“Very nearly.” Lindsay laughed. “There’s the photographer, who can be a pain in the butt and who can have an attitude, the person directing the shoot, who’s usually yelling and making threats and throwing fits, the makeup person, the hair person, the clothes person, all the technicians—well, you understand. It sounds manic but it isn’t. Normally it all goes pretty smoothly. It’s just that everyone is always talking and yelling. Sometimes I feel like a block of wood with all these people working on me and around me.”
They were still standing on the sidewalk, people walking around them, the sun beating down overhead.
Neither woman had moved.
Sydney said suddenly, “I came to make peace with you, Lindsay.”
Lindsay searched her sister’s face but found no clue there, only the endless perfection of her features, the startling beauty of her hazel eyes that only emphasized her cool intelligence. “It’s hot out here. I don’t have to be upstairs for a while yet. Would you like to go across the street and have something cool to drink?”
Sydney Foxe di Contini, known as La Principessa to all those who weren’t intimate with her, still didn’t move. Five years was a long time, a very long time, she thought. It had come as quite a shock to her to pick up April’s Elle and see her half-sister on the cover, so hauntingly beautiful, thin, stylish; she’d realized after close study that it wasn’t just a beautiful woman she was looking at, not classic beauty anyway. It was Lindsay’s face, filled with that elusive, quite indescribable quality that transcended a woman’s looks or lack of them. Sydney could only stare then; she stared now at the ordinary creature in front of her. No, not ordinary, a mess. Those high-top sneakers were god-awful. She wondered if Lindsay found it amusing to present herself like this and then undergo the incredible transformations for the fashion photos.
Sydney thought again of that exotically gorgeous creature on the cover of Elle with the thick lustrous hair, the arrogant smile, and those sexy blue eyes. That couldn’t be Lindsay. No, Lindsay was the awkward pathetic mess of a girl she’d last seen in Paris after Alessandro had raped her. She’d picked up the phone to call her father. Why hadn’t he told her about Lindsay? Then she’d slowly replaced the receiver. Her father never spoke of Lindsay. It would only make him angry, and Sydney didn’t like his anger, for it was cold and hard and unrelenting. Then she’d gotten an excellent idea, brilliant, really. She was La Principessa, after all, renowned for her beauty, her charm, her taste. It didn’t take her very long to execute her idea to its fullest. Everything had gone just as she’d envisioned it, but then, she’d never doubted that it would. Three days ago she’d left Melissa with her grandmother and great-grandfather and three di Contini servants, and taken the first plane to New York.
How odd that no one had told her that Lindsay was a successful model, she’d thought many times on the flight over. She hadn’t known where Lindsay lived, hadn’t ever cared, and she’d been hesitant to ask Grandmother Foxe for her address because the old lady might think her unloving, not even knowing where her half-sister lived. How to explain to anyone that knowing Lindsay’s address brought that horrible time in Paris back to her, in spades? It forced her to confront those hours of weakness, the dismal pathetic hysteria, the woman who hadn’t really been her. She made herself sick whenever she thought about what she’d been in Paris.
She smiled at the very ordinary-looking woman in front of her. Seeing Lindsay in the flesh brought back her confidence. Seeing her didn’t bring back Paris. Lindsay was just the same. There was no magic in her look or in any of her features, no elusive qualities. None. She looked a wreck, tall and skinny and in those disgusting clothes that made her look like a reject from the seventies. Slung over her shoulder was an old bulging bag that could hold a kitchen. Who had dressed her? It was laughable. There was no guilt from Paris. Nothing. She was vastly relieved. She was soon to be on her way, the stars the limit.
“Sydney?”
“Sure, let’s go over to that little bar. I’m here for a couple of days—on business—and I thought you and I should speak together. Are you in a rush? Do you have a little time, perhaps, now? A glass of wine would be welcome in this ghastly heat. I’d forgotten how much I detested New York in the summer. I don’t know how you stand it.”
“No one does. One just puts up with it.”
When they walked into Jay Glick’s Saloon, Lindsay immediately went to the phone and called the agency. She got Glen at his bitchiest.
