by Joanna Rees
If you’re there, God, she prayed silently, please make sure Michael is safe.
Forty-eight hours later, weary with delays and the boredom of the long journey, Thea was stepping out of her father’s limousine onto the pavement outside Maddox Tower. She slid the headphones from her head. She’d been listening to Madonna’s ‘Crazy for You’ track non-stop, but now the sounds of the city assaulted her and the smell of roasting chestnuts and icy pavements.
‘It’s impressive, huh?’ Anthony, her father’s driver, said, looking up at the mammoth steel and glass structure, his breath condensing in the cold. A gold M was on the top – a recent addition, Thea noticed.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Thea said nervously. How could a skyscraper ever really be home?
But that’s exactly what Storm considered it to be, Thea thought, as a few minutes later she arrived at the penthouse in the express elevator.
‘You’re here. You’re home,’ Storm said. She threw out her arms, not to embrace Thea, but as a gesture to encompass the sheer grandness of the atrium. ‘I mean, isn’t it totally, like, wow?’ she prompted.
‘It’s . . . big,’ Thea managed, her heavy book-laden bags landing with a thud on the marble tiles. She’d ransacked the school library to swat up on economics over the Christmas break.
From where she was standing she had a clear view up a staircase, to a vast atrium with a glass roof above. This wasn’t a home. This was more like standing in a spaceship. A very gold spaceship, she noted.
Everywhere she looked there were flashes of gold – clocks, mirrors, even a golden Buddha, of all things. But it wasn’t just gold that was on display. It was money. In all its forms. Paintings, tapestries, vases. A white grand piano. The whole place was a gaudy shrine to newly acquired – and spent – wealth.
There were people everywhere too. Corridors stretched off to both left and right – along one a penguin-suited waiter seemed to skate along the marble floor, with a giant tray full of champagne glasses held aloft.
‘You’re having a party?’ Thea asked, noticing the extravagance of Storm’s floor-length sequinned dress for the first time. Did they really think so little of her that they’d organized a party the night she came home from school?
‘Oh, don’t sound like that, sweetie,’ Storm said. ‘It’s just a little soirée. In your honour,’ she added, but even as she did so, it sounded like a lie. ‘Brett’s girlfriend Susie is coming too. You’ll like her.’
‘Brett has a girlfriend?’
‘Oh, and they’re so good together,’ Storm said. ‘Just you wait.’
Thea felt a small bloom of relief. If Brett had a girlfriend . . . then maybe, just maybe, this vacation wouldn’t be so bad after all. But once again she felt the sting of Storm’s betrayal. This was the woman who had called Thea a ‘freakish brat’ behind her back and had sent her away to boarding school. No amount of twinkly-eyed smiles could ever erase that.
But maybe those harsh words had just been Storm’s stress talking? For Brett’s benefit. Because Brett had been so argumentative and aggressive on her wedding day. Maybe she hadn’t really meant what she’d said – it had just slipped out.
‘Oh, darling, it’s so wonderful to see you,’ Storm said, finally enveloping Thea in a hug. Her scent – the exotic perfume that Thea had once found so beguiling – now made her nose tickle with its overwhelming saccharine smell.
Did she mean it? Was this love and affection that she felt? Or some other kind of connection? An altogether darker grip. Thea couldn’t tell.
‘My, you’ve put on some pounds,’ Storm said, pulling back and appraising Thea, who felt her cheeks burning. Was it really that obvious? ‘We’ll have to shift those, won’t we. Being fat is just too sloppy,’ Storm continued with a bright smile. ‘Oh, there’s so much to show you, honey, and I just can’t wait to catch up. How’s school. Is it a riot?’ Storm continued, keeping her hands on Thea’s shoulders and her smile fixed in place.
‘Yeah,’ Thea lied, noticing that something odd had happened to Storm’s face. Her lips seemed to have changed shape since the summer. They were puffier. More pouty.
‘See?’ Storm said, beaming. She rubbed her knuckle on Thea’s cheek. ‘I knew you’d love it.’
Thea smiled weakly and followed Storm along the hall, noticing how the heavy sequins of her dress crackled around her curves.
