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Authors: Jenny Colgan

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BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend
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‘Hi, Eck,’ I said quietly. He had been flirting with me. And then I just waltzed off with his flatmate. It must have felt like a kick in the teeth. But Eck . . . I couldn’t just have copped off with him. At least I knew Cal was a thick-skinned crocodile who got through women like packets of crisps. I’d never even seen Eck with a girl. Who knows what a one night stand would mean to him? Still, I hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. Not for anything. At the very least I’d hoped we were friends.
 
‘Got a bit drunk last night,’ I said, staring at my feet.
 
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You didn’t seem that far gone to me.’
 
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I was. I can hardly remember a thing. My head is about to fall off. I feel . . . really stupid.’
 
Which I did, standing butt naked on a freezing cold stairwell explaining to one flatmate why I’d just shagged another flatmate.
 
Eck looked a bit mollified. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. A lot of girls . . .’ He seemed about to say more then stopped himself. ‘I mean, don’t be too hard on yourself.’
 
And that made me feel guiltier than ever.
 
Reaching the safety of my bedroom, I threw on a pair of jeans and two jumpers and stared in the tiny mirror. Last night’s make-up had congealed all the way down my face. My cheeks had green stains on them. I looked a terrible, terrible, horrifying fright. Which didn’t really matter, as I was now going to stay in my bedroom for ever.
 
Oh God. Let me see. I supposed I should be as businesslike and as unfussed as possible. I remembered Meiko, a gloriously pretty Japanese girl with whom Cal had enjoyed a particularly athletic weekend. She left him little origami gifts at the front door every day for a fortnight. He had to know I wasn’t one of those.
 
So, mind set, I limped nervously into the kitchen. Whereupon my resolve crumbled instantly. Cal’s long lean pale body was leaning against the fridge, and he appeared to be in the middle of recounting some hilarious anecdote to James, which stopped the second I emerged, leaving me instantly suspicious that they’d been talking about me.
 
‘What ho!’ hollered James, all but confirming my suspicions.
 
‘Morning,’ I said, as breezily as I could manage, which wasn’t very.
 
‘MOR - ning,’ said James in a cheeky, wink wink, how’s-your-father type tone. How he ever got here from the 1950s I’d never know.
 
‘Hey,’ said Cal.
 
I tried to analyse his ‘hey’. Was it a ‘Hey, how
you
doin’?’ sexy kind of hey? Or a ‘Hey, who are you again, never mind I’m not that fussed’ kind of a hey? Or was it a ‘I am literally completely shagged out and did things to you last night that can see you in prison in several Southern American states and thus will keep conversation to a minimum until we’ve at least had the chance to have a cup of coffee together’ hey?
 
‘Hey,’ I said back. I looked hopelessly at the kettle. Everyone paused for a while.
 
‘Uh. Tea?’ I said. The others nodded.
 
We hovered in silence as the kettle boiled. It took nine-and-three-quarter hours.
 
‘So,’ said James finally. ‘Uh, what are you two up to today? Uh, maybe don’t answer that!’
 
Cal looked awkward. ‘Uh, well, I have to . . . uh, do a few things.’
 
Oh, for crying out loud. Actually, Cal, I got the message when you slunk out of the room without waking me. But, you know,
thanks.
 
‘Me too!’ I announced. I certainly did. Call my lawyer for a start. I may be feeling like a disinterred zombie, but this was something I couldn’t put off for one second. Lawyers don’t mind working on Sundays anyway; if they go near a church the water starts to burn them.
 
Cal looked incredibly sheepish suddenly, almost shifty. I stood up again, tea in my very shaky hand.
 
‘Em, Sophie . . .’ he started. Oh God, here it came. The talk. Next he would say, ‘Can I have a quick word?’ And then he would politely say that he didn’t really think it was a good idea blah, blah, blah, and I’d agree, obviously, but it would still be annoying because he got it in first.
 
‘I’d love to chat, Cal, but I’m really dead busy . . . could you drop me an email or something?’
 
This was a trick response; he didn’t have my email address, living as we do in the same house, and I didn’t have a computer any more. He looked startled and momentarily confused.
 
‘Well, best get on,’ I said, in a silly voice that made me sound like a cheerful lady vicar.
 
Cal opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then said, quite meekly, ‘Uh, OK . . . speak later.’
 
‘Sure thing,’ I said breezily.
 
 
 
I know I am a selfish person. My stepmother always liked to mention it, Carena used to say it if I ever asked to borrow her lipgloss, and my dad even wrote it up in my will for the world to read.
 
So I decided just for once to use it to my advantage, and I stole all the hot water, every last drop. I stayed in the shower till I felt the layers of sweat and sex and dancing and grime finally wash off. In this house, however hard I tried, I never felt truly clean. There was too much limescale deep in the bones of the pipes; too much old newspaper stuffed in gaps in the walls. Plus, I’m not that good a cleaner.
 
Once outside, I phoned Gail again. And the house. Nothing. Where were they? What were they doing? Where was Esperanza? If Gail was going somewhere bigger - had cashed in my dad’s shares or something - why wouldn’t she let me know? If she was stealing stuff - well, that didn’t make sense. I may have been mean to Gail, but I know my dad loved her. Why? Why?
 
I decide to go see Uncle Leonard, my dad’s old lawyer. He could advise me. He was my dad’s best friend. He could tell me what to do. Though why hadn’t he rung me already? No, I couldn’t think like that. I imagined it in my head. I’d go in and tell him all my worries and fears that the worst had happened, and he’d calm me down and say, ‘Well, there’s nothing going on, Sophie. Your stepmother has bought a lovely penthouse in Malibu and decided to vacate the house ready for when you come home. It was meant to be a surprise. We made a mistake; it wasn’t six months in the will, it was six weeks your dad meant. We’re so sorry. Please come back.’
 
