The Sisters

by Kate Forster

  ‘Page Six always has her in it,’ one of the nurses said. ‘She’s about to do a reality series.’

  ‘Nothing more real than this,’ said another of the nurses wryly.

  The doctor had listened and thought to go online and look up the family later. He never usually did this but there was something about the sisters that was intriguing to a man so far removed from their world.

  He doubted the mother would survive and since he had been asked to start compiling reports for the police, he knew this was going to end up in a murder case. He felt sad for the heiresses, their lives would never be the same again. He vowed to make the mother as comfortable as possible, and be a support to her daughters anyway he could.

  *

  Carlotta had not driven back to Connecticut as she said she was going to. Instead she had gone straight to the Four Seasons where John was waiting for her, after she had called him from the hospital. There was no way she was going to be alone, and although sex with John was sure to be average again, at least she could spend the night next to someone.

  John had left his wife and daughter at his townhouse and claimed he had a business meeting in Boston. John’s wife Chessy knew there was no such meeting – he was fucking someone else. Probably that horse-headed whore, Carlotta de Santoval. She’s seen them together at Jessica’s last gymkhana, flirting and gossiping.

  John and Chessy Berconi played by all the rules properly, sending their daughter Jessica to the Caldwell Green preparatory school and then onto Preston, the most exclusive girls’ school in New York, although Chessy knew she hated it. Hell, Jessica hated everything. Jessica hated her mother, hated her father and hated herself most of all.

  Carlotta had tried to bond with her over the supposed mutual love of horses but Carlotta found her sullen and dull and not as interested in horses as her father claimed. Jessica was an untalented rider and, even though she had a beautiful horse and the best equipment, she sat badly in the saddle, partly because of being overweight but also because she refused to heed the advice of her riding coach.

  As Carlotta pulled up at the hotel in her black Range Rover, she threw the keys at the valet and went straight up to the suite John had booked. He was waiting for her with champagne and was wearing only a towel. ‘I just had a shower. I hope you don’t mind my casual attire,’ he said.

  Carlotta smiled at him, he was in terrific shape for a man of fifty. Tall, lean and with a smattering of hair across his chest, he was textbook handsome, albeit with a receding hairline. He made up for his lack of hair with a devil may care attitude that Carlotta found the most attractive thing about him.

  ‘I don’t mind. Thanks for coming to see me.’

  She sat on the bed and gratefully accepted the champagne he offered. It seemed strange to be drinking vintage champagne while her mother lay in a coma but alcohol might soothe her anxiety, she figured.

  ‘How is she?’ asked John as he lay on the bed, his head propped up by a pillow.

  ‘She’s OK,’ said Carlotta, not wanting to talk about Birdie. ‘Still in a coma. I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon. We’re taking it in shifts.’

  John nodded, not seeming that interested. ‘Well, drink up and I’ll see if I can take your mind off your troubles,’ he said smoothly.

  Carlotta felt butterflies in her stomach. She was surprised when John had quickly suggested that she come to the Four Seasons from the hospital. She hadn’t planned to see him. She had just wanted to tell someone, to make it real somehow, when she rang him from the hospital.

  Carlotta pulled off her riding boots. She had come straight from the stables and was still in her breeches and a white Hermes shirt that she had taken from Birdie’s wardrobe months before and never returned. She had no time for shopping, she justified – actually, she hated shopping. Violetta was the one who liked trawling the shops and attending the fashion shows. And Grace liked shopping, but only for old things.

  ‘I might have a shower also,’ she said.

  She went into the large bathroom, undressed and stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was wild; red, she called it. Auburn, Birdie used to correct her. Brown eyes and a strong face. ‘Horse-head,’ Violetta used to tease her. ‘That’s why you like horses so much, ‘cos you are one.’

  Leon had told her that her body was her best asset, as her face was too strong. Toned from years of riding, she had strong, lean thighs and firm arms. Her breasts were small but high and her stomach almost rippled with muscles. She turned on the water and stepped in. Closing her eyes, she let the water run over her until she was startled by John. She felt him hard against her back. He took the soap and started to rub her all over, working up a lather, running his hands over her breasts and between her thighs.

