‘I’ll get you some painkillers. Do you want me to look up flights?’
‘I’ve already taken some, and yes, that would be great, thanks. Night.’ I leant forward and kissed my sister on the top of her shiny dark head, her curly hair shorn into a boyish crop as always. Then I walked into the tiny broom cupboard of a twin room that we shared.
The bed was hard and narrow and the mattress thin. Though both of us had had the luxury of a privileged upbringing, we had spent the past six years travelling round the world and sleeping in dumps, neither of us prepared to ask Pa Salt for money even when we’d been really broke. CeCe in particular had always been too proud, which was why I was so surprised that she now seemed to be spending money like water, when it could only have come from him.
Perhaps I’d ask Ma if she knew anything more, but I was aware that discretion was her middle name when it came to spreading gossip amongst us sisters.
‘Atlantis,’ I murmured. Freedom . . .
And that night, I fell asleep almost immediately.
2
Christian was waiting for me with the boat when the taxi brought me to the pontoon moored on Lake Geneva. He greeted me with his usual warm smile and I wondered for the first time how old he really was. Even though I was certain he’d been the skipper of our speedboat since I was a little girl, with his dark hair and bronzed olive skin covering a finely toned physique, he still didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
We set off across the lake, and I leant back on the comfortable leather bench at the stern of the boat, thinking about how the staff who worked at Atlantis never seemed to age. As the sun shone down and I breathed in the familiar fresh air, I mused that perhaps Atlantis was enchanted and those who lived within its walls had been granted the gift of eternal life and would be there forever.
All except Pa Salt . . .
I could hardly bear to think about the last time I was here. All six of us sisters – each one adopted and brought home from the far corners of the earth by Pa Salt and named in turn after the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades – had gathered at our childhood home because he had died. There hadn’t even been a funeral, an occasion for us to mourn his loss; Ma told us he had insisted on being buried privately at sea.
All we’d had was his Swiss lawyer, Georg Hoffman, showing us what at first glance seemed to be an elaborate sundial, which had appeared overnight in Pa’s special garden. But Georg had explained that it was something called an armillary sphere and that it plotted the position of the stars. And engraved on the bands that circled its central golden globe were our names and a set of coordinates that would tell us exactly where Pa had found each of us, along with a quotation written in Greek.
Maia and Ally, my two elder sisters, had provided the rest of us with the locations the coordinates pinpointed and the meanings of our Greek inscriptions. Both of mine were as yet unread. I had stowed them in a plastic wallet along with the letter Pa Salt had written to me.
The boat began to slow down and I caught glimpses of the beautiful house we had all grown up in, through the veil of trees that shrouded it from view. It looked like a fairy-tale castle with its light pink exterior and four turrets, the windows glinting in the sunlight.
After we had been shown the armillary sphere and handed the letters, CeCe had been eager to leave. I hadn’t; I’d wanted to at least spend a little time mourning Pa Salt in the house where he had raised me with such love. Now, two weeks on, I was back, desperately in search of the strength and solitude I needed to come to terms with his death and carry on.
Christian steered the boat into the jetty and secured the ropes. He helped me out and I saw Ma walking across the grass towards me, as she’d done every time I’d returned home. Just the sight of her brought tears to my eyes, and I leant into her welcoming arms for a warm hug.
‘Star, what a treat to have you back here with me,’ Ma crooned as she kissed me on both cheeks and stood back to look at me. ‘I will not say you are too thin, because you are always too thin,’ she said with a smile as she led me towards the house. ‘Claudia has made your favourite – apple strudel – and the kettle is already boiling.’ She indicated the table on the terrace. ‘Sit there and enjoy the last of the sun. I’ll take your holdall inside and have Claudia bring out the tea and pastry.’
I watched her disappear inside the house, and then turned to take in the abundantly stocked gardens and pristine lawn. I saw Christian walking up the discreet path to the apartment built over the boathouse, which was tucked into a cove beyond the main gardens of the house. The well-oiled machine that was Atlantis still continued, even if its original inventor was no longer here.
