It was left to Jos, bringing up the rear, to make the introductions.
‘George, this is Emmy’s friend – lovely girl, staying with us – lucky us!’ he stuttered, his face turning as red as his sister’s.
‘Does this lovely girl have a name?’ George said, his coolness turning chilly, because he knew exactly who Becky was from all the times when he absolutely did not watch Big Brother while he was waiting for News at Ten to start.
Amelia swallowed the last morsel of dead cow and bread, almost choking in her haste to be done with it and then, in an act of great daring, placed her hand on George’s arm. Her hand was as hot as her face, and as it rested there uncertainly on the white cotton of his Huntsman of Savile Row bespoke shirt, his left eyebrow quirked almost imperceptibly. Unless you were watching him as intently as Becky was.
‘George, this is Becky. I do hope you two are going to be friends. And Becky, this is George.’
Their eyes met, green clashing with black. ‘Darling Emmy has told me so much about you,’ Becky said sweetly, pulling her hand back as soon as she could: there was something quite reptilian about George’s touch, the cool disregard on his face, as if he didn’t like being in such close proximity to the lower orders.
‘I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you,’ George said flatly.
There was something about her that he didn’t trust; a knowing look in her eyes before she cast them down, a pretty smile that was a millimetre away from a smirk. It was as if the fox had disguised himself as a chicken to trick his way into the henhouse. She was clearly going to be a bad influence on his Emmy if she wasn’t quickly despatched back to whatever council estate she’d come from.
‘Oh, there isn’t much to tell,’ Becky said and then in one graceful movement, George was presented with the sleek line of her spine, her skin milk-bottle white against the black of her dress, as she curved herself into the considerable bulk of Jos Sedley. ‘Is there, Jos?’
Jos’s face lit up as though all his Christmases and birthdays, and even Easter and the day every month when his trust fund was paid into his Drummonds bank account, had come at once.
‘No, there isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘No, I mean, there is! I’m sure you could tell me lots of things.’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t,’ Becky said as she snuggled closer to Jos as if the temperature on the terrace on a balmy August night wasn’t positively roasting. ‘I haven’t done anything, been anywhere. Not like you!’
‘It’s so lovely to see you, George,’ Amelia said a little desperately, because he had eyes only for Becky, as she quizzed Jos about bench pressing, though surely Becky had already asked him all about that when they’d sat side by side on the loveseat back in the Sedleys’ drawing room. ‘It feels like ages since we were in the same room.’
George turned to her. ‘Though we’re not actually in the same room now. We’re on a terrace, looking up at the stars.’
Becky was forgotten. When George smiled at her like that, so that even his coal-dark eyes warmed, it was hard for Amelia to remember her own name.
‘Mummy had planned to do a marquee in the back garden.’ She giggled. ‘But then she realised that all the marquees were too big and would play havoc with her herbaceous borders. She was very cross about it.’
‘And I’m very cross with you,’ George said, though he still had that lovely smile, which completely transformed his face. He was still handsome, but now he looked kind and caring too, even as he pretended to cuff Amelia’s chin. ‘That awful show, Emmy. And that even more awful personal trainer who you let paw you.’
‘He hardly pawed me!’ Amelia protested. The turn the conversation had taken was thrilling: George was jealous! ‘Gav …’
‘Gav!’ George all but moaned the name as if it caused him great pain. ‘Emmy, you cried over some cretin called Gav.’
‘So, you watched the show, then?’ Amelia asked, her every nerve alight at this paltry show of attention. If it were possible to die from being thrilled, then they’d have to carry her home in a coffin.
‘Never!’ George smiled loftily. ‘Though I might have caught a few seconds every now and again. Enough to know that some horrible oik called Gav made you cry. I don’t believe he was in the Marines either. Dobbin said he’s going to check and see if he can be court-martialled.’
‘Oh, is Dobbin here?’ Amelia looked around for George’s best friend, who’d gone straight from Oxford into Her Majesty’s Royal Regiment and had already been promoted to captain. He was an absolute darling. Not a patch on her absolute absolute darling George, but still.
