by Lulu Taylor
‘No way! That’s for grandmas,’ Octavia declared. ‘All family portraits and antiques and enormous chandeliers. I don’t want that, I want to live like it’s now. We’ve spent long enough stuck in someone else’s life.’
‘We could always redecorate, make it the way we wanted …’
‘No, I haven’t got time for that. I want somewhere we can move into immediately. Besides, I love everything about this place. The dressing rooms are beyond amazing.’ Octavia turned to the agent, who was standing patiently by the doorway, watching the sisters. ‘How much is this place?’
‘It’s twenty-five million. You might be able to negotiate a little … the owner is a hedge funder who’s been badly bitten in the crash. He wants a quick sale.’
‘Perhaps he’ll throw in the furniture and the gym equipment?’ Octavia suggested. ‘We don’t have anything, you see. Just our clothes, and not many of those. His stuff would do to get us going.’
The agent looked bemused. ‘Well, do you want me to make that a basis for an offer?’
‘Octavia!’ hissed Flora, grabbing her sister’s arm. ‘Twenty-five million pounds! Don’t you think we should talk to someone about this?’
‘It’s nothing – twelve and a half mill each. It’s hardly going to make a dent, is it? And it’s an investment. Property in the heart of London … anyone would say that’s an excellent buy.’ Octavia spoke loftily, as though she’d been reading the financial pages all her life. ‘I want this house, and if you don’t, I’ll just buy it without you.’ She knew she was being high-handed and if Flora really dug her heels in, would certainly not buy the house by herself. The idea of their living apart was ridiculous. But she was certain this was the right place for them both. We need to break free of everything Aunt Frances stood for, she told herself. And that includes her choice of wallpaper.
Flora sighed. ‘A-a-all right,’ she said. Octavia noticed the stammer. It usually wasn’t a problem when her sister talked to her. It must be a sign of the stress of the decision. ‘G-g-go ahead if that’s what you want.’
‘Yay!’ Octavia rushed over to her sister and hugged her, then jumped up and down with delight. ‘Thanks, Flo-flo! You won’t regret it, I promise. We’re going to be really happy here!’
The agent looked thrilled as she realised that she had just made a cash sale, and that a percentage amounting to half a million pounds would be coming her agency’s way.
Just then Flora scrabbled in her bag and pulled out her iPhone. ‘I felt this thing move … someone’s sent me a message. It’s Vicky.’ An expression of bewilderment crossed her face. ‘How on earth do I read it? I can’t get to grips with it.’
‘Here, let me.’ Octavia grabbed the phone and tapped the screen. She had mastered her phone much more quickly than Flora had. She read the message. ‘She’s in Lola’s on Fulham Road, and says to join her there.’
‘Right,’ Flora said. ‘Well … I’d better go. I’ll see you back at the hotel, Tavy.’ She smiled at the agent. ‘Th-th-thank you.’
‘You’re so welcome,’ said the agent feelingly. ‘Any time … really, any time.’
‘Say hi to Vicky for me,’ Octavia said, then turned back to the agent. ‘Now, can we go and see that cinema again? I’m so excited!’
5
Flora shut the front door behind her and ran down the stone steps to the pavement. So this is going to be our new home, she thought. It was a beautiful house, there was no doubt about that. The little library appealed to her most, a small, panelled room hidden away on the ground floor with a cosy sofa and a fireplace and lots of books. That was the only place where she thought she might be able to feel secure. The rest of the house was so wide and open, without the nooks and crannies she was used to.
I’m sure I’ll grow to love it, she told herself. Octavia obviously did, and Octavia knew about things. Life was often organised by her more tempestuous sister and, because Flora trusted her absolutely, she would go along with whatever Octavia wanted. It had always been Octavia who’d broken rules and tried to run away, right from the time they were tiny, and Flora who’d complied with whatever she’d suggested. The first place they’d run to was the playhouse at the bottom of the garden. Octavia had persuaded Flora to take their bedding and some clothes out to the wooden house with its miniature furniture and pretend kitchen, little carved shutters at the windows and a ladder to the upstairs floor where they made their bed. Octavia had said Flora should take some cushions from the drawing room, and even though she’d known it was wrong, Flora had done it. Later, when the nanny, white-faced and frightened, had discovered them, they’d been marched to Aunt Frances. Octavia had declared that it was her idea and that she’d taken the cushions all by herself, and she took the punishment alone while Flora was sent upstairs to her room.
