Bad Sisters Page 7

  ‘Dev, I know something’s wrong,’ Matt said with such fervour in his voice that she flinched away, even more guilty now. ‘Tell me! Whatever it is, we can fix it – I know we can.’

  His blue eyes were filled with nothing but worry for her: no frustration, no reproach for having got him hard and then left him hanging. Matt was so bloody nice that it made her feel even worse. Why can’t he yell or sulk? Call me names? Or even storm out to jerk off in the bathroom? Again, she realized she was longing for a fight, something her gentle husband would never give her.

  I’m more comfortable with Gary, she thought suddenly. Because he bickers with me all the time. It actually suits me better, somehow.

  ‘I don’t know if we can fix it,’ she blurted out, and Matt flinched back at her words.

  The phone rang, but neither of them went to answer it; Devon’s secretary Marcy fielded all the calls on the landline number. But a few seconds later, the extension in the kitchen buzzed. Marcy had vetted and put through the phone call. She had a sixth sense for knowing where her employers were in the house at any given time.

  ‘Don’t take it, Dev,’ Matt pleaded. ‘We need to talk about what’s going on.’

  His soft West Country burr was more pronounced now, as it always was when he was passionate or emotional. Devon usually loved it, the gentle blurring of the syllables, the slow, soft speech of a man who liked to take his time. But hearing it now was the last straw. Knowing that she had hurt him, made him vulnerable, ratcheted up her guilt and self-loathing even more.

  So she did the only logical thing in the situation. She hurt him still more. Striding across the kitchen, raising his hopes for a second or two before dashing them by sliding by him without even touching him as she went, she picked the phone off the handset and said, ‘Yes? Oh, hi Maxie! What’s up?’ into the mouthpiece.

  Behind her, Matt’s huge, stocky shoulders slumped. Whenever Maxie rang, Devon jumped to attention; he knew he had no chance of recapturing his wife’s focus now. Devon heard his heavy tread leaving the kitchen as Maxie’s high, clipped tones said urgently, ‘Devon? It’s me. Look, Deeley just rang me. Dev, she’s coming back to London. For good!’ Maxie’s voice rose even higher. ‘Dev. This could be a disaster. What are we going to do?’

  Maxie

  Maxie paced furiously up and down her living room in stockinged feet, thinking hard. Plotting, planning; that was what Maxie did best. Ever since they’d been little girls, three young sisters, their mother either in prison or off with some man, Maxie had had to scheme and strategize to keep them all safe. No one else would do it but her. Only Maxie had the brains and the cunning necessary to deal with the social workers who came sniffing around; to make sure the sisters didn’t get taken into care and split up; to keep the three of them fed and clothed and going to school and safe from the kind of predators who were all too ready to exploit underage girls.

  And I did a pretty good job, she told herself now. Look at us, how far we’ve come! We’d never have managed that without me pushing us all!

  Maxie was the strategist, the long-term thinker. She had an academic brain that had got her into Oxford, and the quick instincts that had taught her to spot the most privileged, richest, best-connected social circle, and manage to fit in with them. Devon was ambitious too, but she didn’t have Maxie’s drive and sharpness.

  Probably because Devon’s so beautiful, Maxie thought. She didn’t have to work so hard to succeed. It was impossible not to be jealous of a younger sister who’d been so lusciously gorgeous that from the age of fourteen grown men had turned to gape at her in the street with open desire. Devon had been destined to end up as a TV presenter; she had the kind of looks that made people want to stare at her for hours. What Devon actually did on TV, Maxie suspected, was pretty much irrelevant. She could have been a weathergirl or a daytime talk-show host or a gossip journalist to exactly the same effect. The thought of Devon as a cook still made Maxie smile with amusement; Devon had barely cooked at home beyond the most standard basics. Her sister might have deluded herself by now into believing her own myth, but Maxie knew perfectly well that all Devon’s recipes were concocted for her by a team of researchers.

  Still, Maxie could trust Devon implicitly. Devon owed Maxie for so much – all the care Maxie had taken of her over the years, as well as the influence that Olly had exerted to get Devon into her first job in TV. Devon would never open her mouth about what had happened all those years ago, back in that grubby little council house. Devon valued everything she’d achieved much too much to ever breathe a word about how Bill had died. Particularly since she’d be implicating herself, too, Maxie thought grimly. She was in it up to her neck.

