Twenties Girl

TWENTY-SIX

It’s a sensation. It’s front-page news in every paper. Every paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your car?”

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

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

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

He bought an Aston Martin? Just like that?

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

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

“No we don’t,” I begin automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Murdered,” puts in Mum.

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

“Remains,” says Mum in a whisper.

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

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

Yeah, right.

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

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

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

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

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

Trust Mum to bring all our deaths into it.

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

“Hello?”

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

“Oh, cool! Bring them up!”

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

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

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

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

“What?” I stare at him, puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Magic Search.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadie.

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

“Good news, darling?” says Dad.

“Just the head of human resources at Wheeler Foods,” I say casually. “She wanted a meeting.”

“Wheeler Foods who make Oatie Breakfast Treats?” Mum sounds beside herself.

“Yup.” I can’t help beaming. “Looks like my guardian angel’s watching out for me.”

“Hello!” Kate’s bright voice interrupts me as she bursts through the door, holding a big flower arrangement. “Look what’s just been delivered! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lington,” she adds politely. “Do you like our new office? Isn’t it great?”

I take the flower arrangement from Kate and rip open the little card.

“To all at Magic Search,” I read aloud. “We hope to get to know you as clients and as friends. Yours, Brian Chalmers. Head of Global Human Resources at Dwyer Dunbar plc. And he’s given his private line number.”

“How amazing!” Kate’s eyes are wide. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone at Dwyer Dunbar?”

“Er… no.”

Mum and Dad both seem beyond speech. I think I’d better get them out of here before anything else crazy happens.

“We’re going to lunch at the pizza place,” I inform Kate. “Want to come?”

“I’ll be along in a sec.” She nods cheerfully. “I need to sort a few things out first.”

I usher Mum and Dad out of the office, down the steps, and onto the street. An elderly vicar in a clerical collar and robes is standing directly outside on the pavement, looking a bit lost, and I approach him, wondering if he’s OK.

“Hi. Do you know where you are? Can I give you directions?”

“Well… yes, I am a stranger to the area.” He gives me a dazed look. “I’m looking for number 59.”

“That’s this building-look.” I point to our foyer, where 59 is embossed on the glass.

“Ah, yes, so it is!” His face clears and he approaches the entrance. But to my surprise he doesn’t go in. He just raises his hand and starts making the sign of the cross.

“Lord, I call on you to bless all who work in this building,” he says, his voice a little quavery. “Bless all endeavors and businesses within, particularly at this time Magic-”

No way.

“So!” I grab Mum and Dad. “Let’s go and get some pizza.”

“Lara,” says Dad weakly, as I practically manhandle him down the street. “Am I going mad, or was that vicar-”

“I think I’ll have Four Seasons,” I interrupt him brightly. “And some dough balls. How about you two?”

I think Mum and Dad have given up. They’re just going with the flow. By the time we’ve all had a glass of valpolicella, everyone’s smiling and the tricky questions have stopped. We’ve all chosen our pizzas and are stuffing in hot, garlicky dough balls, and I’m feeling pretty happy.

Even when Tonya arrives, I can’t get stressed. It was Mum and Dad’s idea to ask her along, and the truth is, even though she winds me up, she’s family. I’m starting to appreciate what that means.

“Oh my God.” Her strident greeting rings through the restaurant, and about twenty heads turn. “Oh my God. Can you believe all this stuff about Uncle Bill?”

As she arrives at our table, she’s obviously expecting a bit more of a reaction.

“Hi, Tonya,” I say. “How are the boys? How’s Stuart?”

“Can you believe it?” she repeats, giving us all dissatisfied looks. “Have you seen the papers? I mean, it can’t be true. It’s tabloid rubbish. Someone’s got an agenda somewhere.”

“I think it is true,” Dad corrects her mildly. “I think he admits as much himself.”

“But have you seen what they’ve written about him?”

“Yes.” Mum reaches for the valpolicella. “We have. Wine, darling?”

