The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp

by Sarra Manning

  ‘The Royal Doulton dinner service went to a cruel-looking lottery winner. He’s been in all the papers,’ she reported when Amelia met her for coffee in a Starbucks around the corner from the auction house. ‘He also bought all your mother’s furs.’

  ‘The good thing is that no one really needs to wear fur,’ Amelia pointed out because she was trying so hard to find some good in this far-from-good, left-good-several-months-ago-with-no-hope-of-returning situation. ‘What with global warming.’ She peered at Mrs Blenkinsop. ‘You know, those look a lot like the earrings Daddy got Mummy for her fortieth birthday.’

  ‘Do they?’ Mrs Blenkinsop touched the three strings of what looked like diamonds dangling from her left ear. ‘They’re from Elizabeth Duke at Argos. I couldn’t afford your mother’s jewellery. Despite what the accountant said. Implying that I’d been skimming off the housekeeping for years. The cheek!’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Amelia said quickly, because it was so nice to have someone to sit and drink coffee with, even if it were Mrs Blenkinsop. All her other friends had dropped her like she was made of radioactive waste. Some of her former Big Brother housemates had given interviews to the papers where they’d said some very unkind, very untrue things about her and when Amelia had tried to defend herself on Twitter, it had all got rather ugly. Then it had transpired that Durham University had some of its pension fund invested with Sedley’s Bank, so it was suggested in the strongest possible terms that she didn’t return, even though she was due to sit her finals in a few weeks.

  And George? Amelia hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him, though it wasn’t his fault. Campaigning to become an MP must have taken up an awful lot of his time and Dobbin had come round and said that he was there on George’s behalf.

  ‘He wants to see you, Emmy,’ he’d explained, sitting on one of the uncomfortable hardback chairs, which were one of the few things they’d been allowed to keep, his long legs tucked awkwardly beneath him. ‘But it’s a very delicate time for George. What with the by-election looming.’

  ‘Oh, I absolutely understand,’ Amelia had said, because she did. Sort of. Although she personally hadn’t made any bad investments and it wasn’t as if Daddy had made the bad investments on purpose.

  ‘I knew you would because you have such a kind, sweet heart,’ Dobbin had said and his ears had turned as red as Amelia’s cheeks (it was rather nice to know someone who had the same maddening, reddening complexion). ‘Anyway, George would want you to know that you’re constantly in his thoughts but he can’t do anything, can’t be seen to, er, have associations with … with …’

  ‘Me and my family,’ Amelia supplied sadly. ‘Because people are very, very angry about that nasty business with the pensions, and some of those people live in the constituency where George is hoping to become MP.’

  ‘Well, that’s about the long and the short of it.’ Dobbin had gulped nervously, grateful that Amelia had voiced the words that he couldn’t quite spit out himself. ‘But he is thinking of you and I’m sure when everything has settled, he’ll reach out to you.’

  Everything was settled now, though. George had been elected as the new MP for Squashmore with a very comfortable majority and yet he still hadn’t ‘reached out’ to Amelia.

  In fact, the only other person from her old life who had been in touch had been Becky who’d sent Amelia a text as soon as the news had broken. It had been quite a strange text and she hadn’t heard a word from Becky since, but then she knew Becky was very busy too. Busy being married to the man she loved, who loved her back, and as well as being in the papers all the time, Becky was using her powers for good and was fronting an anti-bullying campaign and …

  ‘… that girl, Becky Sharp? Emmy! Are you listening to me? You and your family never listened to me, just treated me like I was a piece of furniture.’

  Amelia turned her attention back to Mrs Blenkinsop. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just with everything that’s happened, I’m all over the place. You were saying something about Becky?’

  ‘She was there at the auction.’ Mrs Blenkinsop leaned closer so the earrings, which really did look remarkably like the ones Mrs Sedley used to have, twinkled in the overhead lights. ‘With that film-star husband of hers. They bought your old bedroom set.’

  ‘Oh, did they?’ The pain was swift and immediate and it burned like acid. Becky had loved that bedroom set.

