Something Only We Know (34 page)

Before I could stop myself, an image of Ned popped into my mind: Ned as he’d been the last time I’d seen him, in the kitchen washing up alongside my sister, humming the theme tune to
Friends
. I’d announced I was staying at Owen’s for a couple of days, and Hel had raised her eyebrows and Ned scowled at me. Then she’d passed the heavy pan to him and
asked him to put it up on top of the cupboard for her where she couldn’t reach, and the action had seemed so symbolic, so designed to press home the point that she
relied
on him,
that I’d left the room immediately and gone to pack. He wasn’t mine; Owen was mine and I needed to get a grip.

I slowed the car as the lanes narrowed. Now I was well into the countryside, driving past tastefully restored farm workers’ cottages and barn conversions. The hedges were bulking out, the
verges sprouting tall and, as the road climbed, the Cheshire Plain spread in front of me, rich and fertile. Here was a landscape well satisfied with itself. Before long, signs began appearing for
Tallybridge and within another ten minutes I was pulling into Lambin’s driveway.

The studio was housed in a series of converted farm buildings with solar panels on the roofs. In front of the biggest barn was a neat, sterile area of honey-coloured gravel chips with no flower
beds or shrubs, only a couple of granite millstones propped against the wall. I parked the car, got out and crunched over to the door. Above me, perched along the roof line, fat pigeons called
You do, too; you do, too
.

I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. That was odd. I rang again. I checked my watch. I stepped back, as if any inhabitants might just need some space to encourage them out. I was thinking how
Rosa especially wanted me to do this interview right because Lambin was a major name in design circles and it had been a coup to get him to speak to us at all. Briefly – madly – I
wondered if it was worth a quick call to the office to check I’d got the correct day, but the thought withered at once as I imagined my boss’s reaction when she heard.
Are you
incapable of following instructions, Jennifer? See, I go out on a limb and give you a project of substance, and how long does it take you to mess up?

I decided to take a slow stroll around the workshop, see if anyone arrived in the meantime. I could text Owen, maybe, or pop onto Twitter. But before I even got as far as the corner of the barn,
there was a squeal of brakes in the lane and then a Lexus LS swung through the gateway and pulled up sharply on the gravel. The engine died, the door was flung open and an elegant blonde climbed
out, waving.

‘Are you the
Messenger
lady? Hi. I am so sorry. I’m Mrs Lambin. We got held up with a client and couldn’t get away. My husband’s coming, he’ll be about
another twenty minutes. He told me to go on ahead and keep you entertained.’

The accent was posh-English, with no hint of Canadian. She was tall and super-slim like a model, in a black polo neck and dark blue jeans. Her hair was short and textured, expensively cut. But
her face was mobile and full of mischief. The mouth was too wide for a model’s, and the brows too strong. Characterful, you might have said. She smiled easily, beckoned me towards the barn.
‘Seriously, though, phew. I’ve been breaking land-speed records to get here in time. Mown down half a dozen pheasants at least. Come inside and I’ll get us a drink.’

Their house was the most stylish place I’d ever set foot in. Everything was open-plan, or partitioned off with translucent panels. In front of me was a broad glass staircase, with brushed
steel banisters and a circular skylight directly above. Some sort of mezzanine or gallery arrangement was going on at the far end of the building, and below it I could see a vertical metal tube,
thick as a tree trunk, with a dramatic African-style rug laid in front of it suggestive of a hearth. The flooring throughout was some kind of very light wood. ‘Should I remove my
shoes?’ I asked, because Mrs Lambin had peeled her ankle boots off straightaway.

‘Only if you want to. There’s no need. I got rid of mine because they pinch. Bloody things. Look fantastic, feel like instruments of torture. I’ll have hammer-toes before
I’m forty and serve me right. Now, what do you fancy? Luc has this whole fruit tea thing going, but I can do you normal, or I can make up some elder-flower cordial, or sparkling water, or
something stronger if you’re in the mood. No coffee about, I’m afraid, as it makes us both hyperactive.’

‘I’ll have a normal tea.’

