Twenties Girl (38 page)

“Well, I think we can do better than that,” I say decisively, putting my mug down. “Here’s the plan, Sadie. You’re going to tell me where I need to book a flight to. And we’re going to get on a plane tomorrow. And you’re going to take me to where he is. OK?”

“OK.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “It’ll be like a holiday!”

Sadie has taken the holiday theme seriously. A little too seriously, if you ask me. She’s dressed for our trip in a backless flowing outfit made out of orange silky stuff, which she calls “beach pajamas.” She has on a massive straw hat, is clutching a parasol and a wicker basket, and keeps humming some song about being
“sur la plage.”
She’s in such a chipper mood I almost want to snap at her that this is serious business and can she please stop twirling the ribbons on her hat? But then, it’s OK for her. She’s already seen Uncle Bill. She’s yelled at him. She’s released her tension. I’ve still got mine, coiled up inside me. I haven’t mellowed. I haven’t got distance. I want him to pay. I want him to suffer. I want him to—

“More champagne?” A smiling air hostess appears at my side.

“Oh.” I hesitate, then hold out my glass. “Er … OK, then. Thanks.”

Traveling with Sadie is an experience unlike any other. She shrieked at the passengers at the airport and we found ourselves ushered to the head of the queue. Then she shrieked at the check-in girl and I found myself upgraded. And now the hostesses keep plying me with champagne! (Mind you, I’m not sure if that’s because of Sadie or because of being in a posh seat.)

“Isn’t this fun?” Sadie slides into the seat next to me and eyes my champagne longingly.

“Yeah, great,” I murmur, pretending to be talking into a Dictaphone.

“How’s Ed?” She manages to get about ten insinuating tones into one syllable.

“Fine, thanks,” I say lightly. “He thinks I’m having a reunion with an old school friend.”

“You know he’s told his mother about you.”

“What?” I turn toward her. “How do you know?”

“I happened to be passing his office the other night,” Sadie says airily. “So I thought I’d pop in, and he was on the phone. I just happened to catch a few snatches of his conversation.”

“Sadie,” I hiss. “Were you
spying
on him?”

“He said London was working out really well for him.” Sadie ignores my question. “And then he said he’d met someone who made him glad that Corinne did what she did. He said he couldn’t have imagined it and he hadn’t been looking for it—but it had happened. And his mother told him she was so thrilled and she couldn’t wait to meet you, and he said, ‘Slow down, Mom.’ But he was laughing.”

“Oh. Well… he’s right. We’d better not rush things.” I’m trying to sound all nonchalant, but secretly I have a glow of pleasure inside. Ed told his mother about me!

“And
aren’t
you glad you didn’t stay with Josh?” Sadie suddenly demands. “Aren’t you glad I saved you from that hideous fate?”

I take a sip of champagne, avoiding her eye, having a slight internal struggle. To be honest, going out with Ed after Josh is like moving onto Duchy Originals super-tasty seeded loaf after plastic white bread. (I don’t mean to be rude about Josh. And I didn’t realize it at the time. But it is. He is. Plastic white bread.)

So really I should be truthful and say, “Yes, Sadie, I’m glad you saved me from that hideous fate.” Except then she’ll become so conceited I won’t be able to stand it.

“Life takes us on different paths,” I say at last, cryptically. “It’s not up to us to evaluate or judge them, merely respect and embrace them.”

“What drivel,” she says contemptuously. “I know I saved you from a hideous fate, and if you can’t even be grateful—” She’s suddenly distracted by the sight out of the window. “Look! We’re nearly there!”

Sure enough, a moment later the seat-belt signs come on and everyone buckles up—apart from Sadie, who is floating around the cabin.

“His mother is quite stylish, you know,” she says conversationally.

“Whose mother?” I’m not following.

“Ed’s, of course. I think you and she would get on well.”

“How do you know?” I say in puzzlement.

“I went to see what she was like, of course,” she says carelessly. “They live outside Boston. Very nice house. She was having a bath. She has a
very
good figure for a woman of her age—”

“Sadie, stop!” I’m almost too incredulous to speak. “You can’t do this! You can’t go around spying on everyone in my life!”

“Yes, I can,” she says, opening her eyes wide as though it’s obvious. “I’m your guardian angel. It’s my job to watch out for you.”

I stare back at her, flummoxed. The plane engines begin to roar as we start our descent, my ears begin to pop, and there’s a slight heaving in my stomach.

