Good Sister, The (18 page)
Authors: Diana Diamond
Nothing really changed as we got older. My sister and I were still bitter rivals. The only difference was that we covered it up better. We were arm in arm at openings and charity events. We leaned in close to smile at cameras. We were always pleasant in the office. Some people even commented how nice it was that sisters could be best friends. But the bottom line is that were still fighting tooth and nail. She pretended to be proud of my accomplishments, and that might have fooled a lot of people. But I knew her better.
I remember my first industry award, when Pegasus II went up. The trade magazines made me “Man of the Year.” Actually, they had to change the title to “Person of the Year.” No woman had ever won it before. It was no big deal. I was on the cover of the magazine, got interviewed on television, and then they awarded me a plaque at the annual banquet. Nice, but not like winning the Nobel Prize. I don’t remember the name of the person who won it before me, and I have no idea who won it after me. You see what I mean. It was nice, but in the long run nobody really cared.
Except for her. It galled her that they had picked me instead of her. Oh, she didn’t let on. She didn’t come right out and say that her contribution was more important than mine. But you could see it in her eyes. She was sick with jealousy. So she came up with a fantastic scheme to ruin it for me.
The night before the award banquet, my dear sister collapsed at her desk. She buzzed her secretary, said she didn’t feel well, then grabbed her stomach, let out a shriek, and did a swan dive right out of her chair. You can imagine the drama of it all. EMS people
charged into the room with their equipment, gave her shots, put her on oxygen, and then wheeled her down the hallway while her whole staff stood watching. “She hasn’t been looking well,” her secretary said. Of course she hadn’t. She was green with envy.
charged into the room with their equipment, gave her shots, put her on oxygen, and then wheeled her down the hallway while her whole staff stood watching. “She hasn’t been looking well,” her secretary said. Of course she hadn’t. She was green with envy.
At the banquet, she was the only one they talked about. They made a big thing of playing down the award. “How small it seems when your sister is in grave danger,” the MC said as he handed me the plaque. Then he went on to talk about what she meant to our industry. She ended up getting more praise than I did.
And do you know what it was? She had appendicitis! Everyday, run-of-the-mill appendicitis. A fifteen-minute operation. God, you don’t even have to be a doctor to perform those things.
And then came the hypocrisy. She spent the next month telling anyone who would listen how terribly she felt for ruining my big day. And of course I had to gush with concern. How could she possibly think of my award when her very life was at issue? That’s what I mean. The rivalry was as intense as ever. What was different was that we both had learned to cover it up.
Then there was the space-suit nonsense. It was a silly little thing, but it shows how vain she’s always been. Even when the good of the company was involved, she couldn’t stop thinking about herself.
The ad agency wanted to do something to make Pegasus really stand out, but how do you advertise a satellite service? You can’t photograph the damn things. They’re out in space. And you can’t show the results. If you show a kid watching television, you don’t know whether his show came from our satellite or a VCR. They were trying everything, even gluing wings on a horse. But nothing showed any promise.
Then they came up with the space sisters. They designed these space outfits made out of aluminum foil that we were supposed to wear. The sets were right out of
Star Wars
. A big air lock would open and the two of us would walk out. Or we’d both suddenly appear in a glass cylinder as if beamed down from space. Then we’d have this little dialogue about the wonders of space communications and assure the viewers that their traffic was safe and secure with
us. Sure, it was over the top. But the agency felt it was strong brand identification, like the Marlboro Man.
Star Wars
. A big air lock would open and the two of us would walk out. Or we’d both suddenly appear in a glass cylinder as if beamed down from space. Then we’d have this little dialogue about the wonders of space communications and assure the viewers that their traffic was safe and secure with
us. Sure, it was over the top. But the agency felt it was strong brand identification, like the Marlboro Man.
Even though I felt a little embarrassed, I would have gone along with it. But not my sister. You’d have thought they wanted her to appear nude. The suit looked stupid, she said. It was too masculine. It would make her a laughingstock. No matter how many people they brought in to persuade her, she wouldn’t budge. Then one of them suggested that they use a model to play her part. The agency was trying to save the idea, but I think they only made the situation worse. They should have known there was no way she’d let me be the company spokesman without her.
