Twenties Girl

FOUR

The next day the sketch of the necklace is all I have left. Sadie has disappeared and the whole episode feels like a dream. At eight-thirty I’m sitting at my desk, sipping coffee and staring down at the picture. What on earth got into me yesterday? The entire thing must have been my brain cracking up under the strain. The necklace, the girl, the banshee wailing… It was obviously all a figment of my imagination.

For the first time, I’m starting to sympathize with my parents. I’m worried about me too.

“Hi!” There’s a crash as Kate, our assistant, swings open the door, knocking over a bunch of files, which I’d put on the floor while I got the milk out of the fridge.

We don’t have the biggest office in the world.

“So, how was the funeral?” Kate hangs up her coat, leaning right back over the photocopier to reach her hook. Luckily, she’s quite gymnastic.

“Not great. In fact, I ended up at the police station. I had this weird mental flip-out.”

“God!” Kate looks horrified. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think so…” I have to get a grip. Abruptly, I fold up the necklace sketch, thrust it into my bag, and zip it shut.

“Actually, I knew something was up.” Kate pauses halfway through twisting her blond hair into an elastic. “Your dad called yesterday afternoon and asked me if you’d been particularly stressed recently.”

I look up in alarm. “You didn’t tell him about Natalie leaving.”

“No! Of course not!” Kate has been well trained in what to divulge to my parents-i.e., nothing.

“Anyway,” I say with more vigor. “Never mind. I’m fine now. Were there any messages?”

“Yes.” Kate reaches for her notebook with a super-efficient manner. “Shireen kept calling all yesterday. She’s going to call you today.”

“Great!”

Shireen is our one piece of good news at L &N Executive Recruitment. We recently placed her as operations director at a software company, Macrosant; in fact, she’s about to start the job next week. She’s probably just calling to thank us.

“Anything else?” I say, just as the phone rings. Kate checks the caller ID and her eyes widen.

“Oh yes, another thing,” she says hurriedly. “Janet from Leonidas Sports called, wanting an update. She said she was going to ring at nine a.m. sharp. This’ll be her.” She meets my panicky eyes. “Do you want me to answer?”

No, I want to hide under the desk.

“Um, yes, you’d better.”

My stomach is bubbling with nerves. Leonidas Sports is our biggest client. They’re a massive sports equipment company with shops all over the UK, and we’ve promised to find them a marketing director.

Rephrase that. Natalie promised to find them a marketing director.

“I’ll just put you through,” Kate is saying in her best PA voice, and a moment later the phone on my desk rings. I glance desperately at Kate, then pick it up.

“Janet!” I exclaim in my most confident tones. “Good to hear from you. I was just about to call.”

“Hi, Lara,” comes Janet Grady’s familiar hoarse voice. “Just phoning for an update. I was hoping to speak to Natalie.”

I’ve never met Janet Grady face-to-face. But in my head she’s about six foot three with a mustache. The first time we ever spoke, she told me the team at Leonidas Sports are all “tough thinkers,” “hard players,” and have an “iron grip” on the market. They sound terrifying.

“Oh right!” I twist the phone cord around my fingers. “Well, unfortunately Natalie’s still… er… poorly.”

This is the story I’ve been spinning ever since Natalie didn’t make it back from Goa. Luckily, you just have to say “She’s been to India,” and everyone launches into their own My Horrendous Traveling Illness story without asking any more questions.

“But we’re making great headway,” I continue. “Really marvelous. We’re working through the long list, and there’s a file of very strong candidates right here on my desk. We’ll be looking at a top-class short list, I can assure you. All tough thinkers.”

“Can you give me any names?”

“Not right now!” My voice jumps in panic. “I’ll fill you in nearer the time. But you’ll be very impressed!”

“OK, Lara.” Janet is one of those women who never waste time on small talk. “Well, as long as you’re on top of it. Best to Natalie. Good-bye.”

I replace the receiver and meet Kate’s eyes, my heart thumping. “Remind me, who do we have as possibles for Leonidas Sports?”

“The guy with the three-year gap in his résumé,” says Kate. “And the weirdo with the dandruff. And… the kleptomaniac woman.”

I wait for her to continue. She gives a tiny apologetic shrug.

“That’s all?”

“Paul Richards pulled out yesterday,” she says anxiously. “He’s been offered a position at some American company. Here’s the list.” She hands me the sheet of paper and I stare at the three names in total despair. They’re all no-hopers. We can’t send this list in.

God, headhunting is hard. I had no idea. Before we started up the company, Natalie always made it seem so exciting. She talked about the thrill of the chase, “strategic hiring” and “up-skilling” and “the tap on the shoulder.” We used to meet every few weeks for a drink, and she was full of such amazing stories about her work, I couldn’t help feeling envious. Writing promotional website copy for a car manufacturer seemed really dull in comparison. Plus there were rumors we were going to have big layoffs. So when Natalie suggested a start-up, I jumped at the chance.

