by Grace Lowrie
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked gently.
‘Better.’
‘Are you able to walk?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want everyone to see me like this …’ she said pitifully.
Orange fascinator girl poked her head around the door and sheepishly handed me a large wine glass full of water. I thanked her but she had already retreated out of sight.
‘Drink this, slowly,’ I said, holding the rim of the glass up to Celeste’s lips while I decided what to do. Gradually, as she drank, the colour seeped back into her cheeks a little. Presumably the effects of the drug were wearing off.
After a while of just sitting quietly in the cubicle, watching Celeste and listening to the sounds of other women conversing in various languages, I felt reassured that she was over the worst. I reached into Celeste’s clutch purse and pulled out her face powder, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. She watched me, blankly but didn’t say anything as I patiently made up her face. By the time I’d finished, Celeste looked much more like her usual self, despite my inferior skills.
‘Right, are you ready to leave?’ I asked, taking the empty glass from her trembling fingers.
Celeste’s lips wobbled and her face started to crumple.
‘Don’t you dare cry!’ I snapped. ‘I’ve just managed to make you look presentable! Save it for later,’ I added.
Celeste took a shaky breath as we rose to our feet. With her arm through mine we walked together out of the ladies toilets as sedately as we could manage, our heads held high. I led Celeste straight to the cloakroom where we gathered our things and straight out the front door into the crisp, fresh night air.
A short taxi ride later we were back in Celeste’s hotel room. As I closed the door behind us Celeste dropped her purse and coat on the floor, kicked off her heels, and crawled head first into bed in her gown.
‘We need to talk,’ I said, my voice flat.
Celeste didn’t respond.
I parked my suitcase, shed my own handbag, coat and shoes, and went over to her side of the bed. I pulled the cover down to expose her head but her eyes were closed. ‘Celeste?’ I prompted.
‘I don’t want to talk,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I feel like shit and you’re angry with me.’
‘Of course I’m angry,’ I said, ‘but we have to call Sebastian and I -’
Celeste’s eyes flew open at her brother’s name. ‘No we don’t! Why?’
I sighed and perched wearily on the bed beside her. ‘He’s been calling for ages Celeste, he knows something’s wrong – he’s probably worried sick.’
Celeste glared at me, but she knew I was right. ‘Fine. I’ll call him,’ she said clambering out of bed and retrieving her phone from the floor before climbing back in. She speed-dialled and Sebastian answered immediately. ‘Sorry, darling, I couldn’t hear my phone over the music – you know how loud these parties are.’
From just one side of the conversation I could tell that Celeste was putting Sebastian’s mind at rest – her voice was bright, breezy, and articulate, her words calm and affectionate. I was surprised by how easily Celeste lied to her brother and disturbed by her jovial performance.
‘… Of course she is! Just a minute I’ll pass you over.’ Celeste held her phone out to me, her eyes glassy, silently pleading with me.
I took a deep breath and put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, angel,’ Sebastian murmured, his deep voice warm, familiar and comforting.
‘Hey!’ I responded brightly, following Celeste’s lead.
‘Are you guys OK? I couldn’t get through to either of you.’
‘Yes sorry, just enjoying ourselves I guess …’ I felt nauseous as I lied, ‘are you OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. I miss you,’ he added quietly, but continued before I had time to respond ‘You girls have a good night and look after each other OK?’
As I said goodbye and hung up, Celeste retreated back under the covers. I silently stared at her shrouded shape for a while as I let wave after wave of emotion break over me – anger, worry, resentment, hurt, confusion, anger … I couldn’t remember ever feeling so angry at Celeste before. She’d broken her promise. She was obviously unhappy about something but instead of talking to me about it she was shutting me out. Why? Was I making her unhappy? Did she do this to hurt me? And now she’d got me lying to Sebastian. God, I was so angry. I decided there was no point in trying to talk about anything until the morning and for the first time ever I didn’t want to be near Celeste. I grabbed my suitcase and got undressed, washed, and ready for bed in the en suite bathroom. Wordlessly I took a pillow from the bed and a spare blanket from the closet and switched off the lights before settling on a sofa as comfortably as I could.
