Twenties Girl (2 page)

Of course, I’ve read it from cover to cover. It’s all about how he was down to his last twenty pence and bought a coffee and it tasted so terrible it gave him the idea to run coffee shops. So he opened one and started a chain, and now he pretty much owns
the world. His nickname is “The Alchemist,” and according to some article last year, the entire business world would like to know the secrets of his success.

That’s why he started his Two Little Coins seminars. I secretly went to one a few months ago. Just in case I could get some tips on running a brand-new business. There were two hundred people there, all lapping up every word, and at the end we had to hold two coins up in the air and say, “This is my beginning.” It was totally cheesy and embarrassing, but everyone around me seemed really inspired. Personally speaking, I was listening hard all the way through and I
still
don’t know how he did it.

I mean, he was twenty-six when he made his first million. Twenty-six! He just started a business and became an instant success. Whereas I started a business six months ago and all I’ve become is an instant head case.

“Maybe you and Natalie will write a book about your business one day!” says Mum, as though she can read my mind.

“Global domination is just around the corner,” chimes in Dad heartily.

“Look, a squirrel!” I point hastily out the window. My parents have been so supportive of my business, I
can’t
tell them the truth. So I just change the subject whenever they mention it.

To be strictly accurate, you could say Mum wasn’t
instantly
supportive. In fact, you could say that when I first announced I was giving up my marketing job and taking out all my savings to start a headhunting company, having never been a headhunter in my life or knowing anything about it, she went into total meltdown.

But she calmed down when I explained I was going into partnership with my best friend, Natalie. And that Natalie was a top executive headhunter and would be fronting the business at first while I did the admin and marketing and learned the skills of headhunting myself. And that we already had several contracts lined up and would pay off the bank loan in no time.

It all sounded like such a brilliant plan. It
was
a brilliant plan.
Until a month ago, when Natalie went on holiday, fell in love with a Goan beach bum, and texted me a week later to say she didn’t know exactly when she’d be coming back, but the details of everything were in the computer and I’d be fine and the surf was fabulous out here, I should really visit, big kisses, Natalie xxxxx.

I am never going into business with Natalie again. Ever.

“Now, is this off?” Mum is jabbing uncertainly at her mobile phone. “I can’t have it ringing during the service.”

“Let’s have a look.” Dad pulls in to a parking space, turns off the engine, and takes it. “You want to put it on silent mode.”

“No!” says Mum in alarm. “I want it off! The silent mode may malfunction!”

“Here we are, then.” Dad presses the side button. “All off.” He hands it back to Mum, who eyes it anxiously.

“But what if it somehow turns itself back on while it’s in my bag?” She looks pleadingly at both of us. “That happened to Mary at the boat club, you know. The thing just
came alive
in her handbag and rang, while she was doing jury duty. They said she must have bumped it, or touched it somehow. …”

Her voice is rising and becoming breathless. This is where my sister, Tonya, would lose patience and snap, “Don’t be so stupid, Mum, of course your phone won’t turn itself on!”

“Mum.” I take it gently from her. “How about we leave it in the car?”

“Yes.” She relaxes a little. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll put it in the glove compartment.”

I glance at Dad, who gives me a tiny smile. Poor Mum. All this ridiculous stuff going on in her head. She really needs to get things in proportion.

As we approach the funeral center, I hear Uncle Bill’s distinctive drawl carrying on the air, and sure enough, as we make our way through the little crowd, there he is, with his leather jacket and
permatan and springy hair. Everyone knows Uncle Bill is obsessed about his hair. It’s thick and luxuriant and jet black, and if any newspaper ever suggests that he dyes it, he threatens to sue them.

“Family’s the most important thing,” he’s saying to an interviewer in jeans. “Family is the rock we all stand on. If I have to interrupt my schedule for a funeral, then so be it.” I can see the admiration pass through the crowd. One girl, who’s holding a Lingtons takeaway cup, is clearly beside herself and keeps whispering to her friend, “It’s really him!”

