Twenties Girl (37 page)

“Lara?” Ed’s waving a hand in front of my face. “Speak to me. What is it?”

“The year 1982.” I look up in a daze. “Sound familiar? That’s when Uncle Bill started up Lingtons Coffee. You know? With his famous ‘Two Little Coins.’” I do quote marks with my fingers. “Or was there, in fact, half a million pounds which started him off? Which he somehow forgot to mention because it wasn’t his in the first place?”

There’s silence. I can see the pieces falling into place in Ed’s mind.

“Jesus Christ,” he says at last, and looks up at me. “This is huge. Huge.”

“I know.” I swallow. “Huge.”

“So the whole Two Little Coins story, the seminars, the book, the DVD, the movie …”

“All complete bullshit.”

“If I were Pierce Brosnan, I’d be calling my agent right about now.” Ed raises his eyebrows comically.

I’d want to laugh, too, if I didn’t want to cry. If I wasn’t so sad and furious and sick at what Uncle Bill did.

That was Sadie’s painting. It was hers to sell or keep. He took
it and he used it and he never breathed a word. How dare he? How
dare
he?

With sickening clarity, I can see a parallel universe in which someone else, someone decent like my dad, had found the painting and done the right thing. I can see Sadie sitting in her nursing home, wearing her necklace, looking at her beautiful painting throughout her old age, until the very last light faded from her eyes.

Or maybe she would have sold it. But it would have been hers to sell. It would have been
her
glory. I can see her brought out of her nursing home and shown the painting hanging in the London Portrait Gallery. I can see the joy that would have given her. And I can even see her sitting in her chair, having Stephen’s letters read aloud to her by some kind archivist.

Uncle Bill robbed her of years and years of possible happiness. And I’ll never forgive him.

“She should have known.” I can’t contain my anger anymore. “Sadie should have known she was hanging up here. She went to her death with no idea. And that was wrong. It was wrong.”

I glance over at Sadie, who has wandered away from the conversation as though she’s not interested. She shrugs, as though to brush away all my angst and fury.

“Darling, don’t drone on about it.
Too
dull. At least I’ve found it now. At least it wasn’t destroyed. And at least I don’t look as
fat
as I remember,” she adds with sudden animation. “My arms look rather wonderful, don’t they? I always did have good arms.”

“Too twiggy for my taste,” I can’t help shooting back.

“At least they’re not
pillows.”

Sadie meets my eyes and we exchange wary smiles. Her bravado doesn’t fool me. She’s pale and flickery, and I can tell this discovery has thrown her. But her chin is up, high and proud as ever.

Malcolm Gledhill is still looking deeply uncomfortable. “If we’d realized she was still alive, if anyone had told us—”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, my anger abated a little. “We didn’t even know it was her ourselves.”

Because Uncle Bill didn’t say a word. Because he covered the whole thing up with an anonymous deal. No wonder he wanted the necklace. It was the only thing left linking Sadie to her portrait. It was the only thing which might uncover his massive con trick. This painting must have been a time bomb for him, ticking away quietly all these years. And now, finally, it’s gone off.
Boom
. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to avenge Sadie. Big-time.

All four of us have silently, gradually, turned to face the painting again. It’s almost impossible to sit in this gallery and
not
end up staring at it.

“I told you that she’s the most popular painting in the gallery,” says Malcolm Gledhill presently. “I spoke to the marketing department today, and they’re making her the face of the gallery. She’ll be used in every campaign.”

“I want to be on a lipstick,” says Sadie, suddenly turning with determination. “A lovely bright lipstick.”

“She should be on a lipstick,” I say firmly to Malcolm Gledhill. “And you should name it after her. That’s what she would have wanted.”

“I’ll see what we can do.” He looks a little flustered. “It’s not really my area.”

“I’ll let you know what else she would have wanted.” I wink at Sadie. “I’ll be acting as her unofficial agent from now on.”

“I wonder what she’s thinking,” says Ed, still gazing up at her. “That’s quite an intriguing expression she has.”

“I often wonder that myself,” chimes in Malcolm Gledhill eagerly. “She seems to have such a look of serenity and happiness. … Obviously, from what you’ve said, she had a certain
emotional
connection with the painter Malory. … I often wonder if he was reading her poetry as he painted. …”

“What an idiot this man is,” says Sadie scathingly in my ear. “It’s obvious what I’m thinking. I’m looking at Stephen and I’m thinking,
I want to jump his bones.”