“I hate this bit.” Sadie wrinkles her nose. “See you there.” And before I can say anything else, she disappears.

Uncle Bill’s mansion is a longish taxi ride from Nice Airport. I stop for a glass of Orangina in the village café and practice my schoolgirl French on the owner, to Sadie’s great amusement. Then we get back in the taxi and head the final stretch to Uncle Bill’s villa. Or complex. Or whatever you call a massive white house with several other houses dotted around the grounds and a mini-vineyard and a helicopter pad.

The place is staffed pretty heavily, but that doesn’t matter when you have a French-speaking ghost by your side. Every member of staff we come across is soon turned into a glassy-eyed statue. We make our way through the garden without being challenged, and Sadie leads me swiftly to a cliff, into which steps are cut, with a balustrade. At the bottom of the steps is a sandy beach and, beyond that, endless Mediterranean.

So this is what you get if you’re the owner of Lingtons Coffee. Your own beach. Your own view. Your own slice of sea. Suddenly I can see the point of being immensely rich.

For a moment I just stand shading my eyes from the glare of the sun, watching Uncle Bill. I’d pictured him relaxing on a sun lounger, surveying his empire, maybe stroking a white cat with one evil hand. But he’s not surveying anything,
or
relaxing. In fact, he’s not looking as I imagined him at all. He’s with a personal trainer, doing sit-ups and sweating profusely. I gape, astonished, as he does crunch after crunch, almost howling with pain, then collapses on his exercise mat.

“Give … me … a … moment. …” he gasps. “Then another hundred.”

He’s so engrossed, he doesn’t notice as I quietly make my way down the cliff steps, accompanied by Sadie.

“Per’aps you should rest now?” says the trainer, looking concerned as he surveys Uncle Bill. “You ’ave ’ad a good workout.”

“I still need to work on my abs,” says Uncle Bill grimly, clutching his sides in dissatisfaction. “I need to lose some fat.”

“Meester Leengton.” The trainer looks totally bemused. “You ’ave no fat to lose. ’ow many times must I tell you thees?”

“Yes, you do!”
I jump as Sadie whirls through the air to Uncle Bill.
“You’re fat!”
she shrieks in his ear.
“Fat, fat, fat! You’re gross!”

Uncle Bill’s face jolts with alarm. Looking desperate, he sinks to the mat again and starts doing more crunches, groaning with the effort.

“Yes,” says Sadie, floating about his head and looking down with disdain. “Suffer. You deserve it.”

I can’t help giggling. Hats off to her. This is a brilliant revenge. We watch him wincing and panting a while longer, then Sadie advances again.

“Now tell your servant to go!”
she yells in his ear, and Uncle Bill pauses mid-crunch.

“You can go now, Jean-Michel,” he says breathlessly. “See you this evening.”

“Very well.” The trainer gathers up all his pieces of equipment, brushing the sand off them. “I see you at six.”

He heads up the cliff steps, nodding politely as he passes me, and heads toward the house.

OK. So now it’s my turn. I take a deep breath of warm Mediterranean air and start to walk down the rest of the cliff steps. My hands are damp as I reach the beach. I take a few steps over the hot sand, then just stand still, waiting for Uncle Bill to notice me.

“Who’s …” He suddenly catches a glimpse of me as he comes down onto the mat. Immediately he sits up again and swivels around. He looks utterly stupefied and slightly ill. I’m not surprised, after doing 59,000 sit-ups. “Is that … Lara? What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

He looks so dazed and drained, I almost feel sorry for him.
But I’m not going to let myself. Nor am I going to be drawn into small talk. I have a speech to make and I’m going to make it.

“Yes, it is I,” I say, in the most imposing, chilling voice I can muster. “Lara Alexandra Lington. Daughter to a betrayed father. Great-niece to a betrayed great-aunt. Niece to a betraying, evil, lying uncle. And I will have my vengeance.” That bit was so satisfying to say, I repeat it, my voice ringing across the beach. “And I will have my
vengeance!”

God, I would have loved to be a movie star.

“Lara.” Uncle Bill has stopped panting by now and almost regained control of himself. He wipes his face and pulls a towel around his waist. Then he turns and smiles at me with that old suave, patronizing air. “Very stirring stuff. But I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor how you got past my guards—”

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say scathingly. “You know.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

There’s silence except for the waves washing onto the beach. The sun seems to be beating even more intensely than before. Neither of us has moved.

