Twenties Girl

by Sophie Kinsella

  “I… um… the thing is…”

  My mind is doing double backflips trying to work out a solution that involves both being honest and buying time for Sadie. But I can’t find one. There isn’t one. And the woman’s going to give up waiting in a minute and put the phone down. I have to say something.

  I need a red herring. Just to distract them for a while. Just while I find the necklace.

  “It was someone else,” I blurt out. “A… man. It was him I overheard in the pub. I got confused before. He had a plaited goatee beard,” I add randomly. “And a scar on his cheek. I remember it really clearly now.”

  They’ll never find a man with a plaited goatee and a scar on his cheek. We’re safe. For now.

  “A man with a plaited beard…” The woman sounds as if she’s trying to keep up.

  “And a scar.”

  “And, I’m sorry, what is this man supposed to have done?”

  “Murdered my great-aunt! I gave a statement, but it was wrong. So if you could just cancel it out…”

  There’s a rather long pause-then the woman says, “Dear, we don’t just cancel out statements. I think DI James will probably want to talk to you himself.”

  Oh God. The thing is, I really, really don’t want to talk to DI James.

  “Fine.” I try to sound cheery. “No problem. As long as he knows the nurses definitely didn’t do it. If you could write that message on a Post-it or something? The nurses didn’t do it.”

  “The nurses didn’t do it,” she repeats dubiously.

  “Exactly. In big capitals. And put it on his desk.”

  There’s another, even longer pause. Then the woman says, “Can I take your name again?”

  “Lara Lington. He’ll know who I am.”

  “I’m sure he will. Well, as I say, Miss Lington, I’m sure DI James will be in touch.”

  I ring off and head down the road, my legs weak. I think I just about got away with it. But, honestly, I’m a nervous wreck.

  Two hours later, I’m not just a nervous wreck. I’m exhausted.

  In fact, I’m taking a whole new jaded view of the British populace. It might seem like an easy project, phoning a few people on a list and asking if they’d bought a necklace. It might seem simple and straightforward, until you actually tried it yourself.

  I feel like I could write a whole book on human nature, and it would be called: People Are Really Unhelpful. First of all, they want to know how you got their name and phone number. Then, when you mention the word raffle, they want to know what they won and even call out to their husband, “Darren, we won that raffle!” When you hastily tell them, “You didn’t win anything,” the mood instantly turns suspicious.

  Then, when you broach the subject of what they bought at the jumble sale, they get even more suspicious. They get convinced you’re trying to sell them something or steal their credit card details by telepathy. At the third number I tried, there was some guy in the background saying, “I’ve heard about this. They phone you up and keep you talking. It’s an Internet scam. Put the phone down, Tina.”

  “How can it be an Internet scam?” I wanted to yell. “We’re not on the Internet!”

  I’ve only had one woman so far who seemed keen to help: Eileen Roberts. And actually she was a total pain because she kept me on the line for ten minutes, telling me about everything she bought at the jumble sale and saying what a shame it was and had I thought of making a replacement necklace as there was a wonderful bead shop in Bromley?

  Argh.

  I rub my ear, which is glowing from being pressed against the phone, and count the scribbled-out names on my list. Twenty-three. Forty-four to go. This was a crap idea. I’m never going to find this stupid necklace. I stretch out my back, then fold the list up and put it in my bag. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Maybe.

  I head into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and am putting a lasagna in the oven when her voice says, “Did you find my necklace?” I start, crashing my forehead against the oven door, and look up. Sadie’s sitting on the sill of the open window.

  “Give me some warning when you’re going to appear!” I exclaim. “And, anyway, where were you? Why did you suddenly abandon me?”

  “That place is deathly.” She tosses her chin. “Full of old people. I had to get away.”

  She’s speaking lightly, but I can tell she was freaked out by going back there. That must be why she disappeared for so long.

  “You were old,” I remind her. “You were the oldest one there. Look, that’s you!” I reach in my jacket pocket and produce the picture of her, all wrinkled and white-haired. I see the briefest of flinches on Sadie’s face before she brushes a scornful glance across the image.

