The Sisters

by Kate Forster

  ‘I know, I know. I consider myself admonished and tarred and feathered once it comes out.’

  ‘When does it come out?’ asked Grace.

  ‘That’s the thing. It’s so fast. They shoot one week, edit and then it’s on air the next. Something about trying to keep it current.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to cope with work? We are supposed to be starting at Pajaro in two days.’

  ‘Oh, they loved the idea of work. You know, a socialite with a job. Very au current,’ said Violetta, in a flawless French accent.

  ‘I think reality television is de mode,’ said Grace, in an equally flawless accent.

  The sisters laughed at each other and for a moment it felt like they were almost eight years old again.

  If Grace forgave her then Carlotta would eventually too, but then again, Grace forgave everyone, thought Violetta.

  Now the shooting began and Violetta wanted to curl up in her Hastens bed and wait till they went away but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Pulling on her sweat pants and an old T-shirt she buzzed them up to her apartment. A cameraman walked in with a young woman with blue glasses and a shaved head and a sound recordist with a microphone on a stick. Violetta held out her hand to them. ‘Hi, Violetta de Santoval.’

  ‘I’m Lesley, the producer and this is Sam and Todd,’ said the woman with a shaved head, gesturing to her team.

  The men stuck out their hands to Violetta and she shook them warmly.

  ‘So, where are you off to today?’ asked Lesley, opening her notebook. ‘I still haven’t got your schedule.’

  Violetta paused. ‘I have to go into work and then I’m on duty to sit with my mom at hospital this afternoon.’

  ‘Work? Right,’ said Lesley, writing it down. ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘My family’s company – Pajaro,’ answered Violetta, feeling strange saying it.

  ‘Great, but I understand we can’t shoot you at the hospital.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Violetta, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for Jeff.

  ‘But we can shoot you at the front of the hospital,’ said Lesley, checking her notes.

  ‘Really? Do you have to?’ asked Violetta.

  ‘Sorry, Adam’s orders,’ shrugged Lesley, making an apologetic face at Violetta.

  Violetta really hated Adam, she decided.

  ‘So shall we start?’ asked Lesley.

  ‘No way are you shooting me like this,’ said Violetta forcefully. ‘Fifteen minutes. OK?’

  And she pushed them into the kitchen while she ran around showering and getting dressed.

  ‘Ready,’ she exclaimed.

  And the crew came out, the cameras rolling.

  Violetta picked up her black Mulberry bag and her keys, knowing she looked good. Wearing dark denim skinny jeans with a blue and white striped T-shirt and a red Chanel jacket trimmed in blue with a gold button that she had taken years ago from Birdie’s closet. Her plain black, Chanel suede flats completed the look. Her hair was up in a high ponytail and she wore a little more makeup than usual – for the cameras, she told herself.

  ‘To work?’ asked Lesley, noting it was after ten in the morning. Her day had started at seven, but she tried not to be envious of the perfectly put together girl with the amazing apartment.

  ‘I have to stop at Prada first,’ said Violetta with a smile.

  Of course you do, thought Lesley ‘No problem,’ she said, and they filed out behind the glamorous Violetta.

  At Prada, the camera caught the head salesperson greeting Violetta like his grandmother had just rallied from her deathbed. ‘Miss de Santoval,’ he cried, noticing the cameras but ignoring them.

  Violetta smiled her greeting. ‘I need to buy some shirts.’

  Lesley watched how composed Violetta was in the impressive store, not a trace of self-consciousness or guilt.

  ‘Of course,’ said the salesperson. ‘We have some wonderful new women’s shirts in silk and soft, soft cotton.’

  ‘No, I need men’s shirts.’

  ‘Of course, for your father,’ fawned the man. The de Santovals were some of their best customers.

  At the mention of her father, Violetta stopped. ‘No, I will not be buying anything for my father,’ she said fiercely before she caught herself, remembering the camera.

  Lesley watched her reaction curiously. Sure, what girl didn’t have father issues, but wasn’t this a bit much?

