The Santiago Sisters (8 page)

Paris

T
ess Geddes mounted the wide stone steps of the Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris and gazed up at the building. From the bell tower, a deep clang resounded.

In the heart of the Quartier Latin, Collège de Sainte-Marthe de Paris was the most prestigious and exclusive boarding school in the French capital, if not in Europe. It was set apart from the standard education system and reserved for those with elite money and standing, a finishing school to prepare young ladies for world domination.

Pretty, polished students wearing knee-high socks and frilled skirts dashed ahead of her, glossy manes bouncing and leather satchels slung elegantly over one shoulder. Tess watched them, appraising the challenge.
I can do this,
she thought.
I can do anything.
When Simone had informed her she was going to Paris, it made no difference. England, France, wherever it was—as long as it wasn’t Argentina, with people who didn’t want her and who got rid of her the first chance they got.

Simone stood back as her staff hauled the baggage: a huge buckled trunk with gold studs that resembled a coffin. Tess thought,
I know who’s
buried in there.
She wondered, if she sprung it open, whether she would find, instead of daintily
laid blouses scented with pockets of fragrant rose pomander, the body of her old self, curled up in a ball like a kitten in a straw nest, hair brittle and eyes closed.

‘You’ll make so many friends,’ Simone was saying, as she pressed a tissue to her nose. Several other parents glanced over at this show of emotion, their attention snagged by Simone’s sizeable entourage and the incognito dark glasses that marked her out as a celebrity. Although, judging by the throng of gleaming four-by-fours parked at the school gates and the ranks of bodyguards talking grimly into Bluetooth headpieces, Simone wasn’t the only VIP on the premises. Their audience glanced between Simone and Teresa, who couldn’t have looked less alike, and smiled politely.

‘And you’ll even have Emily for company!’

Simone could barely choke out this sentiment, but she made a valiant effort. Up ahead, Emily Chilcott was linking arms with a fiery redhead and shooting Tess death glares. Emily had been attending Sainte-Marthe for three years, one thing Brian
had
insisted on, and was apparently Queen Bee of the dormitories.

‘Mademoiselle Geddes, I believe?’ A middle-aged woman was walking towards them, one arm held out, as pale and goosebumpy as a raw chicken thigh. ‘I’ll take you to your lodgings, shall I?’ she said in English. By now Tess had a competent grasp of the language. Simone’s lessons hadn’t been fast enough so she had taken matters into her own hands, devouring every book and magazine she could, reading it alongside her dictionary into the small hours of the night. ‘See if we can’t get you settled in. My name is Madame Aubert and I am your house mistress.’

Simone kissed her farewell. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks, darling …’

As Tess followed Madame, she eliminated the echo that rebounded through her brain.
A few weeks …
That was exactly what Julia had said as she had been driven away from Patagonia.
Fuck them,
she thought.
They don’t deserve my tears.

The school was like a cathedral. Stained-glass windows spilled red and gold on to the cool, chequered floor. Baroque pillars ran to a huge glass dome, ornate with gold, and weeping religious figures. ‘This is where chapel is held in the morning,’ said Madame Aubert. Through that space they emerged into a giant courtyard
—’La Cour Henri Jaurès
’—which was marked with white and red lines and a vertical pole at each end that was capped with a net. The surrounding structures were high and arched and, above, through little square windows, excited squeals could be heard drifting from the dormitories, against a blast of music. Up a set of winding stairs, Madame Aubert led her down a corridor and pushed open the farthest door.

‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Your home from home.’

The room had ten beds, five down each side, each pristinely made with the sheets pulled tight, and with an accompanying side cabinet and closet. Madame Aubert informed her that supper was at six in the dining room and left her to unpack.

It was eerily quiet. Tess went to the window, which faced away from the courtyard and towards the rest of the school: a collection of grey-slate rooftops, still slick from the morning’s rain. She removed the items from her trunk and laid them on the shelves, like someone else’s belongings. With a jolt, she realised she had left behind the diary she’d been keeping, tucked behind the bed at Simone’s mansion.