‘Griff’s still at the office downstairs,’ Storm announced, ‘but he should be here soon. Although these days all he does is work, work, work.’
Thea picked up a petulance in her tone. So much for being the perfect corporate wife, she thought, as Storm threw open a door to what was clearly a guest room.
It had bronze-patterned wallpaper and bronzy-gold flouncy silk curtains over the windows. Three sepia aerial photographs of Alyssa, her father’s yacht, in full sail were framed on the wall. When had he commissioned those? Thea wondered. Her father was smiling, stretching out to wave at the camera. Was that Brett with him? Is that what they’d been doing whilst she’d been at boarding school?
‘There’s boxes and boxes of your things,’ Storm said. ‘We’ve put them in storage until you’ve decided which room you want.’
There was a choice? Thea wondered. How big was this place?
‘Oh, look, there’s my baby,’ Storm gasped.
A small shih-tzu dog with a diamanté collar jumped up at Storm. She let the dog lick her face as she petted him.
‘Oh, my baby, my baby,’ Storm cooed. She turned to Thea. ‘This is Cha-Chi. My Christmas present from Griff.’
Her father had given Storm a puppy? Thea thought. Why had he never given her a puppy, when she’d wanted one all her life?
‘He’s very . . . er . . . cute?’ Thea said, trying to find the right word. Cha-Chi snarled, baring his needle-sharp teeth.
‘He doesn’t like strangers, do you, my handsome?’ Storm said, hugging him tighter.
Strangers. So I’m now one of those, am I? Thea thought. Even here in my father’s home.
‘If only he was a real baby,’ Storm added wistfully, smooching the dog on the lips, setting it back down on the floor. ‘Now that would have been the perfect Christmas present.’
Thea took a long shower, then put mousse in her hair and switched on the TV. As she tipped her hair upside-down, scrunching it to dry it with the hair-dryer, she looked at the pictures of the President, Ronald Reagan, at some sort of Christmas party with Nancy, stick-thin in a red dress next to a huge twinkling tree. Then, once again, the video came on for ‘We Are the World’ and all the pictures of the dying children in Africa, and she switched off the TV. She’d seen it so many times and had helped the charity do the fund-raiser in school, but the images left her depressed. What with nuclear missiles and famine and AIDS, she wondered how everyone was so upbeat about the future.
She rifled through her suitcase for the black cocktail dress Storm had bought Thea to take with her to England for ‘all the parties’ at school. What a joke. There had been no parties. Well, certainly not ones Thea had been invited to. She thought of Bridget Lawson and Alicia Montgomery and all those girls who giggled about Thea behind her back, and who made it abundantly clear how left out Thea was from their inner clique. They did everything together – from quoting Back to the Future and religiously watching Fame, to shopping for the same black miniskirts and metallic pink lipstick. Thea was glad to be away from them for a while.
Now she smoothed out the wrinkles on the much-travelled – never worn – dress. She hoped she could still squeeze into it. Was it that obvious how much weight she’d put on? But that wasn’t all. In the last year her breasts had grown three cup sizes and, judging from the length of her jeans, she’d grown several inches too.
She quickly drained a bottle of Coca-Cola from her backpack in the hope of staying awake and put on some blue eyeshadow in the bathroom and her black velvet headband, fluffing out her hair behind it.
‘Come on,’ she told herself, forcing a smile in the mirror, ‘you can do
this. It’s only a party.’
And tomorrow . . . tomorrow she could spend time with her father and she could ask him what he’d done with everything from Little Elms. But right now she had to concentrate on fitting into this weird new family.
Steeling herself to be on show once again, she slipped out of the bedroom towards the sound of music and laughter. But just as she was about to go up the wide staircase to the mezzanine floor, she heard an insistent knocking. It must be some kind of private entrance from the Tower’s service-lift elevator, she figured, trying to work out the vast geography of the apartment as she walked towards the door.
Opening the tricky bolts, she saw a woman in a fawn cashmere coat on the threshold.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
The woman looked far too sensible to be one of Storm’s guests. She had no make-up on, which only exaggerated her anxious expression.
