The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  One day, Star, you’ll have to deal with it . . .

  But, as always, it was not this day.

  As I was packing up my few possessions for the move a couple of days later, I got a call from Ma.

  ‘Star?’

  ‘Yes? Is everything all right? Is Ally okay? She hasn’t answered my texts,’ I said anxiously. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘I haven’t, no, but I know she’s unhurt. I have spoken to the victim’s mother. You probably read he was the skipper of Ally’s boat. What a lovely woman . . .’ I heard a sigh escape Ma’s lips. ‘Apparently her son left her my number for her to call in case anything happened to him. She thinks he may have had some form of premonition.’

  ‘You mean, of his own death?’

  ‘Yes . . . You see, Ally was secretly engaged to him. His name was Theo.’

  I was silent as I took in the news.

  ‘I think Theo knew that Ally might be in shock and unable to contact us herself,’ Ma continued. ‘Especially as she had not yet told any of you that she was in a serious relationship with him.’

  ‘Did you know, Ma?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and she was so in love. It’s only been a few days since she left here. She told me that he was “the one”. I . . .’

  ‘Ma, I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Forgive me, chérie, even though I know how life gives and takes away, coming so soon after your father’s death, for Ally, this situation is particularly tragic.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked.

  ‘In London, staying with Theo’s mother.’

  ‘Should I go and see her?’

  ‘I think it would be wonderful if you could attend the funeral. Celia, Theo’s mother, told me it is next Wednesday at two o’clock, at Holy Trinity Church in Chelsea.’

  ‘We’ll be there, Ma. I promise. Have you contacted the other sisters?’

  ‘Yes, but none of them can make it.’

  ‘What about you? Could you come?’

  ‘I . . . Star, I cannot. But I’m sure that you and CeCe can represent us all. Tell Ally that we send our love.’

  ‘Of course we will.’

  ‘I will leave you to tell CeCe. And how are you, Star?’

  ‘I’m okay. I just . . . can’t bear it for Ally.’

  ‘Chérie, neither can I. Don’t expect a reply to any message you send her – she isn’t responding to anybody just now.’

  ‘I won’t. Thank you for telling me. Bye, Ma.’

  When CeCe arrived home, I told her as calmly as I could what had happened. And the date of the funeral.

  ‘Presumably you told Ma that we couldn’t make it? We’ll still be knee-deep in boxes so soon after the move.’

  ‘CeCe, we have to make it. We have to be there for Ally.’

  ‘What about our other sisters? Where are they? Why do we have to disrupt our plans? For God’s sake, we didn’t even know the guy.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I stood up, feeling all the latent anger I’d been harbouring about to explode. ‘This isn’t about her fiancé, it’s about Ally, our sister! She’s been there for us both all of our lives and now she needs us to be there for her next Wednesday! And we will be!’ Then I left and headed towards the bathroom, which at least had a lock on the door.

  Not wishing to see her as I was shaking with rage, I decided I might as well stay here and have a bath. In the claustrophobic concrete jungle that surrounded me, the yellowing tub had often provided a sanctuary I could escape to.

  Submerging myself, I then thought of Theo and the fact that he hadn’t ever escaped from the water. I sat up immediately, sending small waves splashing all over the cheap linoleum floor, my breathing ragged with panic.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Sia? Are you okay?’

  I swallowed hard, trying to take some deep breaths of air – air that Theo had not found and would never be able to breathe again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re right.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m really sorry. Of course we must be there for Ally.’

  ‘Yes.’ I pulled out the plug and reached over the edge of the bath for my towel. ‘We must.’

  The next morning, the removal van and driver CeCe had organised pulled up in front of our apartment. After loading up our few possessions – which mainly encompassed all CeCe’s junk for her new art project – we set off to collect the pieces of furniture she had bought from various shops around south London.

