The Santiago Sisters

by Victoria Fox

  Vittorio stood from the bed.

  ‘Are you going out there?’ Tess asked.

  ‘No chance,’ he said, and began dressing. ‘I’m getting as far away from the city as I can. If the press catch sight of me, I’m a dead man. They’ll want to pin this on someone.’ An unpleasant snarl overtook his features. ‘Scarlet’s an attention seeker,’ he said. ‘She’s only done this to get me to come running. I won’t fall for it.’

  Tess was confused. ‘I thought you’d told her about us. You said you had.’

  He didn’t reply, just concentrated on knotting his tie.

  ‘Isn’t that where you were last week?’ Tess pulled the sheet up to cover herself. ‘Back at home, explaining everything to Scarlet? Leaving her?’

  Next were his shoes, black and gleaming as a 1950s Cadillac.

  ‘Vitto?’ she said coldly. ‘That is where you were, isn’t it?’

  He sat to tie his laces, his back to her. ‘I didn’t get round to it,’ he muttered.

  The TV continued its grisly report. Tess didn’t know which was worse—the idea that this desperate, troubled woman should have made an attempt on her life as a result of Vittorio’s aborted confession, or that she had gone to such ends purely on the back of her misery at his affairs. Tess was part of it. She had caused it.

  ‘This is wrong,’ she said, and the wrongness of it fell around her like bricks.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I come up for air. Whenever the hell that is.’

  ‘I don’t mean that.’ For the first time since their affair began, Tess saw the repercussions of her actions. Even if what Vittorio told her was true—that he and Scarlet had no feelings for each other any more—what she was doing was terrible.

  ‘You haven’t been honest with me,’ she said. ‘Or her.’

  Vittorio turned at the door. ‘I never said I was honest,’ he replied.

  ‘The only reason you and Scarlet hit the rocks is your infidelity. You’re not estranged at all. Your wife isn’t desperate to leave you. You lied.’

  He laughed, meanly. ‘Bit late for a conscience, Tess, isn’t it?’

  ‘I thought your marriage was as fake as mine.’

  ‘My marriage is nothing like yours. Your husband needs therapy—and fast.’

  Tess blinked at him. ‘You know about Steven’s club?’

  ‘Of course I know about his club. I was invited to ride that fucked-up carousel once and I thought he was joking, laughed straight in his face. I wasn’t asked again.’

  ‘You got up to other kicks with him, though, right?’ Nausea washed through her. ‘Other women?’ Vittorio morphed right then in front of her eyes, no longer a hero but a cheat—a nasty, conniving, manipulative cheat. She had thought he was different. He was the one who had set her free. ‘I’m not the only one, am I?’

  He met her gaze, then—for a long time, too long. ‘No. I’m afraid you’re not.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Tess was ready to press but didn’t. He was right. It didn’t matter if it was one or one hundred: once a bullshitter, always a bullshitter. Alarm bells should have sounded long ago. If he was willing to do this to Scarlet, he was willing to do it to her.

  How could I have been so gullible?

  She had made a point of becoming her own stronghold, surviving absolutely on her own and without support—for she could not rely on anyone or anything. All men will let you down … no matter how much you think you can trust them.

  ‘Get out,’ she said. The words choked out of her like knots on a length of rope. Vittorio was no better than Steven. They were one and the same. They would probably laugh about this later. He’d never had any intention of helping her out of her marriage, of raising her profile, all the things he had promised. ‘Get out!’

  For a moment, she expected him to argue. Then he smiled in that way she had fallen prey to so many times. ‘With pleasure,’ he said, opening the door.

  ‘Don’t call me again. Call your wife. If you do one thing, call your wife.’

  The door closed.

  Tess sat with the silence, as she had when she was a fifteen-year-old orphan in Simone Geddes’ castle, cold and alone and longing to run but having no clue where.

  April arrived and with it the fever of a Royal Wedding. All across England, crowds gathered to watch the marriage of Prince William to Kate Middleton. Patriotism coursed through town and country; bunting and flags were erected on every street.

