‘Why not?’
Meg went upstairs to get changed, carefully hanging Violet’s dress up on the back of her bedroom door. When she came out into the garden, Harry was plonked on one of Sarah’s white cast iron chairs – those in a set of two, with a small round table.
‘So, how is Sarah?’ asked Harry, pushing his chair back from the table so he had room for a good old spread of his legs. ‘Generally.’
‘She’s fine,’ said Meg breezily. ‘Really well, in fact.’ She had no idea, of course – generally or otherwise – apart from the fact she could feel her sister’s cold shoulder all the way from London.
‘Great, good, I’m glad to hear it,’ said Harry. ‘We don’t speak a lot, these days – all correspondence is done via the kids.’ Well, he obviously hadn’t corresponded very well, noted Meg, pouring the wine into Harry’s glass, otherwise they might have been here when he turned up. ‘Why are you staying here?’ he asked.
‘We did a swap,’ said Meg simply. ‘I came for a break. Why are you here?’
‘Passing through. Meeting some serious buyers up Yarmouth way. Hoping to sell one of my large canvases – the Riviera series.’ He said that all proudly as though Meg should have the foggiest what it was.
‘Oh, right, right. Well, that’s interesting.’
Harry obviously took this as his cue to explain in great detail all the finer machinations of the art world and its workings, who his rivals were, what he was currently experimenting with – anchors, apparently – what radio station he liked to listen to while he worked and all about the different patina of … anchors. Meg suppressed a yawn. Blimey, Sarah was married to this guy! God, he was dull. From how he dressed, he looked like he was going to be great fun, but actually he was dull as all the rusty anchors he was banging on about. How did he ever find anyone to have an affair with? Meg wondered. A wood pigeon somewhere in a tree in the garden began to call repeatedly; she’d rather listen to that.
While he had talked, Harry had drunk the whole bottle of red wine. He jogged off to get another two bottles from his car – the cheeky sod had some there all the time – then he carried on talking at her.
‘You’re pretty,’ he eventually slurred, having given her a blow-by-blow account of how he painted sand, whilst he polished off the best part of bottle number two. Meg was now depressingly sober. ‘Getting on a bit now, of course, but damned attractive. Sarah was never pretty,’ he mused, stroking his chin, ‘but my word that woman had something in her day.’ Really? Meg had never thought of her sister as ‘having something’. To her, her sister had always been boring, almost asexual. The strict time keeper and curfew setter. The killjoy. ‘Shame I was such an arse. When we first met, I was like an oasis in the desert to her. She practically fell on me.’ He stretched backwards, nearly falling off his chair, then righted himself with a small chuckle. ‘Oops. Soz, as the young folks say.’
‘An oasis in the desert?’ echoed Meg. She knew, from a cousin, that Sarah had met Harry almost immediately after Meg had left for London. She knew when she had the twins. She knew – vaguely – about the affairs. That was about it.
‘Yes, darling. She’d just spent two years looking after you, remember? Poor girl was exhausted. I really was an idiot,’ he mused, tugging at his ridiculous, jaunty neckerchief. ‘She was always just so grateful …’
Meg frowned. ‘I don’t know why she would be … exhausted. I mean, I went out a lot,’ she said. ‘Got drunk … I suppose I was difficult to …’
‘Your sister’s got a big heart,’ Harry continued, ‘but even a big heart eventually runs out of room. I should know.’
Meg didn’t think she really liked being lectured by a man like Harry. And she had never really thought of her sister having a big heart. In her mind, her sister had just rocked up back home, with a grimace, and taken on the role of their mother; had tried to become her, but stricter and way less loving. It had been infuriating at the time. Now, of course, an older and wiser Meg knew it must have been an enormous sacrifice for Sarah, giving up her job and everything, and coming home – and Meg knew if she hadn’t been so proud and stubborn in the intervening years which had slipped away so fast, she may have contacted her sister to acknowledge that, somehow – but a big heart? Meg had never seen any evidence of it. Sarah had never opened up to Meg, had never comforted or shared any kind of grief with her; she had just been so robotic and so uptight about everything, all the time.
