The Santiago Sisters. Victoria FoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
more than she thought she would pack into a hundred years. She visited majestic palaces with men standing outside in big fur hats that looked like bulrushes. She drifted round museums where the floor was so polished that it shone like silver water, and you could hear the soft, expensive pat of people’s shoes as they walked across it. She went to the cinema, which had a huge TV screen and she ate buttery popcorn that made her fingers salty. She stood on Waterloo Bridge and gazed at the golden spires of Parliament and the pale dome of St Paul’s, which reminded her of a pearl on one of Julia’s old necklaces. She partook in Basic English lessons, and found she had a flair for the language. She posed for a string of daylong photo shoots alongside Simone. She spent nights in the home theatre, where she asked to watch Simone’s movies, and, after a half-hearted show of reluctance, the actress put on her award-winning effort in Two Dozen Men at My Feet, in which she played a rebellious countess who seemed to cry a lot behind closed doors.
On Friday, Simone issued an announcement:
‘We’re having a party. This evening. I want you to dress up.’
Teresa found Vera and asked her about it. ‘Her ladyship wishes to show you off,’ said Vera in Spanish. ‘It’s a party in your honour.’
‘Is it a goodbye party, because I’m leaving soon?’
Vera returned to buffing the marble in Simone’s bathroom.
‘Who’ll be there?’ asked Teresa.
‘Ms Geddes has many friends,’ said Vera. ‘They will want to meet you.’
Three hours later, the household was teeming with staff. The terrace was strung with fairy lights that danced against the stars and a fountain of sparkling water gushed from a cherub’s trumpet. Guests trickled through, the men in crisp, sharp suits that reminded Teresa of the men in her romance novels: the billionaires. The women drifted like angels in their floor-length, sweeping gowns, slowing to pluck a flute of champagne or a miniature morsel of food. Cloying perfume hung in the air.
Across the veranda, Emily Chilcott shot her an evil glare.
Simone told her she looked wonderful, in a damson Moschino creation that skimmed the patio, her jet hair tumbling free, and kept a proprietorial arm round her the entire time. Occasionally, she would step back and gesture towards Teresa as if she were an item in an exhibit. The guests nodded approvingly, the men regarding her in the same voracious manner as the driver she had hailed back home to take her and Calida into town—a galaxy away, it seemed. They spoke too fast to keep up with, but Simone’s reassuring smile told her she was doing well. She revelled in the spotlight, all the more precious because it would not last, and soon she would be back in South America in the rags she had grown up in and it would all seem like a fairy tale.
Afterwards, Simone kissed her. ‘You were perfect, just perfect.’
Teresa was exhausted, exhilarated, elated. She didn’t need to speak English to understand that these people were important. Power had wafted off them in great, intoxicating clouds. Producers, agents, directors—but what did they want with her?
She scarcely dared think it, but as she prepared for bed that night she allowed herself the luxury. For whatever reason, Simone wished to ingratiate her with the industry, to impress them. Was it possible that when she returned to Argentina, it would be with news that she was going to become an actress? That she was relocating to London, to Milan, to Hollywood? Or might Simone ask her to stay on? Would she teach Teresa the ways of wealth and success, and give her a key that would open the door to her own destiny? She told herself off for fantasising—always her weakness. Most likely the party had been a farewell, just as she had thought. Most likely …
She fell asleep the instant she hit the pillow, and dreamed she was swimming in a deep, deep sea, and on the seabed was a diamond, sparkling, beckoning. Someone was calling her name, but the further she swam, the quieter the voice became.
The day before Teresa was due to go home, Emily Chilcott waltzed into her room. Her eyes were shining and eager and there was a bounce in her step.
‘Hi,’ she said sweetly, ‘are you ready to go?’
Teresa found Emily’s smile disturbing. She zipped up the last of her bags.
‘I expect you’ll miss me,’ said Emily, ‘since we’ve become close.’
Teresa sat on the edge of her bed. She didn’t trust Emily. Several times she had consulted her translation dictionary after receiving a snide comment or sarcastic aside. Emily had said some toxic things: Teresa was a brat, a misfit, a bitch; she didn’t belong here. The other day she had seen Emily kick the family puppy when it got in her way. Only somebody truly horrid would be able to hurt an animal.
‘So I thought I’d give you a goodbye present,’ Emily went on. In a flash she withdrew a glinting pair of scissors from behind her back, brandishing them up high. ‘Time for your makeover!’ She beamed, clicking the scissor blades, her eyes mad.
Teresa didn’t have time to back away before Emily advanced, grabbing a clump of Teresa’s hair and, with a sickening snitch, lopped it off.
‘Oops!’ said Emily gleefully. ‘Better make it even!’
Teresa was so surprised that she couldn’t speak. Automatically her hand went up to meet the amputation and all she felt was bare neck. She tried to escape, but Emily pulled her back. With appalling speed and efficiency, the scissors snipped and chopped. ‘Para!’ Teresa cried, distraught. ‘Basta!’ She tried to wriggle free but Emily had her whole weight bearing down and now she was cropping and slashing and slicing great swathes of hair, cackling giddily as it fell to the carpet, and she hacked more and more, until Teresa’s glossy waist-length locks were up at her ear, bitten and chewed and scruffy. She started to cry. Emily seized her fringe and she tried to pull back but it hurt so much that she couldn’t do anything apart from sit there with her hands in her lap, quivering, as with every devastating slice she became balder. ‘Por favor, no lo hagas,’ Teresa howled, ‘Por favor! Para!’
But Emily didn’t listen. When she was done, she leaned to whisper in Teresa’s ear. Teresa could see their joint reflection in the mirror: Emily flushed with excitement, her pixie face alive with delight; and she, tatty and ugly, threadbare and tear-blotched.
Emily’s voice was a hiss: ‘You’ll never be part of this family,’ she said. ‘Go home, little peasant. Get out of my house and my country. Or this is only the start.’
She replaced the scissors on the dresser, and quietly left.
Simone Geddes went insane with anger. She slapped Emily round the face and shook her like a ragdoll. Through it all, Emily remained calm and composed, satisfied at both her offence and at Simone’s reaction. Teresa hadn’t uttered a word about who was to blame, but it hadn’t taken a genius to figure it out. Brian, when he came in from work, chided Emily in a bored fashion before sitting down with a sherry and The Times.
Hysterical, Simone gathered Teresa’s butchered mop under a cap, grabbed her hand and led the way upstairs. Vera was cleaning Teresa’s bedroom.
‘I cannot believe that little harlot would do this!’ Simone was raging. Her whole body convulsed with anger. ‘That girl is vile! She is the devil incarnate!’
Simone barked something at the maid and obediently Vera translated. Teresa could understand Simone’s fury, for what was Julia going to say when she saw the state of her daughter? Vera explained that Simone would be hiring London’s most exclusive hairdresser to pay a private visit in the morning.
‘But I’m going home in the morning,’ said Teresa, in Spanish.
Vera relayed this to Simone.
Simone had her back to her, and turned round slowly. A glance passed between her and the maid. As if reaching an important decision, Simone steered Teresa to a chair and sat her down. She took Teresa’s hands and held them.
There was a long pause, before Simone said, ‘You’re not going home.’