Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  ‘Black crab tagliolini and veal Milanese,’ Jason said, exchanging a smile with her as he wrote it down. ‘As always.’

  ‘Yummy!’ Devon said happily, almost masking the apology her errant husband was mumbling as he took his seat.

  And since ‘sorry’ was all Deeley had heard her boxer say, she recognized his voice immediately. Her whole body froze in horror. It was like a curse in a fairy tale; she was instantly turned to ice. All she could manage to move was her eyes, and even those very slowly, because she was praying that when she did look up, she wouldn’t see him standing there.

  But she did. That once handsome, now adorably battered face, with its broken nose and dented left cheekbone. The height, the bulk of him, the wide, wide shoulders and narrow hips. The eyes – she could see now in the lighting over the table that they were hyacinth blue, a ridiculously pretty colour for so butch a man.

  It was him. Her ‘boxer’. And he was looking straight at her, the colour fading from his face; under his tan, he had gone as white as a sheet.

  Deeley did too. Because, of course, she knew now all too well where she had seen him before. On TV, yes, because he was a sportsman of some sort. Memory flooded back: he was a rugby player. And though Deeley might have seen him, briefly, as she changed channels, standing nobly on the pitch, blood trickling from a graze on his forehead, that wasn’t where she had really seen him. It was in the Hello! spread that Devon had sent her: Devon had married a rugby player.

  Her ‘boxer’ was her sister’s husband.

  ‘Matt darling, what on earth have you been doing?’ Devon said lightly. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

  After his encounter with her, Matt had headed to the bar for a stiff drink. Whisky, probably a double. Deeley knew this, because she could smell the fumes. And the reason she could smell the fumes was because he was sitting next to her. They were both stiff as boards, trying to avoid touching in any way, jumping nervously when the other one had to move for any reason.

  She wasn’t looking to her left at all, couldn’t risk making eye contact with Matt. Still, she couldn’t help smelling the whisky on his breath as he spoke, the rich scent of his aftershave; and beneath that, his own body. Oh God. She was trying not to inhale too much, in case she got too intoxicated and leaned into him, wanting to smell more.

  And end up nuzzling my sister’s husband.

  Deeley hadn’t even looked for a ring on his hand before. She’d been out of the dating game for so long, in her five-year stint as Nicky’s ‘girlfriend’, that she’d forgotten all the strategies and tricks. It hadn’t even occurred to her that a man as good-looking as Matt was bound to have a girlfriend or, God help her, a wife; no, she’d acted like a naïve teenager addicted to romance novels, falling head over heels for how someone looked and felt without using her brain at all.

  Devon was trilling away, telling a story and dropping a string of famous names, and Deeley dared to glance sideways at Matt for the first time, since his head was turned away from her, towards his wife. A muscle was pumping in his lower jaw, probably with the effort of keeping it set as if it had been carved from stone. His skin was very smooth; either he’d shaved just before coming out, or he wasn’t very hairy, because he had no regrowth from that morning.

  Oh, no no no. This is a mistake.

  Because now she was picturing his naked body. Wondering exactly where he was hairy, and where he was smooth. Imagining his bare chest, with just a little curly brown hair between his pectorals; his flat abs, ridged with muscle, and a faint line of brown hair running down towards his . . .

  ‘Deeley!’ Maxie exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake!’

  Deeley snapped back to reality. She had been trying to eat her main course – sea bass with artichokes, olives and cherry tomatoes. It was utterly delicious, light and fresh, but sitting next to Matt was ruining her appetite; she had been clinging onto her cutlery for minutes without taking a bite, and now her mental images of Matt had distracted her so much that she’d loosened her grip, her knife and fork clattering noisily onto the plate.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said hopelessly. ‘I was thinking of – um, something.’

  ‘Really!’ Olly said cheerfully. ‘We can’t take you anywhere!’

  Everyone was staring at her now: Devon and Maxie with open disapproval, Olly, already half-cut, red-faced and grinning. Everyone but Matt. It seemed so blatant to Deeley, the fact that Matt was grimly refusing to turn his head towards her, as if he had a half-paralysis which meant he was incapable of looking to the right. I can’t believe no one else is noticing this, she thought, riven with panic.

