Part Three
Deeley
Panic flooded through Deeley as she opened her eyes.
Everything was in the wrong place. The door wasn’t to the left of the bed; there were curtains in front of her that seemed, as though by some sort of optical illusion, to be running all round the room; and the bed itself was huge, so wide that she couldn’t feel the edges of the mattress. For a moment she thought she was still dreaming, some Alice-in-Wonderland illusion of a bed as big as a field, white and snowy and crisp, that she could crawl over for days and still never escape; then the last remnants of her confused and complicated dreams mercifully faded away. She’d dreamed of Matt and Bill, somehow blended into one person, her sisters in school uniform, tangles of memory twisted round one another, woven into weird, frightening designs. She sat bolt upright, wiping the sleep from her eyes, blinking hard, determined to wake up fully.
She was in a hotel room. A beautiful sprawling hotel room, with sage green walls and dark chocolate curtains. Her head was heavy; she had no idea how long she’d slept, and only a hazy sense of where she was. Slipping out of the ridiculously comfortable bed, she padded across the room, her feet sinking into the deep, rich pile of the carpet, and flung open the curtains.
Her jaw dropped as she took in the view: she was looking out onto a stunning expanse of steel-blue sea. A wide esplanade ran along the seafront on which the hotel stood; waves lapped at the breakfront, leaving white flecks of foam as they ran up the sandy beach below and pulled away again in endless rhythm. But further out, like a magical, extraordinary mirage, was a grey stone castle, which seemed to be floating on the water.
Deeley knew she wasn’t dreaming now. It was a cloudy, overcast day, but the sun behind the cloud cover was still bright enough, after the padded, luxurious darkness of the bedroom, to make her eyes water a little as they readjusted to the light. She squeezed them shut and opened them again: yes, the castle was still there, a little out to sea. Now that she looked more closely, she realized it was actually a little island, with a castle at its peak, heavily fortified, its stone walls sheer, ready to defend it against intruders. Seagulls wheeled around it, diving and twisting in the winds, their caws clearly audible, like a wild chant. It was melancholy, isolated, and utterly beautiful.
I’m in exactly the right place, Deeley thought, wrapping her arms around herself, hugging herself through her silk pyjamas. This is perfect.
She’d walked into Gatwick, her bags slung over her shoulder, and stood in front of the Departures board, staring up at it hopelessly, jostled by an endless stream of travellers, watching the display update as it changed, as flights took off, as new ones came up on the board, as the people around her headed off and new ones arrived. She had no idea how long she’d stood there, staring blankly at one destination after another.
Finally, after a particularly hard bump on her ankles from a trolley, she turned away, walking at random, thinking that she might find an airline office and book a flight to somewhere. And then she saw the sign to the tourist information office. Deeley had never in her life asked for tourist information and she had been amazed at how helpful the woman behind the desk was, especially since all Deeley could manage to say was that she wanted to get away, somewhere quiet and peaceful, money no object. Ten minutes later, she had a flight booked and a hotel reservation made.
‘People don’t really think about going to Jersey, the first time,’ the woman had said, smiling at Deeley. ‘But once they do, they keep going back.’
Deeley hadn’t even known where Jersey was – one of the Channel Islands, apparently. Nearer to France than to Britain, though the plane took off and landed almost immediately. From her window seat, dazed with everything she had been through that day, Deeley could see the little island floating into view, bright orange lights blazing through the velvet dark. A small, pretty airport, everyone friendly, everything clean: she was in a cab in just a few minutes, and at the Grand Jersey Hotel in a bare fifteen more. It had all happened so fast she was still in shock as she entered the lobby; it was as if she had been whisked away on a cloud.
She hadn’t even heard the sea last night. She couldn’t believe it. She remembered the lobby, like a jewel box, all red and black and fuschia, with its rich polished wood staircase; she remembered checking in, being shown to her suite, stripping off her clothes, climbing into the big bed, and falling fast asleep, so exhausted by her long, eventful day that she passed out immediately.
