Twenties Girl (42 page)

“What—what did it say?”

“It said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right, stop worrying!’ Just that, over and over, for hours. I got quite ratty with it, in the end. I said out loud, ‘All right, Mrs. Inner Voice, I get the message!’ And then it stopped, like magic.”

“Wow,” I manage, a lump in my throat. “That’s … amazing.”

“And ever since then, I find things don’t
bother
me quite as much.” Mum glances at her watch. “I’d better go, Dad’s on his way round with the car. Do you want a lift?”

“Not just yet. I’ll see you there.”

Mum nods understandingly, then heads out. As the Charleston morphs into another 1920s tune, I lean back, gazing up at the beautiful molded ceiling, still a bit blown away by Mum’s revelation. I can just see Sadie trailing after her, pestering her, refusing to give up.

All the things that Sadie was and did and achieved. Even now, I feel like I only ever knew the half of it.

The medley eventually comes to an end, and a woman in robes appears and starts snuffing out all the candles. I rouse myself, pick up my bag, and get to my feet. The place is already empty. Everyone will be on their way.

As I head out of the church into the paved forecourt, a ray of sunlight catches me in the eye and I blink. There’s a crowd of people still laughing and talking on the pavement, but no one is
anywhere near me, and I find my gaze drifting upward to the sky. As it does so often. Still.

“Sadie?” I say quietly, out of force of habit. “Sadie?” But of course there’s no reply. There never is.

“Well done!” Ed suddenly descends on me from nowhere and plants a kiss on my lips, making me jump. Where was he, hiding behind a pillar? “Spectacular. The whole thing. It couldn’t have gone better. I was so proud of you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I flush with pleasure. “It was good, wasn’t it? So many people came!”

“It was amazing. And that’s all because of you.” He touches my cheek gently and says more quietly, “Are you ready to go to the gallery? I told your mom and dad to go on.”

“Yes.” I smile. “Thanks for waiting. I just needed a moment.”

“Sure.” As we start walking toward the wrought-iron gate onto the street, he threads his arm through mine and I squeeze it back. Yesterday, out of the blue, as we were walking to the memorial rehearsal, Ed told me casually that he was extending his assignment to London by six months, because he might as well use up his car insurance. Then he gave me a long look and asked me what I thought about him staying around for a while?

I pretended to think hard, trying to hide my euphoria, then said, yes, he might as well use up his car insurance, why not? And he kind of grinned. And I kind of grinned. And all the time, his hand was tightly knit around mine.

“So … who were you talking to just now?” he adds carelessly. “When you came out of the church.”

“What?” I say, a little thrown. “Nobody. Um, is the car nearby?”

“’Cause it
sounded”
he persists lightly, “as if you said ‘Sadie.’”

There’s a beat of silence while I try to arrange my features in exactly the right mystified expression.

“You thought I said
Sadie?”
I throw in a little laugh to show exactly what a bizarre idea this is. “Why would I say that?”

“That’s what I thought,” Ed says, still in the same conversational manner. “I thought to myself,
Why would she say that?”

He’s not going to let this go. I can tell.

“Maybe it’s the British accent,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Maybe you heard me saying ‘sidecar.’ I need another ‘sidecar.’”

“Sidecar.” Ed stops walking and fixes me with a long, quizzical gaze. Somehow I force myself to look back with wide, innocent eyes. He can’t read my mind, I remind myself. He
can’t
read my mind.

“There’s something,” he says at last, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something.”

I feel a fierce tug in my heart. Ed knows everything else about me, big and small. He has to know this too. After all, he was part of it.

“Yes.” I nod at last. “There’s something. And I’ll tell you about it. One day.”

Ed’s mouth twitches into a smile. He runs his eyes over my vintage dress, my swingy jet beads, my marcelled hair, and the feathers bobbing over my forehead, and his expression softens.

“Come on, twenties girl.” He takes hold of my hand with the firm, sure grasp I’ve got used to. “You did great by your aunt. Shame she didn’t see it.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It’s a shame.”

But as we walk away, I allow myself one more tiny glance up at the empty sky.

I hope she did.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank those who so kindly helped me with my research for this book: Olivia and Julian Pinkney, Robert Beck, and Tim Moreton.

My huge thanks go also to Susan Kamil, Noah Eaker, and all at The Dial Press and Bantam Dell. And, as ever, to Araminta Whitley, Kim Witherspoon, David Forrer, Harry Man, my boys, and the Board.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

S
OPHIE
K
INSELLA
is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as
Remember Me?, The Undomestic Goddess
, and
Can You Keep a Secret?
She lives in England.