Twenties Girl

NINE

Sometimes, when I can’t get to sleep, I imagine all the rules I’d invent if I ever got to be in charge of the world. There are quite a few which involve ex-boyfriends, as it happens, and now I’ve got a new one:

Ex-boyfriends shall not be allowed to take another girl back to the special restaurant they used to go to with their previous girlfriend.

I still can’t believe Josh is taking this girl to Bistro Martin. How can he? It’s our place. We had our first date there, for God’s sake. He’s totally betraying all our memories. It’s as if our whole relationship is an Etch A Sketch and he’s deliberately shaking it clean and drawing a new picture, and forgetting all about the old, much better, and more interesting picture which used to be there.

Besides which, we’ve only just broken up. How can he be dating another girl after only six weeks? Doesn’t he know anything? Rushing blindly into a new relationship is never the answer; in fact, it’ll probably make him really unhappy. I could have told him that, if he’d asked me.

It’s twelve-thirty on Saturday and I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. I know the restaurant so well, I’ve been able to plan things perfectly. I’m in the corner, tucked out of sight, wearing a baseball cap just to be on the safe side. The restaurant’s one of those bustling brasseries with lots of tables and plants and hooks for coats, so I’m easily able to blend away in the background.

Josh is booked at one of the big wooden tables in the window-I peeked at the reservations list. I have a good view of it from my corner seat, so I’ll be able to study this so-called Marie pretty carefully and watch their body language. Even better, I’ll be able to listen to their conversation, because I’ve bugged the table.

This isn’t a joke-I’ve genuinely bugged it. Three days ago I went online and bought a tiny remote microphone in a pack called My First Spy Kit. When it arrived, I realized it was designed for ten-year-old boys rather than adult ex-girlfriends, as it also came with a plastic Spy’s Log Book and Cool Code Cracker.

But so what? I’ve tested it out and it works! It only has a range of twenty feet, but that’s all I need. As soon as my waiter had taken my drink order, I made a pretext of needing the ladies’ room. Casually, I sauntered past, pretended to drop something, and slapped the tiny sticky pad of the microphone on the underside of the table. The earpiece is hidden under my baseball cap. I just have to switch it on when I’m ready.

And, OK, I know you shouldn’t spy on people. I know I’m doing a morally wrong thing. In fact, I had a big argument with Sadie about it. First she said I shouldn’t come here at all. Then, when it was obvious she was going to lose that one, she said if I was that desperate to know what Josh was going to talk about, I should just sit near the table and eavesdrop. But what’s the difference? If you’re listening in, you’re listening in, whether you’re two feet or ten feet away.

The point is, when it comes to love there’s a different set of morals. All’s fair in love or war. It’s for the greater good. Like those people at Bletchley, cracking German codes. That was an invasion of privacy, too, if you think about it. But they didn’t care, did they?

I have an image of myself, happily married to Josh, sitting around at Sunday lunch and saying to my children, “You know, I very nearly didn’t bug Daddy’s table. And then none of you would be here!”

“I think he’s coming now!” Sadie suddenly says beside me. I finally talked her into being my assistant, although all she’s done so far is wander about the restaurant saying disparaging things about people’s outfits.

I risk a tiny glance toward the door and feel a roller-coaster lurch. Oh God, oh God. Sadie’s right-it’s him. And her. They’re together. Why are they together?

OK, don’t freak out. Don’t imagine them waking up in bed, all sleepy and sex-satisfied. There could be lots of other perfectly reasonable explanations. Maybe they met at the tube or something. I take a deep gulp of wine, then raise my eyes again. I don’t know who to study first, Josh or her.

Her.

She’s blond. Quite skinny, in orange pedal pushers and one of those crisp white sleeveless tops that women wear in ads for low-fat yogurt or toothpaste. The kind of top you can only wear if you’re good at ironing, which just shows how tedious she must be. Her arms are tanned and there are streaks in her hair, as though she’s been on holiday.

As I shift my gaze to Josh, I feel my stomach go all slithery. He’s just… Josh. Same fair floppy hair, same goofy lopsided grin as he greets the maître-d’, same faded jeans, same canvas sneakers (some cool Japanese label I’ve never quite got the hang of pronouncing), same shirt-

Hang on. I stare at him in disbelieving shock. That’s the shirt I gave him for his birthday.