  Simone Geddes, newly freed from the tyrannical misery of her marriage to Brian Chilcott (for that was how the press, or rather Michelle Horner, had spun it), attended the ceremony. It was her first outing since the break-up. She couldn’t have chosen a more apt occasion—quintessentially British, just like her, and reeking of more than high glamour: class, sophistication, breeding … longevity. Like the monarchy, Simone was an institution. Nothing was getting rid of The Ice Queen.

  ‘Simone, how are you?’ she was asked, addressed as carefully and tenderly as if she were a brittle china doll about to smash into a thousand pieces.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she answered meekly. ‘Bearing up.’

  ‘You’re looking so well. It must have been rotten for you, poor thing.’

  ‘It was. Neglect is a terrible ordeal.’

  Beneath the protective shield of her pearl birdcage fascinator, Simone made the perfect divorcee. At the end of the day, people wanted to like her more than they did Brian; they wanted to support her. After all, it had been she who had initiated the Tess adoption; she who had been chief breadwinner; she who attended industry engagements on her own because, as the press told it, her husband couldn’t be arsed.

  ‘I always thought you were too good for him,’ came the hushed platitudes. Lady Penelope Isley-Brackingford touched her arm and murmured through dog’s-bottom lips, ‘You did the right thing getting out, darling. You’re very brave …’

  ‘Thank you, Penelope,’ she said. ‘I can always rely on you.’

  ‘And you’re still with …?’

  ‘We’re taking it a day at a time.’

  ‘Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to pry …’

  The seeds had been cleverly sown. Nowadays people were afraid to ask in case of upsetting her: after all, she was the wronged party. Amid the furore they’d created in bitching about poor Brian, Simone’s affair with Lysander had drifted to the backburner, no longer a raging boil but a gently agitated simmer. Only a fool would have paraded a new lover about over the last eighteen months, especially one who was an ex-stepson. Instead, she had kept her fragile new relationship under wraps. Lysander lived at her Notting Hill bolthole, happy in rich anonymity and screwing her ragged whenever she dropped round. It was the ideal situation. Give it another year, Simone thought, and they could emerge as a pair. The Ice Queen and her toy boy …

  Was she mad with Emily Chilcott for spilling the beans? At first, she’d been incensed—but not any more: Emily had been the push she’d needed, the dodgy prawn that brought the rest of it up. Simone pitied the girl—she saw her old self in that grasping, self-serving, miserable behaviour that suddenly became irrelevant when one found peace in one’s heart. Simone could not wait to cry her love for Lysander from the rooftops. The thought occurred that she might be ashamed, embarrassed somehow by her transgression—but she wasn’t. She was proud of the treasure she had found.

  Only she could feel the thaw at her core, the cool finally melting. Unchained from her husband, she was emerging as a new woman. She wondered if she hadn’t always been this woman, hiding inside, barricading herself within blocks of frost to keep the memories at bay. Love had dissolved all that; she could feel it rushing away, like liquid. Love for Lysander, in whose hands she had softened.

  Love for Tess, in whose eyes she saw her future; her immortality.

  Simone did lament that Lysander and Brian were no longer talking—but what could she do? Brian was off licking his wounds in the Canadian Rockies. Knowing him,
it wouldn’t be long before he came creeping back to make amends with his son.

  Whenever she felt guilty, she remembered Brian’s lovemaking and instantly recovered. The thought of him with an Ottawan blonde caused her no trouble at all.

  As Simone watched the highest echelons of British society swoon over each other’s frocks, epiphany struck. She would share her enlightenment with the world. Michelle was pushing for a magazine spread (Simone looked better than ever: there was nothing like a bit of post-divorce anxiety to shed those extra pounds) with XS, the hottest studio in New York. What if they got Tess on board, too? What if they angled the item towards new beginnings, positive change, looking to the future? It would coincide perfectly with Tess’s resurgence. Maximilian would be pleased.

  In the meantime, Simone would enjoy this regal affair. She, the untoppleable queen, was resolute on her gilded throne. Let the minions come.

  40

  In summer 2012, Tess let herself into the Notting Hill love nest that her adoptive mother shared with Lysander and that no one was supposed to know about.

