by Victoria Fox
‘She told me you were dead.’
I am. Am I?
‘I’m coming for you.’ Teresita’s voice was shrill, now, wet with tears but with that same determination she’d possessed since her birth. Calida pictured her crying and wanted to hold her, make the bad things go away. She always had; that would never change. ‘Tell me where you are, Calida. I’ll find you. Where are you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Calida was so tired, too tired … ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘Calida? Talk to me, you have to keep talking. Calida—’
‘I’m in trouble,’ she murmured.
‘I know. It should have been me. It was meant to be me.’
‘You said we weren’t sisters any more. You didn’t want me in your life.’
The line flickered, crackled; she thought it would cut out. ‘No! It wasn’t like that—after I left I never contacted you again. Because Simone told me you’d been killed. She wrote that letter, Calida. Not me. I don’t know what it said but I promise you I never saw it. Never. I thought you’d rejected me. I thought you’d sold me.’
Calida saw the two of them, two sisters, reunited on the ranch. A paradise plain of echoed laughter and whispering trees, of rolling earth and reaching skies.
‘I would never do that,’ she whispered.
Teresita was shouting now, hysterical, but her shouts reached Calida’s ears as sighs, so far away, so far … ‘I’m tired,’ the phone slipped, ‘I have to sleep.’
‘No—’
‘Adios, pequeño … Te amo.’
That was the last thing she said. She was glad she had got to say it, the single truth that eclipsed all others, before unconsciousness stole her away.
Epilogue
January, 2015
Simone was in mourning—but it was hard to know for whom.
A man she had met only twice: once, as a baby, then again, as the intruder who had stabbed himself on her stairwell days before.
The funeral took place in London. That was where he’d been born and where he should be laid to rest. Nobody except Lysander—and those present in the aftermath of the scene—knew the facts. To the rest of the world, he had been an associate, a distant acquaintance Simone had deigned to honour.
In a lifetime of courting the press, she had been spared this final intrusion. Imagine if they had caught wind of the truth … It was bad enough that she knew it.
In the Mortlake churchyard, Simone Geddes and Lysander Chilcott watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. She would have preferred him to have been cremated, gone for good, not lying under the soil, forever in this spot, so she would know he was there and be compelled to visit him. David. No, Martin. He wasn’t the child she had given away, with his sweet, round cheeks and bracelets of fat. He was a monster, drunk on vengeance, whose warped reality had led him to that point of no return.
A psychopath had replaced her infant, and, despite Simone’s countless imaginings of the person he might have become, none were anything close to this.
She had witnessed his destruction. Would never forget it, no matter how many Valium or sleeping pills or Prozac she rattled down her gasping throat.
The nights were the worst. That was when she was forced to think about that horrible final encounter, playing it on a loop until she was sick. She remembered it pace by pace, piece by piece, how she had entered the apartment, not quite normal, how she had watched him emerge and been unable to speak.
On the stairwell, they had locked in stunned silence. And then there it was, the opportunity to tell him everything she had yearned to tell him as a girl, about how sorry she was, how she would have chosen any outcome but that, how she’d had no choice. But no words came. The boy she wished to tell them to wasn’t him.
Martin had lifted the dagger, glinting pure silver, and …
Simone shivered, as the frozen sky cracked and gave way to a drift of sleet. Lysander reached for her hand and held it. Thank God for Lysander.
Their critics could rot. She didn’t care. The relationship had started as a short-term solution to a long-term boredom, but had grown into true and lasting affection. Into love … Together, they were plotting their retreat from the public eye. The old Simone would never have considered it. The new Simone was realising that celebrity wasn’t everything. When it came to it, fame didn’t matter. Family did.
She had learned the hard way.
‘In sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life …’
The priest droned on as the coffin was lowered into the wet, cold earth. Simone had paid for the funeral trimmings. It was the least she could do; give her son a proper burial when she had given him an improper birth.
How sadly it had ended … but how much worse it might have been.