‘The pretty sister,’ mused Harry, his eyes getting more bloodshot by the second and his stubble getting all shiny above his top lip. ‘Still, we’re all getting on a bit, aren’t we? Edging towards the end of our lives, day by day. Though, I must say, Meggy, the more I drink, the prettier you look …’
‘I’m just going to get another glass of water,’ said Meg, getting up. ‘Do you want one?’
‘No thanks, darling.’
She was ready to call it a night now. God, Harry was awful. No wonder Sarah had kicked him out, eventually. Well, all the affairs must have clinched it. She must actually have had a very big and forgiving heart, indeed, to put up with him as long as she did. Meg popped into the kitchen for more water and thought about Sarah on the way there, and on the way back.
When she got back to the table, Harry rattled his fingers on it as though giving himself an impromptu drum roll and announced, incoherently, ‘I’m absolutely bladdered, old girl. Any chance I can lay my bones somewhere? I’m buggered if I can drive now.’
Meg nodded and she led him into the cottage and to the couch where he slumped like a tranquillized rhino and immediately passed out. She removed his shoes and placed them by the front door, ready for what she hoped would be a very swift departure in the morning. There would be no full English or suggestion of a shower. She would offer Harry black coffee and the way out.
Meg headed upstairs away from the rhino. Halfway up, she was surprised by a knock at the door.
‘Bugger!’ she said out loud. Had Connor forgotten his key? Had Olivia had a row with Jude and come home early? She padded back down the stairs and opened the door.
‘Hello, Meg.’
It was Jamie. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. She was so taken aback. She would have been less surprised had the bull from that field turned up. ‘What are you doing here?’ It was quite the succession of male visitors this evening, she noted to herself. Well, two.
Jamie looked freshly washed. He was in jeans, but dark, denim smart ones. He was in trainers, but they looked new. And his hair was all damp and curling round his ears. If he wasn’t an embedded bookmark in her bad books she would have found him extremely fanciable. He also had both hands shoved in his pockets and looked … nervous.
‘I was thinking about you,’ he said, yanking out one hand to run it through his damp hair.
‘Oh?’ Even though she was not at all happy to see him she reached behind to the back of her neck and gave her hair a bit of a plump.
‘Yes, erm, I wondered if you wanted to come out with me. Now. To the pub. If you’re not doing anything.’
Not the blessed pub again! ‘I don’t know,’ said Meg bluntly. She knew she was sounding ‘off’ with him but she didn’t care. ‘I’m quite tired. I was on my way to bed.’
It was Jamie’s turn to say ‘Oh.’ After all, it was only half past eight. He looked down at his shoes and noticed Harry’s, by the door. Meg was sure she saw him blanch a little. ‘Oh,’ he said again. ‘You have someone here.’
‘Yes,’ said Meg, seizing on this. She fluffed up her hair a little more so he’d think that yes, she did have somewhere here and that yes, she was, in fact, on her way upstairs to give him a jolly good seeing to. ‘I do have someone here.’
‘Right, OK.’ Jamie’s brown eyes looked back up at her, then he looked away. ‘Well, sorry for bothering you.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘I’ll go.’
‘OK,’ said Meg brightly and she shut the door on him.
Chapter Twelve
Sarah<
br />
‘The dynamic duo, back on the case again.’
Sarah met Dylan on the corner of Carnaby Street. He was in his usual uniform: scruffy desert boots, white shirt, the camera bag and, of course, the beaten-up brown suede jacket. Always the jacket.
‘Dynamic duo? Like Batman and Robin? I’d prefer to be Cagney and Lacey or something,’ Sarah said, as they fell into step.
‘Bonnie and Clyde?’ suggested Dylan.
‘Sonny and Cher?’ countered Sarah.
‘I’ll be Cher,’ quipped Dylan and Sarah laughed.
‘I’m not sure I can see you in the thigh-high leather boots and the feather headpiece,’ she said.
‘You’d be surprised.’
The streets were busy; the whole of London seemed to be out this morning, enjoying the very warm sunshine. Sarah enjoyed it too. She loved the way it glinted off tall buildings and bathed the stunning architecture of the capital in sparkling golden light. Sarah was still loving London life: Meg’s neat and stylish flat, the warmth and bustle of the city streets, the sounds and the smells and, most of all, her job. The last three weeks at House Events had been manic but thoroughly satisfying – Sarah had immersed herself in the role, kept her head, kept organized and come up with some genius ideas. She had even caught Michael giving her a pleased, fatherly glance, once or twice, in the morning meetings, and flattered herself he was thinking how glad he was to have hired her, and how well she’d settled back in. It felt wonderful, if she was honest. She may have had a very long hiatus, but she was back.