  “That’s not me.”

  “It is! A nurse at the home gave it to me, she said it was you on your hundred and fifth birthday! You should be proud! You got telegrams from the queen and everything-”

  “I mean, it’s not me. I never felt like that. No one feels like that inside. This is how I felt.” She stretches out her arms. “Like this. A girl in my twenties. All my life. The outside is just… cladding.”

  “Well, anyway, you could have warned me you were leaving. You left me all alone!”

  “So did you get the necklace? Do you have it?” Sadie’s face lights up with hope, and I can’t help wincing.

  “Sorry. They had a box of your stuff, but the dragonfly necklace wasn’t in there. Nobody knows where it’s gone. I’m really sorry, Sadie.”

  I brace myself for the tantrum, the banshee screaming… but it doesn’t come. She just flickers slightly, as though someone turned the voltage down.

  “But I’m on the case,” I add. “I’m calling everyone who came to the jumble sale, in case they bought it. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon. It’s been quite hard work, actually,” I add. “Quite exhausting.”

  I’m expecting some gratitude from Sadie at this point. Some nice little speech about how brilliant I am and how appreciative she is of all my effort. But she sighs impatiently and wanders off, through the wall.

  “You’re welcome,” I mouth after her.

  I head into the sitting room and am flicking through the TV channels when she appears again. She seems to have cheered up immensely.

  “You live with some very peculiar people! There’s a man upstairs lying on a machine, grunting.”

  “What?” I stare at her. “Sadie, you can’t spy on my neighbors!”

  “What does ‘shake your booty’ mean?” she says, ignoring me. “The girl on the wireless was singing it. It sounds like nonsense.”

  “It means… dance. Let it all out.”

  “But why your booty?” She still looks puzzled. “Does it mean wave your shoe?”

  “Of course not! Your booty is your…” I get up and pat my bum. “You dance like this.” I do a few “street” dance moves, then look up to see Sadie in fits of giggles.

  “You look as though you’ve got convulsions! That’s not dancing!”

  “It’s modern dancing.” I glare at her and sit down. I’m a bit sensitive about my dancing, as it happens. I take a gulp of wine and look critically at her. She’s peering at the TV now, watching EastEnders with wide eyes.

  “What’s this?”

  “EastEnders. It’s a TV show.”

  “Why are they all so angry with one another?”

  “Dunno. They always are.” I take another gulp of wine. I can’t believe I’m explaining EastEnders and “shake your booty” to my dead great-aunt. Surely we should be talking about something more meaningful?

  “Look, Sadie… what are you?” I say on impulse, zapping the TV off.

  “What do you mean, what am I?” She sounds affronted. “I’m a girl. Just like you.”

  “A dead girl,” I point out. “So, not exactly like me.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” she says frostily.

  I watch as she arranges herself on the edge of the sofa, obviously trying to look natural despite having
zero gravity.

  “Do you have any special superhero powers?” I try another tack. “Can you make fire? Or stretch yourself really thin?”

  “No.” She seems offended. “Anyway, I am thin.”

  “Do you have an enemy to vanquish? Like Buffy?”

  “Who’s Buffy?”

  “The Vampire Slayer,” I explain. “She’s on TV; she fights demons and vampires-”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she cuts me off tartly. “Vampires don’t exist.”

  “Well, nor do ghosts!” I retort. “And it’s not ridiculous! Don’t you know anything? Most ghosts come back to fight the dark forces of evil or lead people to the light or something. They do something positive. Not just sit around watching TV.”

  Sadie shrugs, as though to say, “What do I care?”

  I sip my wine, thinking hard. She’s obviously not here to save the world from dark forces. Maybe she’s going to shed light on mankind’s plight or the meaning of life or something like that. Maybe I’m supposed to learn from her.

  “So, you lived through the whole twentieth century,” I venture. “That’s pretty amazing. What was… er… Winston Churchill like? Or JFK! Do you think he really was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald?”