  Three hours later, we arrived in Battersea. And, after CeCe had signed whatever she’d needed to sign at the sales office downstairs, the keys to our new home were in her possession. She unlocked the door and let us in, then walked around the echoing room.

  ‘I just can’t believe that this is all mine. And yours, of course,’ she added generously. ‘We’re safe now, Sia, forever. We have a home of our own. Isn’t it amazing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then she reached out her arms to me and, knowing this was her moment, I went into them. And we stood in the centre of the cavernous empty space and hugged each other, giggling like the children we had once been at the ridiculousness of being so grown up.

  Once we’d moved in, CeCe was up and out early every morning to gather more materials for her installations before the first term of college at the beginning of September.

  Which left me alone in the apartment all day. I was kept occupied with unpacking the boxes of bedding, towels and kitchen utensils CeCe had ordered. As I slid a set of lethally sharp chef’s knives into the block, I felt like a newly married woman setting up my first home. Except I wasn’t. Nowhere near it.

  Once I had unpacked, I set to work on turning the long terrace into a garden in the air. I used what little I had left in my savings and almost my full month’s allowance from Pa Salt to buy anything I could to create as much immediate greenery and colour as possible. As I watched the man from the garden centre heave the big terracotta pot – filled with a gorgeous camellia covered in tiny white buds – onto the terrace, I knew Pa Salt would be turning in his grave at the extravagance, but I pushed the thought away, telling myself that on this occasion he’d understand.

  The following Wednesday, I dug out suitably sombre clothes for both of us – CeCe had to make do with a pair of black jeans as she didn’t own a single skirt or dress.

  All the sisters had been in touch by text or email, asking CeCe and me to send their love to Ally. Tiggy – the sister I was probably closest to after CeCe – called me in person to ask me to give her a huge hug.

  ‘I so wish I could be there,’ she sighed. ‘But the guns are out up here and we have a lot of injured deer in just now.’

  I promised I’d give Ally the hug and smiled as I thought of my gentle younger sister and her passion for animals. She worked at a deer sanctuary up in Scotland, and I’d thought when she’d taken the job how apt it was for her. Tiggy was as light on her feet as the deer themselves – I remembered vividly going to watch her dance in a school production when she was younger and how transfixed I had been by her grace.

  CeCe and I headed across the bridge to Chelsea, where Theo’s funeral was to be held.

  ‘Wow, there are even television cameras and press photographers here,’ whispered CeCe as we stood queuing to get into the church. ‘Should we wait for Ally to arrive and say hello, do you think?’

  ‘No. Let’s just sit at the back somewhere. I’m sure we can see her afterwards.’

  The large church was already packed to the gills. Kind people shoved up on a pew at the back and we were able to squeeze in at the end. Leaning to one side, I saw the altar, a good twenty paces in front of where we sat. I felt humbled and awed at how well-loved Theo must have been to draw these hundreds of people here to say goodbye to him.

  A sudden hush silenced the chatter and the congregation turned as eight young men proceeded past us down the aisle bearing his coffin. Followed by a petite blonde woman, who was leaning on the arm of my sister.

  I looked a
t Ally’s drawn features and saw the tension and sorrow etched onto her face. As she passed me, I wanted to stand up and hug her then and there, to tell her how proud I was of her. And how much I loved her.

  The service was one of the most uplifting yet painful hours of my life. I listened to the eulogies on this man I had never met, yet whom my sister had loved. When we were told to pray, I put my head in my hands and cried for a life cut short so young, and for my sister, whose life had also been brought to a standstill by his loss. I cried too for the loss of Pa Salt, who had not given his girls the opportunity to grieve in the traditional way. It was then I understood for the first time why these ancient rituals were so vital: they provided structure at a time of emotional chaos.

  I watched Ally from afar as she arrived at the altar steps, surrounded by a small orchestra, and her strained smile as she put the flute she had trained for years to play to her lips. The famous melody of ‘The Sailor’s Hornpipe’ rang through the church. I followed suit as everyone around me began to rise to their feet and fold their arms, before beginning the traditional knee-bending movements, until the whole congregation was bobbing up and down in time with the music. When it ended, the entire church erupted into applause and cheers. I knew it was a moment I would never forget.

