Which obviously means he can’t wait to see me!
I’m debating whether to send him another light, friendly text, asking him what he’s doing, when I glance up and notice Sadie sitting on the fireplace in a pale gray chiffony dress.
“Oh, hi,” I say. “Where did you get to?”
“At the cinema. I watched two films.” She shoots me an accusing look. “You know, it gets very lonely during the day. You’re so preoccupied with your work.”
She’d be preoccupied if she had Janet Grady on her tail.
“Well, I’m very sorry I have to earn a living,” I reply, a little sarcastically. “I’m sorry I’m not a lady of leisure and can’t watch movies all day-”
“Have you got the necklace yet?” she says, right over me. “Have you done anything more about it?”
“No, Sadie,” I say tetchily. “I haven’t. I’ve had a few other problems today, as it happens.” I wait for her to ask what those problems are, but she just gives a distant shrug. Isn’t she even going to ask me what happened? Isn’t she going to offer me any sympathy? Some guardian angel she is.
“Josh has been texting me; isn’t that great?” I add, to annoy her.
She gives me a baleful look. “It’s not great. The whole thing is absolutely false.”
She glares at me and I glare back. Obviously, neither of us is in a brilliant mood tonight.
“It’s not false. It’s real. You saw him kiss me; you heard what he said.”
“He’s a puppet,” says Sadie dismissively. “He said whatever I told him to say. I could have told him to make love to a tree and he would have done. I’ve never known anyone so weak-willed! I barely had to whisper at him and he jumped.”
She’s so arrogant. Who does she think she is, God?
“That’s rubbish,” I say coldly. “OK, I know you nudged him a bit. But he would never say he loved me unless there was a basis of truth. He was obviously expressing what he really feels, deep down.”
Sadie gives a sarcastic laugh. “‘What he really feels deep down.’ Darling, you’re too amusing. He doesn’t have any feelings for you.”
“He does!” I spit. “Of course he does! He had my picture on his phone, didn’t he? He’d been carrying it around all this time! That’s love.”
“It’s not love. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sadie seems so sure of herself, I feel a swell of absolute fury.
“Well, you’ve never even been in love! So what would you know about it? Josh is a real man, with real feelings and real love, something you know nothing about. And you can think what you like, but I really believe I can make things work, I really believe Josh has deep feelings for me-”
“It’s not enough to believe!” Sadie’s voice is suddenly passionate, almost savage. “Don’t you see that, you stupid girl? You could spend your whole life hoping and believing! If a love affair is one-sided, then it’s only ever a question, never an answer. You can’t live your life waiting for an answer.”
She flushes and swivels away.
There’s a sharp silence, except for two EastEnders laying into each other on-screen. My mouth has dropped open in astonishment, and I notice I’m about to tip wine all over the sofa. I right my hand and take a gulp. Bloody hell. What was that outburst all about?
I thought Sadie didn’t care about love. I thought she only cared about having fun and tally-ho and the sizzle. But just then she sounded as if…
“Is that what happened to you, Sadie?” I say tentatively to her back. “Did you spend your whole life waiting for an answer?”
Instantly, she disappears. No warning, no “see you later.” She just vanishes.
She can’t do this to me. I have to know more. There’s got to be a story here. I switch off the TV and call loudly into thin air. All my annoyance has evaporated; I’m consumed by curiosity instead.
“Sadie! Tell me! It’s good to talk about things!” The room is silent, but somehow I’m sure she’s still there. “Come on,” I say, wheedling. “I’ve told you everything about me. And I’m your great-niece. You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”
Still nothing.
“Whatever.” I shrug. “Thought you had more guts than that.”
“I do have guts.” Sadie appears in front of me, looking furious.
“So tell me.” I fold my arms.
Sadie’s face is motionless, but I can see her eyes flickering to me and away again.
“There’s nothing to tell,” she says finally, her voice low. “It’s simply that I do know what it’s like to think you’re in love. I know what it’s like to squander all your hours and all your tears and all your heart on something which turns out to be… nothing. Don’t waste your life. That’s all.”
