The Santiago Sisters

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Sí, por favor, cógeme …’ Abruptly, Rodrigo took her head. He flipped her round on the sheets so he was fucking her mouth from above. His balls crushed against her chin. All at once he emitted a thin, high yelp and her mouth was filled.

  ‘Your turn,’ he murmured, before seconds later she felt his breath between her legs. Working his tongue on that spot that drove her crazy, Rodrigo sent her hurtling towards orgasm in less than a minute. Grinding against him, Calida pulled his hair and dug herself against him and then she came. His tongue tasted her even as she rode one wave after another, further out into the thrashing, limitless ocean.

  On the tango floor, Rodrigo Torres was an expert. In bed, he was a matador.

  Each time Calida slept with him, she opened up a little more towards the sun. Anxiety turned to confidence. Uncertainty turned to courage. Fear of the future turned to an absolute need to meet it and make it hers. Her flesh caught fire and with it her soul, her ambition awakening after endless seasons in the shade. Sex was proving to her once and for all that she was worth just as much as her twin. She didn’t have to believe her mama’s lie that she was nothing special and no one significant—because Rodrigo Torres proved otherwise. He proved that it was good to be Calida Santiago, and that knowledge implanted deep inside her, rare and precious.

  On Calida’s twentieth birthday, Rodrigo invited her to a Mexican restaurant on Santa Fe. The owner gave Rodrigo a brotherly clap on the back: ‘Your usual table?’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’ Calida asked as she slid into the private booth, enjoying how her new red dress clung to her curves and its daring, plunging neckline. She could feel Rodrigo staring at her. She could feel other men staring at her.

  ‘Not often,’ said Rodrigo evasively, and consulted his menu.

  It made a change to be out in public. Normally Rodrigo elected to stay in her apartment, the blinds drawn and the phone off the hook, ‘Because then I can make love to you whenever I like.’ Tonight, it felt more like they were a couple. It occurred to Calida that she should be pleased at this development, but the truth was she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. Rodrigo captivated her, he obsessed her, he had her craving him like a drug … but she didn’t love him. She couldn’t. She would never love a man, not truly, unless he was a blond-haired blue-eyed gaucho called Daniel Cabrera.

  ‘Doesn’t she look exquisite, Nico?’ Rodrigo said as their waiter came to take their order. Nico nodded and asked: ‘Is it a special occasion, Señor Torres?’

  Rodrigo started to shake his head, just as Calida said: ‘It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Can we help you celebrate?’

  ‘No, no,’ Rodrigo jumped in, ‘we’ll keep it low-key, won’t we, mi vida?’

  When Nico had gone, he reached across the table and took her hand. ‘You understand, cariño—it’s only they’ll bring out a cake and a song, make a spectacle of it, draw unwanted attention … I’m a celebrity, and I’d rather not be spotted.’

  Calida drank her wine, observing her lover carefully over the rim of her glass. While things were casual, she couldn’t see a reason for such secrecy. Even at El Antiguo, Rodrigo pretended they had no connection, avoiding her eye when he was onstage and she was in the shadows, zooming her lens on his performance.

  ‘Don’t you see it turns me on?’ Rodrigo would murmur, later, when they were alone. ‘It’s role play, Calida; it makes me want you even more …’

  As they ate, she noticed how his eyes kept darting to the door. How he didn’t quite focus on her while she was talking. How hastily he requested the check.

  What game are you playing? Calida thought.

  After the meal, Rodrigo followed her into a taxi and kissed her all the way back to Belgrano. ‘Me volves logo,’ he whispered into her neck, his hands roaming her breasts, ‘you drive me crazy.’ He took her fingers and guided them to his cock, encouraging her to rub its stiff length through the material of his trousers.

  The taxi pulled up and he threw a bundle of notes through the window.

  Up in her apartment, they didn’t even bother turning the lights on. Rodrigo unbuckled himself and hitched up her skirt and screwed her ferociously against the wall. Straightaway, she came. Shattered by her orgasm, she let herself be spread on the floor and when that wasn’t enough he told her to get on her front and lift her ass in the air. From this angle, the penetration was intense. Rodrigo gripped her buttocks, his thumbs hooking her wide, as he thrust himself towards an explosive ejaculation. Calida climaxed again, seconds before he did, tensing and shuddering around him.