“If we could leave it there for now …” One of Uncle Bill’s assistants approaches the cameraman. “Bill has to go into the funeral home. Thanks, guys. Just a few autographs …” he adds to the crowd.

We wait patiently at the side until everyone has got Uncle Bill to scribble on their coffee cups and funeral programs with a Sharpie, while the camera films them. Then, at last, they melt away and Uncle Bill heads over our way.

“Hi, Michael. Good to see you.” He shakes Dad’s hand, then immediately turns back to an assistant. “Have you got Steve on the line yet?”

“Here.” The assistant hastily hands Uncle Bill a phone.

“Hello, Bill!” Dad is always unfailingly polite to Uncle Bill. “It’s been a while. How are you doing? Congratulations on your book.”

“Thank you for the signed copy!” puts in Mum brightly.

Bill nods briefly at all of us, then says straight into the phone, “Steve, I got your email.” Mum and Dad exchange glances. Obviously that’s the end of our big family catch-up.

“Let’s find out where we’re supposed to be going,” murmurs Mum to Dad. “Lara, are you coming?”

“Actually, I’ll stay out here for a moment,” I say on impulse. “See you inside!”

I wait until my parents have disappeared, then edge closer to Uncle Bill. I’ve suddenly hatched a demon plan. At his seminar,
Uncle Bill said the key to success for any entrepreneur was grabbing every opportunity. Well, I’m an entrepreneur, aren’t I? And this is an opportunity, isn’t it?

When he seems to have finished his conversation, I say hesitantly, “Hi, Uncle Bill. Could I talk to you for a moment?”

“Wait.” He lifts a hand and puts his BlackBerry to his ear. “Hi, Paulo. What’s up?”

His eyes swivel to me and he beckons, which I guess is my cue to speak.

“Did you know I’m a headhunter now?” I give a nervous smile. “I’ve gone into partnership with a friend. We’re called L&N Executive Recruitment. Could I tell you about our business?”

Uncle Bill frowns at me thoughtfully for a moment, then says, “Hold on, Paulo.”

Oh wow! He’s put his phone call on hold! For me!

“We specialize in finding highly qualified, motivated individuals for senior executive positions,” I say, trying not to gabble. “I wondered if maybe I could talk with someone in your HR department, explain our services, maybe put a pitch together—”

“Lara.” Uncle Bill lifts a hand to stop me. “What would you say if I put you in touch with my head of recruitment and told her: ‘This is my niece, give her a chance?’”

I feel an explosion of delight. I want to sing “Hallelujah.” My gamble paid off!

“I’d say thank you very much, Uncle Bill!” I manage, trying to stay calm. “I’d do the best job I could, I’d work 24/7, I’d be so grateful—”

“No,” he interrupts. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t respect yourself.”

“Wh-what?” I stop in confusion.

“I’m saying no.” He shoots me a dazzling white smile. “I’m doing you a favor, Lara. If you make it on your own, you’ll feel so much better. You’ll feel you’ve
earned
it.”

“Right.” I swallow, my face burning with humiliation. “I
mean, I
do
want to earn it. I
do
want to work hard. I just thought maybe …”

“If I can come from two little coins, Lara, so can you.” He holds my gaze for a moment. “Believe in yourself. Believe in your dream. Here.”

Oh no. Please no. He’s reached in his pocket and is now holding out two ten-pence pieces to me.

“These are your two little coins.” He gives me a deep, earnest look, the same way he does on the TV ad. “Lara, close your eyes. Feel it. Believe it. Say, ‘This is my beginning.’”

“This is my beginning,” I mumble, cringing all over. “Thanks.”

Uncle Bill nods, then turns back to the phone. “Paulo. Sorry about that.”

Hot with embarrassment, I edge away. So much for grabbing opportunities. So much for contacts. I just want to get through this stupid funeral and go home.

I head around the building and through the front glass doors of the funeral center to find myself in a foyer with upholstered chairs and posters of doves and a subdued air. There’s no one about, not even at the reception desk.

