The Santiago Sisters

by Victoria Fox

  Sounds filtered through. A city siren, screaming to loud then fading to quiet then gone; a dog barking; a man calling to another man, their voices passing at an unknown distance. She wondered where they were going, if she could go with them.

  Soft things pattered at a window, then her eyes adjusted and she saw white flakes, thick white flakes of winter tumbling through the black night like moths.

  It was Christmas in New York. The idea was an anchor, some reminder of where she was and where she had come from. Out on the street, passers-by would be wrapped in coats and scarves, mittened hands holding another’s, noses red and hearts warm as they planned their trip home, to heat, to friends, to safety.

  She closed her eyes. Perhaps if she fell asleep a while longer, she was so tired, so very tired, and when she woke up she would be home … Home …

  And then she heard a voice, pulling her back from the brink of slumber:

  Get out.

  It was clear and precise and she trusted it.

  You’re in danger. Move. Get out. Now.

  She tried to push herself up on her elbows but her stomach couldn’t take it. Ropes inside her twisted and pulled; she whimpered, growled, writhed in anger.

  The door opened.

  She blinked, drinking the room in, desperate to see more.

  Footsteps.

  Someone was with her, standing right there, over her, looking down. She froze. The person stood very still. Time stopped.

  She tasted terror.

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘I’m glad I found you. Are you glad to see me?’

  PART TWO

  2000–2005

  11

  London

  Teresa Santiago woke to the sound of shouting. It was in a language she didn’t understand, and the ferocious, high-pitched squawks shot back and forth like two cats scrapping in a yard. One belonged to Simone, a literal far cry from the dulcet tones in which she addressed Teresa. The shouts were coming from downstairs, a concept she was only now getting used to since she’d only ever lived in a single-storey dwelling. She got out of bed and stood in her silk pyjamas, wondering if it was safe to emerge.

  After a while, the screams died down. There followed a series of stomps and the bang of a slamming door. Teresa pictured the other girl who lived here, the blonde with the upturned nose, throwing herself on the sheets and bawling.

  She stretched, and the room yawned with her. It was enormous. The ceiling stood at three times her height, with delicate cornicing like the icing on a birthday cake. A glinting chandelier hung from a central floret. The curtains were duck-egg blue and billowed gently against the open windows, of which there were three; huge and as perfectly rectangular as if they belonged in a dolls’ house. Through them, the hum of London swam up on the breeze. Her four-poster bed was swathed in peach satin, plumped with dozens of pink cushions, and the mattress was as deep and squidgy as the honeyed brioche Teresa was occasionally served for breakfast.

  It was a princess’s bedroom. At lights-out, Teresa would lie still and wait for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and when they did she would test herself by closing and then opening them again, half fearing that the room would have been swallowed up, and she would find herself back at home in Patagonia, Calida asleep on the bunk below and the moon looking in through the window. She couldn’t believe that all this was hers. OK, it was on loan, it wasn’t forever, but boy was it something else. London was another universe. Simone Geddes’ mansion was incredible. At the beginning she had got lost every hour, exploring the furthest reaches of the house and then forgetting her way back. Simone had a loft, a cellar, a games suite, and a spa; they had a library and a music room and a reading room; they had a separate area where they ate their meals and drank their drinks and the lounge alone was bigger than the entire farmhouse back in Argentina. All the floors were piled one on top of another, like a stack of pretty boxes. When Teresa first arrived, she’d hurt her neck looking up at them all and Simone had laughed affectionately and stroked her arm.

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ she’d whispered.

  It truly was the realm of her imaginings. Everything she had hoped for and dreamed of. Her old life ceased to exist. Poverty, struggle, longing. And Calida …

  Teresa pushed away thoughts of her twin. She suffered a tangle of emotions whenever she thought of her: anger, hurt, frustration, and sadness; it was easier to bottle them up. Calida had wished her gone. She would be happy back on the farm, with Daniel, who was the only person who mattered to her anyway.

  I wish you’d just disappear …

  Though the bruises had faded, the scars were still tender to touch. Fine, Teresa thought, you got what you wanted. See if I care. I’m having the time of my life.

  There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘Ms Santiago?’