How can he be doing this? Does he have no heart? He’s wearing my shirt in our place. And he’s smiling at this girl as though no one exists but her. Now he’s taking her arm and making some joke which I can’t hear but makes her throw back her head and laugh with her toothpaste-ad white teeth.

“They look very well suited,” says Sadie brightly in my ear.

“No, they don’t,” I mutter. “Be quiet.”

The maître-d’ is showing them to the window table. Keeping my head down, I reach into my pocket and switch on the remote control for the microphone.

The sound is faint and buzzy, but I can just about hear his voice.

“… totally wasn’t paying attention. ’Course, it turns out the bloody GPS has sent me to completely the wrong Notre Dame.” He gives her a charming grin and she giggles.

I almost want to leap up from my table, I’m so livid. That’s our anecdote! That happened to us! We ended up at the wrong Notre Dame in Paris and we never saw the real one. Has he forgotten he was with me? Is he just editing me out of his life?

“He looks very happy, don’t you think?” observes Sadie.

“He’s not happy!” I give her a venomous glare. “He’s in total denial.”

They’re ordering a bottle of wine. Great. Now I have to watch them get all merry. I take a few olives and munch disconsolately. Sadie has slid into the seat opposite and is watching me with a trace of pity.

“I warned you, never be a trailer.”

“I’m not being a trailer! I’m… trying to understand him.” I swirl my wine around a few times. “We ended so suddenly. He just cut me off. I wanted to work at our relationship, you know? I wanted to talk things through. Like, was it the commitment thing? Or was there something else? But he wouldn’t. He didn’t give me a chance.”

I glance over at Josh, who is smiling at Marie while the waiter uncorks a bottle. I could be watching our own first date. It was just the same, all smiles and amusing little stories and wine. Where did it go wrong? How did I end up sitting in a corner bugging him?

And then the solution hits me, with total clarity. I lean over toward Sadie with urgency.

“Go and ask him.”

“Ask him what?” She makes a face.

“Where it went wrong! Ask Josh what was wrong with me! Get him to speak out loud, the way you did with Ed Harrison. Then I’ll know!”

“I can’t do that!” she objects at once.

“Yes, you can! Get inside his head! Make him talk! This is the only way I can get to him-” I break off as a waitress approaches the table, her notepad out. “Oh, hi. I’d love some… um… soup. Thanks.”

As the waitress moves off, I gaze entreatingly at Sadie. “Please. I’ve come all this way. I’ve made all this effort.”

There’s a moment’s silence-then Sadie rolls her eyes. “Very well.”

She disappears, then a moment later reappears right by Josh’s table. I watch, my heart galloping. I push my earpiece more firmly into my ear, ignoring the buzz, and listen to Marie’s rippling laugh as she tells some story about horse riding. She’s got a faint Irish brogue, which I didn’t notice before. As I glance over, I see Josh topping up her glass of wine.

“Your childhood sounds amazing,” he’s saying. “You have to tell me more.”

“What do you want to know?” She breaks off a piece of bread. But doesn’t put it in her mouth, I notice.

“Everything.” He smiles.

“Could take a while.”

“I’m in no hurry.” Josh’s voice has deepened a smidgen. I’m watching in horror. They’ve got that whole eyes-meeting frissony thing going on. Any minute he’ll take her hand, or even worse. What’s Sadie waiting for?

“Well, I was born in Dublin.” She smiles. “Third of three.”

“Why did you break up with Lara?” Sadie’s voice is so piercing through my earpiece, I nearly jump out of my chair.

Josh has heard her, I can tell. His hand has stopped halfway through pouring out fizzy water.

“My two brothers tormented me, all through my childhood.” Marie is still speaking, obviously unaware of anything. “They were so evil…”

“Why did you break up with Lara? What went wrong? Talk to Marie about it! Talk, Josh!”

“… found frogs in my bed, in my satchel… once even in my cereal bowl!” Marie looks up at Josh, clearly expecting him to respond. But he’s frozen like a statue, as Sadie yells in his ear, “Say it, say it, say it!”