Suddenly I hear singing coming from behind a pale wood door. Shit. It’s started. I’m missing it. I hurriedly push the door open—and, sure enough, there are rows of benches filled with people. The room is so crowded that, as I edge in, the people standing at the back have to jostle to one side, and I find myself a space as unobtrusively as possible.

As I look around, trying to spot Mum and Dad, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of people here. And the flowers. All down the sides of the room there are gorgeous arrangements in shades of white and cream. A woman at the front is singing
Pie Jesu
, but there are so many people in front of me, I can’t see. Near me, a couple of people are sniffing, and one girl has tears streaming openly down her face. I feel a bit chastened. All these people, here for my great-aunt, and I never even knew her.

I didn’t even send any flowers, I realize in sudden mortification. Should I have written a card or something? God, I hope Mum and Dad sorted it all out.

The music is so lovely and the atmosphere is so emotional that suddenly I can’t help it, I feel my eyes pricking too. Next to me is an old lady in a black velvet hat, who notices and clicks her tongue sympathetically.

“Do you have a handkerchief, dear?” she whispers.

“No,” I admit, and she immediately snaps open her large, old-fashioned patent bag. A smell of camphor rises up, and inside I glimpse several pairs of spectacles, a box of mints, a packet of hairpins, a box labeled
String, and
half a packet of digestive biscuits.

“You should always bring a handkerchief to a funeral.” She offers me a packet of tissues.

“Thanks,” I gulp, taking one. “That’s really kind. I’m the great-niece, by the way.”

She nods sympathetically. “This must be a terrible time for you. How’s the family coping?”

“Er … well…” I fold up the tissue, wondering how to answer. I can’t exactly say “No one’s that bothered; in fact, Uncle Bill’s still on his BlackBerry outside.”

“We all have to support each other at this time,” I improvise at last.

“That’s it.” The old lady nods gravely as though I’ve said something really wise, as opposed to straight off a Hallmark card. “We all have to support each other.” She clasps my hand. “I’d be glad to talk, dear, anytime you want to. It’s an honor to meet any relative of Bert’s.”

“Thank you—” I begin automatically, then halt.

Bert?

I’m sure my aunt wasn’t called Bert. In fact, I know she wasn’t. She was called Sadie.

“You know, you look a lot like him.” The woman’s surveying my face.

Shit. I’m in the wrong funeral.

“Something about the forehead. And you have his nose. Did anyone ever tell you that, dear?”

“Um … sometimes!” I say wildly. “Actually, I’ve just got to … er … Thanks so much for the tissue. …” I hastily start making my way back toward the door.

“It’s Bert’s great-niece.” I can hear the old lady’s voice following me. “She’s very upset, poor thing.”

I practically throw myself at the pale wooden door and find myself in the foyer again, almost landing on Mum and Dad. They’re standing with a woman with woolly gray hair, a dark suit, and a stack of leaflets in her hand.

“Lara! Where were you?” Mum looks in puzzlement at the door. “What were you doing in there?”

“Were you in Mr. Cox’s funeral?” The gray-haired woman looks taken aback.

“I got lost!” I say defensively. “I didn’t know where to go! You should put signs on the doors!”

Silently, the woman raises her hand and points at a plastic-lettered sign above the door:
BERTRAM COX
—1:30
P.M.
Damn. Why didn’t I notice that?

“Well, anyway.” I try to regain my dignity. “Let’s go. We need to bag a seat.”

TWO

ag a seat. What a joke. I’ve never been at anything as depressing as this, my whole entire life.

OK, I know it’s a funeral. It’s not supposed to be a riot. But at least Bert’s funeral had lots of people and flowers and music and atmosphere. At least that other room
felt
like something.

This room has nothing. It’s bare and chilly, with just a closed coffin at the front and
SADIE LANCASTER
in crappy plastic letters on a notice board. No flowers, no lovely smell, no singing, just some Muzak piped out of speakers. And the place is practically empty. Just Mum, Dad, and me on one side; Uncle Bill, Aunt Trudy, and my cousin Diamanté on the other.

