Bad Sisters Page 4

  A great deal of money had been spent on making this kitchen camera-ready, probably fifty thousand pounds. But it had been essential. An ex-model turned TV cook had made her debut last year, and been slated for letting the viewers believe that the lovely white-painted kitchen where the series had been filmed was her own. The whole point of these series was not, really, for the viewers to learn how to cook. It was for them to bask in the reflected glow of the perfect life they saw on screen: to imagine, for the forty-five minutes of the programme, that they were part of it. Acting as if she had been in her own house, when she wasn’t, the ex-model had invited catty criticism.

  Devon hadn’t been stupid enough to make that mistake. Her kitchen took up the entire back of her Georgian house, and had been extended out into the hundred-foot garden with hyper-modern glass walls and a sloping glass roof that provided all the natural light that any TV crew could need. Black granite Corian topped the cherrywood cabinets and kitchen island, all the fittings were stainless steel, and though the walls were white, for filming purposes, the ceramic floor tiles and all the appliances were deep purple, Devon’s signature colour.

  It was a dream kitchen, kept shiny and polished by the cleaning lady who came in every day, working baby oil into the Corian surfaces to keep them glossy. Like a showroom from a catalogue, it was unreal in its perfection. But a few minutes after Devon had come in, that perfection was a distant memory. The Tupperware container of leftover pasta carbonara was out on the countertop next to the open Sub-Zero fridge, a folding chopping board with a heap of grated Parmesan beside it, which Devon was scattering so thickly over the pasta that it disappeared under the heavy coating. She pulled open the larder and extracted a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, uncapping it and drizzling a bright green stream of rich, peppery oil over the layer of cheese. Mixing it all up with a fork, she added the rest of the Parmesan and

  some more oil for good measure before starting to fork up mouthfuls, barely taking time to chew one big bite before adding the next.

  It was delicious. Crunchy little bites of pancetta contrasted with the eggy sauce coating each strand of spaghetti; the freshly grated cheese was sharp and tangy, the olive oil giving it an extra spicy kick. Of course, it would have been even better if she’d taken the time to reheat the pasta, melting the cheese into it, maybe scattering a few red chilli flakes into the mix; but she was binging, not cooking, and this wasn’t about anything but stuffing food into her mouth as fast as she could.

  Devon didn’t sit down, because that would have meant acknowledging what she was doing. Standing up at the counter, she could stay in the moment, pretend it wasn’t really happening, that she was in some sort of suspended, parallel world where calories didn’t count and it wasn’t her, sophisticated, grown-up, envied and celebrated Devon McKenna, celebrity TV cook, gorging on leftovers like a fat greedy pig.

  She didn’t stop till the container was finished. If someone had walked in while she was stuffing herself, she’d have shoved everything into the fridge as fast as she could, pretended that nothing was happening; but she’d have sneaked back in later to demolish what was left in the container. Once she’d started, nothing on earth could have stopped her till it was empty. And afterwards, she cleaned up everything till there was no evidence left: Tupperware, chopping board and fork loaded into the Miele dishwasher, oil and cheese back where they’d come from. Matt would never notice that the leftovers had vanished from the fridge; though he ate a lot, he wasn’t greedy.

  Unlike Devon.

  And then she did what she always did after a binge. She went into her office, sat down at her modular desk, opened up her MacBook once again, and went onto the Daily Mail website. It specialized in photos of female celebrities, their bodies displayed for judgement by the Mail and its online readers. Devon, in the

  Vivienne Westwood, Donna Karan and Karen Millen dresses that flattered her hourglass figure, was by no means thin, and the occasional snarky comment emphasized that cruelly:

  ‘Voluptuous? More like obese!’

  ‘Looks like the hourglass is expanding dangerously at both ends!’

  ‘Come on – any of you who don’t think she’s fat must be porkers yourselves!’

  But every single nasty post about Devon’s weight had been red-arrowed by the rest of the commenters. And the positive posts outnumbered the negatives by at least ten to one.