“Yes, sweetie, I’m here but you’re not. Where the hell are you? I looked down and saw you chatting with this utterly gorgeous woman. Is she a woman, sweetie? Or maybe I lucked out. A queen?”
“No, Glen. She’s my half-sister. Please tell Demos I’ll be there on time. I’ve still got close to forty-five minutes before the ad people for the Lancôme shoot arrive.” She paused, listening to Glen’s outpourings. When he slowed, she said, “No, Glen, my half-sister just showed up. Yeah, right, the famous principessa. Okay, later. An hour, no longer. No, tell Demos I’m eating éclairs by the dozen. Sure, Glen, give him a coronary at the very least. Harden some of his arteries. And yes, I’ve got a real treat for the ad folk. Yes, outrageous, and this time I’ll get them. You’ll declare me the winner of the practical jokers. See you soon.”
Lindsay slid into the booth opposite her sister. A glass of white wine was already there. She raised it, then sighed and put it back down. She called for a Perrier. Sydney said, “You know I have a daughter, don’t you?”
“Yes, her name’s Melissa. Grandmother sent me a picture of her. She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”
“I didn’t know you were a model.”
Lindsay shrugged, clicking her glass of Perrier to Sydney’s wineglass. A pool of pain settled in her stomach. Sydney probably thought she was still a nothing. She’d told her mother and her grandmother about her new career, but evidently neither had seen fit to tell Lindsay’s father or Sydney. Or he’d been told and he simply couldn’t care less, which was no surprise. But why hadn’t Grandmother told Sydney?
“I saw you on the cover of Elle.”
“That was a lucky hit, so Demos told me. The woman at Elle freaked out over the shape of my ears or something silly like that.”
“You’re with Vincent Rafael Demos.”
“You’ve heard of the loose cannon then. How do you know about him?”
“Most women in the upper strata of society know about Demos and his, ah, models, Lindsay.”
“Oh ho! Upper strata! No wonder I thought he was a New Jersey loan shark.” She laughed, delighted with the snobbery, and to her surprise, Sydney flushed.
“I was joking.”
“Sure you were, Sydney.” For the first time in her life, Lindsay felt an instant of having the upper hand. It felt quite good, remarkable really. “What is this about him and his, ah, models?”
Sydney shrugged. “It’s his reputation. Well deserved, I understand.”
“Glen arranges all that for him.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Sydney that Glen was Demos’ lover, but she didn’t, saying instead, “Glen’s his mother, confessor, secretary, assistant, in short, his right and left hand. He decided some twelve years ago that a dicey reputation would be good for Demos’ professional image. Demos rarely sleeps with anything other than his toy poodle, named Yorkshire, and three Siamese cats.” And Glen, of course. “Now, why are you here in New York? To find out if I’m sleeping with Demos?” She paused only fractionally before adding, “You’re here alone?”
Sydney nodded, hearing the crack in her sister’s self-confidence. She’d seemed a different person, at first. But it wasn’t true. But no, some things never changed. She leaned back in the booth, smiling. “You’re thinking of my husband, no doubt. Alessandro is in Rome this week. He is rarely at the villa in Milan now. It’s just his grandfather, his mother, Melissa, and me and all the servants. His sullen pig of a sister is married to a Greek shipping magnate and spends more of her time now on Crete. I’m invo
lved in the family business now. A munitions factory, just imagine. Father stays at the villa a good three months of the year. He enjoys Melissa and being with me, naturally. His wife is tolerable, just barely. You’ve met her, haven’t you? Holly’s a bitch, but as I said, sufferable if you know how to handle her, which I do very well. Last trip, she stayed at home. She’s jealous of me, you know. Father took a mistress after he’d been married to Holly only two months. He won’t ever be the faithful type, as your mother soon discovered after her marriage to him. You’ve changed—a bit.”
“I’m an adult now. I handle things. He was probably never faithful to your mother either, Sydney.”
“My mother died! You know that. He loved her and only her, and when she died, he changed, gave up.”
