Twenties Girl

TWENTY-FOUR

It’s massive. It’s radiant. It’s a million times better than the one in the house.

I’ve been sitting in front of Sadie’s portrait in the London Portrait Gallery for about two hours. I can’t drag myself away. She’s gazing out at the gallery, her brow clear, her eyes a velvety dark green, like the most beautiful goddess you’ve ever seen. Cecil Malory’s use of light on her skin is unmatched in its artistry. I know, because I heard an art teacher telling her class half an hour ago. Then they all went up to see if they could spot the little miniature portrait in the necklace.

I must have seen a hundred people coming and looking at her. Sighing with pleasure. Smiling at one another. Or just sitting down and gazing.

“Isn’t she lovely?” A dark-haired woman in a mac smiles at me and sits down beside me on the bench. “This is my favorite portrait in the whole gallery.”

“Me too.” I nod.

“I wonder what she’s thinking?” the woman muses.

“I think she’s in love.” I look yet again at Sadie’s glowing eyes, the flush in her cheek. “And I think she’s really, really happy.”

“You’re probably right.”

For a moment we’re both quiet, just drinking her in.

“She does you good, doesn’t she?” says the woman. “I often come and look at her in my lunchtimes. Just to cheer myself up. I’ve got a poster of her at home too. My daughter bought it for me. But you can’t beat the real thing, can you?”

There’s a sudden lump in my throat, but I manage to smile back. “No. You can’t beat the real thing.”

As I’m speaking, a Japanese family approaches the painting. I can see the mother pointing out the necklace to her daughter. They both sigh happily, then adopt identical poses, arms folded, heads tilted, and just gaze at her.

Sadie’s adored by all these people. Tens, hundreds, thousands. And she has no idea.

I’ve called for her until I’m hoarse, over and over, out the window, up and down the street. But she doesn’t hear. Or she doesn’t want to hear. Abruptly, I stand up and consult my watch; I have to go, anyway. It’s five o’clock. Time for my appointment with Malcolm Gledhill, the collections manager.

I make my way back to the foyer, give my name to the receptionist, and wait among a swarming crowd of French schoolchildren until a voice from behind says, “Miss Lington?” I turn to see a man in a purple shirt, with a chestnut beard and tufts of hair growing out of his ears, beaming at me with twinkly eyes. He looks like Father Christmas before he grew old, and I can’t help warming to him instantly.

“Hi. Yes, I’m Lara Lington.”

“Malcolm Gledhill. Come this way.” He leads me through a hidden door behind the reception desk, up some stairs, and into a corner office overlooking the Thames. Postcards and reproductions of paintings are everywhere, stuck up on the walls and propped against books and adorning his massive computer.

“So.” He hands me a cup of tea and sits down. “You’re here to see me about Girl with a Necklace?” He eyes me warily. “I wasn’t sure from your message quite what the issue was. But it’s clearly… pressing?”

OK, perhaps my message was a bit extreme. I didn’t want to have to tell the whole story to some nameless receptionist, so I simply said it was to do with Girl with a Necklace and a matter of life and death, state urgency, and national security.

Well. In the art world, it probably is all those things.

“It is quite pressing.” I nod. “And the first thing I want to say is, she wasn’t just ‘a girl.’ She was my great-aunt. Look.”

I reach into my bag and produce my photograph of Sadie at the nursing home, wearing the necklace.

“Look at the necklace,” I add, as I hand it over.

I knew I liked this Malcolm Gledhill guy. He reacts in a totally satisfactory manner. His eyes bulge. His cheeks turn pink with excitement. He looks up sharply at me, then back at the photo. He peers at the necklace around Sadie’s neck. Then he gives a harrumphing cough as though he’s concerned he’s given too much away.

“Are you saying,” he says at last, “that this lady here is the ‘Mabel’ in the painting?”

I really have to knock this Mabel thing on the head.

“She wasn’t called Mabel. She hated the name Mabel. She was called Sadie. Sadie Lancaster. She lived in Archbury and she was Stephen Nettleton’s lover. She was the reason he was sent to France.”

There’s silence, apart from Malcolm Gledhill breathing out, his cheeks two deflating balloons of air.

“Do you have any evidence that this is the case?” he says at last. “Any documents? Any old photographs?”

“She’s wearing the necklace, isn’t she?” I feel a flicker of frustration. “She kept it all her life. How much more evidence do you need?”

“Does the necklace still exist?” His eyes bulge again. “Do you have it? Is she still alive?” As this new thought occurs to him, his eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Because that would really be-”

“She’s just died, I’m afraid.” I cut him off before he can get too excited. “And I don’t have the necklace. But I’m trying to track it down.”

“Well.” Malcolm Gledhill takes out a paisley handkerchief and wipes his perspiring brow. “Clearly, in a case like this, much careful inquiry and research is required before we can come to any definitive conclusion-”

“It’s her,” I say firmly.

“So I’ll refer you, if I may, to our research team. They will look at your claim very carefully, study all the evidence available.”

He needs to play the official game properly. I can understand that.

“I’d love to talk to them,” I say politely. “And I know they’ll agree with me. It’s her.”

I suddenly spot a postcard of Girl with a Necklace stuck on his computer with Blu-Tack. I take it down and lay it beside the photo of Sadie from the nursing home. For a moment we both look silently at the two images. Two radiant, proud eyes in one picture; two hooded, ancient eyes in the other. And the necklace glimmering, a constant talisman, linking the two.