Martin Gallagher had meant to kill Tess. Beloved daughter. The thought filled Simone with stark horror, even though she knew that Tess was safe. She knew he hadn’t succeeded. Instead, he had unwittingly locked on to her twin.
Learning of Calida Santiago’s rise through the ranks was a sobering revelation indeed. The connection with Ryan Xiao was nothing short of inconceivable; it didn’t seem real. How could Simone have been so blind? She’d heard the name often enough but hadn’t joined the dots. Simply, her world and that child’s were utterly distinct: they could never overlap. But that child had become a giant. That unruly, wild-eyed girl on a windswept farm in Patagonia had grown into one of America’s biggest names. Simone had underestimated her. Seeing what Tess had had made her fight. How tragically it had ended … that her efforts should come to this.
Simone stood a little straighter, as the cracked ground made way for her son.
‘Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us …’
She knew she was beyond forgiveness—but that maybe, one day, Tess would think differently, and find it, buried deep, in her heart. Simone would be there.
She would wait as long as it took.
All Simone had wished for in that cold attic, the morning her grandmother took her baby away and she had wept in a heap on the floor, was a family who loved her. That family started with Lysander. She could only pray it reached out to Tess.
She wasn’t letting another child go.
On an LA film set, Emily Chilcott waltzed off her scene and straight into the glowing praise of her jubilant director. Steven Krakowski embraced her, his hot cheek pressing against hers and a load else pressing besides—but they had to be careful.
‘You were breathtaking,’ Steven groaned into her hair, snatching an opportunity while the first AD was out of sight. ‘Just like last night …’
Emily basked in his approval. She still couldn’t believe that Steven was hers—this great, coveted man whose career could send her own into the stratosphere!
Well, he wasn’t quite hers yet, because it had to stay under wraps. How could they confess to the blossoming relationship after what had happened to Tess?
They couldn’t. But still …
Emily’s mind reeled back to the night they had spent, the latest in a chain of illicit hook-ups. Sex with Steven took her to places she had never dared visit. He had opened up to her, confided his fetishes on the first occasion they had slept together. Emily would do anything to please him, and, while his preferences grossed her out, this was Hollywood and Hollywood was full of kinky shit, so what was the big deal?
Roll with it, she instructed herself, as she cradled six feet plus of world-famous director wearing a cosy, cotton Babygro. Slap on a smile and get to work, as she nursed him and sang him lullabies, pinned his nappies, and filled his bottles.
‘Tess never understood,’ he whined, cuddling his blanket. ‘She was afraid …’
She just didn’t want it as much as me! Emily decided, as she opened Steven’s bedtime story and allowed him to fondle her tits. Maybe at some point she would get tired of it, but she was savvy enough to grit her teeth until she got what she wanted.
Steven had promised her a starring role i
n Miller & Mount’s newest venture, which was tipped to be a smash. She would become a household name overnight.
Steven was the key to her future.
Emily Chilcott would do whatever, or whoever, it took to get there.
She was destined for the stars; she always had been.
Steven Krakowski enjoyed possessing a new plaything. It made it sweeter that Emily was Tess Geddes’ stepsister—maybe one day Tess would reflect on their union and see the gifts he could have bestowed on her, and regret having let him go.
That was wishful thinking, he knew, as he watched Emily Chilcott return to set amid a gaggle of stylists. Emily was pretty, and biddable, but she was nothing against Tess. Tess was a goddess. He regretted how things had ended between them. Steven had loved her, at one point, or as close to love as he was likely to get (the only woman he had ever adored wholeheartedly was the huge-breasted nanny who looked after him as a boy: whenever she’d chided him he had spent an hour in the bathroom, rubbing himself until he was raw). It wasn’t his fault Tess had turned round and stabbed him in the back. When she’d gone missing, he had half hoped that would be the end of her. While her death would have injured him, it would at least have marked the demise of a bargaining chip that was sure to haunt him to his dying day.