The diary had become her steadfast friend, and she had spilled into it her innermost emotions—about Julia, about Calida, about the life she’d left behind; about her regrets and hopes and the strange land she now found herself in, unsure
which way was forward, afraid of her own powers because she had implored the gods for this providence and somehow they had answered. She fingered the locket around her neck. Every time she went to take it off, something stopped her. She wanted to rip it from its chain, stamp on it, toss it from a cliff, but somehow she was unable to.

She was distracted by a burst of giggles at the door.

A clique of girls tumbled in. They stopped when they saw her. Leading the pack was, of course, Emily Chilcott, resplendent in her power zone, and at her side stood the redhead Tess had seen at the gates. The redhead had the most incredible-coloured hair Teresa had ever seen—bright, flaming orange, with golden highlights around the top like a halo. Emily said something in English—Simone had explained she was ‘too thick to get a handle on French’—and they all laughed again, but not in a way you could join in with. Tess decided they could bitch and laugh at her all they liked. She had been through worse than anything Emily could throw at her.

The group paraded down the aisle between the beds, showing off lithe, tanned legs and releasing a mist of musky scent. With a sinking feeling, Tess realised they were her roommates. Madame Aubert had probably arranged it, thinking she would want to be with her family. Emily, her family? That was some joke.

‘I’m Tess,’ she told the redhead, deciding to ignore her stepsister. But Emily was having none of it. She charged forward, blue eyes flashing, and like a magnet drew the others into formation. She smiled openly and said:

‘They don’t care who you are. They’re
my
friends, and you’re the impostor. Rest assured,
Teresa,
you won’t survive here. I’ll make sure of it.’

As the redhead passed, her slanted green eyes narrowed
in malice. Tess felt a sharp yank at the back of her neck, so quick as to be unsure whether it had happened. Her locks were scarcely mended after the attack. Despite Simone’s efforts, Emily’s scissors had triumphed. ‘Nice hair,’ said the redhead unkindly, and closed the door.

It was easy enough to stay away from Emily during the day—Tess spent most of her time in Fast-Track French and was scheduled to join the main curriculum at the end of spring term—but, at night, there was no escape. Emily’s clique clustered into one another’s beds after lights-out and giggled and tittered under the sheets, sucking on illicit squares of bitter chocolate and sipping from bottles of Orangina, which Emily’s outside contact had supplemented with vodka. Sometimes they would throw things at her in the dark—nothing that hurt, just a sock that one of them had worn in Games, or a balled-up note written in French that she couldn’t understand and, sometimes, Emily’s favourite, a tampon or a sanitary towel from the supply under her bed.

The redhead’s name was Fifine Bissette, but everyone called her Fifi. She was the only daughter of France’s premier power couple; her father was a renowned surgeon whose services graced only the affluent, while her mother was an ex-model-turned-socialite. A running joke at Sainte-Marthe was that Fifi’s
papi
had once borrowed cold-blooded Fifi’s heart for another patient and forgotten to replace it.

She and Emily made the perfect match.

Through it all, Tess forged her vendetta. Slowly but surely, her plan took shape, and became the fuel that kept her going. She used her hatred for Emily as a way to endure the monotony and loneliness of the days at Sainte-Marthe, in which she got up alone, dressed alone, and ate breakfast alone; in which she withstood her solo French classes with
Madame Fontaine and saw no other girls, then when she did felt too unsure of the language to attempt a friendship, and the longer she left it the more difficult it became and the stranger they decided she was. She used her anger as a passage through the emptiness of the night, the moonlight and the taunting laughs, as she lay still as a corpse because then they might leave her alone.

Every moment, she was thinking. She was plotting.

It was risky, but the risk was worth it. Tess had no fear. She had nothing. In the days and weeks since the adoption revelation, she had shut out the world. It had been necessary, a method of reassembly, of digging inside herself and cancelling out all those weak parts, the parts that cried for her twin and longed to be held by her.

She had wiped the slate clean and started again—with the person she wanted to be: strong, intrepid, powerful. Emily deserved it. She deserved her revenge.

The following week, before chapel, Tess approached Fifi in the waiting line. The other girls backed away: breaking rank was the ultimate offence.

‘Where’s Emily?’ Tess asked in French.

‘None of your business.’

‘I wanted to wish her luck.’

Fifi was sceptical. ‘With what?’