  ‘Are you on drugs?’ Maxie persisted. ‘Prescription drugs – that’s very LA, isn’t it? Everyone’s on uppers or downers there, according to the papers.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Honestly,’ Deeley said hopelessly. ‘I’m just . . . nervous.’

  ‘Well, of course she’s nervous!’ Olly said jovially, forking up a roast garlic potato. ‘She hasn’t seen you two for yonks, and, face it, you’re both rather famous now! It must be awfully intimidating, mustn’t it?’

  Deeley nodded vigorously. It was easier than talking.

  ‘You need to be taken under our wing,’ Olly said, flushed with rich Amarone red wine. ‘Introduced to the important people in London. Such a shame you can’t stay with us for a while, but you know, Maxie’s got this whole African—’

  His wife elbowed him vigorously.

  ‘Rwandan baby thing going on,’ he corrected himself. ‘Sorry, m’dear. So the house is apparently going to be bursting at the seams in a couple of days. But what about you two?’ He looked at Devon and Matt. ‘You must have plenty of room for a little slip of a thing like Deeley, eh? Till she gets on her feet in London?’ He winked at Deeley. ‘Somebody’ll snap her up in a month, won’t he! I mean, just look at her! If I were single . . . whoops! Sorry, darling!’

  He lurched, pretending that Maxie had elbowed him again, though she hadn’t bothered; Maxie’s assessment of her husband was exactly the same as Deeley’s.

  ‘You must have a spare room in Mayfair, eh, chaps?’ Olly was continuing. He finished his glass of Amarone and snapped his fingers for the waiter, who was already approaching the table to refill it. ‘Where are you staying, Deeley? Some awful digs?’

  ‘The Charlotte Street Hotel,’ Deeley said.

  ‘I don’t know it. Must be a ghastly dump, if I don’t know it, eh?’ Olly was braying by now, his eyes glassy. ‘Not one of the good places!’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Maxie snapped, her lips tight.

  ‘You know what Winston Churchill said!’ Olly crowed. ‘Tomorrow I’ll be sober, but you’ll still be . . .’ His voice trailed off, as he realized that the punchline of his joke would be calling his wife ugly. ‘Ooops! Silly me!’ He looked guiltily at Maxie. ‘Didn’t mean it, darling! But, you know! Little sister all alone – awful shame! Shouldn’t happen!’

  If he were sitting next to me, he’d be patting my hand by now, Deeley thought.

  ‘Devon! Matt! Haven’t you got any room for your lil’ sis? Just till she gets on her feet? Poor lil’ thing, all alone in some grotty hotel . . .’ Olly stuffed another crunchy roast potato into his mouth. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ he added indistinctly. ‘Besides, it looks bad. Doesn’t it?’ He turned to his wife, who reached up with her napkin and rubbed a stray fragment of potato off his chin. ‘Lil’ Deeley, dumped by her big Hollywood boyfriend, comes back to London all dejected, tail between her legs, and neither of her sisters takes her in and gives her a roof over her head on a temp’ry basis? Looks bloody awful, frankly. People’re going to start to ask why. Don’t you think?’

  Maxie paused, the linen napkin still in her hands, as the import of her husband’s words sank in. ‘Ah,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Right? See what I mean?’ Olly thumped his fist enthusiastically on the table. ‘Bloody poor show! Surprised it hasn’t been in the gossip columns already!’

  Maxie looked at Devon.

 
‘I just can’t take her in,’ she said. ‘Not with the baby coming the day after tomorrow. But Olly’s absolutely right. Someone should. It looks bad if we don’t.’

  Oh, I remember this, too. Deeley had a flash of déjà vu that went right back to her childhood. The way the two of them would go on and on about ‘what shall we do with Deeley?’ in front of me. Like I was their dolly.

  God, she realized. I was my sisters’ doll, and then I was Nicky and Carmen’s. I can’t believe I only just made that connection.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Devon agreed, nodding. ‘We should definitely help Deels out. Deeley, you can stay for a while, OK? Until you get your feet under you. We’ve got a granny flat in the basement. We meant to make it into a gym for Matt, but we never got round to it. And it’s got a separate entrance.’ She glanced at Matt. ‘You don’t mind if Deeley stays downstairs for a bit, do you?’