I surreptitiously run my gaze over the other side of the family. Even though we’re related, they still seem like a celebrity magazine come to life. Uncle Bill is sprawled on his plastic chair as though he owns the place, typing at his BlackBerry. Aunt Trudy is flicking through
Hello!
, probably reading about all her friends. She’s wearing a tight black dress, her blond hair is artfully
swept around her face, and her cleavage is even more tanned and impressive than last time I saw her. Aunt Trudy married Uncle Bill twenty years ago, and I swear she looks younger today than she does in her wedding pictures.

Diamanté’s platinum-blond hair sweeps down to her bum, and she’s wearing a minidress covered with a skull print. Really tasteful for a funeral. She has her iPod plugged in and is texting on her mobile and keeps looking at her watch with a sulky scowl. Diamanté is seventeen and has two cars and her own fashion label called Tutus and Pearls, which Uncle Bill set up for her. (I looked at it online once. The dresses all cost four hundred pounds, and everyone who buys one gets their name on a special “Diamanté’s Best Friends” list, and half of them are celebs’ kids. It’s like Facebook, but with dresses.)

“Hey, Mum,” I say. “How come there aren’t any flowers?”

“Oh.” Mum immediately looks anxious. “I spoke to Trudy about flowers, and she said she would do it. Trudy?” she calls over. “What happened about the flowers?”

“Well!” Trudy closes
Hello! and
swivels around as though she’s quite up for a chat. “I know we discussed it. But do you know the price of all this?” She gestures around. “And we’re sitting here for, what, twenty minutes? You’ve got to be realistic, Pippa. Flowers would be a waste.”

“I suppose so,” Mum says hesitantly.

“I mean, I don’t begrudge the old lady a funeral.” Aunt Trudy leans toward us, lowering her voice. “But you have to ask yourself, ‘What did she ever do for us?’ I mean, I didn’t know her. Did you?”

“Well, it was difficult.” Mum looks pained. “She’d had the stroke, she was bewildered a lot of the time—”

“Exactly!” Trudy nods. “She didn’t understand anything. What was the point? It’s only because of Bill that we’re here.” Trudy glances at Uncle Bill fondly. “He’s too softhearted for his own good. I often say to people—”

“Crap!” Diamanté rips out her earphones and looks at her
mother scornfully. “We’re only here for Dad’s show. He wasn’t planning to come ’til the producer said a funeral would ‘massively up his sympathy quotient.’ I heard them talking.”

“Diamanté!” exclaims Aunt Trudy crossly.

“It’s true! He’s the biggest hypocrite on earth and so are you. And I’m supposed to be at Hannah’s house right now.” Diamanté’s cheeks puff out resentfully. “Her dad’s, like, having this big party for his new movie and I’m missing it. Just so Dad can look all ‘family’ and ‘caring.’ It’s so unfair.”

“Diamanté!” says Trudy tartly. “It’s your father who paid for you and Hannah to go to Barbados, remember? And that boob job you keep talking about—who’s paying for that, do you think?”

Diamanté draws in breath as though mortally offended. “That is so unfair. My boob job’s for
charity.”

I can’t help leaning forward with interest. “How can a boob job be for charity?”

“I’m going to do a magazine interview about it afterward and give the proceeds to charity,” she says proudly. “Like, half the proceeds or something?”

I glance at Mum. She looks so speechless with shock, I almost burst into giggles.

“Hello?”

We all look up to see a woman in gray trousers and a clerical collar, heading up the aisle toward us.

“Many apologies,” she says, spreading her hands. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.” She has cropped salt-and-pepper hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a deep, almost masculine voice. “My condolences on your loss.” She glances at the bare coffin. “I don’t know if you were informed, but it’s normal to put up photographs of your loved one. …”

We all exchange blank, awkward looks. Then Aunt Trudy gives a sudden click of the tongue.

“I’ve got a photo. The nursing home sent it on.”

