Bad Sisters

by Chance, Rebecca

  It was lovely. She’d forgotten how delicious potatoes were. She’d had a big glass of claret too last night. Her head was a little heavy, but who cared; she could crawl back to bed for as long as she needed to.

  Or she could go for a long walk on the beach in the rain.

  She stood up, pushing back the breakfast tray, and walked over to the long wraparound window of the sitting room of her suite, staring out at the view. Bare wet sands and grey sea still surrounded Elizabeth Castle, whipped by the wind, white horses riding the waves; it was perfect. Superimposed on the wild view was her own face, her unbrushed hair falling around it, her eyes huge and dark. It looked like something out of a film, a melancholy European film with subtitles, where the heroine did nothing but walk on the beach and think about the man she couldn’t have, the man she absolutely, positively had to stay away from for the rest of her life.

  Deeley heaved a deep sigh. That made her situation sound romantic, when actually she had enough good sense to know that it wasn’t. Fancying the pants off your sister’s husband was not some version of tragic, forbidden love; it was actually more like a sort of horrible curse.

  Especially when he fancied you back.

  You can’t think about this, she told herself firmly. You just can’t. Beep! Banned! Banned subject! Turning away from the window, she stripped off, pulled on her walking clothes and dashed out of the room, grabbing her iPod as she went. No gloomy music. Nothing romantic. Nothing sexy. Shit, what does that leave me? She ended up tramping across the sand to Paramore, four albums’ worth, right from one side of the curving bay to the other and back again along the esplanade, blown back and forth by the strong sea breeze. By the time she reached the Grand Jersey once again it was hours later, and her legs were as tired as if she’d done a Pilates class with nothing but jumpboard exercises.

  But Deeley still wasn’t done. I need to be so tired I can’t think about anything, she knew instinctively. So tired that all I can do is sleep. She went back to the suite, changed into workout clothes, and hit the gym in the spa; having walked for hours, she concentrated on upper body exercises, shoulder presses, tricep dips, press-ups and plank holds until her arms and shoulders were aching as much as her legs. Then, grimly, she knocked out two hundred crunch situps. Thank God for lifts: without one, she couldn’t have made it back up to her room afterwards. She showered, fell into bed and slept for hours, utterly exhausted.

  By the time she woke again, it was dark outside, the view even more beautiful by night. Lights glittered down the esplanade, illuminated the façade of the castle in the sea, wrapped around the seafront houses that rose above the bay; it was enchanting. And the lights called to Deeley. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, the room dark, staring out into the evening; light wisps of cloud scudded across the night sky, stars bright in the velvety black, a small curve of moon just visible in the distance.

  I can’t stay shut up here moping forever, she thought suddenly, jumping out of bed. And I really doubt that the person who tried to push me in front of the bus has followed me to Jersey to have a go at poisoning my cocktail in the hotel bar . . .

  By now, Deeley had made her mind up that the shove at King’s Cross Station must, as her rescuer and the woman next to her had assumed, have been some random maniac. It did happen; in her short time back in London, she’d read about a couple of released mental patients stabbing people in shopping centres, or on train platforms.

  And my idea of dressing down isn’t exactly London style. I know I look rich-bitch and glitzy compared with most people here. Someone probably took against me, someone who thought I needed teaching a lesson . . .

  It can’t have been personal. I barely know anyone in London, not enough for someone to want to hurt me that badly.

  Apart from Devon, of course, Deeley reflected grimly. Devon would have a very good reason to want to injure, maim or kill her younger sister, if she knew what had gone on between her husband and Deeley just forty-eight hours ago. But the push into traffic had happened before Matt and Deeley had had that terrible, wonderful make-out session on the sofa, and as far as Deeley was aware, Devon had never had psychic precognitive skills.

  Besides, she was in Manchester, getting ready for her show. No, it couldn’t possibly have been Devon.

  Logic dictated that that push into traffic must have been some sort of freak incident, never to be repeated. And logic also told Deeley that she couldn’t hide out indefinitely in a hotel suite, even if it was one of the loveliest she had ever been in. Defiantly forcing herself off the bed, she went over to the big walk-in cupboard and pulled out the simple little black DKNY dress she had brought with her.