“Josh?” Marie waves her hand in front of his face. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Sorry!” He rubs his face. “I don’t know what happened there. What were you saying?”

“Oh… nothing.” She shrugs. “Just telling you about my brothers.”

“Your brothers! Right!” With an obvious effort, he refocuses on her and smiles charmingly. “So, are they very protective of their little sister?”

“You’d better watch out!” She smiles back and takes a sip of wine. “How about you, any siblings?”

“Say why you split up with Lara! What was wrong with her?”

I can see Josh glaze over again. He looks as though he’s trying to catch the distant echo of a nightingale across the valleys.

“Josh?” Marie leans forward. “Josh!”

“Sorry!” He comes to and shakes his head. “Sorry! It’s weird. I was just thinking about my ex, Lara.”

“Oh.” Marie keeps smiling, exactly the same amount of smile, but I can see the muscles tense up a little in her jaw. “What about her?”

“I don’t know.” Josh screws up his face, looking perplexed. “I was just thinking what it was about her and me that went wrong.”

“Relationships end.” Marie sips her water. “Who knows why? These things happen.”

“Yes.” Josh still has a faraway look in his eyes, which isn’t surprising, as Sadie is yelling like a siren in his ear. “Say why it went wrong! Say it out loud!”

“So.” Marie changes the subject. “How was your week? I’ve had a hellish time with that client. Remember the one I was telling you about-”

“I suppose she was a bit intense,” Josh blurts out.

“Who was?”

“Lara.”

“Oh, really?” I can see Marie trying to feign interest.

“She used to read me out ‘relationship issues’ from some bullshit magazine and want to talk about how similar we were to some other random couple. For hours. That annoyed me. Why did she have to analyze everything? Why did she have to unpick every single row and conversation?”

He gulps at his wine and I stare at him across the restaurant, stricken. I never knew he felt that way.

“That does sound annoying.” Marie nods sympathetically. “Anyway, how did that big meeting go? You said your boss had some announcement to make?”

“What else?” Sadie is shrieking at Josh, drowning out Marie. “What else?”

“She used to litter the bathroom with her creams and crap.” Josh frowns distantly at the memory. “Every time I tried to shave I had to fight through this thicket of pots. It drove me mad.”

“What a pain!” says Marie, overbrightly. “Anyway-”

“It was the little things. Like the way she used to sing in the shower. I mean, I don’t mind singing, but the same song every bloody day? And she didn’t want to open her mind. She’s not interested in traveling, not interested in the same things as me… Like, I once bought her this book of William Eggleston photography; I thought we could talk about it or whatever. But she just flipped through with zero interest-” Josh suddenly notices Marie, whose face has almost seized up with the effort of listening politely. “Shit. Marie. I’m sorry!” He rubs his face with both hands. “I don’t know why Lara keeps popping into my head. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Yes, let’s do that.” Marie smiles stiffly. “I was going to tell you about my client, the really demanding one from Seattle? You remember?”

“Of course I remember!” He reaches for his wine-then seems to change his mind and picks up his glass of fizzy water instead.

“Soup? Excuse me, miss, didn’t you order the soup? Excuse me?”

Suddenly I realize a waiter is standing by my table with a tray of soup and bread. I have no idea how long he’s been trying to get my attention.

“Oh, right,” I say, quickly turning to him. “Yes, thanks.”

The waiter deposits my food and I pick up a spoon, but I can’t eat. I’m too flabbergasted by everything Josh just said. How could he have felt all this and never mentioned it? If he was annoyed by my singing, then why didn’t he say? And as for the photography book, I thought he’d bought it for himself! Not for me! How was I supposed to know it meant so much to him?

“Well!” Sadie bounces up to me and slides into the seat opposite. “That was interesting. Now you know where it all went wrong. I agree about the singing,” she adds. “You are rather tuneless.”

Doesn’t she have an ounce of sympathy?

“Well, thanks.” I keep my voice low and gaze morosely into my soup. “You know the worst thing? He never said any of this stuff to my face. None of it! I could have fixed it! I would have fixed it.” I start crumbling a piece of bread into pieces. “If he’d just given me a chance-”

“Shall we go now?” She sounds bored.

“No! We haven’t finished!” I take a deep breath. “Go and ask him what he liked about me.”