  The maid stepped in. Vera was a kind, plump, Hispanic woman. Once or twice they had chatted in Spanish, but Vera always cut it short because, she explained, she wasn’t meant to converse with the household. ‘I’m not the household,’ Teresa said, ‘I’m a guest.’ But Vera had backed out of the room and stayed quiet on the matter.

  Privately, Teresa wondered if the maid was content working here. Simone spoke sharply to her, as did the other children. The blonde girl, Emily, acted as if Vera didn’t exist, yet had vicious words to impart when her trail of bubblegum wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty bottles of cola failed to be cleared promptly from the side of the swimming pool; while the boy, Lysander, with whom Teresa hadn’t had much contact because she found him daunting, but thrillingly so, liked to make her blush.

  Now, the maid wheeled a silver trolley across the carpet, which she brought to a stop at the foot of Teresa’s bed. She bobbed a short curtsey.

  ‘Gracias,’ said Teresa, marvelling at the sight.

  ‘De nada—can I bring you anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Teresa had never been treated with such reverence: she felt she could ask for anything—a bicycle, a sandcastle, a unicorn—and it would be brought straight to her, with apologies for the delay. Vera nodded and left the room.

  The breakfast was sumptuous. Teresa lifted the metal cloche and underneath was a spread of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and tomato, diamonds of toast with the crusts cut off, a pat of butter in the shape of a seashell, a bright glass of orange juice and a goblet of fresh yoghurt topped with blueberry compote. She wolfed the feast.

  Excitedly, she dressed. Simone was taking her shopping today and she couldn’t wait. She’d heard so much about luxury clothes and seen Simone’s own dazzling wardrobe, and could picture the stores with their polished displays and glossy sales people; the buzz and zing of money as it flashed in and out of the till.

  In the hallway, she stopped. Emily was blasting music from her bedroom and a sign on the door read: KEEP OUT: BITCH WITHOUT A MUZZLE.

  Emily’s room was forbidden territory and Teresa knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Since she’d arrived, Emily had barely said two words to her. Frequently she caught the girl scowling at her, and once Emily had brought her friends over and Teresa knew they were giggling and gossiping because they kept looking over and then hiding their smiles behind their hands. Teresa wished she could speak English because then she could explain that Simone had invited her and, since she was here, they might try to get along … It was only a couple more weeks, after all.

  Holding the banister, she descended the staircase. It was wide and carpeted, its lofty white walls adorned with giant photographs of Simone at work; Simone in the director’s chair, mingling with co-stars or donning a variety of glamorous wigs. Down in the vestibule stood an impressive cabinet of awards. Julia had said that Simone was famous, but Teresa was beginning to see that for the severe understatement it was.

  In the kitchen, the actress was stirring coffee and gazing out of the window to where a pool boy was raking leaves from the water. She was muttering something ominously to her husband, and Teresa identified the sound of Emily’s name.

  Noti
cing their guest, Simone’s face lifted. She turned, arms outstretched.

  ‘Good morning, sweetheart!’ She gave Teresa a hug. Simone was very affectionate for a hostess and Teresa never quite knew what to do, so she hugged her back and this seemed to be the right thing. Over her shoulder, she spotted Brian eating toast messily at the counter. Brian Chilcott was a director, which meant he told people on movie sets where to go and how to act. He was overweight, and had a florid, disinterested face, and wore ties that looked uncomfortably tight at the neck.

  He delivered a wink to Teresa. Diego used to wink at her sometimes but this wink was different; there was something latent in it, a threat too cloudy to name.

  ‘Are you ready for our shopping trip?’ Simone encouraged.

  Teresa didn’t understand. Brian put in: ‘Are you going to teach her English?’

  ‘Shut up, Brian. Keep your booze-addled nose out of it.’

  Teresa didn’t grasp what they were saying, but she heard the bitterness in Simone’s voice. Brian put down his toast and shrugged on his jacket. On his way out, he pecked Simone on her cheek. She turned away but he wouldn’t be deterred.