“When did your great-aunt die?” says Malcolm Gledhill at last, his voice soft.

“A few weeks ago. But she lived in a nursing home since the 1980s, and she didn’t know much about the outside world. She never knew Stephen Nettleton became famous. She never knew that she was famous. She thought she was a nobody. And that’s why I want the world to know her name.”

Malcolm Gledhill nods. “Well, if the research team comes to the conclusion that she was the sitter in the portrait… then, believe me, the world will know her name. Our marketing team did some research recently, and it turns out Girl with a Necklace is the most popular portrait in the gallery. They want to expand her profile. We consider her an exceedingly valuable asset.”

“Really?” I flush with pride. “She’d have loved to know that.”

“May I call in a colleague to see this photograph?” His eyes brighten. “He has a special interest in Malory, and I know he will be extremely interested in your claim-”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Before you call in anyone else, there’s another issue I need to talk to you about. In private. I want to know how you got the painting in the first place. It belonged to Sadie. It was hers. How did you get it?”

Malcolm Gledhill stiffens very slightly.

“I thought this matter might arise at some stage,” he says. “Following your phone call, I went and retrieved the file, and I’ve looked up the details of the acquisition.” He opens a file, which has been sitting on the desk all this while, and unfolds an old piece of paper. “The painting was sold to us in the 1980s.”

Sold? How could it have been sold?

“But it was lost after a fire. No one knew where it was. Who on earth sold it to you?”

“I’m afraid…” Malcolm Gledhill pauses. “I’m afraid the vendor asked at the time that all details of the acquisition should be kept confidential.”

“Confidential?” I stare at him in outrage. “But the painting was Sadie’s. Stephen gave it to her. Whoever got hold of it didn’t have the right to sell it. You should check these things!”

“We do check these things,” says Malcolm Gledhill, a little defensively. “All the provenance was deemed to be correct at the time. The gallery went to all reasonable lengths to determine that the painting was the vendor’s to sell. Indeed, a letter was signed in which the vendor made all the correct assurances. I have it here.”

His eyes keep dropping down to the paper in his hand. He must be looking at the name of whoever sold it. This is totally maddening.

“Well, whatever that person said to you, they were lying.” I glare at him. “And you know what? I’m a taxpayer, and I fund you lot. In fact, in a way, I own you lot. And I hereby demand to know who sold it to you. At once.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” says Malcolm Gledhill mildly. “We are not a publicly owned gallery, and you don’t own us. Believe me, I would like to clear this matter up as much as you would. But I am bound by our confidentiality agreement. I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

“What if I come back with police and lawyers?” I plant my hands on my hips. “What if I report the painting as stolen goods and force you to reveal the name?”

Malcolm Gledhill raises his tufty eyebrows high. “Obviously, if there was a police inquiry, we would comply fully.”

“Well, fine. There will be. I have friends in the police, you know,” I add darkly. “DI James. He’ll be very interested to hear about all this. That painting belonged to Sadie, and now it belongs to my dad and his brother. And we’re not just going to sit around and do nothing.”

I feel all fired up. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Paintings don’t just turn up out of the blue.

“I can understand your concerns.” Malcolm Gledhill hesitates. “Believe me, the gallery takes the issue of rightful ownership extremely seriously.”

He won’t meet my eye. His gaze keeps flicking to the paper in his hand. The name’s on there. I know it. I could hurl myself across the desk, wrestle him to the ground, and-

No.

“Well, thank you for your time,” I say formally. “I’ll be in touch again.”

“Of course.” Malcolm Gledhill is closing up the file again. “Before you go, if I might just call in my colleague Jeremy Mustoe? I’m sure he’d be very interested to meet you and to see the photograph of your great-aunt…”

A few moments later, a skinny man with fraying cuffs and a prominent Adam’s apple is in the room, poring over the photograph of Sadie and saying, “Remarkable,” over and over under his breath.

“It’s been extremely hard to discover anything about this painting,” Jeremy Mustoe says, looking up at last. “There are so few contemporary records or photographs, and by the time researchers returned to the village, it was generations later and no one could remember anything. And, of course, it had been assumed that the sitter was indeed named Mabel.” He wrinkles his brow. “I think one thesis was published in the early 1990s suggesting that a servant of the Nettleton house was Malory’s sitter, and that his parents disapproved of their liaison for class reasons, which led to him being sent to France…”

I want to laugh. Someone basically made up a completely wrong story and called it “research”?

“There was a Mabel,” I explain patiently. “But she wasn’t the sitter. Stephen called Sadie ‘Mabel’ to wind her up. They were lovers,” I add. “That’s why he was sent to France.”

“Indeed.” Jeremy Mustoe looks up and focuses on me with renewed interest. “So… would your great-aunt also be the ‘Mabel’ in the letters?”

“The letters!” exclaims Malcolm Gledhill. “Of course! I’d forgotten about those. It’s such a long time since I’ve looked at them-”

“Letters?” I look from face to face. “What letters?”

“We have in our archive a bundle of old letters written by Malory,” explains Jeremy Mustoe. “One of the very few sets of documents salvaged after his death. It’s not clear if all of them were sent, but one has clearly been posted and returned. Unfortunately the address was scribbled out in blue-black ink, and despite the very best modern technology, we’ve been unable to-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I cut him off, trying to hide my agitation. “But… could I see them?”

