The Santiago Sisters (16 page)

‘You’re a fucking asshole,’ said Calida. ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’

‘Wait,
cariño,
I can—’

‘Explain? Deny it? Don’t bother.’

‘I care about you.’ He reached for her. ‘I want to be with you, Calida. Forget the rest, they’re nothing. We’ll be together, just the two of us—what do you say?’

Calida looked at him, eyes pleading, arms outstretched, and all she felt was sorry for him. Rodrigo had given her what she needed and now she could walk away. Not so for him: he’d be stuck with himself for all eternity, facing a cheat and a liar every time he looked in the mirror. ‘You’ve given me all I wanted,’ she said coolly.

‘So have you,’ he was hopeful, ‘I feel like that too—’

‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘Go home.’

‘I could stay. I—’

‘No, you couldn’t.’

There was a moment, and Rodrigo’s face froze, caught somewhere between shock, fury, and respect. Unused to rejection, he grabbed his coat. ‘Suit yourself,’ he spat. ‘But don’t come running when you change your mind—this was your chance.’

There was no risk of that. It was clear, now, what she had to do—and she should have done it a long time ago. For the first time, Calida was strong enough. She was a woman who could own up to her desires, tell the person she loved how she really felt: that there would be nobody else but him as long as she lived, and she could spend her life running from that fact but it would always hunt her down.

‘There’s only one chance I have to take,’ she said. ‘And it isn’t with you.’

Rodrigo banged the door behind him. Before Calida could
change her mind, she rescued the phone from the floor and fixed it back into the wall.

Breath held, she dialled his number and waited for him to pick up.

Please be there, Daniel.

Tell me it isn’t too late.

Los Angeles

T
he second week in July, Tess boarded a flight to America.

Simone sat next to her in First Class, alternately sipping champagne and buffing her manicure. ‘Are you ready for this, sweetheart?’

‘I was born ready.’

Simone plucked two silk eye masks from her carry-on. ‘Get some sleep,’ she said, passing one to Tess. ‘You’re going to need it.’

They touched down at LAX early evening. Simone was anxious to reach the Malibu beach house she had purchased over the phone (
‘Over the phone
?’ Tess had gasped when she’d learned of this news, ‘You mean you haven’t even seen it?’ to which Simone had replied, ‘I use a trusted buyer out there, darling: sometimes you’ve got to know when to delegate’) and instructed their driver to go there immediately.

Tess was tired after their flight. In the end she had stayed up, too wired to sleep, and watched back-to-back movies. But there was no way she was closing her eyes now. Through the car window, the balmy boulevards of gleaming Los Angeles melted past in a gorgeous, golden-hued haze. LA was one of those cities she felt she already knew, from Simone’s
gilt-edged gossip, from films, from girls at Sainte-Marthe who returned from its sun-soaked beaches and A-list bistros brimming with tales of the illustrious Hollywood Hills … but seeing it in real life was something else.

It truly was the Beautiful City. Every street was a runway, every corner a photo shoot. Nobody was bigger than a UK size 8 and there was a sense of everyone checking everyone else out, if for nothing else than to check out the fact that they were being checked out. Men and women bragged their physiques: tiny butt-clinging shorts whizzed past on rollerblades; perky breasts and honed pecs burst from vest tops; toned legs wrapped round a throbbing motorbike; tresses of sun-kissed hair blew in tousled perfection from an open-top Jeep. On the sidewalk, a woman who made Simone’s plastic surgery look like a particularly kind chemical peel trotted past on Barbie-pink heels, the dog on the end of her spangly lead wearing a fuchsia cape.

‘You’re in a different league, honey,’ said Simone. ‘Believe me.’

The heat, melting out of the day, was sugar-scented. Palm fronds rustled against a stained mauve sky. Tess could smell the ocean, a mix of salt and coconut tan lotion. The air buzzed with promise. Excitement surged.
I’m here. I made it.

Half an hour later, the car pulled on to an oval drive. Tess got out and gaped in amazement at the villa. It was enormous. Lush green lawns ran in an immaculate slope to the entrance, sprinklers raining diamonds on the grass. A white stone façade sparkled like chalk. Twin verandas were capped with arched hoods. Through a copse of trees, Tess spied the swimming pool, a sheet of lime, and next to that a tennis court.

‘Well?’ Simone was in her element. ‘What do you think?’

Tess found her tongue. ‘I thought it was an apartment.’

‘You don’t like it.’

‘I do! Shit, I mean of course I do. It’s incredible …’

Simone clicked her fingers and the driver produced their bags. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said, ‘get a feel for the place.’ She tapped a code into the security gate and they were admitted. Padding around the cool interior, with its marble surfaces and ornate furnishings, was like being in a museum. Five bedrooms, three showers, and two wet rooms, two freestanding claw-footed bathtubs, a kitchen fitted with Sub-Zero and Gaggenau, a gym and sauna, a Jacuzzi, a masseur’s slab, a library and movie theatre, and, just when Tess thought she had seen it all, another floor, another room, another staircase—but then she didn’t need to take those, because there was a lift.

