The Sun Sister Read online

  Contents

  Cast of characters

  Electra

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Cecily

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Electra

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Cecily

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Electra

  32

  33

  34

  Cecily

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Electra

  47

  Cecily

  48

  49

  Electra

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Maia

  54

  Authors Note

  Bibliography

  Some women fear the fire,

  Some women simply become it . . .

  R. H. Sin

  ATLANTIS

  Pa Salt – the sisters’ adoptive father (deceased)

  Marina (Ma) – the sisters’ guardian

  Claudia – housekeeper at Atlantis

  Georg Hoffman – Pa Salt’s lawyer

  Christian – the skipper

  THE D’APLIÈSE SISTERS

  Maia

  Ally (Alcyone)

  Star (Asterope)

  CeCe (Celaeno)

  Tiggy (Taygete)

  Electra

  Merope (missing)

  March 2008

  ‘I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing when I heard my father had died.’

  ‘Okay. Do you want to explore that?’

  I stared at Theresa, sitting in her leather wingback chair. She reminded me of the sleepy dormouse at Alice in Wonderland’s tea party, or one of his ratty friends. She blinked a lot behind her little round glasses and her lips were permanently pursed. She had great legs under the knee-length tweed skirt she was wearing, and good hair too. I decided she could be pretty if she wanted to be, but I knew she wasn’t interested in anything but looking intelligent.

  ‘Electra? I’m losing you again.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘Were you thinking about how you felt when your father died?’

  As I couldn’t exactly tell her what I had been thinking, I nodded earnestly. ‘Yeah, I was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I really can’t remember. Sorry.’

  ‘You seem angry about his death, Electra. Why were you angry?’

  ‘I’m not . . . I wasn’t. I mean, I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘You can’t remember how you felt at that moment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I watched her scribble something onto her notepad, which probably went along the lines of ‘refusing to deal with father’s death.’ It was what the last shrink had said to me, and I was so totally dealing with it. As I’d learnt over the years, they liked to find a reason for me being a screw-up and then they’d take hold of it, just like a mouse with a piece of cheese, and nibble away at me until I agreed with them and talked shit just to keep them happy.

  ‘So, how are you feeling about Mitch?’

  The phrases that came to mind to describe my ex would probably have Theresa reaching for her cell to warn the cops that there was a crazy woman on the loose, who wanted to blast away the balls of one of the world’s most famous rock stars. Instead, I smiled sweetly.

  ‘I’m good. I’ve moved on now.’

  ‘You were very angry with him the last time you came to see me, Electra.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m fine now. Really.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news. And how about the drinking? Under control a little more?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied again. ‘Listen, I’m gonna have to run to a meeting.’

  ‘But we’re only halfway through the session, Electra.’

  ‘I know, it’s a shame, but hey, that’s life.’ I stood up and walked towards the door.

  ‘Maybe I can fit you in again later this week? Speak to Marcia on your way out.’

  ‘I will, thanks.’ I was already closing the door behind me. I walked straight past Marcia, the receptionist, and headed for the elevator. It came almost immediately and as I was whooshed downwards, I closed my eyes – I hated any confined spaces – and laid my hot forehead against the cool marble interior.

  Jeez, I thought, what is it with me? I’m so messed up that I can’t even tell my therapist the truth!

  You’re too ashamed to tell anyone the truth . . . and how could she understand even if you did? I argued back to myself. She probably lives in a neat brownstone with her lawyer husband, has two kids and a refrigerator covered in cute magnets showing off their artwork. Oh, I added to myself as I climbed into the back of my limo, and one of those vomit-inducing photos of Mom and Dad with the kids, all wearing matching denim shirts, that they’ve blown up huge and hung behind their couch.

  ‘Where to, ma’am?’ the driver asked me over the intercom.

  ‘Home,’ I barked, before grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge, shutting it fast before I was tempted to explore the alcoholic options. I had the mother of all headaches, which no amount of painkillers had eased, and it was past five in the evening. It had been a great party the night before, though, from what I could remember anyway. Maurice, my new best designer friend, had been in town and had dropped by for a few drinks with some of his New York playmates, who had then called others . . . I couldn’t remember going to bed, and had been surprised to find a stranger in it with me when I’d woken up this morning. He was a beautiful stranger at least, and after we’d gotten to know each other physically again, I’d asked him his name. Fernando had been a delivery driver for Walmart in Philly up until a few months back, when one of the fashion buyers had noticed him and told him to call a friend at a New York modelling agency. He said he’d be happy to walk me down a red carpet sometime soon – I’d learnt the hard way that a shot of me on his arm would send Mister Walmart’s career skyrocketing – so I’d gotten rid of him as soon as I could.

  So what if you had told Mrs Dormouse the truth, Electra? So what if you’d admitted that last night you were so off your face with liquor and coke that you could have slept with Santa and you wouldn’t have known about it? That the reason you couldn’t even begin to think about your father wasn’t because of his death, but because you knew how ashamed he’d be of you . . . how ashamed he’d been of you?

