Bad Twins Page 5

  Bella sank onto the sofa, settling into one of the indentations that faced her twin; the sofa undulated, snake-like and ridiculously comfortable for something so cutting-edge in design. For a moment she toyed with the idea of asking Charlotte if she could have it when Charlotte replaced it. She had coveted this sofa from the moment she saw it, and could have it reupholstered so the lemon didn’t make her irritable. But although it would fit in her unnecessarily gigantic mansion in Hampstead Garden Suburb, it would also stand out like the sorest of thumbs. Her style – she didn’t really have a style, if she were honest – the generic, beige and mahogany decor of her over-furnished home, was the polar opposite of Charlotte’s Italian-designed house, with its one-off, individual, audaciously coloured pieces. Bella would have to jettison every piece of furniture she owned if she took this sofa.

  And, suddenly, she had an overwhelming impulse to do just that. But what on earth would Thomas say if he came home from his latest business trip to find a sofa curving like a big, fat, sexy yellow boa constrictor around the sitting room? The image of him reacting to the sight almost made her laugh. Thomas would not think the sofa was sensible at all, even re-covered: nothing could possibly be sensible if it meant you throwing out the rest of your furniture.

  Since Thomas’s practicality was one of the things that Bella loved most about him, this was an unusual conflict for her. Thomas grounded her, kept her safe where her family had not, valued everything about her they looked down on. Her brains, her ability to organize, her quiet focus and determination; he shared those qualities, and his pride in them had given her a different, much more flattering mirror in which to see herself, rather than her father and siblings’ view of her as Boring Bella.

  But maybe, just maybe, there was a middle ground? One that might involve a frivolous handbag every now and then, one that lacked a specially positioned elastic into which to clip your pen? Bella remembered Thomas showing her a handbag organizer he had found in the Telegraph Sunday offers supplement a few weeks ago. It was a large rectangular plastic case with different compartments into which you could slot wallet, glasses, make-up, phone, etc. so that you could move it from tote bag to tote bag and never leave the house without your essentials.

  The entire supplement had been full of useful ideas for affluent retirees. Booster cushions for older people who couldn’t sit all the way down in armchairs any more, or get out of them once they had. Grabbers, so you could reach out for something without getting out of the armchair, even with the help of the booster cushion. Padded gilets with extra pockets so that you didn’t even need your tote bag with movable plastic organizer; you could just load it all into the gilet instead.

  It had been disconcerting, however, for Bella to realize that her husband thought that she, at thirty-two, could benefit from a product targeted at the over-sixties. And now she could vividly picture what would happen if she asked Charlotte to give her that light-as-a-feather handbag when she tired of it: Bella would come home with it dangling prettily from her wrist, only for Thomas to frown at it and ask her how she was going to fit all her essentials into it, let alone find them easily. What if she needed a pen in a hurry? And what if that pen leaked all over the suede, ruining it? That would be considerably less likely to happen if it were held vertically in its own neat little elastic loop . . .

  Today had started out so normally, and yet it was proving full of unexpected revelations. Bella, who had never hit anyone in her life, had pummelled her hated stepmother with a bolster so violently that she’d knocked her into an armchair and had to use all her willpower to ensure she didn’t keep going. And now she was fighting a wave of resentment towards her beloved husband, because if she came home with the Gucci suede frivolity, without even paying the thousands it must have cost Charlotte, his disapproval would ensure that she ended up returning to her eminently utilitarian, hard-framed leather handbag.

  The disapproval would not be explicitly voiced. Thomas had quite a range of effective pointed stares and quiet sighs. But he might also explain to her at length why he didn’t think the Gucci would be a good idea, and his explanations were something Bella tried very hard to avoid. He was always right, of course. They just went on so very long.

  ‘So here’s what I think,’ Charlotte said, quite oblivious to her sister’s distraction. She kicked off her heels and folded her perfect slim legs beneath her with the ease of a woman who practises yoga. ‘We have to take Con down, like I said. And we won’t be able to do that because of any business fuck-ups. He’s solid there. Boring, but solid. Though—’

  She paused for a second, her eyes sliding to the side as something occurred to her.