  Let’s see what kind of cocktails the hotel bar on this little island can drum up . . .

  But as soon as she stepped into the champagne lounge, her jaw dropped. She hadn’t made much effort with her appearance, just pulled on her LBD and a pair of heels, brushed her hair and added simple make-up. And yet again, she’d got it completely wrong. It was Saturday night and the bar was hopping with young, sexy partygoers dressed to the nines. Deeley was elegantly understated, by minimalist LA standards, but Jersey, clearly, did not do minimalism at all. Whoever had decorated the champagne lounge had been much more influenced by baroque and rococo; if Deeley’s suite were like a jewellery box for an aristocrat, rich, discreet and opulent, then the champagne lounge was a jewellery box made for Drag Queen Barbie.

  It was pink, silver and black: suede, velvet and glass. The bar was a curve of Italian silvered mosaic tiles; behind it, a huge cut-glass mirror frame wrapped around a gigantic TV screen showing Casablanca, bottles of bright liquor glittering in front of Ingrid Bergman’s iconic face. Black glass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their pendants glittering dully in the soft, enticing lighting; suede fuschia sofas curved around circular silver tables with ice buckets in the centre, filled with champagne bottles. And the clientele seemed to consist entirely of very curvaceous, very blonde young women in dresses as short and tight as their heels were high, and their smart, aftershaved, very appreciative male escorts.

  I’m definitely underdressed, Deeley thought with amusement, surveying the scene before her. I should have worn one of my Hervé Léger bandage frocks. Deeley wasn’t intimidated. She had attended the Emmys and the Golden Globes, and the MTV awards in LA; she’d been photographed on countless red carpets and hobnobbed with TV and movie stars. It had all been totally superficial, naturally; she’d been too sensible to think for a moment that the actresses whose mansions she went to for charity brunches, who posed cheek to cheek with her, smiling widely, were her friends in any way, or even remembered her name for more than a minute (if they’d known it in the first place).

  Still, having spent five years battling for attention with some of the most competitive, cut-throat women in the world, it was child’s play for Deeley to enter a bar on her own. She picked her way through the lively mass of beautiful people, enjoying the experience of having no one waiting for her; and she was quite happy, too, to wait in the crowd at the bar until she could make her way to the front and be served. Men glanced at her, but beautiful though Deeley was, by Jersey standards she was almost dowdy; clearly, they preferred a girl who was showier, flashier, sparkling from head to toe, throwing her head back and laughing to show every single whitened tooth in her brightly lipsticked mouth.

  So when someone tapped her on the shoulder, she was genuinely surprised. She swivelled, as much as she could in the press of bodies, to see the man from the spa, dressed in a very smart pale grey suit and bright blue shirt, smiling at her with great enthusiasm.

  ‘Hey! I looked for you last night,’ he said. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I crashed,’ she said simply.

  ‘What?’ He cupped his hand to his ear, leaning towards her and Deeley couldn’t help smiling. She knew this ploy of old; it was a man’s way of getting closer to a woman in a noisy bar, brushing up against you under the pretence of wanting to hear what you had to say, when ac
tually, listening to you was the last thing he was really interested in doing . . .

  ‘I crashed!’ she said more loudly, still smiling. ‘I was really tired!’

  He wasn’t pushy. She’d already realized that in the spa; he’d been very cool. He didn’t try to touch her any further, put his hand on her to draw her closer to him; instead, he tilted his head away and said, ‘I have a table over there by the window – would you like to join me? We might actually be able to hear each other.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, as he effortlessly caught the eye of a passing waitress, said something to her, and guided Deeley through the melee to the high windows on the far side of the bar, to a table with a small curved love seat in front of it, facing the windows. The suede was soft beneath her bare thighs, and the view out of the window hypnotic: clouds in the dark sky, the sea at high tide lapping up to the breakwater, lights glimmering around the bay. She couldn’t help glancing out, rude though it was not to look at her host, who had sat down next to her, hitching up the knees of his well-cut trousers.

  ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ he said, quite unoffended. ‘That’s why I come here so much. I just can’t get enough of this place.’