  But Deeley . . . Deeley was the weak link. Deeley was the classic youngest sister, spoiled and cosseted and protected by her older siblings. Deeley had always relied on them for everything. When Deeley had finished school at sixteen, she’d promptly moved down to London, to be close to Maxie and Devon; but Maxie’s life as a 24-year-old career woman, married to Olly, who was just taking over his father’s seat in Parliament, was so grown-up, so mature, that she and Deeley had found they had nothing in common. Sixteen-year-olds didn’t want to accompany their older sister and her husband to dinner parties and corporate entertaining boxes at the opera. Deeley had quickly found a series of temporary jobs and a house-share with some girls her own age with whom she could go out partying. Devon had already been working on Wake up UK. Getting to the set at three every morning meant that Devon had to go to bed very early; she was on a completely different schedule from her younger sisters. Devon and Deeley had hardly crossed paths in London at all.

  It had been Maxie who Deeley rang with all her problems, Maxie from whom Deeley borrowed small sums of money when she was late with her rent. But Maxie hadn’t actually seen that much of Deeley, and when Deeley went off to LA with Nicky, they lost touch almost completely. Deeley hadn’t even managed to come back to the UK for Devon’s wedding.

  And the distance that had opened up between them, Maxie and Devon on one side of the Atlantic, and Deeley on the other, had been absolutely fine as far as the older sisters were concerned. Deeley, Maxie knew, had been very affected by the events of that night in Riseholme. She had wanted to talk about it, many times, but Maxie had never allowed that. Least said, soonest mended. Maxie had put it all behind her, and she was confident that Devon had too. She held Devon close, kept an eye on her, to make sure that she didn’t do anything to embarrass her, and to reassure herself that Devon showed no signs of ever spilling the beans about what had happened to Bill.

  Devon had too much to lose by doing that. Devon was safe. But Deeley, running back from LA, deeply upset at her perfect life falling to pieces all around her, Deeley, who’d never been comfortable keeping their shared secret, Deeley, who’d always been a little blabbermouth – Deeley was a loose cannon. Panicking at the thought of being on her own once again, Deeley’s voice on the phone had been lost, hopeless, wanting Maxie to snap back into her old role, and take care of her.

  Typical. As soon as Nicky dumps her, she comes running back to me. The weight of responsibility for her sisters descended onto Maxie’s narrow shoulders, heavy and oppressive, an all-too-familiar sensation.

  Maxie came to a decided halt. Well, I won’t do it, she told herself firmly. Deeley’s a grown woman now. She can stand on her own two feet.

  But what if she can’t keep her mouth shut?

  Maxie had stopped in the centre of the living room, on the Aubusson rug that had been in her husband’s family for at least a century. Practically all the furniture had been in Olly’s family for that amount of time. The middle classes were often dismissed by snobbish aristocrats as ‘having to buy their own furniture’; well Olly Stangroom, MP for Brampton-on-Sea, would never be vulnerable to that kind of attack. The Stangrooms were an old, rich, well-established county family. Olly, the oldest son, would inherit the baronetcy when his father died.

  Which will make me Lady Stangroom
, Maxie reflected, feeling her mood improve tremendously as she regarded herself with satisfaction in the ornate, nineteenth-century Venetian glass mirror that hung over the fireplace. Her appearance testified to how hard she’d worked to get to where she was. Naturally, Maxie was neither slim nor blonde, but she’d made herself into both of those precious commodities by exercising like a maniac, living on cucumber slices and carrot sticks, and having a standing appointment at Nicky Clarke in Mount Street every three weeks to have her dark McKenna hair lightened to a pale gold that made her look much less like an Irish colleen (which would not have gone down well in their social circle) and much more like a perfect Sloane wife. The blonde tint actually made Maxie more striking; it was a contrast to her dark brows and eyes, giving an interest to her appearance that made people look at her twice.

  Maxie wasn’t beautiful like Devon, or stunningly pretty like Deeley, though she was striking in her own way. But she had made her peace with that a long time ago. I didn’t get the looks in the family, she thought, adjusting the silk Hermès scarf tied elegantly at her neck. But I certainly got the brains.