The truth is, I’ve always been a bit in awe of Natalie. She’s so glossy and confident. Even when we were at school, she always had the latest slang and could blag us into pubs. And when we first started off the company, it all worked brilliantly. She brought in some big bits of business for us at once and was constantly out networking. I was writing our website and supposedly learning all the tricks from her. It was all going in the right direction. Until she disappeared and I realized I hadn’t actually learned any tricks at all.

Natalie’s really into business mantras, and they’re all on Post-its around her desk. I keep sidling over and studying them, as if they’re the runes to some ancient religion, trying to divine what I’m meant to do. For example, The best talent is already in the market is stuck up above her computer. That one I do know: It means you’re not supposed to go through the résumés of all the bankers who were fired from an investment bank last week and try to make them sound like marketing directors. You’re supposed to go after existing marketing directors.

But how? What if they won’t even speak to you?

After doing this job for several weeks on my own, I have a few new mantras, which go as follows: The best talent doesn’t answer the phone itself. The best talent doesn’t ring back, even if you leave three messages with its secretary. The best talent doesn’t want to move into sports retail. When you mention the fifty percent employee discount on tennis rackets, the best talent just laughs at you.

I pull out our original crumpled, coffee-stained long list for the millionth time and flick through it gloomily. Names glitter off the page like shiny sweeties. Employed, bona fide talent. The marketing director of Woodhouse Retail. The European marketing head at Dartmouth Plastics. They can’t all be happy at their jobs, surely. There must be someone out there who would love to work for Leonidas Sports. But I’ve tried every single name and got nowhere. I glance up to see Kate standing on one foot, surveying me anxiously, the other leg wrapped around her calf.

“We have precisely three weeks to find a tough-thinking, hard-hitting marketing director for Leonidas Sports.” I’m trying desperately to stay positive. Natalie landed this deal. Natalie was going to woo all the starry candidates. Natalie knows how to do this. I don’t.

Anyway. No point dwelling on that now.

“OK.” I slap my hand on the desk. “I’m going to make some calls.”

“I’ll make you a fresh coffee.” Kate springs into action. “We’ll stay here all night if we have to.”

I love Kate. She acts like she’s in a film about some really thrusting multinational company, instead of two people in a ten-foot-square office with moldy carpet.

“Salary, salary, salary,” she says as she sits down.

“You snooze, you lose,” I respond.

Kate got into reading Natalie’s mantras too. Now we can’t stop quoting them at each other. The trouble is, they don’t actually tell you how to do the job. What I need is the mantra telling you how to get past the question “May I ask what it is in connection with?”

I swing my chair over to Natalie’s desk to get out all the Leonidas Sports paperwork. The cardboard file has fallen off its hangers inside her drawer, so with a muttered curse I gather all the papers together and pull them out. Then suddenly I stop, as I notice an old Post-it which has somehow attached itself to my hand. I’ve never seen this before. James Yates, mobile is written in faded purple felt-tip. And then a number.

A mobile number for James Yates. I don’t believe it! He’s marketing director at Feltons Breweries! He’s on the long list! He’d be perfect! Whenever I’ve tried his office, I’ve been told he’s “abroad.” But wherever he is, he’ll have his mobile, won’t he? Trembling with excitement, I push my chair back to my own desk and dial the number.

“James Yates.” The line is a little crackly but I can still hear him.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound as confident as possible. “It’s Lara Lington here. Can you talk?” This is what Natalie always says on the phone; I’ve heard her.

“Who is this?” He sounds suspicious. “Did you say you’re from Lingtons?”

I give an inward sigh.

“No, I’m from L &N Executive Recruitment, and I was phoning to see if you’d be interested in a new position, heading up marketing in a dynamic, growing retail company. It’s a very exciting opportunity, so if you’d like to discuss it, perhaps over a discreet lunch at a restaurant of your choice…” I’m going to die if I don’t breathe, so I stop and gasp for air.

“L &N?” He sounds wary. “I don’t know you.”

“We’re a relatively new outfit, myself and Natalie Masser-”

“Not interested.” He cuts me off.

“It’s a marvelous opportunity,” I say quickly. “You’ll have a chance to expand your horizons; there’s a lot of exciting potential in Europe -”

“Sorry. Good-bye.”

“And a ten percent discount on sportswear!” I call desperately down the dead phone.

He’s gone. He didn’t even give me a chance.

“What did he say?” Kate approaches, her hands clutched hopefully around a coffee cup.

“He hung up.” I slump in my chair as Kate puts down the coffee. “We’re never going to get anyone good.”

“Yes, we will!” says Kate, just as the phone starts ringing. “Maybe this is some brilliant executive who’s longing for a new job…” She hurries back to her desk and picks up the phone with her best assistant’s manner. “L &N Executive Recruitment… Oh, Shireen! Great to hear from you! I’ll put you through to Lara.” She beams at me and I grin back. At least we’ve had one triumph.

I suppose strictly speaking it was Natalie’s triumph, since she made the placement, but I’ve been doing all the follow-up work. Anyway, it’s a company triumph.

“Hi, Shireen!” I say cheerfully. “All set for the new job? I just know it’s going to be a great position for you-”

“Lara.” Shireen interrupts tensely. “There’s a problem.”

