by Grace Lowrie
‘But he’s staring at you,’ Celeste pressed, concerned.
I shrugged. ‘He has some learning difficulties, and he’s probably a bit lonely, but he’s harmless, honestly.’
‘OK, if you say so.’
We made plans to meet for dinner later in the week and before she left Celeste programmed her email address and number into my mobile phone. It was the first time since we were fourteen years old, that I’d had a means of contacting her and I was oddly moved. We hugged goodbye and as soon as I reached my desk, I texted her my contact details in return. Her simple response, a smiley face and a kiss, had me grinning to myself like a kid – my first text from Celeste!
It was 8.45 p.m. by the time Celeste met me for a curry on Friday evening. The Indian restaurant on Chiswick High Road was cheerful and unassuming but Celeste seemed happy to go with my suggestion. I chose a delicious, but safely mild, prawn korma while Celeste ordered a hot chicken Jalfrezi and ate it without breaking a sweat. We washed everything down with Kingfishers as we talked, laying the stresses of our working week to rest. When the bill arrived I insisted Celeste let me pay and eventually, for the first time ever, she relented.
‘I’m knackered,’ Celeste yawned, ‘but I don’t want to go home yet.’
‘You could always come back to mine?’
‘OK.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course, I’d love to see your place.’
‘Are you sure? It’s not much to look at – it’s run down and cramped …’
‘I’m sure!’ Celeste said with a laugh.
‘OK,’ I said sceptically. ‘It’s only round the corner; we can walk there from here.’
‘Great, let’s go.’ Celeste slipped her arm through mine, swaying slightly.
As I unlocked my front door I couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. I’d never brought anyone back to my flat before. My mum came to see it shortly after I first moved in and I’d had a plumber round to fix the leak under the kitchen sink, but otherwise, no one. I hadn’t been with my last boyfriend Mark very long before it had fizzled out and on the few occasions we spent the night together I’d stayed at his place in Docklands. I never invited friends back because it was just too small; there was barely anywhere to sit. My entire flat consisted of a staircase and two rooms. The stairs led to the kitchen-living room at the back of the building, where a narrow breakfast bar divided the room into two pocket-sized living spaces, while doubling as a dining table and desk. The west-facing front room was my bedroom, with a bathroom squeezed into one corner and my double bed, a wardrobe, and a chest of draws squeezed into the other three. If I had to describe the overall look I might have called it ‘shabby-chic’ but perhaps nearer the shabby end of the scale. Don’t get me wrong, I liked my home; it was cosy and welcoming and filled with my things, but it was nothing compared to the sort of accommodation Celeste was used to and I didn’t want her pity.
At the top of the stairs I switched on the main light and invited Celeste to make herself comfortable on my little two-seater. But she just smiled tipsily and gazed around so I busied myself – lowering the kitchen blind, pushing the drift of research papers on the breakfast bar into a neat stack, clearing the dry dishes from the draining board and into cupboards, and moving books from the coffee table to the already crammed bookshelves which dominated one wall. Celeste was very quiet so while she looked at a collection of my treasures on the kitchen window sill I moved into the bedroom to check the state of it. The room didn’t look too bad; the bed was made and my towels were neatly drying on the bathroom rail but I collected an empty glass from the floor beside the bed and stepped back into the other room.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ I asked, inwardly cringing at my nervous formality.
Celeste was now standing at the bookcase with her back to me. ‘No thanks, I’m good,’ she said distractedly without turning around.
It was weird having someone else in my little home. I moved over to the sink and washed the glass just for something to do. Then I switched on the radio but it was Friday night dance music – too energetic for our current mood – so I switched it off again and put on the CD player instead. The melodious strains of Alicia Keys filled the room and I turned it down low.
‘I love this album,’ Celeste murmured, ‘I haven’t heard it in ages.’
‘Yeah, I don’t buy CDs very often.’ I moved over to Celeste to see what had got her so engrossed. On one shelf I had propped three reproduction Wiener Werkstätte postcards. They were Mela Koehler illustrations from the early 1900s, featuring fashionable women of the period. Celeste tilted her head to the side and rested it on my shoulder with a contented sigh.