  ‘I mean, my father buys his own clothes,’ she said. ‘I need plain business shirts, well cut, maybe a 32 neck, slim fit.’ She reeled the requirements off like an expert and Lesley raised her eyebrows at the sound recordist.

  They had shot the other girls earlier in the week and while they were classic Park Avenue princesses, Violetta was slightly different, Lesley thought. She couldn’t put her finger on it but there was a confidence and edginess that the other participants lacked.

  Violetta and the salesperson looked at the shirts together. She touched the fabric and looked closely at the buttons.

  ‘Does he require a silk and cotton blend?’

  ‘No, his job can be kind of messy,’ Violetta said. ‘I think plain cotton is best.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will take ten of these,’ she said, holding up a plain but beautifully cut shirt.

  ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed the man.

  ‘And I want ties to go with each one. Different ties. Nothing with motifs or gaudy.’

  The salesman looked at Violetta, appalled that she would even presume that Prada had gaudy ties.

  ‘Not that you have anything like that… but more natural, you know?’ she said, mollifying her attendant.

  ‘Is he dark or fair?’ he asked as he walked over to a wooden rack and started to pull down different colours.

  ‘Fair,’ answered Violetta, and a small smile crept over her face.

  Lesley looked closely at her subject. Violetta was intriguing her and she was a cynic; the audiences were going to love her.

  ‘Fair as in blonde or light brown?’

  ‘Sandy, like Robert Redford.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said the salesman.

  ‘No, no, it’s not like that,’ said Violetta.

  But Lesley noticed the blush on her cheeks.

  ‘Would you like them delivered or shall you take them with you today?’

  ‘Delivered, thank you.’

  ‘If you can write down to whom and to where you would like them delivered,’ he said, pushing an embossed pad and pen towards her.

  Violetta wrote on the paper.

  I will pay you another five hundred dollars if you do not mention who these shirts are going to.

  He wrote on the paper and pushed it back towards her.

  Done.

  Lesley edged closer trying to see the messages between them but the salesman moved in front of her, blocking the view through the camera. Violetta wrote quickly and folded the note and handed it to him. He didn’t open it, instead put it in his top pocket.

  ‘Cash or charge?’ he asked.

  ‘Charge,’ she said, and pulled out her credit card and handed it over.

  As Violetta made the fastest signature that Lesley had ever seen, a single V with a flourish, Lesley recognised the mark of an accomplished shopper, someone who has signed thousands of credit card receipts in their time.

  Violetta then walked out of the shop with a single wave and the crew followed her.

  Lesley lagged behind. ‘Any chance you can give me the address for where those shirts are heading?’ she asked with a wink.

  The salesman winked back at her and took the note out of his pocket.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Lesley laughed and walked out of the store.

  The salesman opened up the note.

  Please deliver these to –

  Dr Jeff Carson – Neurology

  Bethlehem Hospital

  Write on the card –

  ‘From the Fashion Police’

 
; 7

  ‘Sold for one hundred thousand dollars.’

  Grace looked around the large room to see who had bought the painting. This was her final auction at Cranfields. It was sadder than she thought and she had promised Alan she would come to support him. He was devastated when she said she had to go to work at Pajaro.

  ‘But what use will they have with your skills?’ he had asked petulantly.

  Grace sighed. She wasn’t about to tell him about Birdie and Leon; they had still managed to keep it out of the media, thankfully.

  ‘I know, Alan, but I have to for a while. Not forever,’ she said, hoping this was true.

  Now she stood at the back of the room. It was filled with people of all ages, vying to get their piece of the last of the Calthorpe Estate.

  ‘One hundred thousand dollars! Crazy, huh?’ she heard from someone next to her.

  Grace looked in the direction of the voice. A handsome man in a grey hooded sweatshirt, jeans and Converse sneakers stood next to her, holding the catalogue that she had so painstakingly put together.

  ‘It’s only crazy if you don’t have the money,’ she said, laughing at his expression.

