Twenties Girl

TWENTY-FIVE

I’ve never avenged anyone before. And I’m finding it a lot trickier than I expected. Uncle Bill is abroad and no one can get in contact with him. (Well, of course they can get hold of him. They’re just not going to do so for the crazy stalker niece.) I don’t want to write to him or make a phone call. This has to be done face-to-face. So at the moment, it’s impossible.

And it’s not helped by Sadie going all moral-high-ground on me. She thinks there’s no point dwelling on the past, and what’s done is done, and I should stop “droning on about it, darling.”

But I don’t care what she thinks. Vengeance will be mine. The more I think about what Uncle Bill did, the more livid I am, and the more I want to phone up Dad and blurt it all out. But somehow I’m keeping control. There’s no rush. Everyone knows revenge is a dish best served when you’ve had enough time to build up enough vitriol and fury. Plus, it’s not like my evidence is going anywhere. The painting is hardly going to disappear from the London Portrait Gallery. Nor is the so-called confidential agreement that Uncle Bill signed all those years ago. Ed’s already hired a lawyer for me, and he’s going to start formal claim proceedings as soon I give him the say-so. Which I’m going to do as soon as I’ve confronted Uncle Bill myself and seen him squirm. That’s my aim. If he grovels it’ll be the icing on the cake, but I’m not that hopeful.

I heave a sigh, screw up a piece of paper, and throw it into the bin. I want to see him squirm now. I’ve honed my vengeance speech and everything.

To distract myself, I lean against the headboard of my bed and flick through the post. My bedroom is actually a pretty good office. I don’t have to commute, and it doesn’t cost anything. And it has a bed in it. On the less positive side, Kate has to work at my dressing table and keeps getting her legs wedged underneath it.

I’m calling my new headhunting company Magic Search, and we’ve been running for three weeks now. And we’ve already landed a commission! We were recommended to a pharmaceuticals company by Janet Grady, who is my new best friend. (She’s not stupid, Janet. She knows I did all the work and Natalie did nothing. Mostly because I rang her up and told her.) I did the pitch myself, and two days ago we heard we’d won! We’ve been asked to compile a short list for another marketing director job, and this one has to have specialist knowledge of the pharmaceuticals industry. I told the HR head that this was a perfect job for us, because, by chance, one of my associates has intimate personal knowledge of the pharmaceuticals industry.

Which, OK, isn’t strictly true.

But the point about Sadie is she’s a very quick learner and has all sorts of clever ideas. Which is why she’s a valued member of the Magic Search team.

“Hello!” Her high-pitched voice jolts me out of my reverie, and I look up to see her sitting at the end of my bed. “I’ve just been to Glaxo Wellcome. I’ve got the direct lines of two of the senior marketing team. Quick, before I forget…”

She dictates two names and telephone numbers to me. Private, direct-line numbers. Gold dust to a headhunter.

“The second one has just had a baby,” she adds. “So he probably doesn’t want a new job. But Rick Young might. He looked pretty bored during their meeting. When I go back I’ll find out his salary somehow.”

Sadie, I write underneath the phone numbers, you’re a star. Thanks a million.

“Don’t mention it,” she says crisply. “It was too easy. Where next? We should think about Europe, you know. There must be simply heaps of talent in Switzerland and France.”

Brilliant idea, I write, then look up. “Kate, could you make a list of all the major pharmaceuticals companies in Europe for me? I think we might spread our net quite wide with this one.”

“Good idea, Lara,” says Kate, looking impressed. “I’ll get on it.”

Sadie winks at me and I grin back. Having a job really suits her. She looks more alive and happy these days than I’ve ever known her. I’ve even given her a job title: chief headhunter. After all, she’s the one doing the hunting.

She’s found us an office too: a run-down building off Kilburn High Road. We can move in there next week. It’s all falling into place.