And then, at the back of the house, the
pièce de résistance
: they were right on the shore. Tess held the railing as if she were on the prow of a steamer, open water before her, yawning to an unknown horizon. Endless Pacific Ocean shimmered in the dusk, as far as the eye could see. On the caramel strip of sand that banked on to her terrace, a couple walked hand in hand. Further up the beach, a man ran with his dog.

‘Well?’ Simone stepped up behind her. ‘Can you see yourself living here?’

‘I love it,’ Tess replied. She really did.

The month passed in a maelstrom of meetings, castings, parties, and power play.

Tess met every mover and shaker in LA, and it turned out her adoptive mother’s discrimination had succeeded in making Tess Geddes a sought-after commodity before she had even arrived on American soil. No one wanted to be left out—even
industry titans. All who met her fell beneath her spell. Simone had promised them beauty, but they had never seen a woman like Tess. Her sensuality was raw, free from affectation or decoration; her colouring was gorgeous; her accent was sexy yet fragile, the burned sienna of Spain mixed with the ripe husk of France, polished off by an expensive pout of English regality. At twenty, she was beyond stunning. Never mind the face that launched a thousand ships—Tess Geddes could launch a million.

Simone helped things along by draping her protégée in designer finery: a spot of Balmain here, a dash of Elisabetta Franchi there. Tess was papped everywhere she went; she was mobbed on the street, targeted as she exited a car and rushed into whatever studio or restaurant she was visiting that day—would she wear this bracelet, these sapphire drops, this exclusive brand of mascara? Simone cherry-picked the best, and relished every minute: she had long been hot property this side of the Atlantic, but, having Tess at her side, the girl who put all others in the shade,
her
girl, was a pride like none she had known. ‘You’ve never looked better,’ Simone’s friends in London flattered whenever they saw her. ‘Motherhood suits you.’ And Simone would smile, aglow in the certainty that they spoke the truth. For starters, she looked years younger. She had energy. Purpose. Focus. She laughed easily. She no longer let snide remarks in the press get the better of her. She could now look back on her troubled past with detachment, as if her horrible pregnancy and the terrors of that Surrey attic hadn’t happened to her but to some other unfortunate woman. She could move on.

Tess, meanwhile, loved it all. She embraced her role with a vigour and dedication Simone could only have prayed for. They were going straight to the top.

On Friday night, Tess attended a supper soiree at Maximilian Grey-Garner III’s mansion in the Hills. She was tense about meeting him—her teenage years had played out to a soundtrack of ‘Once Maximilian takes hold of you’ and ‘Once we get Maximilian on board’ and there was much to live up to—but she knew she would impress. Maximilian was the man who would make things happen. Tess was hopeful that such a connection might win her distance from Simone. Now she was here, she intended to work on her own. She wanted the prize to be hers and hers alone.

‘Well,’ Maximilian bellowed when they arrived, striding in from the starlit patio where the rest of his guests were mingling, ‘here she is.’ He air-kissed Simone and did the same to Tess. His cheeks were heavy and sweating, clammy as they touched hers. He had a thatch of grey hair and his shirt was open at the neck and decorated with a garish floral print. On his feet he wore open-toed sandals and his ankles were slightly burned. Maximilian didn’t look as professional as she’d assumed, more like someone’s dad lolloping off across the beach to fetch ice creams.

‘Understatement equals power,’ Simone had counselled on the way over. ‘They’re the ones who don’t have to try.’ Tess reminded herself that Maximilian was, despite appearances, the most influential agent in Hollywood. His list was a phone book of big hitters. If she signed with him that would be it: the mega league.

‘You have an amazing home.’ Tess returned his smile.

‘Oh,’ said Maximilian, waving a hand, ‘Scott deserves the credit for that. He’s the designer round here. I make the
money—he spends it! That’s what we always say. Come on through, darling, I want you to meet everyone.’

As Tess followed Maximilian outside, she judged that he was honest and direct, didn’t suffer fools, and that those qualities would serve her well. It was Sainte-Marthe all over again, just on a bigger scale: who was useful and when; who could be employed for what, and then how hard would it be to drop them? Everyone did it. It was endurance, the long slog to the top, and she wasn’t here to make friends.

Heads turned as she emerged on to the terrace. Women took a step closer to their husbands; men’s eyes flitted across her with appetite. Maximilian noticed, too. ‘Simone wasn’t making it up,’ he said. Flutes of pale champagne passed by on a tray, and Maximilian lifted two. ‘I hear you’re causing a stir with the studios.’

‘I’m trying.’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I sense when you try, you normally succeed.’

‘Not normally: always.’

‘Then the signs are good.’

‘For …?’

‘For us, of course.’