My stomach plunges. No. No. Please no problems.

“Problem?” I force myself to sound relaxed. “What kind of problem?”

“It’s my dog.”

“Your dog?”

“I’m intending to take Flash into work every day. But I just phoned human resources about setting up a basket for him, and they said it was impossible. They said it wasn’t their policy to allow animals in the offices, can you believe it?”

She clearly expects me to be as outraged as she is. I stare at the phone in bewilderment. How has a dog suddenly entered the picture?

“Lara? Are you there?”

“Yes!” I come to. “Shireen, listen to me. I’m sure you’re really fond of Flash. But it’s not usual to take dogs into the workplace-”

“Yes, it is!” she interrupts. “There’s another dog in the building. I’ve heard it every time I’ve been in. That’s why I assumed it would be fine! I never would have taken this job otherwise! They’re discriminating against me.”

“I’m sure they’re not discriminating,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll call them straightaway.” I put down the phone, then quickly dial the HR department at Macrosant. “Hi, Jean? It’s Lara Lington here, from L &N Executive Recruitment. I just wanted to clarify a small point. Is Shireen Moore permitted to bring her dog to work?”

“The whole building has a no-dog policy,” says Jean pleasantly. “I’m sorry, Lara, it’s an insurance thing.”

“Of course. Absolutely. I understand.” I pause. “The thing is, Shireen believes she’s heard another dog in the building. Several times.”

“She’s mistaken,” Jean says after the tiniest of beats. “There are no dogs here.”

“None at all? Not even one little puppy?” My suspicions have been aroused by that pause.

“Not even one little puppy.” Jean has regained her smoothness. “As I say, there’s a no-dog policy in the building.”

“And you couldn’t make an exception for Shireen?”

“I’m afraid not.” She’s polite but implacable.

“Well, thanks for your time.”

I put the phone down and tap my pencil silently on my notepad for a few seconds. Something’s up. I bet there is a dog there. But what can I do about it? I can’t exactly phone Jean back and say, “I don’t believe you.”

With a sigh, I redial Shireen’s number.

“Lara, is that you?” She picks up straightaway, as though she’s been sitting by the phone, waiting for an answer, which she probably has. She’s very bright, Shireen, and very intense. I can picture her now, drawing that endless crisscross of squares which she obsessively doodles everywhere. She probably needs a dog, just to stay sane.

“Yes, it’s me. I called Jean and she says no one else in the building has a dog. She says it’s an insurance thing.”

There’s silence as Shireen digests this.

“She’s lying,” she says at last. “There is a dog in there.”

“Shireen…” I feel like banging my head against the desk. “Couldn’t you have mentioned the dog before? At one of the interviews, maybe?”

“I assumed it would be OK!” she says defensively. “I heard the other dog barking! You can tell when there’s a dog in a place. Well, I’m not working without Flash. I’m sorry, Lara, I’ll have to pull out of the job.”

“Nooo!” I cry out in dismay before I can stop myself. “I mean… please don’t do anything rash, Shireen! I’ll sort this out, I promise. I’ll call you soon.” Breathing heavily, I put the phone down and bury my head in my hands. “Crap!”

“What are you going to do?” ventures Kate anxiously. She clearly overheard the whole thing.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “What would Natalie do?”

Both of us instinctively glance toward Natalie’s desk, gleaming and empty. I have a sudden vision of Natalie sitting there: her lacquered nails tapping on the desk, her voice raised in some high-octane call. Since she’s been gone, the volume level in this office has dropped by about eighty percent.

“She might tell Shireen she had to take the job and threaten to sue her if she didn’t,” says Kate at last.

“She’d definitely tell Shireen to get over herself.” I nod in agreement. “She’d call her unprofessional and flaky.”

I once heard Natalie tearing a strip off some guy who had second thoughts about taking up a position in Dubai. It wasn’t pretty.

The deep-down truth, which I don’t want to admit to anyone, is that now I’ve got to know the way Natalie thinks and does business… I don’t really relate to a lot of it. What appealed to me about this job was working with people, changing lives. When we used to meet up and Natalie would tell me her stories of finding talent, I was always just as interested in the story behind the deal as the deal itself. I thought it must be so much more satisfying to help people’s careers than to sell cars. But that aspect doesn’t seem to feature highly on our agenda.

I mean, OK, I know I’m a novice. And maybe I am a bit idealistic, like Dad always says. But your job is one of the most important things in your life, surely. It should be right for you. Salary isn’t everything.

There again, that’ll be why Natalie’s the successful head-hunter with loads of commission under her belt. And I’m not. And right now we need commission.

“So what we’re saying is, I should ring Shireen back and give her a hard time,” I say reluctantly. There’s silence. Kate looks as pained as I feel.

“Thing is, Lara,” she says hesitantly, “you’re not Natalie. She’s away. So you’re the boss. So you should do things your way.”

“Yes!” I feel a surge of relief. “That’s true. I’m the boss. So what I say is… I’ll think about it for a while first.”

