Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  This wasn’t good. Anything that had taken Maxie’s very efficient PR firm by surprise was definitely bad. Maxie turned to page 22, bracing herself, but what she saw as she opened the magazine to the double-page spread was even worse than she’d imagined.

  Deeley McKenna – Her Tragic Childhood! blared the headline. ‘I’ll bounce back from Nicky’s dumping me,’ says beautiful Deeley. ‘My sisters and I grew up in total poverty – I know I can survive this heartbreak!’

  Maxie froze, staring at the photograph over which these words were superimposed; a full-page shot of Deeley, wearing an ankle-length chartreuse sequin dress, stretched out on a sofa in a luxurious hotel suite, doing her best to look serious, heartbroken, but also radiantly beautiful. On the facing page were further shots of Deeley, posed in the hotel lobby, and sitting at a restaurant table, dressed in a pearl grey silk sheath, diamond pendants dangling from her earlobes. The table bore a single glass of wine; that photo was captioned: Table for One – after years of living with handsome TV star Nicky Shore, Deeley is single once more. ‘It’s really hard,’ says Deeley. ‘But I’ll be OK – the McKenna sisters are all strong women. We’ve come through so much to get to where we are today. No one has any idea how hard we’ve had to struggle.’

  Maxie was actually frightened to let out the air she was holding in her lungs, in case she found herself screaming loudly enough to shatter the glass table on which the magazine lay. When her phone rang, the noise was almost a relief, because something else, rather than her, was making the sound.

  It was Alison Reed, the head of the PR firm Maxie employed. She wasted no time in getting down to brass tacks.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ Alison demanded. ‘I just biked it over. It hits the shelves tomorrow. Thank God I got a twenty-four hour head start, at least – I can work on damage control.’

  ‘I’m looking at it now,’ Maxie said, her teeth gritted as she skimmed the text of the article, reading:

  ‘With their mum in prison or in a drug den, and a series of unreliable ‘stepdads’, the beautiful McKenna sisters had a truly deprived childhood. ‘More often than not, we didn’t know where our next meal was coming from,’ Deeley reveals. ‘Maxie held us together, stopped us being taken into care. She was always like a mother to me and Devon. We’d often cry ourselves to sleep at night because we were so hungry, and we never had a real home – just this series of creepy stepdads. It was incredibly scary.’

  ‘Did you know she was going to do this?’ Alison Reed was asking tensely. ‘Because this is so not what we’ve been working to push as an image! It’s just not Bilberry. And I can’t imagine Devon’s people will be over the moon about it either.’

  ‘They won’t be,’ Maxie snapped. ‘And no, of course I didn’t bloody know she was doing this! Are you insane? I’d have locked her in and put guards on the door before I’d have let her out to do something this . . . this shitty!’

  She felt as if smoke were coming out of her ears. Two of her designers came down the corridor, clearly visible through the glass walls of her office; they had obviously been planning to drop in on Maxie for a discussion, but one look at her rigid face and posture, and they barely broke stride, continuing on past the office door with the smoothness of long practice in reading their boss’s moods, their heads tactfully turned away.

  That’s how I want to be seen! Maxie thought savagely. Intimidating! Tough! Not some pathetic, dirt-poor victim!

  ‘The whole tragic childhood thing – we really never wanted to focus on that,’ Alison was saying. ‘It just really pulls down the whole glamorous image, you know? Unless it’s useful for Olly when he’s campaigning—’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Maxie said curtly. ‘He has a safe seat in a very rich constituency.’

  ‘So what on earth is Deeley doing?’ Alison demanded. ‘She’s completely off-message! And who set this up? Why didn’t she come to me? We could have placed a really nice piece about her break-up and being single, without all this deprived childhood stuff.’

  ‘Believe me, Alison, I’m as much in the dark as you are,’ Maxie said, her tone so sharp it could have cut glass. ‘But I’m going to get to the bottom of it right now. Deeley has no idea how much trouble she’s in.’

  Hanging up, Maxie got to her feet. She realized she was shaking with fury. The magazine lay on the table in front of her; her youngest sister’s lovely face, framed by cascades of caramel-streaked hair, stared up at her, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted.