“What he liked about you?” Sadie gives me a dubious look. “Are you sure there was anything?”

“Yes!” I hiss indignantly. “Of course there was! Go on!”

Sadie opens her mouth as though to speak-then shrugs and heads back across the restaurant. I push my earpiece in more firmly and dart a glance over at Josh. He’s sipping his wine and skewering olives with a metal pick while Marie talks.

“… three years is a long time.” I hear her lilting voice over the buzz and crackle. “And, yes, it was hard to finish, but he wasn’t right, and I’ve never regretted it or looked back. I guess what I’m trying to say is… relationships end, but you have to move forward.” She gulps her wine. “You know what I mean?”

Josh is nodding automatically, but I can tell he isn’t hearing a word. He has a bemused look on his face and keeps trying to edge his head away from Sadie, who’s yelling, “What did you love about Lara? Say it! Say it!”

“I loved the way she had so much energy,” he says in a desperate rush. “And she was quirky. She always had some cute necklace on, or a pencil stuffed into her hair or something… And she really appreciated stuff. You know, some girls, you do things for them and they just take it as their due, but she never did. She’s really sweet. Refreshing.”

“Are we talking about your ex-girlfriend again, by any chance?” There’s a steely edge to Marie’s voice, which makes even me wince. Josh seems to come to.

“Shit! Marie. I don’t know what’s got into me. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about her.” He rubs his brow, looking so freaked out I almost feel sorry for him.

“If you ask me, you’re still obsessed,” Marie says tightly.

“What?” Josh gives a shocked burst of laughter. “I’m not obsessed! I’m not even interested in her anymore!”

“So why are you telling me how great she was?” I watch, agog, as Marie throws down her napkin, pushes back her chair, and stands up. “Call me when you’re over her.”

“I am over her!” Josh exclaims angrily. “Jesus Christ! This is fucking ridiculous. I hadn’t thought about her until today.” He pushes back his chair, trying to get Marie’s full attention. “Listen to me, Marie. Lara and I had a relationship. It was fine, but it wasn’t great. And then it finished. End of.”

Marie is shaking her head.

“Which is why you bring her up in conversation every five minutes.”

“I don’t!” Josh almost yells in frustration, and a few people at nearby tables look up. “Not normally! I haven’t talked about her or thought about her for weeks! I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me today!”

“You need to sort yourself out,” Marie says, not unkindly. She picks up her bag. “See you, Josh.”

As she moves swiftly between the tables and out of the restaurant, Josh sinks back into his seat, looking shell-shocked. He looks even more gorgeous when he’s hassled than when he’s happy. Somehow I suppress an urge to run over and fling my arms around him and tell him he never wanted to be with such an uptight, toothpaste-ad girl, anyway.

“Are you satisfied now?” Sadie returns to my side. “You’ve ruined the path of true love. I thought that was against your creed.”

“That wasn’t true love.” I scowl at her.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know. Shut up.”

We both watch in silence as Josh pays his bill, reaches for his jacket, and gets up to leave. His jaw is tight and his easy saunter has gone, and I feel a flash of guilt. But I force myself to quell it. I know I’m doing the right thing. Not just for me but for Josh. I can make it work between us, I know I can.

“Eat your lunch! Hurry up!” Sadie interrupts my reverie. “We need to go home now. You need to start getting ready.”

“For what?” I look at her, confused.

“For our date!”

Oh God. That.

“It’s nearly six hours away,” I point out. “And we’re only going for a drink. There’s no rush.”

“I used to take all day getting ready for parties.” She shoots me an accusing look. “This is my date. You’re representing me. You need to look divine.”

“I’ll look as divine as I can, OK?” I take a spoonful of soup.

“But you haven’t even chosen a frock!” Sadie is hopping with impatience. “It’s already two o’clock! We need to go home now. Now!”

For God’s sake.

“Fine. Whatever.” I push away my soup-it’s gone cold, anyway. “Let’s go.”

All the way home, I’m deep in thought. Josh is vulnerable. He’s confused. It’s the perfect time for me to rekindle our love. But I have to use what I’ve learned. I have to change myself.

I keep obsessively tracking back over everything he said, trying to remember every detail. And every time I reach one particular phrase, I squirm and wince. It was fine, but it wasn’t great.

