then hiding their smiles behind their hands. Teresa wished she could speak English because then she could explain that Simone had invited her and, since she was here, they might try to get along … It was only a couple more weeks, after all.
Holding the banister, she descended the staircase. It was wide and carpeted, its lofty white walls adorned with giant photographs of Simone at work; Simone in the director’s chair, mingling with co-stars or donning a variety of glamorous wigs. Down in the vestibule stood an impressive cabinet of awards. Julia had said that Simone was famous, but Teresa was beginning to see that for the severe understatement it was.
In the kitchen, the actress was stirring coffee and gazing out of the window to where a pool boy was raking leaves from the water. She was muttering something ominously to her husband, and Teresa identified the sound of Emily’s name.
Noticing their guest, Simone’s face lifted. She turned, arms outstretched.
‘Good morning, sweetheart!’ She gave Teresa a hug. Simone was very affectionate for a hostess and Teresa never quite knew what to do, so she hugged her back and this seemed to be the right thing. Over her shoulder, she spotted Brian eating toast messily at the counter. Brian Chilcott was a director, which meant he told people on movie sets where to go and how to act. He was overweight, and had a florid, disinterested face, and wore ties that looked uncomfortably tight at the neck.
He delivered a wink to Teresa. Diego used to wink at her sometimes but this wink was different; there was something latent in it, a threat too cloudy to name.
‘Are you ready for our shopping trip?’ Simone encouraged.
Teresa didn’t understand. Brian put in: ‘Are you going to teach her English?’
‘Shut up, Brian. Keep your booze-addled nose out of it.’
Teresa didn’t grasp what they were saying, but she heard the bitterness in Simone’s voice. Brian put down his toast and shrugged on his jacket. On his way out, he pecked Simone on her cheek. She turned away but he wouldn’t be deterred.
Teresa’s eyes widened as she saw Brian clasp Simone’s backside and squeeze it hard. Images of Gonzalez and her papa made her shudder. Nausea bubbled in her throat, a sick feeling that took root in her stomach and threaded up like weeds. She remembered her father’s nakedness, his cowardice, and his surrendering groan. Did Simone and Brian do the same thing? Did Emily do it? Did Lysander? For some reason, the thought of Lysander doing it made her insides clench, not unpleasurably.
When Brian had gone, Simone relaxed.
‘English lessons might not be a bad idea,’ she mused. She repeated the suggestion to Teresa, enunciating each word as if she were a dunce. ‘English … you learn … yes? Soon. I will organise.’ She fumbled for the same thing in Spanish. Teresa wondered why they should bother, if she was going home at the end of the month.
The afternoon passed in a glorious whirlwind. Teresa was on cloud nine from the instant she stepped into Simone’s car and they whizzed through the city maze, ducking and diving past shining red buses and gleaming black taxis, over the magical bridges and past the masses of people. When they stopped at the first shop on Bond Street, a crowd surged forward and screamed Simone’s name. Teresa was alarmed. She thought they were being attacked. Simone’s bodyguard drew them safely inside.
‘That’s nothing, darling,’ she giggled, ‘you should see me at a premiere!’ Then she leaned in, a glimmer in her eye, and added, ‘It’ll be you soon, you know.’
Over the next four hours, they tried on every garment in that shop and the next, and the next, and the next, until they collapsed in a heap of happy exhaustion. Everywhere they were treated like royalty: Teresa questioned if, perhaps, Simone Geddes was royalty. She was urged to try on dresses and skirts, blouses and boots, and had no concept of what they cost except for clues from the ladies at the cash desks, who positively trilled when the sums came up. The assistants grovelled around Simone; nothing was too much or any kind of trouble, and every time Teresa emerged from the changing rooms in an exquisite new combination the party flattered and fawned, saying how perfect and beautiful she looked. With her wild dark hair and striking almond eyes, she oozed untamed beauty that, at fifteen, was on the cusp of exploding into something phenomenal. At one point, Simone wept. ‘Que linda!’ she spluttered, dabbing a tissue to her eyes. Teresa beamed. She felt like a million dollars.
They arrived back at the Kensington mansion weighed down but cheerful.
‘Thank you,’ Teresa said in English, meaning it, as tentatively she gave Simone a hug. Simone needed no encouragement to return the gesture.
‘You’re welcome, my sweetheart,’ she said, her voice choked with emotion. ‘If you enjoyed today, you just wait for what’s coming.’
Over the next fortnight, Teresa saw and did more than she thought she would pack into a hundred years. She visited majestic palaces with men standing outside in big fur hats that looked like bulrushes. She drifted round museums where the floor was so polished that it shone like silver water, and you could hear the soft, expensive pat of people’s shoes as they walked across it. She went to the cinema, which had a huge TV screen and she ate buttery popcorn that made her fingers salty. She stood on Waterloo Bridge and gazed at the golden spires of Parliament and the pale dome of St Paul’s, which reminded her of a pearl on one of Julia’s old necklaces. She partook in Basic English lessons, and found she had a flair for the language. She posed for a string of daylong photo shoots alongside Simone. She spent nights in the home theatre, where she asked to watch Simone’s movies, and, after a half-hearted show of reluctance, the actress put on her award-winning effort in Two Dozen Men at My Feet, in which she played a rebellious countess who seemed to cry a lot behind closed doors.
On Friday, Simone issued an announcement:
‘We’re having a party. This evening. I want you to dress up.’
Teresa found Vera and asked her about it. ‘Her ladyship wishes to show you off,’ said Vera in Spanish. ‘It’s a party in your honour.’
‘Is it a goodbye party, because I’m leaving soon?’
Vera returned to buffing the marble in Simone’s bathroom.
‘Who’ll be there?’ asked Teresa.
‘Ms Geddes has many friends,’ said Vera. ‘They will want to meet you.’
Three hours later, the household was teeming with staff. The terrace was strung with fairy lights that danced against the stars and a fountain of sparkling water gushed from a cherub’s trumpet. Guests trickled through, the men in crisp, sharp suits that reminded Teresa of the men in her romance novels: the billionaires. The women drifted like angels in their floor-length, sweeping gowns, slowing to pluck a flute of champagne or a miniature morsel of food. Cloying perfume hung in the air.
Across the veranda, Emily Chilcott shot her an evil glare.
Simone told her she looked wonderful, in a damson Moschino creation that skimmed the patio, her jet hair tumbling free, and kept a proprietorial arm round her the entire time. Occasionally, she would step back and gesture towards Teresa as if she were an item in an exhibit. The guests nodded approvingly, the men regarding her in the same voracious manner as the driver she had hailed back home to take her and Calida into town—a galaxy away, it seemed. They spoke too fast to keep up with, but Simone’s reassuring smile told her she was doing well. She revelled in the spotlight, all the more precious because it would not last, and soon she would be back in South America