Instead, that freak stalker had targeted another girl, a fashion photographer who bore a remarkable resemblance to his ex-wife. It had been unfortunate for the girl, and, Steven thought, unfortunate for him. His blood ran cold at the idea that his perversions could ever be found out. Always, Tess would hold that secret against him, one she could employ at any point and however she saw fit. It was a troubling notion.
He had none of the same concerns with Emily. She was a kitten, and now they had got physical he was starting to see what she was really made of … just how far she was willing to go. The budding actress desired fame to an unreasonable degree.
What would she do to achieve it?
Steven would take great pleasure in finding out.
At her parents’ house in the heart of Paris, surrounded by home comforts and the reassuring company of her family, Mia Ferraris kissed her boyfriend.
Officially, they had been together for only a week—but already she had brought Gabriel back to France. Weeks like the week she’d just had only reinforced that every second was precious.
Béatrice and Anton adored him. Gabriel and Mia were absolutely right for each other. While most fledgling relationships pivoted on a string of nervous first dates and anxious second-guessing, theirs had been thrown in deep from day one.
In Barcelona, Gabriel had been privy to a drama that was so enormous and so scandalous that the rest of the planet could never know about it. He was a strong, ambitious, unflappable man—and, true to form, had stayed purposefully discreet on the matter. After Tess’s call to her sister, Gabriel had driven them both to the airport. He had accompanied them to America and helped sort through the aftermath.
He loved Mia for all the ways that made her unique—and she loved him back.
But her newfound happiness didn’t stop her thinking about Tess. As the New Year passed and they all stepped carefully around the omission in the room, Mia couldn’t help but worry. What was Tess doing? How was she feeling? They had been in touch constantly after the event, but since then Tess had asked for space. Mia had to respect it, even if she spent every second fearing Tess was alone, or sad, or afraid.
‘Here,’ Anton said, refilling her coffee cup over the breakfast bar, ‘this’ll warm you up.’ Mia smiled at him. It took effort, and he sent her an enquiring look, to which she responded with a nod.
I’m OK. Bearing up.
Gabriel was helping with that, but even so the trauma would take time to work through. She recalled the stricken look on Tess’s face when she had made that call, unable to fathom the voice she had heard, her features collapsing by the second, then the searing tears, part horror, part joy. The return race to America, helpless in their jet, waiting for the hours to pass and knowing by the time they got there it could be too late. The victim had been Calida all along. Calida had disappeared. Calida had got into that van. With whom? Why? What did they want? So many questions.
Maximilian cleared the airport for their return. Tess and Mia had rushed to the hospital and to Calida’s bedside, where they heard that, in a final twist, Simone Geddes had been the one to find her—beaten black and blue by a psychotic fan, starved and drugged … and all along mistaken for Tess.
If only they had got there sooner.
Then things might have been different.
Some days Mia wished it had been Tess who’d found her—surely that would have been right? Others, she knew it would have been worse. At the end of their journey, the person who had stolen Tess from her home was the one to rediscover it.
Tess had gone into the hospital suite alone.
Mia would never forget her face when she came back out.
She bit back tears. Her best friend had been through so much—and then to have to go through this. She wished she could take some of the pain for her.
‘Hey, come here.’
Gabriel came to sit next to her, hooking an arm round her shoulders and pulling her in close. Thanks to him, she could start looking to the future. They would face today together, then tomorrow, then the year ahead.
She only hoped that Tess could do the same.
In a New York bar, Julia Santiago shoved the man off and demanded that if he wanted to molest her tits he would need to buy her another drink first. Like a kicked puppy, he obeyed, sliding a five-dollar bill across the bar and burping gently. ‘You wanna get out of here?’ he drawled, once the brandy had arrived and Julia had necked it in one.
She ignored him, eyes glued on the TV screen, though it was difficult to focus through a quart of liquor. ‘They’re my daughters, you know,’ she said.
The man followed her gaze. The bartender’s interest momentarily piqued before he snorted a laugh and turned his attention to a nearby waitress in a short skirt.
