronounce when I see their expressions freeze. As quick as a flash, Syrena jumps up and slams the door, but not before I see Paula hide a plate of croissants and brush crumbs hurriedly from Syrena’s dress. They’re scared of me, I realize in horror. That’s how they react to my mother.
Seraphina hasn’t acknowledged my comment, and I follow her gaze as if I’m seeing Stella through her eyes. She’s going to be prettier than both of us.
Stella at twelve is everything that nature had promised and more. People say she’s the image of me; yet I see nothing but differences. Her nose is daintier; her hair is glossier; her lips are fuller. Beside her I am nothing but nature’s practice run, and it frightens me in a way I can’t explain. It frightens me almost as much as it does to imagine Stella at seventeen.
She’s older than I was when I attended my first dinner party, even if I still see her as a French-braided, gingham-clad five-year-old earnestly forcing roses into an unyielding ground. I understand why Seraphina wants to look at Stella today rather than me: because I remind her of herself during an unspeakable time. I’m the ghost of Syrena’s birthdays past, significant only as a warning against something that must never happen again.
‘I’m going outside,’ I mutter as I slide from my chair. I hover for a moment to wait for Stella, who follows me everywhere whether I want her to or not. She looks up at me, and then at Seraphina, and then she takes another sip of coffee. I blush, because Seraphina is watching me with pity, and I leave.
The garden is chilly and clinging to vestiges of winter but I gulp in the air, which at least lacks the sterility of our family meal. Huddling on a bench to keep warm, I glimpse the scene through the window as Seraphina cups Stella’s chin in one hand and winds her other into the soft skein of her golden hair.
Chapter Thirty-four
Romy
I’ve just enough time to pull the duvet over me and the rabbit before Libby enters the room. Jack shoves my mother’s dress out of sight and sits in front of me to hide the bump in the bed. I fervently wish that Edward were here doing target practice: Libby would be the perfect kill, and I don’t think a single judge would condemn him for it.
‘How did you get in here?’ Jack asks in bewilderment.
‘Your door was unlocked.’ She manages to make this sound acceptable.
‘Please leave,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you know how unwelcome you are, but I’ll ask politely anyway.’
‘I came to talk sense into you,’ she says. ‘Do you have any idea how many boys are dying to get a ring on Siena’s finger?’
He’s exasperated. ‘Siena isn’t even eighteen. She isn’t allowed to get married without her mother’s permission.’
‘We have that in writing already,’ Libby counters. ‘Why wait? You love each other … you’ll never do better. There is no better. Why risk losing her?’
‘I wouldn’t have lost her if you hadn’t forced the issue. Seriously, what’s wrong with you? Why are you so weirdly obsessed with Siena’s engagement?’
‘I’m her closest friend,’ she says defensively. ‘I have her best interests at heart.’
‘Then why aren’t you looking after her now, instead of harassing me? This is about you, not her.’
‘About me?’ she says in outrage. ‘I’ve forfeited a weekend in Nice to stay here and patch things up between the pair of you.’
He laughs. ‘I know you better than that, Libby.’
‘Is there someone else?’ she asks suddenly.
He sighs, but something in his face can’t ring true, because she seizes on it. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Even I can concede that he sounds guilty. ‘There’s no one else. Now please leave.’
She’s suspicious. I hold my breath, losing con
centration for long enough to let go of Elisabeth. Before I can grab her, she’s made a public bid for freedom, and seconds later Libby is standing over me with the quilt in her hands and a strangely triumphant smirk.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Jack says quietly. He raises an eyebrow for me to help him, but, when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out.
‘Romy is my oldest friend; you know that,’ he says.
‘Your oldest girlfriend, you mean.’ Libby reaches into her bag for her phone. ‘Smile for the camera.’
I blink as the light flashes three, four times. I wait for Jack to take it from her and smash the evidence, but he doesn’t move. ‘Think carefully, Libby,’ he says. ‘What’s this going to achieve? A moment ago all you wanted was to see me and Siena back together.’
‘True,’ she considers. ‘Then I remembered something else I want just as much.’