An hour later I walk out of the gallery, my mind whirling. When I close my eyes all I can see is that faded, loopy script on tiny sheets of writing paper.

I didn’t read all his letters. They felt too private, and I only had a few minutes to look at them, anyway. But I read enough to know. He loved her. Even after he’d gone to France. Even after he heard that she’d got married to someone else.

Sadie spent all her life waiting for the answer to a question. And now I know he did too. And even though the affair happened more than eighty years ago, even though Stephen is dead and Sadie is dead and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, I’m still seething with misery as I stride along the pavement. It was all so unfair. It was all so wrong. They should have been together. Someone obviously intercepted his letters before they got to Sadie. Probably those evil Victorian parents of hers.

So she sat there with no idea of the truth. Thinking she’d been used. Too proud to go after him and find out for herself. She accepted the proposal of Waistcoat Guy as some stupid gesture of revenge. Maybe she was hoping Stephen would appear at the church. Even as she was getting ready for the wedding, she must have hoped, surely. And he let her down.

I can’t bear it. I want to go back in time and put it all right. If only Sadie hadn’t married Waistcoat Guy. If only Stephen hadn’t gone to France. If only her parents had never caught them. If only-

No. Stop with the if-onlys. There’s no point. He’s long dead. She’s dead. The story’s over.

There’s a stream of people walking past me on their way to Waterloo station, but I don’t feel ready to go back to my little flat yet. I need some fresh air. I need a bit of perspective. I push my way past a group of tourists and head up to Waterloo Bridge. The last time I was here, the clouds were low and gray. Sadie was standing on the barricade. I was yelling desperately into the wind.

But this evening is warm and balmy. The Thames is blue, with only the tiniest white ruffles. A pleasure boat is cruising slowly along, and a couple of people are waving up at the London Eye.

I stop at the same place as before and gaze out toward Big Ben. But I’m not seeing anything properly. My mind feels lodged in the past. I keep seeing Stephen’s dated, scratchy writing. I keep hearing his old-fashioned phrases. I keep picturing him, sit ting on a clifftop in France, writing to Sadie. I even keep hearing snatches of Charleston music, as though a twenties band is playing

Hang on a minute.

A twenties band is playing.

I suddenly focus on the scene below me. A few hundred meters away in Jubilee Gardens, people are gathered on the big square of grass. A bandstand has been put up. A band is playing a jazzy dance number. People are dancing. Of course. It’s the jazz festival. The one they were leafleting about when I came here with Ed. The one I still have a ticket for, folded up in my purse.

For a moment I just stand there on the bridge, watching the scene. The band is playing the Charleston. Girls in twenties costumes are dancing on the stage, fringes and beads flashing back and forth. I can see bright eyes and twinkling feet and bobbing feathers. And suddenly, among the crowd, I see… I think I glimpse…

No.

For a moment I’m transfixed. Then, without allowing my brain to think what it’s trying to think, without letting a single hope flicker to life, I turn and start walking calmly along the bridge, down the steps. Somehow I force myself not to rush or run. I just move steadily toward the sound of the music, breathing hard, my hands clenched tight.

There’s a banner strung over the bandstand, silver balloons are gathered in bunches, and a trumpeter in a shiny waistcoat is on his feet, playing a tricky solo. All around, people are gathered, watching the Charleston dancers onstage, and on a wooden dance-floor laid on the grass, people are dancing themselves-some in jeans and some in so-called 1920s costumes. Everyone’s smiling admiringly and pointing at the costumes, but to me, they look rubbish. Even the flapper girls onstage. They’re just imitations, with fake feathers and plastic pearls and modern shoes and twenty-first-century makeup. They look nothing like the real thing. Nothing like a proper twenties girl. Nothing like-

And I stop dead, my heart in my throat. I was right.

She’s up by the bandstand, dancing her heart out. She’s in a pale yellow dress, with a matching band around her dark hair. She looks more wraithlike than ever. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are closed in concentration, and she looks as though she’s shutting out the world. People are dancing through her, trampling on her feet and elbowing her, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.

God knows what she’s been doing, these last few days.

As I watch, she disappears behind two laughing girls in denim jackets, and I feel a dart of panic. I can’t lose her again. Not after all this.

“Sadie!” I start pushing my way through the crowd. “Sa-die! It’s me, Lara!”

I catch a glimpse of her again, her eyes opened wide. She’s looking all around. She heard me.

“Sadie! Over here!” I’m waving frantically, and a few people turn to see who I’m yelling at.

Suddenly she sees me, and her whole body goes motionless. Her expression is unfathomable and, as I near her, I feel a sudden apprehension. Somehow my perspective on Sadie has changed over the past few days. She’s not just a girl. She’s not even just my guardian angel, if she ever was that. She’s a part of art history. She’s famous. And she doesn’t even know it.

“Sadie-” I break off helplessly. I don’t know where to start. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been looking everywhere for you-”

“Well, you can’t have looked very hard!” She’s busy scanning the band and appears totally unmoved by my appearance. In spite of myself, I feel a familiar indignation rising.

“I did! I’ve spent days searching, if you want to know! Calling, shouting, looking-you have no idea what I went through!”

“Actually, I do. I saw you being thrown out of that cinema.” She smirks. “It was very funny.”