“But…” Tonya sinks down into a chair and looks around at us all with an aggrieved, bewildered expression. She clearly thought we would all be up in arms on Uncle Bill’s behalf. Not merrily tucking into dough balls.

“Here you are.” Mum slides a wineglass across. “We’ll get you a menu.”

I can see Tonya’s mind working as she unbuttons her jacket and slings it over a chair. I can see her recalibrating the situation. She’s not going to stick up for Uncle Bill if no one else does.

“So, who uncovered it all?” she says at last, and takes a gulp of wine. “Some investigative journalist?”

“Lara,” says Dad with a little smile.

“Lara?” She looks more resentful than ever. “What do you mean, Lara?”

“I found out about Great-Aunt Sadie and the picture,” I explain. “I put two and two together. It was me.”

“But…” Tonya’s cheeks are puffing out in disbelief. “But you weren’t mentioned in the papers.”

“I prefer to keep a low profile,” I say cryptically, like a superhero who vanishes namelessly into the darkness and doesn’t need any reward other than doing good.

Although, truth be told, I would have loved to be mentioned in the papers. But no one bothered to come and interview me, even though I straightened my hair especially, just in case. All the reports just said, The discovery was made by a family member.

Family member. Hmph.

“But I don’t get it.” Tonya’s baleful blue eyes are on me. “Why did you start poking around in the first place?”

“I had an instinct something was wrong regarding Great-Aunt Sadie. But no one would listen to me,” I can’t help adding pointedly. “At the funeral, everyone thought I was a nutcase.”

“You said she’d been murdered,” objects Tonya. “She wasn’t murdered.”

“I had a general instinct that something was amiss,” I say with a dignified air. “So I chose to follow up my suspicions on my own. And, after some research, they were confirmed.” Everyone’s hanging on my words as if I’m a university lecturer. “I then approached experts at the London Portrait Gallery, and they verified my discovery.”

“Indeed they did.” Dad smiles at me.

“And guess what?” I add proudly. “They’re having the painting valued and Uncle Bill’s giving Dad half of what it’s worth!”

“No way.” Tonya claps a hand to her mouth. “No way. How much will that be?”

“Millions, apparently.” Dad looks uncomfortable. “Bill’s adamant.”

“It’s only what you’re owed, Dad,” I say for the millionth time. “He stole it from you. He’s a thief!”

Tonya seems a bit speechless. She takes a dough ball and rips it with her teeth.

“Did you see that editorial in The Times?” she says at last. “Brutal.”

“It was rather savage.” Dad winces. “We do feel for Bill, despite it all-”

“No, we don’t!” Mum interrupts. “Speak for yourself.”

“Pippa!” Dad looks taken aback.

“I don’t feel for him one little bit.” She looks around the table defiantly. “I feel… angry. Yes. Angry.”

I gape at Mum in surprise. My whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever known Mum to actually say she was angry. Across the table, Tonya looks just as gobsmacked. She raises her eyebrows questioningly at me, and I give a tiny shrug in return.

“What he did was shameful and unforgivable,” Mum continues. “Your father always tries to see the good side of people, to find the excuse. But sometimes there isn’t a good side. There isn’t an excuse.”

I’ve never known Mum so militant. Her cheeks are pink and she’s clutching her wineglass as though she’s about to punch the sky with it.

“Good for you, Mum!” I exclaim.

“And if your father keeps trying to defend him-”

“I’m not defending him!” says Dad at once. “But he’s my brother. He’s family. It’s difficult…”

He sighs heavily. I can see the disappointment etched in the lines under his eyes. Dad wants to find the good in everyone. It’s part of his makeup.

“Your brother’s success cast a long shadow over our family.” Mum’s voice is trembling. “It affected all of us in different ways. Now it’s time for us all to be free. That’s what I think. Draw a line.”

“I recommended Uncle Bill’s book to my book club, you know,” says Tonya suddenly. “I made eight sales for him.” She looks almost more outraged by this than anything. “And it was all lies! He’s despicable!” She turns on Dad. “And if you don’t think so, too, Dad, if you don’t feel livid with him, then you’re a mug!”