But how could she not have realized that the hotel was on the seafront?
She was starving. Tearing her eyes reluctantly away from the sea view, she looked around her, found the room phone, and ordered breakfast. Eggs Benedict, toast, juice, cappuccino, croissants, everything she could think of, diet forgotten. Twenty minutes later she was showered, scented with a whole range of the ESPA toiletries ranged in the bathroom, and devouring a huge breakfast in the living room of the suite, still looking out at the sea through the long windows that ran over the mirrored Art Deco cabinet along the wall. The suite was a lush, cosy haven, utterly peaceful, with velvety sofas on which Deeley could have curled up all day in complete comfort and solitude.
But comfort wasn’t available to Deeley, not after what had happened yesterday. After what I did yesterday, she corrected herself firmly; she couldn’t hide behind the passive tense, pretend that kissing her sister’s husband had just happened like a natural disaster, a tsunami or an earthquake for which no one was really responsible.
I did it. I did the worst thing one sister can do to another. Devon gave me somewhere to stay, and in return, I kissed her husband as soon as she went away for the night. And yes, he kissed me back, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less to blame.
Deeley shivered from head to toe with guilt and remorse. She couldn’t stay in the room any longer; she was already beginning to pace back and forth, memories of everything that she and Matt had done last night flooding back in, torturing her with their vividness. She pulled on trainers and a jacket and practically ran out of the suite, down the main staircase, through the lush, red-carpeted lobby to the revolving doors. The doorman told Deeley that the tide was going out, and when it did, Deeley would be able to walk to the castle, across the sands.
He apologized for the weather, saying it was usually much sunnier than this in mid-May; but it was perfect for Deeley’s mood. There was a beautiful melancholy about the bare, deserted sands, the distant castle, the cawing seagulls, that echoed exactly how she was feeling. Hands shoved in her pockets, hair already blowing in the sea breeze, she dodged across the road that separated the Grand Jersey from the esplanade and almost ran down the stone steps that led to the beach.
The scent of the sea, the ozone in the air, was fresh and clean, just the thing for a guilty conscience. Salt and seaweed, sand damp beneath her feet, her trainers sinking in so deep it was hard to walk, and that was good too: instinctively, Deeley knew she needed to exhaust herself, tire herself out as utterly and completely as she could manage. It was as if she were punishing herself with each heavy step, trying to make her body feel as bad as her brain.
First I betrayed Devon – and Maxie – with that stupid magazine interview. I wasn’t thinking, but that’s no excuse. I just chattered away without watching what I was saying, and it could have been really dangerous for all of us. And then, even worse, I kissed Devon’s husband . . .
Not just kissed, she corrected herself, wanting to be brutally honest, not to minimize her appalling behaviour. Much more than kissed. She remembered Matt’s hands on her, hers on him, and found herself walking even faster, as if she could physically outrun what she had done, leave it behind her, have it washed away as the sea, coming back in, would eventually wash away her footprints.
But I can’t outrun it. I have to live with what I’ve done. For the rest of my life. That’s my punishment. I’m the worst sister in the world. Of all the men in London to choose from, how on earth could I do that with my own sister’s husband?
; Deliberately torturing herself with her thoughts, Deeley tramped along the seafront as the tide ebbed away from the castle. Far across the wet sands, she watched a bright blue vehicle drive out from the castle. At first she thought it was a boat then, as it cleared the surface of the water, she realized it was a big van, cantilevered four feet off the ground on thick stubby wheels, bumping slowly along a winding track that led back to the mainland, spray flying up and spattering the windows as it went, carrying tourists back and forth to the castle at high tide.
She must have walked for hours. Eventually, once the tide was low, she picked her way over to the castle track, and followed it out along the sands, climbing up the shale and shingle to Elizabeth Castle. There was a guide in an old-fashioned army uniform, red coat, white trousers, and tricorne hat trimmed with gold braid, jovially telling visitors all about the castle, and Deeley avoided him like the plague; she wanted to be completely alone. There were endless stairs to climb, towers to scale, and a huge concrete pillbox on the top, a Second World War relic, on which Deeley sat and stared out to sea.
