Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  Lu was from Hong Kong – beautiful, rich, Bedales-educated and sent to finishing school in Switzerland. She’d done a degree in art history at Parsons and considered herself to be a global citizen. Her father was ‘richer than God’, according to Parker. Aged thirty-five, she owned a gallery with the German collector Jürgen Scheuler, appropriately named Scheuler Lu, in the fashionable heart of Soho, with a roster of up-and-coming artists. She was sufficiently intrigued by Parker’s description of a ‘dreamy Scottish redhead’ to agree to a meeting.

  Parker took her to meet Lu at Balthazar, just up the road. Jen was so nervous she swallowed half a Valium beforehand, which made her appear even dreamier than usual. To her surprise, Lu hired her on the spot. Although ‘hired’ wasn’t quite the right term. There would be a weekly envelope containing five $20 bills, which was barely enough to keep her in subway tokens.

  ‘You haven’t got a work permit, darling, and besides . . . it’s not as though you need the money,’ Parker drawled. ‘Think of it as an investment. After this you’ll be able to work anywhere.’

  It wasn’t quite true on either count, but Parker had organized it and Jen would have done anything for Parker. Whilst one or two of Jen’s friends might have had the wherewithal to survive for three months in New York on little more than air (and a monthly stipend from a trust fund that wasn’t really worth mentioning in polite company), most couldn’t. Jen could. It continued to be a source of barely suppressed tension between herself and Father. When are you going to get a proper job? It was a constant refrain. It didn’t help that Kemi was now on her way to becoming one of the youngest and most talented surgeons in the world, or so Father boasted. Just another little reminder of the ways in which they were so different. She’d swallowed her pride and asked Father for a small advance against her trust fund to cover the cost of three months’ work experience in New York.

  ‘Work experience, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And, if I may be so bold . . . why aren’t you earning? Or do you intend never to earn?’

  ‘No, Father. It’s . . . it’s not quite like that. In the art world—’

  ‘Oh, the art world. Yes, I’d forgotten. In the art world nothing operates the way it does in the real world. Well, it’s your inheritance. You do with it as you see fit. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Jen waited for the closing rebuke that she knew was coming.

  ‘Strange how Kemisa’s not touched hers,’ he went on. ‘Not a penny. She’s saving it for something useful, no doubt. She’s got a head on her, that one.’ Jen said nothing. Five minutes later the conversation – if it could be termed such – was over. She had her money. She was on her way to New York.

  Paid or not, she did everything at Scheuler Lu’s, from answering the phone to picking up Lu’s dry cleaning. Lu walked – or stalked – the gallery in her high-heeled Blahniks, phone clamped to her ear, screaming instructions. She’d overheard one of the girls who also ‘worked’ for Lu saying that back in Hong Kong, she had three personal maids whose job it was to ensure Lu had everything she wanted, whenever and however she wanted it. Small wonder she bossed everyone around as if to the manor born. She was.

  Jen learned very quickly to stay out of her way. In some respects, it was a little like the house in Morningside. She kept her head down, did what she was supposed to and spoke only when spoken to. And Parker was right. She met all kinds of people in New York; artists, gallery owners, collectors, clients . . . the sort of people who not only made up the art world, but who made it go round. At parties she rubbed shoulders with Upper East Side divorcées, swathed in furs and dripping with diamonds; women who, despite their air of bored indifference, knew their Rothkos from their Rauschenbergs. She met young, newly minted bankers, freshly arrived in the city from places like Idaho and Iowa, who clearly didn’t. She met old-school dealers and curators who could size up a potential client from a hundred yards and whose expressions went from snarling to serene in the blink of an eye. Parker seemed to know everyone. ‘This here’s Jen . . . all the way from Edinburgh.’ He pronounced it Ee-din-borow. No one seemed to know the difference. No one cared how it was pronounced. They all adored Parker, with his neat white shirts and colourful bow ties and braces. He wore a different pair of spectacles every single day and had more tan brogues than her father. ‘English shoes,’ he said proudly, lifting up the sole. ‘I buy ’em by the truckload. If there’s one thing you guys know how to make, it’s a damn fine pair of shoes.’

  ‘I’m not English,’ Jen said primly.

  He smirked. ‘Same difference. You sound English to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘Whatever. Now, see that girl over there? The one with the blue fur coat? That’s the mayor’s niece. Go talk to her. Make nice. Bring her to the gallery. Lu’ll be pleased.’

  Still, no matter how many contacts she made or how many potential clients she reeled in, two months of working ten hours a day at the gallery, followed by cocktail parties, had taken its toll. Despite the fact that there was no real time to eat, she’d begun putting on weight. Breakfast was a salmon and cream cheese bagel, wolfed down after coming off the 7 from Vernon Boulevard-Jackson at Grand Central–42nd Street before disappearing into the A, which took her to Fulton and then up to Spring. Sometimes she had another one from the van at Spring and Sixth if she’d had a particularly hellish ride. Lunch was a takeaway bowl of noodles or sushi from any one of the dozens of shops on Spring or Varick Street, usually gulped down as she ran back to the gallery. There were parties every night at which she drank far too much on an empty stomach, which she refilled walking up Vernon Boulevard before collapsing on Cindy’s sofa in the apartment on the thirty-fifth floor that she shared with her girlfriend and three cats. The view from their living room was spectacular, but she was usually so exhausted by the time she got back to the apartment that she had no time or appetite to take it in. Aside from Cindy, who was the sister of someone at university, she had no friends. Everyone was effusive and charming, but it never seemed to go any further than that. Most of the people she met were in love with themselves, not with each other. They showed up at galleries and openings, drank champagne and ate the odd canapé – when no one was looking – but nothing about them seemed real to Jen.