‘Is this the Maddox household?’ the woman asked.
Thea nodded. ‘I’m Thea Maddox.’
The woman was craning her neck to look into the apartment. ‘Is your father here? May I see him? It’s a personal matter.’
A personal matter? Thea looked at the woman, but her soft grey eyes didn’t seem threatening. ‘I think he is. Yeah, sure. Come in.’
As the woman talked politely about the snow outside, Thea took her upstairs into the living room. There were already lots of people – more than Thea had expected – about fifty guests, standing around with colourful cocktail and champagne glasses, and the hubbub of chatter and laughter filled the air. A man was playing the grand piano in a corner and singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, next to an enormous Christmas tree, which was lit up in gold lights.
‘There you are,’ Griffin Maddox said, breaking away from a conversation and coming over to greet Thea, kissing her on both cheeks. He was wearing a red smoking jacket – a garment Thea didn’t even know he possessed.
‘Oh. Hello?’ he said, his look demanding an explanation as he greeted the woman.
‘Is Brett . . . Brett Maddox here?’ the woman asked.
‘Sure. He’s over there.’
The woman stiffened as she followed Griffin’s glance across the room to the sofa where Brett sat, his arm spread out along the back of the seat. He was wearing pink jeans and a white shirt with the collar turned up. A pretty blonde girl in a miniskirt was sitting in the crook of his arm. Brett was feeding her caviar canapés and laughing.
In an instant the woman had crossed the room and stood facing him.
‘You – you . . . monster,’ Thea heard her say.
‘Hey . . . hey, what’s going on?’ Griffin Maddox asked, quickly catching up.
Thea followed, feeling her cheeks burning with apprehension. The whole atmosphere of the room had suddenly changed, as tension radiated out of the woman. Storm was striding across the room.
‘He . . .’ the woman said, her eyes glittering with fury as they bored into Griffin Maddox and then back at Brett, ‘. . . he did something unspeakable to my daughter.’
Storm arrived at Griffin’s side. ‘Who is she? Who let this woman in?’ Then she glared at Thea. She must have seen her introducing the woman to Maddox. Her eyes blazed with fury.
But suddenly Thea didn’t care. Whatever this stranger was saying Brett had done, Thea knew in an instant that it was true. That look in his eyes. She’d seen it that first night when he’d sat on her bed. The way he’d instructed Storm to send Thea away – it all made sense.
But now . . . now he’d been publicly caught out.
‘Your daughter . . . ?’ Griffin Maddox asked.
‘Ally. Ally Munroe.’ The woman’s voice cracked.
Brett shrugged. ‘Never heard of her,’ he said. He didn’t get out of his chair, or take his arm from around the blonde.
‘You come in here and dare to accuse my son—’ Storm’s voice rose in outrage.
‘He’s a liar,’ the woman snapped back. ‘An animal.’
‘And you,’ Brett said, stiffening now, his face beginning to flush, ‘should know that accusing people you don’t know, of things you know nothing about, could get you into a whole world of trouble.’
Undeterred by the threat in his voice, the woman stepped towards him, her arm raised to strike. It was Griffin Maddox who held her back.
‘Griff!’ Storm’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about this downstairs,’ he told the woman, as her composure crumpled.
‘Get her out of here. Get her out,’ Storm screeched.
‘Storm, let me handle this. I’m terribly sorry,’ Griffin Maddox said icily, smiling at the guests and ushering the woman away.
Brett’s girlfriend Susie sat in the crook of his arm, her hands on her knees. She looked at the carpet as Griffin Maddox escorted the woman from the room. Thea saw that her chest had gone dappled and her cheeks were burning.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Storm hissed at Thea, watching them go. ‘You can’t stop yourself from poisoning everything, can you?’ She could barely get the words out, she was so angry. ‘How dare you let that woman in. How dare you ruin my party.’
Thea stared defiantly at her. So much for it being a party in Thea’s honour then. Here was the real Storm. Any doubt – any hope – that there was another Storm, a Storm who really did care about Thea and who would treat her as an equal to her son, all that was washed away in one look.