Trying to look as though this is a decisive piece of action instead of a cop-out, I push the phone aside and start leafing through the post. A bill for office paper. An offer to send all my staff on a team-building trip to Aspen. And, at the bottom of the pile, Business People, which is like the celebrity magazine of business. I open it and start flipping through the pages, trying to find someone who would make a perfect marketing director for Leonidas Sports.

Business People is essential reading for a headhunter. It’s basically endless photo spreads of thrusting, super-groomed types who have massive offices with plenty of space to hang up their coats. But God, it’s depressing. As I turn from one highflier to another, my spirits sink lower and lower. What’s wrong with me? I only speak one language. I haven’t been asked to chair any international committees. I don’t have a working wardrobe which pairs Dolce & Gabbana trouser suits with quirky shirts from Paul Smith.

Dolefully, I close the magazine and slump back, staring at the grimy ceiling. How do they all do it? My uncle Bill. Everyone in this magazine. They decide to run a business and it’s instantly a success, and it looks so easy…

“Yes… yes…” Suddenly I become aware of Kate making semaphore signals across the room. I look up to see her face all pink with excitement as she talks on the phone. “I’m sure Lara would be able to make space for you in her schedule, if you could just hold on a moment…”

She presses Hold and squeaks, “It’s Clive Hoxton! The one who said he wasn’t interested in Leonidas Sports?” she adds, at my blank look. “The rugby guy? Well, he might be after all! He wants to have lunch and talk about it!”

“Oh my God! Him!” My spirits shoot back up. Clive Hoxton is marketing director at Arberry Stores and used to play rugby for Doncaster. He couldn’t be more perfect for the Leonidas Sports job, but when I first approached him he said he didn’t want to move. I can’t believe he’s got in touch!

“Play it cool!” I whisper urgently. “Pretend I’m really busy interviewing other candidates.”

Kate nods vigorously.

“Let me just see…” she says into the phone. “Lara’s schedule is very packed today, but I’ll see what I can do… Ah! Now, what a stroke of luck! She unexpectedly has a vacancy! Would you like to name a restaurant?”

She grins broadly at me and I give her an air high-five. Clive Hoxton is an A-list name! He’s tough-thinking and hard-playing! He’ll totally make up for the weirdo and the kleptomaniac. In fact, if we get him, I’ll ax the kleptomaniac, I decide. And the weirdo isn’t that bad, if we could just get rid of his dandruff…

“All fixed up!” Kate puts the phone down. “You’re having lunch today at one o’clock.”

“Excellent! Where?”

“Well, that’s the only thing.” Kate hesitates. “I asked him to name a restaurant. And he named-” She breaks off.

“What?” My heart starts to thump anxiously. “Not Gordon Ramsay. Not that posh one in Claridge’s.”

Kate winces. “Worse. Lyle Place.”

My insides shrivel. “You have to be kidding.”

Lyle Place opened about two years ago and was instantly christened the most expensive restaurant in Europe. It has a massive lobster tank and a fountain, and loads of celebrities go there. Obviously I’ve never been there. I’ve just read about it in the Evening Standard.

We should never, never, never have let him name the restaurant. I should have named it. I would have named Pasta Pot, which is around the corner and does a set lunch for £12.95 including a glass of wine. I daren’t even think how much lunch for two at Lyle Place is going to be.

“We won’t be able to get in!” I say in sudden relief. “It’ll be too busy.”

“He said he can get a reservation. He knows some people. He’ll put it in your name.”

“Damn.”

Kate is nibbling at her thumbnail anxiously. “How much is in the client entertainment kitty?”

“About 50 p,” I say in despair. “We’re broke. I’ll have to use my own credit card.”

“Well, it’ll be worth it,” says Kate resolutely. “It’s an investment. You’ve got to look like a mover and a shaker. If people see you eating at Lyle Place, they’ll think, Wow, Lara Lington must be doing well if she can afford to take clients here!”

“But I can’t afford it!” I wail. “Could we phone him up and change it to a cup of coffee?”

Even as I’m saying it, I know how lame this would look. If he wants lunch, I have to give him lunch. If he wants to go to Lyle Place, we have to go to Lyle Place.

“Maybe it isn’t as expensive as we think,” says Kate hopefully. “I mean, all the newspapers keep saying how bad the economy is, don’t they? Maybe they’ve reduced the prices. Or got a special offer.”

“That’s true. And maybe he won’t order very much,” I add in sudden inspiration. “I mean, he’s sporty. He won’t be a big eater.”

“Of course he won’t!” agrees Kate. “He’ll have, like, one tiny bit of sashimi and some water and dash off. And he definitely won’t drink. Nobody drinks at lunch anymore.”

I’m feeling more positive about this already. Kate’s right. No one drinks at business lunches these days. And we can keep it down to two courses. Or even one. A starter and a nice cup of coffee. What’s wrong with that?

And, anyway, whatever we eat, it can’t cost that much, can it?

Oh my God, I think I’m going to faint.

Except I can’t, because Clive Hoxton has just asked me to run through the specs of the job again.