Felicity, too, had been the perfect assistant. A little annoying, granted, but she worked really hard, and Instagram Gate was long forgotten.
‘Remind me what this is all about today?’ said Dylan, as they walked. ‘Felicity did say when she called to book me, but I wasn’t really paying attention – I was reading Nietzsche and smoking a cigar at the time.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s a charity lunch hosted by Baroness Trott and the charity happens to be her.’
Dylan rolled his eyes and hoicked his camera bag further up his shoulder. ‘Tell me,’ he groaned.
‘The Baroness wants to make a movie of her life,’ explained Sarah, ‘and she’s crowd-funding it among her rich friends to raise the cash. Guests are being charged two hundred pounds a pop and are expected to spend oodles more at an auction so she can make her movie. The ultimate vanity project, I suppose,’ Sarah shrugged.
‘Christ, it must be quite some life!’ said Dylan. He looked highly amused. A smile was slowly curling at the corner of his delicious lips and Sarah was desperately trying to tell herself she didn’t fancy him.
‘Well, she certainly thinks it is!’
‘And they’re all just turning out for her and giving her all their money?’
‘Pretty much.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Although it has to be said most of the guests are scared witless of her – her husband, Bartholomew, owns London’s biggest gossip magazine.’
‘Not The Snatch?’
‘Yep. They’re worried if they don’t do as they’re told they’ll end up in it!’
‘Hilarious.’
‘I know! It will be a fantastic do though. And she’s been given the venue for free. Friends in high places and all that … Oh, how I missed London and this carry-on!’ she laughed.
‘Did you miss it?’ Dylan asked.
‘Yes, all those years in the country, bringing up my children, I missed the excitement of London – the noise, the colours, the craziness.’
‘I don’t mind the noise and the colours,’ said Dylan, ‘but sometimes the craziness gets me down.’
Sarah looked at him. She was about to ask him to expand when she realized they were already at the imposing stone steps of London City Library, in the centre of Mayfair.
‘Oh, we’re here!’
They both stared up at the impressive building. There was the purr of an engine and a long black limo swept up to the kerb behind them.
‘I have a vision of the Baroness already,’ mused Dylan, turning round. ‘Barbara Cartland meets Cruella de Vil.’
‘You’re not far off,’ replied Sarah.
A chauffeur appeared and opened the back door from which a foot emerged, encased in a polite patent shoe, then another, until a tiny fur ball topped with an enormous wobbling chestnut wig slid out of the car and onto the chauffeur’s waiting arm.
‘Darling, Sarah!’ the Baroness announced. ‘It’s wonderful to see you!’ She must be sweltering, thought Sarah, and that coat must weigh a ton. Stepping forward, her diamanté dinner plate earrings glittering in the sun, Baroness Trott engulfed Sarah in a diminutive fur hug and a choke of knock-out perfume. Sarah had seen a lot of the Baroness in the past weeks; she had survived seven – yes, seven – meetings in her over-warm and over-fragrant flat in Mayfair, each time balancing both a china cup of Lapsang Souchong and a couple of pug dogs on her lap, whilst every finer detail of today’s lunch was thrashed out to the nth degree.
‘How are you, Baroness?’ asked Sarah, over the top of her head, then, once she had been released, ‘This is Dylan Silva, the photographer for today.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said the Baroness, in a voice suddenly higher than her normal Thatcheresque tones. She held out her hand for Dylan to awkwardly kiss and fluttered her spidery eyelashes at him. ‘Handsome.’ She nodded in approval at Sarah – like it was anything to do with her. ‘A better view than my Barty, that’s for sure, and not half as much trouble, I bet,’ she added, slipping her furry arm through Dylan’s suede one. Another lady with an eye for Dylan, noted Sarah. They were all at it!
‘Pleased to meet you,’ rumbled Dylan. ‘I’m really looking forward to this event.’ There was quite the twinkle in his eye. Wasn’t she a unicorn-demanding diva though?