“She wanted to jump his bones,” I say to Malcolm Gledhill. Ed shoots me a disbelieving look, then bursts into laughter.

“I should be going.” Malcolm Gledhill has clearly had enough of us for one night. He picks up his briefcase, nods at us, then swiftly walks away. A few seconds later I can hear him practically running down the marble stairs. I look at Ed and grin.

“Sorry about the diversion.”

“No problem.” He gives me a quizzical look. “So … any other old masters you want to unveil tonight? Any long-lost family sculptures? Any more psychic revelations? Or shall we go get some dinner?”

“Dinner.” I stand up and look at Sadie. She’s still sitting there, her feet up on the bench and her yellow dress flowing around her, gazing up at her twenty-three-year-old self as though she wants to drink herself in. “Coming?” I say softly.

“Sure,” says Ed.

“Not quite yet,” says Sadie, without moving her head. “You go. I’ll see you later.”

I follow Ed to the exit, then turn and give Sadie one last anxious look. I just want to make sure she’s OK. But she doesn’t even notice me. She’s still transfixed. Like she wants to sit there all night with the painting. Like she wants to make up for all the time she lost.

Like, finally, she’s found what she was looking for.

TWENTY-FIVE

’ve never avenged anyone before. And I’m finding it a lot trickier than I expected. Uncle Bill is abroad and no one can get in contact with him. (Well, of course they
can
get hold of him. They’re just not going to do so for the crazy stalker niece.) I don’t want to write to him or make a phone call. This has to be done face-to-face. So at the moment, it’s impossible.

And it’s not helped by Sadie going all moral-high-ground on me. She thinks there’s no point dwelling on the past, and what’s done is done, and I should stop “droning on about it, darling.”

But I don’t care what she thinks. Vengeance
will
be mine. The more I think about what Uncle Bill did, the more livid I am, and the more I want to phone up Dad and blurt it all out. But somehow I’m keeping control. There’s no rush. Everyone knows revenge is a dish best served when you’ve had enough time to build up enough vitriol and fury. Plus, it’s not like my evidence is going anywhere. The painting is hardly going to disappear from
the London Portrait Gallery. Nor is the so-called confidential agreement that Uncle Bill signed all those years ago. Ed’s already hired a lawyer for me, and he’s going to start formal claim proceedings as soon I give him the say-so. Which I’m going to do as soon as I’ve confronted Uncle Bill myself and seen him squirm. That’s my aim. If he grovels it’ll be the icing on the cake, but I’m not that hopeful.

I heave a sigh, screw up a piece of paper, and throw it into the bin. I want to see him squirm
now
. I’ve honed my vengeance speech and everything.

To distract myself, I lean against the headboard of my bed and flick through the post. My bedroom is actually a pretty good office. I don’t have to commute, and it doesn’t cost anything. And it has a bed in it. On the less positive side, Kate has to work at my dressing table and keeps getting her legs wedged underneath it.

I’m calling my new headhunting company Magic Search, and we’ve been running for three weeks now. And we’ve already landed a commission! We were recommended to a pharmaceuticals company by Janet Grady, who is my new best friend. (She’s not stupid, Janet. She knows I did all the work and Natalie did nothing. Mostly because I rang her up and told her.) I did the pitch myself, and two days ago we heard we’d won! We’ve been asked to compile a short list for another marketing director job, and this one has to have specialist knowledge of the pharmaceuticals industry. I told the HR head that this was a perfect job for us, because, by chance, one of my associates has intimate personal knowledge of the pharmaceuticals industry.

Which, OK, isn’t
strictly
true.

But the point about Sadie is she’s a very quick learner and has all sorts of clever ideas. Which is why she’s a valued member of the Magic Search team.

“Hello!” Her high-pitched voice jolts me out of my reverie, and I look up to see her sitting at the end of my bed. “I’ve just
been to Glaxo Wellcome. I’ve got the direct lines of two of the senior marketing team. Quick, before I forget…”

She dictates two names and telephone numbers to me. Private, direct-line numbers. Gold dust to a headhunter.

“The second one has just had a baby,” she adds. “So he probably doesn’t want a new job. But Rick Young might. He looked pretty bored during their meeting. When I go back I’ll find out his salary somehow.”

