Page 50 of The Sun Sister
‘Just look who’s here, darling!’
Cecily glanced up and found herself staring into the limpid eyes of one of New York society’s most renowned beauties: Kiki Preston. As she was embraced in a hug, Cecily noticed how her godmother’s pupils seemed to be dilated, like huge dark orbs encircled by the halo of her irises.
‘Sweet girl! Your mama has told me about yourtravails...But no matter, there are plenty more wherehecame from.’ Kiki winked at Cecily. Then, grasping the back of Cecily’s chair, she swayed a little as she sank down into the one next to it, before producing an ivory cigarette holder and lighting up.
Cecily hadn’t seen her godmother for years – at a guess, not since she was twelve or thirteen – and she could only gaze in admiration at the woman whom her mother confided had once had a liaison with a prince in line to the English throne. She knew Kiki had been living in Africa for many years, yet her skin was still as pale and luminous as the strands of pearls that graced her slender throat, setting off the fluid lines of the backless Chanel gown she was wearing. Her dark hair was swept up off her face, highlighting the exquisite cheekbones and high forehead that framed her mesmerising green eyes.
‘Isn’t it just wonderful to see your godmother after all this time?’ Dorothea enthused. ‘Kiki, you should have let me know you were coming to Manhattan and I’d have held a party for you.’
‘More like a wake,’ Kiki muttered, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. ‘So many deaths...I’ve been here to see lawyers...’
‘I know, my darling.’ Dorothea sat down on the other side of Kiki and grasped her hand. ‘It’s been such a terrible time for you in the past few years.’
As Cecily watched her mother comfort the exotic creature next to her, for the first time in days, she felt an ironic modicum of hope for her own life. She knew that Kiki had lost a number of relatives, including her husband Jerome, in a string of tragic circumstances. Given that Cecily thought Kiki – even though she must be around forty – the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, her godmother was the living embodiment of the fact that beauty did not necessarily bring happiness.
‘Who are you sitting with for dinner?’ she heard Dorothea ask Kiki.
‘I have absolutely no idea, but they’re bound to be bores, so maybe I’ll just stay right here with you.’
‘We’d love you to, darling. I’ll just fetch a waiter to lay another place.’
As her mother hurried off, Kiki turned her eyes to Cecily then held out her hand. Cecily took it and found that the long, tapered fingers clasping hers were icy cold, despite the heat of the room.
‘You’ve done the right thing by having the guts to come here tonight,’ Kiki said, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray. ‘I don’t give a damn for a single person in this room. Nothing’s real, you know,’ she sighed, reaching for the glass of champagne that Dorothea had left on the table and draining it. ‘As my friend Alice says, we all end up as dust one day, no matter how many damned diamonds we own.’ Kiki gazed hard into the distance as if she was trying to see through the walls of the Waldorf.
‘What is Africa like?’ Cecily asked eventually, feeling she should lead the conversation as her godmother seemed to be lost in another world.
‘It’s majestic, terrifying, mysterious and...totally inexplicable. I have a house on the shores of Lake Naivasha in Kenya. When I wake up in the morning I can see hippos swimming, giraffes parking their heads between the trees as if they’re pretending to be branches...’ Kiki laughed in her deep throaty voice. ‘You should come visit, get out of this claustrophobic ghetto of a city and see what the real world is like.’
‘One day I’d love to,’ Cecily agreed.
‘Honey, there is no “one day”. The only time we have is now, in this minute, or millisecond maybe...’ Her voice trailed off as she reached for her evening purse, beaded with what looked like hundreds of tiny sparkling diamonds. ‘Now, you must excuse me, I need to visit the restroom, but I’ll be right back.’