I can’t help giving an inward cheer. Sometimes Tonya’s forthright, trampling-over-feet way is just what you need.

“I am livid,” Dad says at last. “Of course I am. It’s just an adjustment. To realize your younger brother is quite such a selfish… unprincipled… shit.” He breathes out hard. “I mean, what does that say?”

“It says we forget about him,” says Mum firmly. “Move on. Start living the rest of our lives without feeling like second-class citizens.”

Mum’s got more spirit in her voice than I’ve heard for years! Go, Mum!

“So, who’s been dealing with him?” Tonya frowns. “Hasn’t that been a bit tricky?”

“Lara’s done everything,” says Mum proudly. “Talked to Bill, talked to the gallery, sorted everything out-and started her own business! She’s been a tower of strength.”

“Great!” Tonya smiles widely, but I can tell she’s annoyed. “Well done you.” She takes a sip of wine and swills it around her mouth thoughtfully. I just know she’s searching for some little vulnerable spot, some way to regain ascendancy…

“So how are things with Josh?” She puts on her sympathetic look. “Dad told me you got back together for a bit but then broke up for good? That must have been really tough. Really devastating.”

“It’s OK.” I shrug. “I’m over it.”

“But you must feel so hurt,” Tonya persists, her cowlike eyes fixed on mine. “Your self-confidence must have taken a knock. Just remember, it doesn’t mean you’re not attractive, Lara. Does it?” She appeals to Mum and Dad. “There are other men-”

“My new boyfriend cheers me up,” I say brightly. “So I wouldn’t worry.”

“New boyfriend?” Her mouth sags open. “Already?”

She needn’t look so surprised.

“He’s an American consultant over on assignment. His name’s Ed.”

“Very handsome,” puts in Dad supportively.

“He took us all out for lunch last week!” adds Mum.

“Well.” Tonya looks affronted. “That’s… great. But it’ll be hard when he goes back to the States, won’t it?” She visibly brightens. “Long-distance relationships are the most likely to break down. All those transatlantic phone calls… and the time difference…”

“Who knows what’ll happen?” I hear myself saying sweetly.

“I can make him stay!” Sadie’s low voice in my ear makes me jump. I turn to see her hovering right by me, her eyes shining with determination. “I’m your guardian angel. I’ll make Ed stay in England!”

“Excuse me a moment,” I say to the table generally. “I’ve just got to send a text.”

I get out my phone and start texting, positioning the screen so that Sadie can see it.

It’s OK. U don’t need to make him stay. Where have u been?

“Or I could make him ask you to marry him!” she exclaims, ignoring my question. “Too much fun! I’ll tell him to propose, and I’ll make sure he chooses a simply stunning ring, and we’ll have such fun planning the wedding…”

No, no, no! I text hurriedly. Sadie, stop! Don’t make Ed do anything. I want him to make his own decisions. I want him to listen to his own voice.

Sadie gives a little harrumph as she reads my message. “Well, I think my voice is more interesting,” she says, and I can’t help a smile.

“Texting your boyfriend?” says Tonya, watching me.

“No,” I say noncommittally. “Just… a friend. A good friend.” I turn away and tap in, Thanks for doing all that stuff to help me. U didn’t have to.

“I wanted to!” says Sadie. “It’s fun! Have you had the champagne yet?”

No, I text back, wanting to laugh. Sadie, u r the best guardian angel EVER.

“Well, I do rather pride myself.” She preens herself. “Now, where shall I sit?”

She floats across the table and sits on a spare chair at the end, just as Kate approaches the table, looking pink with excitement.

“Guess what!” she says. “We just got a bottle of champagne from the off-license round the corner! The man said it was to welcome us to the area! And you’ve had lots of calls, Lara; I’ve written down all the numbers… and the post arrived, forwarded from your flat. I didn’t bring it all, but there was one package I thought might be important; it’s come from Paris…” She hands me a Jiffy bag, pulls out a chair, and beams at everyone. “Have you ordered yet? I’m absolutely starving! Hi, we haven’t met, I’m Kate…”

As Kate and Tonya introduce themselves and Dad pours out more wine, I stare down at the Jiffy bag, feeling a sudden breathless apprehension. It’s come from Paris. It has girlish handwriting on the front. When I press it, I can feel something hard and bumpy inside. Hard and bumpy like a necklace.

