Beautiful Creatures

by Lulu Taylor

  She knocked on Flora’s door, to give her the same message, but Flora was not in her bed, a four-poster identical to Octavia’s but swathed in delphinium-printed chintz. The sound of water coming from her bathroom indicated that she was showering.

  No lazy lying about for Flora, Frances noted. She was always the more diligent of the sisters. Frances turned and left. The maid bringing up their breakfasts would make sure that Octavia had alerted Flora to the meeting in the library. Dear Flora, so sweet, so unspoiled, Frances thought to herself as she returned to her own rooms to tidy her hair and powder her nose. Always so quiet and obedient. Quite unlike headstrong Octavia. If I could, I would keep Flora here … she would make the perfect companion. Frances sighed. There was little chance of that. She was sure that once set free the little birds would fly away like the dove to dry land, never to be seen again.

  At 12.30 Frances was sitting in the library, her least favourite room in the house. It was dark, lined with untouched leather-and-gold volumes, and furnished in burgundy leather and mahogany. It smelt of the Cuban cigars the Brigadier smoked, and the side table was covered in heavy decanters of whisky, brandy and port. On the darkest side were those grisly cabinets, covered in their protective green baize cloths. No, she didn’t like it at all. This was her husband’s territory, where he got up to his own masculine pursuits and drank his whisky. As a rule she preferred to sit in her own morning room, where she could listen to the radio and do her sewing and her painting in peace. Peace was all she’d ever wanted, after all, and if that meant closing her eyes to some of the less pleasant things that happened, so be it.

  The Brigadier stood over by the window, in his casual clothes of baggy cord trousers, a soft brushed cotton shirt and a grey cardigan – less distinguished now that he was out of uniform. He was silent, as usual. He rarely spoke, but simply watched everything that went on. The lawyers were sitting a trifle stiffly on their chairs, shuffling papers and talking quietly to each other.

  ‘I take it all is ready?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Staunton,’ answered Challon, the senior lawyer present. He was rarely seen out of his office. Clients tended to go to him except in rare circumstances. This was obviously one of them. ‘We only require the principals now.’

  Frances looked down at her watch. It showed 12.30. There was a knock on the door.

  Good. The girls were well trained, after all. They knew what standards were expected and the consequences of not meeting them.

  ‘Come in!’ she called.

  Everyone turned to look as the library door opened. A young woman put her head round it and then came in. She was tall and slender, with a rangy coltish look and platinum-white hair that reached down past her shoulders, falling in a glossy curtain that curled slightly at the ends. Her face was dominated by wide blue eyes that had a violet tinge to them and were made even more dramatic by long dark lashes and the straight dark brows above them. Her most overwhelmingly attractive feature, though, was her air of unself-consciousness, as though she hadn’t the faintest idea of how stunning she was. Certainly she wasn’t dressed like a sultry sophisticated woman, but rather girlishly in a plain grey dress that looked almost like a school uniform, although she had belted it at the waist with a wide three-buckle twisted leather belt. She walked into the room in flat black ballet slippers, looking about her with interest, clearly curious about the men in their dark suits sitting opposite her aunt.

  She was followed by another young woman, and the combined effect was almost supernaturally strange. This girl had her hair scraped back with an Alice band and wore a white jersey top under her grey dress and no belt. Apart from that, the two of them were identical. They had the exact same blue eyes, with those remarkable dark lashes, and high cheekbones that curved down to a small neat chin. The lawyers shifted in their seats: it was startling to see two separate human beings who so closely resembled one another, even though they’d known they were to be meeting identical twins.

  Frances stood up. ‘Good, you’re here. Gentlemen, may I introduce Octavia –’ she gestured to the girl wearing the leather belt ‘– and Flora.’ She waved her hand at the other. ‘Sit down, please, girls.’

  The sisters went silently to the chairs she had indicated and sat down neatly, feet together and hands folded in their laps. They waited expectantly.

  Over by the window, the Brigadier lit his pipe and puffed out a cloud of tobacco smoke that smelt like a mixture of vanilla and burnt leaves. No one paid any attention to him.