Lindsay opened her mouth, then closed it. She’d overheard Lansford, the Foxe butler, say to Dorrey, the cook, years before, how after the first Mrs. Foxe had run away from the judge, she moved to New Zealand. It appeared she hadn’t died. But surely Sydney knew this. Surely she just liked to pretend it was otherwise. She had the upper hand again. She smiled. “Is there something special you wanted to see me about, Sydney?”
“For God’s sake, why do I have to have something special in mind? You’re my sister.”
“I’ve been your sister for twenty-three years. Why now? It’s been five years.”
Sydney said nothing. She sipped her tart chardonnay. She found Lindsay’s attempt at sarcasm mildly amusing. Five years should have wrought some improvements, so the attempts at sarcasm were a help. What to tell her? She’d dangle her on the line a bit longer.
“Perhaps I’m really here to find some young virgins for Alessandro. He likes a new crop every year. You could probably throw yourself at his feet now and he wouldn’t spare you a second glance. You’re just too old, your face and your body. Do you know that Alessandro told me that you would become beautiful? He used to say that and I’d laugh because all I ever saw in you were skinny legs, elbows that stuck out, and a mop of hair that looked like a lawn mower had plowed through it. Of course he preferred you all skinny arms and legs and innocence. Seeing you like this, perhaps he would still want you. Perhaps he would even admit he’d been wrong. I’ll ask him.”
Lindsay was frozen.
“You still think about that night, do you? Really, Lindsay, what’s plain old simple sex compared to shooting your husband two times? I do remember the look on his face. Absolute astonishment, and then he toppled off you.” Sydney shrugged. “But it has been five years now, Lindsay. Time for you to forget, certainly. But you know, I’ve regretted many times that I was such a bad shot.”
“I don’t think something like that is all that easy to forget. Why didn’t you divorce him?”
“Scandal, pure and simple. Same reason you didn’t press charges against him. Father was busy working on both of us. And there was so much money at stake. But enough about my husband. How did you get into modeling?”
Lindsay was more than glad to leave it. God, so much and yet not enough. How could one forget? It hurt her throat even to talk about it. She became aware that Sydney was watching her and said quickly, “Demos discovered me last year, in a bar. I’d just quit my job at a small publishing company and a cab had splashed dirty slush on my new suede boots. I was drowning my depression when he saw me and came over. It sounds ludicrously trite, but that’s how it happened. He told me it wasn’t all that uncommon. I like Demos, regardless. He’s smart and he’s fun.”
“More fun than Alessandro?”
Lindsay snapped the stem of the wineglass that held her Perrier. The glass cut into her finger. She sat there looking at the blood welling up.
“Would you like a Band-Aid?”
“Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea.” Sydney wiped the blood off Lindsay’s finger with a napkin, then peeled a Band-Aid around it. “There, good as new.”
“Why did you say that, Sydney? Why do you want to make me feel horrible all over again?”
“I don’t, Lindsay, don’t be silly. But you did have fun with Alessandro, admit it. You were completely infatuated with him for over two years, remember? And you made no move to leave when you discovered I wasn’t in Paris with him, did you? He made you feel so special, didn’t he? Ah, his charm is legendary when he chooses to use it.”
“I was a dumb teenager!”
“Very true, Lindsay. Did you know that Alessandro claims to this day you seduced him? He said he didn’t want you, but he felt sorry for you because you were so awkward and so embarrassing and so, well, damned pathetic, and that’s why he had asked you to Paris, because nobody wanted you and you were so lonely. He had no idea that you were serious about him. He claims you seduced him, that you insisted.”
Lindsay looked at her bandaged finger. She felt stripped, naked and cold, to her soul. It would never end, she knew it now. It would always be there, dark and ugly, lurking, just waiting for her to remember, waiting for Sydney to make her remember. Her part in it, what her father and Sydney believed to be true. Even after five years. She couldn’t let Sydney reduce her to nothing, not now, not like she used to. She was twenty-three years old, an adult.