‘No, he’s at some dreary regimental dinner. You’ll see him soon enough,’ George said dismissively, because when Dobbin wasn’t on active duty and in some war-torn hellhole in danger of being blown to smithereens, George wasn’t exactly sure what Dobbin did. ‘Honestly, Emmy, it’s been five minutes and all we’ve talked about is Dobbin and Gav the Chav. Any more men you want to taunt me with?’
‘Oh, no!’ Amelia put a hand to her heart at the very suggestion, her face as round and as red as an autumn apple. ‘I wasn’t taunting.’ She seized every last atom of courage she possessed. ‘I have missed you, George.’
George sighed to himself. Hopefully, once she’d done with university and a few more unsuitable men like Gav, Amelia would toughen up a bit. She was a sweet girl but you got sick of sweet after a while; started to crave something tart, acidic …
Amelia plucked at George’s sleeve again, her expression pleading. ‘Have you missed me too? Even a little bit?’
George patted Amelia’s hand and gently removed it from his arm. ‘Of course I have,’ he said, but his smile wasn’t as warm as it had been and his eyes were fixed on a point across the terrace. ‘Come on. We should really go and rescue poor Jos before your friend Rebecca eats him alive.’
‘She’s not like that and her name’s Becky,’ Amelia insisted, but she didn’t protest too much because then George’s arm was around her waist (she sucked in her butterfly-filled stomach) and he was steering her over to where Becky was daring Jos to eat a mini doughnut, even though everyone knew perfectly well that he hadn’t eaten a carb in five years.
Chapter 6
While Amelia and Becky’s former housemates made the most of what time they had left to get paid for nightclub appearances and sponsored posts on Instagram, the odd appearance in the tabloids and a few kiss-and-tell-everything stories, the Sedleys had decided that enough was enough.
Despite her desperate pleas, Rhoda, Amelia’s publicist, was dismissed because, while Big Brother had been an amusing diversion, Mrs Sedley was still being ostracised at the tennis club and Mr Sedley had had to fire one of his underlings at the bank when he discovered a picture of his darling Emmy in a bikini as the man’s screensaver.
Amelia couldn’t hide her relief that she no longer had to stammer her way through any more exclusive interviews. Instead she could go back to her normal life of beauty treatments and shopping and coffee dates and lunch dates, all the while complaining that she’d hardly had a holiday this summer at all, what with being in Niger then in the Big Brother house, and having to go back to university in a few short weeks.
Becky was less relieved. She’d been hoping that Rhoda might overlook the fact that she was already signed with Babs Pinkerton and find her some lucrative media opportunities. But now Rhoda wasn’t returning Becky’s calls and Becky’s position in the Sedley household was starting to feel quite precarious.
Mrs Sedley had even asked via Mrs Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, what Becky’s plans were and just how much longer she intended to stay. But Becky had learned from Jemima Pinkerton that to be rude to the help was unforgivable, and Mrs Blenkinsop was not Mrs Sedley’s biggest fan anyway (she micro-managed Mrs Blenkinsop beyond all measure and insisted she use a solution of white-wine vinegar and baking soda to clean everything when Cillit Bang did the job much better). So she and Becky were already firm friends and when Mrs Blenkinsop said that Mrs Sedley wanted her g
one, Becky had burst into pitiful, anguished tears.
Mrs Blenkinsop had marched downstairs, shot Mrs Sedley (who, for all the micro-managing, was secretly more terrified of Mrs Blenkinsop than she was of any of the women at the tennis club) a black look and then taken out her fury on the Miele vacuum cleaner and Mrs Sedley’s new floors.
Nothing more was asked about Becky’s future plans, but Becky knew that she needed a plan B, and fast. Once Amelia had resumed her studies at Durham University, it would leave Becky without a friend in all the world and with nothing in the way of an income – when she’d phoned Babs Pinkerton to ask for her cut from the sale of Jemima’s bungalow, Babs had just laughed and hung up. Becky was left with no choice but to make hay, and other things, while the sun still shone.
So, while Amelia was still in bed, Becky spent her mornings in Kensington Gardens with Jos Sedley. He had been planning to go back to LA and his protein balls weeks before, but if he’d done that, then he wouldn’t have been able to devise a fitness programme for Becky.