  ‘Well, leave that for now,’ she continued. ‘The thing is, I’ve heard some rumours about him. He’s been seen at the bar in Novikov and the Playboy Club having what don’t look like business meetings with a mystery blonde.’

  ‘Oh no! Poor Samantha!’ Bella exclaimed, her eyes round with shock.

  Samantha, Conway’s wife, was elegant perfection. She was actually the Honourable Samantha, being the daughter of a viscount. To his father’s considerable approval, Conway had married not only into the landed gentry, but to a woman who seemed to be linked to every single influential, old-money family in Britain. Her relatives were politicians, judges, Lord Lieutenants of their county; she knew everyone worth knowing and was ensuring that their children were being successfully woven into the web of intergenerational family connections. They went to the right kindergartens and schools, socialized with the right friends, engaged in the right after-school activities. Over it all presided the Honourable Samantha, immaculately dressed, immaculately groomed, wearing clothes from British designers, carrying Smythson bags, the perfect wife for the son of a hotel tycoon who needed to attend endless galas and work events, her brown hair worn in a chic modern style, her rather horsey, aristocratic smile polite but never over-enthusiastic. Obvious enthusiasm would be much too lower-middle-class.

  ‘I’ve never liked her,’ Charlotte said frankly. ‘She’s a bloody snob. We’ll never be good enough for her. You know that, Bell.’

  ‘She can’t help being posh,’ Bella protested.

  ‘She can help looking down her nose at us, though,’ Charlotte said. ‘With that patronizing gummy smile of hers, as if being so inbred you look like a Grand National winner was some kind of prize she won in the lottery.’

  Bella was unable to prevent herself from sniggering at this vivid and accurate description of their sister-in-law’s habitual expression.

  ‘Say what you really mean, why don’t you?’ she said between giggles.

  Charlotte shrugged one shoulder, a very elegant gesture she had copied from a Frenchwoman of her acquaintance.

  ‘I’d be hanging out at Novikov with a slutty-looking blonde if I had Samantha at home,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you? I bet she’s a really cold fish in bed. Anyway, the point is that if Con’s having an affair, and it gets into the press, that’ll totally cancel out any advantage he has over us! Don’t you see that?’

  ‘But how would it get into the—’

  ‘Hire a PI,’ Charlotte said brutally. ‘Get a ton of pics, sell them to the tabs, soon as possible.’

  Bella stared at her sister, her jaw dropping.

  ‘I don’t think we should—’

  ‘So you don’t want to be CEO?’ Charlotte leant forward, staring intently at her sister’s face. ‘You don’t mind if Con takes charge and lords it over us for the rest of our lives with that patronizing smirk of his?’

  Bella felt paralysed. This was all happening so fast. In the space of an hour, their father had issued a shocking challenge; she had not only seen her hated stepmother humiliated, but taken her own very satisfying personal revenge; her sister was suggesting they scheme together to expose their brother’s affair; and Bella hadn’t even had time to drill down on how she felt about the idea of being CEO of the Sachs Organization . . .

  ‘I don’t know!’ she blurted out as Charlotte’s
blue eyes drilled into her. ‘I don’t know, okay? You know me, I always take ages to make decisions! But—’ she drew a breath – ‘okay, no. I don’t want Con to be our boss! Of course I don’t! I never thought Daddy would be so – all or nothing. I just assumed that, when he retired, we’d all keep running our divisions and the board would have a more supervisory function to ensure that we took majority decisions—’

  ‘Oh my God, Bells, you really are beyond naive!’

  Now that she had dragged from her sister the admission that she too would resent their brother ruling the roost, Charlotte sat back, wriggling her legs out from under her and disposing them elegantly to one side.

  ‘As if Daddy would ever let us all run Sachs together in some kind of joint trust thing!’ Charlotte continued, flicking back her perfect blonde hair. ‘He’d see that as one step away from living in a commune! Way too hippy-dippy for him! You know what he’s like. He’s been sitting in the middle of his web like a big, fat spider for his entire life. He was always going to hand the reins ceremonially to one of us. Only one person can sit on the Iron Throne. I was amazed that Daddy didn’t just give it to Con, but he’s always loved to pit us against each other, so, knowing him, this makes even more sense.’