That’s all? Is she kidding? She can’t leave it there! There was a something. What was the something?
“What happened? Did you have a love affair? Was there some guy when you were living abroad? Sadie, tell me!”
For a moment Sadie looks as though she’s still not going to answer, or else disappear again. Then she sighs, turns away, and walks toward the mantelpiece.
“It was a long time ago. Before I went abroad. Before I was married. There was… a man.”
“The big row with your parents!” I suddenly put two and two together. “Was that because of him?”
Sadie tilts her head forward about a millimeter in assent. I should have known it was a man. I try to picture her with a boyfriend. Some dapper twenties guy in a boater, maybe. With one of those old-fashioned mustaches.
“Did your parents catch you together or something? Were you… barney-mugging?”
“No!” She bursts into laughter.
“So what happened? Tell me! Please!”
I still can’t quite get over the fact that Sadie’s been in love. After giving me such a hard time about Josh. After pretending she didn’t care about anything.
“They found sketches.” Her laughter dies away and she hugs her skinny chest. “He was a painter. He liked to paint me. My parents were scandalized.”
“What’s wrong with him painting you?” I say, puzzled. “They should have been pleased! I mean, it’s a compliment, an artist wanting to-”
“Naked.”
“Naked?”
I’m gobsmacked. And kind of impressed. I would never pose naked for a painting. Not in a million years! Not unless the painter could do some kind of airbrushing.
Brushing, maybe. Whatever artists do.
“I had a drape over me. But, even so, my parents…” Sadie presses her lips together. “That was a dramatic day, the day they found the sketches.”
My hand is clapped over my mouth. I know I shouldn’t laugh, I know it’s not really funny, but I can’t help it.
“So they saw you-your-”
“They became absolutely hysterical.” She gives a tiny snort, almost a laugh. “It was funny-but it was dreadful too. His parents were as angry as mine. He was supposed to be going into law.” She shakes her head. “He would never have made a lawyer. He was a great big shambles of a man. He painted all night, and drank wine, and smoked gaspers back to back, stubbed them out on his palette… We both did. I used to spend all night with him at his studio. In his parents’ shed. I used to call him Vincent, after van Gogh. He called me Mabel.” She gives another tiny snort.
“Mabel?” I wrinkle my nose.
“There was a maid at his house called Mabel. I told him I thought it was the ugliest name I’d ever heard and they should make her change it. So he instantly started calling me Mabel. Cruel beast that he was.”
Her tone is half jokey, but there’s a strange flickering in her eyes. I can’t tell if she wants to remember all this or not.
“Did you…” I begin-then chicken out before I can finish the question. I wanted to ask, “Did you really love him?” But Sadie’s lost in her own thoughts, anyway.
“I used to creep out of the house when everyone was asleep, climb down the ivy…” She trails away, her eyes distant. Suddenly sh
e looks really sad. “When we were discovered, everything changed. He was sent to France, to some uncle, to ‘get it all out of his system.’ As if anyone could ever stop him painting.”
“What was his name?”
“His name was Stephen Nettleton.” Sadie breathes out heavily. “I haven’t said that name aloud for… seventy years. At least.”
Seventy years?
“So what happened? After that?”
“We were never in touch with each other, ever again,” says Sadie matter-of-factly.
“Why not?” I say in horror. “Didn’t you write to him?”
“Oh, I wrote.” She gives a brittle smile that makes me wince. “I sent letter after letter to France. But I never heard from him. My parents said I was a nave little simpleton. They said he’d used me for what he could get. I wouldn’t believe them at first, hated them for saying it. But then…” She looks up, her chin set, as though defying me to pity her. “I was like you. ‘He does love me, he really does!’” She puts on a mocking, high-pitched voice. “‘He’ll write! He’ll come back for me. He loves me!’ Do you know how it felt when I finally came to my senses?”
There’s a taut silence.
“So… what did you do?” I hardly dare speak.
“Got married, of course.” I can see the flash of defiance. “Stephen’s father conducted the service. He was our vicar. Stephen must have known, but he didn’t even send a card.”