  ‘Hey—!’

  Lysander leaped up off the couch, startled. The curtains were drawn, the room shrouded in darkness, and on his Mac screen—which he flipped shut as soon as he saw her, but not quick enough—was a woman indulging in a wholehearted blowjob.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’ he seethed, clasping a cushion to his groin.

  ‘Sorry.’ Tess put down her bags. ‘Is Simone back yet?’

  ‘No.’ Lysander scowled, scooping up a box of tissues and kicking a jumbo bag of Monster Munch under the sofa. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’ He disappeared, and soon after a door slammed. Tess kept the curtains closed, and went into the kitchen to pull those blinds as well. She switched the lights off and wrapped her arms around herself.

  She shivered.

  It’s nobody. It’s nothing. It’s your imagination.

  But fear was hard to shake. It wasn’t as if it had happened only once. Instead she was sensing it more and more, troublingly often, in LA and Paris and London, everywhere she went, this sense of being followed … She told herself not to be stupid.

  Then why am I here? Why am I hiding like a fugitive?

  She hadn’t meant to come by unannounced, but had seen no other way. All afternoon she’d detected it. A shadow, a rhythm of footsteps; watching, waiting … That crawling sense of persecution; eyes on her, scrutinising, from the moment she left the interview to the taxi dropping her here, the only safe place she could think of.

  It was hardly uncommon for a woman in her position. Stars had attention on them twenty-four/seven. But this wasn’t normal. This was something else. A tingle on the back of her neck … a draught seeping under an attic door. A fatal instinct.

  Last week Tess had been convinced that a man was skulking behind her as she departed a shoot in Vegas, but every time she turned, he was gone. Emerging from lunch with Natalie on Friday, she’d thought she caught her name being called. ‘Did you hear that?’ But Natalie heard nothing. At Steven’s mansion, security lights had twice flooded the front lawns, and a warning alarm rang out like a woman’s scream. Guards had assured her it was nothing, a glitch in the system, but it wasn’t enough.

  Am I paranoid? Has this whole thing with Scarlet made me a nervous wreck?

  Admittedly, it had been a challenging time after the Vittorio split—made worse by the fact she could tell no one about it. Tess was haunted by the image of his wife lying in that hospital bed, knowing she had been the cause of such an act.

  She was relieved when Simone arrived at the house, and diverted her from her thoughts. ‘Darling!’ Simone exclaimed, beaming. ‘This is a happy surprise.’

  ‘I thought I’d drop by.’

  ‘It’s awfully dark in here.’ Simone opened the curtains with a strict flick.

  ‘I had a headache. It’s better now. Lysander’s upstairs.’

  ‘Good.’ Simone smiled. Tess saw how her adoptive mother glowed at the mention of her lover’s name. Lysander was a contrast to the rakishly handsome boy Tess had met when she was fifteen—these days his pallor was milky, his hair thin, and there was a comfortable paunch circling his middle—but Simone didn’t notice. She was in love. With gut-wrenching envy, Tess realised she would never experience that kind of love. She would never be able to find it, even know where to look.

  Simone sat on the chaise and removed her shoes. ‘I have a proposal,’ she said. ‘NY Mode. Michelle and I are pitching an item: “Delectable Divas”. Ryan Xiao’s photographing—or, rather, that partner of his that everyone’s gone crazy about.’

  Tess scanned through the plans on Simone’s tablet. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She was put off by the fact that Ryan’s celebrated associate was called Cal Santiago. Cal could be short for any number of names, of course, but all the same it was too weird, too close, too much a ghost of her dead twin. Clearly Simone hadn’t made the connection. Her eyes were aglow.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’d rather stay away from stuff like that …’ Tess confided. ‘For now.’

  The suspicion of her stalker raised too many flags. She had heard horrible stories about actresses’ homes being broken into, their underwear stolen, their trash raided, or worse. Assaulted. Raped. The idea of putting herself out there, being visible, was the last thing on her mind. ‘I don’t want the publicity,’ she finished.