  At least when Pa Salt had been alive, I’d known he couldn’t see what I was doing, but now he was dead, he’d somehow become omnipresent; he could have been in the bedroom with me last night, or even here in the limo right now . . .

  I cracked and reached for a mini vodka, then poured it down my throat, trying to forget the look of disappointment on Pa’s face the last time I’d seen him before he’d died. He’d come to New York to visit me, saying he had something to tell me. I’d avoided him until the last possible evening, when I had reluctantly agreed to have dinner with him. I’d arrived at Asiate, a restaurant just across Central Park, already tanked on vodka and uppers. I’d sat numbly opposite him throughout the meal, excusing myself to go to the lad
ies’ room to do a few bumps of coke whenever he tried to start conversations I didn’t want to pursue.

  Once dessert had arrived, Pa had crossed his arms and regarded me calmly. ‘I’m extremely worried for you, Electra. You seem to be completely absent.’

  ‘Well, you don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under,’ I’d snapped at him. ‘What it takes to be me!’ To my shame, I only had vague memories of what happened next or what he’d said but I knew I’d stood up and walked out on him. So now I’d never even know what it was he’d wanted to tell me . . .

  ‘Why do you give a shit, Electra?’ I asked myself as I wiped my mouth and stuck the empty bottle in a pocket – my driver was new and all I needed was a story in a newspaper saying I’d drunk the mini bar dry. ‘He’s not even your real father anyway.’

  Besides, there was nothing I could do about it now. Pa was gone – like everyone else I’d loved in my life – and I had to get on with it. I didn’t need him, I didn’t need anybody . . .

  ‘We’re here, ma’am,’ said the driver through the intercom.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll jump out,’ I added, then did so, closing the limo door behind me. It was best to make my arrival at any place as inconspicuous as possible; other celebrities could wear disguises and get away with going to a local diner, but I was over six feet tall and pretty hard to miss in a crowd, even if I hadn’t been famous.

  ‘Hi there, Electra!’

  ‘Tommy,’ I said, managing a smile as I walked beneath the canopy towards the entrance to my apartment building, ‘how are you today?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you, ma’am. Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Yeah, great, thank you,’ I nodded as I looked down – and I mean down – at my number one fan. ‘See you tomorrow, Tommy.’

  ‘You sure will, Electra. Not going out tonight?’

  ‘No, it’s a quiet one in. Bye now,’ I said as I gave him a wave and walked inside.

  At least he loves me, I mused as I collected my mail from the concierge and headed for the elevator. As the porter rode up with me simply because it was his job (I considered offering him my keys to hold as that was all I was carrying), I thought about Tommy. He stood sentinel outside the building most days and had done so for the past few months. At first it had freaked me out and I’d asked the concierge to get rid of him. Tommy had stood his ground – literally – and said that he had every right to stand on the sidewalk, that he wasn’t bothering anyone, and that all he wanted to do was to protect me. The concierge had encouraged me to call the cops and have him charged with stalking, but one morning I’d asked him his full name, then gone to do a bit of internet stalking myself. I’d discovered on Facebook that he was an army vet who’d won medals for bravery out in Afghanistan, and that he had a wife and daughter in Queens. Now, rather than feeling threatened, Tommy made me feel safe. Besides that, he was always respectful and polite, so I’d told the concierge to back off.

  The porter stepped out of the elevator and let me pass. Then we did a kind of dance in which I needed to step back so that he could go ahead and lead the way to my penthouse apartment to open the door for me with his own master key.

  ‘There we go, Miss D’Aplièse. Have a nice day now.’

  He nodded at me and I saw zero warmth in his eyes. I knew that the staff here wished that I would disappear in a puff of smoke up a non-existent chimney. Most of the other residents had been here since they were foetuses in their mothers’ stomachs, back when a woman of colour, like me, would have been ‘privileged’ to be their maid. They were all owner-occupiers, whereas I was a peasant: a tenant, albeit a rich one, allowed in on a lease because the old lady who’d lived here had died and her son had renovated the place, then tried to sell it at an exorbitant price. Due to something called the sub-prime crisis, he’d apparently failed to do so. Instead, he’d been reduced to selling the lease to the highest bidder – me. The price was crazy, but then so was the apartment, stuffed with modern artwork and every kind of electronic gadget you could imagine (I didn’t know how to work most of them) and the view from the terrace over Central Park was stunning.

  If I needed a reminder of my success, this apartment was it. But what it reminds me of more than anything, I thought as I sank down into the couch that could provide a comfortable bed for at least two full-grown guys, is how lonely I am. Its size made even me feel small and delicate . . . and up here, right at the top of the building, very, very isolated.

  My cell phone piped up from somewhere in the apartment, playing the song that had made Mitch a worldwide superstar; I’d tried to change the ringtone but it hadn’t worked. If CeCe is dyslexic with words, then I sure am dyslexic with electronics, I thought as I went into the bedroom to grab it. I was relieved to see that the maid had changed the sheets on the enormous bed and everything was hotel-room perfect again. I liked the new maid my PA had found me; she’d signed a non-disclosure agreement like all the others to stop her blabbing to the media about any of my nastier habits. Even so, I shuddered to think what she – was it Lisbet? – had thought when she’d walked into my apartment this morning.