I’m sitting on a transparent chair at a white-clothed table. If I look to my right, I can see the famous giant lobster tank, which has crustaceans of all sorts clambering around on rocks and occasionally being scooped out in a metal net by a man on a ladder. Over to the left is a cage of exotic birds, whose cheeping is mingling with the background whooshing sound from the fountain in the middle of the room.

“Well.” My voice is quite faint. “As you know, Leonidas Sports has just taken over a Dutch chain…”

I’m talking on autopilot. My eyes keep darting down to the menu, printed on Plexiglas. Every time I spot a price, I feel a fresh swoop of horror.

Ceviche of salmon, origami style £34.

That’s a starter. A starter.

Half a dozen oysters £46.

There’s no special offer. There’s no sign of any hard times. All around, diners are merrily eating and drinking as if this is all totally normal. Are they all bluffing? Are they all secretly quailing inside? If I stood on a chair and yelled, “It’s too expensive! I’m not going to take this anymore!” would I start a mass walkout?

“Obviously the board wants a new marketing director who can oversee this expansion…” I have no idea what I’m blabbering about. I’m psyching myself up to peek at the main courses.

Fillet of duck with three-way orange mash £59.

My stomach lurches again. I keep doing mental math and reaching three hundred and feeling a bit sick.

“Some mineral water?” The waiter appears at the table and proffers a blue-tinted Plexiglas square to each of us. “This is our water menu. If you like a sparkling water, the Chetwyn Glen is rather fun,” he adds. “It’s filtered through volcanic rock and has a subtle alkalinity.”

“Ah.” I force myself to nod intelligently, and the waiter meets my eyes without a flicker. Surely they all get back into the kitchen, collapse against the walls, and start snorting with laughter: “She paid fifteen quid! For water!”

“I’d prefer Pellegrino.” Clive shrugs. He’s a guy in his forties with graying hair, froggy eyes, and a mustache, and he hasn’t smiled once since we sat down.

“A bottle of each, then?” says the waiter.

Noooo! Not two bottles of overpriced water!

“So, what would you like to eat, Clive?” I smile. “If you’re in a hurry, we could go straight to main courses…”

“I’m not in any hurry.” Clive gives me a suspicious look. “Are you?”

“Of course not!” I backtrack quickly. “No hurry at all!” I wave a generous hand. “Have whatever you’d like.”

Not the oysters, please, please, please not the oysters…

“The oysters to begin with,” he says thoughtfully. “Then I’m torn between the lobster and the porcini risotto.”

I discreetly whip my eyes down to the menu. The lobster is £90; the risotto, only £45.

“Tough choice.” I try to sound casual. “You know, risotto is always my favorite.”

There’s silence as Clive frowns at the menu again.

“I love Italian food,” I throw in with a relaxed little laugh. “And I bet the porcini are delicious. But it’s up to you, Clive!”

“If you can’t decide,” the waiter puts in helpfully, “I could bring you both the lobster and a reduced-size risotto.”

He could what? He could what? Who asked him to interfere, anyway?

“Great idea!” My voice is two notes shriller than I intended. “Two main courses! Why not?”

I feel the waiter’s sardonic eye on me and instantly know he can read my thoughts. He knows I’m skint.

“And for madam?”

“Right. Absolutely.” I run a finger down the menu with a thoughtful frown. “The truth is… I went for a big power breakfast this morning. So I’ll just have a Caesar salad, no starter.”

“One Caesar salad, no starter.” The waiter nods impassively.

“And would you like to stick to water, Clive?” I desperately try to keep any hint of hope out of my voice. “Or wine…”

Even the idea of the wine list makes my spine feel all twingey with fear.

“Let’s see the list.” Clive’s eyes light up.

“And a glass of vintage champagne to start, perhaps,” suggests the waiter, with a bland smile.

He couldn’t just suggest champagne. He had to suggest vintage champagne. This waiter is a total sadist.

“I could be persuaded!” Clive gives a sort of lugubrious chuckle, and somehow I force myself to join in.

At last the waiter departs, having poured us each a zillion-pound glass of vintage champagne. I feel a bit giddy. I’m going to be paying off this lunch for the rest of my life. But it’ll be worth it. I have to believe that.

“So!” I say brightly, raising my glass. “To the job! I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind, Clive-”

“I haven’t,” he says, swigging about half of his champagne down in one gulp.

I stare at him, unnerved. Am I going mad? Did Kate take down the message wrong?

“But I thought-”

“It’s a possibility.” He starts to break up a bread roll. “I’m not happy with my job at the moment, and I’m considering a move. But there are drawbacks to this Leonidas Sports gig too. Sell it to me.”

For a moment I’m too choked with dismay to answer. I’m spending the price of a small car on this man and he might not even be interested in the job? I take a sip of water, then look up, forcing my most professional smile. I can be Natalie. I can sell this to him.

“Clive. You’re not happy in your current post. For a man with your gifts, this is a criminal situation. Look at you! You should be in a place which will appreciate you.”

I pause, my heart thumping hard. He’s listening attentively. He hasn’t even buttered his bread roll yet. So far, so good.

“In my opinion, the job at Leonidas Sports would be the perfect career move for you. You’re a former sportsman-it’s a sporting goods company. You love to play golf-Leonidas Sports has a whole golfwear line!”