Slowly, I lift my eyes. Sadie is watching me intently across the table. I know she’s thinking the same.

“Go on.” She nods.

With trembling hands I rip it open. I peer inside at a mass of tissue paper. I push it aside and see a flash of pale iridescent yellow. I look up, straight at Sadie.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She’s gone very white. “You’ve got it.”

I nod, just once. Then, barely knowing what I’m doing, I push back my chair.

“I just have to… make a call.” My voice is suddenly grainy. “I’ll go outside. Be back in a moment…”

I thread my way through the tables and chairs to the back of the restaurant, where there’s a small secluded courtyard. I push my way out through the fire doors and head to the far corner, then open the Jiffy bag again, pull out the mass of tissue paper, and gently unwrap it.

After all this time. I’m holding it. Just like that.

It’s warmer to the touch than I expected. More substantial, somehow. A shaft of sunlight is glinting off the rhinestones, and the beads are shimmering. It’s so stunning I have a sudden strong urge to put it on. But instead I look up at Sadie, who has been watching me silently.

“Here you are. It’s yours.” Automatically I try to put it around her neck, as though I’m giving her an Olympic medal. But my hands sink straight through her. I try again and again, even though I know it’s no use.

“I don’t know what to do!” I’m half laughing, half perilously near tears. “It’s yours! You should be wearing it! We need the ghost version-”

“Stop!” Sadie’s voice rises in sudden tension. “Don’t…” She breaks off and moves away from me, her eyes fixed on the paving slabs of the courtyard. “You know what you have to do.”

There’s silence apart from the steady roar of Kilburn traffic coming from the main road. I can’t look at Sadie. I’m just standing clutching the necklace. I know this is what we’ve been chasing and hunting and wishing for. But now we have it… I don’t want to have arrived here. Not yet. The necklace is the reason Sadie’s been haunting me. When she gets it back-

My thoughts abruptly veer away. I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about any of it.

A breeze rustles some leaves on the ground, and Sadie looks up, pale and resolute.

“Give me some time.”

“Yes.” I swallow. “Sure.” I stuff the necklace into the bag and head back into the restaurant. Sadie has already disappeared.

I can’t eat my pizza. I can’t make proper conversation. I can’t focus when I get back to the office, even though six more calls come in from blue-chip HR managers wanting to set up meetings with me. The Jiffy bag is on my lap; my hand is clutching the necklace tightly inside it and I can’t let go.

I text Ed, saying I have a headache and need to be alone. When I get home, there’s no Sadie, which doesn’t surprise me. I make some supper, which I don’t eat, then sit in bed with the necklace around my neck, twisting the beads and watching old movies on TCM and not even bothering to try to sleep. At last, at about five-thirty, I get up, put on some clothes, and head out. The soft gray of the dawn is tinged with a vivid pink-red sunrise. I stand still, gazing at the red streaks in the sky for a few moments, and in spite of everything feel my spirits lifting. Then I buy a coffee from a café, get on a bus, and head to Waterloo, staring blankly out as the bus trundles through the streets. By the time I arrive it’s nearer six-thirty. People are starting to appear on the bridge and in the streets. The London Portrait Gallery is still shut up, though. Locked and empty; not a soul inside. That’s what you’d think, anyway.

I find a nearby wall, sit down, and sip my coffee, which is lukewarm but delicious on an empty stomach. I’m prepared to sit there all day, but as a nearby church bell strikes eight, she appears on the steps, that dreamy look on her face again. She’s wearing yet another amazing dress, this one in pearl gray with a tulle skirt cut in petal shapes. A gray cloche is pulled down over her head, and her eyes are lowered. I don’t want to alarm her, so I wait until she notices me and starts in surprise.

