Twenties Girl (18 page)

I just want to know, has he got her necklace?

“Well… what exactly happened during his visit?”

“He sat with her for a bit, then he left. That’s it.”

“In her room?”

“Oh, yes,” she says at once. “Sadie didn’t really leave her room much in those last weeks.”

“Right. So … could he have taken a necklace from her?”

“Well, it’s possible.” She sounds doubtful.

It’s possible. That’s a start.

“Can you tell me what he was like? How old was he?”

“In his fifties or so, I’d say. Nice-looking chap.”

This gets more and more intriguing. Who on earth is he? Sadie’s boy toy?

“If he visits again or calls, could you let me know?” I scribble down
Charles Reece—50s
on my notepad. “And could you get his address?”

“I can try. Can’t promise.”

“Thanks.” I sigh, feeling a bit dispirited. How am I ever going to track this guy down? “And there’s nothing else you can tell me about him?” I add as a last-ditch attempt. “Nothing … distinctive? Nothing at all that you noticed?”

“Well.” She laughs. “It’s just funny, you being called Lington.”

“How come?” I stare at the phone, puzzled.

“Ginny says you’re not related to that Bill Lington off the coffee cups? Millionaire bloke?”

“Er … why do you ask?” I’m suddenly alert.

“Because that’s exactly who he looked like! I said it at the time, to the girls. Even though he had dark glasses on and a scarf, you could see it. He was the spitting image of Bill Lington.”

TWELVE

t makes no sense. None. It’s crazy, whichever way you look at it.

Was “Charles Reece” really Uncle Bill? But why would he visit Sadie? Why would he use a fake name? And why wouldn’t he mention it?

And as for the idea that he might have had anything to do with her necklace disappearing … I mean, hello? He’s a multimillionaire. Why would he need some old necklace?

I feel like banging my head against the window, to make all the pieces fall into place. But since at this very minute I’m sitting in a plushy chauffeur-driven limo provided by Uncle Bill, I probably won’t. Just to get this far has been a total hassle. I don’t want to jeopardize things.

I’ve never phoned up Uncle Bill in my life, so at first I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with him. (Obviously I couldn’t ask Mum and Dad, or they’d want to know why I needed to see Uncle Bill and why had I been visiting Sadie’s nursing home and
what was I talking about, what necklace?) So I rang Lingtons head office, eventually persuaded someone that I was for real, got through to one of the assistants, and asked if I could make an appointment to see Uncle Bill.

It was as if I’d asked to see the president. Within the hour, about six assistants started sending me emails, coordinating a time, changing the time, changing the location, organizing a car, asking me to bring ID, telling me I couldn’t overrun my slot, asking what Lingtons beverage I’d prefer in the car….

All for a ten-minute meeting.

The car is pretty rock-star, I have to admit. It’s got two rows of seats facing each other and a TV, and a chilled strawberry smoothie was waiting for me, just like I asked for. I’d be more grateful, except that Dad once said Uncle Bill always sends cars for people so that the minute he’s had enough of them he can send them away again.

“William and Michael,” Sadie pipes up thoughtfully from the seat opposite. “I left everything to those boys in my will.”

“Oh, right.” I nod. “Yes, I think I heard that.”

“Well, I hope they were grateful. There must have been a fair amount.”

“Loads!” I lie hastily, remembering a conversation I once heard between Mum and Dad. Apparently everything was swallowed up by the nursing-home fees, but Sadie wouldn’t want to hear that. “And they were really thrilled.”

“So they should be.” She sits back in satisfaction. A moment later the car pulls off the road and approaches a pair of enormous gates. As the car stops by the gatehouse and a security guard approaches, Sadie peers past me at the mansion.

“Goodness.” She looks at me uncertainly, as though someone must be playing a joke. “That’s a rather large house. How on earth did he become so rich?”

“I told you,” I say under my breath, as I give my passport to the driver. He hands it to the security guard, and they confer as though I’m some sort of terrorist.

“You said he ran coffee shops.” Sadie wrinkles her nose.

“Yes. Thousands of them. All around the world. He’s really famous.”

There’s a pause, then Sadie says, “I should have liked to be famous.”

There’s a trace of wistfulness in her voice, and I open my mouth to say automatically, “Maybe you will be one day!” Then, as the truth hits me, I close it again, feeling a bit sad. There isn’t a “one day” for her anymore, is there?

By now the car is purring up the drive, and I can’t help gazing out of the window like a child. I’ve only been to Uncle Bill’s mansion a few times in my life, and I always forget how impressive and intimidating it is. It’s a Georgian house with about fifteen bedrooms and a basement with two swimming pools in it.
Two
.