  I turned to CeCe as we sat down and saw that tears were pouring down her cheeks. It moved me further to see that my sister, who rarely showed emotion, was crying like a baby.

  I grasped her hand. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ she muttered, wiping her eyes roughly on her forearm. ‘Just beautiful.’

  As Theo’s coffin was borne out of the church, his mother and Ally followed behind it. I briefly caught Ally’s eye and saw a shadow of a smile cross her face. CeCe and I took our turn to follow the coffin outside with the rest of the mourners, and stood on the pavement, both unsure what to do.

  ‘Do you think we should just leave? There are so many people here. Presumably Ally will have to speak to all of them,’ said CeCe.

  ‘We have to say hello. Give her a quick hug at least.’

  ‘Look, there she is.’

  We saw Ally, her red-gold hair falling in waves around her unnaturally pale face, emerge from the crowd and walk towards a man who was standing alone. Something about their body language told me that we shouldn’t interrupt, but we moved closer so she would see us when she had finished.

  Eventually, she turned away from him, and her face lit up as she came towards us.

  Wordlessly, CeCe and I threw our arms around her. And hugged her as tightly as we could.

  CeCe spoke to her, telling her how sorry we were. I found it hard to say anything; I knew I was close to tears again. And I felt they weren’t mine to shed.

  ‘Aren’t we, Star?’ CeCe prompted me.

  ‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘It was such a beautiful service, Ally.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And wonderful to hear you playing the flute. You haven’t lost your touch,’ CeCe added.

  ‘Listen, I have to go with Theo’s mum, but will you come back to the house?’ Ally asked.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t. But listen, our apartment’s only over the bridge in Battersea, so when you’re feeling a bit better, just give us a bell and pop round, yes?’ CeCe suggested.

  ‘We’d really love to see you, Ally,’ I said, giving her another hug. ‘All the girls send their love to you. Take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try. And thanks again for coming. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.’

  With a grateful smile, Ally gave us a last wave and then walked towards the black limousine that was waiting at the pavement for her and Theo’s mother.

  ‘We’d better get a move on ourselves.’ CeCe began to walk down the road, but I hung back to watch as the car pulled away from the kerb. Ally, my wonderful, brave, beautiful and – as I had thought of her up until now – invincible older sister. And yet she looked so fragile, as if a puff of wind could blow her away. As I hurried to catch up with CeCe, I realised it was love that had felled her strength.

  And at that moment, I promised myself that one day I too would experience both the joy and pain of its intensity.

  I was relieved when, a couple of days later, Ally was true to her word and called me. We arranged for her to come round for lunch and to see the apartment, even though CeCe would be off taking photographs of Battersea Power Station for one of her art projects. And that afternoon, I set to work on a menu.

  When the doorbell rang the next day, the apartment was filled with what I hoped was the calming smell of home-cooked food. Shanthi had been right, I thought: I wanted to feed Ally’s soul.

  ‘Hello, darling, how are you?’ I asked as I opened the door and embraced her.

  ‘Oh, coping,’ she said, following me inside.

  But I could see that she wasn’t.

  ‘Wow! This place is fantastic,’ she said, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look at the view.

  I’d set the table on the terrace, judging it just about warm enough to do so. She admired my makeshift garden as I served up the food and my heart broke as she asked about me and CeCe, when I could see her own heart was breaking over and over again. But I understood that her coping mechanism was to continue as she’d always done, and never ask for sympathy.

  ‘My goodness, this is delicious, Star. I’m discovering all sorts of hidden talents you have today. My cooking is basic at best and I can’t even grow cress in a pot, let alone all this.’ Her hands gestured to my plants.