  ‘I thought I would come down, you know, have a look, but so far everything has gone for ridiculous coin.’

  Grace looked over his shoulder at the catalogue he was holding. ‘What do you like?’ she asked.

  ‘You know, photographs, prints, modernist stuff,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘There are some lovely Charbonnier and Doiseneau photographs coming up. You might be able to get them – if your budget allows,’ she added tactfully. Looking at the man, she doubted he would be able to afford them.

  ‘Really?’ he asked disbelievingly.

  ‘Many of the punters here are after the big ticket items, the small ones get lost sometimes. People underestimate photographs but I love them. Their time will come.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said the man. ‘Do you work in art?’ he asked.

  Grace took a deep breath. ‘I used to.’

  ‘And now?’ he asked. He was friendly and unthreatening, the way Grace liked men.

  ‘I work in fashion,’ she said.

  ‘I can see that,’ he said, and she saw him take in her black pants and a grey silk top that was devoid of any detailing at all. Her silver earrings and her dark grey spiked heels were her only adornment.

  They stood together quietly as the next lots came through and every time a slot went for more than ten thousand dollars, the man rolled his eyes or made a face at Grace, who was finding it hard not to laugh.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said quickly as the photographs were held up on the stage in front of them.

  Alan started the biding. ‘Do I have five hundred dollars?’

  The room was talking and ignoring the photographs in front of them. The man went to put his hand up but Grace held it down. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do I have five hundred dollars? No, three hundred dollars?’ he asked the room.

  ‘Now,’ hissed Grace and she released the man's hand.

  He put his hand up.

  ‘I have three hundred dollars, do I have more?’ Alan asked.

  A hand went up.

  ‘I have three hundred and fifty dollars. Do I have more?’ He looked at the man next to Grace.

  The man looked at Grace who nodded almost imperceptibly. The man raised his hand again.

  ‘I have four hundred dollars.’

  ‘Go to seven hundred on the next and they’re yours,’ whispered Grace out of the corner of her mouth.

  The opposing bidder put their price up.

  ‘Five hundred,’ called Alan.

  ‘Seven hundred,’ called the man next to Grace.

  Alan looked at the other bidder who shook his head.

  Alan, desperate to get the bigger items sold, didn’t waste any time. ‘Sold,’ he said and the photographs were moved off the stage.

  ‘Wow,’ said the man to Grace.

  ‘Well done,’ she smiled at him.

  ‘Thanks to you,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Can I buy you a coffee in return for my winning bid?’ he asked.

  Grace paused and looked at her watch. ‘I have to go to work,’ she said ruefully. He seemed quite nice but she really didn’t know him. Birdie would never have approved.

  ‘Well, what’s your name?’ he asked playfully.

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘I’m Frank.’

  ‘Hi Frank.’ She held her slim hand out.

  He took her hand in his and held it.’ Nice to meet you, Grace. Can I have your number?’

  She was suddenly flustered and she wasn’t sure why. Men asked for her number all the time, arrogant city boys who assumed she would be a party girl like her sister.

  ‘Um … I’m not sure,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘Well, I might need a hand hanging these in my apartment. Think of it as finishing your work,’ he said cajolingly.

  Grace sighed, there was something so friendly about him, and easy. His apartment probably consisted of a bed-sit and the hard-earned photographs would be hung over the toilet, she thought. And then admonished herself. Don’t be a snob, Grace. She needed to stop being so uptight, as Violetta had been reminding her for most of her adult life.

  ‘You give me your number,’ she said. ‘And I’ll call you.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, and for a moment looked hurt.

  Grace felt bad as Birdie’s face came into her head. Don’t judge, Grace, it’s not an attractive feature. Call the young man, he seems very nice, her mother’s voice said. And before Grace knew what she was doing she took the pen with bite marks in the end from him

  ‘Ok, here it is,’ she said, and wrote her cell phone number on his catalogue.

  ‘Great, I’m gonna call you,’ he said in a threatening voice.