Every evening, after Kate goes home, Sadie and I sit on my bed together and talk. Or, rather, she talks. I’ve told her that I want to know about her. I want to hear about everything she can remember, whether it’s big, small, important, trivial-everything. And so she sits there, and plays with her beads, and thinks for a bit, and tells me things. Her thoughts are a bit random and I can’t always follow, but gradually a picture of her life has built up. She’s told me about the divine hat she was wearing in Hong Kong when war was declared, the leather trunk she packed everything in and lost, the boat journey she made to the United States, the time she was robbed at gunpoint in Chicago but managed to keep hold of her necklace, the man she danced with one night who later became president…

And I sit totally riveted. I’ve never heard a story like it. She’s had the most amazing, colorful life. Sometimes fun, sometimes exciting, sometimes desperate, sometimes shocking. It’s a life I can’t imagine anyone else leading. Only Sadie.

I talk a bit too. I’ve told her about growing up with Mum and Dad, stories about Tonya’s riding lessons and my synchronized-swimming craze. I’ve told her about Mum’s anxiety attacks and how I wish she could relax and enjoy life. I’ve told her how our whole lives we’ve been in the shadow of Uncle Bill.

We don’t really comment on each other’s stories. We just listen.

Then, later on, when I go to bed, Sadie goes to the London Portrait Gallery and sits with her painting all night, alone. She hasn’t told me that’s what she does. I just know, from the way she disappears off silently, her eyes already distant and dreamy. And the way she returns, thoughtful and distracted and talking about her childhood and Stephen and Archbury. I’m glad she goes. The painting’s so important to her, she should spend time with it. And this way she doesn’t have to share it with anyone else.

Coincidentally, it works out well for me too, her being out of the way at night. For… various other reasons.

Nothing specific.

Oh, OK. All right. There is a specific reason. Which would be the fact that Ed has recently stayed over at my place a few nights.

I mean, come on. Can you think of anything worse than a ghost lurking around in your bedroom when you’re… getting to know your new boyfriend better? The idea of Sadie giving us a running commentary is more than I can cope with. And she has no shame. I know she’d watch us. She’d probably award us points out of ten, or say disparagingly that they did it much better in her day, or suddenly yell “Faster!” in Ed’s ear.

I’ve already caught her stepping into the shower one morning when Ed and I both happened to be in there. I screamed and tried to push her out, and accidentally elbowed Ed in the face, and it took me about an hour to recover. And Sadie wasn’t one little bit sorry. She said I was overreacting and she just wanted to keep us company. Company?

Ed kept shooting me little sidelong glances after that. It’s almost like he suspects. I mean, obviously he can’t have guessed the truth; that would be impossible. But he’s pretty observant. And I can tell he knows there’s something a bit strange in my life.

The phone rings and Kate picks it up. “Hello, Magic Search, can I help you?… Oh. Yes, of course, I’ll put you through.” She presses the hold button and says, “It’s Sam from Bill Lington’s travel office. Apparently you called them?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks, Kate.”

I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver. Here goes my latest salvo.

“Hello, Sam,” I say pleasantly. “Thanks for ringing back. The reason I called is, um… I’m trying to arrange a fun surprise for my uncle. I know he’s away and I wondered if you could possibly give me his flight details? Obviously I won’t pass them on!” I add, with a casual little laugh.

This is a total bluff. I don’t even know if he’s flying back from wherever he is. Maybe he’s taking the QE2 or traveling by bespoke submarine. Nothing would surprise me.

“Lara,” Sam sighs. “I’ve just spoken to Sarah. She told me that you were trying to contact Bill. She also informed me that you’d been banned from the house.”

“Banned?” I muster tones of shock. “Are you serious? Well, I have no idea what that’s about. I’m just trying to organize a little surprise birthday-o-gram for my uncle-”

“His birthday was a month ago.”

“So… I’m a bit late!”

“Lara, I can’t give out confidential flight information,” Sam says smoothly. “Or any information. Sorry. Have a good day.”