  She looked back at him, taking in once again how handsome he was.

  ‘I’m Jeff,’ he said, reaching his hand out to shake hers; it was so sweetly formal that she giggled as she took it.

  ‘Deeley,’ she said.

  His hand was warm and dry, his handshake light; he didn’t try to hold on to it too long. And he hadn’t tried to put his hand on the small of her back as they walked across the room, that awful, possessive gesture men used on women they wanted to have sex with. He’d barely touched her, in fact. Already he was way ahead of almost all the men who had tried to pick up Deeley in bars . . .

  ‘Deeley?’ Jeff looked at her closely. ‘I know this sounds really cheesy, but you look familiar, and that name rings a bell. I’m pretty sure I’d remember meeting you, though. In fact,’ he flashed his cheeky grin, ‘I’m completely sure I’d remember meeting you! Are you a model or something? I’m in image consultancy – I spend much too much time looking at ads . . .’

  Deeley shook her head, but he interrupted before she could speak.

  ‘Oh God, that sounded like the worst chat-up line in the world!’ he exclaimed, pulling a comical face. ‘I’m sorry! Ignore it, OK? That was really naff.’

  ‘No!’ Jeff was very easy to talk to and Deeley found herself leaning towards him, patting his knee briefly in reassurance. ‘It wasn’t naff! You probably saw me in magazines – not the ads, though. I used to date Nicky Shore – he’s on Cooking up Murder,’ she added, in case Nicky’s name didn’t ring any bells with him. ‘We were in all the gossip mags. And then we broke up and now I’m back in London. I did a shoot for Yes! a few weeks ago . . .’

  She wasn’t going to mention her famous sisters; neither of them seemed to want any connection made between Deeley and them at the moment, and besides, the last thing Deeley wanted, for pride’s sake, was to be seen as the least well-known of the McKenna siblings.

  ‘Phew!’ Jeff said. ‘That makes sense. I read a lot of those magazines – well, skim them. I’m in something called trend-mining, believe it or not. We’re always looking for the latest hot fashion.’ He pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘Seeing what celebrities are up to is a big part of that.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not a celebrity!’ Deeley said quickly, not wanting him to think she was boasting. ‘I just dated one for a while.’

  ‘Two Grand Jerseys!’ the waitress said, rounding the edge of the love seat and sliding a tray onto the table; it held two cocktails, an enticing shade of pinky orange, and various little silver bowls of bar snacks. ‘And I brought you some nibbles as well, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering you my favourite cocktail,’ Jeff said, picking up one of the champagne flutes and handing it to Deeley. ‘It’s champagne, limoncello and passion fruit – oh, and Chambord..’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds lovely!’ Deeley said eagerly. ‘Champagne cocktails are my favourite thing!’ She flashed him a gorgeous, flirty smile. ‘But didn’t you say that I should buy you a drink, for making you wait for the shower? Shouldn’t I be paying for this?’

  Jeff, who had taken his own glass and was raising it to clink with hers, looked horrified.

  ‘Oh my God, no!’ he exclaimed, spilling some of his cocktail. ‘I invited you to sit at my table – this is absolutely on my tab. Please!’ He realized that Deeley was giggling naughtily. ‘You’re having me on,’ he accused her, his eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘You evil woman. You’re totally having me on.’

  Deeley winked at him and sipped her Grand Jersey.

  ‘Mmn, delicious,’ she said appreciatively. ‘You have very good taste.’

  ‘I do,’ Jeff said, raising his to toast her. ‘Very good taste in evil women.’

  They sat back, looking at each other as they drank their cocktails, smiling at each other over the top of their champagne flutes. After years in LA, Deeley was very used to meeting someone for the first time in a swimsuit, nearly naked, and then encountering them later, fully dressed, but it was always enjoyable – as long as they had a good body, of course. She was remembering what Jeff had looked like yesterday in his tight red trunks, his smooth dark skin glistening, damp from the sauna. It was a very pleasant image. The day before, he had looked like a sportsman; today he was every inch the creative professional in his impeccably tailored suit.

  ‘So, Deeley,’ he said. ‘This is a bit of a personal question, but you mentioned that you just broke up with your boyfriend – Nicky, right?’

