“And aren’t you glad you didn’t stay with Josh?” Sadie suddenly demands. “Aren’t you glad I saved you from that hideous fate?”
I take a sip of champagne, avoiding her eye, having a slight internal struggle. To be honest, going out with Ed after Josh is like moving onto Duchy Originals super-tasty seeded loaf after plastic white bread. (I don’t mean to be rude about Josh. And I didn’t realize it at the time. But it is. He is. Plastic white bread.)
So really I should be truthful and say, “Yes, Sadie, I’m glad you saved me from that hideous fate.” Except then she’ll become so conceited I won’t be able to stand it.
“Life takes us on different paths,” I say at last, cryptically. “It’s not up to us to evaluate or judge them, merely respect and embrace them.”
“What drivel,” she says contemptuously. “I know I saved you from a hideous fate, and if you can’t even be grateful-” She’s suddenly distracted by the sight out of the window. “Look! We’re nearly there!”
Sure enough, a moment later the seat-belt signs come on and everyone buckles up-apart from Sadie, who is floating around the cabin.
“His mother is quite stylish, you know,” she says conversationally.
“Whose mother?” I’m not following.
“Ed’s, of course. I think you and she would get on well.”
“How do you know?” I say in puzzlement.
“I went to see what she was like, of course,” she says carelessly. “They live outside Boston. Very nice house. She was having a bath. She has a very good figure for a woman of her age-”
“Sadie, stop!” I’m almost too incredulous to speak. “You can’t do this! You can’t go around spying on everyone in my life!”
“Yes, I can,” she says, opening her eyes wide as though it’s obvious. “I’m your guardian angel. It’s my job to watch out for you.”
I stare back at her, flummoxed. The plane engines begin to roar as we start our descent, my ears begin to pop, and there’s a slight heaving in my stomach.
“I hate this bit.” Sadie wrinkles her nose. “See you there.” And before I can say anything else, she disappears.
Uncle Bill’s mansion is a longish taxi ride from Nice Airport. I stop for a glass of Orangina in the village café and practice my schoolgirl French on the owner, to Sadie’s great amusement. Then we get back in the taxi and head the final stretch to Uncle Bill’s villa. Or complex. Or whatever you call a massive white house with several other houses dotted around the grounds and a mini-vineyard and a helicopter pad.
The place is staffed pretty heavily, but that doesn’t matter when you have a French-speaking ghost by your side. Every member of staff we come across is soon turned into a glassy-eyed statue. We make our way through the garden without being challenged, and Sadie leads me swiftly to a cliff, into which steps are cut, with a balustrade. At the bottom of the steps is a sandy beach and, beyond that, endless Mediterranean.
So this is what you get if you’re the owner of Lingtons Coffee. Your own beach. Your own view. Your own slice of sea. Suddenly I can see the point of being immensely rich.
For a moment I just stand shading my eyes from the glare of the sun, watching Uncle Bill. I’d pictured him relaxing on a sun lounger, surveying his empire, maybe stroking a white cat with one evil hand. But he’s not surveying anything, or relaxing. In fact, he’s not looking as I imagined him at all. He’s with a personal trainer, doing sit-ups and sweating profusely. I gape, astonished, as he does crunch after crunch, almost howling with pain, then collapses on his exercise mat.
“Give… me… a… moment…” he gasps. “Then another hundred.”
He’s so engrossed, he doesn’t notice as I quietly make my way down the cliff steps, accompanied by Sadie.
“Per’aps you should rest now?” says the trainer, looking concerned as he surveys Uncle Bill. “You ’ave ’ad a good workout.”
“I still need to work on my abs,” says Uncle Bill grimly, clutching his sides in dissatisfaction. “I need to lose some fat.”
“Meester Leengton.” The trainer looks totally bemused. “You ’ave no fat to lose. ’ow many times must I tell you thees?”
“Yes, you do!” I jump as Sadie whirls through the air to Uncle Bill. “You’re fat!” she shrieks in his ear. “Fat, fat, fat! You’re gross!”