  Matt didn’t say a word. His hands, knotted together on the tablecloth, wound even more tightly together. Deeley saw blood draining from his knuckles with the tension.

  ‘OK, well, that’s settled, then!’ Devon said, shrugging. ‘Matt obviously doesn’t care one way or the other.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Deeley finally caught up with the full import of what her sisters had been discussing; Matt’s physical closeness was as distracting to her as if she really had been on prescription medication, as Maxie had speculated. Or ecstasy, she thought. I’m practically sitting on my hands to stop myself reaching out and touching him. If we were alone, I’d be climbing into his lap so he could stroke me like a kitten.

  No, I wouldn’t! Of course I wouldn’t! He’s my sister’s husband, for God’s sake!

  Deeley sank her nails into her thighs to force herself to concentrate on the immediate crisis before her, as the waiter started clearing the plates.

  ‘I don’t think I should stay with you,’ she said to Devon. ‘Because, um . . .’ She racked her brains for a plausible reason. ‘Wouldn’t it be too much? Like, we’d be practically on top of each other the whole time?’

  Matt’s knuckles were as white as the tablecloth now. ‘On top of each other the whole time’ probably wasn’t the best choice of words, Deeley thought helplessly.

  Devon’s strongly defined dark eyebrows raised elegantly in pantomimed surprise.

  ‘Deels, I just said we have a granny flat!’ she said. ‘There’s a kitchenette down there, I think. And a bathroom. We don’t even have to see each other if we don’t want to. I’m doing tons of stuff to promote the new show, anyway. I’ll hardly be in. Matt will,’ she added, with a casual flip of her hand towards her catatonic husband. ‘But he just trains and plays video games. And spends hours gardening. You can always join him on the sofa for Xbox if you want, I suppose. It’d be nice for him to have someone to play with.’

  Convulsively, Matt jerked back in his seat, unlocking his hands to grab the edge of the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, still not looking at Deeley, but jerking his head in her direction. ‘Need to get out – not feeling brilliant . . .’

  Deeley scooched her chair away, scrambling to her feet. She thought she’d left enough room for Matt to pass her, but she’d underestimated his sheer size; as he swung his long legs out from under the table and stood up, he brushed against her, and she trembled involuntarily, a ripple passing through her from head to toe. She was hot and cold simultaneously, icy heat shivering out from her bones, desire mingled with something that was almost like a premonition – Like when they say someone’s walking on your grave, she thought. The sheer strength of the chemistry between her and Matt was actually frightening.

  And when she risked a quick glance up into his eyes, in the moment before he turned away and she ducked to slide into her seat again, she was sure he felt the same way.

  ‘Well! That’s settled!’ Maxie said gaily, sitting back with the complacent expression on her face that was very familiar to Devon and Deeley, the expression that said that, yet again, things had been organized exactly the way that suited Maxie best. ‘Deeley’s going to come to you for a while, Dev. That’ll give us time to work out what to do with her next. Maybe we should have a little party for her, to officially welcome her to London,’ she added thoughtfully, as Olly nodded in approval, the exaggerated nods of a man now well into his cups.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with Matt tonight?’ Devon said crossly. ‘First he takes ages at the bar, then he sits here like he’s been embalmed – not even saying a word to Deeley – then he rushes out again. God.’

  ‘Trouble in paradise?’ Maxie asked.

  Devon heaved up a sigh that sounded as if it started at her toes and finished with a vibration of the exposed white curves of her upper breasts. This was so utterly hypnotic that Olly not only gawped at her, mouth dropping open, but remained staring at her bosom for a whole minute after.

  She may be a bit overweight now, but you still can’t take your eyes off her, Deeley thought, looking at her ridiculously beautiful sister. Matt’ll go home with her tonight, and they’ll shag like bunnies, and this weird infatuation thing between us will fizzle out in a few days. I mean, look at Devon! She’s like sex on legs! As soon as he’s alone with her, he won’t be able to think of anyone else.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Devon said eventually. ‘We’re sort of going past each other a lot at the moment . . .’

  ‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’ Jason, tactful as always, had waited for a break in the conversation before approaching their table. ‘There’s a ginger panna cotta with caramel sauce you might like, Devon. And we have that dessert wine you loved last time – the passito di vermentino di Sardegna . . .’