So he’s calling my bluff. He must think he’s safe. He must think that the anonymous agreement protects him and no one will ever be able to find out.

“Is this about the necklace?” Uncle Bill says suddenly, as though the thought has just struck him. “It’s a pretty trinket, and I can understand your interest in it. But I don’t know where it is. Believe me. Now, did your father tell you, I want to offer you a job? Is that why you’re here? Because you certainly get marks for keenness, young lady.”

He flashes his teeth at me and slides on a pair of black flip-flops. He’s turning the situation. Any minute now he’ll be ordering drinks and somehow pretending this visit was all his idea. Trying to buy me, trying to distract me, trying to turn everything his own way. Just like he’s done all these years.

“I’m not here about the necklace, or the job.” My voice cuts across his. “I’m here about Great-Aunt Sadie.”

Uncle Bill raises his eyes to heaven with a familiar exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Lara. Will you give it a rest? For the last time, love, she
wasn’t
murdered, she
wasn’t
anything special—”

“And the painting of her that you found,” I carry on coolly. “The Cecil Malory. And the anonymous deal you did with the London Portrait Gallery in 1982. And the five hundred thousand pounds you got. And all the lies you told. And what you’re going to do about it.
That’s
why I’m here.”

And I watch in satisfaction as my uncle’s face sags like I’ve never seen it before. Like butter melting away under the sun.

TWENTY-SIX

t’s a sensation. It’s front-page news in every paper.
Every
paper.

Bill “Two Little Coins” Lington has “clarified” his story. The big, one-to-one interview was in the
Mail, and
all the papers jumped on it immediately.

He’s come clean about the five hundred thousand. Except, of course, being Uncle Bill, he went on at once to claim that the money was only
part
of the story. And that his business principles could still be applied to anyone starting out with two little coins. And so actually the story isn’t that different and, in a sense, half a million is the
same
as two little coins, it’s simply the quantity that’s different. (Then he realized he was on to a loser there and backtracked, but too late—it was out of his mouth.)

For me, the money really isn’t the point. It’s that finally, after all this time, he’s credited Sadie. He’s told the world about her instead of denying her and hiding her away. The quote that most of the papers used is:
“I couldn’t have achieved my success without
my beautiful aunt, Sadie Lancaster, and I’ll always be indebted to her.”
Which I dictated to him, word for word.

Sadie’s portrait has been on every single front cover. The London Portrait Gallery has been besieged. She’s like the new
Mona Lisa
. Only better, because the painting’s so massive there’s room for loads of people to look at her at once. (And she’s way prettier. I’m just saying.) We’ve gone back there a few times ourselves, just to see the crowds and hear all the nice things they say about her. She’s even got a fan site on the Internet.

As for Uncle Bill’s book, he can say all he likes about business principles, but it won’t do any good.
Two Little Coins
has become the biggest object of ridicule since the Millennium Dome. It’s been parodied in all the tabloids, every single comedian has made a joke about it on television, and the publishers are so embarrassed, they’re offering money back on it. About twenty percent of people have taken up the offer, apparently. I guess the others want to keep it as a souvenir, or put it on the mantelpiece and laugh at it, or something.

I’m flicking through an editorial about him in today’s
Mail
when my phone bleeps with a text:
Hi I’m outside. Ed
.

This is one of the many good things about Ed. He’s never late. Happily, I grab my bag, bang the flat door shut, and head down the stairs. Kate and I are moving in to our new office today, and Ed’s promised to come and see it on his way to work. As I arrive on the pavement, there he is, holding a massive bunch of red roses.

“For the office,” he says, presenting them to me with a kiss.

“Thanks!” I beam. “Everyone will be staring at me on the tube.” I stop in surprise as Ed puts a hand on my arm.

“I thought we could take my car today,” he says conversationally.

“Your
car?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods at a smart black Aston Martin parked nearby.

“That’s yours?” I goggle at it in disbelief. “But… but … how?”

“Bought it. You know, car showroom … credit card … usual process … Thought I’d better buy British,” he adds with a wry smile.

He bought an Aston Martin? Just like that?

“But you’ve never driven on the left.” I feel a sudden alarm. “Have you been
driving
that thing?”

“Relax. I took the test last week. Boy, you have a fucked-up system.”

“No we don’t,” I begin automatically.