  Sadie stares at me as though I’m a moron. “How would I know?”

  “Because!” I say defensively. “Because you’re from history! What was it like living through World War Two?” To my surprise, Sadie looks quite blank.

  “Don’t you remember it?” I say incredulously.

  “Of course I remember it.” She regains her composure. “It was cold and dreary and one’s friends got killed, and I’d rather not think about it.”

  She speaks crisply-but that little hesitation has pricked my curiosity.

  “Do you remember your whole life?” I ask cautiously.

  She must have memories spanning more than a hundred years. How on earth can she keep hold of them all?

  “It seems like… a dream,” murmurs Sadie, almost to herself. “Some parts are hazy.” She’s twirling her skirt around one finger, her expression distant. “I remember everything I need to remember,” she says at last.

  “You choose what to remember,” I offer.

  “I didn’t say that.” Her eyes flash with some unfathomable emotion and she wheels away from my gaze. She comes to rest in front of the mantelpiece and peers at a photo of me. It’s a tourist gimmick from Madame Tussauds and shows me grinning next to the waxwork of Brad Pitt.

  “Is this your lover?” She turns around.

  “I wish,” I say sardonically.

  “Don’t you have any lovers?” She sounds so pitying, I feel a bit piqued.

  “I had a boyfriend called Josh until a couple of months ago. But it’s over. So… I’m single at the moment.”

  Sadie looks at me expectantly. “Why don’t you take another lover?”

  “Because I don’t want to just take another lover!” I say, nettled. “I’m not ready!”

  “Why not?” She seems perplexed.

  “Because I loved him! And it’s been really traumatic! He was my soul mate; we completely chimed-”

  “Why did he break it off, then?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know! At least, I have this theory…” I trail off, torn. It’s still painful talking about Josh. But, on the other hand, it’s quite a relief to have someone fresh to download to. “OK. Tell me what you think.” I kick off my shoes, sit crosslegged on the sofa, and lean toward Sadie. “We were in this relationship and it was all going great-”

  “Is he handsome?” she interrupts.

  “Of course he’s handsome!” I pull out my phone, find the most flattering picture of him, and tilt it toward her. “Here he is.”

  “Mmm.” She makes a so-so gesture with her head.

  Mmm? Is that the best she can do? I mean, Josh is absolutely, definitively good-looking, and that’s not just me being biased.

  “We met at this bonfire party. He’s in IT advertising.” I’m scrolling through, showing her other pictures. “We just clicked, you know how you do? We used to spend all night just talking.”

  “How dull.” Sadie wrinkles her nose. “I’d rather spend all night gambling.”

  “We were getting to know each other,” I say, shooting her an offended look. “Like you do in a relationship.”

  “Did you go dancing?”

  “Sometimes!” I say impatiently. “That wasn’t the point! The point was, we were the perfect match. We talked about everything. We were wrapped up in each other. I honestly thought this was The One. But then…” I pause as my thoughts painfully retread old paths. “Well, two things happened. First of all, there was this time when I… I did the wrong thing. We were walking past a jewelers’ shop and I said, ‘That’s the ring you can buy me.’ I mean, I was joking. But I think it freaked him out. Then, a couple of weeks later, one of his mates broke up from a long-term relationship. It was like shock waves went through the group. The commitment thing hit them and none of them could cope, so they all ran. All of a sudden Josh was just… backing off. Then he broke up with me, and he wouldn’t even talk about it.”

  I close my eyes as painful memories start resurfacing. It was such a shock. He dumped me by email. By email.

  “The thing is, I know he still cares about me.” I bite my lip. “I mean, the very fact he won’t talk proves it! He’s scared, or he’s running away, or there’s some other reason I don’t know about… But I feel so powerless.” I feel the tears brimming in my eyes. “How am I supposed to fix it if he won’t discuss it? How can I make things better if I don’t know what he’s thinking? I mean, what do you think?”

  There’s silence. I look up to see Sadie sitting with her eyes closed, humming softly.

  “Sadie? Sadie?”