Ma reappeared, Claudia following with a tea tray. I smiled up at her, knowing that Claudia spoke even more rarely than I, and would never start a conversation.
‘Hello, Claudia. How are you?’
‘I am well, thank you,’ she replied in her heavy German accent. All of us girls were bilingual, speaking French and English from the cradle at Pa’s insistence, and we only spoke English to Claudia. Ma was French through and through. Her heritage was visible in her simple but immaculate silk blouse and skirt, her hair drawn back into a chignon. Communicating with them both meant we girls grew up being able to swap languages instantaneously.
‘I see you still haven’t had a haircut,’ Ma smiled, gesturing to my long blonde fringe. ‘So, how are you, chérie?’ She poured the tea as Claudia retreated.
‘Okay.’
‘Well, I know that you are not. None of us are. How can we be, when this terrible thing happened so recently?’
‘No,’ I agreed as she passed me my tea and I added milk and three teaspoons of sugar. Contrary to my sisters’ teasing about my thinness, I had a very sweet tooth and indulged it often.
‘How is CeCe?’
‘She says she’s fine, though I don’t really know whether she is.’
‘Grief affects us all in very different ways,’ Ma mused. ‘And often, it prompts changes. Did you know that Maia has flown to Brazil?’
‘Yes, she sent me and CeCe an email a few days ago. Do you know why?’
‘I must presume it has something to do with the letter your father left her. But whatever the reason, I am happy for her. It would have been a dreadful thing for her to stay here alone and mourn him. She is too young to hide herself away. After all, you know so well how travel can broaden one’s horizon.’
‘I do. But I’ve had enough of travelling now.’
‘Have you, Star?’
I nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation on my shoulders. Normally, CeCe would be beside me to speak for us both. But Ma remained silent so I had to continue on my own.
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Ma replied with a soft chuckle. ‘Is there anywhere you two haven’t visited in the past five years?’
‘Australia and the Amazon.’
‘Why those places in particular?’
‘CeCe is terrified of spiders.’
‘Of course!’ Ma clapped her hands together as she remembered. ‘Yet it seemed there was nothing she was afraid of as a child. You must recollect how she was always jumping off the highest rocks into the sea.’
‘Or climbing up them,’ I added.
‘And do you recall how she could hold her breath under water for so long, I’d worry she had drowned?’
‘I do,’ I said grimly, thinking back to how she had tried to persuade me to join her in her extreme sports. That was one thing I had put my foot down about. During our travels in the Far East, she would spend hours scuba diving, or attempting to scale the vertiginous volcanic plugs of Thailand and Vietnam. But whether she was below the surface of the water or high above me, I would lie immobile on the sand reading a book.
‘And she always hated wearing shoes . . . I had to force her into them as a small child,’ said Ma with a smile.
‘She threw them into the lake once.’ I pointed to the calm water. ‘I had to persuade
her to go and get them.’
‘She was always a free spirit,’ Ma sighed. ‘But so brave . . . And then, one day, when she was maybe seven, I heard a big scream from your room and I thought that perhaps CeCe was being murdered. But no, just a spider the size of a twenty-centime piece on the ceiling above her. Who would have thought it?’ She shook her head at the memory.
‘She’s also afraid of the dark.’
‘Well, that is something I did not know.’ Ma’s eyes clouded over and I felt I had somehow insulted her mothering skills – this woman who had been employed by Pa Salt to care for us adopted babies, who became children and then young women under her watch; to act in loco parentis when Pa was abroad on his travels. She had no genetic link to any of us. And yet, she meant so very much to us all.
‘She’s embarrassed to tell anyone she has bad nightmares.’
‘So that’s why you moved into her room?’ she said, understanding after all these years. ‘And why you asked me if you could have a night-light shortly afterwards?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought that it was for you, Star. I suppose it only shows we can never know those we have brought up as well as we think we do. So, how is London?’
