The Santiago Sisters (15 page)

The cocktails arrived. ‘She might be picky.’

‘As she has a right to be …’ Simone played with her olive, bobbing it up and down in the vermouth. ‘You don’t think she’s a …’ she leaned in, ‘a
lesbian
?’

The idea had occurred on Sunday as Simone was firing the pool boy and now she couldn’t scratch it out. She wanted precision for Tess in Hollywood: it would all be shot to hell if it transpired that a biker dyke in a strap-on was boning her daughter. Simone didn’t know any lesbians, which explained the ignorance of this picture.

‘Of course not! Don’t be silly …’ Ironically, Michelle was a lesbian. This meant Simone did know a lesbian; she just didn’t know it.

‘I’ve decided to set her up,’ said Simone. ‘Obviously she’s still a virgin.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘I just can.’ Simone had always been in tune with sexual energies. She could see them floating around in the same way other people saw auras. Tess had no interest in sex at the moment. Brian had even less. Lysander, on the other hand …

Simone’s crotch sparked as she recalled the hand she had taken her stepson in that very morning. They had collided in the bathroom, Simone half-awake, her hair a mess, when
Lysander had wordlessly forced her grip around his pumping cock and spunked inside sixty seconds all over her silk peignoir. It shouldn’t have been erotic, but, oh, it was. After a quick change of clothes she had returned to Brian in the bedroom. Her husband was propped against the bedhead reading the
Financial Times.

‘Who are you thinking?’ asked Michelle.

‘I’m not thinking about anyone,’ Simone snapped, affronted.

‘For Tess’s set-up …?’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’ She composed herself. ‘Hugo Winthorpe-Myers.’

‘Lady Annabel’s son?’ Michelle made a face. ‘He’s a bit of a sap, isn’t he?’

‘All the better for Tess’s initiation.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘I’m never wrong, Michelle. You wait and see.’

Tess arrived for her date with Hugo Winthorpe-Myers and knew instantly that should the planet explode in a nuclear apocalypse and all humanity be wiped off the face of the earth save for herself and this man, she would never, ever consider him a match.

‘Hi,’ Hugo drawled, meeting her at the door to his ancestral home. He was dressed like someone three times his age, in a brown tweed waistcoat and toffee-coloured chinos. He had a slight facial tic that jerked his ear to his collarbone.

Give him a chance.
Objectivity was everything. Hugo was wealthy, check. He had property, check. He had a title, bonus check. Tess was incapable of finding that thing called love—she couldn’t even enjoy sex: how was she ever going to love
anyone?—but she was OK with that. After all, love was a trap only fools fell into.

Brightly, she smiled. ‘Come in,’ Hugo wheedled, stepping back. He winked at her, though that could have been the tic. A gust of musty air assailed her from the grand hall. Through it, the dining room was enormous. Hugo pulled out a chair at one end of the table (which could have accommodated thirty people) and helped her in.

Rather than sitting next to her, he loped to the opposite end and flicked out his napkin. ‘Wine!’ he screeched, and the goblets were brought. ‘To us,’ he said.

‘What?’ She couldn’t hear a thing this far away.

‘I SAID TO US,’ he shouted.

The starter was mushroom soup. Tess’s heart sank when she saw she had sets of cutlery for four courses, and a grandfather clock in the corner taunted her by spitting out the seconds agonisingly slowly. The soup was grey and thick.

‘Do you study?’ Tess asked.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘DO YOU STUDY?’

Hugo dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. ‘I don’t need to,’ he replied smugly. ‘Hartleigh Manor is my future. This house will be my business.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘Of course!’ he spluttered. ‘Don’t you know anything about the gentry? This estate has been ours for centuries. My great-great-grandfather was the Duke of Bassett. My father is the Earl of that same name and one day
I
will inherit the title.’

Above Hugo’s bowed head, which was busy attending to the soup, was a framed portrait of a man in breeches. Nearby, in a glass cabinet, a stuffed eagle spread its dead wings.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ she asked.