She came up with all sorts of business reasons. She claimed the ads would hurt our credibility if they substituted a phony sister. She knocked the whole idea as the worst kind of gimmickry. But everyone knew the real reason. She didn’t want to look silly for even a second – that was her vanity – and she didn’t want me going ahead without her; that was her jealousy. So the whole idea, with all the creative sketches and all the media plans, had to be scrapped. I can tell you that there were a lot of agency people who gladly would have thrown her out a window. But even then I defended her. After all, she owned half the business and was entitled to her vote. I was seething, but I never once let it show.
She covered up her feelings, too. Even when she wanted to kill me, she kept a sweet smile and a soft voice. It was like she was biding her time. I knew that her jealousy was pushing her beyond all reason. I knew that sooner or later she would explode. I should have tried to get her help, but how do you say things like that to someone?
The best example was probably the Venetian glass vase. It was a beautiful piece, about two feet tall, wide at the base and narrow at the neck, with handles on the sides like a Greek urn. While it was still being fired, the glassblower had twisted it so that it seemed to be swirling upward. The colors were extraordinary. Deep cobalt at the base spinning into purple, and then red, and the red fading into yellow. At the very top the glass was absolutely clear. You couldn’t
tell where the vase ended. It seemed to vanish into thin air.
tell where the vase ended. It seemed to vanish into thin air.
Our father had seen it during one of his European business trips and brought it back as a gift for our mother. I think he paid $2,000 for it, which was the most he ever paid for a piece of art. It was pretty, and he liked it. The fact that it had been done by Antonio Serini meant nothing to him. Serini had just gotten started, and his glass was virtually unknown.
After Mother died, Dad kept it on a table in the corner of his study. It wasn’t on display. No special lighting or anything. Only a vase on a table. I’ve already mentioned how my sister sucked up to our father. She visited him a few times a week when he was sick and kept telling him how much she liked the vase. I don’t think she ever mentioned that Serini had become world-famous and that the vase was worth a small fortune. So, one evening he picked it up and handed it to her. “Here, take it,” he told her. “You like it, so you ought to enjoy it.” Like it was an old soda bottle or something. He just handed it to her.
It didn’t become part of our father’s estate and was never even mentioned in his will. He had given it to her, so it was hers. It was a beautiful piece that we both loved. In all fairness, I should have had an equal claim. And at the time, glass by Serini was going for up to a quarter million in the galleries. So it should have been part of the estate assets. I thought it was mean-spirited of her, to say the least, and downright theft if you wanted to get technical. But as I said, I had gotten very good at keeping up pretenses, so I never said a word.
Not even when she began flaunting it right in front of my face. She was giving a small dinner party for friends from the company, and there was the Serini glass on a delicate pedestal, lighted by small spots hidden in the ceiling. You couldn’t take your eyes off it. It really dominated the room. Naturally, everyone asked about it, and she took great delight in showing it off and explaining how our father had come to buy it. I knew exactly what she was telling everyone: that it had been given to her because she would truly appreciate it. Her sister had nothing like it.
I should have stood up and exposed her whole dirty little fraud.
But I said nothing. Once I even had to get up and leave the room. I could feel my skin burning with anger that she would find such an innocent way to embarrass me in front of our friends. I knew people would notice and think that I was the jealous one. So I left the room to avoid an incident.
But I said nothing. Once I even had to get up and leave the room. I could feel my skin burning with anger that she would find such an innocent way to embarrass me in front of our friends. I knew people would notice and think that I was the jealous one. So I left the room to avoid an incident.
I guess I’m wandering. My point was that my sister did as good a job as I did of covering up true feelings. It must have been months after the dinner party. I had thought again and again of how she had used the vase to flaunt her superiority, but I had never mentioned my feelings; she really had no reason to be angry with me.
I was visiting her one evening and she left the room to take a private telephone call. While I was waiting, I was suddenly drawn to the vase. It was standing by itself, beautifully lighted, dominating the entire atmosphere of the room. I walked over to it, examined it, and then picked it up carefully. It was the first time I had ever touched it. I carried it across the room to hold it up to a brighter light. Just to see the full value of the color, the way you do when the sun hits a stained-glass window. I was turning it slowly, watching the color as it seemed to move upward and then disappear. I didn’t realize that it was slipping through my fingers until it was falling.
