The Sun Sister (The Seven Sisters #6) - Lucinda Riley

March 2008

‘I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing when I heard my father had died.’

‘Okay. Do you want to explore that?’

I stared at Theresa, sitting in her leather wingback chair. She reminded me of the sleepy dormouse at Alice in Wonderland’s tea party, or one of his ratty friends. She blinked a lot behind her little round glasses and her lips were permanently pursed. She had great legs under the knee-length tweed skirt she was wearing, and good hair too. I decided she could be pretty if she wanted to be, but I knew she wasn’t interested in anything but looking intelligent.

‘Electra? I’m losing you again.’

‘Yeah, sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Were you thinking about how you felt when your father died?’

As I couldn’t exactly tell her what I had been thinking, I nodded earnestly. ‘Yeah, I was.’

‘And?’

‘I really can’t remember. Sorry.’

‘You seem angry about his death, Electra. Why were you angry?’

‘I’m not . . . I wasn’t. I mean, I honestly can’t remember.’

‘You can’t remember how you felt at that moment?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

I watched her scribble something onto her notepad, which probably went along the lines of ‘refusing to deal with father’s death.’ It was what the last shrink had said to me, and I was so totally dealing with it. As I’d learnt over the years, they liked to find a reason for me being a screw-up and then they’d take hold of it, just like a mouse with a piece of cheese, and nibble away at me until I agreed with them and talked shit just to keep them happy.

‘So, how are you feeling about Mitch?’

The phrases that came to mind to describe my ex would probably have Theresa reaching for her cell to warn the cops that there was a crazy woman on the loose, who wanted to blast away the balls of one of the world’s most famous rock stars. Instead, I smiled sweetly.

‘I’m good. I’ve moved on now.’

‘You were very angry with him the last time you came to see me, Electra.’

‘Yeah, but I’m fine now. Really.’

‘Well, that’s good news. And how about the drinking? Under control a little more?’

‘Yes,’ I lied again. ‘Listen, I’m gonna have to run to a meeting.’

‘But we’re only halfway through the session, Electra.’

‘I know, it’s a shame, but hey, that’s life.’ I stood up and walked towards the door.

‘Maybe I can fit you in again later this week? Speak to Marcia on your way out.’

‘I will, thanks.’ I was already closing the door behind me. I walked straight past Marcia, the receptionist, and headed for the elevator. It came almost immediately and as I was whooshed downwards, I closed my eyes – I hated any confined spaces – and laid my hot forehead against the cool marble interior.

Jeez, I thought, what is it with me? I’m so messed up that I can’t even tell my therapist the truth!

You’re too ashamed to tell anyone the truth . . . and how could she understand even if you did? I argued back to myself. She probably lives in a neat brownstone with her lawyer husband, has two kids and a refrigerator covered in cute magnets showing off their artwork. Oh, I added to myself as I climbed into the back of my limo, and one of those vomit-inducing photos of Mom and Dad with the kids, all wearing matching denim shirts, that they’ve blown up huge and hung behind their couch.

‘Where to, ma’am?’ the driver asked me over the intercom.

‘Home,’ I barked, before grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge, shutting it fast before I was tempted to explore the alcoholic options. I had the mother of all headaches, which no amount of painkillers had eased, and it was past five in the evening. It had been a great party the night before, though, from what I could remember anyway. Maurice, my new best designer friend, had been in town and had dropped by for a few drinks with some of his New York playmates, who had then called others . . . I couldn’t remember going to bed, and had been surprised to find a stranger in it with me when I’d woken up this morning. He was a beautiful stranger at least, and after we’d gotten to know each other physically again, I’d asked him his name. Fernando had been a delivery driver for Walmart in Philly up until a few months back, when one of the fashion buyers had noticed him and told him to