She rummages in her bag and produces a brown envelope, out
of which she draws a battered-looking Polaroid. As she passes it over, I take a look. It shows a tiny, wrinkled old lady hunched over in a chair, wearing a shapeless pale-mauve cardigan. Her face is folded over in a million lines. Her white hair is a translucent puff of candy floss. Her eyes are opaque, as though she can’t even see the world.

So that was my great-aunt Sadie. And I never even met her.

The vicar looks at the print dubiously, then pins it onto a big notice board, where it looks totally sad and embarrassing all on its own.

“Would any of you like to speak about the deceased?”

Mutely, we all shake our heads.

“I understand. It can often be too painful for close family.” The vicar produces a notebook and pencil from her pocket. “In which case I’ll be glad to speak on your behalf. If you could perhaps just give me some details. Incidents from her life. Tell me everything about Sadie that we should be celebrating.”

There’s silence.

“We didn’t really know her,” Dad says apologetically. “She was very old.”

“One hundred and five,” Mum puts in. “She was one hundred and five.”

“Was she ever married?” the vicar prompts.

“Er…” Dad’s brow is wrinkled. “Was there a husband, Bill?”

“Dunno. Yeah, I think there was. Don’t know what he was called, though.” Uncle Bill hasn’t even looked from his BlackBerry. “Can we get on with this?”

“Of course.” The vicar’s sympathetic smile has frozen. “Well, perhaps just some small anecdote from the last time you visited her … some hobby…”

There’s another guilty silence.

“She’s wearing a cardigan in the picture,” ventures Mum at last. “Maybe she knitted it. Maybe she liked knitting.”

“Did you never visit her?” The vicar is clearly forcing herself to stay polite.

“Of course we did!” says Mum defensively. “We popped in to see her in…” She thinks. “In 1982, I think it was. Lara was a baby.”

“
1982?
” The vicar looks scandalized.

“She didn’t know us,” puts in Dad quickly. “She really wasn’t all there.”

“What about from earlier in her life?” The vicar’s voice sounds slightly outraged. “No achievements? Stories from her youth?”

“Jeez, you don’t give up, do you?” Diamanté rips her iPod speakers out of her ears. “Can’t you tell we’re only here because we have to be? She didn’t do anything special. She didn’t achieve anything. She was nobody! Just some million-year-old nobody.”

“Diamanté!” says Aunt Trudy in mild reproof. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I mean, look!” She gestures scornfully around the empty room. “If only six people came to my funeral, I’d
shoot
myself.”

“Young lady.” The vicar takes a few steps forward, her face flushing with anger. “No human on God’s earth is a
nobody.”

“Yeah, whatever,” says Diamanté rudely, and I can see the vicar opening her mouth to make another retort.

“Diamanté.” Uncle Bill lifts a hand quickly. “Enough. Obviously I myself regret not visiting Sadie, who I’m sure was a very special person, and I’m sure I speak for all of us.” He’s so charming, I can see the vicar’s ruffled feathers being smoothed. “But now what we’d like to do is send her off with dignity. I expect you have a tight schedule, as do we.” He taps his watch.

“Indeed,” says the vicar after a pause. “I’ll just prepare. In the meantime, please switch off your mobile phones.” With a last disapproving look around at us all, she heads out again, and Aunt Trudy immediately turns in her seat.

“What a nerve, giving us a guilt trip! We don’t
have
to be here, you know.”

The door opens and we all look up—but it’s not the vicar, it’s
Tonya. I didn’t know she was coming. This day just got about a hundred percent worse.

“Have I missed it?” Her pneumatic drill of a voice fills the room as she strides down the aisle. “I just managed to scoot away from Toddler Gym before the twins had a meltdown. Honestly, this au pair is worse than the last one, and that’s saying something. …”

She’s wearing black trousers and a black cardigan trimmed with leopard print, her thick highlighted hair pulled back in a ponytail. Tonya used to be an office manager at Shell and boss people around all day. Now she’s a full-time mum of twin boys, Lorcan and Declan, and bosses her poor au pairs around instead.

“How are the boys?” asks Mum, but Tonya doesn’t notice. She’s totally focused on Uncle Bill.