‘Excellent choice. Me too. Come into the kitchen and let’s get that kettle on. God, and I tell you, as well as my feet being on fire for the last hour, I’m
bursting
for a pee – we were with the Duke of Westminster, have you met him? No? Nice guy – and he was having this intense discussion with Luc about the virtues of different woods and I
didn’t like to interrupt with, Excuse me, where’s the loo, your Grace? So I’m bobbing about on one of his antique sofas, he must have thought I had ADD. And then we went outside
and I tripped over one of his bloody stone lions. Luc’s signalling to me like,
What’s the matter with you, woman?
She pulled an expression of fake-horror that made me laugh,
and I thought how, if it had been Rosa who’d just visited a duke, she’d have been gliding about wearing an imaginary tiara and we wouldn’t have been worthy to touch the hem of her
garment.

The kitchen, as I’d have predicted, was stunning, all minimalist chic and clever use of spotlights. What I guessed was a Lambin table graced the centre of the room, glossed ebony and
breakfast bar height, resting on a twisted central pedestal. Our photographer was going to be in ecstasy.

I said, ‘You do a lot of celebrity commissions?’

‘We do. Luc’s working on a piece for Brian May at the moment, a chair with adders twining up the sides. He’ll show you when he gets here. I
love
your jacket, by the
way. Is it velvet?’

‘Brushed cotton.’

‘Gorgeous. Red’s your colour, isn’t it? Makes me look a dog.’

I sincerely doubted that. The more I watched her as she moved around the kitchen, the more striking I found her. She glowed with health and energy. Her skin reminded me of adverts for spas and
yoghurt and ski resorts. I liked her casual self-deprecation because it was funny and she wasn’t fishing for compliments.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘can I offer you a biscuit? We have some Belgian chocolate wafers, absolutely delicious. I’m on a stupid diet, but it would give me enormous pleasure to
watch you eat one.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘OK. Let’s get going, then. I appreciate you’re on a tight schedule, it’s very good of you to come out. I’ll show you some of his work while we wait.’

Without a second’s self-consciousness she took hold of my hand to lead me through to the lounge. Oh! I nearly said, because it felt like such an intimate and unexpected gesture from
someone I’d only just met. Her friendliness was warming, like standing in front of a fire on a cold day. You hear about these people who light up a room: Mrs Lambin was one of them. I bet her
address book was bursting with friends, I bet the phone never stopped ringing with invitations. And I found myself recalling, of all things, a Welsh seaside holiday when I was eight, and a group of
kids who were already at the hotel when I arrived. I remembered hanging about shyly in the foyer while Mum and Helen argued about rooms or meal times or the application of suncream, and then one of
the gang, a stocky girl, had bounced over and asked if I wanted to play rounders with them. The rest of that week had been a blast. Danni, this girl was called. She’d been full of ideas and
dares, a natural and likeable leader. Even on the days it rained and we’d been stuck in the hotel she’d organised us kids into games of hide and seek, or joke-telling competitions.
Afterwards I’d meant to write but I’d lost her address. I wondered what had become of Danni, born as she was under a sparkling star.

Mrs Lambin guided me over to a tall, arched window in front of which sat a coffee table carved of golden brown wood and flecked with knots. I’m no design expert; to me, furniture’s
just something over which you drape your clothes or pile old magazines. Even I could see this was special, though. The top surface was beautiful, but what drew the eye even more was that the legs
weren’t symmetrical, they curved downwards via different routes, as if they’d grown by themselves. Branches, they might have been. Vine stalks. The polished lines called out to be
stroked and followed with the fingers.

‘Feel free,’ said Mrs Lambin, reading my thoughts. ‘He made them to be touched.’

So I squatted down on my haunches and examined the table more closely. From this level, the twisting grain of the wood reminded me of melting butter or syrup flowing out of a tin, or a golden
scarf blowing in the wind. What type of wood was it? Did he know what the structure would be like inside when he began to carve out a block?

‘This was actually his first commercial piece,’ she was explaining, ‘and the guy who commissioned it backed out of the deal – this is years ago, 2004 – so Luc kept
it and it’s worth a mint. Not that he’d ever sell it. He thinks it’s his lucky charm.’

‘Yeah? Wow.’ I put my cup of tea carefully down on the slate windowsill where she’d rested hers, and reached into my pocket for my notepad. Might as well start the
interview.

