The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘So you are actually “Lord Vaughan”?’ I said with a grin.

  ‘Technically yes, but of course, I don’t use it. This lot in here would never let me forget it.’ He gave a half-smile as he indicated the crowd at the bar. ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, Marguerite’s suggested that we swap houses. Given that she intends to be here as little as possible, and the fact that High Weald is Rory’s home and will be his in the future, she thinks it’s for the best. She’ll take Home Farm, and what with the sale of the Kensington bookshop, if we sell what’s left of the farmland, it’ll give us each quite a bit to pay for the restoration of both properties. And I’ve had enough of “tractoring”, as Rory calls it, I can tell you. Orlando and I have also agreed that all his stock becomes his alone if that’s what we decide to do. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, Rory loves High Weald, so it’s probably the best thing for him if he could stay there.’

  ‘And one hell of an undertaking for me to set about restoring it. Or, I could sell it and find somewhere more affordable.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘I mean, you can, but I don’t think you should. You – your family – belong there.’

  ‘The question is, Star . . . do you?’

  ‘You know how much I love the house . . .’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Look, call me impatient, but these past three weeks have been torture. Having you at High Weald – so near, but yet so far – has driven me nuts. So I’ve brought you here tonight to ask you what your thoughts are on the subject. I mean, the subject of us. I have to accept it if you don’t want to be with me. But if you don’t, I think it would be best if you found yourself somewhere in Tenterden to live. This isn’t a threat,’ he said hastily, ‘although I suppose it is an ultimatum.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Star, please understand that every day you’re there at the house with us, I’m getting in deeper. And for Rory’s sake, I really can’t afford to lose it again.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘So?’ He looked at me across the table.

  Come on, Star, be brave, say YES . . .

  ‘I don’t know,’ I heard myself say yet again.

  ‘Right. Well then.’ He stared into space. ‘That just about says it all.’

  It says absolutely nothing, apart from that I’m terrified to let my feelings out and trust you . . . and myself.

  ‘Sorry,’ I added pathetically.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I watched him drain his pint. ‘Well, as there’s nothing more to say, I’ll take you home.’

  I followed him back out of the pub, the food we were going to order now forgotten. It had only been twenty minutes since we’d entered, and I got into the Land Rover feeling utterly miserable. Driving back along the road in silence, he turned into the drive, slamming the car to a halt in front of the house.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’ I opened the door and was about to get out when I felt his hand grasp mine.

  ‘Star, what is it you’re scared of? Please don’t go . . . For God’s sake, speak to me! Tell me what you’re feeling!’

  Half in and half out, metaphorically and physically, I opened my mouth, but no words came out of it. They remained locked inside me, just as they always had done.

  Eventually, he gave a long, deep sigh. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this. I thought you might like it.’ He pressed an envelope into my hand. ‘If you change your mind . . . If not . . . thanks for everything. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I slammed the door and walked towards the front entrance, determined not to look behind me as he reversed and pulled out of the drive. I opened the front door quietly, hearing laughter emanate from the kitchen. Walking straight up the stairs, too embarrassed to alert anyone to my presence, I walked down the corridor to double-check that someone had thought to put Rory to bed. I kissed him gently on the cheek and he stirred, opening his eyes.

  ‘You’re back. Have a nice time with Mouse?’

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  ‘Star?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you get married?’ Rory mimed smooching and grinned at me. ‘Please.’

  ‘Rory, we both love you—’

  ‘Star?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mag got cross when the telephone broke and said Mouse was my dad and he should pay. Is he?’

  ‘I . . . You’ll have to ask him, Rory. Now, sleep tight,’ I said as I kissed him again.

  ‘Wish he was my dad,’ he whispered sleepily. ‘And you could be my mum.’

  I left him, marvelling at how truly forgiving young children were. And also, at how simple everything seemed to them. I walked to my own bedroom and huddled under the blankets, not bothering to take off my clothes because it was simply too cold. Then I tore open the envelope Mouse had given me.

  Dear Star,

  I’d like to take you away for a couple of days next weekend. I have somewhere in mind. I think we need to spend some time alone together without everything going on here. No strings attached. Let me know. O x

  P.S. Sorry for writing, it’s just in case I don’t pluck up the courage to ask you in person at the pub.

  I woke with a start the next morning, my mind replaying what had happened the night before. Perhaps, I thought, as I pulled on a second jumper to protect me from the cold, I should just march across the road and tell him, ‘Yes’.

  Do it, Star, just do it . . .

  I dressed, hurried downstairs and walked into a deserted kitchen full of dirty plates and pans, not to mention wine glasses and numerous empty bottles. I was just heading for the back door, knowing I had to say the words before my courage failed me, when I saw a note propped up in the middle of the table.

  Star! Your sister called here last night. Can you ring her? She said it’s urgent!!! P.S. Hope you had a good time.

  M x

  ‘Shit!’

  All thoughts of a possible future with Mouse were wiped away as I went to the telephone, picked up the receiver and, with a shaking hand, dialled the apartment number. It rang and rang. Trying CeCe’s mobile, it went straight to voicemail. Putting the receiver down, I told myself that she had probably turned off her mobile and hadn’t heard the landline, although CeCe could usually hear a pin drop from a mile away. I tried both again and again, but there was no answer.