With a nod of her elegant head, Kiki stood up and made her way through the tables. She rather reminded Cecily of Daisy Buchanan – the woman Jay Gatsby idolised inThe Great Gatsby –the ultimate twenties flapper. But times had moved on now. It was no longer the Roaring Twenties,even if her mother and her friends still lived as though they were in that glorious moment of madness after the war had ended. Outside the hallowed walls of the ballroom, the rest of America was still struggling out of the aftermath of the Great Depression. Cecily’s only personal contact with its ramifications was when she was thirteen and had seen her father crying on her mother’s shoulder as he’d described how a great friend of his had jumped out of a window after the Wall Street Crash. Later, she’d grabbed her father’s newspaper from their housekeeper Mary’s hands as she was throwing it away in the trash, and had done her best to keep up with what was happening. Surprisingly, the subject was never raised at Spence, the private girls’ school she’d attended, even though she’d asked her teachers about it on a number of occasions. When she’d left school, Cecily had begged her father, Walter, to let her go on to college to study Economics at Vassar – citing that two of her friends with more enlightened parents had gone off to Brown. To her surprise, Walter had agreed to a college education, but had questioned her choice of major.
‘Economics?’ He’d frowned, before taking a hefty slug of the bourbon he favoured. ‘My dear Cecily, that is a career reserved completely for men. Why don’t you major in History? It won’t be too taxing for you, and it will at least equip you to make conversation when entertaining your future husband’s friends and colleagues.’
She had done as she was told, understanding the compromise. Taking Economics as one of her minors, Cecily had loved her classes in Algebra, Statistics and Miss Newcomer’s famed Economics 105. Sitting in the wood-panelled lecture rooms, and spurred on by the other brilliant women around her, she had never felt more inspired.
So how come she had found herself back in her childhood bedroom in the family’s mansion on Fifth Avenue with no hope for the future? Now alone at the table, Cecily looked around the ballroom for her mother and took a gulp of champagne in an attempt to stop maudlin thoughts filling her brain.
After leaving Vassar in the summer and joining her family at their home in the Hamptons, Cecily had had to pinch herself when Jack had begun to pay court, singling her out at the usual round of drinks parties, insisting she partner him at tennis and showering her with compliments and gifts that bemused and thrilled her in equal measure. Her parents had watched with predictable satisfaction from the sidelines, no doubt whispering behind their hands about a possible engagement. Jack had finally proposed in September, ironically during the dreadful hurricane that had hit Long Island with almost no warning. She recalled that terrifying afternoon, when Jack and his family and servants had turned up ashen-faced at the Huntley-Morgans’ house, seeking shelter from the violent storm. The Hamblins’ house in Westhampton Beach was being lashed by huge angry waves and was in danger of flooding completely, whereas her own family residence was located further inland on higher ground, and had a large cellar to boot. As they’d all cowered inside it while the wind raged above them, ripping shingles from the roof and toppling trees, Jack had drawn her to one side and held her close.
‘Cecily, my darling girl,’ he’d whispered as she’d trembled in his arms, ‘times like this remind us of how damned short life can be...Marry me?’
She had looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘You can’t be serious, Jack!’
‘I assure you I am. Please, darling, say yes.’
And, of course, she had. She should have known somewhere deep inside that it was all too good to be true, but the astonishment that he had chosenher, coupled with the intense love she’d always felt for him, had clouded her judgement and removed all sense. Only three months later, the engagement was off and now here she was, sitting alone on New Year’s Eve, feeling utterly humiliated.
‘Cecily! Why, you came! I never thought you would.’
Cecily was broken out of her reverie by the sight of her youngest sister Priscilla standing in front of her clad in a gorgeous rose-coloured silk gown, her blonde hair falling in perfect coiffured ripples to her shoulders. She resembled Carole Lombard – her heroine – and made sure she adopted Miss Lombard’s style. Sadly, Priscilla’s husband Robert was no Clark Gable. In her high heels, his wife towered over him. He held out his small and rather sweaty hands towards Cecily.
‘Dearest sister-in-law, commiserations on your loss’ – Cecily fought the urge to tell him that Jack wasn’t actually dead – ‘but happy New Year all the same.’
Cecily let him take her by the shoulders and kiss her wetly on both cheeks. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand how Priscilla could bear to get into bed every night with this ugly, thin man whose pasty complexion reminded her of day-old porridge.