‘But you’re perfect,’ he gasped when Becky had descended the stairs on that first morning in the Lululemon workout gear he’d bought for Amelia, which his sister couldn’t squeeze into. ‘You are fit. I mean, you don’t need to get fit.’
‘But I’m not firm. Everything wobbles. Look!’ Becky had done a shimmy, which had made everything wobble, including Jos. Becky had looked down at her chest and shimmied again. ‘Particularly these.’
Jos had clung on to the banister for dear life. ‘I … I see what you mean.’
‘You naughty boy,’ Becky had purred in a low voice and Jos’s torture wasn’t over, because she turned around and stuck out her Lycra-encased bottom. ‘This jiggles too.’
‘Dear Lord …’
‘I bet the women in LA are firm,’ Becky had lamented, taking a step closer to Jos, who thought that he might be having a relapse back to his childhood asthma. ‘Taut. Supple.’
She was face to face with Jos now, who swallowed convulsively – was he in heaven or hell or some heady combination of both?
‘Feel my thighs, Jos,’ Becky had commanded and she’d taken his hand and placed it just above her left knee. ‘They’re so fleshy. Can you do something about it?’
‘Water!’ Jos choked. ‘We need water!’ And he’d snatched his hand away and hobbled in the direction of the kitchen as if he was in great pain.
He’d then devised a programme for her that involved a lot of squats and lunges while he stood behind her with a sports bag clutched to his groin. Then there were a lot of exercises that thrust her chest forward, by which time Jos was standing in front of her, and though she said that she should probably work on her triceps too, Jos said that it was best to concentrate on her glutes and her pectorals for now.
Afterwards he’d help her stretch in a secluded spot.
‘I can’t help but groan when you’re manhandling me, Jos. Especially when you have my legs hooked over your shoulders. It burns but it’s the good kind of burn, do you know what I mean?’
‘No pain, no gain, eh?’ Jos would say every time. He’d grown a lot more comfortable in Becky’s presence, though after her stretches, he could often hardly talk on their walk back to the house.
In the afternoons, Becky would spend time with Amelia and whichever combination of the M’s, usually Minty and Muffin, she’d made plans with. Usually they’d have a mani/pedi or a facial, maybe even a stress-busting massage at the fancy spa on Kensington Church Street where Amelia had an account.
Then it was out in the evenings. To dinner, then to a bar or club with some more M’s and their dreary, chinless, floppy-haired boyfriends.
‘We should ask Jos to come,’ Becky would say each evening as she and Amelia were getting ready to go out. ‘It’s so lovely to see the two of you becoming closer. I wish I had an elder brother.’
‘And it’s lovely to see the two of you becoming closer as well,’ Amelia would sigh and she’d insist that Jos should come with them, and the upshot of it was that Jos hadn’t been to a Crossfit session in weeks and he could now say whole sentences to Becky without breaking into a sweat and his face changing colour.
Amelia watched the courtship with barely concealed delight. Her Jos and her dear Becky, who might actually become a real sister.
Mr and Mrs Sedley could conceal their delight only too well. ‘Why is that girl still living with us?’ Mrs Sedley asked after they’d waved off their offspring and the ubiquitous Becky to deepest, darkest Fulham to celebrate the birthday of one of the M’s’ floppy-haired beaux. ‘Do you see the way she cosies up to Jos? I’d have her out of the house tomorrow but Mrs Blenkinsop says she’ll hand in her notice if I do and I don’t trust anyone else with my new floors.’
Mr Sedley glanced at his wife with exasperated fondness. How many sleepless nights had she had over those bloody floors? Which meant Mr Sedley had had many sleepless nights too, which wasn’t very helpful when he was dealing with so many figures. One decimal point in the wrong place or one extra nought subtracted when it should have been added and they’d be ruined.
He patted her hand. ‘That Becky will do as well as any other,’ he said mildly. ‘Let him marry who he likes.’
Mrs Sedley turned to him aghast. She could feel one of her heads coming on. ‘Who said anything about them getting married?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘We hardly know a thing about her!’ A muscle was spasming painfully between her eyebrows. ‘Although I do worry that he works so much and he’s never once had a girlfriend, but does it have to be her?’
