Page 93 of The Sun Sister
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because...I don’t know. My two eldest sisters have always been in charge and the rest of them always fell into line. All except me.’
‘You were the rebel?’
‘I guess. But not on purpose,’ I replied, wary of the fact that Fi was drawing me into territory I just didnotwant to talk about.
‘Was that when you were a teenager?’
‘No, I think I was born a rebel; they all told me I screamed the house down when I was a baby. They used to call me “Tricky” – I heard Ally and Maia talking about me one day when I was four or five. I went and hid in the gardens and cried my eyes out.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I got over it. No big deal. All siblings call each other names, don’t they?’
‘Yes, they do. So, what were your other sisters’ nicknames?’
‘I...don’t remember.’ I looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘I have to go now. I have equine therapy at three.’
‘Okay, we’ll wrap for today,’ Fi said, even though I had ten minutes of my allotted session left. ‘But your task for tonight is to continue with your mood diary and focus on what your triggers were for cravings. And how about you also think back if you can remember those nicknames for your other sisters?’
‘Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I got up from the chair and walked out of the room, irritated that we both knew that I wouldn’t remember any nicknames for my sisters because there had never been any. As I walked along the therapy corridor into the main reception area and out into the blinding light of the Arizona sun, I gave that round to Fi. Oh, she was good, really good, leading me into traps of my own making. As I had a few minutes to spare, I headed for my new favourite place: the Worry Maze – a circular brick path that led you round and round in a different direction each time, depending on which way you chose to turn at any given point. It felt to me like a metaphor for life; we had talked in group therapy about how each decision we made affected the future course of our life – some small and some mighty big, but each one having an effect. Today, as I walked along the worn brick path, I thought about the decision I seemed to have made without even knowing it...
‘Why can’t you trust anyone?’ I asked myself.
It was so very easy to blame it on my celebrity status. I smiled ruefully as I thought of all the billions of people in the world who wanted to be famous and how fame had come to me unexpectedly – literally overnight – at such a young age.
But I knew it wasn’t that. Nor was it my sisters finding me irritating, or Pa, though he was partly responsible because he’d put me in that situation in the first place...
So why don’t you tell Fi and talk it through?I asked myself.
Because you’re scared, Electra, scared of having to relive it...
Besides, it was pathetic, I thought, to base one’s whole perception of trust on one small event in one’s childhood.
And the one thing I wasn’t and wouldneverbe was a victim. And wow, had I met a lot of victims here at The Ranch.
I hadn’t come here for therapy anyway, I’d come here to get clean, and I was.
‘For now,’ I said out loud, remembering the Twelve Steps. One day at a time was the mantra. The three weeks had been so hard, like, the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, and today wasn’t so great either, because being clean meant that you had a brain again, which meant that you had to face yourself and who you were, and...well, all that shit. Though it did feel great to wake up in the morning after an actual night’s sleep and be able tothink. So even if I didn’t manage to conquer my trust issues, I’d conquered my addictions. And wasn’t that the most important thing of all?
I stepped out of the Worry Maze and headed towards the stables and the field where the horses grazed, ready for all the screw-ups (which included me) to come and pat them.
‘How are you, Electra?’ said Marissa, the young stable hand.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said, giving my stock reply. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m okay,’ she said as she led me into the stable and pointed to the pile of dirty straw. ‘Your turn to shit-shovel.’ She grinned at me, handing me a pair of rubber gloves and a pitchfork.
‘Thanks.’
She left the stable and I wondered what she really thought about one of the world’s top super models up to her eyes in horseshit. Whatever it was, I knew they were (technically anyway) sworn to secrecy and only on pain of death would reveal who and what went on inside The Ranch’s walls.
As I began the revolting but calming task of baling out the dirty straw, I thought about what Fi and I had discussed – i.e. my childhood – and it actually made me think of a happy memory. When I’d been six or seven, we’d been holidaying in the Med as usual on theTitanand Pa had taken me off on the speedboat to some stables owned by a friend of his somewhere close to Nice.
‘I thought you might like to come and see the horses,’ he’d said. ‘You could maybe even ride one if you want.’