  ‘How was that, birthday girl?’ he crooned as he lay next to her.

  Calida watched him for a long time, in the dark, until she fell asleep.

  Things came to a head in December. It had been quiet enough at the pizza café for Calida and her staff to spend most of the afternoon out back in the manager’s office, scrolling through profiles on Facebook. Everyone was on it, it seemed. She didn’t get it. ‘Why would you want to spy on people?’ asked Calida.

  ‘It’s not spying,’ said her friend Alicia. ‘It’s keeping in touch. Come on, there must be someone you want to find?’

  ‘Not really.’ But after the others had left, Calida typed in her sister’s name: Teresa and Teresita and her occasional nickname, Tere. Nothing.

  She tried ‘Tess Geddes’. Nothing. No one.

  Of course there wasn’t. She wished she hadn’t tried.

  Tess Geddes wouldn’t be thinking of her, would she? She’d be too busy loving her new life. Why should Calida bother? The only time she wanted to think of her selfish twin was when she pictured the moment they would meet again. Tess Geddes wouldn’t recognise her. She’d be a worm against what Calida had achieved.

  Rodrigo was meant to be picking her up at six. He preferred to meet her at the rear doors so they could slip into his car unseen. ‘Paola has eyes all over town,’ he said, counselling that Paola didn’t like romances to blossom in the workplace.

  Today, he was late. When seven o’clock came and went Calida ditched him and began the long walk home. All night she watched the phone for a call, or kept an ear out for the buzzer downstairs. Where was he? The annoyance she felt at having asked Paola for a night off, only for it to be wasted, was soon replaced by concern. Nine p.m. and still no word. On a whim, she rang El Antiguo. Paola answered immediately.

  ‘Is Rodrigo there?’

  ‘He isn’t working tonight. Is that Calida?’

  ‘Yes … I’m meant to be meeting him.’

  There was silence on the end of the line. ‘Hello?’ she prompted.

  ‘Calida, stay away from Rodrigo outside of hours—do you understand?’

  ‘Why?’

  She heard Paola speak to somebody else, then a door clicked closed and the buzz of the salon receded. ‘You’re dating him?’ Paola asked wearily.

  ‘Yes. Although—’

  ‘He doesn’t want anyone else to know.’

  Calida held the phone a little tighter. ‘Actually, he says—’

  ‘He says it’s more exciting that way.’

  ‘Have you been talking to him?’ She was furious.

  ‘No,’ said Paola. ‘But I have been in your shoes.’

  Calida was shocked. ‘You’ve been with Rodrigo?’

  ‘Bella, who hasn’t? He’s taken you to El Horno Mexicano? He always wants to meet at your place? He’ll only go near you in private? Rodrigo’s a player. He’s a stud. He’s keeping twenty beds warm as we speak. Every girl thinks she’s the only one—believe me, because I got scorched. If it weren’t for his ability to pull in the crowds I’d have abandoned him years ago. He hurt me. In the end, he hurts all of us.’

  Calida tingled with anger. Misgivings she’d had since her birthday solidified and she couldn’t bear the humiliation, the disgrace. How dare he?

  She banged the phone down. Immediately it rang back but she pulled the cord from the wall, glowing with fury, and resisted the urge to stamp on it.

  She had
suspected there could be unfinished business—an ex-girlfriend, perhaps, someone he hadn’t quite ended it with—but tens, dozens, more? Paola? She thought of his cronies at the salon, the way they looked over as she was going through her pictures, the sideways leers they delivered to Rodrigo. Who did he think she was, some easy lay who would smother him in kisses and tell him it didn’t matter; she was lucky to be with him at all so he could go right out and screw who he liked because she’d be happy with any scraps she could get. I’m better than that. I deserve more.

  Calida fixed a drink and downed it in one, and realised she felt quite calm. Paola’s revelation confirmed only what she had known. It didn’t wound her. It made sense. Rodrigo was using her, sure … but hadn’t she been using him, too?