I’m not going to get nervous
, I tell myself firmly.
It’s just a house. He’s just a person
.

But, oh
God
. Everything’s so grand. There are lawns everywhere and fountains sprinkling, and gardeners snipping hedges. As we approach the entrance, a tall guy in a black suit and shades with a discreet earpiece is coming down the spotless white steps to greet me.

“Lara.” He clasps my hand as though we’re old friends. “I’m Damian. I work for Bill. He’s looking forward to seeing you. I’ll take you round to the office wing.” As we start to crunch over the gravel, he adds lightly, “What exactly was it you wanted to talk to Bill about? Nobody seems very clear.”

“It’s … um … private. Sorry.”

“No problem.” He flashes a smile. “Great. Just approaching, Sarah,” he says into his earpiece.

The side building is as impressive as the main house, just in a different style, all glass and modern art and a stainless-steel water feature. As if by clockwork, a girl comes out to greet us, also dressed immaculately in a black suit.

“Hi, Lara. Welcome. I’m Sarah.”

“I’ll leave you here, Lara.” Damian flashes me his teeth again and crunches back over the gravel.

“So, it’s an honor to meet Bill’s niece!” says Sarah as she leads me into the building.

“Oh. Well… er, thanks.”

“I don’t know if Damian mentioned this.” Sarah ushers me to a seat and sits down opposite me. “But I was wondering if you could tell me the subjects you’d like to discuss with Bill. It’s something we ask all his visitors. So we can prep him, do any necessary research. … It makes life easier for everyone.”

“Damian did ask. But it’s kind of private, sorry.”

Sarah’s pleasant smile doesn’t falter for an instant.

“If you could just indicate the broad areas? Give us an idea?”

“I don’t really want to get into it.” I can feel myself flushing. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of a … family thing.”

“Of course! That’s fine. Excuse me a moment.”

She moves away into a corner of the reception area, and I can see her muttering into her earpiece. Sadie glides over to Sarah for a minute or two, then appears back by my side. To my astonishment, she’s cracking up with laughter.

“What is it?” I demand under my breath. “What was she saying?”

“She said she didn’t think you looked violent but maybe they should call extra security anyway.”

“What?”
I can’t help exclaiming, and Sarah immediately whips around to survey me.

“Sorry.” I wave at her cheerily. “Just … er … sneezed. What else did she say?” I hiss as Sarah turns away again.

“Apparently you have a grudge against Bill? Something about a job he didn’t give you?”

Grudge? Job? I stare at her baffled for a second—before the penny drops. The funeral. Of
course
.

“The last time Uncle Bill saw me, I was announcing a murder in the middle of a funeral. He must have told everyone I’m a total psychopath!”

“Isn’t it a wheeze?” Sadie giggles.

“It’s not funny!” I say crossly. “They probably all think I’ve come to assassinate him or something! You realize this is all
your
fault?” I hastily break off as Sarah approaches again.

“Hi, Lara!” Her voice is bright but tense. “So … one of Bill’s team will sit in with you during the meeting. Just to take notes. Is that OK?”

“Look. Sarah.” I try to sound as sane and calm as possible. “I’m not a nutter. I don’t have a grudge against anyone. I don’t need any notes taken. I just want to have a chat with my uncle, one to one. Five minutes. That’s all I want.”

There’s silence for a moment. Sarah still has a vivid smile pasted on, but her eyes keep swiveling to the door and back again.

“OK, Lara,” she says at last. “We’ll do things your way.”

As she sits down, I can see her touching her earpiece as though for reassurance.

“So … how’s Aunt Trudy?” I say conversationally. “Is she here?”

“Trudy’s at the house in France for a few days,” Sarah says at once.

“How about Diamanté? Maybe we could have a quick coffee or something.” I don’t really want to have coffee with Diamanté, I only want to prove how friendly and normal I am.

“You want to see Diamanté?” Sarah’s eyes have gone even more swively. “Now?”

“Just for a coffee, if she’s around.”

“I’ll call her assistant.” She leaps up, hurries away to the corner, and mutters in her earpiece, then almost immediately comes back to the seating area. “I’m afraid Diamanté’s getting a manicure at the moment. She says maybe next time?”

Yeah, right. She never even put the call through. I’m feeling quite sorry for this Sarah, actually. She looks as nervous as if she’s babysitting a lion. I have a wicked urge to yell “Hands up!” and see how quickly she throws herself to the floor.

“I love your bracelet,” I say instead. “It’s really unusual.”