“You were there?” I stare at her. “So how come you didn’t answer?”

“I was still upset.” Her chin tightens proudly. “I didn’t see why I should.”

Typical. I should have realized she would have borne a grudge against me for days.

“Well, I went all over the place. And I had quite a voyage of discovery. I need to tell you about it.” I’m trying to find a way of edging tactfully into the subject of Archbury and Stephen and the painting, but all of a sudden Sadie lifts her head and says, with a tiny grudging shrug:

“I missed you.”

I’m so taken aback I’m thrown off my stride. I feel a sudden prickle in my nose and rub it awkwardly.

“Well… me too. I missed you too.” Instinctively, I put my arms out to give her a hug-then realize how pointless that is and drop my hands down again. “Sadie, listen. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“And there’s something I’ve got to tell you!” she cuts in with satisfaction. “I knew you’d come tonight. I was waiting for you.”

Honestly. She really does think she’s an all-powerful deity.

“You can’t have known,” I say patiently. “Even I didn’t know I was going to come. I just happened to be in the area, I heard the music, I wandered over-”

“I did know,” she insists. “And if you didn’t appear, I was going to find you and make you come. And do you know the reason?” Her eyes have started to glitter, and she’s peering this way and that through the crowd.

“Sadie.” I try to fix her eyes. “Please. Listen to me. I’ve got something really, really important to tell you. We need to go somewhere quiet, you need to listen, it’ll be a shock-”

“Well, I’ve got something really important to show you!” She’s not even listening to me properly. “There!” She suddenly points in triumph. “Over there! Look!”

I follow her gaze, squinting as I try to make out what she’s talking about… and my heart drops in dismay.

Ed.

He’s standing at the side of the dance floor. He’s holding a plastic glass of something, watching the band, and occasionally stumping from side to side to the music as though out of a sense of duty. He looks so unenthusiastic, I would almost want to laugh, if I didn’t also want to shrivel up and hide in a little box somewhere.

“Sadie…” I clutch my head. “What have you done?”

“Go and talk to him!” She motions me briskly.

“No,” I say in horror. “Don’t be stupid!”

“Go on!”

“I can’t talk to him. He hates me.” I quickly swivel away and hide behind a group of dancers before Ed can catch sight of me. Just seeing him is bringing back all kinds of memories I would rather forget. “Why did you make him come here, anyway?” I mutter at Sadie. “What exactly are you trying to achieve?”

“I felt guilty.” She gives me an accusing gaze, as though this is all my fault. “I don’t like feeling guilty. So I decided to do something about it.”

“You went and yelled at him.” I shake my head in disbelief.

This is all I need. She obviously frog-marched him here under total duress. He was probably planning a nice quiet evening in and now he finds himself standing at some stupid jazz festival, amid a load of dancing couples, all on his own. He’s probably having the worst evening of his life. And now she expects me to talk to him.

“I thought he was yours, anyway. I thought I ruined everything. What happened to all that?”

Sadie flinches slightly but holds her head high. I can see her looking at Ed through the crowd. There’s a brief, soft longing in her eyes, then she turns away.

“Not my type after all,” she says crisply. “He’s far too… alive. And so are you. So you’re well matched. Off you go! Ask him to dance.” She tries to push me toward Ed again.

“Sadie.” I shake my head. “I really appreciate you making the effort. But I can’t just make things up with him out of the blue. It’s not the right place, it’s not the right time. Now, can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Of course it’s the right time and place!” retorts Sadie, affronted. “That’s why he’s here! That’s why you’re here!”

“It’s not why I’m here!” I’m starting to lose it. I wish I could take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Sadie, don’t you understand? I need to talk to you! There are things I need to tell you! And you have to focus. You have to listen. Forget about Ed and me. This is about you! And Stephen! And your past! I’ve found out what happened! I’ve found the painting!”

Too late, I realize that the jazz band has come to a halt. Everyone’s stopped dancing and a guy up onstage is making a speech. At least, he’s trying to make a speech, but the entire crowd has turned to look at me, yelling like a lunatic into empty space.

“Sorry.” I swallow. “I… didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, carry on.” Hardly daring to, I swivel my gaze to where Ed is standing, hoping desperately that he’s already got bored and gone home. But no such luck. He’s standing there staring at me, along with everyone else.

I want to shrivel up even more. My skin starts to prickle with mortification as he makes his way across the dance floor toward me. He isn’t smiling. Did he hear me mentioning his name?

“You found the painting?” Sadie’s voice is only a whisper and her eyes seem suddenly hollow as she stares at me. “You found Stephen’s painting?”

“Yes,” I mutter, a hand in front of my mouth. “You have to see it, it’s amazing-”

“Lara.” Ed has reached me. At the sight of him I have a flashback to the London Eye, and all sorts of crawling feelings come over me again.

“Oh. Um, hi,” I manage, my chest tight.

“Where is it?” Sadie tries to tug at my arm. “Where is it?”

Ed looks as uncomfortable as I feel. His hands are jammed in his pockets, and his frown is back in place as deep as it ever was. “So you came.” He meets my eyes briefly, then looks away. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Um… well…” I clear my throat. “I just thought… you know…”

I’m trying to be coherent, but it’s almost impossible with Sadie bobbing around to get my attention.

“What did you find out?” Now she’s right in front of me, her voice high-pitched and urgent. It’s as though she’s suddenly woken up and realized I might have something of genuine importance for her. “Tell me!”