‘Oh yeah?’ the man sneered. Foggily, Julia turned to him and noticed that his hair was balding, his skin was beige and sallow, and his eyes watered unattractively.
Is this what it’s come to? Julia thought. Is this it, the sum of my life?
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m their mother.’
‘You’re wasted is what you are.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
The man ordered more brandy. Once again Julia chucked hers back, the liquid scalding her throat. ‘No offence, lady,’ he said, ‘but you don’t bear no similarities.’
Julia couldn’t deny that. In the bar mirror she saw a saggy, withered old drunk who had thrown away a fortune and a lot more besides. Why won’t my girls give me a chance? Why won’t they take me back? Calida was dead and gone; there was no way to reconcile with her. But Teresita would come round, wouldn’t she?
Wouldn’t she? Then these bastards would eat their words.
Julia Santiago would rise again—she didn’t care what the hell it took.
‘C’mon, let’s get out of here. Twenty bucks, right now, back seat of my car.’
Julia thought what twenty bucks could buy her. She followed him out.
At her new home in Stockholm, Scarlet Schuhausen put a hand to her growing stomach and smiled. It was a happy New Year indeed.
‘Everything all right?’ Henry Doric kissed her, tenderly and softly, not at all like the brusque, matter-of-fact kisses she had grown used to with her ex-husband.
Scarlet removed the last of the baubles from the Christmas tree and returned it to its nest of white paper. It was strange how the universe worked.
She still couldn’t believe it, had to say it aloud to savour its truth all over again. I’m pregnant. With the news, her outlook had transformed.
Henry Doric was ten times the man Vittorio had been. Since they had fallen in love he had shown her a new path, one away from her stifling parents and snooty, horrible friends. His
way was honest and sensitive, decent and loyal—qualities that had been lacking so far. In turn, Scarlet had turned her life around. She had started visiting a therapist, had come off her medication, and felt stronger by the day.
Looking back, it was almost as if someone had been steering her, making the decisions, all the important ones, for her. Scarlet was a new woman, filled, quite literally, with new possibilities. Nothing could stop her now. Finally, she had the ending she deserved—and she didn’t care what anyone else thought.
As was the knowledge that it hadn’t been her with the fertility problem … All those times she had tried to conceive a child with Vittorio, in the hope that might make him stay. So many nights she had lain awake, fearing she was to blame—but no. It had been Vitto all along, with his proud, jutting, and ultimately useless cock.
It was surely only a matter of time before Vittorio realised that the seed he sowed so ruthlessly across so many women’s sheets was defunct. When the time came, as surely it would, that Vittorio wished to produce a successor, he would find he was firing blanks. It seemed a fitting comeuppance. If it came at all …
Her relationship with Vitto seemed juvenile in comparison with Henry—all about scoring one-ups and competition. She could hardly stand to think of it.
With Henry, she had found her reason.
And with that reason, she had abandoned her hatred of Tess Geddes.
How could she hate Tess now? Instead, she pitied her. It was preposterous that Scarlet’s name had been associated with the attack and kidnap, as if she would ever have gone to such lengths to hurt the woman. Rumours had circulated for a while that Scarlet had hired a hit man, that Tess had feared some goon creeping up on her in the middle of the night and strangling her in her bed, all on Scarlet’s instruction.
The notion would make her laugh if it weren’t so awful. Sure, she had loathed Tess. Sure, she had imagined wreaking all manner of extreme revenge. But even if she’d had the guts to carry any of it out, her pregnancy changed everything. The truth was, she had visited America before Christmas to share her news with her extended family. It had been such a joyous disclosure that she had wished to do it in person, and, yes, before she left, she might have seemed highly strung—but where was the surprise in that? Scarlet might have slandered her, she might have reviled her, she might have targeted her as a badge for the pain she had suffered, she might even have wanted to give her a scare—but she could never have physically harmed Tess Geddes.