It’s all blindingly clear now. Our relationship wasn’t great because he wasn’t honest with me. He didn’t tell me any of his little niggles. And they all built up in his head and that’s why he chucked me.

But it doesn’t matter-because now I know what the problems are, I can solve them! All of them! I’ve put together an action plan, and I’m going to start by tidying up my bathroom. As soon as we get back to my flat, I stride in, full of optimism, to find Sadie heading me off.

“What are you going to wear tonight?” she demands. “Show me.”

“Later.” I try to get past her.

“Not later! Now! Now!”

For God’s sake.

“All right!” I head into my bedroom and wrench open the little curtain that hides my wardrobe. “What about… this.” At random, I pull out a maxiskirt and my new limited-edition corset top from Topshop. “And some wedge sandals, maybe.”

“Stays?” Sadie looks as though I’m brandishing a pig’s corpse. “And a long skirt?”

“It’s the maxi look, OK? It’s really fashionable, actually. And these aren’t stays, it’s a corset top.”

Sadie touches my corset top with a shudder. “My mother tried to make me wear stays to my aunt’s wedding,” she says. “I threw them on the fire, so she shut me in my room and told the servants not to let me out.”

“Really?” I feel a spark of interest in spite of myself. “So you missed the wedding?”

“I climbed out the window, took the motor, drove to London, and had my hair shingled,” she says proudly. “When my mother saw it, she went to bed for two days.”

“Wow.” I put the clothes down on the bed and look at Sadie properly. “You were a real rebel. Were you always doing things like that?”

“I did rather torture my parents. But they were so stifling. So Victorian. The whole house was like a museum.” She shudders. “My father disapproved of the phonograph, the Charleston, cocktails … everything. He thought girls should spend their time arranging flowers and doing needlework. Like my sister, Virginia.”

“You mean… Granny?” Now I’m fascinated to hear more. I only have hazy memories of Granny, as a gray-haired lady who liked gardening. I can’t even imagine her as a girl. “What was she like?”

“Horribly virtuous.” Sadie makes a face. “She wore stays. Even after the whole world had stopped wearing them, Virginia laced herself in and put her hair up and arranged the flowers in church every week. She was the dullest girl in Archbury. And then she married the dullest man in Archbury. My parents were overjoyed.”

“What’s Archbury?”

“Where we lived. A village in Hertfordshire.”

This is ringing bells in my mind. Archbury. I know I’ve heard it-

“Hang on!” I say suddenly. “Archbury House. The house that burned down in the 1960s. Was that your house?”

It’s all coming back to me now. Years ago Dad told me about the old family home, Archbury House, and even showed me a black-and-white photo dating from the 1800s. He said that he and Uncle Bill had spent summers there when they were little boys and then moved in when their grandparents died. It was a wonderful place, all old corridors and huge cellars and a great big grand staircase. But after the fire, the land was sold off and a development of new houses was built in its place.

“Yes. Virginia was living there with her family by then. In fact, she caused the fire. She left a candle alight.” There’s a moment’s silence before Sadie adds with an acidic edge, “Not so perfect after all.”

“We drove through the village once,” I volunteer. “We saw the new houses. They looked OK.”

Sadie doesn’t seem to hear me. “I lost all my things,” she says distantly. “All the things I was keeping there while I was abroad. All destroyed.”

“That’s awful,” I say, feeling inadequate.

“What does it matter?” She suddenly seems to come to and gives me a brittle smile. “Who cares?” She whirls away, toward the wardrobe, and points imperiously. “Get out your clothes. I need to see them all.”

“Whatever.” I grab an armful of hangers and dump them on the bed. “So, tell me about your husband. What was he like?”

Sadie considers for a moment. “He wore a scarlet waistcoat at our wedding. Other than that, I remember very little about him.”

“That’s it? A waistcoat?”

“And he had a mustache,” she adds.

“I don’t get you.” I throw another armful of clothes onto the bed. “How could you marry someone you didn’t love?”

“Because it was my only way to escape,” says Sadie, as though it’s obvious. “I’d had the most terrible row with my parents. My father had stopped my allowance, the vicar called every second day, I was locked in my room every night-”

“What had you done?” I say, avid with curiosity. “Had you been arrested again?”

