The Sisters

by Kate Forster

  No one knew she was there and she liked it that way. She only took her sisters’ and Spencer’s calls and ignored Frank’s pleading messages. Time was something she had had little of over the past months and she had created a routine that soothed her heart and soul.

  She slept late each morning, walked along the shore in her large white sunhat. Ate a leisurely breakfast. Went back to her room at the Isle de France Hotel and read or slept, watched movies in bed and then rose for a swim in the sea. She avoided the pool and the dining rooms, escaping conversation about why a single woman was holidaying alone.

  Her computer kept her in touch with the world, but she avoided the emails from Frank, deleting them as soon as they came into her inbox. She had nothing to say to him and she didn’t want to hear his arguments about his concealment of his wealth and connections.

  Daily, she fought the urge to type his name into the computer and learn more about him; instead she started to read the auction reports and the news on the art world again. She forgot how much she had missed it, as she read the reports from Cranfields that Alan still sent to her in the hope that she would return to his business.

  She looked through the fine jewellery report that Alan had sent her, asking her opinion on some of the items up for auction. As Grace went through the list and images with an expert eye, she made her notes on all the items.

  Dear Alan,

  she wrote in her email back to him.

  The jewels are divine. Well done on getting the lot. The hero piece is definitely the square cut yellow diamond ring. The attached report says it is virtually flawless. Initial estimation is $320,000 but I think it could go for more. Market it as the main item. I think PR could do a lot with getting this out into the market, also make sure press is placed in LA and Hong Kong. Some woman will be very happy with this one!

  G x

  Grace looked at the picture again on the screen. Now that was an engagement ring, she thought, as she closed her laptop and lay on the bed. How long could she stay away from New York, she wondered. Could she go back for Christmas? It would be their first Christmas as a real family. Birdie would be home and Spencer was officially their father.

  She sighed and rolled over on the bed and thought about Frank. She missed him but was so angry with him. She thumped the feather pillow with her hands.

  ‘Bastard,’ she said out loud. ‘Fucking prick,’ she said, and punched the pillow harder, repeatedly.

  She jumped up and pulled on her yellow Phillip Lim bikini and pulled her Camilla caftan over the top. She grabbed her new issues of American Vogue and walked towards the beach. The beach attendant jumped to attention and laid out her towel and adjusted the umbrella over her. As she settled, she lay watching the ripples of waves and accepted the bottled Evian the man brought her.

  A nice place for a honeymoon, she thought. She looked around; she was the only one on the beach. Most people were by the pool.

  Why do people come to beach resorts and then never go in the ocean, she wondered as she opened her magazine. As she flicked though the pages, she saw Violetta was the new IT girl that month. Photos of her were taken out on the town in her various outfits that defied fashion and yet worked aesthetically.

  Grace peered at the photos. She was fabulous, she thought proudly of her sister; she had courage and street smarts that Grace seemed to lack. She had always thought of herself as the stable one, even with her issues with alcohol. But she had sought help and had beaten it, well almost.

  She closed the magazine and stared straight ahead. What did she want, she wondered. She hardly knew any more. I’ll sit here until I know, she told herself, and got off her lounger, took off her hat and sunglasses, and walked down to the water’s edge. The water was warm and she walked in, threw herself into the depths and floated with her eyes closed against the sun. She lay with her head half submerged, only her face out of the water. The rocking of the waves was comforting.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ she heard.

  She stood up in the waist high water and rubbed her eyes, which were spotting from the glare of the sun. As her eyes adjusted, she saw an outline of a man standing in the water next to her.

  ‘Frank,’ she cried.

  ‘Hello, Grace.’

  He looked anxious. How would she react, he wondered.

  ‘How did you find me?’ she asked, incredulous.

  ‘I asked a few people,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘But no one knew I was here, not even my family. I suppose money can help you with that,’ she said angrily, and strode out of the water.