  ‘Ooh, Jason, you do know what a girl likes!’ Devon said, cheering up, and shaking back her heavy dark ringlets as she reached for the dessert menu.

  Maxie, always on a diet, waved hers aside, but Olly reached greedily for his.

  ‘I’ll definitely have a glass of the dessert wine. Mmm, lemon and pistachio crème brûlée!’ Devon said happily. ‘I shouldn’t, but I know I will . . . Look, maybe you should keep away from Matt at the moment,’ she added to Deeley, who almost jumped out of her skin at the shock of these words; did Devon somehow know what was going on?

  ‘He barely said a word to you,’ Devon observed, still scanning the dessert menu. ‘He doesn’t seem that keen on the idea of you staying in the granny flat – God knows why. But it might be a good idea to steer clear of him for a bit. He’s a bit like a bear with a sore head at the moment. Sorry about that.’

  She pulled a sympathetic face at her sister. ‘Don’t let it make you feel that you’re not welcome.’

  Deeley nodded devoutly. ‘I’ll definitely stay away from him,’ she said, and never was a truer word spoken.

  She had no intention, if she could possibly avoid it, of coming within ten feet of her sister’s husband ever again.

  Maxie

  ‘Um, Mrs Stangroom?’

  The Bilberry receptionist was new and very nervous indeed, so nervous that she was stuttering. Maxie looked up from the designs she was studying, annoyed at the unscheduled interruption.

  ‘I assume this is something very important, Sally,’ Maxie said coldly, ‘for you to step away from your desk and come to bother me without even ringing my extension beforehand to warn me . . .’

  Still hovering in the doorway to Maxie’s office, her expression now indicating that she fully expected to be fired, the receptionist fumbled with the big stiff-backed envelope she was carrying. She was a pretty girl, and fashionably dressed – to maintain the Bilberry image, Maxie would never have dreamed of hiring anyone who wasn’t both those things – but, confronted with her boss’s iron stare, Sally was sagging visibly, resembling nothing so much as a limp dishcloth.

  ‘Um, Reed Miller PR sent this over just now?’ Sally said, holding the envelope up in front of her as if it were a shield, nerves making her voice rise higher at the end of every sentence, as if she were asking a question. ‘It’s ma
rked Extremely Urgent and For Your Eyes Only, so I thought I’d better bring it to you straight away? I mean, I know they send over the media round-up every week, but this is marked Extremely Urgent? So I thought—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just bring it over here and stop talking!’ Maxie said impatiently, holding out her hand for the envelope, her heavy gold bracelet falling down her arm to her wrist, glinting expensively. Sally almost tripped over her own feet rushing across the polished floorboards to the big glass table that Maxie used as a desk. With its silver Mac desktop computer, two brushed-steel in and out trays, lined up perfectly, one on each side of the table, and a huge bottle-green crocodile-skin Bilberry day planner open in front of her, Maxie’s workspace was kept with such immaculate precision that her staff were intimidated simply by entering her office.

  Which was exactly the effect she intended.

  She took the envelope from Sally, nodding as she did so: a wordless dismissal. Sally was all too grateful to leave Maxie’s office, nearly turning her ankle on her suede stack heels as she tumbled out as fast as she could go.

  Probably going to cry in the loos, Maxie thought, as she reached for her paperknife – Bilberry, of course – its green crocodile handle matching her day planner. She silently congratulated herself on her instinctive use of the word ‘loo’, which she had painstakingly taught herself to use: it had seemed really rude to her when she was young. The McKennas had said ‘toilet’, which sounded posher. And then she’d got to Oxford and realized that posh people swore like troopers and used the most basic words for everything, because saying ‘toilet’, to them, was middle class and bourgeois. Older ones said ‘WC’ or ‘lavatory’, younger ones said ‘loo’, or sometimes even ‘bog’. It had been a steep learning curve.

  Maxie slit open the envelope and pulled out the contents: a copy of Yes! magazine, a glossy, upmarket weekly gossip and fashion bible in which Bilberry advertised extensively. There was a Post-it note on the cover, on which her PR had scrawled: Pages 22-25. Did you know about this??