Clive raises his eyebrows. “You’ve done your research on me, at any rate.”

“I’m interested in people,” I say honestly. “And knowing your profile, it seems to me that Leonidas Sports is exactly what you need at this stage. This is a fantastic, unique opportunity to-”

“Is that man your lover?” A familiar clipped voice interrupts me, and I jump. That sounded just like-

No. Don’t be ridiculous. I take a deep breath and resume.

“As I was saying, this is a fantastic opportunity to take your career to the next level. I’m sure that we could achieve a very generous package-”

“I said, ‘Is that man your lover?’” The voice is more insistent, and before I can stop myself, I swivel my head.

No.

This can’t be happening. She’s back. It’s Sadie, perched on a nearby cheese trolley.

She’s not in the green dress anymore; she’s wearing a pale pink one with a dropped waistband and a matching coat over the top. There’s a black band around her head, and from one of her wrists dangles a little gray silk bag on a beaded chain. The other hand is resting on a glass cheese dome-apart from her fingertips, which have sunk into it. She suddenly notices and pulls them out sharply, carefully positioning them on top of the glass.

“He’s not terribly handsome, is he? I want some champagne,” she adds imperiously, her eyes lighting on my drink.

Ignore her. It’s a hallucination. It’s all in your head.

“Lara? Are you OK?”

“Sorry, Clive!” I hastily turn back. “Just got a bit distracted there. By the… cheese trolley! It all looks so delicious!”

Oh God. Clive doesn’t seem amused. I need to get things back on track, quick.

“The real question to ask yourself, Clive, is this.” I lean forward intently. “Will an opportunity like this come along again? It’s a unique chance to work with a great brand, to use all your proven talents and admired leadership skills-”

“I want some champagne!” To my horror, Sadie has materialized right in front of me. She reaches for my glass and tries to pick it up, but her hand goes through it. “Drat! I can’t pick it up!” She reaches again, and again, then glares at me crossly. “This is so irritating!”

“Stop it!” I hiss furiously.

“I’m sorry?” Clive knits his heavy brows.

“Not you, Clive! Just got something caught in my throat…” I grab my glass and take a gulp of water.

“Have you found my necklace yet?” Sadie demands accusingly.

“No!” I mutter from behind my glass. “Go away.”

“Then why are you sitting here? Why aren’t you looking for it?”

“Clive!” I desperately try to focus back on him. “I’m so sorry about that. What was I saying?”

“Admired leadership skills,” says Clive, without cracking a smile.

“That’s right! Admired leadership skills! Um… so the point is…”

“Haven’t you looked anywhere?” She thrusts her head close to mine. “Don’t you care about finding it?”

“So… what I’m trying to say is…” It’s taking every ounce of willpower to ignore Sadie and not bat her away. “In my opinion, this job is a great strategic move; it’s a perfect springboard for your future, and furthermore-”

“You’ve got to find my necklace! It’s important! It’s very, very-”

“Furthermore, I know the generous benefits package will-”

“Stop ignoring me!” Sadie’s face is practically touching mine. “Stop talking! Stop-”

“Shut up and leave me alone!”

Shit.

Did that just come out of my mouth?

From the shell-shocked way Clive’s froggy eyes have widened, I’m guessing the answer is yes. At two neighboring tables, conversations have come to a halt, and I can see our supercilious waiter pausing to watch. The buzz of clashing cutlery and conversation seems to have died away all around. Even the lobsters seem to be lined up at the edge of the tank, watching.

“Clive!” I give a strangled laugh. “I didn’t mean… obviously I wasn’t talking to you…”

“Lara.” Clive fixes me with a hostile gaze. “Please do me the courtesy of telling me the truth.”

I can feel my cheeks staining red. “I was just…” I clear my throat desperately. What can I say?

I was talking to myself. No.

I was talking to a vision. No.

“I’m not a fool.” He cuts me off contemptuously. “This isn’t the first time this has happened to me.”

“It isn’t?” I peer at him, bemused.

“I’ve had to put up with it in board meetings, in directors’ lunches… it’s the same everywhere. BlackBerries are bad enough, but these hands-free sets are a bloody menace. You know how many car accidents people like you cause?”

Hands-free-Does he mean…

He thinks I was on the phone!

“I wasn’t-” I begin automatically, then stop myself. Being on the phone is the most sane option available to me. I should go with it.

“But this really is the pits.” He glowers at me, breathing heavily. “Taking a call during a one-to-one lunch. Hoping I might not notice. It’s fucking disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” I say humbly. “I’ll… I’ll switch it off now.” With a fumbling hand, I reach up to my ear and pretend to switch off an earpiece.

“Where is it, anyway?” He frowns at me. “I can’t see it.”

“It’s tiny,” I say hastily. “Very discreet.”

“Is it the new Nokia?”

He’s peering more closely at my ear. Shit.

“It’s actually… um… embedded in my earring.” I hope I sound convincing. “New technology. Clive, I’m really sorry I was distracted. I… I misjudged the situation. But I am very sincere about wanting to place you with Leonidas Sports. So if I could maybe just recap on what I was trying to say-”

“You have to be joking.”