  Frank followed, wearing patterned shorts that Grace thought were ridiculous.

  ‘Grace, we have to talk,’ he said, as she started to gather her things from the lounger.

  ‘No we don’t. We have nothing to say to each other,’ she fumed.

  ‘Jesus, Grace, I made a mistake. I was a massive fool. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you did look like a fool and you made me look like one also.’ She started to walk along the beach away from him. He chased after her.

  ‘I love you, Grace. I really love you. I didn’t know how to tell you that I was wealthy. Our relationship wasn’t about money, that’s why I love you,’ he said as he followed her.

  ‘You made it about money when you chose not to tell me.’ She spun around to him.

  ‘I can see that now.’

  ‘Good, now get out of my life.’

  ‘What is your problem with me being rich?’ It was his turn to be angry now. ‘Did you like that I was a hopeless no one when you met me, a bike courier? Did that give you the upper hand, Grace?’

  ‘How dare you say that! I never thought that. I liked that we were just trying to make it on our own. You pushed me out of your life, you told me nothing about yourself, nothing about your life and I was the fucking fool, who didn’t ask. I thought love was enough,’ she said, facing him.

  ‘It is enough, Grace, love is enough.’

  ‘I don’t think it is, Frank.’

  And she kept walking away from him.

  ‘Grace, please,’ he cried.

  She turned around and saw he was crying.

  ‘I love you so much. I’m so, so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Frank.’ She felt her heart break. ‘You fucked it up so royally.’

  ‘I know.’

  They stood facing each other. ‘Can I stay here for a while, with you?’ he pleaded. ‘Can we try and get to know each other, no secrets?’

  Grace looked at a small sand crab chasing another one at her feet. They reminded her of Frank and herself. She looked up at him. ‘You can’t stay in my room.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If I want to be alone, then I will tell you.’

  ‘OK.’ Frank accepted all the terms she placed in front of him.

  ‘No sex.’

  ‘Of course,’ he nodded.

  They stood waiting and she resisted the urge to reach out and slap and then kiss him and instead she turned on her heel and walked down the beach.

  Grace actually enjoyed tormenting Frank. She met him sometimes for breakfast and then other days ignored him when she went to the beach. She wrote him long questionnaires about his life and interests and read the carefully written answers in her room, laughing at his honesty and candour.

  The truth was Grace did love him and part of what he said about her wanting to have the upper hand in the relationship had cut her deeply but she wondered if it were true. She had known Frank as the person who didn’t think about money or worry about appearances, and now she didn’t know how to classify him in her life. She realised she didn’t know him at all, as either a rich man or a poor man.

  She picked up the phone next to the bed and dialled his room number.

  ‘Hello?’ he answered.

  ‘Did you really sail around the world when you were twenty-one?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep, Cape Horn nearly killed me.’

  ‘And you have one brother?’

  ‘Mic
hael,’ he said. ‘Married with three kids, lives in Chicago.’

  ‘And your parents are still alive,’ she said, reading the notes he had written in front of her.

  ‘Yes, very active, Age doesn’t faze them at all,’ he laughed.

  ‘You have been at auctions at Cranfields before, you wrote here.’

  ‘Yes, many, I always skulked at the back. But I did notice you before the day we spoke.’

  ‘Really? I never noticed you.’

  ‘I noticed you. I tried to talk to you before but you were always busy, rushing off, I never found a chance.’

  Grace was quiet, she didn’t remember him. Why would she? He was just another person in the crowd, anonymous in his jeans and sweatshirt.

  ‘I remember you once, you were wearing a pale blue dress and you had a ribbon in your hair. I thought it was so pretty and carefree.’

  Grace remembered the dress and the day her hair had annoyed her so much, she had taken a ribbon from the wrapping room and tied back her hair.

  ‘You should have said hello,’ she said softly.

  ‘I should have done many things, Grace.’