I made a frantic effort to catch it. One of my hands hit it up at the top. The other almost caught one of the handles. But the net effect was that it tossed out in front of me, hit the bare floor, and shattered. It broke into half a dozen big pieces and hundreds of tiny shards.
The noise was like an explosion. My sister came flying into the room and pulled up abruptly when she saw what had happened. There were the two of us, standing on opposite sides of a pile of shattered glass, neither one of us able to speak a word. Finally, she got down on her hands and knees and began lifting the pieces, matching the broken edges as if she could put it back together again. I got down next to her and tried to help, but she pushed my hands away. And she looked at me with pure hatred in her eyes. She thought that I had smashed it on purpose.
It was an accident. A terrible accident, to be sure, but purely
and simply an accident. Naturally, I offered to pay for it. She refused. Then I said I would take the pieces to a glassblower to see if the vase could be put back together. She said it would never be the same, which was probably true. But if it meant that much to her, at least the basic form could be salvaged. I apologized profusely, and she nodded but never came right out and said I was forgiven. She never acknowledged that I hadn’t broken it intentionally.
and simply an accident. Naturally, I offered to pay for it. She refused. Then I said I would take the pieces to a glassblower to see if the vase could be put back together. She said it would never be the same, which was probably true. But if it meant that much to her, at least the basic form could be salvaged. I apologized profusely, and she nodded but never came right out and said I was forgiven. She never acknowledged that I hadn’t broken it intentionally.
Yet she never once came right out and accused me. In fact, she never mentioned the vase again, not to me and not to any of our friends. She just brooded and nursed her hatred of me. Whenever we were together, she feigned affection for me, smiled at me, and complimented me. The way she acted, you would have thought there was never a vase at all.
You see, she was good at it, too. She hated me. I know she wanted to get back at me. But you never would have guessed.
It was a few months after that when she may have tried to kill me. I can’t be absolutely sure, because it may have been coincidental. Quite possibly, she had nothing to do with it. Maybe no one planned it. But at the time it certainly was suspicious.
We were in Aspen for the Christmas festival. It was a business trip rather than a vacation. A lot of our customers were there, and one of the cable networks was sponsoring a big bash. Neither of us are particularly good skiers, but we joined the evening ski run, figuring on one pass down the mountain and then meeting at the lodge. I thought we should go straight to the lodge, but she was particularly insistent that we join the others on the slope. I didn’t see why it was so important, and that’s one of the things that was suspicious. She was dying to get me on that mountain.
There were at least a hundred of us who assembled at the top of the lift, and we were all given lighted torches. It was supposed to be breathtaking, all those flames weaving down the slope. We started down, everyone carving wide, easy turns. My sister was somewhere behind me. I was in my second traverse, coming to a turn at the edge of the trail when, without any warning, the person in front of me fell. But it wasn’t a typical sprawling fall down the slope. It was almost as if he lurched back, right across my path. His torch flew
up into my face. All of a sudden I was blinded and out of control. Instinctively, I edged, trying to stop, but someone coming down behind me slammed into me. It wasn’t a mere bump. Whoever it was pushed me and sent me careening off the trail. I saw trees everywhere, and rocks sticking up through the snow. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to fall. I hit the snow and lost speed as I slid. I plowed into a boulder feet-first, which is what saved me. Even at reduced speed, a headfirst crash probably would have killed me.
up into my face. All of a sudden I was blinded and out of control. Instinctively, I edged, trying to stop, but someone coming down behind me slammed into me. It wasn’t a mere bump. Whoever it was pushed me and sent me careening off the trail. I saw trees everywhere, and rocks sticking up through the snow. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to fall. I hit the snow and lost speed as I slid. I plowed into a boulder feet-first, which is what saved me. Even at reduced speed, a headfirst crash probably would have killed me.
The skis were jammed tight. I couldn’t pull them free, so I had to release the bindings and pull my boots out. When I stood, I felt a flash of pain in my right ankle. I had sprained it, but at the time I thought I might have broken it. I was well off the trail and down a slope. I couldn’t see anything or hear anything except the wind. And then it struck me. How was I going to get down the mountain?
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