‘I like it, but we’ve only been there a short time. And . . .’ I sighed, not able to put my devastation into words.
‘You are grieving,’ Ma finished for me. ‘And perhaps you feel that wherever you are just now wouldn’t matter.’
‘Yes, but I did want to come here.’
‘And, chérie, it is a pleasure to have you, especially all to myself. That has not happened often, has it?’
‘No.’
‘Do you wish it to happen more, Star?’
‘I . . . yes.’
‘It is a natural progression. Neither you nor CeCe are children any longer. That does not mean you cannot stay close, but it is important for you both to have your own lives. I am sure CeCe must feel that too.’
‘No, Ma, she doesn’t. She needs me. I can’t leave her,’ I blurted out suddenly as all the frustration and fear and . . . anger at myself and the situation bubbled up inside me. Despite my powers of self-restraint, I could not hold back the sudden enormous sob that rose up from the depths of my soul.
‘Oh chérie.’ Ma stood up and a shadow crossed the sun as she knelt down in front of me, taking my hands. ‘Don’t be ashamed. It is healthy to let it out.’
And I did. I couldn’t call it crying, because it sounded far more like howling, as all the unspoken words and feelings locked inside me seemed to pour out in a torrent.
‘Sorry, sorry . . .’ I muttered, when Ma pulled a pack of tissues from her pocket to mop up the tidal wave of tears. ‘Just . . . upset ’bout Pa . . .’
‘Of course you are, and really, there is no need to apologise,’ she said gently, as I sat there feeling like a car whose petrol tank had just completely emptied. ‘I have often worried that you keep so much hidden inside. So, now I am happier,’ she smiled, ‘even if you are not. Now, may I suggest that you take yourself upstairs to your bedroom and freshen up before supper?’
I followed her inside. The house had such a very particular smell, which I’d often tried to deconstruct so that I could recreate it in my own temporary homes – a hint of lemon, cedar wood, freshly baked cakes . . . but of course, it was more than the sum of its original parts and simply unique to Atlantis.
‘Do you wish me to come up with you?’ Ma asked as I mounted the stairs.
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
‘We will talk again later, chérie, but if you need me, you know where I am.’
I arrived on the upper floor of the house where all we girls had our bedrooms. Ma also had a suite just along the hall, with its own small sitting room and bathroom. The room I shared with CeCe was between Ally’s bedroom and Tiggy’s. I opened the door and smiled at the colour of three of the walls. CeCe had been going through a ‘goth’ stage when she was fifteen and had wanted to paint them black. I had drawn the line at that, and suggested we compromise on purple. CeCe had insisted she would decorate the fourth wall by her bed herself.
After a day locked inside our bedroom, a glassy-eyed CeCe had emerged just before midnight.
‘You can see it now,’ she’d said, ushering me inside.
I’d stared up at the wall and was struck by the vibrancy of the colours: a vivid midnight-blue background interspersed with splashes of a lighter cerulean, and in the centre, a gorgeously bright and flaming cluster of gold stars. The shape was immediately familiar – CeCe had painted the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades . . . us.
As my sight adjusted, I’d realised that each star was formed out of small, precise dots, like little atoms combining to bring the whole to life.
I’d felt the pressure of her presence behind me, her apprehensive breath at my shoulder.
‘CeCe, this is amazing! Incredible, really. How did you think it up?’
‘I didn’t. I just’ – she’d shrugged – ‘knew what to do.’
Since then, I’d had plenty of time to stare at the wall from my bed, and continued to find some tiny detail that I’d never noticed before.
Yet, even though our sisters and Pa had complimented her effusively on it, she had not repeated the style again.
‘Oh, that was just something that came to me. I’ve moved on since then,’ she’d said.
Looking at it now, even twelve years on, I still thought the mural was the most imaginative and beautiful work of art CeCe had ever produced.
