Sister to Sister

by Olivia Hayfield

  ‘Pointless,’ said Kit. ‘Like all sport.’

  ‘Far too much football, for sure,’ said Eliza. ‘We’ll need to keep some, though. It’s a major earner for Rose. But I want a big, shiny new production department. Honestly, guys, I can’t wait. Think of the possibilities. A new golden age of British drama. The time is so right for this.’

  ‘As are you, Eliza Rose,’ said Will.

  Chapter 13

  Eliza

  It was late October, and Michaelmas term was in full swing. The wind carried the scent of frosts to come, and college scarves were once again wrapped around student necks.

  The three girls were renting a house close to the centre of town. Early in the mornings Eliza would walk by the river as mist rose and swirled along the banks, thinking about the day ahead, the situation at Rose.

  She remembered Harry telling her how he’d always felt drawn to the Thames, how he liked to sit and watch it when he needed to think. How there was some deep connection that worked its magic. She was finding the same. DNA again, perhaps. She liked to think about how this river, called the Isis here, was on its way to London to flow past Richmond then onwards to Terri, Chess and Rob, and all the others at work in The Rose.

  Harry, John, and their new consultant, Cecil Walsham, were developing a plan to ensure Maria and Phil couldn’t wreak too much havoc at Rose. Harry had told Eliza to focus on her finals, to enjoy her last months at Oxford, not to worry. She was focused, and enjoying, but having trouble with that last part. Her biggest worry was that Harry thought she wasn’t up to the job, that she’d let him down.

  ‘No, Dad,’ she’d said, during a video call on her first weekend back. ‘I want to be involved. I’ve been mulling it over, thinking about how we can tip the balance back in our favour. Could Aunt Margot be brought back on side?’

  ‘Scary Big Sis?’

  ‘Come on, Dad. I thought there was no such thing as a woman immune to your charms. Doesn’t everyone love a cute little brother? Surely you can win her over. After all, she owes you. Last time you did as she asked, you got shot.’

  ‘Excellent point. I’m liking the way you think. And we have Cecil. The man has networks like you wouldn’t believe. He’s been doing a spot of forensic accounting. He’s traced Mr Seville’s corporate raid back to the holding company he’s been hiding behind – Armada, it’s called. Cecil’s been careful to stay in the shadows, but let’s just say, Seville’s share of Rose is already not what it was.’

  ‘Won’t he notice?’

  ‘Cecil’s been extremely subtle in his manoeuvrings. The man’s a strategic genius.’

  ‘Wow, go Cecil. So if you can swing Scary Big Sister . . . ’

  ‘Things will start to fall into place.’

  ‘I have to say, I’m quite partial to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ said Will, sipping his pint as they sat outside the Head of the River. In front of them, the green waters of the Isis flowed quietly by.

  ‘Can’t be doing with that poem,’ said Eliza. ‘Too overblown.’

  ‘So fruity,’ said Kit. ‘All that swelling and ripeness, and the close-bosom friend part.’

  ‘Clammy cells,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Last oozings,’ said Kit.

  Eliza snorted.

  Kit slipped an arm round her shoulder. ‘Unless a tree has borne blossoms in the spring you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn. Remember that, Eliza.’

  ‘Remember that why?’

  ‘You have yet to blossom, yet you are forbidden fruit.’ He kissed her cheek.

  ‘You two are so weird,’ said Leigh. ‘You’re always touching, and talking in riddles. It’s like you’re having a thing. The thing that wasn’t a thing. Are you having a thing?’

  ‘Theirs is an affair of the mind,’ said Will. ‘Never try and understand.’

  Leigh and Frankie left for afternoon lectures, and Will took himself off to Blackwells, leaving Kit and Eliza sitting in the autumn sun.

  ‘I finished your script,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Took your time,’ said Kit. ‘And?’

  ‘I read it through twice. It’s brilliant, Kit. Congratulations. You really got inside Thomas More’s head.’

  ‘Henry’s was more interesting. Thomas allowed his conscience to dictate his actions. And look what happened to him. Henry negotiated with his. Clever man.’