She wasn’t even close to processing what had happened with Matt yet. She was still in the middle of it, unable to step back and get any kind of perspective, trembling with shock as she remembered every single moment of what had taken place last night. His hands on her, hers on him. His mouth, his kisses, the scent of his skin. His muscles, the sheer strength of him. Even her overpowering guilt faded temporarily as she let the memories come back; she felt completely obsessed, as if she were on drugs, in the grip of an addiction so powerful that she could think of nothing else. She couldn’t even close her eyes, because when she did, she saw Matt’s face immediately, felt his mouth on hers, the feel of his skin under her hands, the tight curls of his hair twined through her fingers.
It was too much: she couldn’t bear it. She had never felt anything like this before. She hadn’t even known that it was possible to feel so strongly attracted to someone.
It was terrifying. Deeley would have been frightened by the strength of her emotions even if Matt hadn’t been her sister’s husband. Instinctively, she felt that this was the kind of passion that people wrote books and plays and ballads and operas about: stories that always had unhappy endings, that were meant to make you cry. Stories about passion that was a curse, sent by the gods to torment mortals, that dashed you on the rocks like the ones below her, sharp jagged teeth that would smash your skull open if you were unlucky enough to tumble onto them.
And that just went to show how crazy last night had been, how insane she was to be thinking like this: because all those images were of star-crossed lovers. High up on the castle fortification, the brisk sea air blowing round her head, whipping strands of hair around her face, Deeley was managing to keep clear-headed enough to acknowledge that she and Matt did not fit into that category. They barely knew each other. The fact that she had instantly felt comfortable with him last night, laughing and joking, making conversation as easily as if they’d known each other for years – the instant, violently powerful attraction they had felt from the moment they had met – neither of those signified anything close to being in love.
I shouldn’t be using that word. I shouldn’t even be letting it cross my mind for a moment. It’s probably just because he’s the one man I can’t have, ever. Forbidden attraction, all that stuff that seems so romantic in books, or films, but is sheer torture in real life.
Thank God at least I got away from London.
Deeley knew that she couldn’t stay any longer in the house that Devon and Matt shared as husband and wife. Even in the flat below, separate as it was, she couldn’t sleep there one night longer. It wouldn’t be right to accept her sister’s hospitality after what she had done.
Shame welled up in her again at the thought, her face hot with embarrassment and self-disgust even though the breeze should have cooled her down. She needed to find somewhere else to live, straight away. She had her BlackBerry with her; she’d go online and spend some time looking for a place to rent, line up appointments with estate agents, book herself into some sort of B & B where she could live temporarily until she signed a lease on a flat.
Just a small studio, nothing too expensive. She crossed her fingers that she could afford something reasonably central. And then I need to work on getting an agent. I’ll ring that woman who did the article in Yes! – she offered to help with an agent, someone who specializes in celebrity clients.
Deeley pulled a wry face. She was self-aware enough to know that in no universe, apart from the bubble of glossy magazines, could she ever be described as a celebrity. She hadn’t achieved anything in her life but looking pretty and dressing up in the latest fashions. Her ex-boyfriend was a talented actor, her middle sister was a famous TV cook, her older sister a successful businesswoman. Compared to all of them, Deeley was just a silly fluffball.
I need to start earning my own money. Taking care of myself. Not living rent-free in my sister’s basement – and, my God, making out with her husband as soon as she goes away for the night!
The sheer guilt of that thought drove Deeley to her feet. She jumped up and bounded down the stairs from the tower, dashing back through the wide courtyards of the castle, between its houses and archways, down the ramp back onto the sand, sliding over marker stones dotted with dark slimy kelp, pounding the walkway back to the hotel. She was panting by the time she reached it, her legs heavy and tired from hours of walking, her trainers so thickly clotted with wet sand that she took them off on the hotel steps, and under the amused gaze of the doorman, beat them against the wall to get most of the sand off them.