  Bella nodded. Her sister was right on all counts. But Bella hadn’t answered Charlotte’s question: did she want to be CEO? Bella realized that she had done what she always did when there was a big decision to be made. She had put it on hold until her brain finished its processing and gave her the answer. Slow and steady, Bella was incapable of the lightning-fast leaps of deduction or inspiration that were so natural to her twin sister.

  Still, once her brain – rather like an ancient supercomputer you saw in old films – had completed its calculations and spat out the answer, it was always right. Unlike Charlotte, Bella never backtracked or revised her decisions. Waiting for a while was only what Bella was used to: but with great surprise, she took in the fact that her answer had not been an automatic ‘no’.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’ Charlotte finished, and Bella blinked: her sister had obviously been talking, and Bella hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, grimacing. ‘I was away with the fairies there.’

  ‘Oh, Bell! Get it together – we don’t have much time!’ Charlotte said, frowning impatiently. ‘I said, you call the PI and I’ll deal with taking the info to the tabloids if he comes up with anything. Or she. Actually, a “she” would be better, wouldn’t it? No one’s suspicious of a woman – she could take photos of Con and his blonde while pretending she’s just doing selfies.’

  ‘I don’t think I – how would I even find a PI?’ Bella protested, feeling that things were moving much too fast for her. But then, she always did feel that with Charlotte.

  ‘Ask your security team, for goodness’ sake,’ Charlotte said, sounding irritated. ‘They’ll know exactly the right person to use. I don’t see why I should have to do it all myself. And look, if Con isn’t cheating, if I’ve been told malicious gossip or there’s some perfectly innocent explanation, then nothing’ll come of it! So really, there’s no harm either way.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We don’t have to use the pictures even if we get them,’ Charlotte continued inexorably. ‘We can decide then and there. Look, sort out the PI. I won’t even know what they come up with unless you show it to me. It can be your decision. Just don’t sit on it for months like a hen hatching eggs, like you usually do.’

  This coaxed a reluctant smile from Bella. She digested Charlotte’s words, seeing the good sense in them; Bella would be in control of the process. Even if the PI did come up with compromising information on Conway, Bella could bury it and never let Charlotte know. But the thought of paying a private detective to spy on her brother was so shocking, such a betrayal, that Bella’s instincts were telling her very strongly that she would feel guilty for the rest of her life if she did anything like this . . .

  ‘Let’s Skype Mummy!’ Charlotte was saying, jumping up lithely from the sofa and grabbing her laptop from the kitchen counter. ‘She’s going to be over the moon when she hears about Jade!’

  Immediately, this brightened Bella’s mood. She pushed the question of the PI to the back of her brain, where it could marinate in company with the issue of why she hadn’t immediately said that, no, she had no interest in being named the CEO of Sachs, and got up too, though less balletically than the lean and lissom Charlotte. Bella went over to her handbag, pulled out her little make-up case and quickly fixed up her face, patting concealer onto areas that needed it, powdering over the top to set it, then applying lipstick and a fresh coat of mascara. She knew all too well that practically the first words out of Christie’s mouth would be to comment on the appearance of her two daughters.

  Which was ironic, considering that they had to bite their tongues till they nearly bled to avoid mentioning the subject of Christie’s own physical appearance nowadays . . .

  ‘Mummy? Mummy!’ Charlotte was saying eagerly, looking at the screen.

  Of course Charlotte hadn’t needed to bother to touch up her own make-up; it was always perfect. How Charlotte managed it, Bella had no idea. By mid-afternoon Bella might as well have not applied her foundation and mascara that morning. She was often rubbing her eyes, or resting her chin or her cheek on her hand as she thought something over; business was highly absorbing to her. She could become utterly lost in thought, or consumed by a back and forth in an important meeting, and was famously unselfconscious about how she came across to her associates.