Sadie
, I write underneath the phone numbers,
you’re a star. Thanks a million
.

“Don’t mention it,” she says crisply. “It was too easy. Where next? We should think about Europe, you know. There must be simply
heaps
of talent in Switzerland and France.”

Brilliant idea
, I write, then look up. “Kate, could you make a list of all the major pharmaceuticals companies in Europe for me? I think we might spread our net quite wide with this one.”

“Good idea, Lara,” says Kate, looking impressed. “I’ll get on it.”

Sadie winks at me and I grin back. Having a job really suits her. She looks more alive and happy these days than I’ve ever known her. I’ve even given her a job title: chief headhunter. After all, she’s the one doing the hunting.

She’s found us an office too: a run-down building off Kilburn High Road. We can move in there next week. It’s all falling into place.

Every evening, after Kate goes home, Sadie and I sit on my bed together and talk. Or, rather, she talks. I’ve told her that I want to
know
about her. I want to hear about everything she can remember, whether it’s big, small, important, trivial—everything. And so she sits there, and plays with her beads, and thinks for a bit, and tells me things. Her thoughts are a bit random and I can’t always follow, but gradually a picture of her life has built up. She’s told me about the divine hat she was wearing in Hong Kong when war was declared, the leather trunk she packed
everything in and lost, the boat journey she made to the United States, the time she was robbed at gunpoint in Chicago but managed to keep hold of her necklace, the man she danced with one night who later became president….

And I sit totally riveted. I’ve never heard a story like it. She’s had the most amazing, colorful life. Sometimes fun, sometimes exciting, sometimes desperate, sometimes shocking. It’s a life I can’t imagine anyone else leading. Only Sadie.

I talk a bit too. I’ve told her about growing up with Mum and Dad, stories about Tonya’s riding lessons and my synchronized-swimming craze. I’ve told her about Mum’s anxiety attacks and how I wish she could relax and enjoy life. I’ve told her how our whole lives we’ve been in the shadow of Uncle Bill.

We don’t really comment on each other’s stories. We just listen.

Then, later on, when I go to bed, Sadie goes to the London Portrait Gallery and sits with her painting all night, alone. She hasn’t told me that’s what she does. I just know, from the way she disappears off silently, her eyes already distant and dreamy. And the way she returns, thoughtful and distracted and talking about her childhood and Stephen and Archbury. I’m glad she goes. The painting’s so important to her, she
should
spend time with it. And this way she doesn’t have to share it with anyone else.

Coincidentally, it works out well for me too, her being out of the way at night. For … various other reasons.

Nothing specific.

Oh, OK. All
right
. There is a specific reason. Which would be the fact that Ed has recently stayed over at my place a few nights.

I mean, come on. Can you think of anything worse than a ghost lurking around in your bedroom when you’re … getting to know your new boyfriend better? The idea of Sadie giving us a running commentary is more than I can cope with. And she has no shame. I know she’d watch us. She’d probably award us
points out of ten, or say disparagingly that they did it much better in her day, or suddenly yell “Faster!” in Ed’s ear.

I’ve already caught her stepping into the shower one morning when Ed and I both happened to be in there. I screamed and tried to push her out, and accidentally elbowed Ed in the face, and it took me about an hour to recover. And Sadie wasn’t one little bit sorry. She said I was overreacting and she just wanted to keep us company.
Company?

Ed kept shooting me little sidelong glances after that. It’s almost like he suspects. I mean, obviously he can’t have guessed the truth; that would be impossible. But he’s pretty observant. And I can tell he knows there’s something a bit strange in my life.

The phone rings and Kate picks it up. “Hello, Magic Search, can I help you? … Oh. Yes, of course, I’ll put you through.” She presses the hold button and says, “It’s Sam from Bill Lington’s travel office. Apparently you called them?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks, Kate.”

I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver. Here goes my latest salvo.

“Hello, Sam,” I say pleasantly. “Thanks for ringing back. The reason I called is, um … I’m trying to arrange a fun surprise for my uncle. I know he’s away and I wondered if you could possibly give me his flight details? Obviously I won’t pass them on!” I add, with a casual little laugh.

This is a total bluff. I don’t even know if he’s flying back from wherever he is. Maybe he’s taking the
QE2
or traveling by bespoke submarine. Nothing would surprise me.