Not only did this Storm resent her, Thea realized. This Storm – the real Storm – was frightened of Brett. Just as she had been on her wedding night. And she would always put him first.
Or you’ll try, Thea thought, as she continued to stare right back at her. But now I know you . . . now I see you. I might find a way to stop you.
But Brett . . . Brett gave nothing away. He stretched his leg out along the large couch and shrugged.
‘She’s probably after money,’ he said, totally unfazed, popping another canapé into his mouth. He smiled widely at Storm, who smoothed down her dress as if mentally brushing herself off.
‘Of course she was, darling. She’s not the first, and I’m sure she won’t be the last. It’s the price you pay for being rich and handsome,’ she said. Then she clapped her hands and smiled brightly, turning to her guests. ‘Let’s have some more cocktails, everyone.’
Thea stared as Storm disappeared into the crowd, reigniting her party with another anecdote about how she’d inspired Sylvester at Crofters to make Rocky IV, as if its recent success was all down to Storm herself.
‘Bad call, Thea,’ Brett said, his eyes glittering with menace. ‘Tut-tut. Rule one: you really should leave it to the staff to open the door. Unless, of course, you fancy ending up one day as staff yourself.’
Much later Thea was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep, her mind whirring with injustice and jetlag. The party had gone from bad to worse. Storm had got drunk and had started singing along with the pianist.
Brett had left early with Susie, thankfully, but Thea hadn’t felt able to excuse herself. Just as Brett had predicted, Griffin Maddox was furious that Thea had let the woman into the party. Whatever Brett may or may not have done seemed to be outweighed by Thea’s own lack of judgement, in her father’s eyes. He’d been frosty and disapproving of her all evening. Whenever she’d been in earshot he’d done nothing but trumpet Brett’s academic and sporting successes to anyone who’d listen.
As for the woman’s outburst and accusation, the whole thing had been brushed over, and Thea was left both outraged and baffled. How had her father let Brett get away with it? Where was his moral judgement? Why couldn’t he see that the woman had been telling the truth and that Brett was a liar?
Now Thea felt the humiliation of it all overwhelm her. She felt soiled. As if her silence had made her complicit in family secrets of which she wanted no part.
Too upset to lie in the shadows of her room, she got up and walked silently to the kitchen. She was ravenous. She’d be
en too nervous to eat in front of Storm. Her catty comment about Thea’s weight had stung. So what if she’d put on a few pounds? What else did she have to do at school but eat? What other comfort was there?
Upstairs on the mezzanine floor, where the party had been, the blue glow of a security light made this supposed new ‘home’ feel more like a prison.
It could not feel more different from Little Elms. She’d never once felt scared in the big house that had been her playground for all of her childhood. She’d never once felt spooked out or threatened there. She remembered how, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d go down to the kitchen to find Mrs Pryor, who’d make her warm milk and fill a hot-water bottle from the kettle.
Without turning on the lights, Thea started opening cupboards in the sterile designer kitchen, until she found the fridge and poured herself a glass of icy-cold milk.
‘You waiting up for me? How sweet.’ The voice behind her made her spill the milk over the side of the glass.
Brett staggered against the kitchen doorway. He was drunk. Thea backed away and clutched the neck of her robe.
‘I thought you were staying with Susie?’ she said.
He laughed, humourlessly. ‘Ah, Susie. Not tonight. I had to let her go.’ He shook his head, as if the letting-go to which he referred had been a battle he was glad to be out of. Thea shuddered to think what he’d done to the poor girl, if she’d challenged him at home about the accusations made at the party.
‘I’m just going to bed,’ Thea said, trying to dodge around him.
‘Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.’ His arm barred her exit. ‘Stay a while. Let’s catch up.’ He trailed his finger along her arm. She flinched away.
‘I don’t want to speak to you,’ she said, suddenly feeling terrified. She backed up against the sink.
‘What a perfect Christmas present,’ he said, ignoring her. He pushed off the doorframe and came towards her. ‘You’ve ripened up, just as I knew you would. You know, I pleaded for you to come home. Christmas is a time for family, I told them,’ he went on. ‘I made them promise to stay in Manhattan. Just to get you here.’