  ‘Mummeee!’ Charlotte carolled blissfully as the screen pipped and beeped and clarified into the face of the first Mrs Sachs. Sitting on one of the frighteningly slender-legged white leather-topped stools by the breakfast bar, Charlotte gestured at her sister, summoning her over. ‘Mummy, I’m so glad you’re around! You won’t believe what happened today, you simply won’t, not even when we tell you!’

  With their mother, Charlotte reverted to the breathy, good-girl, wide-eyed persona that had been extremely successful for her while she was growing up. It made Bella feel even more stolid and dull by comparison, but that, she reminded herself, was her own fault, not Charlotte’s.

  ‘Hey, girls!’ Christie Sachs exclaimed. ‘How great to see you both together! Wow, that barely happens nowadays! This is a lovely surprise! Charlotte, your hair’s just darling. Bella, honey, get the name of your sister’s hairdresser and make an appointment! But it’s nice to see you in lipstick. So, what’s up?’

  The twins stared back at their mother, momentarily speechless. They had braced themselves, as they always did, before they saw her. It was impossible to predict what new procedure she might have had since their last conversation. Over the years, they had been confronted with bright red, burnt-looking skin from a facial peel; two bruised eyes and a splint over her nose; lips blown up like pink rubber balloons; and eyebrows so much higher than normal on her forehead that they might have been held up by invisible tape.

  And they had learnt, very quickly, that any attempt to mention their concerns about the near-constant plastic surgeries that Christie had started undergoing almost immediately after the divorce would be shut down with the force and speed of a steel trap dropping into place. So as Bella cautiously levered herself onto the high stool next to her sister’s – it had a spring-loaded seat that made sitting on it feel very precarious – she found herself blinking madly. This was what she did when she needed to respond to something physically, but couldn’t show any facial reaction for reasons of discretion. Something had radically altered with Christie, but Bella couldn’t tell what.

  Beside her, Charlotte shifted and raised her fingers to her right eye, as if she were scratching the most fleeting of itches. Her twin decoded it instantly. Christie’s eyes were now a completely different shape, even bigger, round for the first time ever, and frighteningly fixed and staring; she had undergone a blepharoplasty, an operation to remove excess skin and fat from above and below the eyes.
It had utterly changed her face.

  ‘You’re looking good, Mummy,’ Bella managed to stammer, transfixed by the headlamp stare of her mother’s now-huge, bugging-out Bette Davis eyes. It was particularly distressing as they had been such an intrinsic part of her beauty; yes, the skin around them had been sagging a little, the eyelids becoming heavier, but those cornflower-blue headlights had always lit up a room. Now they had transformed into a horror show from which everyone would want to avert their own gaze.

  Charlotte huffed irritably at her twin’s pathetic attempt to suck up.

  ‘Mummy, amazing news!’ she cut in. ‘You won’t believe this! Daddy’s actually kicked out Jade!’

  Chapter Five

  Christie was at her villa in the South of France, which was stunningly positioned on a promontory overlooking St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Even though she was inside, bright Mediterranean sunlight flooded the screen; behind her was visible blue sky without a hint of cloud. The glorious sunshine, however, was as nothing to the smile that lit up Christie’s face on hearing this news.

  ‘Finally!’ she exclaimed, and watching the skin stretch tightly over her bones as she beamed widely was painful for both her daughters. She was slim, blonde and lissom, dressed in a translucent silk kaftan in bright shades of flame with a snug red swimsuit underneath, and draped in gold: earrings, a tangle of fine gold necklaces, multiple bangles tinkling lightly on her wrists.

  From behind, from a distance, she might have been thirty, and if she had limited herself to discreet tweaks and a jowl lift or two, she would still be a beauty. But the divorce had sent Christie into a spiral of self-doubt, and although many plastic surgeons would categorically refuse to do unnecessary work, referring clients to psychologists specializing in body dysmorphic disorder if they had any doubts about whether to go ahead with a procedure, there were still plenty who were unscrupulous enough to keep taking a client’s money even if they were doing more harm than good. The one who had stretched out her eyes like that, Bella thought, wincing, should be shot.