  She hung up the phone and cried into her pillow, and then fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of Frank on his bike but wearing his suit, chasing her through the streets of New York, holding the sand crab in one hand.

  When she woke up, she felt more tired than before. She sat up on the side of the bed and saw a note slipped under her door. She picked it up and opened the envelope.

  Dinner tonight? Please say yes.

  Francis William Thurlow.

  Grace sighed and held onto the note. Then she went to the desk in her room, pulled out the hotel stationery, and sat down and started to write. She wrote enough to cover the six pages back and front and then rang the front desk for more. She wrote about her mother, Spencer, Leon, her drinking and her sisters. Her dreams of opening an art gallery, and her nightmares of Matthew. She was exhausted when she finished and took the letter over with her to Frank’s suite.

  Frank had organised dinner in his suite, a cottage on the beach. The table was set up in the courtyard and for a moment Grace thought it looked perfect and then she remembered why she was there.

  ‘Champagne?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Champagne is for celebrating, Frank,’ said Grace sadly. ‘Mineral water will be fine.

  She sat at the table and felt the warm breeze blow over her face. She had dressed carefully. A simple, yellow printed Diane Von Furstenberg silk sundress with gold sandals. She hadn’t wanted to look like she wanted to give Frank any ideas, and this was the most demure dress she had packed. No makeup and no jewellery.

  Frank poured her drink, placed it down in front of her and sat down. She reached into her bag.

  ‘You need to read this and when you are done, then we can talk.’ She handed him the envelope with his name on the front.

  Frank opened the letter and read it in one sitting, not reacting to any of the explanations or emotions. When he finished he put it down.

  ‘The past is a son of a bitch, huh?’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you have to say?’ asked Grace amazed.

  ‘What else is there? You have had some shit things happen to you, Grace, but then so has all of the world. It’s in your past and you have this extraordinary chance to start anew. Take it and run.’

  ‘With you?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘If you want. I will stick around until you tell me to piss off. I love you, I want to marry you and I have made a huge mess of things. But do I think we can make it? Absolutely.’

  ‘You think we can move on?’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible.’

  Grace started to cry.

  ‘Oh Gracie, it still can be about us, can’t you see that? Do you think – I am just floating this idea – that your anger at me is actually anger at everything? Your Mom? Your job? Your Dad?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Probably. I guess.’

  ‘I am not saying I did the right thing. I have done two stupid things since I met you. One was to lie to you about my life and one when I acted like some giant knight with a cheque-book at the board meeting. You have to understand, I keep my life private because there aren’t many girls like you in the world, Grace. The minute a woman knows I have money they change. Although this is the first time I have ever been rejected because of my money.’ He made a face.

  Grace smiled. ‘I grew up with money, Frank, and it didn’t make my family happy. My parents’ marriage was a relationship based on money and threats. I don’t want that.’

  ‘You won’t have it. I will give it all up and be a bike courier for real if you want me to, Grace. I will do anything for you,’ he implored.

  Grace wiped her eyes with the napkin. ‘Well, I do want something,’ she said, looking at his lovely face.

  ‘What, anything?’ said Frank, desperate to please.

  Grace took a sip of her water and made her decision. ‘I want to get married and start that life you have been banging on about.’

  Frank’s eyes widened. He stood up and walked to her side and got down on one knee. ‘Graciela Valentine de Santoval, will you be my wife?’ he asked, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.

  Grace took the box, her hand shaking. She opened it and saw the ring from the email that Alan had sent her. She took it from the box and Frank gently slipped it on her finger.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked, her voice breaking.

  ‘Alan helped me.’

  He waited as she looked at the ring on her finger. It matched the dress perfectly and sparkled under the lights.

  ‘Does that mean yes?’ he asked still on one knee.

  ‘Yes, Frank, I will be your wife. But if you lie to me again I will grind up this fucker and put it in a glass of milk and you will die a slow and horrible death,’ she said calmly.

  Frank laughed. ‘Deal.’ And he kissed her passionately.