“Oh, yes.” She extends her arm warily and shakes the two little silver disks on their chain. “Haven’t you seen these yet? They’re from the new Two Little Coins line. There’s going to be a stand of products in each Lingtons coffee shop starting next January. I’m sure Bill will give you one. There’s a pendant, too, and T-shirts … gift sets of two little coins in a treasure box. …”

“Sounds great,” I say politely. “It must be doing well.”

“Oh, Two Little Coins is huge,” she assures me earnestly. “Huge. It’ll be as big a brand as Lingtons. You know it’s going to be a Hollywood film?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Pierce Brosnan as Uncle Bill, I heard.”

“And of course the reality show will be a big hit. It’s such an empowering message. I mean, anyone can follow Bill’s path.” Sarah’s eyes are shining, and she seems to have forgotten all about being scared of me. “Anyone can pick up two little coins and decide to change their future. And you can apply it to families, businesses, economies. … You know, lots of really senior politicians have called Bill since the book came out. They’re, like, how can we apply your secret to our country?” She lowers her voice reverentially. “Including the President of the United States.”

“The president phoned Uncle Bill?” I’m awed, in spite of myself.

“His people.” She shrugs and shakes her bracelet out. “We all think Bill should get into politics himself. He has so much to offer the world. It’s such a privilege to work for him.”

She’s totally signed up for the cult. I glance at Sadie, who has been yawning throughout Sarah’s speech.

“I’m going to explore,” she announces, and before I can say anything, she’s disappeared.

“OK.” Sarah’s listening to her earpiece. “On our way. Bill’s ready to see you, Lara.”

She gets up and beckons me to follow. We make our way
down a corridor lined with what look suspiciously like real Picassos, then pause in another, smaller reception area. I tug at my skirt and take a few deep breaths. It’s ridiculous to feel nervous. I mean, this is my uncle. I have a right to see him. There’s no need to feel anything except relaxed—

I can’t help it. My legs are wobbling.

I think it’s because the doors are so big. They’re not like normal doors. They tower up to the ceiling, great blocks of pale polished wood that swing open silently every now and again as people come in and out.

“Is that Uncle Bill’s office?” I nod at the door.

“That’s the outer office.” Sarah smiles. “You’ll be seeing him in the inner office.” She listens to her earpiece again, suddenly alert, then murmurs, “Bringing her in now.”

She pushes open one of the tall doors and leads me through an airy, glass-walled office space with a couple of cool-looking guys at workstations, one of whom is wearing a Two Little Coins T-shirt. They both look up and smile politely but don’t stop typing. We reach another set of giant doors and pause. Sarah glances at her watch—then, as though timing it to the second, knocks and pushes the door open.

It’s a vast, light room with a vaulted ceiling and a glass sculpture on a podium and a sunken seating area. Six men in suits are getting up from chairs, as though finishing a meeting. And there, behind his massive desk, is Uncle Bill, looking lithe in a gray polo neck and jeans. He’s more tanned than he was at the funeral, his hair as glossy black as ever, and he’s cradling a Lingtons coffee mug in one hand.

“Thanks very much for your time, Bill,” one of the men is saying fervently. “We appreciate it.”

Uncle Bill doesn’t even reply, just lifts a hand like the pope. As the men file out, three girls in black uniforms appear from nowhere and clear the table of coffee cups in about thirty seconds flat, while Sarah ushers me forward to a chair.

All of a sudden she looks nervous too.

“Your niece Lara,” she murmurs to Uncle Bill. “She wants a one to one. Damian made the decision to give her five minutes, but we don’t have any prep notes. We have Ted standing by.” Sarah lowers her voice further. “I can call extra security—”

“Thanks, Sarah, we’ll be fine.” Uncle Bill cuts her off and turns his attention to me. “Lara. Have a seat.”

As I sit down, I’m aware of Sarah moving away and the soft swoosh of the door closing behind me.

There’s silence, apart from Uncle Bill tapping something into his BlackBerry. To pass the time, I look at the wall of pictures of Uncle Bill with famous people. Madonna. Nelson Mandela. The whole England football team.

“So, Lara.” At last he looks up. “What can I do for you?”

“I… um …” I clear my throat. “I was…”

I had all sorts of punchy openers prepared. But now that I’m actually here, in the inner sanctum, they’re all drying up on my lips. I feel paralyzed. This is Bill Lington we’re talking about. Huge, jet-setting tycoon with a million important things to do, like telling the president how to run his country. Why would he go to an old people’s home and take a necklace from an old lady? What have I been
thinking?