‘The song,’ Tess widened her eyes, ‘for Monsieur Géroux? Oh, no, don’t tell me she forgot. Aubert will go crazy—she told us about this ages ago!’

‘Told you about what?’ Fifi was impatient, but Tess detected a sliver of anxiety, of wanting—no,
needing
—to do right by Emily. Not to mess up.

Tess sighed. ‘Look, I know Emily’s been skipping Fontaine’s classes.’

‘She doesn’t need to speak French,’ Fifi jumped in, and the clique nodded in agreement. ‘She’s going to Hollywood to become an actress. So it’s irrelevant.’

‘I know,’ Tess was all sympathy, ‘but you know what our mother’s like …’

It felt weird saying it, but she had to remind Fifi of their allegiance. That she
did
have a connection with Emily, and it might stand to reason, despite Emily’s bullying, that she should wish to help her. Anyway, it was true. Emily was meant to attend Madame Fontaine’s lessons. Instead she spent the entire time smoking around the back of the music block. What wasn’t true was that Tess actually gave a shit.

‘Aubert told us weeks back that Géroux was leaving,’ Tess went on. Monsieur Géroux was their music teacher. He caused quite a stir among the pupils, due to being thirty-six, inoffensive looking, and in possession of all his own hair. He was moving to Switzerland to take up another position. ‘She asked us to prepare a song,’ she lied, ‘with Fontaine’s help, to perform for Monsieur today. As in now, in chapel.’

Fifi looked horrified.

‘Oh dear,’ said Tess. ‘I worried this would happen. She hasn’t done it, has she? Aubert will go mad! Not to mention Simone … Emily really is going to get it for this. Like, big time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was suspended.’

Fifi stumbled. ‘I don’t think she’s done any song—she hasn’t said anything …’

‘
Alors
,’ said Tess, handing over a piece of paper, ‘just give her this, OK?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the piece I wrote.’ She waved her hand, as if it were
no big deal. ‘I don’t mind if Emily shares it. We can pretend we arranged it together. I’ll go tell Aubert now. Just make sure she gets it, OK? Or it’s going to be majorly embarrassing for her in there.’
Oh, she’ll get it. She’ll get it all right.

Fifi clutched the paper. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked suspiciously.

Tess lifted her shoulders. ‘Fifi, we’re family. Haven’t you heard of loyalty?’

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and went inside. Quickly, she located Madame Aubert and tied up her ploy. Tess explained that she had wished to perform a farewell song for Monsieur, and would it be OK if she and Emily interrupted morning service for a few moments to do so? Aubert thought it was a wonderful idea, and no doubt couldn’t wait to report back to Simone on how well her girls were getting along.
Ha,
Tess thought as she took her place in the pews,
if only you knew.

Minutes later, the assembly was called into chapel. Tess spotted Emily looking suitably worried. She was frantically reading through the sheet of handwriting, and each time Fifi or one of the others attempted to peek over her shoulder, she swiped them away, unwilling to admit she hadn’t a clue what words were written there. Emily could barely introduce herself in French, let alone tackle the complex structures Tess had toiled hard on, looked up in the library, and double-checked with a bunch of geeks in an online forum. Excitement surged in her chest.

She didn’t have to wait long. After the school refrain had been sung in its usual dispassionate drone—
’Aujourd’hui, nous sommes graines; demain, nous sommes des arbres
’—and an announcement had been made about the forthcoming hockey tournament against the rival girls’ academy, L’École
de Françoise Barbeau, it was time for Tess and Emily’s performance. Across the pews, Tess shot her a sweet smile.

‘Beloved Monsieur Géroux,’ crooned Madame Aubert from the lectern, as there was a general expectant shuffling in the ranks, ‘our girls in Special French wished to say goodbye to you in the way you taught them best. I think this is a lovely gesture and proves how much you mean to them—and to everybody here. So, without further ado, please welcome them to the stage: Tess Geddes and Emily Chilcott!’

Emily hesitated and, for a horrible moment, Tess thought she wasn’t going to fall for it—but, at the last moment, she shuffled up to the front. She shot Tess a strange look, half gratitude and half loathing.
It serves you right,
Tess thought, remembering how her hair had been slashed, and every cruelty and unkindness she had suffered at Emily’s hands.
You underestimated me. You all did.