  Simone perched next to her, concerned. ‘What do you mean, you don’t want it?’ She asked it in incomprehension, as if Tess were a drowning woman swimming away from a raft. ‘This is our life, darling. This is what we do. You’re Tess Geddes.’

  On impulse, Tess took her hand. ‘I know I am. Thank you.’

  Simone was confused. ‘Darling …?’

  ‘I never said it before and I should have. Thank you—for that and so much more: for bringing me into your family and saving me from my own. For rescuing me from my future—for taking me in when no one else did. Thank you for educating me. Thank you for putting food on my table and clothes on my back. Thank you for putting up with me when I was a brat and I’m sorry I was difficult. I know everything you did was for my benefit and I was too young to see it then, but I see it now. Thank you. Nothing can repay the generosity you’ve shown. I value it more than you know.’

  Simone’s eyes filled with tears. She hugged her. ‘Oh, sweetheart …’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, but I never found the right time. I’ve done some thinking lately, and I’ve realised what’s important. It’s been hard for me to trust. I thought I’d found trust with Steven but …’ She paused. ‘I was wrong.’

  Simone took her hands. ‘You can trust me,’ she said solemnly.

  ‘But you already know. You knew about him all along.’

  A sigh. ‘I tried to warn you. I hoped he might have changed.’

  ‘He hasn’t. I want a divorce.’

  Simone’s gaze hit her again, and when it did it shone like steel. ‘And you’ll get one. Don’t you worry for a second about that, Tess. If I can go through it and come up smelling of roses, you can too. And do you know what? It will make you strong. I could have crawled away with my tail between my legs, never to be seen again, but no—I kept going. I adore Lysander and I stuck to my guns. A divorced woman isn’t a leper. Stand up for your rights. You must set the record straight. You’re a survivor, and we’ll get through it together. You and me.’

  ‘I know. You’ve never let me down. Ever. You’re one of the few people who have always been there for me. No secrets, no lies. You’ve always told me the truth.’

  Simone pulled back.

  ‘We’ve always been honest with each other, haven’t we?’ said Tess. ‘That means so much. I don’t know what I’d do if that was taken away.’

  Simone regarded Tess seriously, as if there was something she wanted to say. Then she wiped her eyes and the moment was gone. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘But I’m still not doing the Mode piece.’ Tes
s smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  Simone held her hand. She swallowed hard. ‘That’s OK,’ she said.

  That night, back at the Kensington mansion that had once bustled with frictions and feuds but was now empty—pictures of Brian and Simone removed, Emily’s bedroom deserted and Lysander’s basement gym gone—Tess Skyped Mia.

  In minutes, she was given the advice she needed to hear: her stalker fears were unfounded, no one was out to get her, it was all in her head and what she needed was some time to get over Vittorio. Tess would always be grateful to Mia for not saying ‘I told you so’, especially since she was the only one who knew about Vitto and so bore the brunt of the break-up. Naturally, Mia had been stricken by Scarlet’s actions. The poor woman was still in recuperation and hadn’t been seen in public since the attempt.

  ‘Everything you’re thinking,’ Tess said, ‘I’ve already thought. I feel dreadful. It’s over with him. He was lying from the start. You were right.’

  Mia, as always, gave measured and impartial counsel, told her to run a hot bubble bath, watch Usain Bolt run his hundred-metre final, and get an early night.

  Tess padded to the bathroom and started the taps. She switched the blind down, shuddering when she thought of someone looking in. Someone waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  ‘What’s new with you?’ she asked briskly. ‘How’s the book?’

  ‘It’s OK …’ Mia trailed off into a leading silence.

  Tess knew that tone in her friend’s voice and sat on the rim of the tub, smiling.

  ‘What is it?’ she pressed. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me!’

  She could hear Mia’s returning smile and her own widened.

  ‘Well?’

  A beat, before: ‘Tess, I have news. Alex and I are getting married.’

  41

  New York

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  Calida put down her fork. They were at his Glen Cove retreat, naked beneath their robes and eating ice cream on the couch. Vittorio was looking straight at her.

  ‘What?’