Twenties Girl (41 page)

As I stand there I’m trying to keep my breathing steady; I’m trying to think peaceful, suitable thoughts. Maybe even a couple of words to say aloud. I want to do the right thing. But at the same time there’s an urgency beating inside me, growing stronger with every moment I stay here. The truth is, my heart isn’t in this room.

I have to go. Now.

With trembling legs I reach the door, wrench the handle, and hurtle out, to the obvious surprise of the funeral director, who’s loitering in the corridor.

“Is everything all right?” he says.

“Fine,” I gulp, already walking away. “All fine. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch. But I must go now. I’m sorry, it’s rather important …”

My chest feels so constricted I can barely breathe. My head is throbbing with thoughts I don’t want to have. I have to get out of here. Somehow I make it down the pastel corridor and through the foyer, almost running. I reach the entrance and burst out onto the street. And I stop dead, clutching the door, panting slightly, looking straight across the road.

The bench is empty.

I know right then.

Of course I know.

But still my legs take me across the road at a run. I look desperately up and down the pavement. I call out “Sadie? SADIE?” until I’m hoarse. I brush tears from my eyes and bat away inquiries from kindly strangers and look up and down the street again, and I won’t give up and at last I sit down on the bench, gripping it with both hands. Just in case. And I wait.

And when it’s finally dusk and I’m starting to shiver … I know. Deep down, where it matters.

She’s not coming back. She’s moved on.

TWENTY-SEVEN

adies and gentlemen.” My voice booms so loudly, I stop and clear my throat. I’ve never spoken into such a big loudspeaker system, and even though I did a “Hello, Wembley, one-two, one-two” sound check earlier, it’s still a bit of a shock.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” I try again. “Thank you so much for being here today at this occasion of sadness, celebration, festivity …” I survey the mass of faces gazing up at me expectantly. Rows and rows of them. Filling the pews of St. Botolph’s Church. “… and, above all, appreciation of an extraordinary woman who has touched us all.”

I turn to glance at the massive reproduction of Sadie’s painting which is dominating the church. Around and beneath it are the most beautiful flower arrangements I’ve ever seen, with lilies and orchids and trailing ivy and even a reproduction of Sadie’s dragonfly necklace, made out of the palest yellow roses set on a bed of moss.

That one was done by Hawkes and Cox, which is a top London
florist. They contacted me when they heard about the memorial service and offered to do it for free, because they were all such fans of Sadie and wanted to show their appreciation of her. (Or, to be more cynical, because they knew they’d get great publicity.)

I honestly didn’t intend this event to be such a massive deal at first. I just wanted to organize a memorial service for Sadie. But then Malcolm at the London Portrait Gallery heard about it. He suggested they announce the details of the service on their website for any art lovers who wanted to come and pay their respects to such a famous icon. To everyone’s astonishment, they were besieged by applications. In the end they had to do a ballot. It even made the
London Tonight
news. And here they all are, crammed in. Rows and rows of them. People who want to honor Sadie. When I arrived and saw the crowds, I actually felt a bit breathless.

“I’d also like to say, great clothes. Bravo.” I beam around at the vintage coats, the beaded scarves, the occasional pair of spats. “I think Sadie would have approved.”

The dress code for today is 1920s, and everyone has made a stab at it of some sort. And I don’t
care
if memorial services don’t usually have dress codes, like that vicar kept saying. Sadie would have loved it, and that’s what counts.

All the nurses from the Fairside Home have made a spectacular effort, both with themselves and also with all the elderly residents who have come. They’re in the most fabulous outfits, with headdresses and necklaces, every single one. I meet Ginny’s eye and she beams, giving an encouraging wave of her fan.

It was Ginny and a couple of other nurses from the home who came with me to Sadie’s private funeral and cremation, a few weeks ago. I only wanted people there who had known her. Really
known
her. It was very quiet and heartfelt, and afterward I took them all out for lunch and we cried and drank wine and told Sadie stories and laughed, and then I gave a big donation to the nursing home and they all started crying again.

Mum and Dad weren’t invited. But I think they kind of understood.

I glance at them, sitting in the front row. Mum is in a disastrous lilac drop-waisted dress with a headband, which looks more seventies ABBA than twenties. And Dad’s in a totally non-1920s outfit. It’s just a normal, modern single-breasted suit, with a silk spotted handkerchief in his top pocket. But I’ll forgive him, because he’s gazing up at me with such warmth and pride and affection.