‘No, Mummy and Daddy only wanted me. Good job I was a boy, the old man says, or they’d have had to keep going.’ Tess waited for Hugo to return the question, and was relieved when he didn’t. She should know better than to ask stuff like that.

‘How did your mother meet Simone?’

‘Some party or other.’ Hugo slurped. ‘Mummy’s always out making friends. Trouble is, everyone takes advantage because everyone wants to know an aristo.’

The main course arrived—stuffed quail with dauphinoise potatoes and buttered carrots—and Hugo elaborated on the lifestyle the house awarded him, the fleet of classic cars he was looking to collect (despite the fact he hadn’t yet acquired his licence, ‘but Daddy will sort that for me’), and the shooting expeditions he would undertake as part of Hartleigh Manor’s Grand Business Plan. ‘Stag dos, you know,’ he pitched through a mouthful of macerated bird. ‘They come out here to see how the other half lives before returning to their hovels. Only of a type, you understand.’

‘What type?’

Hugo picked something out from between his teeth. ‘Put it this way, sweetheart: I don’t want a bunch of reprobates tearing up the taxidermy.’

After a pudding of apple crumble, chased up by a final course of melting Camembert and celery sticks, finally, and not a moment too soon, it was over.

At the door, Tess realised he hadn’t asked her a single thing about her life.

‘It was great learning all about you,’ Hugo said cordially, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He stuck his tongue in her ear. It was so alarming that she shoved him away.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Come on,’ his tic went into overdrive, ‘you know you want it. Nine ladies out of ten positively wet their knickers at the mere suggestion of my title.’

‘They pee themselves?’

He was thrown. ‘What?’

‘Seriously, I’m interested. That is what you mean, right?’

‘You know precisely what I mean,’ Hugo said acidly.

‘Well, then, I guess I’m one out of ten.’

Hugo backed off, furious. ‘One out of ten might be generous,’ he said snidely, before floundering a moment and delivering a parting shot. ‘And for the record, you’re too fat for me. I like girls like Mummy, who watch what they eat. You devoured that cheeseboard so fast it was like sitting opposite a Hoover nozzle.’

Tess wanted to punch him in his pimple-pockmarked jaw. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed down the steps. The BMW was waiting.

‘Enjoyable evening, Ms Geddes?’ the driver asked as he whisked her away.

‘Fine,’ she answered, biting her lip until she tasted blood. Money or not, they were all the same. No matter their means, men were all bastards inside.

Look at her father: he had taught her everything she needed to know about the opposite sex and a lot more besides. She’d killed him for the privilege.

It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t meant to happen that way.

Had she killed her mama and her sister, too? A cursed child, a poisoned cup …

Perhaps this was her punishment. A life of frigid misery, sold and paid for and carted across the ocean like a sack of sand because inside she was rotten and they’d longed to get rid of her. Tess choked on a wave of hopelessness before pulling
herself back to shore.
Stop it. You’re stronger than this. You’re not a crier
—
don’t start now.

By the time they reached the Kensington mansion, she had pulled herself together and translated her tears into pounding, unstoppable energy. She might not be able to prove to Julia and Calida the woman she’d become, but she could damn sure prove it to herself. Tomorrow, she would pack her bags for Hollywood.

Argentina

C
alida woke in her apartment in Belgrano, Rodrigo Torres’ magnificent body warm alongside hers. He was sleeping, his lips parted and his dark, severe brow a reminder of the thrilling commands he had issued the previous night. Rodrigo was her teacher. She was his student. It was an electrifying journey to enlightenment.

Calida’s defences had been stripped after her first week of tango lessons, months ago now. He had been patient, generous, leading her deep inside the music to explore its strange new rhythms, winding a path through its burning territory. ‘
You are a natural
,’ he breathed into the coil of her ear, as he pressed his hips against hers.