  Now, without Kemi’s reassuring presence, she was lonely again, the sort of hard, desperate loneliness she’d experienced as a child. It terrified her. She tried to confide in Parker, but realized soon that Parker simply wasn’t interested in her fears. Parker was a conundrum. He was overwhelmingly open and charming, but also oddly aloof. He was generous to a fault, a damn good listener and everyone’s closest friend, but he also had the knack of keeping everyone both enthralled and at the same time, at arm’s length. It began to dawn on her that all New Yorkers were exactly the same. No one actually wanted intimacy. They wanted only the appearance of it – the air kisses and the loud, overly exaggerated cries of welcome and departure – but when it came down to it, it was each man (or stilettoed woman) for himself. That was how you got ahead, at least in the rarefied circles of the New York art scene. People simply clambered over each other, spiking each other through the heart or head on their way to the top – although it was hard to see what the ‘top’ actually was.

  Finally, it was over. After three months she went home, crushed inside perhaps, but with a Filofax full of names. Wasn’t that the point?

  She took another sip of her whisky, feeling it burn all the way down her throat. She began to think about the following Saturday. Was everything organized right down to the last detail? Had she forgotten anything? She ran over the invitation list in her mind’s eye; over three hundred people, culled from everyone’s mailing lists. If they were lucky, half that number would show up. She’d organized the catering, double-checked on the cleaners, made sure all the assistants would be on hand. The works were hung, the floor was polished, the lighting was all in ord
er. She’d taken care of all the last-minute details, like flowers, champagne and wine, canapés . . . everything was in hand. What would she wear? She drained her glass and stood up. She’d find something in that vast closet of hers.

  Twenty minutes later, she had both outfits ready. For herself she’d picked out a pleated burgundy velvet skirt (elasticated waistband) with a white silk blouse and a pair of black high-heeled pumps. Conservative enough to placate Isabella, the gallery co-owner, who hated her assistants to outshine her. With a pair of ornate earrings and a chunky bracelet, she’d look fashionable enough to fit in. For Kemi she chose a long, fitted knit dress in Missoni-style stripes. With Kemi’s colouring and a visit to the hairdresser’s beforehand, she’d look stunning. She shut the wardrobe door with a snap and began to get ready for bed. She was actually looking forward to the opening. It would be a chance to show Kemi that she, too, was good at something.

  14

  ‘No, no, not that one. It’s far too long on you. Turn around, but slowly . . . I want to see how it fits.’

  Kemi patiently did as Jen asked, risking a glance at her watch. It was almost four thirty. They’d been at it for an hour and the bed was a rapidly rising mound of discarded clothing. There was less than an hour to go before Jen was due at the gallery and so far, nothing seemed to please her. The dress she’d originally picked out was so long and trailing that Kemi was afraid she’d trip and break her neck if she wore it. Despite the choices Jen put in front of her, even Jen wasn’t satisfied. Skirts were either too short, too frilly or too fussy . . . dresses were either too plain or too tight . . . something wasn’t quite right. Kemi couldn’t remember the last time she’d tried on so many clothes, ever.

  ‘OK, try this.’ Jen fished out something from the back of her closet. A black chiffon skirt with gold tassels. Kemi looked at it in alarm.

  ‘I’ll look like a Christmas cake,’ she said quickly. ‘I hate those tasselly bits.’

  Jen shook her head firmly. ‘It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to look like a cake. Or at least you’re supposed to look good enough to eat.’

  ‘Rubbish. Why can’t I wear that one?’ she asked, pointing to a just-discarded, inoffensively blue jersey dress. ‘It was quite . . . nice.’

  ‘Precisely. I don’t want you looking quite nice, darling. I want you looking spectacular.’

  ‘Oh, Jen. Give up, won’t you? I hardly wear anything other than black trousers. You already know that.’

  ‘This is black. And I’ve got the perfect shirt for it. Here.’ She rummaged around and produced a glittery top with a pussy-bow neck and long, billowy sleeves. Kemi stared at it as though it might bite. ‘Try it on,’ Jen said firmly. ‘Trust me.’

  Kemi took the shirt and slipped it carefully over her newly straightened hair. She turned to look at herself in the mirror. ‘It looks ridiculous,’ she said quickly. ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Well, I like it. And you promised you’d go with whatever I chose. So, that’s it settled. Put on those shoes . . . yes, the high-heeled ones. You can’t wear flat shoes with an outfit like that.’