She lapses into silence, and I sit there, my thoughts teeming. She got married to Waistcoat Guy out of revenge. It’s obvious. It’s awful. No wonder it didn’t last.
I’m totally deflated. I wish I hadn’t pressed Sadie so hard now. I didn’t want to stir up all these painful memories. I just thought she’d have some fun, juicy anecdote and I could find out what sex was like in the 1920s.
“Didn’t you ever think about following Stephen to France?” I can’t help asking.
“I had my pride.” She gives me a pointed look, and I feel like retorting, “Well, at least I got my guy back!”
“Did you keep any of the sketches?” I’m desperately casting around for an upside.
“I hid them.” She nods. “There was a big painting too. He smuggled it to me, just before he left for France, and I hid it in the cellar. My parents had no idea. But then, of course, the house was burned and I lost it.”
“Oh God.” I sag in disappointment. “What a shame.”
“Not really. I didn’t care. Why should I care?”
I watch her for a minute pleating her skirt, over and over, obsessively, her eyes busy with memories.
“Maybe he never got your letters,” I say hopefully.
“Oh, I’m sure he did.” There’s an edge to her voice. “I know they went into the post. I had to smuggle them out of the house and into the postbox myself.”
I can’t bear this. Smuggling letters, for God’s sake. Why didn’t they have mobile phones in the 1920s? Think how many misunderstandings in the world could have been avoided. Archduke Ferdinand could have texted his people-I think a weirdo’s following me-and he wouldn’t have got assassinated. World War I wouldn’t have happened. And Sadie could have called her man; they could have talked it through…
“Is he still alive now?” I’m gripped by irrational hope. “We could track him down! We could Google him, we could go to France, I bet we’d find him-”
“He died young.” Sadie cuts me off, her voice remote. “Twelve years after he left England. They brought home his remains and had a funeral in the village. I was living abroad by then. I wasn’t invited, anyway. And I wouldn’t have gone.”
I’m so horrified, I can’t reply. Not only did he leave her, he died. This is a rubbish story with a terrible ending, and I wish I’d never asked.
Sadie’s face is drawn as she gazes out of the window. Her skin seems paler than ever, and there are shadows under her eyes. In her silver-gray dress she looks like a vulnerable little wisp. I feel tears spring to my eyes. She loved this artist. It’s obvious. Underneath all the bravado and the back chat, she really loved him. All her life, probably.
How could he not have loved her back? Bastard. If he were alive now I’d go and find him and beat him up. Even if he was some quavery million-year-old man with twenty grandchildren. “It’s so sad.” I rub my nose. “It’s just so sad.” “It’s not sad,” she retorts at once, her old flippant air returning. “It’s the way things are. There are other men, there are other countries, there are other lives to live. But that’s why I know.” She suddenly rounds on me. “I know, and you have to believe me.”
“Know what?” I’m not following her at all. “Believe what?”
“You’ll never work things out with your chap. Your Josh.”
“Why?” I glare back at her defensively. Trust her to bring Josh into it.
“Because you can want and want and want.” She turns away, hugging her knees. I can see the bony line of her spine through her dress. “But if he doesn’t want you back… you might as well wish the sky were red.”
FIFTEEN
I’m not panicking. Even though it’s Wednesday and I still don’t have a solution and Janet Grady is on the warpath.
I’m kind of beyond panic. I’m in an altered state. Like a yogi.
I’ve been dodging calls from Janet all day. Kate’s told her I’m in the loo, at lunch, trapped in the loo, and then at last I heard her saying desperately, “I can’t disturb her, I really can’t disturb her… Janet, I don’t know who the candidate is… Janet, please don’t threaten me…”
She put the phone down, shaking. Apparently Janet’s in a vicious mood. I think she’s become a bit obsessed by this short list. So am I. Résumés are swimming in front of my eyes, and the phone feels like it’s welded to my ear.
Yesterday I had a flash of inspiration. At least, it felt like inspiration. Maybe it was just desperation. Tonya! She’s tough and hard and ironlike and all those scary qualities. She’d be a total match for Janet Grady.
