Page 67 of For The Record

“You know what, Skye, I’ve always been jealous of you,” Isabelle says, chugging straight from the bottle of tequila I showed up with ten minutes ago.

Cozy furnishings decorate the apartment: a sheepskin rug splayed on the Spanish tile, cream-coloured walls, a French chandelier dripping with beads, and the smell of Tahitian coconut and vanilla in the air. Still, it feels cold in here. I wrap Isabelle’s afghan around me, one crocheted by our stepmother.

“Jealous of me? What for?”

She laughs, swigging more tequila. “You’re like a blank slate. Dad always let you do whatever you want and take any lessons you want and come home at all hours of the night. Not for me and Aaron. He pushed us into the movie business the minute we could talk.”

Her bitter laugh makes me wonder if she’s right. If I’m lucky for being simultaneously ignored and indulged by our father. He just wanted an heir. I guess with the twins, he got two. Blank slate. Is that what it was? Instead of viewing myself as nothing, empty, I was a fresh start? Able to do anything I chose? Free of constraints?

I focus on the other parts of her bitter statement. “What exactly are you saying? I thought you liked acting.”

Isabelle sighs, kicking her feet up on her driftwood coffee table next to a soy candle and a coffee table book. She offers me the tequila, but I refuse it. “I had no choice but to love it. I have a bit of talent and the privilege to pursue it. I’ll be ungrateful not to use it, right?”

I shrug, unsure of how to respond. All my life, the twins were always the golden children. Straight-As, beautiful, talented, elites, American royalty.

Isabelle keeps drinking. I remember the way she looked in the hotel room of the Beverly Wilshire, how cold and detached she sounded when she’d called me about the press release that night. She looks at the bottle of tequila like it’s a lifeline, an anchor. Something fastening to her and threatening to pull her down.

“Are you OK?”

A tear slides down my big sister’s cheek. She sets down the tequila bottle on the coffee table, a hollow thunk resounding through her small living room. “No…”

For once, I feel like the older sister, not a distant cousin in our dynamic. Before I know what I’m doing, I hold out my arms to her. “Come here.”

We hug for a moment, her hoop earrings tangling in my hair, my bangle bracelet getting caught on a stray thread of her sweater. Both of us laugh. She dabs at her tears with a Kleenex, leaving black mascara streaks.Celebrities! They’re just like us…

“So, how’s your boyfriend?” she asks me.

I sigh. Normally, I would turn the conversation back on her and her problems, considering they seem to be so much bigger than mine. And not to mention she’s the one who invited me over because she clearly has a problem. But today, I feel like I need to vent to someone, someone who doesn’t have a biased view on our relationship, like Poppy, as much as I love her. “Well, all things considered, he’s doing all right.”

“What do you mean by all things considered?” she says, cradling a pillow to her chest. Its tasselled fringes form a mustache on her upper lip.

I tick off the items on my fingers. “Let’s see, his parents just died, and his biological father is an enormous sexual pervert and predator. So there is that. Throw in the fact that his ex-girlfriend just accused him of creating a hostile workplace, and he’s doing the best he can.” My heavy sarcasm even feels caustic to me. Am I supposed to be sharing this much? I think Isabelle’s tipsy state is infectious.

“Wait… You mean his dad is Antonio Perez?” Isabelle reaches for the tequila again. Still empty.

“The one and only,” I say, my sunny smile as blinding as a stage spotlight and just as fake. “Womanizer extraordinaire and all-around a-hole! The day that I went to your hotel room… I’ll be honest. I called him after.”

“What did he say?” She lifts her empty tequila bottle like she’s going to threaten someone with it, blue eyes looking slightly hazy. Her blonde hair threatens to slide out of its messy bun, contrasting with her olive skin. Both are traits she inherited from our mom. I resemble our father: brown-haired, brown-eyed, fair-skinned.

“He said he wanted to take Antonio down,” I say, resting my head against her bony shoulder. “But he said it was your decision, too. That we shouldn’t share it if you didn’t want to.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” she says. “Not like his dad, at least.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “No, not at all.”

“I’m glad at least one of us is had a good experience with that family,” she says drily.

“We should do this more often,” I say suddenly.

“What? Get drunk?” she says, apparently inebriated enough that she doesn’t realize she’s the only one who’s been touching the Jose Cuervo.

“No, I mean, yeah, but also… Just talk, you know? As sisters,” I say. “It’s nice. Even without the guy drama.”

Isabelle scoffs. “Especially without the guy drama.”

Apparently, this is funny enough to her intoxicated ears to send her into a fit of giggles. I laugh with her, dissolving into laughter that hides the pain.

“Thank you,” she says, her words slightly slurred. “When you brought my wallet to the hotel room, you really… you saved me. I was going to let him… I was going to agree. Just to let him cast me in his upcoming TV show. I was terrified at what he might do, and yet I think part of me would have accepted it anyway. I didn’t want him, but I wanted the job. I thought I would do anything for the job.

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