‘She’s pretty enough,’ Mr Sedley said diffidently as if he’d never once caught his breath at the sight of Becky in her workout gear.
‘There’s something about her that I don’t like. She reminds me of a ginger cat we had when I was a girl,’ Mrs Sedley remembered with a shudder. ‘It would bring in these half-dead animals – mice, baby birds, that sort of thing – then toy with them for hours instead of putting them out of their misery.’
‘Maybe you should take one of your pills,’ Mr Sedley advised because his wife had turned a mottled red colour, which never boded well; such a pity that Emmy and Jos had inherited her high colouring. This conversation about Emmy’s little friend was getting tedious. ‘Jos is big enough and ugly enough to do as he pleases, and that’s the end of the matter.’ And then he stalked off in the direction of his study to have a glass of whisky and she went off to take a pill and have a lie down, and they were still at odds with each other the next day and Mrs Sedley couldn’t help but feel that Becky Sharp was to blame.
Chapter 7
‘I have that horrible back-to-school feeling,’ Amelia said with a sigh. Mid September had rolled around all too soon, and Amelia was about to return to Durham.
No wonder Becky felt as if something were about to change. Something big and monumental.
She stared down at the third finger on her left hand and wondered how it would bear up under the weight of a huge rock.
Jos wasn’t at all subtle so he’d probably go for something that was at least ten carats. Becky had never thought about getting married and she was only twenty and who got married at only twenty, unless they were dull religious types? But Becky needed a plan B and Jos had his successful protein balls and his huge trust fund, and embracing the LA lifestyle wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. If she stuck it out for a little while then she could have at least half his balls in the divorce settlement.
‘Don’t you think, Becky?’
Becky blinked at Amelia as she was torn away from her little fantasy of a big house in the Hollywood Hills with its own swimming pool. She’d hardly ever gone to school so she’d never really known the Sunday-evening gloom of finishing homework that had been left to the last minute, then bath and an early night. Her childhood gloom had lasted for years and encompassed far more than a little angst about a half-finished essay on the Spanish Armada.
‘Actually, I have quite a good feeling about the future,’ Becky insisted to Amelia�
��s reflection as her friend put the last touches to her make-up. ‘New beginnings, new adventures, and all that. By the way, I’d go easy on that blusher if I were you, Emmy. You’re so lucky having naturally rosy cheeks. I wish I did. I’ll just have to settle for being pale and interesting, I guess.’
Amelia cast aside her blusher as if it had scalded her and started dabbing at her face with powder instead.
‘I think you look beautiful, Becky,’ she said a little enviously. Becky was wearing another one of her cast-offs, a gauzy grey little dress with tiny crystals sewn into it, which made Becky look like an ethereal wood nymph. When Amelia had worn it, she’d looked like a dumpy rain cloud.
‘You look lovely too,’ Becky said a little more perfunctorily than Amelia would have liked. She hadn’t been sure about her new dress; it was very pink and puffy, like a gigantic marshmallow, but Becky had persuaded her otherwise. ‘You look so sweet. Gorgeous George won’t know what to do with himself when he sees you. He’ll want to eat you up!’
‘I wish!’ Since her party, Amelia hadn’t seen George at all unless she was stalking him on all forms of social media, which wasn’t that rewarding. George was so focused on his political ambitions that he wouldn’t risk a careless meme or a whimsical picture of a sunset on Instagram.
Instead, he tended to tweet links to leader articles in the Daily Telegraph and Financial Times and it was hard for even the most besotted young woman to feign an enthusiasm about cuts to farm subsidies.
‘Honestly, Emmy, he’ll take one look at you in that dress and lure you away to some dark corner and ravish your poor, defenceless, young body,’ Becky said and she snatched up the pillow from Amelia’s bed and gathered it to her in a passionate embrace. ‘I’d put money on it!’
Amelia flushed with painful hope but unless George had undergone a personality transplant since their first meeting, the poofy marshmallow dress was hardly going to cut it.
The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp Page 5