“It… doesn’t matter,” says Sadie after a slight pause. She turns away from my gaze and stares out of the window. “I had to leave. Marriage seemed as good a way as any. My parents had already found a suitable young man. And, believe me, they were hardly lining up in droves in those days.”

“Oh, well, I know about that,” I say, rolling my eyes in sympathy. “There are no single men in London. None. It’s a well-known fact.”

I look up to see Sadie gazing at me with a kind of blank incomprehension.

“We lost all ours in the war,” she says.

“Oh. Of course.” I swallow. “The war.”

World War I. I hadn’t quite put that together.

“The ones who survived weren’t the same boys they’d been. They were wounded. Broken to bits. Or full of guilt because they’d survived…” A shadow passes across her face. “My older brother was killed, you know. Edwin. He was nineteen. My parents never really got over it.”

I stare at her, appalled. I had a great-uncle Edwin who was killed in World War I? Why don’t I know this stuff?

“What was he like?” I ask timidly. “Edwin?”

“He was… funny.” Her mouth twists as though she wants to smile but can’t let herself. “He made me laugh. He made my parents more bearable. He made everything more bearable.”

The room is quiet, save for the tinny sound of the TV upstairs. Sadie’s face is immobile, transfixed with memories or thoughts. She almost seems in a trance.

“But even if there weren’t many men around,” I venture, “did you have to settle? Did you have to marry some random guy? What about waiting for the right guy? What about love?”

“‘What about love!’” she mimics me mockingly, snapping out of her reverie. “‘What about love!’ Goodness, you play a monotonous tune.” She surveys the mound of clothes on the bed. “Lay them out so I can see properly. I’ll choose your dress for this evening. And it won’t be a ghastly long skirt to the ground.”

Obviously the reminiscing is over.

“OK.” I start spreading my clothes out on the bed. “You choose.”

“And I’m in charge of your hairstyle and makeup,” Sadie adds firmly. “I’m in charge of everything.”

“Fine,” I say patiently.

As I head back to the bathroom, my head is full of Sadie’s stories. I’ve never been into family trees or history. But somehow this is all quite fascinating. Maybe I’ll get Dad to dig out a few photos of the old family house. He’ll love that.

I close the door and survey my pots of creams and cosmetics, all balanced on the counter around the basin. Hmm. Perhaps Josh had a point. Maybe I don’t need apricot scrub and oatmeal scrub and sea salt scrub. I mean, how scrubbed should skin be, anyway?

Half an hour later I’ve got everything organized into rows and have assembled a whole carrier bag of ancient, half-empty pots to chuck out. Already my action plan is under way! If Josh saw this bathroom, he’d be so impressed! I almost feel like taking a picture of it and sending him a text. Feeling delighted with myself, I duck my head back into my bedroom, but Sadie’s not there.

“Sadie?” I call, but there’s no reply. I hope she’s OK. It was obviously hard for her, remembering her brother. Maybe she needed a quiet moment alone.

I put the bag of pots next to the back door to deal with later and make myself a cup of tea. Next on my list is to find that photography book he was talking about. It must still be around here somewhere. Maybe under the sofa…

“I’ve found it!” Sadie’s excited voice springing out of nowhere nearly makes me knock my head on the coffee table.

“Don’t do that!” I sit up and reach for my cup of tea. “Listen, Sadie, I just want to say… are you OK? Do you want to talk? I know things can’t have been easy-”

“You’re right, it wasn’t easy,” she says crisply. “Your wardrobe is very deficient.”

“I didn’t mean clothes! I meant feelings.” I give her an understanding look. “You’ve been through a lot, it must have affected you…”

Sadie doesn’t even hear me. Or, if she does, she pretends not to. “I’ve found you a frock,” she announces. “Come and see! Hurry up!”

If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t want to talk. I can’t make her.

“Great. So what did you choose?” I get up and start heading toward my bedroom.

“Not there.” Sadie darts in front of me. “We have to go out! It’s in a shop!”

“A shop?” I stop and stare at her. “What do you mean, in a shop?”

“I was forced to go out.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “There was nothing in your wardrobe. I’ve never seen such bedraggled clothes!”