  ‘Leave her alone, she’s stunning! I wish I had her curves, LOL!’

  ‘All those skinny-minny Kate Moss types could do with looking more like Devon – this is how men like their women – someone to squeeze!’

  ‘What do you mean fat? Devon can’t be over a size 14, that’s still fine in my book! She loves food, you can see that on her programmes, if she was thin she’d be bulimic wouldn’t she? It’s amazing she’s not much bigger, good for her’.

  It was amazing she wasn’t bigger, Devon thought gloomily, closing the laptop. Usually the comments section cheered her up, but it was always a risk. The negative remarks affected her much more than the positive ones, naturally, but the sheer number of people who bothered to post was always a tribute to how many fans she had. Devon was a poster girl for women with curves, women who loved to eat; if she lost a few stone, she’d lose her devoted following as well. But if she lost a stone – well, twenty pounds, who was she kidding — if she lost twenty pounds, got back to the weight she’d been when she first got her TV series, the weight she’d been on her wedding day . . .

  For a moment, Devon allowed herself the bliss of imagining it. Imagining herself able to fit into a size 12 – even to fit her boobs into a size 12, if the top were generously cut. God, how happy she’d be! She thought miserably of all the clothes in her huge closet that she couldn’t fit into any longer. Jeans that had been her normal, everyday wear. Dresses that had made her feel like a film star. Even shoes she wouldn’t put on any longer; she wasn’t comfortable wearing ankle straps any more, because she thought they cut her legs off and made them look stumpy.

  If I’d only been happy with my weight then! The trouble was that you never enjoyed what you had. You always wanted to be thinner. If you were a size 12, you wanted to be a size 10. Women were never happy with their bodies, in Devon’s experience.

  If I could only somehow manage to get back to the size I was . . . if I went on one of those bikini boot camps, or did a cabbage soup diet, or just stopped binging after dinner . . .

  I will. I will stop binging after dinner. That’ll do it. I must have eaten a thousand calories just now with that pasta. Much more if I count the wine as well . . . Oh God . . .

  Depression had fully settled in, waves of exhaustion and gloom sweeping over her. Which meant she was ready to go to bed. Padding up the staircase that wrapped around the open hall, her cashmere White Company slippers making no sound on the polished floor, she pushed open the door that led to the master bedroom suite. Matt was fast asleep, making those snuffling noises, damn him. She slipped under the white velvet coverlet and closed her eyes, hoping to fall asleep straight away – before she got so annoyed with Matt’s bloody snuffling that she pushed him right off the mattress . . .

  ‘Dev? You awake? Oi! Dev!’

  Devon snapped out of her memories of the night before, very grateful for the distraction. No more late-night snacking, she told herself firmly now, a resolution that she had made many, many times already.

  ‘Dev!’

  Someone was knocking on the bedroom door. It couldn’t be Matt – he was long gone, always up just after dawn to have breakfast before heading off to training. Devon pushed the pillows behind her and sat up.

  ‘Gary?’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody me,’ Gary Jordan, her make-up artist, said impatiently, opening the door and coming in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of pastries. ‘Who were you expecting, the Easter bunny?’

  He set down the tray on the bedside table and crossed the room to draw the light silk curtains. Sprin
g morning light flooded into the bedroom. With his back to the window, Gary surveyed Devon, who had reached gratefully for her coffee and was sipping it, her head clearing as the caffeine hit her system. The morning light illuminated her face all too clearly; beautiful as she was, the regular binging and drinking was making her eyes a little puffy and her skin dull.

  ‘Ooh dear,’ he said, clicking his tongue. ‘I’ve got my work cut out for me today, haven’t I?’

  ‘Shut up. The Easter bunny would be nicer to me,’ Devon said, sticking her tongue out at Gary. ‘And he’d bring me chocolate.’

  ‘You shut up,’ Gary said. ‘Chocolate’s the last thing you need.’

  Taking the second cup of coffee and a croissant, he perched comfortably on the bed. In his grey waistcoat, tight black jeans and jaunty grey tweed cap over his carefully tonged hair, Gary resembled a modern version of the Artful Dodger.