Simone joined them in that immaculately timed way she had, looping her arm through Tess’s and smiling up at Maximilian. Tess wished she could negotiate this on her own. She understood Simone’s investment and all the preparation she had done, but Tess didn’t intend to spend the rest of her days paying this woman off.

Just like Calida was paid off.

‘You
are
on my team, aren’t you?’ Maximilian raised an eyebrow.

Tess met his glass with a little too much force. ‘You bet I am,’ she said.

Simone announced the following week that the Chilcotts were flying over from England. ‘Brian needs a break,’ she said, and then, in a slightly strangled voice as if Tess had disputed or challenged her on that fact, ‘and so does Lysander.’

Days before, on the seventh of July, London had been rocked by a series of terrorist bombings, three explosions on the Underground and a fourth on a double-decker bus. It hadn’t occurred to Tess to worry for Simone’s brood, not just because the tragedy was unfolding so far away but also because they rarely, if ever, took public transport. Even so, it had been a relief when Simone reached the mansion and learned that everyone was safe. ‘And the kids?’ she’d demanded shrilly. ‘They’re both OK?’ Her white-knuckled grip had relaxed on the phone. The extent of the household’s involvement had lain with Vera, who had been passing Tavistock Square moments before the bus detonation and had stayed behind as an eyewitness.

The Chilcotts arrived on the morning Tess was due at her first casting: for Caitlin Wood’s new movie,
White Candle.
Caitlin was LA’s number one female director, having hoarded a net of awards and acclaim at last fall’s festival season: at Cannes she was incandescent, at Tribeca she was tremendous, at Sundance she was sensational. Tess was ready for it. She had practised the script, knew it by heart. There was never a question in her mind that she wouldn’t deliver. She
had
to deliver.

‘Whoa, check this place out!’ Lysander led the brigade into the Malibu villa. ‘This is sick!’ He dumped his bags. ‘Hey, Tess, looking hot as always.’

Simone flushed an angry shade. ‘That is your
sister,
remember?’ she hissed, folding her arms, but she accepted his peck on the cheek all the same. Tess noticed that she touched her stepson’s elbow very gently as he did so. The gesture shouldn’t have stood out, it was so tiny, so fleeting, but it did.

Emily skulked behind, determined to remain unimpressed. ‘Bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’ she said boredly, flumping down on the white leather couch. ‘Nowhere near as cool as the warehouse I’m moving into with Fi …’

‘Right,’ said Lysander, ‘the Hoxton Squatters. That place is a shit-pit.’

‘Fuck off, ‘Sander.’

‘Such a lady.’

‘Such an
arsehole.
’

‘Come on, you two.’ Brian was struggling through the door with the remainder of the luggage. ‘I’ve had this bickering the whole trip!’ Simone stood by the counter, looking pained, her mouth set in a line of mild distaste. He approached Simone and held her stiff shoulders, before leaning in to kiss her closed mouth.

‘You’d think they’d have some perspective after what’s happened,’ Brian went on. ‘Lysander’s friend Raoul was two stops from Edgware Road.’

‘Raoul’s fine.’

‘But others aren’t. Have some respect.’

‘I do have respect! Christ. What do you want me to do? Life goes on, Dad.’

Brian heaved his suitcase. Tess went to help him, since no one else was.

‘Thanks, love,’ said Brian, as they reached for the handle at the same time and his rough skin brushed against hers. ‘You’re a good girl.’

Tess flinched. Ever since Brian had cracked on to her in his office, he’d made her skin crawl. He looked up at her now with a sad longing. Was it any wonder? He hadn’t had a job in months, the kids disrespected him, the whole family treated him like an unwanted Labrador, and she had no doubt Simone lived up to her Ice Queen name in the bedroom. Tess questioned what life would be like being married to a titan like Brian. She could pinch him right from under Simone’s nose if she chose to.

‘We’ve got to get moving,’ said Simone brusquely. ‘Tess has an audition.’

‘Audition?’ Emily snorted, picking at the stitching on the couch. ‘Don’t know why she’s bothering—the part’s already hers, right?’

‘Shut up, Emily,’ said Simone.

‘Isn’t that how it works? Never mind about actual fucking
talent—’

‘Now, now,’ said Brian, ‘let’s keep things peaceful.’

Emily rolled her eyes. But she gave Tess a reluctant
‘They’re such losers’
look that confirmed her attitude was directed at them, not at her stepsister.

In the end, the Chilcotts tagged along. Simone tried to tempt them into a siesta by the pool or into exploring the boutiques at the Colony Plaza, but Brian wouldn’t be dissuaded. The others were too busy squabbling to form a persuasive protest.

‘How long are you staying?’ Tess asked Emily in the Escalade.

‘Dunno,’ she sighed, ‘I didn’t even want to come …’

‘That’s a heap of crap,’ chipped in Lysander, his handsome lip curling. ‘Em reckons she’ll get spotted by some casting couch perv and they’ll give her a job on a porno. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Em—a nine-to-five fuckathon?’