Far below, the bends in the river Thames were outlined by the lights of the city, shimmering and winking through the thinning clouds like elusive diamonds. Siena’s fingers clutched the armrest as the knots in her stomach tightened.
‘You OK?’ asked the older woman next to her in a soft drawl of an American accent. ‘Nervous flyer?’
Ever since they’d left Charles de Gaulle airport, Siena had been convinced her next seat neighbour was Mary Steenburgen but it wouldn’t have been cool to initiate conversation with a celebrity if you let on you knew who they were.
‘Nervous,’ Siena laughed, the pitch a little too high. She was absolutely bloody terrified, but it had nothing to do with the flight. ‘No. This is hardly a flight is it?’ She put on her best twinkly, smiley face. ‘Straight up. Straight down.’ She had enough air miles to get to the moon and back. Her third set of Louis Vuitton luggage was looking positively shabby these days.
‘Been to London before?’
That gentle voice. This woman had to be her.
‘Once or twice.’
‘Sorry you’re British. Stupid question. I can tell from your accent. You going home for Christmas?’
Stoopid, as ‘perhaps Mary’ pronounced it, wasn’t so stupid. Officially, Siena was as British as Marmite and Twinings tea which Maman insisted on having for breakfast every day, but she’d lived most of her life in France. She thought she felt French but then how would she know if what she felt was French or English? Sometimes, quite often really, she had no idea what she should feel about a lot of things.
‘No I’m going to stay with my sister. I have to be back in France for Christmas,’ she blurted out. Back at the Chateau for Harry’s sixtieth birthday party on the twenty-third. She looked at her watch and worried at her lip. They’d have missed her by now. The dinner reservation was for eight thirty. Yves, her almost fiancé, would be cross, her mother furious and Harry, her stepfather, disappointed perhaps.
‘How lovely, dear.’ Mary’s face dimpled with a gentle smile. ‘I love spending time with my sister.’
Siena flushed. Mary would think she was a terrible sister. She hadn’t seen Laurie for two years despite the open invitation. Resolutely 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