  And now I have to work out what on earth to do about Deeley coming back to London.

  ‘Darling? Is everything all right?’

  Maxie swivelled on her heels as her husband came into the room. Pink-cheeked, fair-haired, cherub-faced, Olly Stangroom was the archetypal posh boy, with the comfortable plumpness of someone who’d never quite lost his baby fat. He was tugging disconsolately at his jacket, trying to get it to hang right.

  ‘I hate this bloody Marks and Spencer suit!’ he complained bitterly. ‘It feels revoltingly cheap. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s polyester in this.’

  Maxie was temporarily distracted from her own concerns; Olly never wore a suit that hadn’t been handmade for him on Savile Row.

  ‘You’re in a Marks and Spencer suit?’ she exclaimed, staring at him in surprise. It didn’t actually look terrible, she had to admit. Still, Olly’s tailor cut his suits to cleverly widen his client’s shoulders and conceal the slight podge of his tummy; by contrast the off-the-peg M & S suit was not quite as flattering.

  Olly pulled a face, which made him look charmingly like a 6-year-old boy.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he said, grimacing. ‘Diktat from the chief whip. We’ve all got to look “relatable”, of all the ghastly American words. No more “conspicuous consumption”. We’re banned from drinking champagne in public, and we’ve all got to bicycle everywhere, and if some bloody pinko commie journalist from the Guardian asks us where our suit’s from, we look surprised and say “M & S, of course!” so we can come across as Men of the People.’

  ‘Oh, poor darling!’ Maxie commiserated, walking over to straighten his tie. ‘Listen, you may have to buy suits from M & S, but there’s no reason you can’t take them to Trevor to have them tailored, is there?’

  Olly’s forehead furrows disappeared as if by magic at the mention of Trevor, his man in Savile Row.

  ‘Oh Max, you’re a gem,’ he said gratefully. ‘That’s sheer genius. You always have an answer for everything. Gosh, I wonder if I have time to pop in to see Trevor before I have to be at the House . . .’

  He pondered this, before realizing that Maxie wasn’t helping him with his timetable, as she usually would. This definitely meant that something was off. He looked more closely at his wife.

  ‘Everything all right, old girl?’ he asked cautiously. Maxie was like a superbly functioning machine, and she ran their lives with maximum efficiency: but no machine was perfect, and if she got any grit in her workings, Olly needed to oil it out pronto to avoid meltdowns.

  ‘Oh God, Olly.’ Maxie slumped into the closest armchair. Like all their period furniture, it was hideously uncomfortable, upholstered in silk caught with little buttons that cut into anyone who, like Maxie, had very little excess flesh to pad her out. She grabbed a cushion and shoved it behind her, but it didn’t help much. ‘It’s Deeley,’ she said, looking up at her husband. ‘Things haven’t worked out for her in Los Angeles. She’s broken up with her boyfriend.’

  ‘I thought he was gay,’ Olly said, confused.

  ‘Well, yes, he is. But that hasn’t stopped him from chucking her for someone more famous. Now she doesn’t have an income or anywhere to live, and they’re making her come back to the UK.’

  To Maxie’s intense annoyance, her husband perked up at this news.

  ‘Well, not to worry!’ he said cheerfully. ‘She can stay here! We have plenty of room, don’t we?’

  He waved his arms expansively, indicating the size of their five-storey Holland Park mansion.

  ‘I mean, I haven’t been up to the top floor in yonks!’ he said. ‘God knows what’s even up there! Surely we can fit her in somewhere . . .’

  Maxie narrowed her eyes at him. She knew exactly what was going through his mind; he was picturing Deeley wandering around the house in a bathrobe. Olly had always had an eye for the pretty girls. He’d been sensible enough to marry Maxie, knowing that, even though she had no family background, she’d make the perfect wife for an aspiring Tory politician. Even Olly’s cold-as-ice, fearsomely snobbish mother, after putting Maxie under searing observation one terrifying weekend at the Stangroom country house, had pretty much instructed her son to propose to Maxie forthwith. It had been abundantly clear to Lady Stangroom that Maxie had all the brains, organizational abilities and backbone that Olly lacked. Which compensated for her lack of pedigree – or inheritance.

