Page 2 of The Sun Sister

So what if you had told Mrs Dormouse the truth, Electra? So what if you’d admitted that last night you were so off your face with liquor and coke that you could have slept with Santa and you wouldn’t have known about it? That the reason you couldn’t even begin to think about your father wasn’t because of his death, but because you knew how ashamed he’d be of you...how ashamed he’dbeenof you?

At least when Pa Salt had been alive, I’d known he couldn’t see what I was doing, but now he was dead, he’d somehow become omnipresent; he could have been in the bedroom with me last night, or even here in the limo right now...

I cracked and reached for a mini vodka, then poured it down my throat, trying to forget the look of disappointment on Pa’s face the last time I’d seen him before he’d died. He’d come to New York to visit me, saying he had something to tell me. I’d avoided him until the last possible evening, when I had reluctantly agreed to have dinner with him. I’d arrived at Asiate, a restaurant just across Central Park, already tanked on vodka and uppers. I’d sat numbly opposite him throughout the meal, excusing myself to go to the ladies’ room to do a few bumps of coke whenever he tried to start conversations I didn’t want to pursue.

Once dessert had arrived, Pa had crossed his arms and regarded me calmly. ‘I’m extremely worried for you, Electra. You seem to be completely absent.’

‘Well, you don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under,’ I’d snapped at him. ‘What it takes to be me!’ To my shame, I only had vague memories of what happened next or what he’d said but I knew I’d stood up and walked out on him. So now I’d never even know what it was he’d wanted to tell me...

‘Why do you give a shit, Electra?’ I asked myself as I wiped my mouth and stuck the empty bottle in a pocket – my driver was new and all I needed was a story in a newspaper saying I’d drunk the mini bar dry. ‘He’s not even your real father anyway.’

Besides, there was nothing I could do about it now. Pa was gone – like everyone else I’d loved in my life – and I had to get on with it. I didn’t need him, I didn’t need anybody...

‘We’re here, ma’am,’ said the driver through the intercom.

‘Thanks. I’ll jump out,’ I added, then did so, closing the limo door behind me. It was best to make my arrival at any place as inconspicuous as possible; other celebrities could wear disguises and get away with going to a local diner, but I was over six feet tall and pretty hard to miss in a crowd, even if I hadn’t been famous.

‘Hi there, Electra!’

‘Tommy,’ I said, managing a smile as I walked beneath the canopy towards the entrance to my apartment building, ‘how are you today?’

‘All the better for seeing you, ma’am. Did you have a good day?’

‘Yeah, great, thank you,’ I nodded as I looked down – and I meandown– at my number one fan. ‘See you tomorrow, Tommy.’

‘You sure will, Electra. Not going out tonight?’

‘No, it’s a quiet one in. Bye now,’ I said as I gave him a wave and walked inside.

At leastheloves me, I mused as I collected my mail from the concierge and headed for the elevator. As the porter rode up with me simply because it was his job (I considered offering him my keys to hold as that was all I was carrying), I thought about Tommy. He stood sentinel outside the building most days and had done so for the past few months. At first it had freaked me out and I’d asked the concierge to get rid of him. Tommy had stood his ground – literally – and said that he had every right to stand on the sidewalk, that he wasn’t bothering anyone, and that all he wanted to do was to protect me. The concierge had encouraged me to call the cops and have him charged with stalking, but one morning I’d asked him his full name, then gone to do a bit of internet stalking myself. I’d discovered on Facebook that he was an army vet who’d won medals for bravery out in Afghanistan, and that he had a wife and daughter in Queens. Now, rather than feeling threatened, Tommy made me feel safe. Besides that, he was always respectful and polite, so I’d told the concierge to back off.

The porter stepped out of the elevator and let me pass. Then we did a kind of dance in which I needed to step back so that he could go ahead and lead the way to my penthouse apartment to open the door for me with his own master key.

‘There we go, Miss D’Aplièse. Have a nice day now.’

He nodded at me and I saw zero warmth in his eyes. I knew that the staff here wished that I would disappear in a puff of smoke up a non-existent chimney. Most of the other residents had been here since they were foetuses in their mothers’ stomachs, back when a woman of colour, like me, would have been ‘privileged’ to be their maid. They were all owner-occupiers, whereas I was a peasant: a tenant, albeit a rich one, allowed in on a lease because the old lady who’d lived here had died and her son had renovated the place, then tried to sell it at an exorbitant price. Due to something called the sub-prime crisis, he’d apparently failed to do so. Instead, he’d been reduced to selling the lease to the highest bidder – me. The price was crazy, but then so was the apartment, stuffed with modern artwork and every kind of electronic gadget you could imagine (I didn’t know how to work most of them) and the view from the terrace over Central Park was stunning.

If I needed a reminder of my success, this apartment was it.But what it reminds me of more than anything, I thought as I sank down into the couch that could provide a comfortable bed for at least two full-grown guys,is how lonely I am. Its size made even me feel small and delicate...and up here, right at the top of the building, very, very isolated.

My cell phone piped up from somewhere in the apartment, playing the song that had made Mitch a worldwide superstar; I’d tried to change the ringtone but it hadn’t worked.If CeCe is dyslexic with words, then I sure am dyslexic with electronics, I thought as I went into the bedroom to grab it. I was relieved to see that the maid had changed the sheets on the enormous bed and everything was hotel-room perfect again. I liked the new maid my PA had found me; she’d signed a non-disclosure agreement like all the others to stop her blabbing to the media about any of my nastier habits. Even so, I shuddered to think what she – was it Lisbet? – had thought when she’d walked into my apartment this morning.

I sat on the bed and listened to my voicemails. Five were from my agent asking me to call her back urgently about tomorrow’s shoot forVanity Fair, and the last message was from Amy, my new PA. She’d only been with me for three months, but I liked her.

‘Hi, Electra, it’s Amy. I...well, I just wanted to say that I’ve really enjoyed working for you, but I don’t think it’s gonna work out long-term. I’ve handed my resignation letter in today to your agent and I wish you luck in the future, and...’

‘SHIT!’ I screamed as I pressed delete and threw the cell across the room. ‘What the hell did I do to her?!’ I asked the ceiling, wondering why I felt so upset that a two-bit nobody, who had gone down on bended knee and begged me to give her a chance, had walked out on me three months later.

‘“It’s been my dream to be in the fashion business since I was a little kid. Please, Miss D’Aplièse, I’ll work for you night and day, your life will be mine and I swear I’ll never let you down.”’ I mimicked Amy’s whiny Brooklyn accent as I dialled my agent. There were only three things I couldn’t live without: vodka, cocaine and a PA.

‘Hi, Susie, I just heard Amy’s resigned.’

‘Yes, it’s not great. She was shaping up well.’ Susie’s British accent sounded crisp and business-like.

‘Yeah, I thought she was too. Do you know why she’s gone?’

There was a pause on the line before she replied. ‘No. Anyway, I’ll get Rebekah on the case and I’m sure we’ll have you a new one by the end of the week. Did you get my messages?’

‘Yup, I did.’