been very close, and since Sancha had got married they still saw a good deal of each other; Zoe was Sancha’s closest friend, although their lives were so different.
Zoe’s private life was usually as busy as her career. Sancha could not keep up with the men Zoe dated, often very starry, famous men, but none of them had ever been important enough for Zoe to introduce them to her sister, or her parents, which meant she’d never considered marrying them, or even setting up house with them. The only thing that mattered to Zoe seemed to be her career.
Before she’d met Mark, Sancha had been set on a career, too, but in photography, not films. She had been working for a top Bond Street photographer, specialising in the fashion business, and had had her eyes set on the heights. One day she’d meant to have her own salon, make her name world-famous. She had had dreams.
Mark’s arrival in her life had changed all that. One minute she was focused entirely on her work—the next it didn’t matter a damn to her. Only Mark mattered. She forgot everything but being with him, loving him, going to bed with him. He ate up her entire life.
Zoe had had very few problems in climbing to the top; her abilities were too outstanding and her personality too powerful. Sancha had grown up in her shadow, knowing she was not as beautiful or as brilliant. She might have been overshadowed by Zoe, lost confidence in herself—instead she had competed with her, in a perfectly cheerful way, had been determined to be as successful as her older sister, make her own name, become famous.
The competition between them had ended when Sancha got married and had children. She no longer cared about success, about beating Zoe; she was too happy to think about a career any more. In fact, the only time she touched a camera lately was to take pictures of her children.
Putting Flora into her highchair, Zoe opened the fridge and found some orange juice, poured a little into a mug and gave it to her, then sat down at the pine table, keeping a safe distance from her little niece and the possibility of getting splashed with juice.
Sancha made coffee, keeping her back to Zoe. ‘How’s the filming going? Smoothly, or are there problems?’
‘Only one problem—the casting director insisted on picking Hal Thaxford.’ Zoe’s dry voice made Sancha smile. She had heard her sister’s views on Hal Thaxford before.
‘I know you don’t like him—but he’s quite a good actor, isn’t he?’
‘He wouldn’t know how to act his way out of a paper bag. The man doesn’t act. He just stands about with folded arms, glowering like Heathcliff, or snarls his lines.’
‘He’s sexy, though,’ teased Sancha, getting down the mugs and pouring the coffee the way Zoe liked it—black and unsugared.
She almost dropped both mugs when she turned and found Zoe reading the letter Sancha had left on the table.
Zoe looked up and their eyes met. ‘So that’s why you look like death warmed up.’
First white, then scarlet, Sancha snapped, ‘How dare you read my letters?’
Putting down the coffee so suddenly it spilled a little, she snatched the letter from her sister.
Zoe was unrepentant. ‘It was open; I couldn’t help seeing a few words. Once I’d done that, I had to know the rest.’ She stared at Sancha with sharp, narrowed eyes. ‘Is it true?’
Sancha sat down, pushing the crumpled letter into her jeans pocket. ‘Of course not!’
There was a little silence and Zoe frowned at her sister, her face disbelieving. ‘Did you recognise her handwriting?’
Startled, Sancha shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she thought briefly. ‘What makes you think it was written by a woman?’
Zoe’s bright red mouth curled cynically. ‘They always are. Men get at people in other ways. They either come right out with it, give you a smack, or they make funny phone calls...heavy breathing... whispered threats...that sort of thing. But women send poison pen letters, usually hysterical stuff about sex. Obviously this is from someone in Mark’s office; maybe someone who fancies him herself, but never got a second look and is jealous of this assistant of his.’
Flora had drunk all her juice; she began banging her mug violently on her highchair tray. Zoe winced and took the mug away from her.
‘How do you stand it all day long? It would drive me crazy.’
Sancha picked Flora up and carried her over to her playpen; Flora immediately picked up a toy elephant and crushed it lovingly to her.
‘Mine effelunt,’ she cooed. ‘Mine, mine.’
Sancha ran a hand over the child’s red curls. ‘You know, she’s just like you,’ she told her sister, who looked indignant.
‘Do you mind? I was never that over-active or exhausting.’
‘Oh, yes, you were—Mum says you nearly drove her out of her mind. And you haven’t really changed, either.’
Zoe contemplated her niece, who stared back then put out her small pink tongue, clutching the elephant tighter.
‘Effelunt mine,’ she said, knowing her aunt to be very well capable of taking the toy away from her.
‘Monster,’ Zoe said automatically, then asked a little uneasily, ‘Is she really like me, or were you joking?’
‘It’s no joke. Of course she is,’ Sancha told her, sitting down at the table again, and her sister shuddered before turning thoughtful eyes back to Sancha’s face.
‘So what are you going to do about this letter?’
Sancha shrugged, drinking some more of her coffee before saying, ‘Ignore it, burn it in the Aga—that’s where it belongs.’
‘You’re really sure it’s a lie?’ Zoe’s eyes were shrewdly bright. She knew her sister far too well not to suspect she wasn’t being entirely honest. Sancha’s face, her eyes, her whole manner, were far too betraying.
Suddenly admitting the truth, Sancha gave a little wail. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It never entered my head until I got that letter, but it could be... We haven’t been getting on too well for months, not really since Flora was born. First I was tired and depressed, and I couldn’t...didn’t want to. I don’t know why—maybe my libido was flat after having three babies so close together. Mark was very good, at first, but it drifted on and on; we hardly talk, these days, let alone... It must be months since we...’
‘Made love?’ supplied Zoe when she stopped, and Sancha nodded, her face out of control now, anguished, tears standing in her eyes.
Zoe got up hurriedly, came round to put an arm round her, holding her tight.
‘Don’t, Sancha. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Sancha pulled herself together after a minute, rubbed a hand across her wet eyes. Zoe gave her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it and then blew her nose.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake!’ Zoe exploded. ‘In your place I’d be screaming the place