  Running upstairs, I searched for my mobile, willing it to find a signal for me, just this once, so I could hear any message she’d left for me. But, of course, it didn’t. Throwing my stuff into my holdall, I raced back downstairs then called a taxi to come and collect me immediately.

  It was only on the train that I was able to access my messages as they dinged through in a huge wave, to the point where other passengers threw me irritated glances.

  ‘Star, it’s CeCe. Please can you call me?’

  ‘Star, are you there?’

  ‘They said you’ve gone out. Need to talk to you . . . Call me.’

  ‘In a bad way . . .’

  ‘PLEASE! CALL!’

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I willed the train to trundle its weary way to London faster. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of my utter selfishness in the past few weeks. I had abandoned my sister. There was no other way to describe it. And when she’d needed me, I hadn’t been there for her. What kind of person am I? I asked myself.

  Arriving at the apartment, I opened the door, my heart beating like a drum in my chest. Seeing the sitting room and kitchen were deserted, and oddly tidy, I ran up into the bedroom. There was no sign of her there either. Unusually, even her bed was made, as if it hadn’t been slept in.

  After checking the bathroom, the spare bedroom and even the wardrobe, which – even allowing for CeCe’s meagre collection of clothes – seemed remarkably empty, I retraced my footsteps downstairs, checking outside on the terrace just in case.

  Then I saw the note on the coffee table.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ I begged as I approached it and picked it up, my hands shaking with fea
r. Sinking onto the sofa, I speed-read it once to make sure it wasn’t of the suicide variety and, with relief, found it wasn’t. Then, I reread it again slowly.

  Sia,

  I called that place you are staying but they said you were out. I gess you didnt get any of my messages. I wanted to talk to you because I decided to leve collige. And I wanted to no what you thort. Anyway I did leve. Its been a funny time since Pa died hasant it? I no you need to live your own life. And so do I I supposse. Im lonely here and I miss you. And I decided I needed to go away for a bit to think stuff thru. I want the best for you really. So I hope your happy. I hope we both can be happy.

  Dont wory about me. Im okay.

  I love you.

  Cee

  Ps can you say sorry to Ally. I wont make it to Norway. And I bought your camelia tree in as it looked coled.

  My tears fell on the page as I read it. With her dyslexia, I knew how CeCe struggled to write a sentence, let alone a letter. It was the only one she’d ever written to me – had ever needed to write – because I’d always been there before, by her side. I looked then into her studio and saw the camellia standing by one of the windows. There was a flower lying on the floor, its delicate white petals turning to the wilting beige of decay. It too had suffered from neglect and looked as forlorn as I knew its saviour must have felt when she’d written the letter, and I hated myself even more.

  I immediately typed her another text to add to the panicked ones I’d sent her from the train. But there was no response. And as I sat there in the empty, silent apartment, staring out at the river, I imagined the endless nights she’d been here alone, while I’d been wrapped in the bosom of my dramatic, but loving, new family.

  Dusk fell, and still I waited for my sister to contact me. But my mobile remained as silent as it had without a signal at High Weald. Somehow, the fact that it did have one now only made things worse. A person, rather than a device, was choosing to remain silent. Eventually, I crawled into bed, or, more accurately, CeCe’s bed, and lay there shivering, even though it was blissfully warm in the apartment.

  It wasn’t CeCe who had the problem. It was me. After all she’d done for me – loved, protected, spoken for me – I had left her without a second glance to fend for herself. I thought back to the way I’d casually told her about finding my mother, and then, in my rush to get back to High Weald, hadn’t even spared the time to listen to her story. And realised how hurt she must have felt.

  The morning came, as it inevitably did, and I left a telephone message for Orlando, saying I was unable to attend work due to a family crisis. To my surprise, he texted me back a few minutes later.

  I understand.

  His unusual brevity upset me further. Perhaps he’d seen Mouse, who had told him he’d asked me to leave High Weald if I couldn’t commit to him. I walked numbly down the road to the nearest supermarket, knowing I needed to feed my brain, if not my stomach. Christmas decorations taunted me with their gaudy gaiety, and the radio in the shop played jingly schlock through its speakers. Back home, I cooked scrambled eggs I didn’t want to eat, then took a call from Ma, who wanted to make arrangements to meet at the hotel she had booked us both into in Bergen. I told her CeCe couldn’t make it now, but held back from telling her I was half mad with worry, as I didn’t want to explain. I was too ashamed.

  When my mobile rang again that afternoon, I dashed to it, only for my stomach to plummet in disappointment when I heard Shanthi’s honeyed tones at the other end of the line.

  ‘Star, I was just calling to ask how you were. I haven’t heard from you in a while. And I just had a . . . feeling something was up.’

  ‘I’m . . . okay.’

  ‘I can hear in your voice that you’re not. Want to talk about it?’

  ‘I . . . my sister’s gone,’ I said. And, prompted gently by Shanthi, I poured out what had happened, feeling the pain of CeCe’s loss with each word.

  ‘I just . . . you don’t think she would do anything stupid, do you?’