“They’re not bedraggled!”

“So I went out, and I found an angel of a dress! You simply have to buy it!”

“Where?” I’m trying to think where she could have gone. “Which shop? Did you go into central London?”

“I’ll show you! Come on! Get your purse!”

I can’t help feeling touched at the thought of Sadie wafting around H &M or wherever, trying to find an outfit for me.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “As long as it doesn’t cost a zillion pounds.” I reach for my bag and check I’ve got my keys. “Come on, then. Show me.”

I’m expecting Sadie to lead me to the tube station and drag me to Oxford Circus or somewhere. But instead she veers around the corner and into a grid of backstreets I’ve never explored.

“Are you sure it’s this way?” I hesitate, puzzled.

“Yes!” She tries to drag me forward. “Come on!”

We pass rows of houses and a little park and a college. There’s nothing here that looks like a shop. I’m about to tell Sadie that she must have got her bearings wrong, when she turns a corner and makes a triumphant flourish.

“There!”

We’re in front of a tiny parade of shops. There’s a newsagent and a dry cleaner and, right at the end, a tiny shop with a wood-painted sign reading Vintage Fashion Emporium. There’s a mannequin in the window wearing a long satin dress, gloves up to the elbow, a hat with a veil, and lots of brooches everywhere. Next to her is a pile of old hatboxes and a dressing table holding a large selection of enamel hairbrushes.

“This is by far the best shop you have in your area,” says Sadie emphatically. “I’ve found everything we need. Come on!”

Before I can say anything, she’s disappeared into the shop. I have no choice but to follow her. The door gives a little ting as I enter, and a middle-aged woman smiles at me from behind a tiny counter. She has straggly dyed hair in a vivid shade of yellow and is wearing what looks like an original seventies caftan in a wild green circular print, together with several amber necklaces strung around her neck.

“Hello!” She smiles pleasantly. “Welcome to the shop. I’m Norah. Have you shopped here before?” “Hi.” I nod back. “This is my first time.” “Were you interested in a particular garment or era?” “I’ll… just have a browse.” I smile at her. “Thanks.” I can’t see Sadie, so I start wandering around. I’ve never been into vintage clothes, but even I can tell there’s some pretty amazing stuff here. A pink psychedelic sixties dress is displayed next to a beehive wig. There’s a whole rack of original-looking boned corsets and petticoats. On a dressmaker’s mannequin is a cream lace wedding dress with a veil and a tiny dried-flower bouquet. A glass case holds some white leather skating boots, all creased and weathered with use. There are collections of fans, handbags, old lipstick cases-

“Where are you?” Sadie’s impatient voice pierces my eardrum. “Come here!”

She’s beckoning from a rack toward the back. Feeling sudden misgivings, I head toward her.

“Sadie,” I say in a low voice. “I agree this stuff is cool and everything. But I’m only going for a casual drink. You can’t possibly think-”

“Look!” She gestures in triumph. “Perfect.” I’m never letting a ghost give me fashion advice again. Sadie is pointing at a 1920s flapper’s dress. A bronze silk flapper dress with a dropped waist, little beaded capped sleeves, and a matching cape. The store tag reads: Original 1920s dress, made in Paris.

“Isn’t it darling?” She clasps her hands and whirls around, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “My friend Bunty had one very similar, you know, only in silver.”

“Sadie!” I find my voice. “I can’t wear that on a date! Don’t be stupid!”

“Of course you can! Try it on!” She’s urging me with her skinny white arms. “You’ll have to cut off all your hair, of course-”

“I’m not cutting off my hair!” I move away in horror. “And I’m not trying it on!”

“I’ve found you some matching shoes too.” She flits eagerly to a rack and points at some little bronze-colored dancing slippers. “And some proper makeup.” She whirls over to a glass counter and gestures at a Bakelite case next to a little sign reading: Original 1920s makeup set. Very rare.

“I had a set just like this.” She’s gazing at it fondly. “This is the best lipstick that was ever made. I’ll teach you how to do yours properly.”

For God’s sake.