It was only a matter of time before they had pressed their hips in a different way. Calida had known it would happen. Through dance she cast out her insecurities and stepped into the shoes of another woman—a ruthless, fervent woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. And she wanted Rodrigo. At nineteen, she had been adamant about losing her virginity. While she had always thought she would give it to someone she loved, someone like Daniel, it was liberating to
choose another route. That was what old Calida would have done. New Calida followed her body.

Their sex was intoxicating.

Too long she had pleasured herself by her own hand, not believing that any man would do those things with her. Why would they, when there were women like Tess Geddes in the world? But Rodrigo told her she was gorgeous—he adored her shape and her strength; he didn’t want a girl who would snap as soon as he touched her. Calida wondered what it had been like for Tess. Her twin would have shed that badge years ago, with a dashing film star or a London pretty-boy, and by now would consider herself a connoisseur. Sex would be Tess’s forte: she would trail her lovers on a string, just as she had Daniel, and would relish the power it gave her.

Calida had assumed the sisters would share this landmark, embark on it as one, confiding their secrets and conquests. Not any more. She locked these feelings away and buried the key, and decided she didn’t care. Calida might have been born first, but Tess had stolen an advantage in everything else—beauty, boys, travel—and now it was time to catch up. The look on her twin’s face when she finally did, tapping her on the shoulder and whispering, ‘
Hello, remember me
?’ was what kept her going.

‘You’re the only girl I know who tastes good in the morning.’ Rodrigo grabbed her and pulled her down. His erection grew against her belly and Calida opened her legs, ready to take him, no foreplay necessary. He held his tip against her.

‘Do it,’ she begged, craving the release, the oblivion. ‘Do it hard …’

Rodrigo fired her his irresistible grin and turned on his back. Calida knew what he wanted—and she wanted it too.
It gave her a feeling of such control, to bring a potent man down, leave him quivering and crying her name. Lowering her head, she began kissing his balls, flicking her tongue out and then enclosing one between her lips. She licked the root of his penis in the way he’d instructed, working her attentions up the shaft, little by little. When she reached the thick flower of his crown she pouted her lips around it, driving against the cushion of her tongue. When he was almost there, she clasped her fingers around his dick and worked in tandem with her mouth, increasing her speed and bringing him as far into her throat as she could manage.

‘
Sí, por favor, cógeme …
’ Abruptly, Rodrigo took her head. He flipped her round on the sheets so he was fucking her mouth from above. His balls crushed against her chin. All at once he emitted a thin, high yelp and her mouth was filled.

‘Your turn,’ he murmured, before seconds later she felt his breath between her legs. Working his tongue on that spot that drove her crazy, Rodrigo sent her hurtling towards orgasm in less than a minute. Grinding against him, Calida pulled his hair and dug herself against him and then she came. His tongue tasted her even as she rode one wave after another, further out into the thrashing, limitless ocean.

On the tango floor, Rodrigo Torres was an expert. In bed, he was a matador.

Each time Calida slept with him, she opened up a little more towards the sun. Anxiety turned to confidence. Uncertainty turned to courage. Fear of the future turned to an absolute need to meet it and make it hers. Her flesh caught fire and with it her soul, her ambition awakening after endless seasons in the shade. Sex was proving to her once and for all that she was worth just as much as her twin. She didn’t have to believe her mama’s lie that she was nothing special and no
one significant—because Rodrigo Torres proved otherwise. He proved that it was good to be Calida Santiago, and that knowledge implanted deep inside her, rare and precious.

On Calida’s twentieth birthday, Rodrigo invited her to a Mexican restaurant on Santa Fe. The owner gave Rodrigo a brotherly clap on the back: ‘Your usual table?’

‘You’ve been here before?’ Calida asked as she slid into the private booth, enjoying how her new red dress clung to her curves and its daring, plunging neckline. She could feel Rodrigo staring at her. She could feel other men staring at her.

‘Not often,’ said Rodrigo evasively, and consulted his menu.