  ‘Now,’ began Frances, ‘you are probably wondering what’s going on. Girls, yesterday you turned twenty-one. That is a remarkable moment in anyone’s life – the transition to true adulthood. But it’s more remarkable for you than most. I don’t need to remind you that you are the children of a special young man, one who was cruelly taken from us in the prime of life, before he had achieved even a tenth of his destiny …’ Frances walked over to a grandly framed oil portrait of her brother that stood in place of honour on an easel in the middle of the room. ‘Here he is, Arthur Beaufort, the great hope of our family.’

  Octavia looked bored while Flora gazed down at her hands. They had clearly heard something along these lines before.

  Frances reached out to touch the painting. The young man in it also had startling blue eyes under thick, straight black brows. He was sitting formally by an open window that showed a Cambridge college in the background. One hand was resting on a degree scroll and over the back of his chair hung a mortarboard.

  ‘He was brilliant, you know,’ Frances continued, her voice mournful. ‘This was painted to celebrate his first-class degree from King’s. The tragedy was that he never lived to fulfil his early promise. Dead before he was thirty. My poor, beautiful Arthur …’ She bowed her head momentarily then turned to face everyone in the room. The girls immediately snapped to attention. ‘But he left us this legacy. You, Octavia and Flora, are his living bequest to us. His children.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘He would be very proud of you if he could see you today. And … he left you more than that.’ She looked over at Challon. ‘If you would please explain?’

  ‘Certainly.’ The elderly lawyer coughed lightly and looked down at the green leather folder he was holding. Then he said, ‘Young ladies, today you come into your inheritance. The terms of your father’s will were that your fortune should be guarded for you in trust, with your guardian having main control of that trust, along with a few other trustees. You received the first portion of your inheritance when you turned eighteen …’

  At this, the sisters looked surprised and shot quick, covert glances at one another.

  ‘… but under the guiding hand of your guardian, who had total discretion over what you should receive.’ Frances’s face remained impassive as Challon spoke. ‘Now that you are twenty-one, those restrictions are removed. The money becomes yours to do with as you wish. I will need you to sign some papers, and there will be some further formalities. I also wish to put at your disposal certain financial advisors who will endeavour to explain the situation to you and give you some pointers as to how to guard and maintain your inheritance.’

  The two girls stared at him for a long moment and then Octavia frowned and said, ‘Are we free to leave here?’

  Challon looked puzzled. ‘Of course. You’re free to leave at any time. There haven’t been any restrictions on your movements, except the usual discretionary rules laid down by your guardian – your aunt.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girls looked at one another again.

  Flora spoke up next, in a soft, almost wispy voice. ‘H-h-how much? I mean, how m-m-much is our inheritance?’

  Challon coughed again. Frances raised her chin and stared up into the murky darkness of the ceiling.

  ‘Your father’s total legacy amounts to two hundred and eighty-five million pounds. To be split between you equally. So you have each come into your inheritance of one hundred and forty-two million, five hundred thousand pounds.’

  The sister
s gaped at him, unable to believe their ears. Even the hardened lawyers, used to enormous sums of money, raised their eyebrows and exchanged looks.

  ‘Congratulations, young ladies. You have just become very rich indeed. Now, Mrs Staunton, shall we witness the necessary signatures?’

  3

  Octavia whirled about the room, tossing books and pictures on to the sofa, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

  ‘Tavy, Tavy!’ cried Flora, trying to calm her sister down. She had a strange nauseous feeling, as though the bottom of her stomach had dropped away, or she had just plummeted a hundred floors in a lift. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Doing?’ Octavia stopped whirling for a moment and clutched the back of the sofa with one hand, the other arm flung wide. ‘Don’t you see? We’re free! We’re free at last! Oh my God …’ She clambered over the sofa and collapsed on its soft cushions, giggling and breathless. ‘Didn’t you hear what they said? We’re rich. We can go anywhere we like, do anything!’