‘How long have you two been together?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘God. Too long! No, seriously, I left Cheshire in 2000 – I’d finished my GCSEs and my father got a job offer up in Edinburgh so we trailed up there, and
then a year into my A levels I dropped out and started working in a gallery – I have no staying power, I’m totally bloody useless. And Luc was over in the UK on a kind of art exchange
programme and we met and he just dismissed me as this jumped-up little schoolgirl – he’s eight years older than me, he’s forty.
Forty !
And I thought he was an arrogant
tosser – he won’t mind my telling you this, he thinks it’s funny now – and basically he got me sacked from my job. Can you believe it? Mind you, I
was
totally
arrogant. I needed taking down a peg or two. So then he felt sorry and he took me for a drink to apologise, and we had another huge row in the pub and then in the middle of it he fell in love with
me. Well, there was a bit more to it but that is what happened.’

She took me over to look at a smooth-sided wall cupboard that seemed to have sprouted on its own from the bricks around it. I couldn’t even see how it was held up.

‘So you’re originally from round here?’

‘I am. An age ago. We had a house in Malpas.’

‘Really? Which school did you go to? Not St Thom’s?’

She laughed and pointed out a three-legged stool for me to admire. ‘That’s right. Old Thommy’s. Though I didn’t exactly have an illustrious career there. I’m sure
the teachers were glad to see the back of me.’

‘Oh my God, that’s where I went.’

‘No! Was old Mincing there in your time?’

‘Do you mean Mr Minchin, the deputy? No, but my sister was always talking about him. He was there when she was. Camp as a boy scouts’ convention. He wore cravats.’

‘He did. With matching socks. The man was a legendary tool. Rang my parents to tell them I was a disgrace because I’d used a piece of his sheet music to blot my lipstick. And my
father just laughed and told him I’d done much more disgraceful things than that. Who was your sister? Maybe I knew her.’

‘Helen Crossley. She’d have been in the year below you, or maybe two years below. God, I’m so disorganised I haven’t even got your forename down yet. You’re still
just “Mrs Lambin” in my notes. Sorry.’

‘No probs. It’s Sass.’

‘Sass?’

‘S-a-s-s. Sassy, if you like. That’s what Luc calls me sometimes.’

Some dark anxiety plucked at my core. ‘That’s short for—’

‘For Saskia. Yes, I was Saskia Fox-Lawrence at school, of all the bloody names to saddle a child with. Your sister might remember me because I was in a group that won Battle of the School
Bands one year. Terminatrix. We were pretty bloody awful but then so was everyone else who took part. Actually, I say that but our bassist went on to become a session musician at Angelfish studios,
so that wasn’t entirely hopeless, although he kept falling out with the manager and I think nowadays he runs a travel agency in Manchester . . . Oh. Are you OK?’

There were no mirrors within my sight-line, but I could guess what had happened to my face. I knew my eyes were wide, my cheeks flushing with realisation.

‘I think – I think you did know my sister,’ I managed.

‘Did I? Oh, OK. Let me think, then. And come and sit down. Here, I’ll bring your drink for you. That’s right. Mind the rug, I don’t want you to trip. Would you be better
with your jacket off? You seem awfully warm.’

On shaky legs I made my way to the Lambin sofa, a double-throne affair with gothic points at the headrests and green velvet upholstery. She lowered me into it, the way you might settle a poorly
pensioner. ‘Goodness. Are you having a dizzy do? You don’t look very well,’ she said.

‘Having a dizzy do’? I could barely see straight. Dear God, right here in front of me was THE GIRL. The one who’d told my sister she was worthless and alone. Who’d
programmed her to believe food was poison and that to eat was weak and disgusting. Who’d offered fake friendship which she threatened to withdraw whenever Helen didn’t follow the rules.
Who’d cajoled and bullied, set punishing weight-loss targets, urged her not to listen to her parents and to lie and cheat her way out of any real nourishment. This was the most evil
schoolgirl in the world, grown up. How could she be here, living this wonderful life, after what she’d done to my sister? To our whole family. How dare she stand there and claim she
didn’t remember?

I said, ‘You were her best friend. A huge part of her life for nearly a year.’

Sass put her fingertips to her mouth thoughtfully, then took them away again. Her brow was furrowed with concern. ‘Look, I can see this is important to you, but I’m ever so sorry, I
honestly don’t recall her. Maybe if I saw a photo. That’s it. Have you got a picture on your phone? My stupid old brain forgets all sorts these days. I’m probably on for an early
menopause or something. And I had such an up-and-down sort of time at school I expect I’ve blanked quite a lot out. That’s no reflection on your sister, obviously. What did you say her
name was? Hannah?’