She always did that, Flora remembered. She always tried to protect me. She stood in front of the house, looking up and down the road, trying to orientate herself. She decided to retrace their steps, and set off towards what she hoped was the Fulham Road.
London was still a mystery to her. She knew she was on the border of South Kensington and Chelsea, in one of the most expensive areas in the world – there were probably more millionaires in the surrounding streets than you could shake a stick at – and that no doubt was why Octavia thought they would fit in here, but Flora couldn’t see how she ever would. She was daunted by this enormous city, full of so many people. Aunt Frances had made sure that they had spent most of their lives so far in peace and quiet, removed from others, with only a few carefully selected people ever allowed into their world. They’d been educated almost entirely at home. When they’d travelled, it was in the seclusion of private planes and limousines, and when they’d arrived at another of their homes, the huge gates and electric fences had shut them in just as they did everywhere. Even when they toured places – famous cities, historical monuments – it was in private, on specially arranged visits with guides and guards everywhere.
‘I must keep you safe,’ Aunt Frances had said solemnly, though she’d never explained the nature of the danger or what she feared might happen to them. Whatever the danger was, it needed to be kept at bay with locks, alarms, security guards, fierce dogs and panic rooms. In case the danger came inside the house, little cameras observed the corridors and main rooms, their tiny red lights glowing to show they were vigilant; sometimes they swivelled with a mosquito-like electronic buzz to follow whoever was walking past, their dark lenses like single glinting eyes.
The most adventurous event in the girls’ lives was being sent to finishing school in Switzerland for a year when they were eighteen, but that had hardly been life in the fast lane. The school was designed for young ladies who required certain standards to be met, and most of the other pupils had been the daughters of billionaires or Saudi princesses whose reputations rested on the all-female staff, the constant chaperoning, and the school’s promise that its wealthy pupils would be protected by bodyguards at all times. There were no mobile phones, only monitored access to computers and the internet, and any television programmes were carefully chosen for their educational content.
Still, they had learned to make profiteroles and a sauce chasseur, and how to embroider on silk. Apart from French, skiing, a little art and piano lessons, there was absolutely nothing else to do.
The repressive atmosphere had driven Octavia wild. She’d been anticipating freedom at finishing school and the reality was a great disappointment.
‘Out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire!’ she’d groaned, throwing herself on her single bed. She’d hated the way they were constantly watched, and had loathed the docility of the other girls, who hadn’t seemed to mind the curtailment of their freedom. Of course, she’d tried to break out, just as she always had at home, and she’d been lucky not to be expelled for rule infringement – the only reason she had not been sent away was Aunt Frances’s money.
Flora hadn’t minded so much, though even she had to admit that it wa
s a restrictive way of life. She had heard the rumours about other schools in the area where the girls were permitted to go skiing alone, take trips into town, visit the local discos, even, it was said, bring boys back – though Flora hadn’t believed that. Mademoiselle Estelle’s was nothing like that. The only person in trousers was the chef, and no one ever saw him.
Flora had never confessed to Octavia that she had found being at the school a relief. She’d enjoyed the company of the other girls and liked the quiet pursuits she’d been given to do, and she’d always loved skiing since they were first taught at three years old. Most of all, she’d loved the anonymity of just being one among many. All her life, she and Octavia had been the only two – the only two in the classroom, in the playroom, at their riding lessons. She hated the constant attention. At Mademoiselle Estelle’s, her stammer had disappeared almost entirely. It was only when they had to go back to Homerton that it had returned.