  She leaned against him and then he bent her over and entered her from behind. She gasped as the water ran over them and she felt herself shudder with delight. He held her breasts as he moved in her and she put her hands up against the tiles. She felt John starting to come and arched her back to try to join him but there was nothing there. Too tired, she thought.

  ‘You close?’ John murmured in her ear, almost demanding.

  Carlotta decided to fake it. After all, he had booked the suite and left his house to be here for her tonight. As he came and Carlotta faked her orgasm he washed them both off in the water and stepped out of the shower. ‘Better now?’ he asked smugly.

  Carlotta smiled. ‘Much. Thanks.’

  She washed her hair with the hotel Aveda shampoo and let the water wash over her. She dried herself to join John who was on the bed, watching the stock reports on Bloomberg.

  She needed John’s patronage for the horse show she was planning. Leon refused when she rang and asked him, leaving his secretary to break the news to Carlotta. Her mother, while she wanted to help, had been distracted when Carlotta had brought it up the last time she had seen her.

  Carlotta wanted the horse show to be the most spectacular ever seen on the East Coast, and the Berconi Luxe money would bring the quality and glamour needed to make the event a success. Carlotta had just done the budgets with her team and realised she was going to have to ask for more than she initially thought. She looked down at John’s cock lying listless and put her hand on it. Carlotta imagined herself and Amante on the front cover of Town and Country, lauding the success of the horse show. That would show Leon, she thought, as she put her head down towards John’s lap. Take one for the team, Carlotta, she urged herself on as she sucked her way into John’s bank account.

  *

  Grace went back to her apartment, her sanctuary. A huge space – all exposed brick and high ceilings. The walls were hung with a mosaic hang, similar to the one that Dominique had up her stairwell. Although there were no Monets, there were some wonderful pieces, modern artists whose careers Grace was following, mixed with a few of the family ones her mother had given her.

  Moroccan lamps hung over the industrial dining table with French café chairs and comfortable sofas on ethnic rugs and Louis IV chairs covered in simple beige linen. The long windows were covered with voile curtains and to the side was a large nickel plated store cabinet from the 19th century. It was filled with objects and curios that had interested Grace and amused her over the years at auctions.

  Grace walked through the living room and, kicking off her Ferragamo pumps and undressing as she went, walked into her bedroom. Pulling open the large French oak armoire, she dragged out her most comfortable yoga pants and a white T-shirt from Pajaro. Padding to her kitchen, she uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glass.

  Grace was the only daughter loyal to the family brand, Pajaro. Mostly for her mother’s sake. It had been Birdie’s idea and Birdie’s family money that started it until Leon took over. Like he did everything, she thought.

  She checked her home phone messages; a few from Cranfields and one from Spencer, asking how she was and if she needed anything. Spencer knew that Grace was closest to Birdie, they were so similar and had much in common. G
race had done the best out of the girls so far. With a degree from Wellesley in Art History and French, she had managed to get the job at Cranfields without the help of her mother and had done well at the up and coming auction house. She loved it so much, being surrounded by history gave her a sense of comfort.

  Birdie had encouraged her to consider opening her own gallery but Grace had baulked at the idea of being the head of anything. She liked being one of the team and Cranfields gave her that, preferring to stay in the stockrooms, cataloguing the items, finding their provenance and putting everything in order.

  Grace stared at the phone, wondering who she could ring. Most nights she rang her mother, telling her about her day, the news in the art world and the new treasures she had found. Her mother was her best friend and confidante. Intensely private, Grace had a few friends from Wellesley but no one she could really confide in. She drained her wine and poured another glass, continuing her private ritual until she passed out on the sofa.