‘You have such beautiful things,’ she mumbled drowsily stifling a yawn. I smiled and relaxed. I was glad she was here. I swept a curl of hair back from her face and saw that her eyes were closed.
‘Come on, time to sleep.’ I took her hand, led her into the bedroom, sat her down on the edge of the bed, and removed her shoes as if she were a child. She giggled. Without a word I gently wiped the make-up from her eyes with a cotton bud and removed the clips from her hair so that it fell around her shoulders. A younger-looking Celeste was revealed, a girl that the outside world probably never saw. I could smell beer and spices on her breath so I took a spare toothbrush from the cupboard under the sink, loaded it with toothpaste, and handed it to her. She sat brushing her teeth leisurely while I brushed mine over the sink watching her in the mirror. Soon she joined me in the bathroom and we took it in turns to spit and rinse, eyeing each other quietly. I wondered what she was thinking but I didn’t ask. Once we were done I led her back to the bed. She just looked at me contemplatively, as if waiting to see what I would do next, so I carefully pulled her blouse up over her head and she wriggled out of her skirt.
‘Get in,’ I said lightly, pulling back the cover.
She climbed in and scooted over to the far side of the bed by the wall. I switched off the music and the lights, changed into an oversized T-shirt, and climbed in beside her. We lay facing each other but not touching, listening to occasional passing traffic in the street below. I closed my eyes against the weight of her gaze and recognised the floral scent of her skin, so completely unlike her brother’s and yet equally appealing. Our breathing slowed and we started to drift off to sleep in the quiet, comfortable hum of the city.
‘Tasha?’ Celeste whispered.
‘Yes?’ I whispered back.
‘Can I stay all weekend?’
I hesitated, surprised by her question.
‘I feel so safe with you.’
‘Why don’t you want to go home?’ I asked, curious.
‘Sebastian is away in Italy on a business trip.’
‘Of course you can stay. Or I can come stay with you?’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you, Tasha.’
‘You’re welcome, now go to sleep.’
‘Night night.’ I could hear Celeste’s smile.
‘Night night,’ I replied.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning I tried to keep my amusement from bubbling to the surface as people eyed our tightly Lycra-clad bodies. Celeste had insisted on accompanying me to my yoga class. I’d never brought a guest with me to the gym before, I’d been happy to skip the class completely, but apparently Celeste loved yoga, so here we were. I’d lent her a stretchy cropped top which barely contained her ample chest and in turn accentuated her tiny waist. Her curvaceous hips and thighs were encased in a pair of my old leggings, but somehow they didn’t look old on her. As Celeste strolled indifferently across the gym from the changing room to the studio, her hips and ponytail swinging, she drew openly admiring glances from both men and women alike.
The class was popular and crowded but we managed to find two spaces where we could position our mats, one behind the other. As the class progressed I worked hard to clear my mind, focus on my breathing, and achieve optimal body positi
ons. But I found myself increasingly distracted by the sheer sight of Celeste. She was lithe and flexible, her muscles toned and surprisingly strong despite their delicate proportions. I watched as, on her hands and knees in Cat pose, Celeste arched her spine and pointed her tailbone, thrusting her peachy bottom into the air as if in invitation. As she twisted into a Reverse Triangle I noticed a subtle sheen of perspiration on the upper swell of her breasts where they threatened to spill from her top and I realised, mortified, that I was staring. I closed my eyes. What was wrong with me?
Fully clothed and safely back in Holland Park Celeste proceeded to give me a guided tour of her studio and office. The elegant Victorian features that flowed through the rest of the house were also present – high ceilings, ornate mouldings, grand fireplaces, bay sash-windows and polished oak floorboards – but the walls were painted a brilliant white, providing a blank canvas for Celeste’s colourful paraphernalia. The studio was dominated by wide, shiny cutting tables with space for a couple of sewing machines and lavish swathes of material. Stacks of clear plastic crates filled with fabrics, trimmings, and accessories towered in one corner and a collection of nude mannequins of various sizes were scattered throughout the space like frozen statues, some with limbs and some without. One whole wall featured a cork board peppered with ideas and inspiration; images ripped from magazines and posters; scraps of fabric; obscure photos; fragments of text; sketches, patterns, ribbons, buttons, colour-swatches, and lace. A retractable screen and a set of tripod-mounted lights were arranged in one corner for hasty, mid-process shoots and a large map chest was crammed with concept designs; old, new and current and scattered with pens of every shape, size and colour. I noted with interest that most of the models in her sketches had red hair and green eyes. Purely a coincidence, surely? Celeste didn’t seem to mind my being there, she was relaxed and business-like and I sensed the grown-up, professional designer that I barely knew.
Her office was considerably less cluttered than her studio, with discrete built-in storage, a wide sleek polished walnut desk, and luxuriously upholstered chairs. Fresh magenta orchids posed artfully either side of the French doors, beyond which lay a large, decked roof terrace. A bespoke, timber seat wrapped around the perimeter of the space, where the intricate, wrought-iron balustrade doubled as a barrier and a backrest. There you could sit and peer down at the garden and swimming pool two storeys below or simply admire the city from afar. In the centre of the terrace stood an extravagant four-poster daybed, complete with cushions and billowing, sheer white curtains. I turned to Celeste, amazed that she could still surprise me with her largesse.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she said. ‘They had them in a spa hotel we stayed in once and I knew I had to have one.’
‘But how many days a year will you actually get to use it, with weather like ours?’ I asked.
‘You sound just like Sebastian,’ Celeste tutted. ‘There’s a retractable canopy, so I can sit out here in the rain if I want to!’
I raised a cynical eyebrow but I couldn’t help smiling and Celeste changed the subject.
‘I took a peek in your wardrobe while you were in the shower this morning …’
‘Oh yes?’ I said warily.
‘You barely have any clothes!’ Celeste exclaimed. ‘When was the last time you went shopping?’
‘Last weekend actually – I bought that green dress for your party.’
‘Apart from that?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I take you shopping?’ Celeste asked kindly.
‘Celeste …’
‘Oh, please? It will be just like old times.’
‘But I can’t afford the sort of clothes you buy,’ I said trying not to look embarrassed. ‘And I do not want you to buy them for me!’ I interrupted as she opened her mouth and then closed it again.
‘OK, but how about if we hit the markets? I know some fabulous vintage stalls where we could get you some glorious, cheap, one-off statement pieces and then supplement them with some basics from the high street? I’ll just …’ she shrugged, ‘advise?’ She looked so hopeful.
‘Actually, I have got some money I was saving for a rainy day …’ I wasn’t sure that clothes shopping qualified as a rainy day activity, but I was sorely tempted. ‘I guess we could do that,’ I conceded.
‘Magnifique!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘We’ll get you kitted out in no time.’ Celeste turned on her heel and strode from the room, a business-like glint in her eye.
Five hours later Celeste and I staggered back to her house laden with shopping bags and I collapsed into the nearest sofa, sweaty and exhausted. It was mid-afternoon, and a muggy thirty degrees. I watched bemused as Celeste threw down her bags, spilling the contents everywhere, kicked off her shoes and mounted a chaise longue in order to open the sash windows.
She had been magnificent – focused, visionary, and decisive. I was in no doubt she would make a great personal shopper, although I suspect she wouldn’t do it for anyone else. It had been fun too, although at one point we’d had a fit of hysterics in a changing room and nearly got thrown out; I got stuck inside a too-tight dress with my arms trapped above my head and the zip caught in my hair. It was unbearably hot and I’d started to panic while Celeste, cackling with infectious laughter, attempted a rescue. It was very embarrassing and I wouldn’t be returning to that shop again anytime soon. Then again I wouldn’t need to – I now seemed to have enough clothes to last a lifetime.
Once Celeste had the windows open, I gazed around at the enormous, elegantly formal drawing room. The retro disco balls from the party had been replaced with crystal chandeliers and the ‘dancefloor’ was now arranged with tasteful furniture and furnishings in delicately muted silks and velvets. The atmosphere was not nearly as homely and comfortable as the open-plan kitchen/breakfast room on the floor below and I guessed that Sebastian and Celeste only used this room for entertaining. Celeste was not precious about it though; she left all her strewn belongs where they fell, with the laissez-faire attitude of someone used to being affluent.
‘I’m going to make a pitcher of Pimm’s and then I’m getting straight in the pool, are you coming?’ Celeste asked, her hands on her hips.
‘Now you’re talking!’ I responded, dragging myself to my feet and following her downstairs.
In the kitchen I chopped fresh strawberries and cucumber from the fridge while Celeste measured and mixed everything together in a large jug. I fetched clean glasses from the dishwasher but Celeste rolled her eyes at me, dropped a long plastic straw into the pitcher, pursed her pink lips, and took a large suck on the end. I followed her lead while she watched for my reaction – it tasted divine.
Sashaying out onto the terrace, Celeste pulled her dress over her head and gracefully dove into the deep end with a modest splash. The sun was high in the cloudless expanse of sky making the water sparkle enticingly. Celeste performed a lazy backstroke from end to end while I stripped off my shoes, skirt, and camisole and lowered myself carefully into the pool from the steps. I pretended not to notice that her white, lacy underwear had become transparent and instead, trod water with my eyes closed, relishing the cool water.
Our shared Pimm’s was soon gone and Celeste started in on a second pitcher-full, with gusto. We changed into bikinis and relocated to the opulent daybed up on the upper deck where there was more chance of a breeze. Celeste asked me to rub sun cream into her back and I did so quickly and efficiently, ignoring the softly scented warmth of her skin beneath my fingers.
‘Shall I do your back?’ she asked.
‘No it’s OK, I can manage.’
Birds were singing in the tall trees and a plane flew high overhead leaving a crisp white tear in the perfect blue sky. Celeste rolled over and sunbathed topless on her back, gently dozing, her smooth skin slick with lotion and her nipples pert, as sweat slowly pooled in her navel. I lay next to her propped up on cushions in the dappled shade of the curtain which shifted in an almost impercept
ible breeze. I was reading Celeste’s battered copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary, a favourite of both hers and mine. Eventually Celeste rolled back over onto her front with a sigh, and I released tension from my body that I hadn’t even realised I was holding.
‘Thank you, for the letter you sent,’ Celeste mumbled, her face turned away from me. I had assumed she was asleep.
‘Sorry?’
She shifted onto her side to face me and repeated herself. ‘Thank you for the letter you sent.’ Her wide sapphire eyes were anxious as she regarded me intently.
‘Letter?’ I breathed; amazed that she was finally bringing the subject up after so long.
She swallowed. ‘The one you sent after my parents … ’
‘Oh, right. I’m glad you got it …’ I said tentatively. ‘I wasn’t sure …’
‘I’m sorry I never replied. I only got it eight months afterwards – Sebastian kept it safe for me.’
I abandoned my book, shifted onto my side, and scooted down so that our faces were level. ‘What happened, Celeste?’ I asked gently. Celeste took a deep steadying breath and I braced myself.
‘We were on the beach. Sebastian was reading and I was asleep. Mum was swimming in the sea – she loved to swim … and then Dad went out to join her. Or maybe he saw that she was in trouble and waded out to save her, I don’t know … we’ll never know. They … they just never came back.’ I couldn’t speak. Celeste held my eyes with hers as they began to cloud with tears. Her words poured out in a rush. ‘I don’t remember everything, it’s almost as if I wasn’t really there, I remember being very cold and Sebastian holding me for long stretches of time, but then suddenly we were in another country, moving in with Uncle Anton. He didn’t look like himself, he looked older – he had just got divorced, though I didn’t know that at the time. And his sister, his twin sister, was suddenly gone and he had two broken fourteen-year-olds to look after …’
‘I never knew your mum was a twin,’ I whispered past the lump in my throat.