It made a change to be out in public. Normally Rodrigo elected to stay in her apartment, the blinds drawn and the phone off the hook, ‘Because then I can make love to you whenever I like.’ Tonight, it felt more like they were a couple. It occurred to Calida that she should be pleased at this development, but the truth was she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. Rodrigo captivated her, he obsessed her, he had her craving him like a drug … but she didn’t love him. She couldn’t. She would never love a man, not truly, unless he was a blond-haired blue-eyed gaucho called Daniel Cabrera.

‘Doesn’t she look exquisite, Nico?’ Rodrigo said as their waiter came to take their order. Nico nodded and asked: ‘Is it a special occasion, Señor Torres?’

Rodrigo started to shake his head, just as Calida said: ‘It’s my birthday.’

‘Can we help you celebrate?’

‘No, no,’ Rodrigo jumped in, ‘we’ll keep it low-key, won’t we,
mi vida
?’

When Nico had gone, he reached across the table and took her hand. ‘You understand,
cariño
—it’s only they’ll bring out a cake and a song, make a spectacle of it, draw unwanted attention … I’m a celebrity, and I’d rather not be spotted.’

Calida drank her wine, observing her lover carefully over the rim of her glass. While things were casual, she couldn’t see a reason for such secrecy. Even at El Antiguo, Rodrigo pretended they had no connection, avoiding her eye when he was onstage and she was in the shadows, zooming her lens on his performance.

‘
Don’t you see it turns me on
?’ Rodrigo would murmur, later, when they were alone.
‘It’s role play, Calida; it makes me want you even more …
’

As they ate, she noticed how his eyes kept darting to the door. How he didn’t quite focus on her while she was talking. How hastily he requested the check.

What game are you playing
? Calida thought.

After the meal, Rodrigo followed her into a taxi and kissed her all the way back to Belgrano.
‘Me volves logo
,’ he whispered into her neck, his hands roaming her breasts, ‘you drive me crazy.’ He took her fingers and guided them to his cock, encouraging her to rub its stiff length through the material of his trousers.

The taxi pulled up and he threw a bundle of notes through the window.

Up in her apartment, they didn’t even bother turning the lights on. Rodrigo unbuckled himself and hitched up her skirt and screwed her ferociously against the wall. Straightaway, she came. Shattered by her orgasm, she let herself be spread on the floor and when that wasn’t enough he told her to get on her front and lift her ass in the air. From this angle, the penetration was intense. Rodrigo gripped her buttocks, his
thumbs hooking her wide, as he thrust himself towards an explosive ejaculation. Calida climaxed again, seconds before he did, tensing and shuddering around him.

‘How was that, birthday girl?’ he crooned as he lay next to her.

Calida watched him for a long time, in the dark, until she fell asleep.

Things came to a head in December. It had been quiet enough at the pizza café for Calida and her staff to spend most of the afternoon out back in the manager’s office, scrolling through profiles on Facebook. Everyone was on it, it seemed. She didn’t get it. ‘Why would you want to spy on people?’ asked Calida.

‘It’s not spying,’ said her friend Alicia. ‘It’s keeping in touch. Come on, there must be
someone
you want to find?’

‘Not really.’ But after the others had left, Calida typed in her sister’s name: Teresa and Teresita and her occasional nickname, Tere. Nothing.

She tried ‘Tess Geddes’. Nothing. No one.

Of course there wasn’t. She wished she hadn’t tried.

Tess Geddes wouldn’t be thinking of her, would she? She’d be too busy loving her new life. Why should Calida bother? The only time she wanted to think of her selfish twin was when she pictured the moment they would meet again. Tess Geddes wouldn’t recognise her. She’d be a worm against what Calida had achieved.

Rodrigo was meant to be picking her up at six. He preferred to meet her at the rear doors so they could slip into his car unseen. ‘Paola has eyes all over town,’ he said,
counselling that Paola didn’t like romances to blossom in the workplace.

Today, he was late. When seven o’clock came and went Calida ditched him and began the long walk home. All night she watched the phone for a call, or kept an ear out for the buzzer downstairs. Where was he? The annoyance she felt at having asked Paola for a night off, only for it to be wasted, was soon replaced by concern. Nine p.m. and still no word. On a whim, she rang El Antiguo. Paola answered immediately.