  ‘Well, I might not answer,’ she said in the same voice he had used.

  ‘You will,’ he said without any arrogance.

  And Grace walked away smiling for the first time in two weeks.

  As she spoke to a few of her co-workers in the foyer, she saw Frank paying for his items and leaving. She walked outside and saw him get onto a pushbike, his photographs piled into a courier bin on the back.

  Grace sighed.

  Frank turned and waved to her as he rode off, missing being hit by a car by a few inches. Grace winced as she waved back. A bike courier, she thought. God help me Birdie, you didn’t mention that!

  Grace didn’t have any taste in men, as mostly she avoided them. They assumed a lot about her from her family and education, even the way she dressed. The blue bloods that asked for her number were probably perfect in Birdie’s eye in terms of pedigree, but there was something she found lacking in them. Honesty, integrity, work ethic, she noted more often than not.

  But the bike courier had charmed her and she admired him for wanting lovely things on his walls. At least he was trying to better himself, she thought and she went about her last day with a heavy heart, trying to not think about the bottle of wine in the refrigerator at home, waiting for her.

  8

  ‘I know you don’t want to be here but you said you were the knight on a horse, so either listen or fuck off.’

  ‘You can’t speak to me like that,’ screamed Carlotta.

  ‘I can and I will. Suck it up and sit your ass down.’

  Carlotta hated Chris more and more each time she sat with him to go over the company’s financial statements. The meeting with the bank was a mere week away. Besides Violetta turning up when she felt like it to swan around the design area with her TV crew, and Grace finishing off her work at Cranfields and only at Pajaro a few days a week, Carlotta felt she was the only one who was putting in the hours. She hadn’t been able to ride her horse, which she had brought down from Connecticut and had housed at a private stable just outside of the city. And John wasn’t returning her calls.

  Instead, she was stuck in an office with Chris,
who reminded her of a monkey with an unusual talent for wielding a calculator and an obsession with triple bottom lines.

  Chris wasn’t faring any better with Carlotta. After Violetta's moving speech in the boardroom he had hoped for a moment that Leon’s daughters might pull it together. But so far Carlotta was the only one putting in, and she had no interest in her subject, a huge amount of attitude, and an apparent dislike for her teacher as well as the subject matter.

  ‘You’re impossible,’ she said, standing up and pacing the room.

  She was so tall next to Chris, almost a full head higher than him, not that he seemed to mind.

  ‘Sit the fuck down,’ he ordered.

  ‘Why do you say fuck all the time?’ she asked, her arms crossed. ‘Swearing isn’t necessary to make your point.’

  ‘I only say it when I’m fucked off. And right now, you are fucking me off.’

  Carlotta sat down. No one ever spoke to her like that and she didn’t like it, not a bit.

  ‘I am still one of the owners of this company,’ she said imperiously.

  ‘Get over yourself,’ he said, dismissing her.

  Carlotta pursed her lips, like she had seen her mother do when she was cross with one of the girls.

  ‘Can I continue?’ Chris asked her.

  Carlotta shrugged.

  Chris bit his tongue. Carlotta was infuriating, he had decided. Her lack of grace and arrogance was frustrating, and she gave Chris no credit for his knowledge or the time he had been spending with her. The way she spoke to him and the other staff at Pajaro was insulting and embarrassing. It was a shame, he decided. She could have been an interesting woman, if she wasn’t such a bitch. Her hardness gave her an ugly quality that endeared her to no one. The staff ran the other way when Carlotta strode into Pajaro and he was left with the short straw to educate and occupy her. Grace and Violetta weren’t faring any better with their reputations either. After the initial boardroom pep talk, they had been noticeable by their absence, Chris had noticed.

  ‘So, we need to get the overheads down, a pay freeze across the board has been recommended and we need to get sales up. It’s quite simple. We need to spend less and make more money.’

  ‘Well, it’s simple when you put it like that but when you start showing me pie charts and graphs and bloody equations on Excel, you lose me. Plain language works best for me,’ she said.