  ‘From the sound of the letter she left you, no, I don’t. Star, I’m so sorry you’re going through this, but it sounds to me as if CeCe is doing what you yourself have done – she is finding herself. She probably just needs some time alone. Listen, would you like to come over here and have a glass of wine? It might do you good to get out.’

  ‘No thank you,’ I gulped. ‘CeCe might come back. And I have to be here.’

  Three excruciatingly long days passed, and she didn’t come back. I wrote and rewrote a letter to her to leave at the apartment in case she returned to it while I was away in Norway. And still there was silence from her, despite my rampant phone messaging and texts. I tortured myself, wondering if, like a wounded animal, she needed to be by herself to do something terrible. At one point, I thought about contacting the police to report a missing person, but common sense told me CeCe had left me a letter explaining her absence. And, given she was twenty-seven, I doubted the police would be interested.

  I also missed High Weald. I thought constantly of Rory . . . and also Mouse. I realised that, in the last few turbulent weeks, he had somehow managed to be there for me at the precise moment I’d needed him.

  Well, he wasn’t here now, and despite my initial resolution to go and tell him ‘yes’ last weekend, the fact I’d heard nothing from him since made me guess that he had given up on me.

  By the end of the week, what was left of me collected my holdall – packed days ago, for want of something to do. Just as I was leaving the apartment for Heathrow, my mobile rang. And I ran to pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Star? It’s Mouse. Sorry to disturb you, but I went to High Weald this morning – I hadn’t been there since the weekend. Marguerite wanted some time with Rory before she leaves for France. I also had the sale of the bookshop going through and all the last-minute comings and goings between the solicitors that entailed. When I telephoned earlier in the week to check on Rory, they said you’d gone to London on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway, this morning when I went over there, I found a note addressed to you still propped up on the kitchen table. Is everything all right? With your sister, I mean?’

  ‘Yes . . . I mean . . . no, she’s left and I don’t know where she’s gone.’

  ‘I see. You must be in a state.’

  ‘I am a bit, yes.’

  ‘Is that why you left on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Honestly, I wish someone had told me why you’d left! You can imagine what I thought. Don’t you just love families?’

  ‘Yes,’ I gulped, relief flooding through me.

  ‘Look, do you want me to come up to London? Marguerite’s staying with Rory until next Tuesday, so I’m free until then.’

  ‘I’m just off to Norway to hear my sister perform in a concert.’

  ‘Which sister?’

  ‘Ally. The one whose fiancé was killed. She’s pregnant,’ I added.

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘Is that good news?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said firmly. ‘Ally’s thrilled.’

  ‘Star . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I miss you. Do you miss me at all?’

  I nodded, then realised he couldn’t see me, so I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long pause. And then, ‘Wow. So, did you read what was in the envelope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will you come away with me for a couple of days when you get back?’

  ‘Can . . . I think about it?’

  A sigh of frustration came down the line. ‘Okay, but can you let me know by tomorrow lunchtime? Marguerite’s leaving on Tuesday, so I have to be back in Kent for Rory by mid-afternoon. If you do want to go, I’ll come and collect you on Sunday on my way up from Kent.’

  ‘I will, yes.’

  ‘Well, have a safe trip, and I hope you hear from your missing sister.’

  ‘Tha
nks, bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I raced down the stairs to the front door, hoping the taxi I’d ordered was still waiting for me. As we drove off, my mobile pinged to alert me to a text.

  Sorry, Sia, only just got all yor mesages. Been traveling. Im fine. Tell you all about it when Im home. Love u, Cee.

  I texted back immediately.

  Cee! Thank God! Been worried sick. I’m so, so sorry for everything. I love you too. KEEP IN TOUCH. xxx

  And I then sat back in the taxi, euphoric with relief.

  45

  The lights dimmed in the auditorium and I watched my sister rise from her seat on the stage. I could see the contours of the new life inside her clearly defined beneath the black dress. Ally closed her eyes for a moment as if in prayer. When she finally lifted the flute to her lips, a hand reached for mine and squeezed it gently. And I knew Ma was feeling the resonance too.

  As the beautiful, familiar melody, which had been part of my and my sisters’ childhood at Atlantis, floated out across the hall, I felt some of the tension of the past few weeks flow out of me with the swell of the music. As I listened, I knew that Ally was playing for all those she had loved and lost, but I understood too that just as the sun comes up after a long, dark night, there was new light in her life now. And as the orchestra joined her and the beautiful music reached a crescendo, celebrating the dawning of a new day, I felt the same.

  Yet in my own rebirth, others had suffered, and that was the part I had yet to rationalise. I’d only understood recently that there were many different kinds of love.

  At the interval, Ma and I went to the bar, and Peter and Celia Falys-Kings, who introduced themselves as Theo’s parents, joined us for a glass of champagne. As I watched the way Peter’s arm rested protectively on Celia’s waist, they still looked like a young couple in love.

  ‘Santé,’ said Ma, as she chinked her glass against mine. ‘Isn’t this the most wonderful evening?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied.

  ‘Ally played so beautifully. I wish your other sisters could have been here to see her. And your father, of course.’