“I know how to do my lipstick properly, thanks-”

“You have no idea,” she cuts me off crisply. “But I’ll teach you. And we’ll marcel your hair. There are some irons for sale.” She points at an old cardboard box inside which I can see some weird-looking ancient metal contraption. “You’ll look so much better if you make an effort.” Her head swivels around again. “If we could just find you some decent stockings-”

“Sadie, stop it!” I hiss. “You must be crazy! I’m not getting any of this stuff-”

“I still remember that delicious smell of getting ready for parties.” She closes her eyes briefly as though transfixed. “Lipstick and singed hair-”

“Singed hair?” I squeak in horror. “You’re not singeing my hair!”

“Don’t fuss!” she says impatiently. “We only singed it sometimes.”

“Are you getting on all right?” Norah appears, jangling amber, and I jump in surprise.

“Oh. Yes, thanks.”

“Are you particularly interested in the 1920s?” She heads over to the glass case. “We’ve some marvelous original items here. All fresh in from a recent auction.”

“Yes.” I nod politely. “I was just looking at them.”

“I’m not sure what this was for…” She picks out a little jeweled pot mounted on a circular ring. “Strange little thing, isn’t it? A locket, maybe?”

“A rouge ring,” says Sadie, rolling her eyes. “Does no one have any idea about anything anymore?”

“I think it’s a rouge ring,” I can’t help saying casually.

“Ah!” Norah looks impressed. “You’re an expert! Maybe you know how to use these old marcel irons.” She takes out the metal contraption and hefts it cautiously in her hand. “I believe there was quite a knack to it. Before my time, I’m afraid.”

“It’s easy,” says Sadie scornfully into my ear. “I’ll show you.”

There’s a ting from the door and two girls come in, oohing and aahing as they look around. “This place is wicked,” I hear one of them saying.

“Excuse me.” Norah smiles. “I’ll let you keep browsing. If you’d like to try anything on, let me know.”

“I will.” I smile back at her. “Thanks.”

“Tell her you want to try the bronze dress on!” Sadie shoos me forward. “Go on!”

“Stop it!” I hiss as the woman disappears. “I don’t want to try it on!”

Sadie looks bemused. “But you have to try it. What if it doesn’t fit?”

“I don’t have to, because I’m not wearing it!” My frustration bubbles over. “Get real! This is the twenty-first century! I’m not using some ancient old lipstick and curling irons! I’m not wearing a flapper’s dress on a date! It’s just not happening!”

For a few moments Sadie seems too taken aback to reply.

“But… you promised.” She fixes me with huge, wounded eyes. “You promised I could choose your dress.”

“I thought you meant normal clothes!” I say in exasperation. “Twenty-first-century clothes! Not this.” I pick up the dress and brandish it at her. “It’s ridiculous! It’s a costume!”

“But if you don’t wear the dress I choose, then it might as well not be my date at all. It might as well be your date!” Sadie’s voice starts rising; I can tell she’s cranking up into a scream. “I might as well stay at home! Go out with him on your own!”

I sigh. “Look, Sadie-”

“He’s my man! It’s my date!” she cries passionately. “Mine! With my rules! This is my last chance to have some fun with a man, and you want to spoil it by wearing some frightful dreary outfit-”

“I don’t want to spoil it-”

“You promised to do things my way! You promised!”

“Stop shouting at me!” I pull away, clutching my ear. “Jesus!”

“Is everything all right back here?” Norah appears again and eyes me suspiciously.

“Yes!” I try to compose myself. “I was just… er… on the phone.”

“Ah.” Her face clears. She nods toward the bronze silk flapper dress, still in my arms. “You want to try that on? Wonderful piece. Made in Paris. Have you seen the mother-of-pearl buttons? They’re exquisite.”

“I… um…”

“You promised!” Sadie’s about three inches from me, her chin set, her eyes fiery. “You promised! It’s my date! Mine! Mine!”

She’s like a relentless fire-engine siren. I jerk my head away, trying to think straight as best I can. There’s no way I can cope with a whole evening of Sadie yelling at me. My head will explode.

And let’s face it. Ed Harrison thinks I’m a nutter anyway. What difference does it make if I turn up in a flapper dress?

Sadie’s right. It’s her evening. I might as well do it her way.

“All right!” I say at last, cutting across Sadie’s insistent voice. “You’ve talked me around. I’ll try on the dress.”