The Santiago Sisters

by Victoria Fox

  ‘I was informed this morning that Julia and Calida are dead,’ relayed Simone in a peculiar, disembodied voice. ‘There was a robbery at the store they were in and they were shot and killed at the scene.’ She blinked. ‘I’m sorry, Tess. The farm, its contents, and the land will be sold. There’s nothing left. I thought you should know.’

  The wave that hit her was silent. Momentarily, it stole her breath.

  ‘It’s a terrible blow,’ said Simone, ‘but never mind. It’s over now.’

  Tess waited for the tears to come, but her eyes were dry. She just kept staring at the floor, at the gold swirl on Madame’s carpet in the shape of an oil lamp.

  They didn’t love you. They didn’t care about you.

  They’re nothing to you any more—just two strangers who died.

  She swallowed the tidal wave of despair, a trace of salt on her tongue.

  ‘Come along.’ Simone sat next to her, and placed an arm round her shoulders. ‘I’ll take you to breakfast. I know a charming little place by the river.’

  In June, Madame Comtois confirmed her attendance at the annual danse d’éntrée. The ball was a mingling ground for the city’s elite sons and daughters. Madame had sent her protégées there since day one, and Tess was to be no exception. ‘It sounds lame,’ she protested in her dorm at Sainte-Marthe, as she was made to pack for the weekend away. Madame Aubert was obliged to sign girls off for their debutante reception.

  ‘You kidding, right?’ Mia spluttered. ‘I’m soooo jealous! Mine isn’t coming up until winter—and even then I bet Madame Pudding won’t let me go …’

  ‘Want to take my place?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. You’ll have a great time.’ Mia beamed and buoyed Tess’s spirits and by the time the evening came around, she was almost convinced herself.

  ‘Remember,’ instructed Madame Comtois as she deposited Tess at the grand entrance to L’Hotel Aquitaine, ‘the secret is la modération: grace and restraint at all times. You are a lady now, and a lady has a reputation to uphold.’

  Another group of so-called ladies was clustered round the portico. Emily Chilcott and her gang resembled a nest of flamingos, dressed as they were in varied shades of pink. ‘Look who it is,’ Emily muttered, ‘la petite orpheline.’

  ‘Piss off, Emily.’

  ‘I didn’t know Madame Comtois had such pretty curtains or I would have made a dress of them myself!’ The clique sniggered. Madame had chosen her gown, reams of floaty chiffon with a nipped-in waist, but while it mightn’t have been Tess’s first choice, she conceded the colour suited her: against her bronzed skin and tumble of jet curls, she looked dangerous and alternative, a far cry from the rest of them.

  Emily’s own hair was bandaged up in a sleek yellow topknot, secured so tightly on the crown of her head that it was tugging her eyes to her ears. Her dress clashed badly and Tess considered telling her, before remembering Madame’s words: grace and restraint at all times. Emily might not possess them, but she did.

  Alone, Tess went inside, where a porter took her coat. Music drifted out of la grande salle. In the bathroom she killed time, sampling hand lotions and dozens of perfume spritzers, which she dabbed on her wrists and ears as she had seen Madame do. After a while, she emerged. Beneath the domed vault of the impressive ballroom, rings of whispering girls eyed squads of posturing boys and occasionally a representative of one would pair off with a member of the other. First kisses, first fumbles—Tess knew she was a late bloomer compared with the others girls at Sainte-Marthe (even Mia had crossed that elusive bridge, spending the night with her brother’s best friend during the autumn half-term, although she was adamant they hadn’t had sex), but, even so, she wasn’t sure this enforced mating ceremony was necessarily the best place to do it.

  ‘Uh, excuse me …?’

  Tess turned. The boy had gel-soaked curtains plastered to his forehead and the frightened eyes of a hare tangled in chicken wire. She could sense his blush, wafting out of him like an open oven. ‘I’m Gilbert Toupin,’ he stumbled. ‘You can call me … uh … Gilbert. Would you like to dance?’