Uncle Bill’s face jolts with alarm. Looking desperate, he sinks to the mat again and starts doing more crunches, groaning with the effort.
“Yes,” says Sadie, floating about his head and looking down with disdain. “Suffer. You deserve it.”
I can’t help giggling. Hats off to her. This is a brilliant revenge. We watch him wincing and panting a while longer, then Sadie advances again.
“Now tell your servant to go!” she yells in his ear, and Uncle Bill pauses mid-crunch.
“You can go now, Jean-Michel,” he says breathlessly. “See you this evening.”
“Very well.” The trainer gathers up all his pieces of equipment, brushing the sand off them. “I see you at six.”
He heads up the cliff steps, nodding politely as he passes me, and heads toward the house.
OK. So now it’s my turn. I take a deep breath of warm Mediterranean air and start to walk down the rest of the cliff steps. My hands are damp as I reach the beach. I take a few steps over the hot sand, then just stand still, waiting for Uncle Bill to notice me.
“Who’s…” He suddenly catches a glimpse of me as he comes down onto the mat. Immediately he sits up again and swivels around. He looks utterly stupefied and slightly ill. I’m not surprised, after doing 59,000 sit-ups. “Is that… Lara? What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
He looks so dazed and drained, I almost feel sorry for him. But I’m not going to let myself. Nor am I going to be drawn into small talk. I have a speech to make and I’m going to make it.
“Yes, it is I,” I say, in the most imposing, chilling voice I can muster. “Lara Alexandra Lington. Daughter to a betrayed father. Great-niece to a betrayed great-aunt. Niece to a betraying, evil, lying uncle. And I will have my vengeance.” That bit was so satisfying to say, I repeat it, my voice ringing across the beach. “And I will have my vengeance!”
God, I would have loved to be a movie star.
“Lara.” Uncle Bill has stopped panting by now and almost regained control of himself. He wipes his face and pulls a towel around his waist. Then he turns and smiles at me with that old suave, patronizing air. “Very stirring stuff. But I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor how you got past my guards-”
“You know what I’m talking about,” I say scathingly. “You know.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea.”
There’s silence except for the waves washing onto the beach. The sun seems to be beating even more intensely than before. Neither of us has moved.
So he’s calling my bluff. He must think he’s safe. He must think that the anonymous agreement protects him and no one will ever be able to find out.
“Is this about the necklace?” Uncle Bill says suddenly, as though the thought has just struck him. “It’s a pretty trinket, and I can understand your interest in it. But I don’t know where it is. Believe me. Now, did your father tell you, I want to offer you a job? Is that why you’re here? Because you certainly get marks for keenness, young lady.”
He flashes his teeth at me and slides on a pair of black flip-flops. He’s turning the situation. Any minute now he’ll be ordering drinks and somehow pretending this visit was all his idea. Trying to buy me, trying to distract me, trying to turn everything his own way. Just like he’s done all these years.
“I’m not here about the necklace, or the job.” My voice cuts across his. “I’m here about Great-Aunt Sadie.”
Uncle Bill raises his eyes to heaven with a familiar exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Lara. Will you give it a rest? For the last time, love, she wasn’t murdered, she wasn’t anything special-”
“And the painting of her that you found,” I car
ry on coolly. “The Cecil Malory. And the anonymous deal you did with the London Portrait Gallery in 1982. And the five hundred thousand pounds you got. And all the lies you told. And what you’re going to do about it. That’s why I’m here.”
And I watch in satisfaction as my uncle’s face sags like I’ve never seen it before. Like butter melting away under the sun.
TWENTY-SIX
It’s a sensation. It’s front-page news in every paper. Every paper.
Bill “Two Little Coins” Lington has “clarified” his story. The big, one-to-one interview was in the Mail, and all the papers jumped on it immediately.
He’s come clean about the five hundred thousand. Except, of course, being Uncle Bill, he went on at once to claim that the money was only part of the story. And that his business principles could still be applied to anyone starting out with two little coins. And so actually the story isn’t that different and, in a sense, half a million is the same as two little coins, it’s simply the quantity that’s different. (Then he realized he was on to a loser there and backtracked, but too late-it was out of his mouth.)