“Stick shifts are the work of the devil. And don’t even get me
started
on your right turn rules.”

I can’t believe this. He’s kept this totally quiet. He never mentioned cars, or driving … or anything.

“But … why?” I can’t help blurting out.

“Someone told me once,” he says thoughtfully, “if you’re going to live in a country, for however long, you should
engage
with it. And what better way to engage than learning how to drive in that country? Now, you want a ride or not?”

He opens the door with a gallant gesture. Still flabbergasted, I slide into the passenger seat. This is a seriously smart car. In fact, I don’t dare put my roses down in case they scratch the leather.

“I learned all the British curses too,” Ed adds as he pulls out into the road. “Get a move on, you nobhead!” He puts on a Cockney accent, and I can’t help giggling.

“Very good.” I nod. “What about ‘That’s right out of order, you wanker!’”

“I was told ‘Bang out of order, you wanker,’” says Ed. “Was I misinformed?”

“No, that’s OK too. But you need to work on the accent.” I watch as he changes gear efficiently and cruises past a red bus. “But I don’t understand. This is a really expensive car. What will
you do with it when—” I stop myself before I can say any more, and cough feebly.

“What?” Ed may be driving, but he’s as alert as ever.

“Nothing.” I lower my chin until my face is practically nestling in the rose bouquet. “Nothing.”

I was going to say, “when you go back to the States.” But that’s something we just don’t talk about.

There’s silence—then Ed shoots me a cryptic look. “Who knows what I’ll do?”

The tour of the office doesn’t take that long. In fact, we’re pretty much done by 9:05 a.m. Ed looks at everything twice and says it’s all great, and gives me a list of contacts who might be helpful, then has to leave for his own office. And then, about an hour later, just as I’m elbow deep in rose stems and water and a hastily bought vase, Mum and Dad arrive,
also
bearing flowers, and a bottle of champagne, and a new box of paper clips, which is Dad’s little joke.

And even though I’ve only just showed the place to Ed, and even though it’s just a room with a window and a pin board and two doors and two desks … I can’t help feeling a buzz as I lead them around. It’s mine. My space. My company.

“It’s very smart.” Mum peers out of the window. “But, darling, are you sure you can afford it? Wouldn’t you have been better off staying with Natalie?”

Honestly. How many times do you have to explain to your parents that your former best friend is an obnoxious, unscrupulous total liability for them to believe you?

“I’m better off on my own, Mum, honestly. Look, this is my business plan. …”

I hand them the document, which is bound and numbered and looks so smart I can hardly believe I put it together. Every time I read it I feel a fierce thrill, mixed with yearning. If I make a success of Magic Search, my life will be complete.

I said that to Sadie this morning as we were reading yet more articles about her in the paper. She was silent for a moment, then to my surprise she stood up with a weird light in her eye and said, “I’m your guardian angel! I should
make
it a success.” And then she disappeared. So I have a sneaky feeling she’s up to something. As long as it doesn’t involve any more blind dates.

“Very impressive!” says Dad, flipping through the plan.

“I got some advice from Ed,” I confess. “He’s been really helpful with all the Uncle Bill stuff too. He helped me do that statement. And he was the one who said we should hire a publicist to manage the press. Did you see the
Mail
piece today, by the way?”

“Ah, yes,” says Dad faintly, exchanging looks with Mum. “We did.”

To say my parents are gobsmacked by everything that’s happened recently would be an understatement. I’ve never seen them so poleaxed as I when I rocked up at the front door, told them Uncle Bill wanted to have a word, turned back to the limo, and said, “OK, in you go,” with a jerk of my thumb. And Uncle Bill got out of the car silently, with a set jaw, and did everything I said.

Neither of my parents could manage a word. It was as though sausages had suddenly started growing out of my head. Even after Uncle Bill had gone and I said, “Any questions?” they didn’t speak. They just sat on the sofa, staring at me in a kind of stupefied awe. Even now, when they’ve thawed a little and the whole story is out and it’s not such a shock anymore, they still keep darting me looks of awe.

Well. Why shouldn’t they? I
have
been pretty awesome, though I say so myself. I masterminded the whole press exposé, together with Ed’s help, and it’s gone perfectly. At least, perfectly from my point of view. Maybe not from Uncle Bill’s point of view. Or Aunt Trudy’s. The day the story broke, she flew to a spa in Arizona and checked in indefinitely. God knows if we’ll ever see her again.