  Teresa’s eyes widened as she saw Brian clasp Simone’s backside and squeeze it hard. Images of Gonzalez and her papa made her shudder. Nausea bubbled in her throat, a sick feeling that took root in her stomach and threaded up like weeds. She remembered her father’s nakedness, his cowardice, and his surrendering groan. Did Simone and Brian do the same thing? Did Emily do it? Did Lysander? For some reason, the thought of Lysander doing it made her insides clench, not unpleasurably.

  When Brian had gone, Simone relaxed.

  ‘English lessons might not be a bad idea,’ she mused. She repeated the suggestion to Teresa, enunciating each word as if she were a dunce. ‘English … you learn … yes? Soon. I will organise.’ She fumbled for the same thing in Spanish. Teresa wondered why they should bother, if she was going home at the end of the month.

  The afternoon passed in a glorious whirlwind. Teresa was on cloud nine from the instant she stepped into Simone’s car and they whizzed through the city maze, ducking and diving past shining red buses and gleaming black taxis, over the magical bridges and past the masses of people. When they stopped at the first shop on Bond Street, a crowd surged forward and screamed Simone’s name. Teresa was alarmed. She thought they were being attacked. Simone’s bodyguard drew them safely inside.

  ‘That’s nothing, darling,’ she giggled, ‘you should see me at a premiere!’ Then she leaned in, a glimmer in her eye, and added, ‘It’ll be you soon, you know.’

  Over the next four hours, they tried on every garment in that shop and the next, and the next, and the next, until they collapsed in a heap of happy exhaustion. Everywhere they were treated like royalty: Teresa questioned if, perhaps, Simone Geddes was royalty. She was urged to try on dresses and skirts, blouses and boots, and had no concept of what they cost except for clues from the ladies at the cash desks, who positively trilled when the sums came up. The assistants grovelled around Simone; nothing was too much or any kind of trouble, and every time Teresa emerged from the changing rooms in an exquisite new combination the party flattered and fawned, saying how perfect and beautiful she looked. With her wild dark hair and striking almond eyes, she oozed untamed beauty that, at fifteen, was on the cusp of exploding into something phenomenal. At one point, Simone wept. ‘Que linda!’ she spluttered, dabbing a tissue to her eyes. Teresa beamed. She felt like a million dollars.

  They arrived back at the Kensington mansion weighed down but cheerful.

  ‘Thank you,’ Teresa said in English, meaning it, as tentatively she gave Simone a hug. Simone needed no encouragement to return the gesture.

  ‘You’re welcome, my sweetheart,’ she said, her voice choked with emotion. ‘If you enjoyed today, you just wait for what’s coming.’

  Over the next fortnight, Teresa saw and did more than she thought she would pack into a hundred years. She visited majestic palaces with men standing outside in big fur hats that looked like bulrushes. She drifted round museums where the floor was so polished that it shone like silver water, and you could hear the soft, expensive pat of people’s shoes as they walked across it. She went to the cinema, which had a huge TV screen and she ate buttery popcorn that made her fingers salty. She stood on Waterloo Bridge and gazed at the golden spires of Parliament and the pale dome of St Paul’s, which reminded her of a pearl on one of Julia’s old necklaces. She partook in Basic English lessons, and found she had a flair for the language. She posed for a string of daylong photo shoots alongside Simone. She spent nights in the home theatre, where she asked to watch Simone’s movies, and, after a half-hearted show of reluctance, the actress put on her award-winning effort in Two Dozen Men at My Feet, in which she played a rebellious countess who seemed to cry a lot behind closed doors.

  On Friday, Simone issued an announcement:

  ‘We’re having a party. This evening. I want you to dress up.’

  Teresa found Vera and asked her about it. ‘Her ladyship wishes to show you off,’ said Vera in Spanish. ‘It’s a party in your honour.’

  ‘Is it a goodbye party, because I’m leaving soon?’

  Vera returned to buffing the marble in Simone’s bathroom.

  ‘Who’ll be there?’ asked Teresa.

  ‘Ms Geddes has many friends,’ said Vera. ‘They will want to meet you.’

  Three hours later, the household was teeming with staff. The terrace was strung with fairy lights that danced against the stars and a fountain of sparkling water gushed from a cherub’s trumpet. Guests trickled through, the men in crisp, sharp suits that reminded Teresa of the men in her romance novels: the billionaires. The women drifted like angels in their floor-length, sweeping gowns, slowing to pluck a flute of champagne or a miniature morsel of food. Cloying perfume hung in the air.

