The Santiago Sisters. Victoria Fox
with the languid, cat-like indifference that was the hallmark of adolescence.
Simone gasped. The girl was hands-down the most ravishing creature she had ever encountered. Her hair was long and sleek, her limbs slender and brown. Her eyes were huge and inky, the lashes impossibly thick. Her mouth was a rose bud.
The girl stopped singing.
‘Hello,’ said Simone.
Another child, nowhere near as appealing though clearly related, came in her wake. She, too, was brought up short at the sight of the uninvited guests.
The gaucho said something to them. Simone held a hand out to the prettiest and tried not to let the other one’s glower put her off. The other one looked feral.
‘Hola,’ she stumbled, ‘me llamo Simone. Soy de Inglaterra. Cómo se llama?’
There was a long silence. Gently does it, thought Simone, unwilling to blow the chance now it had arrived so conveniently in her lap. To imagine they were never even supposed to have come to this godforsaken place! But this was it. Here. Now. The One. And she saw it all clearly. She understood what was meant to happen, starting with securing this girl’s trust. Like coaxing a fox in from the cold.
‘Teresa,’ the girl replied, at last.
Simone inhaled and exhaled deeply. ‘That’s a pretty name.’
She turned to Michelle. ‘She’s it,’ she said.
Michelle attempted discretion even though it was doubtful their company understood. ‘One thing at a time, Simone,’ she hissed. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
But Simone had never felt less carried away. She felt totally level headed, as if all she had done was to walk into a fate that had already been mapped for her. Teresa was the one. She was it! The beauty would be returning with her to London, even if Simone had to swim across the Atlantic with the child on her back, like a giant turtle.
The gaucho led them inside. The kitchen was painfully basic, with a single wooden table, an iron stove, and a collection of battered pots and pans that hung from a rafter in the ceiling. Heavens! How did people live like this? Simone thought of her own kitchen, with her diamond-granite worktops and Sub-Zero Pro fridge freezer.
A woman—their mother?—emerged from the hall. She was dressed in a tatty robe, her hair limp, and her eyes sunken. She and Simone appraised each other, across time, across continents; in another universe, the woman the other might have been.
José addressed her. ‘Disculpa, señora, perdóname, pero puedo usar su fono?’The woman listened to the gaucho for a moment before pointing hesitantly into the back. Michelle followed, accompanied by José, until Simone pulled him to her. ‘You stay here,’ she commanded. ‘I need you to help me talk.’
The woman, who would once have been beautiful but whose embittered expression robbed her of any lingering shred, eyed her suspiciously.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ said Simone, after introductions had been made. The air in that hot, Patagonian kitchen, glowing amber from the melting sun, seemed to vibrate with anticipation. ‘One that could change your life.’
Over supper that night, Julia was in an unusually good mood.
‘What a wonderful person Simone Geddes was,’ she kept saying. ‘And such good fortune that they should stumble across our lowly abode! I’m only glad that we were able to help—those poor women, breaking down in the middle of nowhere …’
Calida ate quietly, while Teresita quizzed her. ‘Is she rich?’
‘Beyond our wildest dreams.’
‘Is she famous?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Julia said. ‘Simone’s an actress. She lives in a mansion in England.’ Their mother lifted her fork precisely to her mouth and chewed carefully. ‘We’re going to stay in touch and then I might have some exciting news to share with you.’
Teresita danced up and down in her seat. ‘What news?’ she pressed, while Calida stayed quiet. Their visitor had unnerved her. It was as if the woman had deposited a trick in her wake, a sting in the tail, a nasty surprise, the nature of which would not be apparent immediately but would soon reveal itself in a horrible, startling flourish.
Julia closed her eyes, as if with the effort of concealing a truth too thrilling to keep at simmering point. ‘Simone wishes to offer one of you girls a special vacation,’ she said, ‘as a way of thanks. To stay with her in London over the English summer.’
Calida didn’t know why her mother bothered to make it a mystery. Maybe she wasn’t just embittered, maybe she was cruel too, and wanted to make Calida believe she had a chance at taking the prize before snatching it out of reach. Calida knew she would receive no invitation. Simone would prefer Teresita. Everyone preferred Teresita. Did Daniel prefer her? Ever since their disastrous trip into town, her twin had made it perfectly clear where her ambitions lay. Calida had been stupid to think she could pull off a stunt like that, anyway—chasing Daniel into a world she had no place in, not once stopping to think about his reaction, or whom he might be with, or what he would say. Teresita could wing these things, but she couldn’t. It had been so unlike her, her silly attempt to be more like her sister, and see how it had backfired.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if Teresita went away.
‘I can’t wait!’ Teresita could scarcely contain her excitement. Calida had seen the way her sister had eyed Simone’s jewellery, admired her gleaming car, envied her chic wardrobe and, at one point, salivated over the bulging wallet that the actress had laid down on the counter, fat with banknotes. This was what her twin desired.
Afterwards, Calida stayed behind to wash the dishes. She recalled a phrase her papa had used, as they had lingered outside the store in town for her photographs to be developed. He’d stroked her hair and said: Good things come to those who wait.
She couldn’t help wondering if bad things did, too.
Later, when Julia had gone to bed, Calida sat on the veranda and gazed up at the stars. Are you there, Papa? Are you with me? If Diego were alive, he would be on her side. She wasn’t even sure what battle she was fighting, but she knew he would be on her side. Now, it seemed as if everything was slipping from her grasp, too fast, too much change, and she didn’t know who she was any more. She didn’t know who her twin was, and, in a lifetime of reflections, of using the other to define oneself, it was a question that frightened her to death. She longed to find a way to reach Teresita, to remind her that the bond they had was stronger than this. But she couldn’t.
Her thoughts were punctured by the sound of laughter. She stood and followed. Who was her sister talking to? Julia had long since fallen asleep.
It was with a growing sense of dread that she arrived at Daniel’s cabin, and heard Teresita talking inside. Her twin spoke animatedly and vivaciously—no wonder people liked spending time with her. Words didn’t come so easily to Calida; they seemed too important, too permanent. She’d never be able to charm Daniel that way.
Anxious, she peered through the window, and saw the pair sitting at his table.
Jealousy boiled in Calida’s blood. Her sister hung on to his every word, every so often touching his arm, or resting her chin on her hand in a way she had learned from their mother. Sensuous. The word, sinuous and sinister, sewed itself under Calida’s skin with a sharp needle. You’ll never be sensuous. You’re not pretty enough.
‘Calida’s confused, you know,’ Teresita was saying.
Calida froze, her heart wedged in her chest. She wanted to interrupt, but all she could do was stay and listen, her feet rooted to the ground, her breath held.
Daniel hesitated. ‘About what?’