  Deeley nodded, still smiling, still sipping her drink. She was very much enjoying his gradual approach. As far as she was concerned, he was doing everything right. Deeley hadn’t thought about Jeff since their meeting in the spa; her mind had been full of what had happened with Matt, and her near fatal collision with a bus at King’s Cross. She wasn’t arrogant, but she was used to men chatting her up, and she’d taken Jeff’s flirtation the day before for a lighthearted moment of fun; it hadn’t occurred to her to come down to the bar last night, looking for him.

  And this was still light-hearted fun, a stranger in a bar, buying her a cocktail, coming onto her in the nicest way possible. Much better than sitting in my suite, staring out of the window, trying not to think about Matt . . .

  ‘I’m single too,’ he said easily. ‘I have this incredibly pressured job, you know? Endless meetings, lots of travel, always having to spot the next big thing before someone else does.’ He flashed her a big smile. ‘No complaints – I love my job. But years ago we came here for a seminar, and I fell in love with this whole place. The island, the hotel. It’s like being cocooned, you know?’

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ Deeley agreed, surprised; it was as if he had read her mind.

  ‘You know the spa’s completely underground?’ he asked, summoning the waitress with a deft wave of his hand, indicating that they needed two more cocktails. ‘That’s why it feels so . . . sheltered, you know? It’s a complete refuge. I mean, the view’s fantastic, but I go in there, work out, get a massage, a facial, soak in the Jacuzzi . . .’ He grinned at her.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say,’ Deeley said with dignity, ‘so you don’t need to bother—’

  ‘Have a nice shower with essential oils, as long as some random girl isn’t hogging it, of course—’

  ‘I said you didn’t need to bother!’

  ‘Every few months, I just need to recharge my batteries,’ he was saying, laughing now. ‘So I get away from it all here. Fantastic food, great cocktails, walks on the beach—’

  ‘Picking up girls in the spa . . .’ Deeley added, setting down her empty flute.

  Deeley was definitely flirting back now; she uncrossed her legs and slowly recrossed them the other way, knowing that Jeff would be unable not to look at them. Her long, golden, toned legs were one of her major assets, and the pretty little
black kitten-heel sandals, tied at the ankle with fine suede strips, showed them off to perfection.

  ‘I don’t actually expect you to believe this,’ Jeff said, earning major points by not staring at her legs with his tongue hanging out, but returning his gaze to her face, ‘but I don’t come here to pick up girls. No offence to the local lovelies.’ He glanced over at the big table in front of the mosaic bar, which was brimming with platinum blondes. ‘They’re very pretty girls, and dressed to kill, but my tastes are less footballers’ wives, and more – well, more Vogue model.’

  The waitress arrived with their new round of drinks, and Jeff raised his glass to Deeley again. She clinked with him.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ she said demurely.

  ‘That was the idea,’ Jeff said, waggling his eyebrows at her comically. ‘So, Deeley, what’s a Vogue model lookalike doing by herself in Jersey? Getting away from it all too? And why here?’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘I must admit, I asked the front desk about you. They were pretty discreet, but I’m a regular, and they did tell me you were here on your own.’

  Deeley nodded, giving him more points for admitting he’d been interested enough to ask after her.

  ‘Definitely getting away from it all,’ she said in heartfelt tones, drinking half of her second cocktail in one go and coughing a little on the bubbles.

  ‘Oh, hey,’ Jeff leaned forward, his knee touching hers. ‘Something happen? You don’t sound good.’

  And then almost all of it came spilling out: Deeley left out anything to do with Matt, of course; she didn’t mention Bill, or even the backstory to her arrangement with Nicky . . . But there was enough, she realized with considerable surprise, more than enough to be upsetting, even leaving out the worst parts. Her ‘break-up’, and being ousted unexpectedly from her lovely life in LA. Her return to London, and the discovery that she wasn’t exactly welcomed back with open arms by her sisters. Her trip to see her childhood home – well, one of them – the weird feelings it had induced; the push in front of the bus at King’s Cross, and then her dash to the airport, which she made sound as if it had happened directly afterwards.