And I’ll say, ‘Great, that’s fine, accidents happen. Could you help me find a great interior decorator for the house?’ and he’ll say, ‘Absolutely, that’s just what your father would have wanted. He’d have been so proud of you.’
 
‘Ugh, look, that slut’s got chin rash!’ comes a harsh teenage voice behind me. ‘Chin rash!’
 
And I will never, ever take the bus again.
 
 
 
St John’s Street is really lovely, where Leonard lives. His house is brown brick with some closed up windows, and it’s narrow and rickety like it’s auditioning to be in a Dickens’ adaptation. I knocked hard and hoped they were in.
 
Nothing happened for ages, and I was wondering what on earth to do next when the door creaked open. It was Leonard. He’d clearly been having a nap; instead of wearing his immaculate three-piece with fob watch, he was wearing an old shirt and trousers with a dressing gown over the top. His hair was all tufted up at the back of his head like fluff, rather than smoothed down impeccably with rather too much wax as it usually was. He was trying to poke on a small pair of spectacles and focus on me at the same time.
 
‘Hello?’ I said.
 
‘Who are you?’ said Leonard, not at all in his normal kindly voice. ‘Westminster Abbey is that way.’
 
‘Leonard . . . Leonard, it’s me.’
 
Leonard squinted and finally got his glasses on properly. ‘
Sophie?’
he said, sounding shocked. My hangover must have been worse than I thought. And my roots problem.
 
‘What on earth happened to you? Were you kidnapped? I haven’t heard from you in months.’
 
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘Uh, Leonard, I need to know about Daddy . . . I need to know about his will and what’s happening. ’
 
Leonard’s face fell. This wasn’t good. Leonard’s face should not fall at this point. It should light up and he should say something like, ‘Well, I should jolly well hope so too,’ and light a big fat cigar. Or something like that.
 
‘You’d better come in,’ Leonard said.
 
 
 
Leonard’s wife June made tea and I sat down on an uncomfortably slippery, leather-buttoned armchair in their lovely library.
 
‘Now, Sophie,’ he started, looking nervous. He’d gone upstairs and put a checked shirt and a green cashmere jumper on, but he still didn’t look right without the fob watch.
 
‘Firstly, as you know, your stepmother hired Mr Fortescue. It appears, ah, that she thought she would benefit from someone . . . more dynamic.’
 
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I said. ‘But you must know what’s going on . . . I heard a rumour that Gail’s not living in the house any more, and I can’t get anyone on the telephone.’
 
Leonard looked grave. ‘I heard that rumour too. Mind you, I wouldn’t believe everything you hear . . . I mean, I heard you were living in a squat down the Old Kent Road.’
 
I didn’t say anything.
 
Leonard squinted at me. ‘You’re not, are you?’
 
I shrugged, as if actually living in a dive on the Old Kent Road was actually wryly interesting and colourful.
 
Leonard took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. Then he let out a great sigh.
 
‘Why didn’t you come to us?’ said Leonard. ‘I’ve known you since you were a little girl. We’d have taken you in. June misses having young people round the house since the girls have grown. Why didn’t you, Sophie? Didn’t you want to come here?’
 
I felt terrible. The truth was, in my shallow, nasty spoiled way, I’d always just thought of Leonard as being like hired staff, not much up on Esperanza. Carena and I never played with his stolid, thick-eyebrowed daughters. It had just never occurred to me.
 
Both his daughters were lawyers now, like their dad, earning tons of money, no doubt, and both married and having babies. I’d had invites to their weddings but hadn’t even bothered to reply. And here was Leonard offering to take me in. Frankly, it was a chance I didn’t deserve. I lowered my head.
 
‘Thank you but I’m fine, Leonard, honestly.’
 
‘You don’t look fine,’ he said. ‘Is that a skin disease?’
 
No, it was chin rash. Well, I hoped it was chin rash. There was a small chance it might actually be scabies I supposed, given the night I’d had.
 
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. He didn’t look convinced.
 
‘So,’ I said. ‘Please. Tell me everything. Even if it is gossip.’
 
Leonard still looked pained.
 
‘I understand. You have client/attorney privilege, right?’ I said.
 
Leonard snorted. ‘I do wish people would stop watching American television. I’m not an attorney, I’m a lawyer, and no, privilege ends with death.’
 
‘Oh. OK,’ I said, resolving to stay quiet.
 
‘I have to tell you,’ said Leonard. ‘Your dad’s affairs . . . I mean, nobody expected him to die so young.’
 
An overweight overstressed over-drinking cigar-smoking workaholic man in his fifties. For the millionth time I felt that acid pang in my stomach. Why hadn’t I done something? Why didn’t I look after him? Mum couldn’t be there to do it. It was my job.
 
‘Uh-huh,’ I said, clutching my hands together and trying not to cry.
 
‘There, there,’ said June, coming in with Earl Grey tea and some sandwiches. She patted me gently on the shoulder. ‘It must be so raw still.’
 
Of course her kindness made it all worse - it had been so long since anyone had been kind - and I felt myself starting to snivel. I couldn’t cry again, I couldn’t.
 
Leonard looked pained at what he had to say.
 
‘Sophie, dear, your father made some very high-risk investments . . . leveraged a lot of debt from one company to another.’
 
I didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but it didn’t sound very good.
 
‘You know, that was his personal investment fund . . . he built it up from nothing. His position had changed quite rapidly with the central banking crisis, and things were very much in flux at the time of his death . . .’
BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend
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