  Bloody, bloody Deeley! I knew her coming back to London would be nothing but trouble!

  Alison thinks it’s just about our image, Devon’s and mine. That we want to be seen as chic and sophisticated career women, not helpless little victims.

  She has no idea what the real danger is here. If people start snooping into our past, the three of us could be in terrible trouble. The scandal would ruin us all – and God knows, that’s not even the worst that could happen . . . not by a long shot . . .

  She even mentioned ‘creepy stepdads’. Has she gone insane?

  Shivering in fear and anger, Maxie picked up the magazine, rolled it up, and threw it like a dart at the wall. It hit, splattered open, and fell with a weak flutter of thin, shiny pages; not nearly enough to relieve Maxie’s built-up rage. She strode over and kicked the magazine viciously across the floor, getting the toe of her boot underneath it and pelting it high into the air; it fanned out as it flew, landing on her desk again. Maxie’s PA, coming along the corridor with her boss’s mid-morning skinny latte, took one quick look into the office, skidded to a halt, and turned on her heel, shooting back down the corridor as if fleeing a serial killer with a screaming chainsaw.

  I’m going to ram this down Deeley’s throat till she chokes on it, Maxie thought fiercely, grabbing the copy of Yes! off the desk with one hand, snatching her Bilberry tote with the other, and storming out of the office, yelling to her PA, ‘Get me a cab, now!’

  Maxie had rung Devon from the cab and as it ticked to a halt in front of Devon’s Mayfair house, Devon was already standing in the doorway, waiting for her. Maxie wrenched the cab door open with so much force it thudded against the side of the vehicle, and she stormed out without bothering to shut it again. Muttering to himself, the cab driver climbed out to close the door; it was an account booking, which meant there was no tip, just a very bad attitude.

  God, Devon’s definitely put on weight, Maxie thought as she climbed the stairs that led up to the elevated ground floor. Her sister was dressed in a black crêpe top which gathered under the bust and then flowed out in a series of folds designed to conceal lurking rolls of fat; it showcased her breasts, which were undeniably good, but there was no question that Devon had piled on the pounds.

  And TV puts on an extra ten, Maxie reflected, smoothing down the silk wrap dress that was belted tightly around her own slim frame as she stepped onto the black-and-white checked tiles of the hallway. She’ll have to take a good pull at herself. Nothing comes easy. You have to work for everything you have – work, scheme, and starve yourself to the bone for it. Devon’s getting too comfortable, that’s her problem.

  Getting comfortable was a luxury Maxie had never allowed herself.

  ‘Is Deeley in?’ Maxie asked, gesturing down to the floor with her thumb.

  ‘Of course she’s bloody in. It’s the morning,’ Devon snapped, striding across the hall and into the living room so fast Maxie worried she might split her trousers. ‘She doesn’t get up till noon. Then she goes to Pilates, or runs round the park. God, Americans annoy me with their fitness crap! She’s always banging on about it. I can’t stand to hear about people’s exercise, let alone do it. Matt’s just the same.’

  It wouldn’t kill you to go for a run with her every now and then, Maxie thought, watching how Devon carefully arranged the voluminous folds of her top over her lap to hide any bulges as she sank into a velvet-upholstered armchair. Deeley’s probably trying to give you a tactful hint.

  ‘You’d think Matt would have done
enough at training!’ Devon was continuing crossly. ‘But no, he comes home now and nags me to go for walks with him! I hate bloody walking!’

  ‘Maybe he should run with Deeley,’ Maxie said, sitting down on the sofa opposite her sister, wondering sardonically if the suggestion might make Devon a little keener to exercise with her husband.

  But Devon just rolled her eyes to the lavishly moulded ceiling, with its elaborate white-painted central rosette and decorative plaster swags.

  ‘God, that’s never going to happen,’ she said. ‘He’s really taken against her. Doesn’t want her in the house – you know, up here.’ She gestured around her. ‘Can barely hear her name mentioned. It’s weird; he never takes an instant dislike to people normally.’

  Maxie could not have cared less about Matt taking a dislike to Deeley; she ignored this completely, instead slapping down the copy of Yes! onto the coffee table, open already to the article featuring their younger sister.