“I will tell you. Just wait.” I’m trying to talk subtly, out of the side of my mouth, but Ed is too sharp. He picks up everything.

“Tell me what?” he says, his eyes scanning my face intently.

“Um…”

“Tell me!” demands Sadie.

OK. I cannot cope with this. Both Sadie and Ed are standing in front of me, with expectant faces. My eyes are darting madly from one to the other. Any minute Ed is going to decide I really am a lunatic, and go.

“Lara?” Ed takes a step toward me. “Are you OK?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean…” I take a breath. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I left our date in such a rush. I’m sorry you thought I was setting you up for a job. But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. And I really hope you believe me-”

“Stop talking to him!” interrupts Sadie in a burst of fury, but I don’t move a muscle. Ed’s dark, serious gaze is on mine and I can’t tear my eyes away.

“I do believe you,” he says. “And I need to apologize too. I overreacted. I didn’t give you a chance. Afterward I regretted it. I realized I’d thrown away something… a friendship… that was…”

“What?” I manage.

“Good.” There’s a questioning look in his face. “I think we had something good. Didn’t we?”

This is the moment to nod and say yes. But I can’t leave it at that. I don’t want a good friendship. I want that feeling back, when he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. I want him. That’s the truth.

“You want me just to be your… friend?” I force myself to say the words, and instantly I can see something change in Ed’s face.

“Stop it! Talk to me!” Sadie whirls over to Ed and screeches in his ear. “Stop talking to Lara! Go away!” For a moment he gets that distant look in his eye, and I can tell he’s heard her. But he doesn’t move. His eyes just crinkle into a warm, tender smile.

“You want the truth? I think you’re my guardian angel.”

“What?” I try to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out right.

“Do you know what it’s like to have someone crash into your life with no warning?” Ed shakes his head reminiscently. “When you landed in my office, I was, like, Who the fuck is this? But you shook me up. You brought me back to life at a time when I was in limbo. You were just what I needed.” He hesitates, then adds, “You’re just what I need.” His voice is lower and darker; there’s something in his look which is making me tingle all over.

“Well, I need you too.” My voice is constricted. “So we’re even.”

“No, you don’t need me.” He smiles ruefully. “You’re doing just fine.”

“OK.” I hesitate. “Maybe I don’t need you. But… I want you.”

For a moment neither of us speaks. His eyes are locked on mine. My heart is thumping so hard, I’m sure he can hear it.

“Go away, Ed!” Sadie suddenly screeches in Ed’s ear. “Do this later!”

I can see Ed flinch at the sound of her, and I feel a familiar foreboding. If Sadie messes this up for me, I will, I will…

“Leave!” Sadie is shrieking incessantly at him. “Tell her you’ll call later! Go away! Go home!”

I’m aching with anger at her. Stop! I want to yell. Leave him alone! But I’m powerless. I just have to watch the light come on in Ed’s eyes as he hears her and registers what she’s saying. It’s like Josh all over again. She’s ruined everything again.

“You know, sometimes you hear a voice in your head,” Ed says, as though the thought has just occurred to him. “Like… an instinct.”

“I know you do,” I say miserably. “You hear a voice and it has a message and it’s telling you to go away. I understand.”

“It’s telling me the opposite.” Ed moves forward and firmly takes hold of my shoulders. “It’s telling me not to let you go. It’s telling me you’re the best thing that’s happened to me and I better not fuck this one up.”

And before I can even take a breath, he leans down and kisses me. His arms wrap around me, strong and secure and resolute.

I’m in a state of total disbelief. He’s not walking away. He’s not listening to Sadie. Whatever voice is in his head… it’s not hers.

At last he draws away and smiles down at me, pushing a strand of hair gently off my face. I smile back, breathless, resisting the temptation to pull him down straightaway for another snog.

“Would you like to dance, twenties girl?” he says.

I want to dance. I want to do more than dance. I want to spend all evening and all night with him.

I shoot a surreptitious glance at Sadie. She’s moved away a few feet and is studying her shoes, her shoulders hunched over, her hands twisted together in a complicated knot. She looks up and shrugs, with a tiny sad smile of defeat.

“Dance with him,” she says. “It’s all right. I’ll wait.”

She’s waited years and years and years to find out the truth about Stephen. And now she’s willing to wait even longer, just so I can dance with Ed.

There’s a tugging in my heart. If I could, I’d throw my arms around her.

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “It’s your turn. Ed…” I turn to him with a deep breath. “I have to tell you about my great-aunt. She died recently.”

“Oh. OK. Sure. I didn’t know.” He looks puzzled. “You want to talk over dinner?”

“No. I need to talk about it right now.” I drag him to the edge of the dance floor, away from the band. “It’s really important. Her name was Sadie, and she was in love with this guy Stephen in the 1920s. And she thought he was a bastard who used her and forgot about her. But he loved her. I know he did. Even after he went to France, he loved her.”

My words are spilling out in an urgent stream. I’m looking directly at Sadie. I have to get my message across. She has to believe me.

“How do you know?” Her chin is as haughty as ever, but her voice has a giveaway tremble. “What are you talking about?”