“Lara.”

“Hi.” I lift a hand. “Thought you’d be here.”

“Where’s my necklace?” Her voice is sharp with alarm. “Have you lost it?”

“No! Don’t worry. I’ve got it. It’s OK. It’s right here. Look.”

There’s no one around, but I glance right and left, just in case. Then I pull out the necklace. In the clear morning light, it looks more spectacular than ever. I let it run over my hands and the beads click gently together. She gazes down at it lovingly, puts out her hands as though to take it, then draws them back.

“I wish I could touch it,” she murmurs.

“I know.” Helplessly, I hold it out to her, as though presenting an offering. I want to drape it around her neck. I want to reunite her with it.

“I want it back,” she says quietly. “I want you to give it back to me.”

“Now? Today?”

Sadie meets my eyes. “Right now.”

There’s a sudden blocking in my throat. I can’t say any of the things I want to say. I think she knows what they are, anyway.

“I want it back,” she repeats, softly but firmly. “I’ve been too long without it.”

“Right.” I nod several times, my fingers clutching the necklace so hard I think they might bruise. “Well, then, you need to have it.”

The journey is too short. The taxi is slipping through the early-morning streets too effortlessly. I want to tell the driver to slow down. I want time to stand still. I want the taxi to be caught in a jam for six hours… But all of a sudden we’re drawing up in the little suburban street. We’ve arrived.

“Well, that was quick, wasn’t it?” Sadie’s voice is resolutely bright.

“Yes!” I force a smile. “Amazingly quick.”

As we get out of the taxi, I feel dread clasping my chest like iron. My hand is locked around the necklace so hard, I’m getting cramps in my fingers. But I can’t bring myself to loosen my grasp, even as I’m struggling to pay the driver with the other hand.

The taxi roars away, and Sadie and I look at each other. We’re standing opposite a small row of shops, one of which is a funeral parlor.

“That’s it there.” I point redundantly at the sign saying Chapel of Rest. “Looks like it’s closed.”

Sadie has drifted up to the firmly locked door and is peering in the window.

“We’d better wait, I suppose.” She shrugs and returns to my side. “We can sit here.”

She sits down beside me on a wooden bench, and for a moment we’re both silent. I glance at my watch. Eight fifty-five. They open up shop at nine. Just the thought gives me a rush of panic, so I won’t think about it. Not yet. I’ll just focus on the fact that I’m sitting here with Sadie.

“Nice dress, by the way.” I think I sound fairly normal. “Who did you pinch that one from?”

“No one,” says Sadie, sounding offended. “It was mine.” She runs her eyes over me, then says grudgingly, “Your shoes are pretty.”

“Thanks.” I want to smile, but my mouth won’t quite do it. “I bought them the other day. Ed helped me choose them, actually. We were late-night shopping. We went to the Whiteleys center. They had all these special offers on…”

I don’t know what I’m saying, I’m just talking for the sake of it. Because talking is better than waiting. I glance at my watch again and it’s two minutes past the hour. They’re late. I feel ridiculously grateful, like we’ve been given a reprieve.

“He’s rather good at the old bone-jumping, isn’t he?” Sadie suddenly says conversationally. “Ed, I mean. Mind you… you’re not so bad either.”

Bone-jumping?

She doesn’t mean-

No. No.

“Sadie.” I turn on her. “I knew it! You watched us!”

“What?” She bursts into peals of laughter. “I was very subtle! You didn’t know I was there.”

“What did you see?” I moan.

“Everything,” she says airily. “And it was a jolly good show, I can tell you.”

“Sadie, you’re impossible!” I clutch my head. “You don’t watch people having sex! There are laws against that!”

“I just had one tiny criticism,” she says, ignoring me. “Or, rather… suggestion. Something we used to do in my day.”

“No!” I say in horror. “No suggestions!”

“Your loss.” She shrugs and examines her nails, occasionally shooting me a look from under her lashes.

Oh for God’s sake. Of course, now my curiosity is piqued. I want to know what her suggestion is.