  ‘You think? I love how you’ve flipped the good versus bad. And how you explore Henry’s mind – and, oh my god, the part where you have him selling his soul for a son. Like a different take on Dr Faustus. Honestly, Kit, I can’t wait to get started on this. It’s going to be huge – even bigger than Wolf Hall! Marley and Bardington. What a combo.’

  ‘Yup, my name first.’

  Eliza tutted. ‘Why do you two have to be so competitive? You spark off each other – you’re both brilliant.’

  ‘Better sup up,’ he said. ‘I said I’d meet Bard in Blackwells.’

  They walked along the riverside path, carpeted with golden leaves.

  ‘How’s the love life?’ said Kit. ‘Found your daddy substitute yet?’

  ‘Too much going on to worry about men. And you? Still playing every field and water meadow in Oxford and way beyond?’

  ‘Meh. What about that bloke at the office? He’s into you.’

  ‘Rob?’ Eliza tried to keep her face impassive. ‘We’ve been friends for ever. I love him to bits . . . as a mate.’

  ‘Come on.’

  There was no point in denying it. Kit could read her mind. ‘OK, I might have a crush, but he’s . . . spoken for, and I don’t want the distraction. I can’t afford it. I need to focus on work.’

  ‘Wait.’ He touched her arm and stopped walking.

  Eliza’s red woollen scarf was hanging loose. He took one end and slowly looped it behind her head, once, twice, pulling her closer.

  His eyes were catching the low rays of the autumn sun, gold on gold.

  ‘Feuillemort,’ she said softly, caught in their hypnotic gaze. ‘Dying leaves.’

  She felt their strange connection, like he had a hotline to her soul.

  For a fleeting moment it was as if a shadow passed over his face.

  ‘Metaphorical bullseye,’ he said. His eyes moved past her to the river beyond. ‘Sometimes you have to go with the flow. Let things play out.’

  ‘Things? What things?’

  ‘Things . . . ’ He met her gaze. ‘It’s down to Fate.’

  ‘You’re confusing me again. And surely you don’t believe in Fate?’

  ‘I get a sense . . . like . . . it won’t be easy. You and him.’

  ‘Now you’re freaking me out.’

  ‘Never mind, forget I said that.’

  He set off walking again.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Eliza, swivelling her laptop to show Frankie and Leigh the bridesmaid’s dress on the screen. It was a strapless gown in a beautiful shade of green that she knew would suit her colouring – and Helena’s. Chess, Helena and Eliza. Two strawberry blondes and one full-on redhead. There was no escaping that Rose gene.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ said Leigh. ‘What’s your cousin thinking, putting you in that? She must have great faith in her husband-to-be.’

  ‘You generally do, when you’re getting married,’ said Frankie. ‘Hey, what’s the best man like? ’Cause, you know, traditionally . . . ’

  ‘It’s the groom’s brother, Rob. I’ve known him all my life. He used to pull my hair a lot, pushed me into the lake at Richmond Park one time.’

  ‘But is he hot?’ said Leigh.

  ‘Give it a rest, you two. But since you ask, yes. Very. And he always used to save me his last Smartie, even if we didn’t see each other for months on end.’

  ‘Aw!’ said Leigh. ‘So . . . a spot of best-man-on-bridesmaid action might be welcome? You’d only be keeping up a fine tradition.’

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Frankie. ‘If you wear that, his wife had better watch out.’r />
  December arrived. Chess and Gil were getting married in an ancient church close to the Lisle’s rambling Suffolk farmhouse.

  On the eve of the wedding, Gil, Chess, Eliza, Rob and Helena went for a rehearsal at the church, then on to the village pub.

  ‘Just an orange juice for me,’ said Chess. ‘Don’t want to be fluffing my lines tomorrow.’

  ‘Only two words matter,’ said Gil, as they found a table by the fire. ‘I and do.’

  Chess kissed his cheek.

  ‘Cute,’ said Rob. ‘How’s it going, Helena? Hear you’ve got yourself a Frenchman. Letting the side down rather, aren’t you?’

  ‘Englishmen are so threatened by Frenchmen,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Our mother speaks highly of them,’ said Chess.

  ‘She does,’ said her younger sister, who looked like a boho version of Chess. ‘Uncle Harry said she had a ball when she was a chalet girl in the French Alps.’