“I know because he wrote letters to her from France.” I speak across Ed to Sadie. “And because he put himself in the necklace. And because he never painted another portrait, his whole life. People begged him to, but he would always say, ‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peinare.’ ‘I have painted the one I wanted to paint.’ And when you see the painting, you realize why. Because why would he ever want to paint anyone else after Sadie?” My throat is suddenly thick. “She was the most beautiful thing you ever saw. She was radiant. And she was wearing this necklace… When you see the necklace in the painting, it all makes sense. He loved her. Even if she lived her whole life without knowing it. Even if she lived to one hundred and five without ever getting an answer.” I brush away a tear from my cheek.

Ed looks lost for words. Which is hardly a surprise. One minute we’re snogging. The next I’m downloading some random torrent of family history on him.

“Where did you see the painting? Where is it?” Sadie takes a step toward me, quivering all over, her face pale. “It was lost. It was burned.”

“So, did you know your great-aunt well?” Ed is saying simultaneously.

“I didn’t know her when she was alive. But after she died I went down to Archbury, where she used to live. He’s famous.” I turn again to Sadie. “Stephen’s famous.”

“Famous?” Sadie looks bewildered.

“There’s a whole museum dedicated to him. He’s called Cecil Malory. He was discovered long after his death. And the portrait is famous too. And it was saved and it’s in a gallery and everyone loves it… and you have to see it. You have to see it.”

“Now.” Sadie’s voice is so quiet, I can barely hear her. “Please. Now.”

“Sounds awesome,” says Ed politely. “We’ll have to go see it someday. We could take in some galleries, do lunch-”

“No. Now.” I take his hand. “Right now.” I glance at Sadie. “Come on.”

We sit on the leather bench, the three of us, in a silent row. Sadie next to me. Me next to Ed. Sadie hasn’t spoken since she came into the gallery. When she first saw the portrait, I thought she might faint. She flickered silently and just stared, and then at last exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for an hour.

“Amazing eyes,” says Ed at length. He keeps shooting me wary looks, as though he’s not sure how to deal with this situation.

“Amazing.” I nod, but I can’t concentrate on him. “Are you OK?” I give Sadie a worried glance. “I know this has been a real shock for you.”

“I’m good.” Ed sounds puzzled. “Thanks for asking.”

“I’m all right.” Sadie gives me a wan smile. Then she resumes gazing at the painting. She’s already been up close to it, to see the portrait of Stephen hidden in her necklace, and her face was briefly so contorted with love and sorrow that I had to turn away and give her a moment of privacy.

“They’ve done some research at the gallery,” I say to Ed. “She’s the most popular painting here. They’re going to launch a range of products with her picture on them. Like posters and coffee mugs. She’s going to be famous!”

“Coffee mugs.” Sadie tosses her head. “How terribly vulgar.” But I can see a sudden glimmer of pride in her eyes. “What else will I be on?”

“And tea towels, jigsaw puzzles…” I say as though informing Ed. “You name it. If she was ever worried about not making any mark on this world…” I leave my words trailing in the air.

“Quite the famous relative you have.” Ed raises his eyebrows. “Your family must be very proud.”

“Not really,” I say after a pause. “But they will be.”

“Mabel.” Ed is consulting the guidebook which he insisted on buying at the entrance. “It says here: The sitter is thought to be called Mabel.

“That’s what they thought.” I nod. “Because the painting says My Mabel on the back.”

“Mabel?” Sadie swivels around, looking so horrified I can’t help snorting with laughter.

“I told them it was a joke between her and Cecil Malory,” I hastily explain. “It was her nickname, but everyone thought it was real.”

“Do I look like a Mabel?”

A movement attracts my attention and I look up. To my surprise, Malcolm Gledhill is entering the gallery. As he sees me, he gives a sheepish smile and shifts his briefcase from one hand to another.

“Oh, Miss Lington. Hello. After our conversation today, I just thought I’d come and have another look at her.”

“Me too.” I nod. “I’d like to introduce…” Abruptly I realize I’m about to introduce Sadie to him. “Ed.” I quickly switch my hand to the other direction. “This is Ed Harrison. Malcolm Gledhill. He’s in charge of the collection.”

Malcolm joins the three of us on the bench, and for a moment we all just look at the painting.

“So you’ve had the painting in the gallery since 1982,” says Ed, still reading the guidebook. “Why did the family get rid of it? Strange move.”

“Good question,” says Sadie, suddenly waking up. “It belonged to me. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”

“Good question,” I echo firmly. “It belonged to Sadie. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”

“And what I want to know is, who did sell it?” she adds.

“Who did sell it?” I echo.

“Who did sell it?” repeats Ed.

Malcolm Gledhill shifts uncomfortably on the bench.

“As I said today, Miss Lington, it was a confidential arrangement. Until such time as a formal legal claim is made, the gallery is unable to-”

“OK, OK,” I cut him off. “I get it, you can’t tell me. But I’m going to find out. That painting belonged to my family. We deserve to know.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Ed is finally showing a real interest in the story. “Someone stole the painting?”

“Dunno.” I shrug. “It was missing for years, and then I found it here. All I know is, it was sold to the gallery in the 1980s, but I don’t know who sold it.”

“Do you know?” Ed turns to Malcolm Gledhill.

“I… do.” He nods reluctantly.

“Well, can’t you tell her?”

“Not… well… no.”

“Is this some official secret?” demands Ed. “Does it involve weapons of mass destruction? Is national security at stake?”