Chapter Forty-seven
The next morning I was chased awake by a tag team of indistinctly bad dreams. Bright sunshine strained at the heavy curtains even though I felt as though I’d hardly slept at all. The bed was empty and I could hear Celeste brushing her teeth in the bathroom. I pushed myself up into a seated position on the sofa and attempted to massage the stiffness out of my neck and shoulder with one hand. A general dread throbbed in my temples at the thought of facing Celeste. I still felt angry, but less so. I was keen to find some sort of solution so that the previous night’s events wouldn’t ever be repeated.
Celeste emerged from the bathroom quietly humming a little tune to herself. She was freshly washed and completely naked; her dainty feet whispering across the carpet, loose tendrils of blonde hair framing her face, her skin flushed, her blue eyes sparkling …
‘Oh, darling, I’m glad you’re awake, do you mind if I open the curtains? It’s terribly gloomy in here.’
I was floored by her natural radiance and could only shake my head mutely and watch as she drew back the drapes and smiled, glowing in the sunlight.
‘That’s better,’ she said, slipping on a silky pair of knickers. ‘Can I get you anything? I can order some room service?’
‘No, I …’ I searched around inside myself for my dissipated anger. ‘Celeste, can we talk?’
‘Of course, darling.’ Her familiar scent subtly stirred the air as she stepped lightly across the room and perched neatly on the sofa beside me. She faced me with quiet expectation. There was a nervous energy hidden behind her serene exterior, but by looking into her eyes I was confident that she wasn’t drunk or high. She was resigned to the inevitability of our conversation.
‘Why?’ I said calmly.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘You know why.’
‘No I don’t. You promised you wouldn’t do coke again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know you’re sorry, Celeste, but I need to know why you did it – are you addicted?’
‘No!’ she snorted with amusement, the motion travelling through her bare breasts in an appealing manner. But I was not about to be distracted and her smile faded at my serious expression. ‘I missed you, I was miserable, I didn’t mean to overdo it – I just wanted to enjoy myself; to forget …’
‘Forget what?’ I asked.
Celeste looked down at the immaculate French polish of her fingernails, reluctant to answer.
‘Forget what, Celeste?’ I pressed.
‘Forget that you were at home making love to my brother,’ she said quietly, fixing me with her clear blue gaze.
The naked, honest hurt in her words cut me to my core. Guilt surged through me drowning the last of my residual anger in a tidal wave of pain. ‘Oh God, Celeste,’ I muttered, hiding my face in my hands.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, or myself, honestly. I’m sorry if that’s what it looks like – I wasn’t expecting to see you …’
The realisation and weight of the pain I was causing crushed me with self-loathing. I did this.
‘I don’t blame you, Tasha – I don’t blame you for loving Sebastian – I
just … I was feeling so … I’m sorry, it was stupid …’ Celeste tailed off.
‘No, I’m sorry.’ I took Celeste’s hand in one of my own. ‘I’ve been unbelievably selfish.’
‘No you haven’t.’
‘Yes, I have. This situation can’t go on, Celeste – I am hurting you and hurting Sebastian …’
‘No,’ Celeste shook her head.
‘Yes,’ I insisted. ‘Don’t worry I’m going to figure something out. But please, please Celeste, don’t destroy yourself with drugs,’ I begged.
‘No. No, I won’t – it was stupid, I scared myself,’ Celeste admitted with a cringe.
‘Good. Thank you,’ I said, squeezing her fingers in my own.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ I took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’ll have to think about it, maybe take some time out …’
‘What do you mean time out?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe take a week off at the end of the month. I’m still owed paid holiday I have to take before April, maybe I should go away for a bit.’