‘Is it worth it?’ I ask. ‘Is it worth causing Siena this much hurt, just to see me gone?’
Her face flickers with something like humanity, but then reverts to its usual state. ‘This time you’ve well and truly nailed your own coffin.’
She sweeps out, her footsteps clicking down the stairs.
Jack turns to me. ‘Why didn’t you back me up?’
‘What good would it have done?’ I say. ‘She knew what she wanted to find.’
‘Then why won’t you tell the truth about last year?’ he asks. ‘It’s cost you everything you had except a rabbit and a horse!’
‘At least I’ll have transport back to school,’ I say.
He shakes his head frustratedly. ‘Your dad’s kicked you out of home and now your life at school won’t be worth living either. Why did you make Libby your enemy?’
‘I can deal with it,’ I say. ‘As long as I’m Head Girl, my life at school will be fine. And with my fees paid, I’ll have no need to speak to my dad.’
‘When did things get so complicated?’ he asks.
‘The day you and Siena chose each other over me,’ I tell him, even though he doesn’t want an answer.
Chapter Thirty-five
Siena
Lacking a more appealing diversion, I sit in the rose garden and attempt to tidy the gaping holes where flowers have been uprooted and used as last night’s decorations. I drop my secateurs and hurriedly remove a gardening glove as I hear a noise from behind me.
‘What’s happened here?’ gasps a familiar voice as I look down at myself in panic. My clothes are muddy and torn. My hair is messily tied into a ribbon and my face is bare. This isn’t the kind of state in which I ever spend time on my own, let alone in public view.
‘Hello, Libby,’ I say reluctantly. She’s immaculate, as if she’s made a special effort to show me up. ‘What are you doing here?’
Stella emerges from her hiding place behind Libby’s voluminous handbag and hops nervously from one foot to the other. ‘I called her.’
Libby pats her on the head. ‘She did the right thing. It looks as if I got here in the nick of time.’
‘For what?’ I say hopelessly. ‘Everything’s already over.’
‘That’s what people thought about stack heels, remember?’
‘This is worse,’ I say. ‘It’s not the end of a fashion revolution; it’s the end of my life. What am I supposed to do now?’
Tears are falling down my cheeks and I suddenly lack the energy to stand. I start to crumple, but within seconds I’m supported by a tiny blonde bookend as Stella puts her arms around me and lets me hide my face in her hair.
Libby opens the day planner as if it’s a hymn sheet. ‘You have two options, as far as I can see. You can get over Jack…’
‘Our mother would never allow that,’ says Stella decisively. ‘And she’d never forgive the person who suggested it.’
Libby blanches and scribbles vigorously. ‘You have one option. You can win Jack back.’
Stella wrinkles her perfect nose. ‘Why would she want him back after what he did?’
Libby is flailing in the face of her cool opposition. ‘You said … you just said that my other option was impossible! What do you suggest we do?’
Stella rolls her eyes. ‘We make him want her back, of course.’
‘And … might you have any ideas on that subject?’
‘Isn’t that your job?’ Stella asks icily.
Syrena barrels over, stopping short at the sight of Libby. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Don’t be rude, Syrena,’ I say, because Libby looks mortally offended.
‘Sorry,’ says Syrena with gleeful insincerity. ‘But Paula said you had a friend here and I thought it might be…’ She tails off into a whisper. ‘Romy.’
Libby is thunderstruck. ‘Has Romy been in this house?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, because Libby should never know about Romy’s past visits here. Inviting her without the knowledge of the other Starlets may have been an error of judgement on my part, but she was accepting of a feral sibling and an unusual mother as others were not. ‘Syrena’s never even met her.’
‘I have,’ contests Syrena. ‘I’ve met Romy and her rabbit.’
Stella takes in the situation and steers Syrena away, a hand on her forehead. ‘You feel hot. Maybe it’s typhoid again.’
‘I had measles, not typhoid,’ Syrena says crossly.
Libby stares after them. ‘Why doesn’t she like me? What is it about Romy that people like so much?’
‘She’s delirious,’ I say. ‘Let’s go inside.’