“But-”

“You think I’m going to do business with you now?” He gives a short, unamused laugh. “You’re as unprofessional as your partner, and that’s saying something.” To my horror, he pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. “I was going to give you a chance, but forget it.”

“No, wait! Please!” I say in panic, but he’s already striding away, between the tables of gawping diners.

I feel hot and cold as I stare at his empty chair. With a still-shaky hand, I reach for my champagne and take three deep gulps. So that’s that. I’ve fucked up. My best hope is gone.

And, anyway, what did he mean, I’m “as unprofessional as my partner”? Has he heard about Natalie disappearing off to Goa? Does everyone know?

“Will the gentleman be returning?” My trance is interrupted by the waiter approaching the table. He’s holding a wooden platter bearing a dish with a silver dome on it.

“I don’t think so.” I stare at the table, my face burning with humiliation.

“Shall I return his food to the kitchen?”

“Do I still have to pay for it?”

“Unfortunately, madam, yes.” He gives me a patronizing smile. “Since it has been ordered, and everything is cooked from fresh-”

“Then I’ll have it.”

“All of it?” He seems taken aback.

“Yes.” I lift my chin mutinously. “Why not? I’m paying for it; I might as well eat it.”

“Very good.” The waiter inclines his head, deposits the platter in front of me, and removes the silver dome. “Half a dozen fresh oysters on crushed ice.”

I’ve never eaten oysters in my life. I’ve always thought they looked gross. Close up they look even grosser. But I’m not admitting that.

“Thanks,” I say curtly.

The waiter retreats, and I stare fixedly at the six oysters in front of me. I’m determined to see this stupid lunch out. But there’s a tight pressing feeling behind my cheekbones, and my bottom lip would be trembling if I allowed it.

“Oysters! I adore oysters.” To my disbelief, Sadie appears in front of my eyes again. She sinks into Clive’s vacated chair with a languid sideways movement, looks around, and says, “This place is rather fun. Is there a cabaret?”

“I can’t hear you,” I mutter savagely. “I can’t see you. You don’t exist. I’m going to the doctor and getting some drugs and getting rid of you.”

“Where’s your lover gone?”

“He wasn’t my lover,” I snap in low tones. “I was trying to do business with him, and it’s all spoiled because of you. You’ve ruined everything. Everything.”

“Oh.” She arches her eyebrows unrepentantly. “I don’t see how I could do that if I don’t exist.”

“Well, you did. And now I’m stuck with these stupid oysters that I don’t want and can’t afford, and I don’t even know how to eat them…”

“It’s easy to eat an oyster!”

“No, it isn’t.”

I suddenly notice a blond woman in a print dress at the next table nudging the perfectly groomed woman next to her and pointing at me. I’m talking to thin air. I look like a lunatic. Hastily I reach for a bread roll and start to butter it, avoiding Sadie’s eye.

“Excuse me.” The woman leans over and smiles at me. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I don’t mean to interrupt, but did you just say your phone is embedded in your earring?”

I stare back at her, my mind scrabbling for an answer other than “yes.”

“Yes,” I say at last.

The woman claps a hand to her mouth. “That’s amazing. How does it work?”

“It has a special… chip. Very new. Japanese.”

“I have to get one.” She’s gazing at my Claire’s Accessories £5.99 earring, awestruck. “Where do they sell them?”

“Actually, this is a prototype,” I say hurriedly. “They’ll be available in a year or so.”

“Well, how did you get one, then?” She gives me an aggressive look.

“I… um… know Japanese people. Sorry.”

“Could I see?” She holds out her hand. “Could you take it out of your ear for a moment? Would you mind?”

“A call’s just coming in,” I say hastily. “It’s vibrating.”

“I can’t see anything.” She’s peering incredulously at my ear.

“It’s very subtle,” I say desperately. “They’re microvibrations. Er, Hello, Matt? Yes, I can talk.”

I mime apologies to the woman and reluctantly she returns to her meal. I can see her pointing me out to all her friends.

“What are you talking about?” Sadie’s eyeing me disdainfully. “How can a telephone be in an earring? It sounds like a riddle.”

“I don’t know. Don’t you start quizzing me too.” I prod an oyster with little enthusiasm.

“Do you really not know how to eat an oyster?”

“Never eaten one before in my life.”

Sadie shakes her head disapprovingly. “Pick up your fork. The shellfish fork. Go on!” Casting her a suspicious look, I do as she says. “Ease it around, make sure it’s detached from the shell… Now give it a squeeze of lemon and pick it up. Like this.” She mimes picking up an oyster, and I copy. “Head back and swallow the whole thing. Bottoms up!”

It’s like swallowing a piece of jellified sea. Somehow I manage to slurp down the whole thing, grab my glass, and take a swig of champagne.

“You see?” Sadie is watching me greedily. “Isn’t that too delicious?”

“’s OK,” I say reluctantly. I put my glass down and survey her silently for a moment. She’s reclining on the chair as though she owns the place, one arm flung to the side, her beaded bag dangling down.