  ‘But …’ Flora blinked, bewildered. All this had happened so fast. First there had been that party. Only last night. That had been terrifying enough – she’d been sick for days beforehand thinking about it, horrified by the idea of so many people watching her. Only Octavia had been able to give her the strength to face it. Octavia always had so much strength herself, there was plenty left over for her sister. ‘But where are we going to go?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Octavia’s eyes were burning brightly. ‘Anywhere. Out of this prison.’ She sat up and held out her hand to Flora. Her sister went to her and took it, and they clutched one another tightly. ‘Don’t you want it too?’

  ‘You know I do,’ Flora said in a small voice.

  ‘Then let’s go tonight!’

  ‘But how? I don’t understand how it’s going to happen. Some men have told us we have money, but how are we going to get it? Nothing seems any different to me.’

  Octavia sighed. The fervour in her eyes died down a little. ‘You’re right. We can’t go tonight. There will be masses to sort out, I suppose. But we will go. As soon as we can.’

  Later that night, after a solitary supper eaten without a sign of their aunt and uncle, the girls went about their usual bedtime ritual. After their baths, they dressed in their pyjamas and then sat on Octavia’s bed, slowly brushing out one another’s hair. When they were very little, a nanny had taught them to brush their fair hair with long firm strokes, telling them it would make the hair strong and healthy, and ever since they had done the same thing every night, finding comfort in the routine.

  Flora pulled the Mason Pearson brush through Octavia’s locks. Their whiteness was unfamiliar. It was symbolic of how everything had changed overnight, she thought. Yesterday they were themselves. Today they were possessors of fabulous wealth, platinum-haired heiresses, about to strike out in the world on their own.

  ‘I’m going to telephone that lawyer tomorrow,’ Octavia was saying as she knelt on the bed, her legs tucked up underneath her. ‘Aunt Frances will have to let me. Did you hear what he said? We got money on our eighteenth birthdays, and she never told us. If she tries to stop me, I’ll tell her we’ll sue her or something.’

  ‘Do you think we could?’

  ‘I’m sure we could. I’ve read in plenty of books that concealing that sort of thing from someone is criminal. I bet I could frighten her into letting me. Besides …’ Octavia shrugged. ‘She can’t stop us any more. I bet she’s just like a pussy cat from now on.’ She turned to look over her shoulder at Flora. ‘Her powers have been melted away. She’s like the witch in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy threw the water over her.’ Octavia did an imitation of the witch’s screech. ‘I’m melting, I’m melting!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘But where will we go?’ Flora asked, unable to stop the waves of worry that kept rippling through her. ‘This is the only home we know.’

  ‘We’ll go to London. Where else? Don’t worry, I know exactly what we should do,’ Octavia said firmly.

  ‘We’ll always stay together, won’t we, Tavy?’

  ‘Of course we will.’

  Flora pulled the brush through her sister’s hair, softly dragging it from the scalp to the very ends which she held in her palm. ‘Nothing will change, will it?’

  ‘Only for the better.’ Octavia squirmed round so that she was facing her sister. She grabbed Flora’s arms. ‘Nothing will change between us, I promise. How could it?’

  Flora felt comforted. She smiled. ‘Good. We’ll stay the same. That’s all I need to know.’ She hugged Octavia back, finding the comfort she always had in the warmth of her sister’s nearness. As long as we’re together, everything will be all right.

  4

  Two months later

  Octavia walked through the house, almost high with excitement, as the estate agent, crisp-looking in a black pinstripe suit and sharp white shirt, led them from room to room and floor to floor.

  ‘The cinema,’ the agent said, opening the door to a windowless room dominated by a huge screen and two tiers of purple velvet chairs so wide they looked like small sofas.

  ‘Oh, I absolutely adore this one,’ Octavia said happily. ‘A cinema, Flora, look!’

  Flora came up to her and gazed into the room. ‘Mmm,’ she said.