Diamanté, on the other hand, has totally cashed in on it. She’s already done a photoshoot for
Tatler
with a mock-up of Sadie’s painting, and she’s using the whole story to publicize her fashion label. Which is really, really tacky. And also quite smart. I can’t help admiring her chutzpah. I mean, it’s not her fault her dad is such a tosser, is it?

I secretly wish Diamanté and Great-Aunt Sadie could meet. I think they’d get on. They’ve got a lot in common, even though they’d each probably be horrified at that idea.

“Lara.” I look up to see Dad approaching me. He looks awkward and keeps glancing at Mum. “We wanted to talk to you about Great-Aunt Sadie’s …” He coughs.

“What?”

“Funeral,”
says Mum, in her “discreet” voice.

“Exactly.” Dad nods. “It’s something we’ve been meaning to bring up. Obviously once the police were sure she hadn’t been …”

“Murdered,”
puts in Mum.

“Quite. Once the file was closed, the police released her … that’s to say …”

“Remains,”
says Mum in a whisper.

“You haven’t done it yet.” I feel a bolt of panic. “Please tell me you haven’t had her funeral.”

“No, no! It was provisionally set for this Friday. We
were
planning to tell you at some stage. …” He trails off evasively.

Yeah, right.

“Anyway!” says Mum quickly. “That was before.”

“Quite. Obviously things have somewhat changed now,” Dad continues. “So if you would like to be involved in planning it—”

“Yes. I would like to be involved,” I say, almost fiercely. “In fact, I think I’ll take charge.”

“Right.” Dad glances at Mum. “Well. Absolutely. I think that would only be right, given the amount of … of
research
you’ve done on her life.”

“We do think you’re a marvel, Lara,” says Mum with a sudden
fervor. “Finding all this out. Who would have known, without you? The story might never have come out at all! We might all have gone to our deaths, never knowing the truth!”

Trust Mum to bring
all
our deaths into it.

“Here are the funeral directors’ details, darling.” Dad hands me a leaflet, and I awkwardly pocket it, just as the buzzer goes. I head to the video intercom and peer at the grainy black-and-white image on the little screen. I think it’s a man, although the image is so crap, it could equally well be an elephant.

“Hello?”

“It’s Gareth Birch from Print Please,” says the man. “I’ve got your business cards here.”

“Oh, cool! Bring them up!”

This is it. Now I know I really have a business. I have business cards!

I usher Gareth Birch into our office, excitedly open the box, and hand cards around to everyone. They say
Lara Lington, Magic Search, and
there’s a little embossed picture of a tiny magic wand.

“How come you delivered them personally?” I ask as I sign the delivery form. “I mean, it’s very kind, but aren’t you based in Hackney? Weren’t you going to send them by post?”

“I thought I’d do you a favor,” Gareth Birch says, giving me a glassy stare. “I value your business greatly, and it’s the least I can do.”

“What?” I stare at him, puzzled.

“I value your business greatly,” he repeats, sounding a bit robotic. “It’s the least I can do.”

Oh my God. Sadie. What’s she been
doing?

“Well… thanks very much,” I say, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I appreciate it. And I’ll recommend you to all my friends!”

Gareth Birch makes his exit and I busy myself unpacking the boxes of cards, aware of Mum and Dad looking at me, agog.

“Did he just bring these himself, all the way from Hackney?” says Dad at last.

“Looks like it.” I try to sound breezy, as though this is a normal course of events. Luckily, before they can say anything else, the phone rings and I hurry to answer it.

“Hello, Magic Search.”

“May I speak to Lara Lington, please?” It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize.

“Speaking.” I sit down on one of the new swivel chairs, hoping she doesn’t hear the crunch of plastic. “Can I help?”

“This is Pauline Reed. I’m head of human resources at Wheeler Foods. I was wondering, would you like to come in for a chat? I’ve heard good things about you.”

“Oh, how nice!” I beam over the phone. “From whom, may I ask? Janet Grady?”

There’s silence. When Pauline Reed speaks again, she sounds puzzled.

“I don’t quite recall who. But you have a great reputation for sourcing talent, and I want to meet you. Something tells me you can do good things for our business.”

Sadie
.

“Well… that would be great!” I gather my wits. “Let me look at my schedule. …” I open it and fix up an appointment. As I put the phone down, both Mum and Dad are watching with a kind of eager hopefulness.