‘Is Rodrigo there?’

‘He isn’t working tonight. Is that Calida?’

‘Yes … I’m meant to be meeting him.’

There was silence on the end of the line. ‘Hello?’ she prompted.

‘Calida, stay away from Rodrigo outside of hours—do you understand?’

‘Why?’

She heard Paola speak to somebody else, then a door clicked closed and the buzz of the salon receded. ‘You’re dating him?’ Paola asked wearily.

‘Yes. Although—’

‘He doesn’t want anyone else to know.’

Calida held the phone a little tighter. ‘Actually, he says—’

‘He says it’s more exciting that way.’

‘Have you been talking to him?’ She was furious.

‘No,’ said Paola. ‘But I have been in your shoes.’

Calida was shocked. ‘You’ve been with Rodrigo?’

‘
Bella,
who hasn’t? He’s taken you to
El Horno Mexicano
? He always wants to meet at your place? He’ll only go near you in private? Rodrigo’s a player. He’s a stud. He’s
keeping twenty beds warm as we speak. Every girl thinks she’s the only one—believe me, because I got scorched. If it weren’t for his ability to pull in the crowds I’d have abandoned him years ago. He hurt me. In the end, he hurts all of us.’

Calida tingled with anger. Misgivings she’d had since her birthday solidified and she couldn’t bear the humiliation, the disgrace.
How dare he?

She banged the phone down. Immediately it rang back but she pulled the cord from the wall, glowing with fury, and resisted the urge to stamp on it.

She had suspected there could be unfinished business—an ex-girlfriend, perhaps, someone he hadn’t quite ended it with—but tens, dozens, more?
Paola
? She thought of his cronies at the salon, the way they looked over as she was going through her pictures, the sideways leers they delivered to Rodrigo. Who did he think she was, some easy lay who would smother him in kisses and tell him it didn’t matter; she was lucky to be with him at all so he could go right out and screw who he liked because she’d be happy with any scraps she could get.
I’m better than that. I deserve more.

Calida fixed a drink and downed it in one, and realised she felt quite calm. Paola’s revelation confirmed only what she had known. It didn’t wound her. It made sense. Rodrigo was using her, sure … but hadn’t she been using him, too?

She’d never had feelings for him—only fascination. Rodrigo stood for every man she had been convinced would never find her attractive; every man that should have belonged to her twin, not to her. Beneath his tutelage, she had gone from shy, inexperienced ingénue to sexually poised siren—and she wouldn’t take his shit.

The flurry of a TV news bulletin distracted her attention. Images of a raging inferno filled the screen, unfolding live downtown, as they reported a fire breaking out at República Cromañón. Bodies were being brought out on stretchers. Journalists recounted to camera. She poured another drink, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Suddenly the door erupted in a battery of knocks. Rodrigo swept in, his arsenal of alibis at the ready. ‘
Cariño
, I’m sorry. I’ve had a hell of a journey …’

‘Where have you been?’

Rodrigo nodded to the TV. ‘Good, you don’t need me to fill you in.’

‘You were there?’

‘No, but the streets are chaos. It took me an age.’

‘What,’ she consulted the clock, ‘five hours?’

He splayed his hands in a gesture to be calm. ‘Go easy on me, baby. I’ve had a bastard of a night. I need a brandy.’ He shrugged off his coat and went to the kitchen.

‘I had a conversation with Paola Ortiz tonight,’ said Calida, following him in. She saw him tense and thought:
Coward.
‘Are you seeing other women?’

Rodrigo stayed perfectly still. In that moment he was no longer the formidable tango dancer every woman coveted; he was a boy caught with his pants down.

‘What makes you say that?’ he asked. He was a terrible liar.

‘I already know. You might as well come clean. You’ve been with a woman tonight. You weren’t anywhere near those poor people at the fire.’

Rodrigo paused; thought about whether or not to deny it. ‘It was the only night she could squeeze me in,’ he said eventually. It was an unfortunate choice of words.