  ‘Mmn, nice,’ he said appreciatively, stroking the mauve silk coverlet. ‘So what are we doing today? Bit early for you to book me in when you’re not working! You usually like to sleep till noon, don’t you, love? Going out for a posh lunch?’

  Devon shook her head. ‘Interview,’ she said through a mouthful of Danish pastry. ‘Women’s Life magazine.’

  ‘Photos?’ Gary asked, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘No, did them last week, remember,’ she said. ‘In their test kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s just nice and natural, cover up the spots and don’t scare the horses,’ Gary said, relaxing.

  Devon had been working with Gary since she first started in TV; he’d been doing the make-up on the breakfast show on which she’d started out as a lowly runner. They’d both come a long way since then. Gary was in high demand, working on major TV series and feature films, but Devon booked him whenever she could. Gary knew exactly what she needed, how to shade her jaw so it looked slimmer, how to make her lips look fuller and more lush than anyone else could; she never had to tell him anything.

  And Gary’s total lack of respect for her fame and fortune, the way he teased her just as if she were still a runner on a breakfast TV show, not a famous icon and sex symbol, was exactly what she needed. A born-and-bred Londoner with an acid tongue, Gary wouldn’t have dreamed of sucking up to anyone. Which was ideal, as Devon had always responded best to people who made fun of her. Growing up, she’d missed out on the banter and jokes that would be expected between three sisters relatively close in age. She, Maxie and Deeley had been too traumatized, too fearful, to ever relax and mess around with each other like more normal sisters did. Nor had they been able to have close friends at school; their family problems were too intense, their secrets too profound, for them to be able to form bonds outside their little threesome.

  Devon still didn’t have any close girlfriends. She’d never learned how. She and Maxie were very close – though, to be honest, Devon didn’t much like Maxie, and had the feeling that the sentiments were returned. But what they had been through when they were young, culminating in that awful night in the autumn of 1993, had locked them together forever, as tightly as if they each had a wrist in a pair of handcuffs.

  Deeley, somehow, had escaped. Perhaps by being so young, that night, too young to have been as involved in what they had done as her two older sisters had been. And she had disappeared, literally, off to LA, living a golden existence with her gorgeous gay boyfriend, with nothing to do but look pretty and smile and dress up like a beautiful doll. No responsibilities, no career to manage, no marriage problems, no weight issues.

  Lucky Deeley. Lucky, lucky Deeley.

  Devon pushed back the wave of resentment that tended to flood up whenever she thought about her younger sister’s charmed, easy life, and turned back to the present.

  ‘What spots?’ she said, drinking more coffee. ‘Fuck off, Gary. I’ve never had spots.’

  Gary snorted. ‘Of course you haven’t, darling,’ he said. ‘Just like you’ve never had an STD.’

  ‘I’ve never . . .’ Devon started indignantly, then stopped, realizing he was joking. ‘Shut up,’ she said, taking another bite of Danish. ‘Just for that, you’d better make me look absolutely gorgeous.’

  ‘Wow, Devon, you’re so lucky!’ the interviewer from the women’s magazine gushed. ‘You have such a great life – this kitchen’s even more amazing in real life than on TV!’

  Devon flashed her biggest, most charming smile, tossing back her shiny dark hair. Gary had done a fantastic job with her hair and make-up; she looked flawless, but natural. She was in Earl jeans and a black Ghost crêpe shirt that flowed over her curves rather than clinging to them, amethyst earrings dangling in her ears. Simple, relatable clothes. Devon’s image wasn’t exactly the girl next door, but it was crucial that she seemed approachable. Friendly. Normal. I.e., not so groomed and perfect that she intimidated the interviewer and caused her to write a catty article in revenge.

  ‘Oh, I spent hours tidying up this morning!’ Devon lied cheerfully. ‘It’s usually an awful mess.’