  ‘But I won’t be able to walk.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Don’t be so feeble. It’s not easy, being gorgeous. And you are gorgeous. So, wear it with pride.’

  Kemi looked at her reflection unhappily. Yes, it was certainly different. She slipped her feet cautiously into the ludicrously high-heeled black shoes Jen had picked out for her and took a few unbalanced steps. ‘I’ll never get used to them.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Now, let’s get a cab. It’ll take ages to get there and I’ve still got a ton of things to do before the show opens. Oh, blast . . . is that your phone?’ There was a muffled ringing from somewhere deep beneath the pile of clothes. Both women struggled to reach it. ‘It’s yours,’ Jen said, handing it over. ‘But hurry up, I’m going to get us a cab.’ She scrambled off the bed.

  Kemi quickly looked at the screen. It was an unlisted number. ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly, tugging impatiently at the hem of the offending skirt. It was about six inches shorter than she normally considered wearing. It made her feel naked.

  ‘Hello, could I speak to Kemisa Mashabane?’ It was a man’s voice. Deep, unfamiliar.

  She frowned. No one other than Uncle Robert called her ‘Kemisa’ and it certainly wasn’t him. ‘This is Kemi. Who’s calling?’

  ‘My name’s Solam Rhoyi. My mother’s a friend of your mother’s, from way back. She asked me to give you a ring—’

  ‘Kem? Come on, taxi’s here,’ Jen shouted up the stairs. ‘Let’s go. We’re going to be late!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kemi interrupted him quickly. ‘I’m busy at the moment. Could you ring back later?’ She put the phone down without waiting for an answer, mildly irritated. Who the hell was Solam Rhoyi? She had no idea. Florence was always telling people to ring her – why? ‘I’m coming,’ she yelled, and grabbed her handbag. She took a final look at her image and winced. The whole thing was so not her. She opened the door and ran down the stairs. Jen was waiting impatiently with the front door open. There was a black cab idling on the street.

  ‘Who was it?’ Jen asked, hurrying her along.

  ‘Some bloke from home. My mother gave him my number. I wish she’d stop doing that. I’ve no idea why she bothers.’

  ‘She’s playing matchmaker, you idiot. What did he sound like?’

  Kemi shrugged. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’

  Jen rolled her eyes. ‘Your mum and I have more in common than you think,’ she said, closing the door behind them. ‘Can you get us there by five?’ Jen asked anxiously through the partition. The driver pulled away from the kerb and took off down the road at speed.

  ‘I’ll do me best.’

  15

  In his room at Claridge’s, Solam put his phone away, slightly irritated. Well, at least he’d tried. He could report back to Iketleng that he’d done exactly as she’d asked. Wasn’t his fault she’d hung up on him as soon as he mentioned his name. Oh, well. He’d done as told and phoned her, enough to get his mother off his back.

  He got up, stretched and yawned. It was nearly five. He had a dinner meeting at seven. It would be over by ten thirty at the latest. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his phone again. He had less than forty-eight hours in London, which wasn’t really enough time to look up old friends. There was one person he’d have time to see, however, no matter how fleeting the visit. He scrolled through the list of names until he came to it. Edward. He hurriedly tapped out his message. In town for a couple of days. He tossed the phone on the bed and rummaged around in his luggage for a pair of sweatpants and his running shoes. Edward would get back to him within the hour. Time enough for a run to clear his head before his business meeting.

  16

  After just half an hour, Kemi wished she’d never come. She didn’t know a single person apart from Jen, who was so busy overseeing everything that she’d barely seen her since they arrived. She hovered for a few moments on the edge of a number of small groups, sipping her white wine as slowly as possible and trying to look inconspicuous. She was the only – the only – person of colour in the entire room. She was also the only one who looked like a Christmas cake, she thought to herself miserably, catching sight of herself in one of the oversized mirrors. She found it difficult to join in conversations about which she knew nothing, much less subjects that she cared little about. The gallery was tiny and packed to the rafters. Everything was white, from the polished white concrete floor to the dazzling, crisp white walls. Diamond-hard pinpoints of white light radiated from the ceiling, and in one corner stood an enormous white Christmas tree festooned with all-white decorations. The paintings, however, were the opposite – giant, brooding images in black or dark brown with a single thick line or stripe bisecting them. It was hard to know what to make of them. They looked simple enough . . . but that probably wasn’t the point. Or was it?

  A waiter brushed past her elbow with a plate of delicious-looking canapés. She
reached out and picked up a giant shrimp with a dollop of wasabi strung along its tail, and popped it in her mouth. She was immediately rewarded with a searing rush of horseradish. She almost choked. She swallowed it whole, her nostrils and eyes flooding with tears. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue. She had to get some fresh air. Her whole face was on fire. She pushed past the thick knots of people standing around the paintings until she reached the door. It was open. She stepped onto the pavement, blinded by the tears streaming down her cheeks, and ran slap bang into someone jogging down the street with his headphones on, his attention anywhere but on the people gathered at the entrance to the art gallery from which she’d just escaped. She gave a little yelp, twisted on her blasted high-heeled shoes, and went crashing to the ground.