‘Is there a spa here?’ she asked him, holding her trainers by their backs. ‘Maybe even a pool?’
The doorman looked genuinely shocked at her ignorance. ‘We have a five-star spa here, miss,’ he said. ‘It’s famous – it cost over a million pounds to build. Pool, gym, saunas, everything! It’s won awards every single year.’
The spa was just as luxurious as this description, and the smiling girls on the front desk offered her a whole range of treatments, but Deeley turned them all down; panic rose in her at the thought of having anyone’s hands on her. She was terrified it would bring back memories of Matt; it was all she could do to strip down to the swimsuit that, mercifully, she had thrown into her bag the night before, wrap herself in a big robe, and find her way to the pool. It was softly lit, with glowing candles in niches, so relaxing that Deeley felt stress slipping away from her shoulders as soon as she stepped inside. She managed twenty lengths of the pool before she climbed into the exquisite mosaic Jacuzzi.
Oh no, she realized immediately. This is a mistake. It was too warm, too soothing; she stretched her arms along the tiled walls of the Jacuzzi, leaned her head back, closed her eyes and immediately found herself thinking of Matt.
It’s like he’s haunting me. Her body instantly responded, pulling up images of Matt from the night before. Sitting in his lap. Pressing herself against him, winding her arms around his neck; feeling him hard underneath her bottom . . .
No – no, no, no, no . . .
She was out of the seductively warm water in two seconds, and looking for a shower to cool herself down; she was overheated, burning up from head to toe. And, tucked away behind the pool, she found a huge, circular shower – it was like walking inside the spiral of a snail’s shell – with a panel of buttons on the far wall. She stabbed at one of them at random, marked Atlantic Ocean, then gasped as orange and blue LED lights started to play round the inside curve of the shower, while water shot out of jets at waist height around her; another flow of water poured down on her head, softly scented with a fresh, ozone perfume. Jets came and went, the infusion of scent surrounded her; by the end of the programmed sequence, Deeley was laughing with enjoyment and surprise. She hit another button, Caribbean Rain and tangerine lights accompanied a tropical downpour on her scalp, like a rainstorm of droplets, the scent of passion fruit warm and stimulating.
She tried th
e Cold Mist button, bracing herself, and even though she’d guessed what was coming, she squeaked at the bright blue lights and the cool water, fragranced with mint, that made her teeth chatter and her scalp tingle; it was so stimulating that she kept running the same sequence, three times, till she was shivering from head to toe and giggling as the jets caught her in the small of the back every time, no matter how she turned to avoid them.
‘Sounded like you were having a great time in there!’ said a man’s voice as she finally, reluctantly, exited the shower.
Deeley jumped.
‘Sorry,’ he said, reaching up politely to get her robe from the peg where she’d hung it. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ Deeley said, completely embarrassed, taking the robe from him and pulling it on. Not only had she hogged the shower, she’d been in there for ages making silly squeaking noises. ‘Did I make you wait for hours?’
He grinned, long and slow. Deeley’s eyes, which had been dazzled by the LED light display in the shower, were accustoming themselves by now to the muted illumination outside, but she blinked as she took in the sight of him. He was tall and his skin, the colour of the rich polished dark wood of the Grand Jersey’s imposing central staircase, was dewed with fresh beads of sweat which glinted against his smooth shaved head, his bare imposing chest, like tiny crystals. The short white towel wrapped around his waist set off his dark skin, and called attention to the flatness of his stomach and the narrowness of his waist.
‘Yeah, well, I could hear the noises you were making,’ he said, his teeth flashing as white as the towel. ‘You were having such a good time, I didn’t want to interrupt you . . .’
‘Oh God!’ Deeley covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry! And you’ve just been in the sauna – you were waiting to cool off, and I kept you out here . . .’
Bad Sisters Page 24