“Those of you who only know Sadie as a girl in a portrait may wonder, who was the person behind the painting? Well, she was an amazing woman. She was sharp, funny, brave, outrageous … and she treated life as the most massive adventure. As you all know, she was muse to one of the famous painters of this century. She bewitched him. He never stopped loving her, nor she him. They were tragically separated by circumstances. But if he’d only lived longer … who knows?”

I pause for breath and glance at Mum and Dad, who are watching me, riveted. I practiced my whole speech for them last night, and Dad kept saying incredulously, “How do you
know
all this?” I had to start referring vaguely to “archives” and “old letters” just to keep him quiet.

“She was uncompromising and feisty. She had this knack of … making things happen. Both to her and to other people.” I sneak a tiny glance at Ed, sitting next to Mum, and he winks back at me. He knows this speech pretty well too.

“She lived ’til one hundred and five, which is quite an achievement.” I look around the audience to make sure everyone is listening. “But she would have hated it if this had defined her, if people just thought of her as ‘the hundred-and-five-year-old.’ Because inside, she was a twenty-three-year-old all her life. A girl who lived her life with sizzle. A girl who loved the Charleston, cocktails, shaking her booty in nightclubs and fountains, driving too fast, lipstick, smoking gaspers … and barney-mugging.”

I’m taking a chance that no one in the audience knows what barney-mugging means. Sure enough, they smile back politely, as though I’ve said she loved flower arranging.

“She loathed knitting,” I add, with emphasis. “That should go on the record. But she loved
Grazia.”
There’s a laugh around the church, which is good. I wanted there to be laughter.

“Of course, for us, her family,” I continue, “she wasn’t just a nameless girl in a painting. She was my great-aunt. She was part of our heritage.” I hesitate as I reach the part I really want to hit home. “It’s easy to discount family. It’s easy to take them for granted. But your family is your history. Your family is part of who you are. And without Sadie, none of us would be in the position we are today.”

I can’t help shooting Uncle Bill a steely gaze at this point. He’s sitting upright next to Dad, dressed in a bespoke suit with a carnation buttonhole, his face quite a lot gaunter than it was on that beach in the south of France. It hasn’t been a great month for him, all told. He’s been constantly in the news pages and the business pages, and none of it good.

At first, I wanted to ban him from this altogether. His publicist was desperate for him to come, to try to redress some of the bad PR he’s had, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him swaggering in, stealing the limelight, doing his usual Uncle Bill trick. But then I reconsidered. I started thinking, why
shouldn’t
he come and honor Sadie? Why
shouldn’t
he come and listen to how great his aunt was?

So he was allowed to come. On my terms.

“We should honor her. We should be grateful.”

I can’t help looking meaningfully at Uncle Bill again—and I’m not the only one. Everyone keeps glancing at him, and there are even a few nudges and whispers going on.

“Which is why I’ve set up, in Sadie’s memory, the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. Funds raised will be distributed by the trustees to causes of which she would have approved. In particular, we will be supporting various dance-related organizations,
charities for the elderly, the Fairside Nursing Home, and the London Portrait Gallery, in recognition of its having kept her precious painting so safely these last twenty-seven years.”

I grin at Malcolm Gledhill, who beams back. He was so chuffed when I told him. He went all pink and started talking about whether I’d like to become a Friend, or go on the board, or something, as I’m clearly such an art lover. (I didn’t want to say, “Actually, I’m just a Sadie lover; you can pretty much take or leave all those other pictures.”)

“I would also like to announce that my uncle, Bill Lington, wishes to make the following tribute to Sadie, which I will now read on his behalf.”

There is no way on earth I was letting Uncle Bill get up on this podium. Or write his own tribute. He doesn’t even know what I’m about to say. I unfold a separate piece of paper and let a hush of anticipation fall before I begin.

“It is entirely due to my aunt Sadie’s painting that I was able to launch myself in business. Without her beauty, without her help, I would not find myself in the privileged position I occupy today. During her life I did not appreciate her enough. And for this I am truly sorry.”
I pause for effect. The church is totally silent and agog. I can see all the journalists scribbling hard.
“I am therefore delighted to announce today that I will be donating ten million pounds to the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. It is a small recompense, to a very special person.”