Seeing that my holdall had already been unpacked for me, the few clothes neatly folded on the chair, I sat down on the bed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. There was almost nothing of ‘me’ in the bedroom at all. And I had no one to blame but myself.
I walked over to my chest of drawers, pulled the bottom drawer open and took out the old biscuit tin in which I had stored my most precious keepsakes. Sitting back down on the bed, I put it on my knees and opened the lid, drawing out an envelope. After its seventeen years’ sitting in the tin, it felt dry yet smooth beneath my fingers. Sliding out the contents, I looked at the heavy vellum notecard that still had the pressed flower attached to it.
Well, my darling Star, we managed to grow it after all.
Pa x
My fingers traced over the delicate petals – gossamer-thin, but still containing a faded memory of the vibrant claret hue that had graced the very first flowering of our plant, in the garden I’d helped Pa create during the school holidays.
It had meant getting up early, before CeCe awoke. She was a heavy sleeper, especially after the nightmares – which tended to arrive between the hours of two and four – so she never noticed my dawn absences. Pa would meet me in the garden, looking as though he had been up for hours, and perhaps he had been. I would be sleepy-eyed, but excited by whatever it was he had to show me.
Sometimes it was merely a few seeds in his hand; other times a delicate fledgling plant he’d brought home from wherever he’d travelled to. We would sit on the bench in the rose arbour with his huge and very old botanical encyclopaedia and his strong brown hands would turn the pages until we found the provenance of our treasure. Having read about its natural habitat, and its likes and dislikes, we would then hunt around the garden and decide between us the best place to put it.
In reality, I thought now, he would suggest and I would agree. But it had never felt like that. It had felt as though my opinion mattered.
I often recalled the parable from the Bible he’d recounted to me once as we worked: that every living thing needed to be nurtured carefully from the start of its life. And if it was, it would eventually grow strong and last for years to come.
‘Of course, we humans are just like seeds,’ Pa had said with a smile as I used my child-sized watering can and he brushed the sweet-smelling peat from his hands. ‘With the sun and the rain . . . and love, we have everything we need.’
And indeed, our garden flourished, and through those special mornings gardening with Pa, I
learnt the art of patience. When sometimes, a few days later, I’d return to the spot to see if our plant had begun to grow, and found there was either no change or that the plant looked brown and dead, I would ask Pa why it wasn’t sprouting.
‘Star,’ he would say, as he took my face in his weathered palms, ‘anything of lasting value takes time to come to fruition. And once it does, you will be glad you persevered.’
So, I thought, closing the tin, tomorrow I will wake up early and go back to our garden.
Ma and I ate together that evening at a candlelit table on the terrace. Claudia had provided a perfectly cooked rack of lamb with glazed baby carrots and fresh broccoli from the kitchen garden. The more I started to understand about cooking, the more I realised how gifted she actually was.
As we finished our meal, Ma turned to me. ‘Have you decided where you will settle yet?’
‘CeCe has her art foundation course in London.’
‘I know, but I am asking about you, Star.’
‘She’s buying an apartment overlooking the River Thames. We’ll be moving in there next month.’
‘I see. Do you like it?’
‘It’s very . . . big.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I can live there, Ma. It really is a fantastic place,’ I added, feeling guilty about my reticence.
‘And you will take your cookery course while CeCe makes her art?’
‘I will.’
‘I thought you might be a writer when you were younger,’ she said. ‘After all, you took a degree in English Literature.’
‘I love reading, yes.’
‘Star, you underestimate yourself. I still remember the stories you used to write as a child. Pa read them to me sometimes.’
‘Did he?’ The thought filled me with pride.
‘Yes. And don’t forget, you were offered a place at Cambridge University, but you didn’t accept it.’
‘No.’ Even I heard the abruptness of my tone. It was a moment I still found painful to dwell on, even nine years later . . .
‘You don’t mind if I try for Cambridge, do you, Cee?’ I’d asked my sister. ‘My teachers think I should.’
The Shadow Sister Page 2