  While he embraced her Grace held out her hand and looked at the ring on her finger. She was right; this ring would make some woman very happy.

  37

  Leon, Morocco – December 2010

  Leon sat in his chair in the villa he was sharing with Melanie and Matthew. He had little time for Matthew but he was his flesh and blood, unlike those little sluts Birdie had given the de Santoval name.

  Morocco was Melanie’s choice and he had agreed because its laws were vague and there was little concern for men who had money or who put their wives in a coma. When he had heard about Birdie, he hoped she wouldn’t wake up and name him. On an impulse, he had taken the money from the Pajaro account and shifted it into his offshore account, where no one would be able to touch it. Bless the Swiss and their need for privacy at all times, he thought, as he drank his wine.

  Melanie was revelling in being a family, as she spouted at every interval. Leon couldn’t have cared less about family. He had other ideas about his future. A new brand, called Leon, for men. Women had too much in this world already, he thought, thinking of Birdie and the women whom he once thought were his daughters. Giving Matthew the shares was inspired, a final fuck you to those whores. He had wished Birdie was awake to find out what he had done. He finally had the last word.

  Matthew was annoying and not very bright, much to Leon’s disappointment. He had hoped for a son and when Birdie pushed out three screaming girls that looked like tiny ferrets, Leon lost interest immediately.

  He had tried to bond with Matthew over the years but Matthew’s constant desire for attention from his father wore thin and eventually Leon pushed him away, keeping him and his acne at a manageable distance. Matthew’s gratitude at receiving the Pajaro shares from Leon and his idea to sell to Berconi was embarrassing as far as Leon was concerned. The boy needed to be a man, and his tears and hugs made Leon uncomfortable. Now Matthew was back in Marrakech, limpid and useless, as far as Leon was concerned. He had fucked up the deal with Berconi and sold to some unknown for not even cl
ose to what it was worth.

  Leon stretched out and closed his eyes. He had all the money he could want, and he had Melanie who still gave great head, and he had a son – a fool, but he was his child after all. Leon thought he might try a little harder with the boy tomorrow.

  He sat up straight, smelt smoke, and then the lights went out. He heard Melanie scream his name and then Matthew’s name and then felt the heat. What the hell was happening? He fell to the floor and crawled in the darkness, knocking over his wine glass; resting his hands on a shard of glass, he screamed in pain. He tried to get his bearings in the darkness and dragged the rug from underneath him and wore it like a cloak.

  He padded about, dragging the rug over his shoulders. The smoke was getting thicker. He tried to cover his mouth with his shirt but the thin cotton was useless. The heat was becoming stronger and Leon heard the flames and he tried to edge towards the door, but found he was in the fireplace. Perfect, thought Leon wryly as he sat inside the space. And then he passed out.

  38

  Grace called her sisters from Vegas. ‘I got married,’ she screamed down the phone to Violetta on the Sunday night.

  ‘What?’ said Violetta, not hearing her properly.

  ‘I got married. To Frank,’ cried Grace again excitedly.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Violetta, sitting down on Jeff’s bed.

  ‘I am and I’m happy, so don’t spoil it,’ said Grace, with a warning in her voice.

  ‘Hey baby, I ain't gonna spoil it. It’s just so fast and so incredibly unlike you,’ laughed Violetta. ‘It’s like something I would have done.’

  ‘I know!’ said Grace. ‘You are the first person I’ve told. I’m about to ring Lotty.’

  ‘OK then. Bye bye, crazy, and give my love to my new brother-in-law.’

  She hung up and looked at Jeff who was looking at her waiting for her to divulge her news.

  ‘My sister Grace got married. In Vegas.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Jeff, as he read the papers.

  ‘I’m sad I wasn’t there,’ she said, thinking.

  ‘Sure, but it’s her wedding.’

  ‘I know… but Vegas. It sounds like something I would have done a long time ago.’