“All right,” I say at last. “Tell me your genius 1920s sex tip. But it better not involve any weird indelible paste.”

“Well…” Sadie begins, coming closer. But before she can continue, my eyes suddenly focus over her shoulder. I stiffen and draw breath. An elderly man in an overcoat is unlocking the door of the funeral parlor.

“What is it?” Sadie follows my gaze. “Oh.”

“Yes.” I swallow.

By now the elderly man has caught sight of me. I suppose I am quite noticeable, sitting bolt upright on a bench staring directly at him.

“Are you… all right?” he says warily.

“Um… hi.” I force myself to my feet. “I’m actually… I’ve come to pay a visit to your… to pay my respects. It’s my great-aunt. Sadie Lancaster. I believe you’re… this is where…”

“Aaah.” He nods somberly. “Yes.”

“Could I… possibly… see her?”

“Aaah.” He bows his head again. “Of course. Just give me a minute to open up the place, get a few things straight, and I will be with you, Miss…”

“Lington.”

“Lington.” There’s a flash of recognition in his face. “Of course, of course. If you’d like to come in and wait in our family room…”

“I’ll be in in a moment.” I give an approximation of a smile. “Just got… a call to make…”

He disappears inside. For a moment I can’t quite move. I want to prolong this moment of limbo. I want to stop us doing this. If I don’t acknowledge it, maybe it’s not really going to happen.

“Got the necklace?” comes Sadie’s voice beside me.

“Right here.” I pull it out of my bag.

“Good.” She smiles, but it’s a tense, remote smile. I can tell she’s moved on from 1920s sex tips.

“So… are you ready?” I try to sound lighthearted. “These places can be quite depressing-”

“Oh, I’m not coming in,” says Sadie nonchalantly. “I’ll sit here and wait. Much better.”

“Right.” I nod. “Good idea. You don’t want to…”

I trail off, unable to continue-but also unable to bring up what I’m really thinking. The thought that’s going around and around my head like an ominous tune, getting louder and louder.

Is neither of us going to bring it up?

“So.” I swallow hard.

“So what?” Sadie’s voice is bright and sharp as a chip of diamond-and instantly I know. It’s on her mind too.

“What d’you think will happen when I… when…”

“Do you mean, will you finally be rid of me?” says Sadie, as flippantly as ever.

“No! I just meant-”

“I know. You’re in a tearing hurry to get rid of me. Sick of the sight of me.” Her chin is quivering but she flashes me a smile. “Well, I shouldn’t think it’ll work for a moment.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the message in them. Don’t lose it. No wallowing. Chin up.

“So I’m stuck with you.” I somehow manage a derisory tone. “Great.”

“Afraid so.”

“Just what every girl needs.” I roll my eyes. “A bossy ghost hanging around the place forever.”

“A bossy guardian angel,” she corrects me firmly.

“Miss Lington?” The elderly man pokes his head out of the door. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks! I’ll just be a sec!”

When the door closes, I adjust my jacket needlessly a few times. I tug at my belt, making sure it’s completely straight, buying myself another thirty seconds.

“So I’ll just dump the necklace and see you in a couple of minutes, OK?” I aim for a matter-of-fact tone.

“I’ll be here.” Sadie pats the bench she’s sitting on.

“We’ll go and see a movie. Something like that.”

“Let’s.” She nods.

I take a step away-then stop. I know we’re playing a game. But I can’t leave it like that. I swivel around, breathing hard, determined that I won’t lose it, I won’t let her down.

“But… just in case. Just in case we…” I can’t bring myself to say it. I can’t even think it. “Sadie, it’s been…”

There’s nothing to say. No word is good enough. Nothing can describe what it’s been like to know Sadie.

“I know,” she whispers, and her eyes are like two glittering stars. “Me too. Go on.”

When I reach the door of the funeral parlor I look back one last time. She’s sitting bolt upright with perfect posture, her neck as long and pale as ever, her dress skimming her slender frame. She’s facing directly ahead, feet lined up neatly, with her hands clasped on her knees. Utterly still. As though she’s waiting.

