Twenties Girl

by Sophie Kinsella

  First I forgot the name of the nursing home. Then I got my timings all wrong and had to convince the policewoman it had taken me five minutes to walk half a mile. I ended up saying I was training to be a professional speed walker. Just thinking about it makes me cringey and hot. There’s no way she believed me. I mean, do I look like a professional speed walker?

  Then I said I’d been to my friend Linda’s before visiting the pub. I don’t even have a friend called Linda; I just didn’t want to mention any of my real friends. She wanted Linda’s surname, and I blurted out “Davies” before I could stop myself.

  Of course, I’d read it off the top of the form. She was DC Davies.

  At least I didn’t say “Keyser Söze.”

  To her credit, the policewoman didn’t flicker. Nor did she say whether they would proceed with the case. She just thanked me politely and found me the number of a cab firm.

  I’ll probably go to jail now. Great. All I need.

  I glower at Sadie, who’s lying full length on the desk, staring up at the ceiling. It really didn’t help having her in my ear the whole time, constantly correcting me and adding suggestions and reminiscing about the time two policemen tried to stop her and Bunty “racing their motors over the fields” and couldn’t catch up with them; it was “too funny.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “Again.”

  “Thank you.” Sadie’s voice drifts idly over.

  “Right, well.” I pick up my bag. “I’m off.”

  In one quick movement, Sadie sits up. “You won’t forget my necklace, will you?”

  “I doubt I will, my entire life.” I roll my eyes. “However hard I try.”

  Suddenly she’s in front of me, blocking my way to the door. “No one can see me except you. No one else can help me. Please.”

  “Look, you can’t just say, ‘Find my necklace!’” I exclaim in exasperation. “I don’t know anything about it, I don’t know what it looks like…”

  “It’s made of glass beads with rhinestones,” she says eagerly. “It falls to here…” She gestures at her waist. “The clasp is inlaid mother-of-pearl-”

  “Right.” I cut her off. “Well, I haven’t seen it. If it turns up, I’ll let you know.”

  I swing past her, push the door open into the police-station foyer, and take out my phone. The foyer is brightly lit, with a grubby linoleum floor and a desk, which right now is empty. Two huge guys in hoodies are having a loud argument while a policeman is trying to calm them down, and I back away to what looks like a safe corner. I get out the minicab firm number DC Davies gave me and start keying it into my phone. I can see there are about twenty voice messages on there, but I ignore them all. It’ll just be Mum and Dad, stressing away…

  “Hey!” A voice interrupts me and I pause midway through. “Lara? Is that you?”

  A guy with sandy hair in a polo neck and jeans is waving at me. “It’s me! Mark Phillipson? Sixth-form college?”

  “Mark!” I exclaim, suddenly recognizing him. “Oh my God! How are you doing?”

  The only thing I remember about Mark is him playing bass guitar in the college band.

  “I’m fine! Great.” He comes across with a concerned expression. “What are you doing at the police station? Is everything OK?”

  “Oh! Yes, I’m fine. I’m just here for a… you know.” I wave it off. “Murder thing.”

  “Murder?” He looks staggered.

  “Yeah. But it’s no big deal. I mean, obviously it is a big deal…” I correct myself hastily at his expression. “I’d better not say too much about it… Anyway, how are you doing?”

  “Great! Married to Anna, remember her?” He flashes a silver wedding ring. “Trying to make it as a painter. I do this stuff on the side.”

  “You’re a policeman?” I say disbelievingly, and he laughs.

  “Police artist. People describe the villains, I draw them; it pays the rent… So how about you, Lara? Are you married? With somebody?”

  For a moment I just stare back with a rictus smile.

  “I was with this guy for a while,” I say at last. “It didn’t work out. But I’m fine about it now. I’m in a really good place, actually.”

  I’ve clenched my plastic cup so hard, it’s cracked. Mark looks a bit disconcerted.

  “Well… see you, Lara.” He lifts a hand. “Will you be OK getting home?”

  “I’m calling a cab.” I nod. “Thanks. Nice to bump into you.”

  “Don’t let him go!” Sadie’s voice in my ear makes me jump out of my skin. “He can help!”