  ‘And the sofa’s even comfier than it looks,’ the interviewer said, patting the arm of the huge cranberry velvet sofa that sprawled along the back wall of the kitchen. ‘I love that bit on your shows when you’ve finished cooking, and you take a portion of what you’ve just made and sit down here to eat it . . .’

  That was how Devon’s programmes usually ended; with her announcing that she’d worked hard to feed everyone else and she was going to take a special, indulgent moment to treat herself.

  ‘Or a drink,’ Devon said, smiling. ‘Sometimes I take a lovely big glass of wine and sit down here to put my feet up.’

  ‘Oh yes! Everyone loves that too!’ The interviewer giggled girlishly. ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘My little bit extra,’ Devon said, winking at her. ‘I have to have my little bit extra. I think we all do, don’t we?’

  She had this line down pat. And though it was a routine, it wasn’t hypocritical; Devon genuinely meant it. That was the secret of her appeal; the persona she projected on TV was her own – exaggerated, as everything is on TV, but definitely her own. She wasn’t playing a part.

  The interviewer giggled harder. ‘That’s what the next show’s going to be called, right?’ she said. ‘It’s such a great title!’

  Across the room, perched on a chrome and white-leather bar stool, Devon’s publicist, who was fiddling with her BlackBerry but mainly listening hard to the interview, nodded approvingly. Five minutes into the conversation and the title of the next series had already been namechecked; nice work, the nod said.

  ‘I’ve been saying it for years,’ Devon said, curling up in the corner of the sofa, tucking her bare feet sideways. ‘Ever since I first started out on Wake up UK. So finally Rory – that’s the producer I work with at the TV company that makes the show for the Beeb – he said, “You know, this is the perfect title for the new series – Devon’s Little Bit Extra.” I think it’s hilarious.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ The interviewer beamed, sliding her digital recorder a little closer along the coffee table to Devon till it butted against the one Devon’s publicist had placed there. This was standard practice now for celebrities; you always kept your own copy of the interview, to ensure no quotes got exaggerated, embellished or just simply made up. ‘Can you talk a bit about how you got started on Wake up UK? I mean, you didn’t actually train as a cook, right?’

  Devon had to be careful not to stiffen up at this question. It was one of her two main weak points, and no matter how nice an interviewer seemed, how much they were telling you that they loved you and your house and your life, if you showed weakness, they’d sense it and use it to dig away at you.

  So she smiled as easily as ever, and tossed her hair back casually as she said, ‘Yes, that’s right! I think that a lot of women identify with me because of that. I mean, I’m just like them. I didn’t go to cooking school, and I didn’t apprentice in restaurants. I taught myself to cook and I never put on airs and graces about it – I mean, I’
d never call myself a chef.’ She looked self-deprecating. ‘But what I really love is to help people learn to cook. You know, nothing pretentious. Just nice comfort food, the kind you want to eat every day. And that’s how I got started. I was working as a runner on TV – very lowly, just racing around getting people coffee.’

  ‘Did you always want to be on TV?’ the interviewer asked, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘I didn’t know what I wanted to do,’ Devon lied. ‘I got the job through a temp agency and just sort of stayed on.’

  Of course I wanted to be on TV! she thought. Everyone wants to be on TV! But you couldn’t say that. It made you sound stuck-up and ambitious, and there was still a lot of hostility towards ambitious women. And of course she hadn’t got the job through a temp agency; she’d written letters and pestered producers and got Maxie’s then fiancé, Olly, to pull some strings to get her into an interview that had led to her being taken on as a runner – not even a researcher. But it had got her foot that tiny crack in the door, even if it was a lowly job where she was paid practically nothing to get up at 3 a.m. every day for the breakfast show and to get screamed at by everyone for not getting their coffee fast enough.

  ‘And you ended up doing a cooking slot on the show,’ the interviewer prompted.

  ‘It was so funny!’ Devon said cheerfully. ‘There was this guest,’ she named a famous footballer, ‘who mentioned in an interview that he’d never cooked anything in his life. So they said they’d book him in the week after to give him a cooking lesson, but the chef who was supposed to do it pulled out at the last minute.’