For me, the money really isn’t the point. It’s that finally, after all this time, he’s credited Sadie. He’s told the world about her instead of denying her and hiding her away. The quote that most of the papers used is: “I couldn’t have achieved my success without my beautiful aunt, Sadie Lancaster, and I’ll always be indebted to her.” Which I dictated to him, word for word.
Sadie’s portrait has been on every single front cover. The London Portrait Gallery has been besieged. She’s like the new Mona Lisa. Only better, because the painting’s so massive there’s room for loads of people to look at her at once. (And she’s way prettier. I’m just saying.) We’ve gone back there a few times ourselves, just to see the crowds and hear all the nice things they say about her. She’s even got a fan site on the Internet.
As for Uncle Bill’s book, he can say all he likes about business principles, but it won’t do any good. Two Little Coins has become the biggest object of ridicule since the Millennium Dome. It’s been parodied in all the tabloids, every single comedian has made a joke about it on television, and the publishers are so embarrassed, they’re offering money back on it. About twenty percent of people have taken up the offer, apparently. I guess the others want to keep it as a souvenir, or put it on the mantelpiece and laugh at it, or something.
I’m flicking through an editorial about him in today’s Mail when my phone bleeps with a text: Hi I’m outside. Ed.
This is one of the many good things about Ed. He’s never late. Happily, I grab my bag, bang the flat door shut, and head down the stairs. Kate and I are moving in to our new office today, and Ed’s promised to come and see it on his way to work. As I arrive on the pavement, there he is, holding a massive bunch of red roses.
“For the office,” he says, presenting them to me with a kiss.
“Thanks!” I beam. “Everyone will be staring at me on the tube.” I stop in surprise as Ed puts a hand on my arm.
“I thought we could take my car today,” he says conversationally.
“Your car?”
“Uh-huh.” He nods at a smart black Aston Martin parked nearby.
“That’s yours?” I goggle at it in disbelief. “But… but… how?”
“Bought it. You know, car showroom… credit card… usual process… Thought I’d better buy British,” he adds with a wry smile.
He bought an Aston Martin? Just like that?
“But you’ve never driven on the left.” I feel a sudden alarm. “Have you been driving that thing?”
“Relax. I took the test last week. Boy, you have a fucked-up system.”
“No we don’t,” I begin automatically.
“Stick shifts are the work of the devil. And don’t even get me started on your right turn rules.”
I can’t believe this. He’s kept this totally quiet. He never mentioned cars, or driving… or anything.
“But… why?” I can’t help blurting out.
“Someone told me once,” he says thoughtfully, “if you’re going to live in a country, for however long, you should engage with it. And what better way to engage than learning how to drive in that country? Now, you want a ride or not?”
He opens the door with a gallant gesture. Still flabbergasted, I slide into the passenger seat. This is a seriously smart car. In fact, I don’t dare put my roses down in case they scratch the leather.
“I learned all the British curses too,” Ed adds as he pulls out into the road. “Get a move on, you nobhead!” He puts on a Cockney accent, and I can’t help giggling.
“Very good.” I nod. “What about ‘That’s right out of order, you wanker!’”
“I was told ‘Bang out of order, you wanker,’” says Ed. “Was I misinformed?”
“No, that’s OK too. But you need to work on the accent.” I watch as he changes gear efficiently and cruises past a red bus. “But I don’t understand. This is a really expensive car. What will you do with it when-” I stop myself before I can say any more, and cough feebly.
“What?” Ed may be driving, but he’s as alert as ever.
“Nothing.” I lower my chin until my face is practically nestling in the rose bouquet. “Nothing.”
I was going to say, “when you go back to the States.” But that’s something we just don’t talk about.
There’s silence-then Ed shoots me a cryptic look. “Who knows what I’ll do?”