  But Maxie had always been aware that though Olly had been sensible enough to marry her, it hadn’t been because he thought she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen in his life.

  ‘You can drool over Deeley all you want,’ she snapped. ‘She won’t look twice at you – she doesn’t exactly go for podgy middle-aged Tory MPs.’

  It was very hard to offend upper-class, privileged white men, and indeed, Olly just smiled complacently at his wife’s words.

  ‘Oh, we’ll find her a rich husband easily enough,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Some banker chappie who’s on the lookout for a trophy wife’ll snap her up – a girl as pretty as your sister. You know how it works with City boys – first wife to help you make the money, second wife to help you spend it.’ He winked at his wife. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he added. ‘That doesn’t apply to politicians.’

  No, Maxie thought with a surge of hostility that took her by surprise. And it wasn’t at Olly’s comment; she knew that her marriage was 100 per cent secure. She gave Olly not only what he needed, but what he wanted. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  No, her objection was a very different one. I’m not having Deeley marry someone in our social circle – we’d have to invite her round all the time, maybe even holiday together. I’d either be watching all the men drooling over my prettier, younger sister, or have her ringing me up non-stop asking me to organize things for her.

  It’s bad enough with Devon, but at least Devon’s a social asset – everyone wants to meet her. Devon actually does something, or pretends to. All Deeley does is look glamorous and wear short skirts.

  It’s time for her to get her own life. Stop running back to me as soon as her LA set-up crashes. I can’t be Deeley’s safety blanket any more.

  ‘Oh, there won’t be room here, darling,’ she said, tilting her head to the side and trying her best to look regretful. ‘Remember, the baby comes next week. The entire top floor’s a nursery now. Plus rooms for the day and night nannies.’

  ‘Oh God, the baby!’ Olly pulled a long face. ‘Maxie, you know I’ve never been keen on this whole baby thing. Don’t suppose there’s any chance we could pull the plug, is there?’

  Maxie shook her head firmly. ‘Much too late for that,’ she said. ‘Trust me, Olly, it’s a brilliant idea. We can’t have children, so we adopt. It looks odd if we don’t. So we get extra points by picking a black one. No one’s done Rwanda yet, so that’ll be even more press coverage. And I made sure it’s a girl, so she won’t be inheri
ting the title – no worries there.’

  ‘Well, that’s the one bright spot in all of this,’ Olly said gloomily. ‘Mummy’s not happy, I can tell you. She’s not madly keen on adoption anyway, but the whole African thing . . .’ He grimaced, his rounded cheeks contorting. ‘At least I could reassure her that it was a girl.’

  Maxie smiled, the special small smile with her lips pressed tightly together which meant that she had pulled off an especially successful scheme.

  ‘Wait till your mother sees all the articles in the press,’ she advised her husband. ‘Wait till we’re on the front of all those magazines. Not just Sunday supplements, the housewives’ mags too. It’s just the demographic the party needs to win round. Women with families. All the online sites, too – Mumsnet’s champing at the bit to do a live chat with us. And it’ll be the publicity gift that keeps on giving! This won’t be a one-off. Any time you need a boost, we can pick her up from school, or take her to the park. The tabloids’ll love it. We’re so blonde and she’ll be dark – the photos will be sensational. Besides, think of all the great charity work opportunities. Anything to do with Africa, we’ll have first dibs on! It’ll look fantastic.’

  Olly’s brow was clearing slightly; any mention of guaranteed press coverage could always be relied upon to make an MP interested in an idea.

  ‘What if it backfires?’ he asked, duly cautious, as befitted a politician. ‘You know, if people think we’re just doing it for PR?’

  Maxie waved a dismissive hand. ‘We’re not film stars or pop stars who trot their kids out for publicity and then complain about paparazzi invading their privacy,’ she assured her husband. ‘This kind of thing only backfires if you overplay your hand, and you can rely on me not to do that, darling. I’ll pace it carefully and make sure that doesn’t happen. You trust me, don’t you?’

  ‘You know I trust you,’ Olly said fondly. ‘You’re a PR whizz, my sweet. Only . . . isn’t it quite a high price to pay? I mean, she’ll be here all the time. We won’t be able to get rid of her. It’s not like getting a pet or something.’