  “Oh!” She blinks at me. “Sorry. I do tend to go into a trance when people are droning on.”

  Droning on?

  “I wasn’t ‘droning on’!” I say with indignation. “I was telling you about my relationship!”

  Sadie is surveying me with fascination.

  “You’re terribly serious, aren’t you?” she says.

  “No, I’m not,” I say at once, defensively. “What does that mean?”

  “When I was your age, if a boy behaved badly, one simply scored his name out from one’s dance card.”

  “Yes, well.” I try not to sound too patronizing. “This is all a bit more serious than dance cards. We do a bit more than dance.”

  “My best friend, Bunty, was treated terribly badly by a boy named Christopher one New Year. In a taxi, you know.” Sadie widens her eyes. “But she had a little weep, powdered her nose again, and tally-ho! She was engaged before Easter!”

  “Tally-ho?” I can’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “That’s your attitude toward men? Tally-ho?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What about proper balanced relationships? What about commitment?”

  Sadie looks baffled. “Why do you keep talking about commitment? Do you mean being committed to a mental asylum?”

  “No!” I try to keep my patience. “I mean… Look, were you ever married?”

  Sadie shrugs. “I was married for a spell. We had too many arguments. So wearing, and one begins to wonder why one ever liked the chap in the first place. So I left him. I went abroad, to the Orient. That was in 1933. He divorced me during the war. Cited me for adultery,” she adds gaily, “but everyone was too distracted to think about the scandal by then.”

  In the kitchen, the oven pings to tell me my lasagna’s ready. I wander through, my head buzzing with all this new information. Sadie was divorced. She played around. She lived in “the Orient,” wherever that’s supposed to be.

  “D’you mean Asia?” I hoick out my lasagna and tip some salad onto my plate. “Because that’s what we call it these days. And, by the way, we work at our relationships.”

  “Work?” Sadie appears beside me, wrinkling her nose. “That doesn’
t sound like any fun. Maybe that’s why you broke up.”

  “It isn’t!” I feel like slapping her, she’s so annoying. She doesn’t understand anything.

  “Count On Us,” she reads off my lasagna packet. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s low fat,” I say, a little reluctantly, expecting the usual lecture that Mum gives me about processed diet foods and how I’m a perfectly normal size and girls these days are far too obsessed about weight.

  “Oh, you’re on a diet.” Sadie’s eyes light up. “You should do the Hollywood diet. You eat nothing but eight grapefruit a day, black coffee, and a hard-boiled egg. And plenty of cigarettes. I did it for a month and the weight fell off me. A girl in my village swore she took tapeworm pills,” she adds reminiscently. “But she wouldn’t tell us where she got them.”

  I stare at her, feeling a bit revolted. “Tapeworms?”

  “They gobble up all the food inside one, you know. Marvelous idea.”

  I sit down and look at my lasagna, but I’m not hungry anymore. Partly because visions of tapeworms are now lodged in my mind. And partly because I haven’t talked about Josh so openly for ages. I feel all churned up and frustrated.

  “If I could just talk to him.” I spear a piece of cucumber and stare at it miserably. “If I could just get inside his head. But he won’t accept my calls, he won’t meet up-”

  “More talking?” Sadie looks appalled. “How are you going to forget him if you keep talking about him? Darling, when things go wrong in life, this is what you do.” She adopts a knowledgeable tone. “You lift your chin, put on a ravishing smile, mix yourself a little cocktail-and out you go.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” I say resentfully. “And I don’t want to forget about him. Some of us have hearts, you know. Some of us don’t give up on true love. Some of us…”

  I suddenly notice Sadie’s eyes have closed and she’s humming again.

  Trust me to get haunted by the flakiest ghost in the world. One minute shrieking in my ear, the next making outrageous comments, the next spying on my neighbors… I take a mouthful of lasagna and chew it crossly. I wonder what else she saw in my neighbors’ flats. Maybe I could get her to spy on that guy upstairs when he’s making a racket, see what he’s actually doing-