‘On your own?’ Celeste said in alarm.
‘Yes.’
Celeste was about to argue but perhaps changed her mind and just looked at me thoughtfully, sadly.
‘But right now we’re in Paris and we have the whole weekend, so maybe we should just try to enjoy ourselves,’ I said, in an attempt to sound more cheerful than I felt.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Celeste agreed. ‘I love you, Tasha,’ she added softly.
‘I love you too,’ I replied honestly.
Celeste seemed relieved. She leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips, her mouth soft, warm, and tender. I returned her kiss and it deepened, soothed, aroused; the heat of her body enveloping me in a fragrant cloud of desire. I decided to make the most of this time alone with Celeste, savour it, as if it was our last. And as she gently lifted the hem of my pyjama shirt, I yielded myself to her intuitive touch.
The catwalk shows were mesmerising; each one beautifully choreographed, every outfit a work of art tailored to perfection. And it wasn’t just about clothes. Each designer had been inspired by different aspects of human social culture. Each designer had distilled and refined those concepts, reflecting them in fabrics, materials, and colours, and communicating them to the rest of the world with style and grace. As I sat in the crowd, I was in awe of the creativity that had gone into each collection and the beauty and glamour that it roused.
Celeste was intently focused throughout the shows, furiously scribbling notes in her book almost without looking down, her eyes wide and serious, drinking everything in. Between the shows she flitted from person to person, introducing me to various colleagues with warmth, enthusiasm, and efficiency. At one point I met Julie and Colette who had interned with Celeste for several years. They were both tall, attractive, confident-looking brunettes, one freckly and the other olive-skinned. As the three women affectionately chatted away in French I was surprised at the pang of envy I felt – irrational as it was I felt jealous that they’d been friends with Celeste when I was not.
But as I watched them interacting I noticed again that subtle distance that Celeste maintained between herself and others. She fleetingly pressed her fingers to their hand or arm to emphasise a point with affection, but somehow didn’t invite physical contact in return. Celeste was at once engaging and removed, both compelling and inaccessible. Each individual duly felt valued as Celeste beguiled them with her smile and disarmed them with her words – her genuine kindness and charisma was shared equally by everyone. And yet none of them really got close. That closeness, it seemed, was reserved only for me.
I recalled Celeste’s words to me in Antigua; ‘I look at them and I don’t feel anything. It’s only you.’ I knew with sudden clarity that I had no reason to envy these women their friendship with Celeste – she had never loved them the way she loved me. I felt reassured, delighted, and terrified in equal measure – as much as I craved Celeste’s love, it had become a heavy responsibility to bear.
On Saturday evening we attended the prestigious Vito D’Angelo after party, which was twice as glamorous as the one we’d missed the night before. Celeste and I made friends at the bar and on the dance floor and by the end of the night we’d received several invitations to stay in places all over the world. We got giddy with champagne, but Celeste remained reassuringly free of narcotics and as dawn broke over the city and the birds began to sing in the trees, it almost felt as though all was right with the world.
By Sunday evening I was on the Eurostar heading back to London alone. I had work on Monday morning and although I’d had to leave Celeste behind in Paris for the final few events, I was confident that she was in a happy, stable frame of mind. I used the time on the train to mentally list the facts and make some cold, hard decisions.
1. My relationship with the twins was not sustainable long-term – it was unhealthy, it was hurting them both and they were hurting each other, so something had to change.
2. Choosing one over the other was simply not an option – they were twins – even if they didn’t live in the same house it would still be impossibly painful for all three of us.
3. I only had one real option – I had to leave, end my relationship with both of them in the hope of salvaging their relationship with each other.