  ‘You are lucky, Emmy,’ she’d said, as she’d stroked a hand over the carved wooden headboard, which had been painted cream and padded with the most extravagant dusky-blue velvet, like something from a French chateau. ‘When I was fifteen, I don’t think anyone even knew it was my birthday.’

  Amelia swallowed the pain away. It was only fitting that Becky should have it and knowing Becky, she probably thought that in some small way she was helping out by buying some of their possessions. But it was all so awkward and embarrassing: it wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t been in touch.

  ‘I’m actually glad that something I loved has gone to someone I love,’ she said to Mrs Blenkinsop, who looked disappointed that her news had been received so calmly. Then she cackled.

  ‘If you say so, love.’ Then she stared down at her phone. ‘I made a list. What else?’

  ‘My horse. Pianoforte?’ Amelia asked hopefully, though she almost couldn’t bear to know what had happened to her dear old four-legged friend – if he’d been bought by a cruel-looking lottery winner too, then she wouldn’t know what to do with herself.

  ‘Withdrawn from sale due to ill health.’ Mrs Blenkinsop’s face softened and she tried to discreetly arrange her hair to cover the diamonds dangling from her ears. ‘Sorry, Emmy.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Amelia tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. ‘He is twenty and I suppose that’s quite old for a horse.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll put him out to grass and he’ll have a nice, gentle retirement?’

  ‘Yes, maybe …’ Amelia agreed and never before had her smile been so forced. ‘All the oats he can eat and lots of scritches behind his ears. He loves scritches. I’m sorry, Blenky, I have to go now. Just remembered an urgent appointment.’

  Amelia’s throat was tight and her nose prickled as she scraped her chair back as if she really did have to be somewhere else: the truth was, she had no urgent appointments these days. There was no one who was that desperate to see her. With a feeble waggle of her fingers she said goodbye to her old housekeeper and rushed out of Starbucks to hit the street just as the first sob tore its way out of her throat.

  Although she used to cry all the time, these past few months, Amelia had been resolutely dry-eyed. She liked to think that this was because she had inner reserves that she’d never noticed before. She’d even taken the Eleanor Roosevelt quote, ‘A woman is like a teabag. You don’t know how strong she is until you put her in hot water’, and adopted it as her own personal mantra.

  But now she wasn’t dry-eyed or strong but weeping, really noisily and with so much snot, on a street in broad daylight in the middle of the lunchtime rush while people hurried past or tutted loudly because she was blocking their way.

  She started walking, her progress hampered by the fact that she was blinded by tears, until in the end she sank down on a bench with her head in her hands so she could cry it out. Grieve for her old life because yes, she had liked being rich and being able to have whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it. Had loved living in a lovely house surrounded by lovely things, and though Daddy worked hard and Mummy stressed out about what the women at her tennis club would think of each new major purchase, they were what Amelia knew now to be First-World problems.

  Home was now a horrid little ex-council house Jos had bought then in Burnt Oak, which was right at the northern end of the Northern Line. He’d wanted to buy them somewhere much nicer but the lawyers said that if they were seen living somewhere nice, people would get angry. Even angrier than they already were, which was really quite awfully angry. So the poky little house that sm
elt of damp and the hostile neighbours (who all looked down on the Sedleys for being a bunch of wrong ’uns in much the same way that their neighbours in Kensington used to look down on them for being new money) would have to do.

  Everything was awful. And though Amelia tried to tell herself that it could be worse – that she or Mummy and Daddy might have some dreadful incurable disease or live in the actual Third World – it was small comfort right now, so she carried on crying, until the homeless man she happened to be sharing the bench with felt moved enough to offer her a sip from his can of Tennent’s Extra. And well, she didn’t want to offend him by refusing, and hopefully the alcohol would sterilise any germs.

  SEDLEY GIRL ON SUICIDE WATCH!!!

  Big Brother’s Amelia in booze and breakdown hell!!!

