ignoring that chain of thought, she focused on her possibly celebrity neighbour. Had she read somewhere that Mary Steenburgen had a sister? Siena did know she was married to that guy from Cheers and CSI. There’d been pictures of them out walking their dogs in Hello or Grazia.
‘She older or younger than you?’
‘Sorry? What?’
‘Your sister, older or younger?’
‘Older. Eight years older.’
‘You close?’
Siena swallowed. ‘We text. Facebook a bit.’ That sounded rubbish. With a sigh she added, ‘It’s a bit complicated. A lot complicated actually. My parents split up when we were young. I lived with my mother in France. Laurie stayed with my father in England. I only met her properly for the first time two years ago.’ So no, not close at all.
‘Oh, my!’ America’s perfect mom actress, if it was her, looked horrified. ‘That’s an unusual arrangement.’ Then with a sympathy laden smile she added, ‘How lovely that you’re going to see her. Will you be staying long?’
That was the million dollar question. Siena crossed and uncrossed her legs, staring down at her recent manicure, admiring her Santa Scarlet glossy nails. The text she’d sent Laurie asked if she could stay for the weekend. The note she’d left her mother said she’d be back in a month. Neither was quite true.
‘I don’t know yet. Until I’m ready to go home, I guess. Spur of the moment thing, you know.’
That sounded better. Spontaneous. Fun. Not a desperate and pathetic escape. Sisters hanging out. Spending quality time together. Not arriving completely out of the blue with only five hours’ notice.
‘You gotta stay for Christmas. I love London at this time of year. The stores. Hyde Park. The lights.’ Mary gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘What am I talking about? You come from Paris. Now there’s a city at Christmas.’
Siena closed her eyes at the quick punch to her heart. Galeries Lafayette’s exterior, encrusted with the brilliance of thousands of sparkling lights and of course, the tree. The fir lined Champs-Élysées lit up and glittering, refracting diamond shards of white into the night. That swoosh of skates on ice at the Eiffel Tower and the breathless bump when you hit the sides. Tartiflette, hot and warming, from the Christmas Markets at Notre-Dame and the Trocadéro.
She loved the build-up, but somehow every year when Christmas finally arrived, the sparkle had burnt itself out. The actual holiday itself never seemed that enjoyable.
So why had she stupidly promised in her note to go back in time for Christmas when she could be lonely anywhere?
In the meantime she had a few weeks’ grace to give herself time to breathe and work things out. Everything seemed to have crowded in on her recently, until she couldn’t think straight anymore. Surely her mother would understand.
With the change of air pressure in the cabin, her ears popped. The captain announced they were due to land in ten minutes and the flight was on time. She glanced back down the aisle still fearful a hand might clamp down on her shoulder and someone utter the words, ‘You need to come with me, mademoiselle.’
She looked at her watch. It might take a while to get through passport control, it always did at Heathrow but at least she didn’t have to wait for baggage. The potential disaster of only having two pairs of boots and a capsule wardrobe was more than outweighed by being able to make a speedy getaway from the airport. Once out of there she’d be home free.
With that consoling thought she gave the American, who probably wasn’t Mary at all, a smile and turned back to the copy of Hello spread out on her lap. A picture caught her eye and she couldn’t help a tut escaping.
‘Big mistake,’ she shook her head. What had the young movie star been thinking?
‘Sorry dear?’
Siena showed her neighbour the double page spread in the magazine.
‘I mean seriously, would you? Off the shoulder, one side only. Seriously passé. Although the Dolce & Gabbana shoes are nice, almost save the outfit, even if they are last season’s.’
The woman studied the picture with a thoughtful serious gaze.
‘Sometimes, dear, you don’t get any choice in the matter. There’s so much that goes on behind the scenes. Agents. Publicists. Poor girl, her life is probably not her own. Imagine dancing to someone else’s tune, all the time.’
Siena didn’t need to do any imagining.
‘Especially when you’re so young. She should be out having a good time. It gets easier when you get older and you can tell them to go hoot.’
Bonté divine, Siena hoped so.
Just as she’d finally decided to ask the woman if she was Mary, the sudden roar of the plane’s engines signalled their descent and despite her stockpile of air miles, Siena couldn’t help clutching the seat rest, again. In no time at all, the wheels touched down with a bump and a hiss. They’d arrived.
England.
Siena closed her eyes. Here she was. The captain’s voice welcomed them to London, announcing that it was eleven o’clock in the evening local time.
Eleven o’clock. Was that all? It seemed a lifetime ago since she’d tiptoed out of the Chateau like a thief in the night clutching her hastily thrown together cabin bag.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Heathrow was rammed. All around, voices jabbered in a multitude of languages.
Her phone beeped. Another text from Orange mobile welcoming her to England, the third since she’d got off the plane. Nothing from Laurie. Then again, it always took a while for your mobile to sync with a new network. Siena might not know her sister that well, but one thing she did know – Laurie was one hundred percent reliable. She’d be here.
In the last two years she’d kept in touch, like she’d promised. During two fleeting days, when they’d met as adults for the first time, Laurie had made the incredibly generous promise that there would always be a room for Siena in her house. Now, Siena was counting on it.
Flicking through the touch screen on her phone, she brought up her favourite picture. The first one Laurie had sent to her. It had been a talisman in recent weeks.
She enlarged the picture with two fingers on the touch screen, bringing the small double bed framed by a brass bedstead into focus. Its pure white duvet looked as soft as a mound of freshly fallen snow, dotted with a pastel palate of scatter cushions in lilac, pale blue and silver grey. Behind the bedhead, the wall had been papered with a pretty toile wallpaper. White painted tables flanked the bed each with a bedside light.
If this picture had been a photograph, it would have been worn thin where she’d touched it, marvelling at the thoughtfulness of the sister she barely knew. She smiled as she looked at the digital image, reducing it in size as if tucking it carefully away. Tonight she’d be sleeping in that bed. Safe. In her own room. If it hadn’t been so sad, Siena could have laughed at the fanciful direction of her thoughts. She was hardly little orphan Annie. She had her own room in several houses in France, one in Mustique and one in New York.
This