“Not so to speak.” Malcolm looks more flustered than ever. “But there was a confidentiality clause in the agreement-”

“OK.” Ed snaps into his business-consultant, taking-command-of-the-situation mode. “I’ll have an attorney on this in the morning. This is ridiculous.”

“Absolutely ridiculous,” I chime in, bolstered by Ed’s bullish attitude. “And we won’t stand for it. Are you aware my uncle is Bill Lington? I know he will use every resource to fight this… ridiculous confidentiality. It’s our painting.”

Malcolm Gledhill looks utterly beleaguered.

“The agreement clearly states…” he manages at last, then trails off. I can see his eyes constantly flicking toward his briefcase.

“Is the file in there?” I say, in sudden inspiration.

“As it happens, it is,” says Malcolm Gledhill guardedly. “I’m taking the papers home to study. Copies, of course.”

“So you could show the agreement to us,” says Ed, lowering his voice. “We won’t snitch.”

“I could not show you anything!” Malcolm Gledhill nearly falls off the bench in horror. “That, as I keep repeating, is confidential information.”

“Of course it is.” I adopt a soothing voice. “We understand that. But maybe you could do me a small favor and check the date of acquisition? That’s not confidential, is it?”

Ed gives me a questioning glance, but I pretend I haven’t noticed. Another plan has occurred to me. One which Ed won’t understand.

“It was June 1982, as I remember,” says Malcolm Gledhill.

“But the exact date? Could you just have a quick look at the agreement?” I open my eyes innocently at him. “Please? It could be very helpful.”

Malcolm Gledhill gives me a suspicious look but obviously can’t think of any reason to refuse. He bends down, clicks open his briefcase, and draws out a file of papers.

I catch Sadie’s eye and jerk my head surreptitiously at Malcolm Gledhill.

“What?” she says.

For God’s sake. And she calls me slow.

I jerk my head again at Malcolm Gledhill, who is now smoothing out a sheet of paper.

“What?” she repeats impatiently. “What are you trying to say?”

“Here we are.” He puts on a pair of reading glasses. “Let me find the date…”

My neck’s going to crick if I jerk my head any more. I honestly think I’m going to die of frustration in a minute. There’s the information we want. Right there. Open for anyone to read who happens to be of a ghostly invisible nature. And still Sadie is peering at me uncomprehendingly.

“Look!” I mutter, out of the corner of my mouth. “Look at it! Look at it!”

“Oh!” Her face snaps in sudden understanding. A nanosecond later she’s standing behind Malcolm Gledhill, peering over his shoulder.

“Look at what?” says Ed, sounding puzzled, but I barely hear him. I’m avidly watching Sadie as she reads, frowns, gives a small gasp-then looks up.

“William Lington. He sold it for five hundred thousand pounds.”

“William Lington?” I stare back at her stupidly. “You mean… Uncle Bill?”

The effect of my words on Malcolm Gledhill is extreme and immediate. He starts violently, clutches the letter to his chest, turns white, turns pink, looks at the letter, then clasps it close again. “What-what did you say?”

I’m having a hard time digesting this myself.

“William Lington sold the painting to the gallery.” I try to sound firm, but my voice is coming out faint. “That’s the name on the agreement.”

“You are fucking kidding.” Ed’s eyes gleam. “Your own uncle?”

“For half a million pounds.”

Malcolm Gledhill looks like he wants to burst into tears. “I don’t know how you got that information.” He appeals to Ed. “You will be a witness to the fact I did not reveal any information to Miss Lington.”

“So she’s right?” says Ed, raising his eyebrows. This only seems to panic Malcolm Gledhill more.

“I can’t say whether or not-whether-” He breaks off and wipes his brow. “At no stage was the agreement out of my sight, at no stage did I let it into her view-”

“You didn’t have to,” says Ed reassuringly. “She’s psychic.”

My mind is going around in circles as I try to get over my shock and think this all through. Uncle Bill had the painting. Uncle Bill sold the painting. Dad’s voice keeps running through my mind: … put in a storage unit and left there for years. Nobody could face dealing with it. It was Bill who sorted it all out… Strange to imagine, but Bill was the idler in those days.

It’s all obvious. He must have found the painting all those years ago, realized it was valuable, and sold it to the London Portrait Gallery in a secret agreement.

“Are you OK?” Ed touches my arm. “Lara?”

But I can’t move. Now my mind is moving in bigger circles. Wilder circles. I’m putting two and two together. I’m putting eight and eight together. And I’m making a hundred million.

Bill set up Lingtons Coffee in 1982.

The same year he secretly made half a million from selling Sadie’s painting.

And now, finally, finally… it’s all falling into place. It’s all making sense. He had £500,000 that no one knew about, £500,000 that he’s never mentioned. Not in any interview. Not in any seminar. Not in any book.

I feel light-headed. The enormity of this is only slowly sinking in. The whole thing is a lie. The whole world thinks he’s a business genius who started with two little coins. Half a million notes, more like.

And he covered it up so no one would know. He must have realized the painting was of Sadie as soon as he saw it. He must have realized it belonged to her. But he let the world believe it was some servant called Mabel. He probably fed them that story himself. That way, no one would come knocking on any Lington’s door, asking about the beautiful girl in the painting.

“Lara?” Ed’s waving a hand in front of my face. “Speak to me. What is it?”