  She had heard the Toupin name. Old money. Their ancestral home was a sprawling château in Bordeaux and the parents were reclusive aristocrats.

  Over by the drinks, she observed Emily and Fifi pointing and giggling. Gilbert saw it too. Ashamed, he bowed his head. Tess took his hand. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.

  Throughout their dance she was aware of his erection pressed against her leg, and was too afraid to move in case it did something unexpected, or it got caught or she hurt it, and Gilbert, for all his bumbling ineptitude, would expose her own glaring inexperience. She thought of the bravado she had worn on the farm, the foolishness of her flirtation with Daniel. If it had gone any further she wouldn’t have known what to do. She would have feared ending up like her father, in the stables with Señorita Gonzalez. Even now, she could hear his groan. Could smell the sickly lavender …

  Gilbert’s embrace was clamped around her.

  ‘You’re so pretty …’ Gilbert mumbled into her ear. When the moment came and he adjusted his head to kiss her, homing in like a missile, she at last broke free.

  ‘I’m going to get a drink,’ she told him. ‘Back in a second.’

  ‘I’ll come with you—’

  ‘No. It’s OK. You wait here.’

  Tess spent the rest of the night doing all she could to avoid Gilbert Toupin. She hid in the loos, she disappeared outside; she smoked four cigarettes with a girl in her History class who everyone said was anorexic. Miserably she watched the clock, praying for the time to come when she could escape this torture, when all at once someone produced a bottle of vodka. Finally, the chance to get drunk; as the alcohol coursed through her bloodstream Emily’s acid scowls barely registered and, when Fifi Bissette cornered her with a lecture about how liquor didn’t suit fat girls because it made them believe they were pretty and thin and then they made idiots of themselves, Tess frowned, nodded seriously, and then smiled nicely and said:

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Fifi.’

  She had just refuelled for the umpteenth time, she’d lost count, when, turning, she knocked into somebody; the liquid splashed out in a silver arc and spilled all down his pristine white shirt. ‘Lo siento,’ she gasped. ‘I mean, excuse-moi! I’m sorry!’

  The man touched the material. She saw his hands; wide, capable hands, the fingers long, and the light covering of dark hair that escaped his wrists.

  ‘It’s no big deal.’

  She put her glass down and started dabbing his shirt with the drapery of her skirt. A blue stain started to spread. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Leave it. It’s fine. It was an accident.’

  Tess glanced up, but, instead of the hostile reception she was expecting, the face that met hers was gently amused. He had dark hair and a soft mouth, a square jaw, and the chest she had slammed into was warm and hard.

  ‘Alex Dalton,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  She shook it. ‘That sounds English.’

  ‘American, actually.’

  ‘Then why are you speaking French?’

  ‘Because you are,’ he replied. ‘We can speak Spanish, if you prefer.’

  ‘I’m not Spanish. I’m Argentinian.’ She tried to focus through the blur.

  ‘Oh,’ the man said, smiling a little. ‘Lo siento.’

  ‘Are you at school here?’ she blurted. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she was funny. She wasn’t funny.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re as rich and spoiled as everyone else.’ She would never have been so rude had she been sober, but in saying the words she realised she meant them. Tess wasn’t like them, or him, however much she kidded herself. She was slurring now and she could see two Alex Daltons, one overlapping the other.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ he challenged.

  ‘No. I was sold and kidnapped. I don’t belong here.’

  Alex Dalton laughed. ‘Well,
I ran away from home and now I’m hiding in a jewel thief’s cellar, and he only lets me out after dark. So I work here, as a waiter, filling up glasses for all these rich, spoiled kids. People like you don’t normally speak to me, so it’s a really special night when someone spills their illegally smuggled vodka all down my uniform. Do you need some fresh air?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  Haughtily Tess moved away, but as she did her foot got caught in the hem of her dress and she tripped. Alex Dalton caught her. She straightened, smoothed her skirt, and, filled with shame, shrugged him off and stormed out on to the terrace.

