The Santiago Sisters. Victoria Fox
Читать онлайн книгу.
first arrived, she’d hurt her neck looking up at them all and Simone had laughed affectionately and stroked her arm.
‘Welcome to my world,’ she’d whispered.
It truly was the realm of her imaginings. Everything she had hoped for and dreamed of. Her old life ceased to exist. Poverty, struggle, longing. And Calida …
Teresa pushed away thoughts of her twin. She suffered a tangle of emotions whenever she thought of her: anger, hurt, frustration, and sadness; it was easier to bottle them up. Calida had wished her gone. She would be happy back on the farm, with Daniel, who was the only person who mattered to her anyway.
I wish you’d just disappear …
Though the bruises had faded, the scars were still tender to touch. Fine, Teresa thought, you got what you wanted. See if I care. I’m having the time of my life.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘Ms Santiago?’
The maid stepped in. Vera was a kind, plump, Hispanic woman. Once or twice they had chatted in Spanish, but Vera always cut it short because, she explained, she wasn’t meant to converse with the household. ‘I’m not the household,’ Teresa said, ‘I’m a guest.’ But Vera had backed out of the room and stayed quiet on the matter.
Privately, Teresa wondered if the maid was content working here. Simone spoke sharply to her, as did the other children. The blonde girl, Emily, acted as if Vera didn’t exist, yet had vicious words to impart when her trail of bubblegum wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty bottles of cola failed to be cleared promptly from the side of the swimming pool; while the boy, Lysander, with whom Teresa hadn’t had much contact because she found him daunting, but thrillingly so, liked to make her blush.
Now, the maid wheeled a silver trolley across the carpet, which she brought to a stop at the foot of Teresa’s bed. She bobbed a short curtsey.
‘Gracias,’ said Teresa, marvelling at the sight.
‘De nada—can I bring you anything else?’
‘No, thank you.’ Teresa had never been treated with such reverence: she felt she could ask for anything—a bicycle, a sandcastle, a unicorn—and it would be brought straight to her, with apologies for the delay. Vera nodded and left the room.
The breakfast was sumptuous. Teresa lifted the metal cloche and underneath was a spread of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and tomato, diamonds of toast with the crusts cut off, a pat of butter in the shape of a seashell, a bright glass of orange juice and a goblet of fresh yoghurt topped with blueberry compote. She wolfed the feast.
Excitedly, she dressed. Simone was taking her shopping today and she couldn’t wait. She’d heard so much about luxury clothes and seen Simone’s own dazzling wardrobe, and could picture the stores with their polished displays and glossy sales people; the buzz and zing of money as it flashed in and out of the till.
In the hallway, she stopped. Emily was blasting music from her bedroom and a sign on the door read: KEEP OUT: BITCH WITHOUT A MUZZLE.
Emily’s room was forbidden territory and Teresa knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Since she’d arrived, Emily had barely said two words to her. Frequently she caught the girl scowling at her, and once Emily had brought her friends over and Teresa knew they were giggling and gossiping because they kept looking over and then hiding their smiles behind their hands. Teresa wished she could speak English because then she could explain that Simone had invited her and, since she was here, they might try to get along … It was only a couple more weeks, after all.
Holding the banister, she descended the staircase. It was wide and carpeted, its lofty white walls adorned with giant photographs of Simone at work; Simone in the director’s chair, mingling with co-stars or donning a variety of glamorous wigs. Down in the vestibule stood an impressive cabinet of awards. Julia had said that Simone was famous, but Teresa was beginning to see that for the severe understatement it was.
In the kitchen, the actress was stirring coffee and gazing out of the window to where a pool boy was raking leaves from the water. She was muttering something ominously to her husband, and Teresa identified the sound of Emily’s name.
Noticing their guest, Simone’s face lifted. She turned, arms outstretched.
‘Good morning, sweetheart!’ She gave Teresa a hug. Simone was very affectionate for a hostess and Teresa never quite knew what to do, so she hugged her back and this seemed to be the right thing. Over her shoulder, she spotted Brian eating toast messily at the counter. Brian Chilcott was a director, which meant he told people on movie sets where to go and how to act. He was overweight, and had a florid, disinterested face, and wore ties that looked uncomfortably tight at the neck.
He delivered a wink to Teresa. Diego used to wink at her sometimes but this wink was different; there was something latent in it, a threat too cloudy to name.
‘Are you ready for our shopping trip?’ Simone encouraged.
Teresa didn’t understand. Brian put in: ‘Are you going to teach her English?’
‘Shut up, Brian. Keep your booze-addled nose out of it.’
Teresa didn’t grasp what they were saying, but she heard the bitterness in Simone’s voice. Brian put down his toast and shrugged on his jacket. On his way out, he pecked Simone on her cheek. She turned away but he wouldn’t be deterred.
Teresa’s eyes widened as she saw Brian clasp Simone’s backside and squeeze it hard. Images of Gonzalez and her papa made her shudder. Nausea bubbled in her throat, a sick feeling that took root in her stomach and threaded up like weeds. She remembered her father’s nakedness, his cowardice, and his surrendering groan. Did Simone and Brian do the same thing? Did Emily do it? Did Lysander? For some reason, the thought of Lysander doing it made her insides clench, not unpleasurably.
When Brian had gone, Simone relaxed.
‘English lessons might not be a bad idea,’ she mused. She repeated the suggestion to Teresa, enunciating each word as if she were a dunce. ‘English … you learn … yes? Soon. I will organise.’ She fumbled for the same thing in Spanish. Teresa wondered why they should bother, if she was going home at the end of the month.
The afternoon passed in a glorious whirlwind. Teresa was on cloud nine from the instant she stepped into Simone’s car and they whizzed through the city maze, ducking and diving past shining red buses and gleaming black taxis, over the magical bridges and past the masses of people. When they stopped at the first shop on Bond Street, a crowd surged forward and screamed Simone’s name. Teresa was alarmed. She thought they were being attacked. Simone’s bodyguard drew them safely inside.
‘That’s nothing, darling,’ she giggled, ‘you should see me at a premiere!’ Then she leaned in, a glimmer in her eye, and added, ‘It’ll be you soon, you know.’
Over the next four hours, they tried on every garment in that shop and the next, and the next, and the next, until they collapsed in a heap of happy exhaustion. Everywhere they were treated like royalty: Teresa questioned if, perhaps, Simone Geddes was royalty. She was urged to try on dresses and skirts, blouses and boots, and had no concept of what they cost except for clues from the ladies at the cash desks, who positively trilled when the sums came up. The assistants grovelled around Simone; nothing was too much or any kind of trouble, and every time Teresa emerged from the changing rooms in an exquisite new combination the party flattered and fawned, saying how perfect and beautiful she looked. With her wild dark hair and striking almond eyes, she oozed untamed beauty that, at fifteen, was on the cusp of exploding into something phenomenal. At one point, Simone wept. ‘Que linda!’ she spluttered, dabbing a tissue to her eyes. Teresa beamed. She felt like a million dollars.
They arrived back at the Kensington mansion weighed down but cheerful.
‘Thank you,’ Teresa said in English, meaning it, as tentatively she gave Simone a hug. Simone needed no encouragement to return the gesture.
‘You’re welcome, my sweetheart,’ she