“Right. Well… thanks.” I crash the receiver down. Damn.

“Everything OK?” Kate looks up anxiously.

“Yes. Fine.” I muster a smile. But as I head out to the kitchen, I’m breathing heavily and my blood is pumping around fast, all toxic with frustration. I’m sure this situation is terrible for my health. Another thing to blame Uncle Bill for. I flick on the kettle and lean against the counter, trying to calm myself with deep breathing.

Hare hare… vengeance will be mine… hare hare… I just have to be patient…

Trouble is, I’m sick of being patient. I take a teaspoon out and shove the drawer closed with a satisfying bang.

“Goodness!” Sadie appears, perched above the dishwasher. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong.” I haul my tea bag out roughly and dump it in the bin. “I want to get him.”

Sadie opens her eyes wider. “I didn’t realize you were so steamed up.”

“I wasn’t. But I am now. I’ve had enough.” I slosh milk into my tea and dump the carton back in the fridge. “I know you’re being all magnanimous, but I don’t see how you can do it. I just want to… to punch him. Every time I pass a Lingtons coffee shop, I see a great big rack with Two Little Coins for sale. I want to rush in and yell, ‘Stop it, everybody! It wasn’t two little coins! It was my great-aunt’s fortune!’” I sigh and take a sip of tea. Then I look up at Sadie curiously. “Don’t you want to get back at him? You must be a total saint.”

“Saint is probably a little strong…” She smoothes back her hair.

“It’s not. You’re amazing.” I cradle the mug. “The way you just keep moving forward. The way you don’t dwell on stuff. The way you look at the big picture.”

“Keep moving onward,” she says simply. “That’s always been my way.”

“Well, I really admire you. If it were me, I’d want to … trash him.”

“I could trash him.” She shrugs. “I could go to the south of France and make his life a misery. But would I be a better person?” She hits her slim chest. “Would I feel better inside?”

“The south of France?” I stare at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, the south of France?”

Sadie immediately looks shifty. “I’m… guessing. It’s the kind of place he would be. It’s the kind of place wealthy people go.”

Why is she avoiding my eye?

“Oh my God.” I gasp as it suddenly hits me. “You know where he is, don’t you? Sadie!” I exclaim as she starts to fade away. “Don’t you dare disappear!”

“All right.” She comes back into view, looking a little sulky. “Yes. I do know where he is. I went to his office. It was very easy to find out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” She gives a distant, noncommittal shrug.

“Because you didn’t want to admit that you’re just as mean and vengeful as me! Come on. What did you do to him? You might as well tell me now.”

“I did nothing!” she says haughtily. “Or at least… nothing much. I just wanted to have a look at him. He’s very, very rich, isn’t he?”

“Incredibly.” I nod. “Why?”

“He seems to own an entire beach. That’s where I came across him. He was lying on a bed in the sun, covered in oil, with several servants nearby cooking food for him. He looked terribly self-satisfied.” A rictus of distaste passes across her face.

“Didn’t you want to yell at him? Didn’t you want to have a go at him?”

“Actually… I did yell at him,” she says after a pause. “I couldn’t help myself. I felt so angry.”

“That’s good! You should yell. What did you say?”

I’m utterly agog. I can’t believe Sadie has gone and confronted Uncle Bill on his private beach, all on her own. To be honest, I feel a bit hurt that she left me out. But then, I guess she has the right to seek revenge in any way she wants. And I’m glad she let him have it. I hope he heard every word.

“Come on, what did you say?” I persist. “Tell me word for word, starting at the beginning.”

“I told him he was fat,” she says with satisfaction.

For a moment I think I must have heard wrong.

“You told him he was fat?” I stare at her incredulously. “That was it? That was your revenge?”

“It’s the perfect revenge!” retorts Sadie. “He looked very unhappy. He’s a terribly vain man, you know.”

“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.