  Fresh air hit and with it arrived a slam of nausea. Her tummy flipped and her mouth filled with saliva. Panicking, Tess located the nearest plant pot—an elaborate Roman basin filled with bougainvillea—and hurled a spurt of raw alcohol into it.

  Someone was holding her hair back and for a crazy moment she believed it to be Mia, before remembering Mia wasn’t there. ‘Are you all right?’ came a voice.

  ‘Ugh! Get away from me! Can’t you see I’m being sick?’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Alex Dalton.

  ‘Go away. I feel terrible. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m taking you home.’

  ‘I can get home by myself.’

  ‘Come here,’ he held out his jacket, ‘put this on.’

  ‘I’m not cold.’ But when he came close to wrap it round her shoulders, she didn’t object. ‘Sorry if I smell,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Actually,’ he said in English, ‘you smell like a florist’s. Do you always wear this much perfume?’ Tess thought of all the samples she had doused herself in earlier, in the bathroom. How rude of him to comment on it! She pushed him away.

  ‘I’m teasing,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll bring a car round.’

  ‘Aren’t you working?’

  Alex frowned, as if he didn’t understand. Then he smiled. ‘They’ll manage.’

  The ride back to Madame’s appartement was hell, every swerve and turn causing her to grit her teeth and blanch a shade whiter. Alex instructed the driver to pull over by the Parc de Buttes-Chaumont so she could puke again.

  ‘Madame’s going to kill me,’ she despaired as she climbed back into the car.

  Alex thought about it. ‘I have an idea.’

  Moments later they stopped outside the Café Convivial, round the corner from Madame’s. Alex forced her to drink three espressos in a row and go to the bathroom so she could splash her face with cold water. When she emerged, she felt better.

  ‘You know you never told me your name,’ he said, when she sat down.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘How can it be complicated? It’s only a name.’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘Parents divorced?’

  ‘No. My parents are dead.’

  Alex stalled. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise—’

  ‘It’s OK. My name’s Tess.’

  ‘You look like a pirate.’

  ‘You say weird things.’

  They sat in silence. Alex watched her. ‘So who kidnapped you?’

  Tess scratched her nail around a check on the red and white cloth. She looked up into Alex’s green eyes and couldn’t decide if he was laughing at her or inviting her to laugh with him. She didn’t know why, but she told him; something in her craved to tell a stranger so she could try the story on for size, see how it sounded out loud, all at once. She told Alex Dalton everything, from the beginning, through Simone’s first visit to her being taken away, from London to Paris, from news they had sold her for cash to news of the robbery and the obliteration of her family and her home. She could talk about everything and keep her emotions in check but when she said Calida’s name she choked. She was tormented by every bad thought she’d had against her twin, every bad thing she’d said. It was no wonder she’d wanted to get rid of her.

  I wish you’d just disappear …

  With each revelation, Alex’s expression sank. His eyes lost their humour and his brow tightened. He didn’t interrupt; he listened.

  ‘I thought you were joking,’ he said quietly, when she’d finished.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When you said you were kidnapped.’

  ‘I suppose I wasn’t kidnapped,’ she admitted. ‘I told myself that because I couldn’t face the facts. I couldn’t accept that they did this thing to me.’

  A tear rolled out of Tess’s eye and plopped on to her skirt. ‘Why didn’t my sister want me?’ she whispered. ‘Why did she let me go? Now she’s gone and I …’

  Alex took her hand. She thought how small hers looked, under his.

  Alex wanted to say something meaningful, something that would help, but there were no words big enough. He kept his hand there, with his thumb stroking the back of hers.

  ‘Come on,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re tired.’

  He walked her back to Madame’s. Outside, on the steps, she hoped he wouldn’t try to kiss her. But all he did was to touch his lips briefly to her cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rubbing her nose. ‘I’m a mess. You must see so many girls like me, in your job—you must be sick of sorting them out.’

  ‘There aren’t any girls like you,’ Alex said. ‘Good night, Pirate.’

  Tess was through the door and straight into the glare of an anxiously waiting Hélène Comtois, before she realised he hadn’t asked for his jacket back.