‘Make sure you get my best side, darling!’ the Baroness trilled, adding, ‘Shall we?’ and she allowed Dylan to escort her up the steps to the grand entrance of the library, whilst he grinned and looked like he was having the best time ever.
The lobby was enormous. Huge double doors automatically swept them in, lifting the hem of Sarah’s dress with a whoosh of air. She would never fail to be impressed by this place. London City Library was virtually brand new, although converted from one of London’s oldest ironworks, and had a highly modern interior which was all chrome and glass and white Perspex, with huge windows and suspended bookshelves. They would be whizzing straight up to the top floor via a steel and glass elevator in the centre of the lobby.
‘Magnificent,’ admired Dylan. Sarah held her breath as they glided past all five floors of the library, and tried to pretend she wasn’t in a lift by focusing on shelves that appeared to be hanging by gossamer threads, sleek white pillars and artwork whole storeys high.
The Baroness was still hanging on to Dylan’s arm. He wasn’t that good-looking, Sarah thought – well, he was, although Baroness Trott was also one of those women who would flirt with an empty gin bottle. She turned to Sarah.
‘I need to ask you a huge favour, darling,’ she said casually. ‘My MC, Cynthia Von Tulipson, has got laryngitis, and can’t make it today. Can you do the opening speech for me?’
‘Me?’ The lift came to a stop at the top floor, Sarah’s heart along with it.
‘Yes, you’ll be wonderful! It’s an absolute doddle – just read off the card!’ she pronounced. The lift doors opened, and they stepped out, Baroness Trott still clinging on to Dylan’s arm. Sarah hung back to let them out; she was horrified to be thrust to the helm of this event. The background was where she was most comfortable.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Dylan and Sarah plastered on a bright smile at the jaw-dropping sight of the room she had designed and masterminded. With panoramic views of the city skyline on all four sides, it looked amazing. There were round tables with pale-pink linen tablecloths; spectacular tall, beaten-copper vases with white blooms splaying out of their tops; gleaming candelabras and glassware. All presid
ed over by ten enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was truly stunning.
‘Perfect, isn’t it?’ gushed the Baroness. There would be a five-course lunch, oodles of pink champagne and a charity auction with luxury items donated by trendy local businesses. ‘Now do excuse me, you gorgeous man, as I spy a premature guest – my best friend, Sienna. She probably needs reassurance on her muff.’ A woman in a red trouser suit just visible at the far end of the empty room was beckoning the Baroness over with both a Royal Wave and what looked like a fluffy beaver on the end of one arm. The Baroness shrugged off her own fur appendage to reveal a black dress encrusted with pearls, handed the coat to Sarah, and bustled in the waving lady’s direction.
‘Her muff?’ queried Dylan.
‘God knows,’ said Sarah. ‘And what’s with all the faux fur on such a warm day?’
‘It’s all faux,’ said Dylan, looking around him at the splendour of the room. ‘The whole lot of it.’
Sarah was a little indignant. ‘You seem quite taken with the Baroness, actually,’ she said.
‘She’s got character,’ replied Dylan. ‘I like women with character.’ He looked straight at Sarah and she found herself blushing. ‘Wowsers, just look at that table full of booty!’ he declared suddenly, walking over to a large console table groaning with luxury goodies. ‘Auction prizes?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sarah, casting her eye over it to make sure everything was in order. ‘And every top bidder gets a mention in The Snatch. A nice one.’
She shrugged off her own (or rather, Meg’s) light summer coat. Underneath she was wearing another of Meg’s dresses – a skin-tight, bright red jersey dress with a V-neck and a little belt. Her new sexy shoes. As she tugged the hem of the skirt towards her knees, she felt Dylan’s gaze upon her again, taking her all in.
‘Blimey,’ he said, ‘you’ve scrubbed up again. You’re a different Sarah this time around.’
‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she quipped at him and then, because she couldn’t think of anything further to say that might be witty enough, continued, ‘Right, so, the Baroness wants standard society shots – there’s a special backdrop for it, over there, as guests come in …’ She pointed to a roped-off area to the right of the lift. ‘And some milling around, action shots – people roaring with laughter at the tables, clinking glasses, that sort of thing.’
The Sister Swap Page 14