  ‘Recently, I’ve been thinking about what talent actually is,’ I ventured. ‘I mean, are things that come easily to you a gift? For example, did you really have to try to play the flute so beautifully?’

  ‘No, I suppose I didn’t. Not initially, anyway. But then, to get better, I had to practise endlessly. I don’t think that simply having a talent for something can compensate for sheer hard work. I mean, look at the great composers: it’s not enough to hear the tunes in your head; you have to learn how to put them down in writing and how to orchestrate a piece. That takes years of practice and learning your craft. I’m sure there are millions of us who have a natural ability at something, but unless we harness that ability and dedicate ourselves to it, we can never reach our full potential.’

  I nodded, taking it in, and feeling at a loss about my own possible talents.

  ‘Have you finished, Ally?’ I asked. I could see she had barely touched her plate.

  ‘I have. Sorry, Star. It was gorgeous, really, but I’m afraid I haven’t had much of an appetite recently.’

  After that, we chatted about our sisters and what they’d been up to. I told her about CeCe, her college and how her ‘installations’ were keeping her busy. Ally commented on Maia’s surprise move to Rio, and how wonderful it was for her that at last she’d found happiness.

  ‘This has really cheered me up. And it’s so great to see you, Star.’

  ‘And you. Where will you go now, do you think?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I might go to Norway and investigate what Pa Salt’s coordinates indicate is my original place of birth.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I think you should.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Why not? Pa’s clues might change your life. They changed Maia’s.’

  After Ally had left, with a promise to return soon, I walked slowly upstairs to the bedroom and pulled my plastic wallet out of a chest of drawers that was shaped in a series of steps – CeCe’s choice, not mine.

  I unclipped the card attached to the back of Pa’s letter and stared at it yet again. And remembered the hope I had seen in Ally’s eyes when she had told me about Norway. Taking a deep breath, I finally reached for the envelope with the coordinates that Ally had looked up for me. And opened it.

  The next morning, I woke up to see a slight mist hanging over the river. And as I tended to my plants, I found the terrace wet with dew. Apart from my small shrubs and fast-drooping roses, it w
as impossible to spot greenery unless it was through binoculars, but I took in the changing scents of the season and I smiled.

  Autumn was most definitely on its way. And I loved autumn.

  Going upstairs, I grabbed my handbag and dug out the plastic wallet from my bottom drawer. And then, not allowing my over-analytical brain to process the path my feet were taking me along, I headed for the nearest bus stop.

  Half an hour later, I was once again alighting in front of Arthur Morston Books. I peered into the window, which held a display of antique map books, lying on a faded length of purple velvet. I noticed that the map of South-East Asia that lay open still referred to Thailand as ‘Siam’.

  In the centre of the display stood a small, yellowing globe on a stand, reminding me of the one that sat in Pa Salt’s study. I couldn’t see a single thing beyond the display – the day was bright outside, but the interior was as dark as any Dickensian bookshop I’d read about. I hovered outside, knowing that to enter would take me on a journey I wasn’t sure I was ready to embark on.

  But what else did I have at present? An empty, aimless life, providing nothing of value to anyone. And I so wanted to do something of value.

  I drew out the plastic wallet from my leather rucksack and thought of Pa Salt’s last words, hoping they would infuse me with the strength I needed. Finally, I opened the shop door and a small bell tinkled from somewhere within. It took my eyes a while to adjust to the shadowy light. It reminded me of an old library, with its dark wooden floor and a marble-topped fireplace halfway along one wall, forming the centrepiece around which two leather winged chairs were arranged. Between them stood a low coffee table piled high with books.

  I bent down to open one and, as I did so, dust motes flew up and dispersed like minuscule snowflakes into a shaft of sunlight. Straightening, I saw that the rest of the room was taken up with endless bookshelves, their contents stacked tightly.

  I glanced around, delighted. Some women might feel the same about finding a boutique full of stylish clothes. To me, this room was a similar nirvana.