It was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done by far and it was going to require a drastic change if it was going to work. I knew I needed to get away from London – leave my job, my mum, my friends and my colleagues all behind. But abroad? Would Scotland be far enough? Karen lived in Edinburgh and I hoped she would help me to get settled there. I could stay with her for a few days – familiarise myself with the city, start looking for a place to rent, maybe even interview for a job or two while I was there. If I could organise it in time I could start over. I could try to forget the Walkers. I could move on. I could. I would. I had to. I stared bleakly at my reflection in the glass as I hurtled through the channel tunnel, towards London; towards my home.
By the time I arrived in Holland Park it was bitterly cold and dark and I was clear about what I had to do and how I was going to do it. Knowing the ordeal that lay ahead I was more determined than ever to make the most of the time I had left with the twins. But Sebastian wasn’t waiting for me in the open plan kitchen-breakfast room when I got home. When I called up the stairs there was no response and the rest of the house appeared to be in darkness despite his car being parked outside. Perhaps he was working in his office?
As I started to climb the stairs I called Sebastian’s mobile from mine. He didn’t answer but as I neared the top floor I could hear it ringing. Why didn’t he answer? When his phone went to voicemail I redialled and followed the ringing sound, switching on lights and illuminating the shadows as I went. I found his mobile phone on the desk in his office but there was no sign of Sebastian himself. I called out his name and tried hard not to worry as I listened to the answering silence. I systematically searched his rooms – his studio, darkroom, bedroom, and bathroom, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t like Sebastian to leave without his phone … Suddenly I had a brainwave – of course, he must be in the gym with his headphones on or in the den watching a film. I hurried back down to the lower-ground floor, briefly checking the drawing room, dining room and library on my way. The house really was ridiculously big for just three people … and soon there would only be the two. But Sebastian wasn’t in the gym, the sauna, the wet room, or the TV room, although the shutters were drawn and a film was playing out silently on the vast screen. It looked like Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut. I returned to the kitchen in defeat and poured myself a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the side. My watch told me it was nearly half past ten. Where could he be?
As I sat at the breakfast bar a chilly draught on my neck and arms made me shiver and I realised that one of the French doors was ajar. I tried to peer out into the pitch black of the garden but the room was refle
cted back at me. Surely Sebastian wasn’t out there in the cold, in the dark? I switched on the exterior lights but only the empty terrace and the covered pool were illuminated. No Sebastian. I quickly shrugged my coat back on and stepped outside, gently calling Sebastian’s name, but there was nothing, no response. I left the terrace and slowly made my way through the shadowy garden, retracing my steps from last July as my eyes adjusted to the dark. So much had changed since then … The grass was crispy with frost beneath my shoes, my breath created ghostly clouds in the still air, and the branches of the jasmine were bare overhead – the heady fragrance just a memory. As I stepped into the clearing I was disappointed to find both it and the summerhouse empty. I was about to turn back when I remembered that there was another space containing an ornamental pool through the beech hedge. As I stepped through the gap, I saw him.
Sebastian was sitting on a stone bench, his head bowed, elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together as if he was deep in thought. But he wasn’t wearing a coat and he was sitting statue still.
‘Sebastian?’ I whispered his name and cautiously moved towards him as if afraid of disturbing a sleepwalker mid-dream. ‘Sebastian?’ I repeated as I sank onto the cold seat beside him. Slowly he lifted his head and turned it towards me, his eyes dark, distracted, far away, his skin hauntingly pale in the dim light. As I lifted my warm fingers to his cheek, recognition grew in his eyes, lighting his expression from within.
‘You’re back, what time is it? I was going to come and meet you at the station …’ Sebastian said, his fingers icy cold in mine, his low voice warming my heart.
‘That’s OK, I’m here now,’ I said.
‘I don’t like you travelling alone at night. How’s Celeste?’
‘She’s good, she’s happy – she’s in her element.’
Sebastian nodded distractedly.
‘What are you doing out here, Sebastian? It’s nearly eleven o’clock and it’s freezing …’
‘You’re right, let’s go inside.’ Sebastian stood abruptly and pulled me to my feet, avoiding my question.