  From the moment they had walked into the building, Octavia had been overwhelmed and starry-eyed. ‘It’s like something from a magazine,’ she’d breathed, as they entered the great bold space with its polished plaster walls and smooth wooden floors. It ought to have seemed cold and soulless but the masterly design made it endlessly interesting, from the banks of celadon-green lacquered cupboards in the kitchen, along with up-to-the-minute dishwashing and fridge drawers – no old-fashioned stand-alone appliances in this place – to the bathrooms that seemed carved out of single great pieces of grey marble. The whole place was light but with the warmth of a smaller dwelling, not the chill of a bare loft.

  ‘This house was originally a warehouse that was later converted into artists’ studios,’ explained the agent. ‘That’s why there’s so much light and space. You don’t normally find rooms this size in properties of this age.’ She opened another door. ‘The owner uses this as a gym. It was obviously once one of the studios.’ She led them into a large, light room full of fitness equipment, a long mirror running along one wall.

  ‘Is the stuff included?’ asked Octavia, running a hand along a black-and-silver treadmill with all manner of complicated-looking gadgets on its handlebar.

  ‘I’m sure the owner will be open to any offers,’ the agent replied.

  Flora spoke to the agent for the first time, her voice almost a whisper. ‘W-w-what’s that?’ she asked, pointing. ‘It looks like some kind of m-m-medieval torture instrument.’ There was a big contraption loaded with weights and pulleys and a sliding platform on which one was clearly supposed to lie down.

  ‘That’s a Pilates reformer,’ explained the agent. ‘They’re the latest thing. They cost a fortune but apparently they’re marvellous.’

  Flora stared at it, her mouth open.

  Octavia bounced up and down excitedly. ‘Come on, show us the rest!’

  ‘This way.’

  They went back out along the wood-floored corridor. A flight of stairs curved away to the upper floor. The whole house was a graceful amalgam of straight and curved lines with no hard edges, a simple yet sophisticated design that made it seem amazingly easy to live in.

  ‘The owner got a top-name designer to do this place. Everything – and I mean everything – is bespoke,’ said the agent as she led the way. ‘It’s all hand-made and meticulously finished.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Octavia said sincerely. She was enchanted with the house. She’d always spent hours poring over fashion and design magazines, and could see at once that this was up-to-the-minute modern elegance of the kind she had always craved.

  Flora pulled at her sister’s sleeve as they climbed the stairs to the top floor. �
�I liked the other one best – the one on the square.’

  They had seen a much more traditional house, almost a cottage, done up in muted pinks and whites, with a large front garden that opened on to a private square. It had been more cosy than this house, decorated in an appealing shabby-chic vintage style, with faded floral prints, white-painted floorboards and even a baby-blue Aga in the kitchen.

  Octavia wrinkled her nose. ‘No … no … I can see why you like it but it’s too twee, too … cute. I’ve had enough floral chintzes to last me a lifetime back at Homerton and everywhere else Aunt Frances was in charge of the decorating. Besides, we need to be where the action is. Look at this place, it’s right in the heart of things.’

  They emerged into a room at the top of the house, a place to relax, read books and listen to music. It was the only room that had anything on display: white lacquered shelves that defied expectations of symmetry with odd-shaped and -spaced cavities full of books and CDs. State-of-the-art speakers and sound system were concealed behind bright red lacquered cupboards, along with a huge flat-screen television. Modern zigzag chairs, bean bags and long low sofas provided comfortable berths to laze on while listening to the music or watching TV.

  ‘Oooh, the chill-out zone!’ said Octavia happily. ‘I adore it. Just the place to watch some telly, tucked away at the top of the house.’

  ‘There’s a lift here too, if you don’t fancy walking,’ the agent said, pointing to a small door at the back of the room. ‘It goes all the way down to the basement, so you can come straight here from the pool or the underground garage.’

  ‘Cool.’ Octavia went over to the window and looked down over the Chelsea traffic and the people bustling about five storeys below. ‘Look.’ Her breath fogged the glass as she spoke. ‘I love it here. It’s so busy. This is the place to live, I’m sure of it.’ She turned back to look at her sister, eyes sparkling. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  Flora was standing by one of the low sofas, gazing at the perfectly matched and positioned cushions. She looked over at Octavia, her eyes anxious. ‘Well … I did like the other place … or the Cheyne Walk house.’