  18

  Argentina

  Calida arrived at the coach station and bought the first ride out of there.

  ‘I’ve got one headed for Mendoza,’ said the woman at the counter, tapping on her keyboard. ‘Leaves at three. You’ll have to be quick.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ Calida fumbled in her bag and pulled out a stash of loose change. She handed it over, coins spilling across the desk.

  The woman counted it. ‘That isn’t enough,’ she said.

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No. You’re two hundred short.’

  Calida scrabbled in her bag for more, even though she knew that was all she had. ‘Do you have anything cheaper? I don’t mind where I’m going.’

  The woman frowned, but checked the system again. ‘Not until tomorrow,’ she said. She folded her arms. ‘How come you’re so desperate to get away?’

  ‘I’m not desperate.’

  ‘You look it.’

  Calida started scooping the coins back into the palm of her hand. The woman watched her, then covered the remainder and swept it into the kiosk.

  ‘Aca tienes.’ She peeled a ticket out of the machine. ‘Platform 9.’

  Calida’s hand shook. ‘Gracias.’

  ‘Keep the rest. But do me a favour? Get something to eat.’

  The journey was long. Calida’s eyes threatened to close but each time she jolted herself awake. Night fell over the road. Miles vanished as they sailed up the Ruta Nacional, the landscape changing from green to ochre and finally to black. They passed farms and lakes and forests, crossed bridges and wove between mountains, carved a line across open plains and rugged lowland. Calida had never been out of her region and the enormity of her country rolled away from her in all directions. The towns fascinated her, buildings filled with people and lives; dramas, hopes, and fears just like hers. She couldn’t decide if this was a comfort or not; there was a sense of entitlement over her anguish and she wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to share it.

  They stopped to refuel. At the side of the road a young boy found her eyes through the window. His feet were bare and he was holding a bucket out for change. His T-shirt was ripped and his arms were thin and brown. Calida couldn’t see his parents, or that he was with anyone. She smiled and the boy stared back, uncertain.

  They moved on. Sunset deepened. Melting gold seeped across a wide mauve sky. Shades of coral chased the fading blue and a heap of bloodshot clouds gathered on the horizon. Calida held her camera to it but the motion of the coach made it difficult to capture. A few people in the surr
ounding seats threw her curious glances and she wished she could take their pictures as well: the cracked-leather face of the old man opposite or the smooth-browed child making her dollies kiss. It made the moment she was in real and concrete, permanent, rocks in a sea of relentless change.

  She arrived in Mendoza just after nine. Her neck ached from the deep well of sleep she had toppled into as dawn was rising, unable to fight it any more. Dreams of Daniel hung on, intoxicating, the night she had spent lying next to him just one moon passed but at the same time impossibly far away, surreal, as if it had never happened.

  By now he would be wondering where she was; maybe he’d even be worried. But sooner or later Daniel would forget about her. He would find a new girlfriend—maybe he already had one—and Calida’s face would quickly fade from memory. He would understand there had been no future for her on the farm, in spite of how much she had loved it. Her papa was lost. Her sister was lost. So was her mother. The last person she had clung on for, the final string of hope, had been lost to her all along.

  ‘Esta es la última parada.’ A steward was holding an open litterbag and picking a wrapper from the adjacent seat. ‘This is the last stop. Are you getting off?’

  Calida blinked from her daydream. She was the only one left on the coach.

  ‘Sí. Gracias.’

  Grabbing her bag, she descended the steps and retrieved her suitcase from the luggage handler. She heaved it up the concourse and took a sweltering breath.

  Mendoza was furiously hot. The coach station was packed with travellers, teenage groups with their arms slung round each other and clusters of excited backpackers, tired mothers fanning themselves and families passing round food packets, the younger ones asleep on their parents’ laps. An old woman on a bench was sucking a mate straw and eyeing her beadily. Music played from a snack kiosk.

  Calida went inside and washed her face. In the terminal, she joined the ranks of tourists checking the Departures board. Two magic words danced out at her: