by Grace Lowrie
‘That was close,’ Sebastian muttered.
‘Oh crap, you don’t think they have security cameras up there do you?’ I whispered as my face cooled.
‘No, I couldn’t see any; I think we got away with it.’
Back in the King’s Hall there was no sign of Celeste and her friends. I offered to check the bathroom while Sebastian went to the bar for a round of drinks. Watching him walk away I was amazed that he looked so composed and debonair, as if nothing had happened, while I felt alternately euphoric and bewildered. It struck me that I had essentially just cheated on Celeste – and with her brother, no less. I deserved to feel much guiltier than I actually did, but the two experiences, making love with Celeste and rushed sex with Sebastian, were so entirely different that they almost seemed unrelated in my mind. How had I got myself into this extraordinary mess?
The ladies bathroom was spacious and comfortable. As I washed my hands and eyed my hair and make-up in the mirror I heard Celeste’s voice and the accompanying giggle of her Catwomen friends. They spilled out of the far cubicle whooping at the top of their voices and staggering slightly in their heels.
‘C’mon, my lovelies! We need to dance,’ Celeste declared, pausing to peer into a mirror, sniffing and jauntily angling her head to view it from either side. The two girls, who might have been sisters, also inspected their reflections, leaning low over the row of sinks and wiping the ends of their noses with impossibly long manicured fingernails. Suddenly I realised what was going on and glanced at Celeste in alarm just as she saw me. For a brief second a look of surprised guilt flickered across her face before she recovered and smiled artificially. ‘Let’s go, girls!’ she cried and made to move towards the door.
‘Wait,’ I reached out for Celeste’s arm. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ Celeste avoided eye contact and sighed dramatically. ‘Please, Celeste,’ I murmured.
‘You go on ahead, girls; I’ll see you on the dancefloor in a second.’ Celeste grinned at them and they shrugged and tottered out of the room, smirking at me.
I gently pulled Celeste towards a chair in a quiet corner of the room.
‘I don’t want to sit down,’ Celeste pouted childishly, twisting her arm out of my hand.
‘OK.’ At least now we were out of earshot if we kept our voices low. Celeste leaned against the wall and groped around in her handbag. ‘Celeste, look at me.’ She tutted loudly and raised her head brazenly, her eyes dark and hard, her mouth set. I couldn’t tell if there were any traces of white powder around her nose because of her ghostly white make-up. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked gently.
Celeste looked back down and continued rummaging in her handbag. ‘It’s just one night, Tasha; can’t you just leave me alone for one night?’
Her words cut me deeply and I swallowed. ‘But this isn’t you.’
‘Of course it’s bloody me!’ she said with a laugh. ‘We can’t all be bloody perfect!’ As I looked at her I realised that I’d always thought she was perfect. Had I unfairly set her on a pedestal all this time? She triumphantly produced a small silver cigarette case and a cheap disposable lighter.
‘I don’t understand …’ I stuttered.
‘You don’t have to understand,’ she said perching a cigarette between her lips and flicking the lighter repeatedly. ‘It’s nothing to do with you – they’re my friends, not yours.’
There was a no-smoking sign directly above her head. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ I muttered, stunned and unsure what else to say.
Celeste snatched the cigarette away from her mouth and laughed loudly, her head back, her eyes squeezed shut.
I tried a different tack. ‘Sebastian is just outside.’
Celeste stopped and stared at me. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she said anxiously.
‘No I … I don’t want him to see you like this …’
‘Just leave me alone then, Tasha, please,’ she said, her voice quiet.
I looked away as my eyes pricked with tears and my throat constricted.
‘Right, I’ve gotta get back to the dancefloor!’ Celeste thrust her things back into her bag, propelled herself away from the wall, and flounced towards the door before I could stop her, but I followed.
Outside, Sebastian was standing with his back to the wall, three glasses in his hands.
‘There you are.’ He looked relieved. ‘I was about to send in Search and Rescue.’
‘Ooh thank you, darling!’ Celeste swiped a glass of champagne before Sebastian could argue that the water was for her. ‘I must get back to the dancefloor, I’ll see you later!’ She smiled mischievously at Sebastian as she strutted away.
‘Everything OK?’ Sebastian asked me, studying my face with concern.
‘Yeah fine.’
‘Did you two fall out?’
‘No, don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you and me, I … I just don’t like her friends much, that’s all.’
‘No, me neither, but you can’t always choose who you work with.’
Sebastian handed me a glass of champagne so that he was left with Celeste’s untouched water. I took a sip and then handed it back to him so he could drink the rest.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked.
I was touched by Sebastian’s offer, it was a welcome contrast to his previous attitude and under normal circumstances I would have given anything for an opportunity to dance with Sebastian, but after everything that had happened I just felt tired.
‘I’d rather sit for a bit, if that’s OK.’
‘Fine by me. I think they’ve just brought out dessert in the banquet hall …?’ he said with a smile just for me.
‘Sounds great.’ I took his arm, determined to push all thoughts of Celeste from my mind and just enjoy Sebastian’s company, now that his mood had improved.
Celeste chattered animatedly when we finally piled into a taxi at 2 a.m. Theo, who it turned out was a talented fashion photographer, had promised to put a good word in for Celeste, with someone called Vito D’Angelo the following week in Milan. I’d never heard of him but apparently he was big in the fashion industry and Celeste was a huge admirer of his work. Sebastian and I listened indulgently until eventually Celeste talked herself out and a weary, late-night quiet pervaded the car.
I stared out the window at the streets of London as thoughts and questions jostled for space in my head. Why had Celeste excluded me like that? Was she afraid I’d embarrass her in front of her trendy friends? Was I really such a killjoy? Maybe I was – I certainly didn’t approve of recreational drug-taking and I’d assumed Celeste felt the same way. Maybe I didn’t know Celeste as well as I thought I did. The nearest I’d come to taking drugs was a toke on someone else’s spliff and the odd bit of hash cake. What little I knew of drugs was from the television and the fervent campaigns against them. I was worried for Celeste; I didn’t want her to destroy her health, her life … Was she addicted? Would she let me help her? All these questions were pointless – I couldn’t be sure of anything until I’d spoken to a sober, clear-headed Celeste. I glanced over at her but her eyes were closed. I hoped we would have a chance to talk alone tomorrow. I glanced up at Sebastian but his face was turned away as he stared out the window lost in his own thoughts. At least this evening hadn’t been all bad – being ravaged by Sebastian had been spectacularly good, and for a short time, while we were lost in each other, I’d imagined that he was mine.
Back at the house, we each retired quietly to our separate bedrooms and I tossed and turned for hours, alone in the dark with my fears.
It was late when I rose the next morning. Rain hammered against the windows as I apprehensively descended to the breakfast room in my dressing gown and slippers. Sebastian was seated alone at the kitchen island reading the Sunday paper.
‘Morning, Natasha,’ he said with a smile, his eyes catching the light.
‘Morning,’ I murmured.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’
‘Just coffee for now, thanks.�
�� I perched on a stool beside him while he poured me a cup from the freshly brewed pot.
‘Did you sleep OK? You look tired.’
‘No, not really, I don’t know why.’ I sipped my coffee to hide my lie.
‘Have you two not made up yet?’ he asked, reading me perfectly.
‘Have you seen her this morning?’
‘No she hasn’t been down yet – why don’t you go see if she’s awake, see if you can clear the air?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I mumbled, gulping down more coffee.
‘Here, take her this …’ Sebastian went to the fridge and poured out a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from a jug. ‘This should help with her hangover.’
‘OK,’ I said, reluctantly getting to my feet and taking the cool glass from him.
‘Don’t worry; she never stays cross for long,’ Sebastian called after me as I headed up the stairs.
I knocked gently on Celeste’s bedroom door before entering but there was no reply. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, and Celeste looked fast asleep – her face scrubbed clean of last night’s make-up, her hair washed and dried in a tangle on the pillow. I was surprised that she’d stayed awake long enough to shower. I carefully set down her orange juice, crouched beside the bed, and watched her for a while – her face so childlike, her lips slightly parted and her breathing steady. She had been so different, so distant the night before, that I’d felt crushed and confused. But now, looking at the soft familiar contours of her face in the subdued light I just loved her and missed her. I rose stiffly, moved to the other side of the bed, and carefully climbed in under the covers beside her. She mumbled, rolled over, wrapped a warm arm around me, and sighed contentedly in her sleep. Relaxing, I savoured her subtle, sweet scent and idly caressed her arm with my fingertips as she held me.
I woke some time later on my side, Celeste lying close behind me, her arm still circling my waist. The luminous alarm clock digits read 12:24. We had slept through to lunchtime and I could still hear raindrops outside.
‘Are you awake?’ Celeste whispered softly against my back.
‘Yes.’ There was a long pause as we each waited for the other to speak.
‘I’m sorry.’ Celeste said eventually. ‘I didn’t know they would be there.’
‘Do you do that sort of thing often?’
‘No.’
I released a breath of relief. ‘Why do it at all?’
‘Oh, Tasha,’ Celeste buried her face in my back, hugging me tight. ‘I know, it’s stupid. I wish you hadn’t seen me like that. It’s a different world, the fashion industry – I saw an opportunity to get introduced to Vito D’Angelo and I couldn’t resist going for it, I’m sorry, it was selfish – it was supposed to be your night and I ruined it completely, I’m so sorry …’ Her hot, salty tears soaked into the cotton on my back.
I rolled over to face her. ‘Don’t cry,’ I said, wiping her tears with my thumb. ‘You don’t have to join in with them like that, Celeste … you’re smarter than that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to …’
‘But I do, darling! You don’t understand – image is everything!’
‘But is that the image you really want? You’re talented enough to succeed on your own terms, Celeste, just by being yourself.’
Celeste eyed my doubtfully. ‘It’s sweet that you think so.’
‘I know so, Celeste – I’m amazed you can’t see it!’
‘Can you forgive me?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Really? When I think of the way I behaved …’ Celeste’s face crumpled into tears again.
‘You weren’t yourself,’ I murmured kissing her tenderly on the lips.
The three of us spent the afternoon holed up in the TV room, snuggled on a sofa in front of the log fire watching old movies while it poured with rain outside. Celeste, unusually for her, remained in one of my T-shirts, a pair of jogging bottoms, and no make-up whatsoever (and still managed to look pretty). She seemed contented enough – cheerful and relaxed, but there was a subtle fragility about her, a hint of shame behind her eyes, and I resolved to leave a discussion about cocaine for another day. That way I would also have time to read up on it.
But now that I was no longer distracted with worry for Celeste, now that she had allayed most of my fears, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the new knowledge that weighed heavily in my heart. Despite Sebastian’s attempts to dissuade me and despite the futility of the situation, I had fallen in love with him. I loved Sebastian as surely as I loved Celeste. Perhaps I had always loved them both.
Chapter Thirty-two
One Monday evening after work, while visiting my mum, I took the opportunity to crawl about in her attic on my hands and knees with a torch. Eventually after some rummaging I found a cardboard box with ‘Tasha’s School Stuff’ scrawled on the outside in thick black marker pen. Once I’d peeled back the parcel tape and reached inside I removed a stack of old exercise books and project folders, and some faded certificates. Right at the bottom, along with an old forgotten journal, I found what I’d been looking for – a thin, plain grey, pocket-sized photo album. Without hesitation I re-packed the box, stowed it neatly alongside all the other junk, made my way back down the retractable ladder, and closed the hatch behind me. I waited patiently while Mum made a fuss, tutting loudly and brushing the dust from my jeans.