The tour of the office doesn’t take that long. In fact, we’re pretty much done by 9:05 a.m. Ed looks at everything twice and says it’s all great, and gives me a list of contacts who might be helpful, then has to leave for his own office. And then, about an hour later, just as I’m elbow deep in rose stems and water and a hastily bought vase, Mum and Dad arrive, also bearing flowers, and a bottle of champagne, and a new box of paper clips, which is Dad’s little joke.
And even though I’ve only just showed the place to Ed, and even though it’s just a room with a window and a pin board and two doors and two desks… I can’t help feeling a buzz as I lead them around. It’s mine. My space. My company.
“It’s very smart.” Mum peers out of the window. “But, darling, are you sure you can afford it? Wouldn’t you have been better off staying with Natalie?”
Honestly. How many times do you have to explain to your parents that your former best friend is an obnoxious, unscrupulous total liability for them to believe you?
“I’m better off on my own, Mum, honestly. Look, this is my business plan…”
I hand them the document, which is bound and numbered and looks so smart I can hardly believe I put it together. Every time I read it I feel a fierce thrill, mixed with yearning. If I make a success of Magic Search, my life will be complete.
I said that to Sadie this morning as we were reading yet more articles about her in the paper. She was silent for a moment, then to my surprise she stood up with a weird light in her eye and said, “I’m your guardian angel! I should make it a success.” And then she disappeared. So I have a sneaky feeling she’s up to something. As long as it doesn’t involve any more blind dates.
“Very impressive!” says Dad, flipping through the plan.
“I got some advice from Ed,” I confess. “He’s been really helpful with all the Uncle Bill stuff too. He helped me do that statement. And he was the one who said we should hire a publicist to manage the press. Did you see the Mail piece today, by the way?”
“Ah, yes,” says Dad faintly, exchanging looks with Mum. “We did.”
To say my parents are gobsmacked by everything that’s happened recently would be an understatement. I’ve never seen them so poleaxed as I when I rocked up at the front door, told them Uncle Bill wanted to have a word, turned back to the limo, and said, “OK, in you go,” with a jerk of my thumb. And Uncle Bill got out of the car silently, with a set jaw, and did everything I said.
Neither of my parents could manage a word. It was as though sau
sages had suddenly started growing out of my head. Even after Uncle Bill had gone and I said, “Any questions?” they didn’t speak. They just sat on the sofa, staring at me in a kind of stupefied awe. Even now, when they’ve thawed a little and the whole story is out and it’s not such a shock anymore, they still keep darting me looks of awe.
Well. Why shouldn’t they? I have been pretty awesome, though I say so myself. I masterminded the whole press exposé, together with Ed’s help, and it’s gone perfectly. At least, perfectly from my point of view. Maybe not from Uncle Bill’s point of view. Or Aunt Trudy’s. The day the story broke, she flew to a spa in Arizona and checked in indefinitely. God knows if we’ll ever see her again.
Diamanté, on the other hand, has totally cashed in on it. She’s already done a photoshoot for Tatler with a mock-up of Sadie’s painting, and she’s using the whole story to publicize her fashion label. Which is really, really tacky. And also quite smart. I can’t help admiring her chutzpah. I mean, it’s not her fault her dad is such a tosser, is it?
I secretly wish Diamanté and Great-Aunt Sadie could meet. I think they’d get on. They’ve got a lot in common, even though they’d each probably be horrified at that idea.
“Lara.” I look up to see Dad approaching me. He looks awkward and keeps glancing at Mum. “We wanted to talk to you about Great-Aunt Sadie’s…” He coughs.
“What?”
“Funeral,” says Mum, in her “discreet” voice.
“Exactly.” Dad nods. “It’s something we’ve been meaning to bring up. Obviously once the police were sure she hadn’t been…”
“Murdered,” puts in Mum.
“Quite. Once the file was closed, the police released her… that’s to say…”
“Remains,” says Mum in a whisper.
“You haven’t done it yet.” I feel a bolt of panic. “Please tell me you haven’t had her funeral.”
“No, no! It was provisionally set for this Friday. We were planning to tell you at some stage…” He trails off evasively.
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