I ought to be happy that I’m free of the place at last, she told herself. So why did she feel so lost and frightened all the time?
She wandered along the streets of Chelsea, not sure of where she was going. Octavia had told her that her phone had some kind of fancy gadget in it that meant she could access a map if she needed one, but she had no idea how it worked. It was hard to believe the smooth black tablet even was a telephone; it certainly didn’t resemble anything in any of the houses where she’d lived. But then, her aunt was not exactly up to date with the latest technology.
Flora stopped and looked about her. Where am I? she thought desperately. All the roads, lined with huge houses behind forbidding gates and severe hedges, looked similar and she recognised nothing. Oh, God – I have no idea where I am, or how anything works … this is all just madness!
The feeling of being overwhelmed – that buzzing sensation of things closing in that seemed to grip her more and more since they’d left Homerton – washed over her again and she felt tears burn in her eyes. The confusion was almost too much to stand. She felt wobbly and faint, and a sob started in her chest, shaking her shoulders and then catching in her throat. Reaching out, she held on to a gate post, determined to control herself, feeling that if she let herself begin to cry, she would not be able to stop.
Why is it so hard for me? she thought, agonised.
The phone in her bag began to ring and she scrabbled for it, picking it up and pressing wildly at the little screen before putting it to her ear. Somehow, miraculously, she had managed to answer it.
‘Yes?’ Her voice came out quavering and high.
‘Where are you?’ It was Vicky, sounding familiar and comforting. ‘I’m in Lola’s. Are you nearly here?’
‘I don’t know!’ wailed Flora. ‘I’m lost.’
‘Hold on … I’ll come and find you, don’t worry. Tell me the name of the nearest road you can see.’
‘Er … it’s … I think I’m near Chelsea Square.’
‘Okay, you’re quite close. Don’t panic, I’m on my way.’
‘You’ve got yourself into quite a state,’ Vicky said sympathetically. She’d found Flora only fifteen minutes later and brought her back to Lola’s, ordering them both a restorative pot of tea.
Flora nodded and managed a weak smile. ‘I feel so silly. Everything just got a bit much for me for a moment.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Vicky shook her head, her dark red hair glinting as she poured out a cup of Earl Grey. ‘You’ve had a lot to handle lately.’
‘I know. I just feel so … at sea. I have no idea of how the world works. Octavia’s different – she’s rushing at everything and getting to know it all in moments. I’m not like that. I suppose she always knew something of life beyond Homerton – she was always reading books and magazines and watching the telly shows and trying to find out all she could.’
‘It’s a shock for you,’ Vicky said adamantly. ‘Aunt Frances kept you far too protected – we all knew that. But no one could do anything about it. It wasn’t right, shutting you away like that. I mean, you hardly had any friends at all, did you? Apart from me and Laurence.’
‘You know Aunt Frances. She only trusted people she knew. She always said that you were the perfect companions for us – cousins our own age.’
‘Well, we were,’ Vicky said, with a smile. She still looked, Flora thought, very much like the girl who had come to visit them at Homerton all those years ago. The Staunton children, Vicky and Laurence, were the Brigadier’s great-niece and great-nephew and therefore considered suitable companions for the twins; their background was safe and they posed no threat to the girls. All other children were suspect and very few of them were allowed into Homerton.
‘You were a good friend to me back then,’ Flora said warmly. ‘Remember our Christmases when you all came to spend the day? So exciting! For once we were allowed to run around and play games and shout as much as we liked.’
‘Of course I remember. We loved them too, you know.’ Vicky grinned back. ‘It was pretty different from the way we lived at home. You seemed to exist in a fairy tale.’