Eventually I was allowed to sit on the settee with a cup of tea, Mum perched awkwardly beside me, her wool skirt crackling with static as she smoothed it over her thick nylons. As I turned the pages of the album I was surprised by the familiarity of the photos – it had been a long time since I’d seen them. Dad had given me the small disposable camera for my twelfth birthday and the first few photos I’d taken were in our flat – my pokey little bedroom, Mum sucking down a cigarette at the kitchen window, and Dad pretending to read the paper while he nodded off to sleep. Mum’s swollen, arthritic hands trembled with suppressed emotion when she saw the ones of Dad, but I didn’t look at her – I didn’t want to add to her discomfort. Despite her best efforts to hide it, I knew she missed him. The last photos were taken at the Walkers’ house on Easter weekend in 1993. I’d taken several shots of Celeste wearing various different bizarre outfits while she played at being a model. Most of the images were out of focus, either because Celeste couldn’t keep still or because of my unsteady hand. In some, a large pink blob (my finger) obscured the lens, almost eclipsing Celeste completely. But I chuckled at the memory – marvelling at Celeste’s dramatic facial expressions as she posed in outlandishly mismatched clothes.
‘I’m surprised you’re still friends, you two, after all this time,’ Mum commented.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, she’s very different to you …’
I didn’t ask her to elaborate. ‘We’re very close,’ I said.
Mum sipped her tea. ‘Did she ever apologise – for running off like that without a word?’
I gritted my teeth. ‘She didn’t run off. Her parents died. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘Well I still think it was selfish the way they went about things – you were in a terrible state.’
I sighed. ‘Yeah, it was tough.’
‘We nearly took you to see someone …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well you were in such a funk – not eating, not sleeping, crying all night … we didn’t know what to do – your dad wanted to take you to see a counsellor.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘No, well, you gradually snapped out of it. Once you were back at school you seemed to do all right and you had other friends, so we just left it,’ Mum shrugged. I took comfort in this small insight. At the time Mum had been irritable and avoided being alone with me as much as possible. ‘Of course it would’ve cost a fortune and we couldn’t afford it.’ Mum added, sipping more tea. ‘So what do you want with these pictures anyway?’
‘Actually,
it’s just one picture I need – this one,’ I said, turning to the back page. The last snap was a poor quality, badly composed shot of a blurry Celeste hidden inside a large hat and coat. I think we’d both succumbed to fits of hysterics by that stage – hence the shoddy results. However it was the background of the photograph that I had remembered. I’d spent many hours looking at it after the twins had moved away. The picture had been taken in the Walkers’ front hall, where Celeste had claimed there was superior light. To the left of Celeste, in the doorway to the sitting room, stood the twins’ parents, Philip and Lucille, their arms wrapped around each other as they smiled at our antics. I recalled staring at the image in a vain effort to believe that they were really dead. They’d always been so kind to me.
‘It’s not a very good one, what do you want it for?’ Mum said.
I cleared my throat. ‘The photo itself isn’t good enough to use, but I know someone at work, a painter who does restorations and private commissions – she says she’d be able to produce a painting, a portrait in oils, of Philip and Lucille, based on a photograph.’ Mum looked dubious. ‘I thought I could give the painting to the twins for their birthday.’
‘Well I hope they appreciate it, after all the effort you’re going to.’
‘Why wouldn’t they, Mum!’ I snapped, exasperated.
‘No reason, I’m just saying …’ Mum said. I dropped the photo into an envelope, hid it in amongst the papers in my bag where Celeste wouldn’t find it, and returned my mug to the kitchen.
Over the next few weeks the twins and I settled comfortably into our new life together as one happy family. The three of us dined in fancy restaurants, attended various parties and functions, or just stayed in together, chatting and relaxing, at ease in one another’s company. With my new pay rise, the curating fees Sebastian insisted on paying me, and now regular income from my newly tenanted flat, I found I was significantly wealthier than I’d ever been before. Not that I ever had a chance to spend my new funds – the twins still insisted on paying for everything wherever we went.