Libby looks so sad that I’m glad she’ll never know about the month Syrena once spent dressed in curtains and oversized high heels to play Libby in a high-octane world of tea parties, shopping for shoes she couldn’t walk in, and chasing boys who were always running at top speed in the opposite direction.
* * *
Libby walks around my mother’s room, frowning critically. Seraphina always closes the curtains at dawn, and Libby twitches them now, letting in an unwelcome shaft of sunlight, and runs her finger across the dressing table, blowing away the dust. I wonder if my mother ever allows Paula in here while I’m away.
‘Look at yourself,’ she instructs, pushing me in front of the mirror.
I flinch at the dark circles that dominate my face, my sharp cheekbones and collarbone, and my translucent skin. I’ve cut myself on the roses, and blood stains my cheek like tears. I look as if I’m already dead.
My mother floats in, as ethereal as if she’s been blown on the wind. Libby is taken aback to see her at such close quarters and her mouth drops open before she recovers herself. ‘M-Miss Hamilton?’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m here to help Siena.’
‘How did you plan to help her?’ Seraphina asks with little interest.
‘I have lots of ideas, and an excellent success rate.’ Despite her fear, Libby injects a note of pride at this.
‘I assume the non-proposal took place on your watch?’ Seraphina asks.
Libby falters, but she’s come through worse than this. ‘If Jack’s going to be Head Boy, then Siena should be Head Girl,’ she says bravely.
Turning to my mother I’m unsurprised to see my distaste mirrored on her face.
‘Wait,’ Libby says quickly. ‘Siena becoming Head Girl will show Jack that she has the depth he’s looking for. It’ll prove that she’s the one for him.’
‘What does the process involve?’ sighs Seraphina. ‘A party, I presume? Low lighting? A formal dress code?’
‘I don’t remember a dress code,’ I say. ‘And the lighting in the hall is terrible.’
‘Then this sounds very unsuitable,’ says Seraphina. ‘Thank you for your work, Liberty.’ Her voice manages to convey both that the conversation is over, and that this is the last piece of work Libby will ever undertake. ‘Perhaps you’d like to spend the remainder of your holiday with Liberty, Siena, as we have nothing left to discuss. Now, where is Stella?’
Libby taps her foot desperately. ‘We’ll have an election campaign, so everyone
in the school can support Siena. At the Elevation ceremony, people will throw rose petals at her and cheer as she and Jack are crowned. He’ll realize that she’s the most perfect girl in the world, and the year will end exactly as we planned.’
‘I don’t see how,’ I say. ‘We planned to end the year with the party to end all parties.’
Libby opens her bag and takes out a pile of books, magazines, collages and samples of white fabric. She scatters them across the carpet as Seraphina and I look over wedding venues, all of them white and gauzy and featuring exclusively attractive guests.
‘This was for your engagement party, but now we’ll use it for Elevation,’ she says. ‘It won’t be an assembly; it will be a ball, and everyone shall go!’
‘Bibbibi bobbidi boo,’ sings Syrena helpfully from outside the door.
‘Can I take it that you won’t make any more catastrophic wardrobe decisions, Liberty?’ Seraphina asks. ‘That pink abomination has blocked the furnace.’
‘Absolutely,’ Libby says. ‘She’ll wear … We’ll find her something perfect to wear, as soon as we appoint a new designer and have the current postholder killed.’
Seraphina, sighing with the air of one who has to do everything, plucks her wedding dress from its hanger. ‘Siena shall wear this. We’re leaving nothing else to the fates.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Libby breathes, reaching out for it even as Seraphina whisks it away. ‘Siena, you’ll look like an angel.’
‘This will be an appropriate addition to a victorious Head Girl’s outfit, no?’ Seraphina holds up her gold sash to the light.
‘Of course,’ Libby says excitedly. ‘It’ll be like a pageant!’
Seraphina turns to me, mollified. ‘You may stay for tonight’s party after all, Siena. Perhaps I have neglected you and should take some part of the blame.’
She leaves the room following this generous admission, and Libby relaxes visibly. ‘You’re welcome,’ she beams. ‘Everything is back on track.’