  She’d never had feelings for him—only fascination. Rodrigo stood for every man she had been convinced would never find her attractive; every man that should have belonged to her twin, not to her. Beneath his tutelage, she had gone from shy, inexperienced ingénue to sexually poised siren—and she wouldn’t take his shit.

  The flurry of a TV news bulletin distracted her attention. Images of a raging inferno filled the screen, unfolding live downtown, as they reported a fire breaking out at República Cromañón. Bodies were being brought out on stretchers. Journalists recounted to camera. She poured another drink, not taking her eyes off the screen.

  Suddenly the door erupted in a battery of knocks. Rodrigo swept in, his arsenal of alibis at the ready. ‘Cariño, I’m sorry. I’ve had a hell of a journey …’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Rodrigo nodded to the TV. ‘Good, you don’t need me to fill you in.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘No, but the streets are chaos. It took me an age.’

  ‘What,’ she consulted the clock, ‘five hours?’

  He splayed his hands in a gesture to be calm. ‘Go easy on me, baby. I’ve had a bastard of a night. I need a brandy.’ He shrugged off his coat and went to the kitchen.

  ‘I had a conversation with Paola Ortiz tonight,’ said Calida, following him in. She saw him tense and thought: Coward. ‘Are you seeing other women?’

  Rodrigo stayed perfectly still. In that moment he was no longer the formidable tango dancer every woman coveted; he was a boy caught with his pants down.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked. He was a terrible liar.

  ‘I already know. You might as well come clean. You’ve been with a woman tonight. You weren’t anywhere near those poor people at the fire.’

  Rodrigo paused; thought about whether or not to deny it. ‘It was the only night she could squeeze me in,’ he said eventually. It was an unfortunate choice of words.

  ‘You’re a fucking asshole,’ said Calida. ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’

  ‘Wait, cariño, I can—’

  ‘Explain? Deny it? Don’t bother.’

  ‘I care about you.’ He reached for her. ‘I want to be with you, Calida. Forget the rest, they’re nothing. We’ll be together, just the two of us—what do you say?’

  Calida looked at him, eyes pleading, arms outstretched, and all she felt was sorry for him. Rodrigo had given her what she needed and now she could walk away. Not so for him: he’d be stuck with himself for all eternity, facing a cheat and a liar every time he looked in the mirror. ‘You’ve given me all I wanted,’ she said coolly.

  ‘So have you,’ he was hopeful, ‘I feel like that too—’

  ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘Go home.’

  ‘I could stay. I—’

  ‘No, you couldn’t.’

  There was a moment, and Rodrigo’s face froze, caught somewhere between shock, fury, and respect. Unused to rejection, he grabbed his coat. ‘Suit yourself,’ he spat. ‘But don’t come running when you change your mind—this was your chance.’

  There was no risk of that. It was clear, now, what she had to do—and she should have done it a long time ago. For the first time, Calida was strong enough. She was a woman who could own up to her desires, tell the person she loved how she really felt: that there would be nobody else but him as long as she lived, and she could spend her life running from that fact but it would always hunt her down.

  ‘There’s only one chance I have to take,’ she said. ‘And it isn’t with you.’

  Rodrigo banged the door behind him. Before Calida could change her mind, she rescued the phone from the floor and fixed it back into the wall.

  Breath held, she dialled his number and waited for him to pick up.

  Please be there, Daniel.

  Tell me it isn’t too late.

  23

  Los Angeles

  The second week in July, Tess boarded a flight to America.

  Simone sat next to her in First Class, alternately sipping champagne and buffing her manicure. ‘Are you ready for this, sweetheart?’

  ‘I was born ready.’

  Simone plucked two silk eye masks from her carry-on. ‘Get some sleep,’ she said, passing one to Tess. ‘You’re going to need it.’

  They touched down at LAX early evening. Simone was anxious to reach the Malibu beach house she had purchased over the phone (‘Over the phone?’ Tess had gasped when she’d learned of this news, ‘You mean you haven’t even seen it?’ to which Simone had replied, ‘I use a trusted buyer out there, darling: sometimes you’ve got to know when to delegate’) and instructed their driver to go there immediately.