So I called up and casually asked if she’d thought about returning to work, now the twins had turned two. Had she thought about moving into marketing, maybe? In sportswear, perhaps? Tonya was quite senior at Shell before she had the boys. I bet her résumé looks really impressive.
“But I’m on a career break,” she objected. “Mag-da! NOT those fish fingers. Look in the bottom drawer of the freezer-”
“You’ve had enough of a break, surely. A woman with your talents-you must be dying to get back to work.”
“Not really.”
“But your brain will go soggy!”
“It won’t go soggy!” She sounded affronted. “You know, I do Suzuki music every week with the boys. It’s stimulating for both children and parents, and I’ve met some other great mums there.”
“You’re telling me you’d rather do Suzuki music and drink cappuccinos than be a top marketing director.” I tried to inject an incredulous note, even though I would a million times rather be doing Suzuki music and drinking cappuccinos right now than dealing with all this.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I would. Why are you approaching me, anyway, Lara?” Suddenly her voice was more alert. “What’s going on? Have you got a problem? Because you can always talk to me about it, you know, if things are going wrong…”
Oh God. Not the fake-o sympathy.
“Nothing’s going wrong! Just trying to do my big sister a favor.” I left it a moment or two before adding casually, “So, those mums you’ve met at Suzuki music. None of them used to be a top marketing director, did they?”
You’d think out of eight formerly professional mothers there’d have been one marketing director with retail experience who wanted to return to work at once. You’d think.
Anyway. So much for that bright idea. In fact, so much for all my ideas. The only possibility I’ve found is a guy in Birmingham who might move if Leonidas Sports pays for his helicopter commute every week. Which is never going to happen in a million years. I’m doomed. All in all, you�
��d think now would not be the best time to be glammed up and going to a party.
Nevertheless, here I am in a taxi, glammed up and going to a party.
“We’re here! Park Lane!” Sadie peers out of the window. “Pay the driver! Let’s go!”
Bright flashes from cameras are filling our taxi, and I can hear the hubbub of people greeting one another. I see a group of about ten people in evening dress arriving on the red carpet leading up to the Spencer Hotel, where the Business People dinner is taking place. According to the Financial Times, four hundred of the top business talents in London are going to be gathered here tonight.
As one of those talents, I was all set to cancel, for many, many reasons:
1. I’m back with Josh now and shouldn’t be attending dinners with other men.
2. I’m too stressed out by work.
3. I mean, really stressed out.
4. Janet Grady might be here and yell at me.
5. Clive Hoxton, ditto. Not to mention:
6. Have to talk to Mr. American Frown all night.
But then it hit me. Four hundred businesspeople, all together in one room. Some of them have got to be top-level marketing executives. And some of them have got to want a new job. Surely.
So this is my last-ditch plan. I’m going to find a candidate for Leonidas Sports tonight, at the dinner.
I double-check that my evening bag is well stocked with business cards and glance at my reflection in the window. Needless to say, Sadie took charge of my outfit again. I’m in a black sequined vintage dress with fringed sleeves and beaded Egyptian-style medallions at the shoulders. Over this I’m wearing a cloak. My eyes are heavily kohled, I have a long gold snake bracelet, and even a pair of original stockings, just like Sadie used to wear, apparently. And on my head is a close-fitting diamanté mesh cap, which Sadie found at some antique market.
Tonight I feel a lot more confident, though. For a start, everyone else will be dressed up too. And even though I protested about the cap, I secretly think I look quite cool. I look kind of glam and retro.
Sadie’s dolled up too, in a fringed dress, all turquoise and green, with a peacock feather shawl. She’s wearing about ten necklaces, and on her head is the most ludicrous headdress, with a diamanté waterfall cascading past her ear. She keeps flipping her evening bag open and shut and seems in a manic mood. In fact, she’s been manic ever since she told me that story about her old dead lover. I’ve tried to ask her more about it, but no dice. She just glides away or vanishes or changes the subject. So I’ve given up.
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