She looked up at her half-sister. She said very calmly, “What you say certainly makes sense to me. Now that I think about it, poor Alessandro didn’t have a chance against all my teenage charms. Why, I remember threatening to break his arm if he refused to slap me up; I told him I’d scream for all the hotel staff if he didn’t slam a fist in my jaw, not once but at least three times. Yes, it was wonderful. It was a thrill to be ripped up inside. Nothing like it. Something every teenage girl should experience to teach her how much power she has. Well, it’s long over now and if it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon talk about blood sports or something equally tantalizing.”
“You’ve grown some armor, haven’t you?”
“You’re growing tedious, Sydney. Why are you really here? What do you really want? To torment me because you’re out of practice?”
“Oh, no, you were never much of a challenge. You were always vulnerable and you knew it. You never knew what to say even at the slightest jab. You knew you were ugly.”
“Old refrain. Why are you here? What have I ever done to you?”
Lindsay looked at her half-sister, wishing she could understand, wishing she could see into her mind to know what Sydney wanted. God, but she was beautiful. Lindsay felt like a scrub next to her. Beautiful, perfect Sydney with a perfect child and a husband who liked teenage girls.
“Actually, little sister, I brought up my husband just to see your reaction. You say you’re grown up now. I just wanted to test the waters, to see if it was true. Alessandro, believe it or not, is rather a good father, perhaps even a decent husband, as men go. He’s sorry he got rough with you. He wanted me to tell you that. Should I believe him, I wonder?”
“Then why did you say all those things to me in Paris? Why did you follow him? Why did you bring a gun? By God, Sydney, you shot him!”
Sydney just shrugged, a supremely European gesture. “I don’t recall what I said to you. I was upset seeing my little sister fucking my husband. If you’d been on top, why then I’d probably have shot you instead.” Another shrug. “Alessandro is like most men, my father included—forgive me, our father. He occasionally roves. He lost it with you. He got rough. As I said, he very much regrets it now. He would like to see you, to mend fences, so to speak.”
“No, I will never see that bastard again willingly in my life. And you’re lying, Sydney. Why?”
“Lindsay, I can see nothing’s changed. Five years is a very long time. You were young and infatuated and silly. He shouldn’t have allowed you to stay at the suite, but he did. It’s over. Just forget it.”
It wouldn’t ever be over, not as long as Sydney waltzed into her life every five years or so and peeled the scab off the wound and poked around. She’d be dead before the memories and pain were finally gone; she knew it, accepted it, and dealt with it.
“I c
ame not only to see you but someone else as well. I didn’t tell you, and I haven’t told Father yet. He’ll scream, I’m sure, but I don’t really care. I spoke to Vincent Demos several weeks ago after I’d sent him some quite lovely photos of myself. In short, dear sister, he wants us to do this layout together. He thinks I’m beautiful and stylish and very patrician-looking, the opposite of you, who appear so wholesome and outdoorsy with the proper makeup and clothes. He thinks two sisters, one of them an Italian princess, the other a model who’s already somewhat established, is very salable. There’s a new Arden perfume that will be coming out, and they’re very interested in the sister approach. You know, a perfume that appeals to two very different types of women.”
Lindsay couldn’t believe this. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
“I told him not to or the deal was off. I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. Can’t you just see it now? La Principessa and Eden. Both of us kissing a bottle of perfume or spraying each other.”
“But why would you want to be a model? It’s not all that much fun, Sydney. It’s hard and sweaty and a grind. You’re always on a diet and always in bed by nine o’clock because the shoots are usually scheduled early in the morning and you have to be there early for makeup and clothes and hair. It’s grueling. Lots of times the director is a jerk, the photographer an ass, and they make your life miserable. For God’s sake, you’re a lawyer, a princess, you run a business!”
Sydney laughed and sipped at her wine. “Did I tell you I like your modeling name? Eden. It has panache, class, mystery. Did Demos select it for you?”
“Both of us did, together.”
“I see. How interesting. I suppose, like you, I’ll have to cut out the alcohol. It’s all sugar, you know. Of course, I’ve never had a problem with my weight.”
Lindsay looked at her half-sister and thought: Why is she really doing this? Not to spite me, no, I’m hardly worth her time or her trouble, not on this scale. Lindsay felt mired in confusion. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
Beyond Eden Page 11