  ‘With my mum,’ said Eliza. ‘Funny to think of them having those lives. Kind of the same as us, but different.’

  ‘Do you think history repeats?’ said Helena. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m living out some predestined path, like I’ve done it all before.’

  Chess tutted. ‘Artists. You always were the family flake.’

  ‘I think you’re on the right lines,’ said Rob. ‘Except it’s not destiny pushing me and Gil, it’s our bloody dad.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Chess. ‘Good job I love you, Gil, otherwise I’d be feeling very much the sacrificial lamb tomorrow. The guest list’s like a Who’s Who of people to invite to your son’s wedding if you want him to be PM.’

  ‘I assume Maria’s not coming,’ said Eliza, ‘now she’s bailed on Dad in favour of Phil the Pill?’

  ‘Sent her feeble apologies,’ said Chess. ‘Probably too embarrassed to show her face. The face that never smiles.’

  ‘Been smiling quite a lot, actually,’ said Rob.

  ‘What?’ said Eliza.

  ‘Word on the office grapevine is she and Phil are putting in long hours on their missionary position – sorry, mission statement.’

  ‘I heard those rumours too,’ said Chess.

  ‘Seriously?’ Eliza thought back to Maria’s flutteriness around Phil.

  ‘She’s had highlights,’ said Chess. ‘And her shoes are far less sensible.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  What would it mean for Rose if Maria and Phil were to become a couple? Or worse? She wondered if Dad knew about this. Of course he’d know.

  ‘When’s Amy getting here?’ said Chess, turning to Rob.

  ‘Early in the morning.’ He glanced at Eliza.

  So tomorrow she’d meet Amy. Eliza had to admit, she was intrigued.

  ‘Oh my gosh, I’m gonna cry,’ said Eliza as Chess turned to face Eliza, Helena and Aunt Megan, fluffing out the silk skirt of her dress.

  ‘I already am,’ said Megan, fishing in her clutch for a tissue. ‘Darling, you look absolutely stunning.’

  ‘And so do you all,’ said Chess, wiping away a tear of her own as she looked at her mother. ‘Green was definitely the right choice. Mum, stop blubbing or my make-up will be beyond repair. What we need is a glass of something fizzy to steady our nerves. Anyone? There must be some?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Eliza. She’d finished getting ready, and excitement was bubbling at the thought of the day ahead. It had been so long since she’d had an excuse to dress up – not since the college ball. The dress fitted like a glove, giving her the full hourglass. The hair and make-up girl had been a magician, working with her hair (‘quite difficult’) to create an artistic French twist, with a few shining curls pulled free to frame her face. She’d performed makeup wizardry on Eliza’s dark eyes and pale skin (‘so luminescent’), and had agreed red lips were called for to finish the look, which had a distinct touch of the Rosetti.

  She was still barefoot – the high heels were lofty enough that she needed to minimise shoe time.

  As she entered the kitchen, Rob came in the back door carrying a box of flowers. He was in full morning dress and looked . . . Oh my lord. That’s just not fair.

  He stopped dead when he saw her.

  ‘Jesus, Lizzie.’

  She smiled. ‘You like?’

  His dark eyes said it all.

  ‘Could’ve worn shoes.’

  ‘I came down for champagne.’

  ‘Steady. We know what that can lead to.’

  He put the box down on the table, went over to the fridge and took out a bottle. ‘May as well get a head start.’

  ‘I have to take it upstairs, the bride’s waiting.’

  Rob looked at his watch. ‘They can wait a minute. Let’s have a cheeky one ourselves first.’ He took glasses from a cupboard and popped the cork.

  Eliza perched on the kitchen table. ‘I guess we’re finally grown up. Chess looks amazing. I got a bit tearful, thinking back to the old days.’

  He passed her a glass of champagne. ‘You look amazing. Very grown-up.’ He touched one of the stray curls around her face, then twirled it round his finger. ‘Well-behaved hair.’

  Their eyes locked, and the kitchen door opened.

  Rob stepped back as Helena came in. ‘Eliza, what happened to the . . . oh.’

  ‘Champagne?’ said Rob. ‘Just sorting it. I believe the provision of calming alcohol is one of the best man’s duties. After you, Lizzie.’