The girls smiled at one another. Flora remembered how Vicky would arrive at the house in her best dress, which was always a little shabbier than the twins’ matching velvet frocks and white suede Mary Janes, her curly auburn hair brushed and pinned back with a bow, while Laurence’s equally curly hair would be stuck down with water and he’d have a tie on, which he clearly hated. The Staunton children would always be wide-eyed at the twins’ life at Homerton, and the way they were surrounded by every luxury, their rooms full of toys, books and puzzles, the stables stocked with bicycles, roller skates, trampolines and dozens of other amusements. From the others’ gasps and comments, Flora sensed that not every child had as much as she and Octavia did. Everything that she took for granted seemed to bowl the other two over; the Christmas tree, a giant Norwegian spruce dripping in decorations, was pretty enough but it didn’t impress her the way it did Vicky and Laurence, and the piles of gifts underneath were simply what always appeared. Weren’t all children taken to Harrods on a special private shopping expedition and allowed to pick out everything they wanted for Christmas? It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to her, but the reaction of the other two led her think that perhaps it was.
‘And there were our secret letters – remember?’ Flora laughed. ‘I can’t think what secrets we had to tell each other, but we managed to think of some.’
‘I bet you couldn’t wait to find out that I had new shoes, or had pressed some flowers or something.’ Vicky laughed too, and sipped her tea.
It had been Flora’s only real act of rebellion; she’d written letters to Vicky, stolen stamps from the desk in the library and then hidden her little envelopes in the tray for outgoing post on the table near the front door, slipping them underneath the others. Vicky’s letters back to her were always opened and read by Aunt Frances, so the girls had made a code to swap news without being understood – a simple thing where one sentence actually meant something else. Flora had not even told Octavia about the code; she had not thought her twin would be interested. Octavia had never warmed to Vicky. She’d preferred climbing trees with Laurence instead.
As they’d all grown older, Flora had seen Vicky and Laurence less and less. The Stauntons had gone to school, and during the long summer holidays the twins were away at the Connecticut house or at the seaside villa in France. Relations with Vicky had cooled slightly as they’d grown into teenagers, though Flora had no idea why, and the letters and codes were forgotten. Vicky no longer seemed as wide-eyed and impressed by what the twins had, but rather a little distant and pointedly underwhelmed. When Flora had tried to interest her in the boxes of clothes that had arrived from Harrods or Bloomingdale’s, Vicky would put her nose in the air and affect total uninterest. After a while she stopped coming to Homerton altogether, except on family occasions.
It had been lovely to see her at the birthday party, a familiar face among the overwhelming sea of strangers. Vicky had been wearing a fanc
y dress costume in shiny fake silk that looked a little cheap next to some of the other marvellous outfits, but she still entered into the spirit of the occasion. She’d been affectionate and happy to see her cousins, eager to celebrate their twenty-first birthdays. When news of the inheritance had spread, Vicky had phoned to offer congratulations and then had visited for tea. Flora had loved rediscovering her cousin, someone who was a real friend with shared memories, and the two girls had hit it off wonderfully well. They’d seen each other again soon afterwards, and Vicky had been an amazing support to Flora ever since then. It was a sign of how comfortable Flora felt with her that her stammer virtually disappeared when they were together.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Vicky asked now. ‘You’ve got your colour back.’
Flora smiled at her cousin. ‘Much better, thanks. I feel safe with you, Vicky. You know about London and the outside world.’
Vicky grinned. ‘Well, most of us have to. Besides, I’ve lived in London for a couple of years now. You’ll get used to it, I promise.’ She took another sip of her tea, staring at Flora over the top of her china cup. Vicky had become more sophisticated these days: her auburn locks were still curly but now were carefully dried into a thick straight mass of hair, and she’d learnt to use make-up to show off her chestnut-brown eyes to their best advantage. She dressed in simple but well-cut clothes in shades that flattered her colouring: dark greens, russet browns and rich purples.
‘Looks like I’m going to have to get used to this place. I think Octavia’s just gone and bought a house.’
‘Really?’ Vicky put her cup back, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes – not far from here. Near the Physic Garden.’
‘Nice area,’ Vicky said non-committally.
‘So I’m told. And the house is gorgeous in its own way, even if it’s not quite to my taste. But it seems rather expensive. Twenty-five million.’