  Tess was tired after their flight. In the end she had stayed up, too wired to sleep, and watched back-to-back movies. But there was no way she was closing her eyes now. Through the car window, the balmy boulevards of gleaming Los Angeles melted past in a gorgeous, golden-hued haze. LA was one of those cities she felt she already knew, from Simone’s gilt-edged gossip, from films, from girls at Sainte-Marthe who returned from its sun-soaked beaches and A-list bistros brimming with tales of the illustrious Hollywood Hills … but seeing it in real life was something else.

  It truly was the Beautiful City. Every street was a runway, every corner a photo shoot. Nobody was bigger than a UK size 8 and there was a sense of everyone checking everyone else out, if for nothing else than to check out the fact that they were being checked out. Men and women bragged their physiques: tiny butt-clinging shorts whizzed past on rollerblades; perky breasts and honed pecs burst from vest tops; toned legs wrapped round a throbbing motorbike; tresses of sun-kissed hair blew in tousled perfection from an open-top Jeep. On the sidewalk, a woman who made Simone’s plastic surgery look like a particularly kind chemical peel trotted past on Barbie-pink heels, the dog on the end of her spangly lead wearing a fuchsia cape.

  ‘You’re in a different league, honey,’ said Simone. ‘Believe me.’

  The heat, melting out of the day, was sugar-scented. Palm fronds rustled against a stained mauve sky. Tess could smell the ocean, a mix of salt and coconut tan lotion. The air buzzed with promise. Excitement surged. I’m here. I made it.

  Half an hour later, the car pulled on to an oval drive. Tess got out and gaped in amazement at the villa. It was enormous. Lush green lawns ran in an immaculate slope to the entrance, sprinklers raining diamonds on the grass. A white stone façade sparkled like chalk. Twin verandas were capped with arched hoods. Through a copse of trees, Tess spied the swimming pool, a sheet of lime, and next to that a tennis court.

  ‘Well?’ Simone was in her element. ‘What do you think?’

  Tess found her tongue. ‘I thought it was an apartment.’

  ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘I do! Shit, I mean of course I do. It’s incredible …’

  Simone clicked her fingers and the driver produced their bags. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said, ‘get a feel for the place.’ She tapped a code into the security gate and they were admitted. Padding around the cool interior, with its marble surfaces and ornate furnishings, was like being in a museum. Five bedrooms, three showers, and two wet rooms, two freestanding claw-footed bathtubs, a kitchen fitted with Sub-Zero and Gaggenau,
a gym and sauna, a Jacuzzi, a masseur’s slab, a library and movie theatre, and, just when Tess thought she had seen it all, another floor, another room, another staircase—but then she didn’t need to take those, because there was a lift.

  And then, at the back of the house, the pièce de résistance: they were right on the shore. Tess held the railing as if she were on the prow of a steamer, open water before her, yawning to an unknown horizon. Endless Pacific Ocean shimmered in the dusk, as far as the eye could see. On the caramel strip of sand that banked on to her terrace, a couple walked hand in hand. Further up the beach, a man ran with his dog.

  ‘Well?’ Simone stepped up behind her. ‘Can you see yourself living here?’

  ‘I love it,’ Tess replied. She really did.

  The month passed in a maelstrom of meetings, castings, parties, and power play.

  Tess met every mover and shaker in LA, and it turned out her adoptive mother’s discrimination had succeeded in making Tess Geddes a sought-after commodity before she had even arrived on American soil. No one wanted to be left out—even industry titans. All who met her fell beneath her spell. Simone had promised them beauty, but they had never seen a woman like Tess. Her sensuality was raw, free from affectation or decoration; her colouring was gorgeous; her accent was sexy yet fragile, the burned sienna of Spain mixed with the ripe husk of France, polished off by an expensive pout of English regality. At twenty, she was beyond stunning. Never mind the face that launched a thousand ships—Tess Geddes could launch a million.