I can’t imagine what’s going through her mind.

As I stand there, she notices me watching her, lifts her chin, and gives a sudden, ravishing, defiant smile.

“Tally-ho!” she exclaims.

“Tally-ho,” I call back. On impulse, I blow her a kiss. Then I turn and push my way in with determination. It’s time to do this.

The funeral director has made me a cup of tea and rustled up two shortbread biscuits, which he’s put on a plate decorated with roses. He’s a man with a receding chin, who answers every comment with a somber, low-pitched “aaah” before he gets to the actual reply. Which gets really irritating.

He leads me down a pastel corridor, then pauses meaningfully outside a wooden door marked Lily Suite.

“I’ll let you have a few moments alone.” He opens the door with an expert twist and pushes it a little way, then adds, “Is it true she was once the girl in that famous painting? The one that’s been in the papers?”

“Yes.” I nod.

“Aaah.” He lowers his head. “How extraordinary. One can hardly believe it. Such a very, very old lady-one hundred and five, I believe? A very great age.”

Even though I know he’s trying to be nice, his words touch a nerve.

“I don’t think of her like that,” I say curtly. “I don’t think of her as old.”

“Aaah.” He nods hastily. “Indeed.”

“Anyway. I want to put something in the… coffin. Will that be all right? Will it be safe?”

“Aaah. Quite safe, I assure you.”

“And private,” I say fiercely. “I don’t want anyone else going in here after me. If they want to, you contact me first, OK?”

“Aaah.” He surveys his shoes respectfully. “Of course.”

“Well. Thank you. I’ll… go in now.”

I walk in, close the door behind me, and just stand there for a few moments. Now that I’m in here, now that I’m actually doing this, my legs feel a bit watery. I swallow a few times, trying to get a grip on myself, telling myself not to freak out. After about a minute I make myself take a step toward the big wooden coffin. Then another.

That’s Sadie. Real Sadie. My 105-year-old great-aunt. Who lived and died and I never knew her. I edge forward, breathing heavily. As I reach forward, I see just a puff of dry white hair and a glimpse of dried-out old skin.

“Here you are, Sadie,” I murmur. Gently, carefully, I slip the necklace around her neck. I’ve done it.

At last. I’ve done it.

She looks so tiny and shriveled. So vulnerable. All the times I wanted to touch Sadie, I’m thinking. The times I tried to squeeze her arm or give her a hug… and now here she is. Real flesh. Cautiously, I stroke her hair and pull her dress straight, wishing beyond anything she could feel my touch. This frail, ancient, tiny crumbling body was Sadie’s home for 105 years. This was really her.

As I stand there I’m trying to keep my breathing steady; I’m trying to think peaceful, suitable thoughts. Maybe even a couple of words to say aloud. I want to do the right thing. But at the same time there’s an urgency beating inside me, growing stronger with every moment I stay here. The truth is, my heart isn’t in this room.

I have to go. Now.

With trembling legs I reach the door, wrench the handle, and hurtle out, to the obvious surprise of the funeral director, who’s loitering in the corridor.

“Is everything all right?” he says.

“Fine,” I gulp, already walking away. “All fine. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch. But I must go now. I’m sorry, it’s rather important…”

My chest feels so constricted I can barely breathe. My head is throbbing with thoughts I don’t want to have. I have to get out of here. Somehow I make it down the pastel corridor and through the foyer, almost running. I reach the entrance and burst out onto the street. And I stop dead, clutching the door, panting slightly, looking straight across the road.

The bench is empty.

I know right then.

Of course I know.

But still my legs take me across the road at a run. I look desperately up and down the pavement. I call out “Sadie? SADIE?” until I’m hoarse. I brush tears from my eyes and bat away inquiries from kindly strangers and look up and down the street again, and I won’t give up and at last I sit down on the bench, gripping it with both hands. Just in case. And I wait.

And when it’s finally dusk and I’m starting to shiver… I know. Deep down, where it matters.

She’s not coming back. She’s moved on.