“Lara,” Sam sighs. “I’ve just spoken to Sarah. She told me that you were trying to contact Bill. She also informed me that you’d been banned from the house.”

“Banned?”
I muster tones of shock. “Are you serious? Well, I have no idea what that’s about. I’m just trying to organize a little surprise birthday-o-gram for my uncle—”

“His birthday was a month ago.”

“So … I’m a bit late!”

“Lara, I can’t give out confidential flight information,” Sam says smoothly. “Or any information. Sorry. Have a good day.”

“Right. Well… thanks.” I crash the receiver down. Damn.

“Everything OK?” Kate looks up anxiously.

“Yes. Fine.” I muster a smile. But as I head out to the kitchen, I’m breathing heavily and my blood is pumping around fast, all toxic with frustration. I’m sure this situation is terrible for my health. Another thing to blame Uncle Bill for. I flick on the kettle and lean against the counter, trying to calm myself with deep breathing.

Hare hare … vengeance will be mine … hare hare … I just have to be patient….

Trouble is, I’m sick of being patient. I take a teaspoon out and shove the drawer closed with a satisfying
bang
.

“Goodness!” Sadie appears, perched above the dishwasher. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong.” I haul my tea bag out roughly and dump it in the bin. “I want to get him.”

Sadie opens her eyes wider. “I didn’t realize you were so steamed up.”

“I wasn’t. But I am now. I’ve had enough.” I slosh milk into my tea and dump the carton back in the fridge. “I know you’re being all magnanimous, but I don’t see how you can do it. I just want to … to punch him. Every time I pass a Lingtons coffee shop, I see a great big rack with
Two Little Coins
for sale. I want to rush in and yell, ‘Stop it, everybody! It wasn’t two little coins! It was my great-aunt’s fortune!’” I sigh and take a sip of tea. Then I look up at Sadie curiously. “Don’t you want to get back at him? You must be a total saint.”

“Saint
is probably a
little
strong….” She smoothes back her hair.

“It’s not. You’re amazing.” I cradle the mug. “The way you just keep moving forward. The way you don’t dwell on stuff. The way you look at the big picture.”

“Keep moving onward,” she says simply. “That’s always been my way.”

“Well, I really admire you. If it were me, I’d want to
… trash
him.”

“I could trash him.” She shrugs. “I could go to the south of France and make his life a misery. But would I be a better person?” She hits her slim chest. “Would I feel better inside?”

“The south of France?” I stare at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, the south of France?”

Sadie immediately looks shifty. “I’m … guessing. It’s the kind of place he would be. It’s the kind of place wealthy people go.”

Why is she avoiding my eye?

“Oh my
God.”
I gasp as it suddenly hits me. “You know where he is, don’t you? Sadie!” I exclaim as she starts to fade away. “Don’t you
dare
disappear!”

“All right.” She comes back into view, looking a little sulky. “Yes. I do know where he is. I went to his office. It was very easy to find out.”

“Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“Because …” She gives a distant, noncommittal shrug.

“Because you didn’t want to admit that you’re just as mean and vengeful as me! Come on. What did you do to him? You might as well tell me now.”

“I did nothing!” she says haughtily. “Or at least … nothing much. I just wanted to have a look at him. He’s very, very rich, isn’t he?”

“Incredibly.” I nod. “Why?”

“He seems to own an entire beach. That’s where I came across him. He was lying on a bed in the sun, covered in oil, with several servants nearby cooking food for him. He looked terribly self-satisfied.” A rictus of distaste passes across her face.

“Didn’t you want to yell at him? Didn’t you want to have a go at him?”

“Actually … I did yell at him,” she says after a pause. “I couldn’t help myself. I felt so angry.”

“That’s good! You
should
yell. What did you say?”

I’m utterly agog. I can’t believe Sadie has gone and confronted Uncle Bill on his private beach, all on her own. To be honest, I feel a bit hurt that she left me out. But then, I guess she has the right to seek revenge in any way she wants. And I’m glad she let him have it. I hope he heard every word.

“Come on, what did you say?” I persist. “Tell me word for word, starting at the beginning.”

“I told him he was fat,” she says with satisfaction.

For a moment I think I must have heard wrong.

“You told him he was
fat?”
I stare at her incredulously. “That was it? That was your revenge?”

“It’s the perfect revenge!” retorts Sadie. “He looked very unhappy. He’s a terribly vain man, you know.”