  Across the veranda, Emily Chilcott shot her an evil glare.

  Simone told her she looked wonderful, in a damson Moschino creation that skimmed the patio, her jet hair tumbling free, and kept a proprietorial arm round her the entire time. Occasionally, she would step back and gesture towards Teresa as if she were an item in an exhibit. The guests nodded approvingly, the men regarding her in the same voracious manner as the driver she had hailed back home to take her and Calida into town—a galaxy away, it seemed. They spoke too fast to keep up with, but Simone’s reassuring smile told her she was doing well. She revelled in the spotlight, all the more precious because it would not last, and soon she would be back in South America in the rags she had grown up in and it would all seem like a fairy tale.

  Afterwards, Simone kissed her. ‘You were perfect, just perfect.’

  Teresa was exhausted, exhilarated, elated. She didn’t need to speak English to understand that these people were important. Power had wafted off them in great, intoxicating clouds. Producers, agents, directors—but what did they want with her?

  She scarcely dared think it, but as she prepared for bed that night she allowed herself the luxury. For whatever reason, Simone wished to ingratiate her with the industry, to impress them. Was it possible that when she returned to Argentina, it would be with news that she was going to become an actress? That she was relocating to London, to Milan, to Hollywood? Or might Simone ask her to stay on? Would she teach Teresa the ways of wealth and success, and give her a key that would open the door to her own destiny? She told herself off for fantasising—always her weakness. Most likely the party had been a farewell, just as she had thought. Most likely …

  She fell asleep the instant she hit the pillow, and dreamed she was swimming in a deep, deep sea, and on the seabed was a diamond, sparkling, beckoning. Someone was calling her name, but the further she swam, the quieter the voice became.

  The day before Teresa was due to go home, Emily Chilcott waltzed into her room. Her eyes were shining and eager and there was a bounce in her step.

  ‘Hi,’ she said sweetly, ‘are you ready to go?’

  Teresa
found Emily’s smile disturbing. She zipped up the last of her bags.

  ‘I expect you’ll miss me,’ said Emily, ‘since we’ve become close.’

  Teresa sat on the edge of her bed. She didn’t trust Emily. Several times she had consulted her translation dictionary after receiving a snide comment or sarcastic aside. Emily had said some toxic things: Teresa was a brat, a misfit, a bitch; she didn’t belong here. The other day she had seen Emily kick the family puppy when it got in her way. Only somebody truly horrid would be able to hurt an animal.

  ‘So I thought I’d give you a goodbye present,’ Emily went on. In a flash she withdrew a glinting pair of scissors from behind her back, brandishing them up high. ‘Time for your makeover!’ She beamed, clicking the scissor blades, her eyes mad.

  Teresa didn’t have time to back away before Emily advanced, grabbing a clump of Teresa’s hair and, with a sickening snitch, lopped it off.

  ‘Oops!’ said Emily gleefully. ‘Better make it even!’

  Teresa was so surprised that she couldn’t speak. Automatically her hand went up to meet the amputation and all she felt was bare neck. She tried to escape, but Emily pulled her back. With appalling speed and efficiency, the scissors snipped and chopped. ‘Para!’ Teresa cried, distraught. ‘Basta!’ She tried to wriggle free but Emily had her whole weight bearing down and now she was cropping and slashing and slicing great swathes of hair, cackling giddily as it fell to the carpet, and she hacked more and more, until Teresa’s glossy waist-length locks were up at her ear, bitten and chewed and scruffy. She started to cry. Emily seized her fringe and she tried to pull back but it hurt so much that she couldn’t do anything apart from sit there with her hands in her lap, quivering, as with every devastating slice she became balder. ‘Por favor, no lo hagas,’ Teresa howled, ‘Por favor! Para!’

  But Emily didn’t listen. When she was done, she leaned to whisper in Teresa’s ear. Teresa could see their joint reflection in the mirror: Emily flushed with excitement, her pixie face alive with delight; and she, tatty and ugly, threadbare and tear-blotched.