  Friends and family of Amelia Sedley, Big Brother winner and daughter of disgraced banker, Charles Sedley, spoke of their concern for the 23-year-old, after seeing our shocking photos taken yesterday afternoon.

  Passers-by were stunned to see the former socialite staggering about in broad daylight, weeping in public, than sharing a can of lager with a homeless friend of hers.

  ‘It was clear that she had both mental-health and substance-abuse issues,’ said office worker Natalie Slingstone, who recognised last year’s Big Brother winner immediately.

  It has been quite a comedown for golden girl Amelia, who used to live in a £15 million mansion in Kensington and had several exotic holidays a year. Now she and her family are living in a house on a run-down council estate in north London and have seen the trappings of their extravagant lifestyle auctioned off to pay their creditors.

  Friends of the ex-reality star are concerned that she’s heading for a complete mental breakdown. ‘Poor Emmy has always been a fragile soul,’ said Rebecca Sharp, 21, beautiful wife of Hollywood heart-throb Rawdon Crawley. ‘I’m very worried that this will send her over the edge. I’d love to see her do some volunteer work with On The Streets, the homeless charity I work with, so she can see that there are people who really do have nothing.’

  When we approached Amelia for a comment, lawyers acting for the Sedleys issued a statement saying that this was a family matter and asked for privacy at such a difficult time.

  VOTE IN OUR POLL

  Do you feel sorry for Amelia Sedley?

  Yes? Text 18101

  No? Text 18102

  Chapter 22

  ‘Poor Emmy,’ George Wylie said when William Dobbin slapped a copy of The Globe down on his desk in his office in the Houses of Parliament. ‘But, Dobs, do you really think she’s become one of those awful people who sit on park benches in the middle of the day, swigging cheap lager?’

  It was a small desk in a small office that George shared with another newly minted MP, but everyone had to start somewhere. He was already sniffing around for a couple of select committees that might need a man of his calibre, and the PM’s speechwriter, whose younger brother had been at Eton with George, had offered to help him with his maiden speech. George didn’t envisage having to share office space for long, particularly not with a lower-middle-class, middle-aged woman from Essex who’d spent years working her way up through local politics before she was finally selected as a candidate.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Dobbin bit out and he wanted to say something cutting about how MPs sat in the House of Commons bars in the middle of the day drinking alcohol that was heavily subsidised by the tax-paying public, but he managed to restrain himself. ‘You know how the press makes things up. They doctor photos, that sort of thing.’

  ‘True. They said I was chair of the Oxford Debating Society when everyone knows that to be chair of the Debating Society isn’t anything that one would aspire to.’ He allowed himself a small, congratulatory smile. ‘Though I did excel in more than a couple of debates.’

  ‘George!’ Dobbin slammed the paper down again. ‘What about Emmy? I said that you’d reach out to her once the dust has settled.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’d say that,’ George muttered and it might have been because the office was small and Dobbin was very large and he did tend to loom, but George felt uncomfortably hot, so much so that he even had to loosen his tie. ‘What Charles did … well, it’s not the sort of thing that will ever settle, is it? Doesn’t look good for anyone associated with him either. The whiff of impropriety and all that.’

  ‘But it’s Emmy,’ Dobbin said through gritted teeth. He rather wished himself back in Helmand Province having to clear out Taliban insurgents from rugged terrain liberally set with landmines, than wrestle with the perhaps-non-existent conscience of one of his oldest, and at this moment, undearest friends. ‘Poor, lovely Emmy.’

  George sat up straighter. ‘Did you just call her lovely?’

  Dobbin put a hand to each of his burning cheeks. ‘Little. I said “Poor, little Emmy.” George, she’s living in a shoebox in Burnt Oak. Luckily Jos has come through for them, though the Official Receiver is being very sniffy about how much he’s allowed to contribute, but Emmy gets laughed out of every job she interviews for and she doesn’t qualify for benefits.’

  Finally, Dobbin had George’s attention. ‘Emmy, get a job? Are things really that bad?’ He glanced around the cluttered office then leaned in closer. ‘Surely Charles has a few mill tucked away in an off-shore account or two?’