“The year 1982.” I look up in a daze. “Sound familiar? That’s when Uncle Bill started up Lingtons Coffee. You know? With his famous ‘Two Little Coins.’” I do quote marks with my fingers. “Or was there, in fact, half a million pounds which started him off? Which he somehow forgot to mention because it wasn’t his in the first place?”

There’s silence. I can see the pieces falling into place in Ed’s mind.

“Jesus Christ,” he says at last, and looks up at me. “This is huge. Huge.”

“I know.” I swallow. “Huge.”

“So the whole Two Little Coins story, the seminars, the book, the DVD, the movie…”

“All complete bullshit.”

“If I were Pierce Brosnan, I’d be calling my agent right about now.” Ed raises his eyebrows comically.

I’d want to laugh, too, if I didn’t want to cry. If I wasn’t so sad and furious and sick at what Uncle Bill did.

That was Sadie’s painting. It was hers to sell or keep. He took it and he used it and he never breathed a word. How dare he? How dare he?

With sickening clarity, I can see a parallel universe in which someone else, someone decent like my dad, had found the painting and done the right thing. I can see Sadie sitting in her nursing home, wearing her necklace, looking at her beautiful painting throughout her old age, until the very last light faded from her eyes.

Or maybe she would have sold it. But it would have been hers to sell. It would have been her glory. I can see her brought out of her nursing home and shown the painting hanging in the London Portrait Gallery. I can see the joy that would have given her. And I can even see her sitting in her chair, having Stephen’s letters read aloud to her by some kind archivist.

Uncle Bill robbed her of years and years of possible happiness. And I’ll never forgive him.

“She should have known.” I can’t contain my anger anymore. “Sadie should have known she was hanging up here. She went to her death with no idea. And that was wrong. It was wrong.”

I glance over at Sadie, who has wandered away from the conversation as though she’s not interested. She shrugs, as though to brush away all my angst and fury.

“Darling, don’t drone on about it. Too dull. At least I’ve found it now. At least it wasn’t destroyed. And at least I don’t look as fat as I remember,” she adds with sudden animation. “My arms look rather wonderful, don’t they? I always did have good arms.”

“Too twiggy for my taste,” I can’t help shooting back.

“At least they’re not pillows.”

Sadie meets my eyes and we exchange wary smiles. Her bravado doesn’t fool me. She’s pale and flickery, and I can tell this discovery has thrown her. But her chin is up, high and proud as ever.

Malcolm Gledhill is still looking deeply uncomfortable. “If we’d realized she was still alive, if anyone had told us-”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, my anger abated a little. “We didn’t even know it was her ourselves.”

Because Uncle Bill didn’t say a word. Because he covered the whole thing up with an anonymous deal. No wonder he wanted the necklace. It was the only thing left linking Sadie to her portrait. It was the only thing which might uncover his massive con trick. This painting must have been a time bomb for him, ticking away quietly all these years. And now, finally, it’s gone off. Boom. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to avenge Sadie. Big-time.

All four of us have silently, gradually, turned to face the painting again. It’s almost impossible to sit in this gallery and not end up staring at it.

“I told you that she’s the most popular painting in the gallery,” says Malcolm Gledhill presently. “I spoke to the marketing department today, and they’re making her the face of the gallery. She’ll be used in every campaign.”

“I want to be on a lipstick,” says Sadie, suddenly turning with determination. “A lovely bright lipstick.”

“She should be on a lipstick,” I say firmly to Malcolm Gledhill. “And you should name it after her. That’s what she would have wanted.”

“I’ll see what we can do.” He looks a little flustered. “It’s not really my area.”

“I’ll let you know what else she would have wanted.” I wink at Sadie. “I’ll be acting as her unofficial agent from now on.”

“I wonder what she’s thinking,” says Ed, still gazing up at her. “That’s quite an intriguing expression she has.”

“I often wonder that myself,” chimes in Malcolm Gledhill eagerly. “She seems to have such a look of serenity and happiness… Obviously, from what you’ve said, she had a certain emotional connection with the painter Malory… I often wonder if he was reading her poetry as he painted…”

“What an idiot this man is,” says Sadie scathingly in my ear. “It’s obvious what I’m thinking. I’m looking at Stephen and I’m thinking, I want to jump his bones.”

“She wanted to jump his bones,” I say to Malcolm Gledhill. Ed shoots me a disbelieving look, then bursts into laughter.

“I should be going.” Malcolm Gledhill has clearly had enough of us for one night. He picks up his briefcase, nods at us, then swiftly walks away. A few seconds later I can hear him practically running down the marble stairs. I look at Ed and grin.

“Sorry about the diversion.”

“No problem.” He gives me a quizzical look. “So… any other old masters you want to unveil tonight? Any long-lost family sculptures? Any more psychic revelations? Or shall we go get some dinner?”

“Dinner.” I stand up and look at Sadie. She’s still sitting there, her feet up on the bench and her yellow dress flowing around her, gazing up at her twenty-three-year-old self as though she wants to drink herself in. “Coming?” I say softly.

“Sure,” says Ed.

“Not quite yet,” says Sadie, without moving her head. “You go. I’ll see you later.”

I follow Ed to the exit, then turn and give Sadie one last anxious look. I just want to make sure she’s OK. But she doesn’t even notice me. She’s still transfixed. Like she wants to sit there all night with the painting. Like she wants to make up for all the time she lost.

Like, finally, she’s found what she was looking for.