  ‘Read that,’ she said tersely. ‘We have a crisis on our hands.’

  Devon did as Maxie said, a series of horrified little gasps issuing from her pursed lips as she took in Deeley’s indiscreet comments. It gave Maxie some satisfaction: as always, Devon saw things as she did, was obediently toeing the line. Devon set the magazine down on the table, and the two sisters looked at each other, Devon’s big, kohl-pencilled eyes meeting Maxie’s narrowed ones. For a few seconds the family resemblance was unmistakeable.

  ‘She never could keep her mouth shut,’ Devon said unhappily, reading her sister’s thoughts. ‘When she went off to LA, it felt a lot safer. I mean, I missed her, but when she was here I was always worried she might let something slip. In LA – well, it sounds awful, but no one was interested in what she said.’

  ‘Well, no point crying over spilled milk!’ Maxie said briskly, an expression she’d picked up from her very formidable mother-in-law. ‘I say we go downstairs and scare the living daylights out of her.’

  Devon’s mouth twisted. ‘It was always easy to scare Deeley,’ she commented wryly.

  Maxie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Do you remember how we used to terrorize her with the vacuum cleaner?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh my God, of course!’ Devon was laughing now. ‘She’d do anything as long as we didn’t turn on the vacuum and say we were going to suck her up with the hose!’

  And for a moment, both their expressions softened, as memories of their childhood flooded back.

  ‘She looked up to you so much,’ Devon said. ‘She followed you around like a little duckling.’

  ‘Yes, but she was always trying to do her hair like yours – remember?’ Maxie said. ‘You’d get so cross! You’d do yourself up so carefully and then Deeley would turn herself into a little version of you, only really messy, and you’d get absolutely furious with her.’

  ‘I thought she was doing it to make me look stupid,’ Devon confessed. ‘I hated her copying me.’

  ‘Oh God, no! I did try to tell you! It was heroine worship,’ Maxie said, smiling. ‘I was like her mum – telling her off all the time. And you were the one she wanted to be.’

  Devon grimaced. ‘I could have been nicer to her, I suppose,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Please, no dwelling,’ Maxie said, waving away any regrets with a brisk snap of her wrist.

  This was another phrase of Lady Stangroom’s. Lady Stangroom never dwelled on the past, and never used five words where two could do. One of the great attractions of Olly for Maxie – apart, of course, from his money and title – was how redoubtable his mother was. If Devon had been Deeley’s role model, Lady Stangroom was Maxie’s: tough as old boots, sharp as a whip, effortlessly in command of her empire. Maxie had very deliberately modelled herself on her mother-in-law, with the latter’s full approval.

  ‘We need to deal with the present,’ she continued firmly. ‘Deeley isn’t a little girl any more. She’s a grown woman who has to take responsibility for her own actions. If she keeps doing interviews like this, we’ll all be in danger. Journalists will start asking us questions about our childhood – Mum – tracing things back. Someone might even decide that an unauthorized biography of the three McKenna sisters might make very good reading.’

  Devon paled visibly, the blusher on her cheeks and the natural red of her lips standing out in vivid contrast to her sheet-white face.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘I hadn’t even thought of that.’

  ‘You never do, Devon,’ Maxie snapped. ‘That’s my job.’

  She stood up from the sofa, coming to her feet in one swift, efficient movement.

  ‘If a journalist or a writer starts digging around in our past . . .’ Devon’s carefully manicured, fuschia-tipped hands flew up to her mouth, as if she were trying to silence herself.

  ‘Exactly,’ Maxie said grimly. ‘I used that very same word to myself twenty minutes ago. Terrifying, isn’t it?’

  Devon could only nod dumbly, hands still over her lips.

  ‘Now let’s go and find Deeley,’ Maxie said, swivelling on her heels. ‘How do we get down to your granny flat?’

  She didn’t even look back to see if Devon were following her; she knew she would, because she always had.

  ‘We’re going to put the fear of God into that girl,’ she said, her jaw set hard.

