‘No.’ Even I heard the abruptness of my tone. It was a moment I still found painful to dwell on, even nine years later . . .
‘You don’t mind if I try for Cambridge, do you, Cee?’ I’d asked my sister. ‘My teachers think I should.’
‘Course not, Sia. You’re so clever, I’m sure you’ll get in! I’ll have a look at unis in England too, though I doubt I’ll get an offer anywhere. You know what a dunce I am. If I don’t, I’ll just come with you and take a job behind a bar or something,’ she’d said with a shrug. ‘I don’t care. The most important thing is that we’re together, isn’t it?’
At the time, I had absolutely felt that it was. At home, and at boarding school, where the other girls sensed our closeness and left us to our own devices, we were everything to each other. So we agreed on other universities that had degree courses we both liked the sound of, which meant we could stay together. I did try for Cambridge, and to my amazement, was offered a place at Selwyn College, subject to getting the grades in my final exams.
I’d sat in Pa’s study at Christmas, watching him read the offer letter. He’d looked up at me and I’d relished the pride and emotion in his eyes. He’d pointed to the little fir tree bedecked in ancient decorations. Perched atop it, there shone a bright silver star.
‘There you are,’ he’d said with a smile. ‘Will you accept the offer?’
‘I . . . don’t know. I’ll see what happens with CeCe.’
‘Well, it must be your decision. All I can say is that at some point, you must do what is right for you,’ he’d added pointedly.
Subsequently, CeCe and I each got two offers to universities we’d jointly applied for, then we both took our exams and waited nervously to get our results.
Two months later, the pair of us were sitting with our sisters on the middle deck of the Titan, Pa’s magnificent yacht. We were on our annual cruise – that year sailing around the coast of the south of France – nervously clutching the envelopes with our maturité grades inside. Pa had just handed them to us from the pile of mail that was delivered by speedboat every other day, wherever we were on the water.
‘So, girls,’ Pa had said, smiling at our tense expressions, ‘do you wish to open them here, or in private?’
‘Might as well get it over with,’ CeCe had said. ‘You open yours first, Star. I know I’ll have probably failed anyway.’
With all of my sisters and Pa looking on, I’d opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out the sheets of paper inside.
‘Well?’ Maia had asked as I took a long time to read the results.
‘I got a 5.4 overall . . . and a 6 in English.’
Everyone burst into cheers and applause, and I was squeezed into a tight embrace by my sisters.
‘Your turn now, CeCe,’ Electra, our youngest sister, had said with a glint in her eye. We all knew CeCe had struggled at school due to her dyslexia, whereas Electra was capable of passing any exam she chose to, but was simply lazy.
‘Whatever it says, I don’t care,’ CeCe had said defensively, and I’d signed ‘good luck’ and ‘love you’ to her. She had ripped the envelope open and I’d held my breath as her eyes skimmed over her results.
‘I . . . oh my God! I . . .’
We had all collectively held our breath.
‘I passed! Star, I passed! It means I’m in to Sussex to study Art History.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ I had replied, knowing how hard she had worked, but I’d also seen Pa’s quizzical expression as he’d looked at me. Because he knew the decision I would now have to make.
‘Congratulations, darling,’ Pa Salt had said, smiling at CeCe. ‘Sussex is a beautiful part of the world, and, of course, that’s where the Seven Sisters cliffs are.’
Later, CeCe and I had sat on the top deck of the boat, watching a glorious sunset over the Mediterranean.
‘I totally understand if you want to take the Cambridge offer, Sia, rather than coming to Sussex and studying there with me. Like, I wouldn’t want to stand in your way or anything. But . . .’ Her bottom lip had wobbled. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without you. God knows how I’ll cope writing those essays without you to help me.’
That night on the boat, I’d heard CeCe stirring and moaning under her breath. And I’d known one of her terrible nightmares was beginning. By now adept at recognising the signs, I’d risen from my bed and slipped into hers, muttering soothing noises, but equally certain I would not be able to wake her. Her moaning had grown louder and she began to shout indecipherable words I had given up trying to understand.
How can I leave her? She needs me . . . and I need her . . .
And I did, back then.
So I had turned down Cambridge and taken up my offer at Sussex with my sister. And midway through the third term of her three-year course, CeCe had announced she was dropping out.
‘You understand, don’t you, Sia?’ she’d said. ‘I know how to paint and draw, but I can’t for the life of me put together an essay on Renaissance painters and all their endless bloody paintings of the Madonna. I can’t do it. Sorry, but I can’t.’
CeCe and I had subsequently left the room we’d shared in halls and rented a dingy flat together. And while I went to lectures, she had taken the bus to Brighton to work as a waitress.
That following year, I had come as close as I had ever been to despair, thinking of the dream I had given up.
3
After supper, I excused myself to Ma and went upstairs to our bedroom. I took out my mobile from my rucksack to check my messages, and saw there were four texts and a number of missed calls – all from CeCe. As promised, I had texted her when the plane had landed in Geneva, and now I sent a short reply telling her that I was fine and having an early night and that we would speak tomorrow. Switching off the phone, I slid under my duvet and lay there, listening to the silence. And I realised how rare it was for me to sleep in a room alone, in an empty house that had once been full of noisy, dynamic life. Tonight, I would not be woken by CeCe’s murmurings. I could sleep right through until morning if I wanted to.
Yet, as I closed my eyes, I did my best not to miss her.
Rising early the following morning, I threw on jeans and a hoodie, picked up the plastic wallet and tiptoed downstairs. Quietly easing open the front door of the house and taking the path to my left, I walked towards Pa Salt’s special garden, the plastic wallet containing his letter, my coordinates and the translated Greek inscription clutched in my hand.