  I sat on the bed and listened to my voicemails. Five were from my agent asking me to call her back urgently about tomorrow’s shoot for Vanity Fair, and the last message was from Amy, my new PA. She’d only been with me for three months, but I liked her.

  ‘Hi, Electra, it’s Amy. I . . . well, I just wanted to say that I’ve really enjoyed working for you, but I don’t think it’s gonna work out long-term. I’ve handed my resignation letter in today to your agent and I wish you luck in the future, and . . .’

  ‘SHIT!’ I screamed as I pressed delete and threw the cell across the room. ‘What the hell did I do to her?!’ I asked the ceiling, wondering why I felt so upset that a two-bit nobody, who had gone down on bended knee and begged me to give her a chance, had walked out on me three months later.

  ‘“It’s been my dream to be in the fashion business since I was a little kid. Please, Miss D’Aplièse, I’ll work for you night and day, your life will be mine and I swear I’ll never let you down.”’ I mimicked Amy’s whiny Brooklyn accent as I dialled my agent. There were only three things I couldn’t live without: vodka, cocaine and a PA.

  ‘Hi, Susie, I just heard Amy’s resigned.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not great. She was shaping up well.’ Susie’s British accent sounded crisp and business-like.

  ‘Yeah, I thought she was too. Do you know why she’s gone?’

  There was a pause on the line before she replied. ‘No. Anyway, I’ll get Rebekah on the case and I’m sure we’ll have you a new one by the end of the week. Did you get my messages?’

  ‘Yup, I did.’

  ‘Well, don’t be late tomorrow. They want to shoot as the sun is coming up. A car will pick you up at four a.m., okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I heard you had quite a party last night.’

  ‘It was fun, yeah.’

  ‘Well, no partying tonight, Electra. You need to be fresh for tomorrow. It’s the cover shot.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be in bed by nine like a good little girl.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry, I’ve got Lagerfeld on the other line. Rebekah will be in touch with a list of suitable PAs. Ciao.’

  ‘Ciao,’ I mimicked into the cell as the line went dead. Susie was one of the only people on the planet who would dare hang up on me. She was the most powerful modelling agent in New York and ran all the big names in the industry. She’d spotted me when I was sixteen. At the time, I’d been working in Paris as a waitress, having been expelled from my third school in about as many years. I’d told Pa that it was pointless him trying to find me another school because I’d only end up getting expelled from there too. To my surprise, he hadn’t made a fuss.

  I remembered how astonished I’d been that he hadn’t been angrier at yet another of my failures. Just kind of disappointed, I suppose, which had taken the wind out of my sails.

  ‘I thought I’d go tr
avelling or something,’ I’d suggested to him. ‘Learn through life experience.’

  ‘I agree that most of what you need to know to be a success in life doesn’t necessarily come through the academic process,’ he’d said, ‘but because you’re so bright, I’d hoped you’d at least get some qualifications. You’re a little young to be off by yourself. It’s a big wide world out there, Electra.’

  ‘I can take care of myself, Pa,’ I’d said firmly.

  ‘I’m sure you can, but what will you do to fund your travels?’

  ‘I’ll get a job, of course,’ I’d said with a shrug. ‘I thought I’d head for Paris first.’

  ‘Excellent choice,’ Pa had nodded. ‘It’s an incredible city.’

  As I’d watched him across his big desk in the study, I’d thought he’d looked almost dreamy and sad. Yup, definitely sad.

  ‘Well now,’ he’d continued, ‘why don’t we compromise? You want to leave school, which I understand, but I’m concerned about my youngest daughter heading off into the world at such a tender age. Marina has some contacts in Paris. I’m sure she could help you sort out a safe place to stay. Take the summer there, then we’ll regroup and decide where you go next.’

  ‘Okay, sounds like a plan,’ I’d agreed, still amazed that he hadn’t fought harder for me to finish my education. As I’d stood up to leave, I’d decided that he’d either washed his hands of me, or was giving me just enough rope to hang myself with. Anyway, Ma had called some contacts, and I’d ended up in a sweet little studio overlooking the rooftops of Montmartre. It had been miniscule and I’d had to share the bathroom with a load of foreign exchange kids who were in town to improve their French, but it had been mine.

  I remembered that first delicious taste of independence as I’d stood in my tiny room the night I arrived and realised there was no one to tell me what to do. There was also no one to cook for me, so I’d taken myself off to a café just along the street, sat down at a table outside and lit up a cigarette as I studied the menu. I’d ordered French onion soup and a glass of wine and the waiter hadn’t even batted an eyelid at me smoking or ordering alcohol. Three glasses of wine later, I’d had the confidence to go up to the manager and ask him if he had any vacancies for a waitress. Twenty minutes after that, I’d walked the few hundred yards back to my studio with a job. One of my proudest moments had been the call to Pa on the pay phone along the hall the next morning. To give him credit, he’d sounded just as thrilled as when my sister Maia had won a place at the Sorbonne.