  ‘He declared everything,’ Dobbin said.

  ‘Well, more fool him.’ George picked up the paper and peered at the girl who adored him without rhyme or reason. She’d been caught mid-sob. Amelia had never been a pretty crier but apart from that, misery and destitution rather agreed with her. She’d lost an awful lot of weight. Had quite the figure now, George thought as he looked at Amelia’s legs, clad in shorts and trainers. Not a patch on the legs of Becky Sharp, but still, nice legs. And though Charles’s fall from grace had been very unfortunate, especially as George had hoped to rely on him for further contributions, at least he wouldn’t be beholden to him any more and Emmy would be very grateful if … ‘I wonder what the results of this poll are?’

  ‘You what?’ Dobbin grunted as George slammed the paper back at him.

  ‘This poll asking the public if they feel sorry for Amelia? God, where’s a junior researcher when you need one? I’ll do it myself,’ George said, looking up the newspaper website on his phone to discover that, as he suspected, the tide was turning: 52 per cent of the readership felt sorry for Amelia. Which wasn’t a clear majority but what was good enough for a hard Brexit was surely good enough in this case. ‘You’re right, Dobbin. Poor Emmy. And I am elected now, aren’t I? It’s not as if they can suddenly unelect me for getting in touch with an old friend?’

  Just when Dobbin wondered why he was still friends with George Wylie, George always managed to surprise him by doing the right thing.

  ‘So, you’ll reach out to her?’ he clarified.

  George groaned. ‘Don’t use that awful expression “reach out”, Dobs. You really do spend too much time hanging out with the lower orders. But yes, I’ll get in touch with Emmy. I’ll arrange to see her. Not in Burnt Oak though.’ George wasn’t sure exactly where Burnt Oak was but he had a strong suspicion that he wouldn’t like it very much. ‘I’ll call her, take her out to dinner maybe.’

  ‘Good man,’ Dobbin said, clapping George enthusiastically on the shoulder and earning himself a furious look.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again. You nearly punctured my lung. I hope you’re more gentle with any terrorists that you round up.’

  In that moment, Dobbin didn’t know whether he wanted to hug or punch his oldest friend. As usual, he decided that it was probably a combination of both. Of course, what he really wanted was to hug Amelia, to take her away from Burnt Oak, to make all her problems disappear and give her the life she deserved. But Amelia didn’t want that from Dobbin. She loved George and always would, so Dobbin would give her George instead. That was how much he loved her.

  *

  For weeks, months, all Amelia had wanted was s
ome small sign to show that, no matter how far she’d fallen, George would be there to catch her.

  But it turned out that signs from George Wylie were like buses, a mode of transport which Amelia had become very familiar with. You waited and waited and waited and then two came along at once.

  It was a hot, sticky, late-summer afternoon and Amelia couldn’t even sit in the concreted patch of yard that she tried to pretend was a back garden. Mrs Bawler next door, who’d come round on the Sedleys’ first day in their new house to say, ‘Your sort aren’t welcome here,’ would stare angrily at Amelia from her bedroom window and elderly Mr Binny on the other side was a staunch member of the Revolutionary Communist Party and liked to lecture Amelia over the fence about the dangers of capitalism.

  So, she’d been sweltering indoors, without even a fan on, because it simply ate through the money in the electricity meter. Mummy was upstairs with one of her heads, Daddy was in town for yet another meeting with his lawyers and Amelia was going through job ads in the local free sheet when her phone rang.

  The only people who ever seemed to ring her were journalists, especially after the silly story in The Globe, where they’d made it seem as if she was one can of super-strong lager away from suicide. She steeled herself not to answer it – who knew that the day would ever come when Amelia Sedley could ignore her ringing phone? – but then she looked down and saw George’s number and his lovely face flashing on the screen.

  She answered in an instant. ‘Oh, George,’ she murmured brokenly and through sheer force of will, managed not to burst into tears.