  Waking the next morning with a crick in her neck and a hangover, Grace pulled herself off the sofa and checked her phone again. No messages. She padded into the kitchen, opened the freezer and found a bottle of vodka from the cocktail party she’d been planning to have since she bought the apartment three years ago. Opening it, she poured herself a neat glass, grabbed the bottle and went back to the sofa.

  What a shit of a day, she thought and she turned up her phone in case the hospital called.

  *

  As Violetta left the hospital she looked down at her clothes. She thought for a brief moment, looked at her mobile phone and quickly dialled a number. ‘Hey, it’s me. Yeah Vi,’ she said, the name leaving a bad taste on her tongue. ‘About that party… Maybe for a little while… Who’s asking for me? Gigi? … Sure, see you soon,’ she said and hung up.

  She wanted to go back to the hospital and sit with her Mother, and tell her everything, about how lost she was, how she felt so hopeless most days, how she wished she could be friends with her sisters, how she wished she could make her father proud, and most of all, how she wished she was loved. And how she wished her mother was loved by a man who didn’t hurt her.

  But Cinderella would go to the ball after all, she thought, just for a little while. She had already said yes before the accident. If there was one thing Birdie had always taught her, it was to honour her commitments.

  4

  Carlotta was about to go to Pajaro to buy new clothes when Spencer rang.

  ‘Hey, Spencer,’ she said, as his name came up on caller ID.

  ‘Hello, Lotty.’

  The sound of his voice was soothing.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked as she let room service in.

  ‘I’m heading to the hospital. Are you there?’

  ‘No, I’m staying in a hotel.’ There was no way she’d ever tell anyone about John. ‘I was too tired to drive back last night.’

  ‘Of course. Listen, we have a problem,’ he said down the phone.

  ‘More than we already have?’ mocked Carlotta.

  ‘I’m afraid the board at Pajaro have called an emergency meeting. They want to meet you girls today.’

  ‘Today, why?’ asked Carlotta as she walked briskly towards the nearest Pajaro store.

  ‘They wouldn’t say anything. You need to round the girls up for a 10 o’clock meeting at Fifth Avenue. I’ll meet you there.’

  Carlotta hung up and rang her sisters. Violetta didn’t answer, and nor did Grace, so Carlotta left messages.

  As she walked into the Pajaro store, she was unimpressed with what she saw. The music was blaring with some tune she didn’t recognise, with a continual beat that felt like someone was operating heavy machinery. The racks were overfilled, making it hard to browse. One of the mannequins was half dressed and the staff were talking at the register, ignoring her presence.

  Carlotta pulled a few items and went to try them on in the changing room. The mirror was dirty, the lock on the door broken and a hand written sign warned her not to steal anything. As she pulled on the jeans and long sleeved T-shirt she was shocked at the state of the store. Leon would flip if he saw this, she thought, then remembered he had fled to South America with Melanie.

  Carlotta looked in the mirror. She looked fine, she thought. Trying on a few other pieces, she then left the changing room and tried on some flat shoes in black and brown and took a navy pea coat in her size. Standing at the register, she cleared her throat.

  One of the young sales girls looked up. ‘Oh, hi.’ She took the clothes from Carlotta, not recognising her as Leon's daughter. ‘Cash or charge,’ she asked as she started to ring up the items and take off the security tags.

  ‘Neither,’ said Carlotta.’ I have a store account here.’

  ‘Really? OK, let me check,’ said the bored girl. ‘Name?’

  ‘Carlotta de Santoval.’

  The girl looked up quickly and another salesgirl jumped in and started to fold the clothes carefully.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, suddenly alert.

  Carlotta watched them work. It was only her name that gave her such treatment. When they thought she was a nobody they treated her as such. What the hell was happening, she wondered. If this were the state of the flagship store, what would the other shops be like?

  The salesgirls packed her items into the purple and red Pajaro bags and handed them over the counter. ‘Thank you, Miss de Santoval. Please come back soon.’

  Carlotta frowned at them, turned on her heel and left.

  ‘What a bitch,’ said the younger salesgirl as she turned back to gossip with her fellow staff member.