  Deeley

  Deeley was brushing her hair, still bleary-eyed from sleep, when she heard footsteps coming down the back stairs. In the old days, the basement had been the kitchen and servants’ quarters, and so the staircase that led up to the main house was narrow and cramped by comparison with the sweeping main staircase that wrapped around the central hall, designed for the ladies of the house to be able to navigate in their big, flowing skirts and wide-brimmed hats. She heard Devon curse, as usual, as she negotiated the shallow treads, placing her heels slowly and carefully so she didn’t trip.

  Deeley wrapped her dressing gown around her, belting it tightly, and secured her hair in a messy bun on top of her head with an elastic band. It looked bad enough that she was barely out of bed by noon; she could at least pull her hair off her face.

  The trouble was, she was finding it harder and harder to get up in the morning. Her life had absolutely no purpose, which meant that there was nothing to get up for. In London, previously, there had been jobs, waitressing or hostessing; in LA, she had gone shopping with her stylist, or to a raft of daytime charity events (Deeley McKenna, Nicky Shore’s gorgeous girlfriend, shares a joke with January Jones of Mad Men as they bid at the Homeless Aids charity auction brunch!).

  Now she was bereft. She’d hoped to be hanging out with Devon, but that hadn’t happened; Devon seemed much too busy with her interview schedule and pre-show meetings to have time for her younger sister. Deeley knew that one of the signs of depression was being unable to get up in the morning. She was working out every day in an attempt to pump endorphins through her system, make herself feel better, but the high you got after a run, or a Pilates workout, never lasted more than a few hours. And then there she was, back in her sister’s basement, with no prospects, no real talent, and no future.

  Trying very hard not to think about her sister’s husband.

  I’m lucky to have a roof over my head, she reminded herself firmly. And some money in the bank. If you’d told me when I was little that I’d have both those things and still be unhappy, I’d have thought you were lying through your teeth.

  But as much as she tried to fight self-pity and hopelessness, they kept slipping back in when she let down her guard. The contrast between her sisters’ lives and her own was too marked for her to feel anything but utterly inferior. Look at everything they had! Great lives, great homes, great careers, great husbands! Well, maybe Olly isn’t exactly a young girl’s dream, she thought. But for Maxie, he’s perfect. He’s an MP with a title, and he pretty much does whatever she says, and thinks she’s amazing – that’s the ideal man for her.

  And Matt . . . No. I’m not thinking about Matt.

  Devo
n was opening the connecting door at the bottom of the staircase now, which stuck a little, as the basement had damp issues and the wood was warped. Devon cursed even harder, and Deeley braced herself. Devon sounded like she was in a bad mood; was she coming to tell Deeley she needed to move out? Deeley had absolutely no idea where she would go after this brief respite at her sister’s house. Suddenly, life in the basement didn’t seem so bad after all. Swiftly, Deeley dashed to the open-plan kitchen, grabbed as many dirty plates and glasses as she could from where they were strewn on the counter, and put them in the sink, turning on the tap; it couldn’t hurt for Devon to think she was doing the washing-up.

  ‘Ugh! Bloody narrow stairs, bloody door!’ Devon complained, falling through the latter in a tumble of jangling earrings. ‘It’s like this whole basement was built for skinny midgets!’

  ‘It’s the servants’ quarters,’ Maxie said crisply, following hard on her heels. ‘What do you expect?’

  Deeley wheeled round, washing-up forgotten. Maxie was here too. That couldn’t be good. Maxie, in the daytime, when she would normally be at work, running her luxury goods empire like Caligula did Rome . . .

  ‘Turn that tap off, Deeley, you’ll flood the place,’ her oldest sister ordered her. ‘And next time you pretend to do the washing-up, make sure you’ve got the detergent out of the cupboard first, eh?’

  Deeley obeyed, her heart sinking. She’d never been able to fool Maxie about anything. She wished now that she hadn’t put her hair up; if she hadn’t, she’d be able to hang her head and hide, at least partially, behind her thick curtain of hair, the way she’d always done when Maxie started to tell her off.

  Maxie stalked over to the breakfast bar which separated the kitchenette from the main living space, and slapped a glossy magazine down on it with enough force to make Deeley flinch back.

  ‘Explain this, why don’t you?’ she said so icily both her sisters shivered in fear.