  Chapter 14

  Eliza

  The organist struck up the Wedding March (could Chess not have come up with something more original? Or was this the hand of the Major at play again?) and the bride and groom headed back down the aisle.

  Chess and Gil’s happiness was infectious, and Eliza’s smile was wide as she followed them down the aisle towards the church doors, the congregation snapping photos and mouthing Congratulations.

  She hooked her arm through Rob’s, and he looked down at her and said, ‘Hello there, lovely cousin-in-law.’

  Eliza laughed, and leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment.

  John Studley, on the end of a pew, caught Eliza’s eye and smiled.

  ‘Parent alert,’ she whispered in Rob’s ear. ‘Risk of strategic alliance: moderate to high.’

  Rob whispered back, ‘Risk of complying with irritating yet suddenly appealing parental ambition: high to extreme. Contributing factor – I can see down your cleavage.’

  She was spluttering with laughter as they drew alongside Harry, a few pews further on.

  ‘I see nothing much has changed with you two,’ he said. ‘Still up to mischief.’

  Over his shoulder she noticed a pretty girl with honey-coloured hair staring at them. Her troubled expression suggested this was Amy.

  Outside, as the photographer called ‘Bride and bridesmaids, please’, Eliza’s eyes followed Rob as he went over to – yes, definitely Amy – and kissed her cheek, then her lips.

  Eliza felt something stab her.

  Well hello, green-eyed monster. Fancy meeting you here.

  The reception was in a stately home surrounded by gardens that looked glorious, even at this time of year. In the entrance hall the bridal party greeted guests in front of a huge Christmas tree decked out in hundreds of twinkly lights.

  In the reception room the walls were hung with wreaths decorated with the intertwined letters F and G. Bundles of mistletoe hung from the crystal chandeliers.

  Promising.

  Amy was nicely tucked away across the other side of the room as Eliza sat down at the top table. Place cards had positioned Eliza and Rob like bookends around the bride and groom and their parents, but Rob quickly switched his own with his father’s, so he was next to Eliza.

  ‘Stealth manoeuvre. Nicely done, Son,’ said John, sending an appreciative glance Eliza’s way.

  ‘Alert level: DEFCON1,’ Rob said as he sat down. ‘Parent approves of place-name swap.’

  ‘As do I,’ she said, smiling at him.

  As the meal progressed, she was careful
not to drink her wine too quickly. She was too hyped, too aware of Rob next to her. She was chief bridesmaid – she needed to stay in control.

  Dessert arrived, and as Rob chatted with Aunt Megan on his other side, turning on the charm, making her laugh, Eliza realized who the new Rob – this version who’d replaced the scruffy imp – reminded her of. Dad. He had the same way with words, the same magnetism, the same naughty glint in his eye.

  Dad. Rob. Two of a kind.

  Kit’s words popped into her brain: Found your daddy substitute yet?

  Oh my god.

  She looked across at Harry, sitting at a nearby table, and he gave her a half-smile as he listened to whatever a random relative was telling him, her face flushed, looking like she’d won the seating-plan lottery.

  Eliza smiled back. Her father was looking ridiculously handsome today, for a man of his age. Eliza had clocked the number of people making sure their ‘bride and groom’ photos had him in the background. Hashtag Harry Rose.

  ‘Dessert wine, Snow White?’

  ‘I’ll pass. I’m taking it slowly today. I made myself a promise, to be sensible and sober.’

  ‘What? Why ever would you do that, today of all days? Remember, lovely Lizzie, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but, more importantly, the road to Heaven is paved with bad ones.’

  ‘OK, pour.’

  ‘I hope our champagne moment in the park wasn’t responsible for the vow of sobriety?’

  ‘Not really. It was more Terri giving me a bollocking. The day after, she said I looked like a bag lady.’

  Rob snorted. ‘Cruella.’

  There was a tinkle as Uncle Charles tapped his glass. The talking died down.

  ‘Fuck,’ muttered Rob. ‘I forgot about my speech. See what you do to me?’

  Uncle Charles’s words were warm and funny, then Gil spoke and toasted the bridesmaids. Finally, Rob stood up.