There’s a stunned murmuring. Uncle Bill has gone a kind of sallow putty color, with a rictus smile fixed in place. I glance at Ed, who winks again and gives me the thumbs-up. It was Ed who said, “Go for ten million.” I was all set to ask for five, and I thought that was pushy enough. And the great thing is, now that six hundred people and a whole row of journalists have heard him, he can’t exactly back out.

“I’d sincerely like to thank you all for coming.” I look around the church. “Sadie was in a nursing home by the time her painting was discovered. She never knew quite how appreciated and
loved she was. She would have been overwhelmed to see you all. She would have realized …” I feel a sudden rush of tears to my head.

No. I
can’t
lose it now. After I’ve done so well. Somehow I manage a smile, and draw breath again.

“She would have realized what a mark she made on this world. She’s given so many people pleasure, and her legacy will remain for generations. As her great-niece, I’m incredibly proud.” I swivel to survey the painting for a silent moment, then turn back. “Now it simply remains for me to say: To Sadie. If you would all raise your glasses …”

There’s a stirring and rustling and clinking as everyone reaches for their cocktail glasses. Each guest was presented with a cocktail as they arrived: a gin fizz or a sidecar, especially mixed by two barmen from the Hilton. (And I don’t
care
if people don’t usually have cocktails at memorial services.)

“Tally-ho.” I lift my glass high, and everyone obediently echoes, “Tally-ho.” There’s silence as everyone sips. Then, gradually, murmurs and giggles start to echo round the church. I can see Mum sipping at her sidecar with a wary expression, and Uncle Bill grimly downing his gin fizz in one, and a pink-faced Malcolm Gledhill beckoning the waiter over for a top-up.

The organ crashes in with the opening bars of “Jerusalem,” and I make my way down the podium steps to rejoin Ed, who’s standing next to my parents. He’s wearing the most amazing vintage 1920s dinner jacket which he paid a fortune for at a Sotheby’s auction and makes him look like a black-and-white-movie star. When I exclaimed in horror at the price, he just shrugged and said he knew the 1920s thing meant a lot to me.

“Good job,” he whispers, clenching my hand. “You did her proud.”

As the rousing song starts, I realize I can’t join in. Somehow my throat feels too tight and the words won’t come. So instead I look around at the flower-laden church, and the beautiful outfits, and all the people gathered here, singing lustily for Sadie. So
many diverse people, from different walks of life. Young, old, family members, friends from the nursing home—people that she touched in some way. All here. All for her. This is what she deserved.

This
is what she deserved. All along.

When the service finally ends, the organist launches into the Charleston (I don’t
care
if memorial services don’t usually have the Charleston), and the congregation slowly files out, still clutching their cocktail glasses. The reception is being held at the London Portrait Gallery, thanks to lovely Malcolm Gledhill, and helpful girls with badges are telling people how to get there.

But I don’t rush. I can’t quite face all the talking and chatter and buzz. Not just yet. I sit in my front pew, breathing in the scent of the flowers, waiting until it’s quieter.

I did her justice. At least I think I did. I hope I did.

“Darling.” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I see her approaching me, her hairband more wonky than ever. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a glow of pleasure all around her as she slides in beside me. “That was wonderful.
Wonderful.”

“Thanks.” I smile up at her.

“I’m so proud of the way you skewered Uncle Bill. Your charity will do great things, you know. And the cocktails!” she adds, draining her glass. “What a good idea!”

I gaze at Mum, intrigued. As far as I know, she hasn’t worried about a single thing today. She hasn’t fretted that people might arrive late, or get drunk, or break their cocktail glasses, or anything.

“Mum … you’re different,” I can’t help saying. “You seem less stressed. What happened?”

I’m suddenly wondering if she’s been to the doctor. Is she taking Valium or Prozac or something? Is she on some drug-induced high?

There’s silence as Mum adjusts her lilac sleeves.

“It was very strange,” she says at last. “And I couldn’t tell everybody this, Lara. But a few weeks ago, something strange happened.”

“What?”

“It was almost as though I could hear …” She hesitates, then whispers, “A
voice in my head.”

“A voice?” I stiffen. “What kind of voice?”

“I’m not a religious woman. You know that.” Mum glances around the church and leans toward me. “But, truly, this voice followed me around all day! Right in here.” She taps her head. “It wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought I was going mad!”