  Carlotta walked the short distance back to the apartment. The store worried her, it looked unloved, ignored, fragile. Like Birdie, she realised, and wondered how long Leon had been neglecting Pajaro.

  *

  Grace had woken with her hair filled with vomit. Her mobile phone was filled with messages from Carlotta and Violetta and Spencer. She moaned and stumbled to the shower. Undressing, she washed herself and her hair until she felt clean and then sat on the floor of the shower. The crying started slowly until she was wracked with sobs and cried until her eyes hurt. It was months since she had drunk like that, not since she had seen Matthew at an auction, leering at her from the front row as she held a Tiffany lamp. She’d nearly dropped it but managed to hold it together until she rushed from the stage and went home, citing a migraine. She had stopped at the liquor store on the way and had been drunk for two days. Then she rallied, visited her therapist and that was the end of it, she thought, until now.

  Hearing his name again last night and knowing her father had hurt the one person she loved more than anyone else in world was too much.

  Listening to the messages, she realised she would have to be at Pajaro in an hour.

  ‘Mother fucker,’ she said under her breath. What had her father done now?

  *

  Violetta listened to her messages, one from Carlotta and one from Adam. She sat in front of her computer in her fabulous but messy apartment. Clothes were everywhere, unopened luxury shopping bags sat around her. She lit her first cigarette of the day. Drawing back the nicotine slowly, she relished the first cigarette after a big night and felt the rush of whatever substances were inside her as they moved through her system again for a small but satisfying high.

  Adam had left a message asking her to check out a website and as she clicked on the page she saw her face come up. She was standing outside Le Bernadin, smoking a cigarette, leaning on Adam. Her makeup was halfway down her face and her hair dirty. She looked sexy, Violetta decided. Carine Rotfield with a dash of Kate Moss. She typed an email to Adam.

  Thanks for the party. God, those girls know how to party, huh? I still have your stash in my bag if you want otherwise it’s mine. I have to go and do some stuff at my Dad’s work but I will be in later. Call me.

  Vx

  She would have to break the news to him that she couldn’t do the reality show for this season after all,
he would understand wouldn’t he? Her mother was in a coma, of course he would understand, she decided and went to get ready.

  *

  The boardroom at the Pajaro headquarters was full when Grace arrived, with Carlotta already sitting at the head of the table.

  When Violetta walked in last she felt all eyes turn in her direction. She was glad she had dressed for the occasion. She wanted to send the message she was in control during this turmoil and had spent a long time choosing her outfit, a papaya coloured silk shantung Chloe dress with a vintage Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo jacket that was nipped in at her tiny waist. Black patent leather Jimmy Choo sling backs and a Lanvin tote bag added a sense of conservatism but Violetta had added strings of pearls, real and faux, around her long neck and with her tawny hair pulled up, she looked like a fabulous New York socialite with not a care in the world.

  Carlotta had tried to dress up also, Violetta noticed. Black skinny pants and white shirt tucked in. Black flat shoes that looked new, and no accessories besides her Hermes Cape Cod wristwatch with a brown leather strap, her auburn hair flowing down her back. Violetta stopped herself from reaching for it, playing with it as she had always done when she was nervous as a child, when Leon and Birdie were fighting downstairs. She used to plait it, receiving instructions from the dressage books that Carlotta had, doing intricate plaits like the ones Carlotta did on her horses’ tails and manes.

  Grace had stalked into the impressive Pajaro headquarters wearing her Fendi sunglasses. She had quelled the nausea in the cab on the way over but now she felt a thumping headache building in her dehydrated head. She had dressed in black from head to toe. Today was not a time for colour; colour was for celebrating. Besides, there was no way she could have put together a clever outfit for today. Her black Donna Karan suit that she wore for appraisals would have to do, with black stockings and her black Prada bag. Her hair was in a ponytail; and she had avoided makeup after her shaking hand had spilled the bottle of Chanel Number Five that she had been using to cover the alcohol fumes that seemed to seep from her pores.