She’s all in my head, I tell myself. My subconscious has invented her.

Except… my subconscious doesn’t know how to eat an oyster. Does it?

“What is it?” She juts out her chin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

My brain is edging very slowly to a conclusion. To the only possible conclusion.

“You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” I say at last. “You’re not a hallucination. You’re a proper, real-live ghost.”

Sadie gives a remote shrug, as though she’s really not interested in this conversation.

“Aren’t you?”

Again, Sadie doesn’t reply. Her head is tilted and she’s examining her fingernails. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a ghost. Well, too bad. She is.

“You are a ghost. I know you are. So, what, am I psychic?”

My head is prickling all over as this revelation hits me. I feel a bit shivery. I can talk to the dead. Me, Lara Lington. I always knew there was something different about me.

Think of the implications. Think what this means! Maybe I’ll start talking to more ghosts. Lots of ghosts. Oh my God, I could have my own TV show. I could go around the world. I could be famous! I have a sudden vision of myself on a stage, channeling spirits while an audience watches avidly. With a surge of excitement, I lean across the table.

“Do you know any other dead people you could introduce me to?”

“No.” Sadie folds her arms crossly. “I don’t.”

“Have you met Marilyn Monroe? Or Elvis? Or… or Princess Diana? What’s she like? Or Mozart!” I feel almost dizzy as possibilities pile into my head. “This is mind-blowing. You have to describe it! You have to tell me what it’s like … there.”

“Where?” Sadie tosses her chin.

“There. You know…”

“I haven’t been anywhere.” She glares at me. “I haven’t met anybody. I wake up and it’s as though I’m in a dream. A very bad dream. Because all I want is my necklace, but the only person who can understand me refuses to help me!” She looks so accusing, I feel a surge of indignation.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t come along and ruin everything, that person might want to help you. Did you think of that?”

“I didn’t ruin everything!”

“Yes, you did!”

“I taught you how to eat an oyster, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t want to know how to eat a bloody oyster! I wanted my candidate not to walk out!”

For a moment, Sadie looks cornered-then her chin juts out again. “I didn’t know he was your candidate. I thought he was your lover.”

“Well, my business is probably sunk now. And I can’t afford any of this stupid food. It’s all a disaster and it’s all your fault.”

Morosely, I reach for another oyster and start poking at it with my fork. Then I glance at Sadie. All her spirit seems to have evaporated, and she’s hugging her knees with that droopy-headed-flower look. She meets my eyes, then drops her head down again.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I apologize for causing you so much trouble. If I could communicate with anyone else, I would do so.”

Now, of course, I feel bad.

“Look,” I begin. “It’s not that I don’t want to help-”

“It’s my final wish.” As Sadie looks up, her eyes are dark and velvety and her mouth is in a sad little O shape. “It’s my only wish. I don’t want anything else; I won’t ask you for anything else. Just my necklace. I can’t rest without it. I can’t-” She breaks off and looks away as though she can’t finish the sentence. Or doesn’t want to finish it, maybe.

I can tell this is a bit of a sensitive area. But I’m too intrigued to let it go.

“When you say you ‘can’t rest’ without your necklace,” I venture delicately, “do you mean rest as in sit down and feel relaxed? Or do you mean rest as in pass on to … there?” I catch her stony gaze and amend hastily, “I mean, the Other… I mean, the Better… I mean, the After-” I rub my nose, feeling hot and bothered.

God, this is a minefield. How am I supposed to put it? What’s the politically correct phrase, anyway?

“So… how does it work, exactly?” I try a different tack.

“I don’t know how it works! I haven’t been given an instruction pamphlet, you know.” Her tone is scathing, but I can see an insecure flash in her eye. “I don’t want to be here. I’ve just found myself here. And all I know is, I need my necklace. That’s all I know. And for that… I need your help.”

For a while there’s silence. I swallow another oyster, uncomfortable thoughts jabbing at my conscience. She’s my great-aunt. This is her one and only last wish. You should make an effort with someone’s one and only last wish. Even if it is totally impossible and stupid.

“Sadie.” At last I exhale sharply. “If I find your necklace for you, will you go away and leave me in peace?”

“Yes.”

“For good?”

“Yes.” Her eyes are starting to shine.

I fold my arms sternly. “If I look for your necklace as hard as I can but can’t find it because it was lost a zillion years ago or, more likely, never existed… will you still go away?”

There’s a pause. Sadie looks sulky.

“It did exist,” she says.

“Will you?” I persist. “Because I’m not spending all summer on some ridiculous treasure hunt.”

For a few moments, Sadie glowers at me, clearly trying to think of some put-down. But she can’t.

“Very well,” she says at last.

“OK. It’s a deal.” I lift my champagne glass toward her. “Here’s to finding your necklace.”

“Come on, then! Start looking!” She darts her head around impatiently, as though we might start searching right here and now in the restaurant.

“We can’t just go randomly looking! We have to be scientific.” I reach into my bag, pull out the necklace sketch, and unfold it. “All right. Think back. Where did you last have it?”