  “Shut up and leave me alone,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, shooting an even brighter smile at Mark. “Bye, Mark. Give my love to Anna.”

  “He can draw the necklace! Then you’ll know what you’re looking for!” She’s suddenly right in front of me. “Ask him! Quickly!”

  “No!”

  “Ask him!” Her banshee voice is coming back, piercing my eardrum. “Ask-him-ask-him-ask-him-”

  Oh, for God’s sake, she’s going to drive me insane.

  “Mark!” I call, so loudly that the two guys in hoodies stop fighting and stare at me. “I’ve got this tiny favor to ask you, if you have a moment…”

  “Sure.” Mark shrugs.

  We go into a side room, with cups of tea from the machine. We pull up chairs to a table and Mark gets out his paper and artist’s pencils.

  “So.” He raises his eyebrows. “A necklace. That’s a new one.”

  “I saw it once at an antiques fair,” I improvise. “And I’d love to commission one like it, but I’m so bad at drawing things, and it suddenly occurred to me that maybe you could help…”

  “No problem. Fire away.” Mark takes a sip of tea, his pencil poised over the paper, and I glance up at Sadie.

  “It was made of beads,” she says, holding up her hands as though she can almost feel it. “Two rows of glass beads, almost translucent.”

  “It’s two rows of beads,” I say. “Almost translucent.”

  “Uh-huh.” He nods, already sketching circular beads. “Like this?”

  “More oval,” says Sadie, peering over his shoulder. “Longer. And there were rhinestones in between.”

  “The beads were more oval,” I say apologetically. “With rhinestones in between.”

  “No problem…” Mark is already rubbing out and sketching longer beads. “Like this?”

  I glance up at Sadie. She’s watching him, mesmerized. “And the dragonfly,” she murmurs. “You mustn’t forget the dragonfly.”

  For another five minutes, Mark sketches, rubs out, and sketches again, as I relay Sadie’s comments. Slowly, gradually, the necklace comes alive on the page.

  “That’s it,” says Sadie at last. Her eyes are shining as she gazes down. “That’s my necklace!”

  “Perfect,” I say to Mark. “You’ve got it.”

  For a moment we all survey it in silence.

  “Nice,” says Mark at last, jerking his head at it. “Unusual. Reminds me of something.” He frowns at the sketch for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. Lost it.” He glances at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to dash-”

  “That’s fine,” I say quickly. “Thanks so much.”

  When he’s gone, I pick up the paper and look at the necklace. It’s very pretty, I have to admit. Long rows of glassy beads, sparkling rhinestones, and a big ornamental pendant in the shape of a dragonfly, studded with even more rhinestones.

  “So this is what we’re looking for.”

  “Yes!” Sadie looks up, her face full of animation. “Exactly! Where shall we start?”

  “You have to be joking!” I reach for my jacket and stand up. “I’m not looking for anything now. I’m going home and having a nice glass of wine. And then I’m having a chicken korma with naan. New-fangled modern food,” I explain, noticing her bemused expression. “And then I’m going to bed.”

  “So what shall I do?” says Sadie, suddenly looking deflated.

  “I don’t kno
w!”

  I head out of the side room, back into the foyer. A taxi is offloading an elderly couple onto the pavement outside, and I hurry out, calling, “Taxi? Can you take me to Kilburn?”

  As the taxi moves off, I spread out the sketch on my lap and look at the necklace again, trying to imagine it in real life. Sadie described the beads as a kind of pale yellow iridescent glass. Even in the drawing, the rhinestones are sparkling all over. The real thing must be stunning. Worth a bit too. Just for a moment I feel a flicker of excitement at the thought of actually finding it.

  But an instant later, sanity checks back into my brain. I mean, it probably doesn’t exist. And even if it did, the chances of finding some random necklace belonging to a dead old lady who probably lost it or broke it years ago are approximately… three million to one. No, three billion to one.

  At last I fold the paper and tuck it in my bag, then flop back on my seat. I don’t know where Sadie is and I don’t care. I close my eyes, ignoring the constant vibrations of my mobile phone, and let myself doze off. What a day.

  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.