“Uncle Bill, I read your book! It was amazing! It changed my life. I’ve told
everyone
about it. And the photo is wonderful, although it doesn’t do you justice.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Bill shoots her his standard yes-I-know-I’m-brilliant smile, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Isn’t it a fantastic book?” She appeals around to the rest of us. “Isn’t Uncle Bill a genius? To start with absolutely nothing! Just two coins and a big dream! It’s so inspiring for humanity!”

She’s such a suck-up, I want to hurl. Mum and Dad obviously feel the same way, as neither of them answers. Uncle Bill isn’t paying her any attention either. Reluctantly, she swivels around on her heel.

“How are you, Lara? I’ve hardly seen you lately! You’ve been hiding!” Her eyes start focusing in on me with intent as she comes nearer and I shrink away. Uh-oh. I know that look.

My sister, Tonya, basically has three facial expressions:

1) Totally blank and bovine.

2) Loud, showy-offy laughter, as in “Uncle Bill, you kill me!”

3) Gloating delight masked as sympathy as she picks away at someone else’s misery. She’s addicted to the Real Life channel
and books with tragic, scruffy kids on the cover, called things like
Please, Grammy, Don’t Hit Me with the Mangle
.

“I haven’t seen you since you split up with Josh. What a shame. You two seemed so perfect together!” Tonya tilts her head sorrowfully. “Didn’t they seem perfect together, Mum?”

“Well, it didn’t work out.” I try to sound matter-of-fact. “So anyway …”

“What went wrong?” She gives me that doe-eyed, fake-concerned look she gets when something bad happens to another person and she’s really,
really
enjoying it.

“These things happen.” I shrug.

“But they don’t, though, do they? There’s always a reason.” Tonya is relentless. “Didn’t he say anything?”

“Tonya,” Dad puts in gently. “Is this the best time?”

“Dad, I’m just
supporting
Lara,” Tonya says, in affront. “It’s always best to talk these things through! So, was there someone else?” Her eyes swivel back to me.

“I don’t think so.”

“Were you getting on OK?”

“Yes.”

“Then why?” She folds her arms, looking baffled and almost accusing. “Why?”

I don’t know why!
I want to scream.
Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that question a bazillion times?

“It was just one of those things!” I force a smile. “I’m fine about it. I’ve realized that it wasn’t meant to be, and I’ve moved on and I’m in a good place. I’m really happy.”

“You don’t look happy.” Diamanté observes from across the aisle. “Does she, Mum?”

Aunt Trudy surveys me for a few moments.

“No,” she says at last, in definitive tones. “She doesn’t look happy.”

“Well, I am!” I can feel tears stinging my eyes. “I’m just hiding it! I’m really, really, really happy!”

God, I hate all my relatives.

“Tonya, darling, sit down,” Mum says tactfully. “How did the school visit go?”

Blinking hard, I get out my phone and pretend to be checking my messages so no one bothers me. Then, before I can stop it, my finger scrolls down to photos.

Don’t look
, I tell myself firmly.
Do
not
look
.

But my fingers won’t obey me. It’s an overwhelming compulsion. I have to have one quick look, just to keep me going … my fingers are scrabbling as I summon up my favorite picture. Josh and me. Standing together on a mountain slope, arms around each other, both with ski tans. Josh’s fair hair is curling over the goggles thrust up on his head. He’s smiling at me with that perfect dimple in his cheek, that dimple I used to push my finger into, like a toddler with Play-Doh.

We first met at a Guy Fawkes party, standing around a fire in a garden in Clapham that belonged to a girl I knew at university. Josh was handing out sparklers to everyone. He lit one for me and asked me what my name was and wrote
Lara
in the darkness with his sparkler, and I laughed and asked his name. We wrote each other’s names in the air until the sparklers went dead, then edged closer to the fire and sipped mulled wine and reminisced about fireworks parties of our childhoods. Everything we said chimed. We laughed at the same things. I’d never met anyone so easygoing. Or with such a cute smile. I can’t imagine him being with anyone else. I just can’t…