‘Emmy, little Emmy, how the devil are you?’ George drawled as if the horrid, horrid months since he’d last spoken to her hadn’t happened and they were just picking up from where they’d left off.
‘I’m fine,’ Amelia said. ‘Well, not fine, not exactly. I’ve been better, but then I’ve been worse too.’
‘Well, let’s concentrate on the being better part,’ George said smoothly and actually, to have George be George, not smothering her with uncharacteristic kindness, but being as flippant as he ever was, felt very comforting. ‘It’s been an age since I last saw you,’ he added as if the terse email he’d sent, practically severing all ties, had never happened.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Amelia noted. ‘Congratulations on winning your seat, by the way.’
‘You sweet girl, always thinking of others before yourself. Now, let’s go out to celebrate my rise to power and we can drown your sorrows at the same time. Champagne I thought, unless you’d prefer Tennent’s Extra,’ he said with a laugh, and Amelia couldn’t believe that George was joking about that at a time like this, but she was laughing too.
Gosh, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. ‘I’d much rather have champagne,’ she said firmly. ‘And the story, it twisted everything. I’m not on suicide watch, not at all.’
‘Glad to hear it, because I’d rather miss you if you did top yourself,’ George murmured and then he made arrangements for dinner the next week, even said he’d send a car all the way to Burnt Oak, and asked if she would mind if they dined somewhere quiet and out of the way. ‘Obviously I don’t give a hoot what people think, but I’m in the public eye now, and all that rot.’
Amelia didn’t mind at all. She was floating on air as George said goodbye then she floated all the way to the front door when the doorbell rang, not even tensing in case it was another bailiff (who were awfully persistent even though all claims were meant to be going through the lawyers).
It wasn’t a bailiff or one of the neighbours popping round to tell Mr Sedley that he wanted shooting. It was a courier with an envelope addressed to Amelia, which she rashly signed for even though it was most probably a court summons or something equally ghastly.
It wasn’t though. It was something perfectly lovely. Three photos of a roan pony with a dark mane and tail and a roguish look in his eye, not looking the least bit like a horse that had been withdrawn from auction due to ill health. And there was a card too.
Dear Emmy,
Dictating this to you, as my hooves make it quite difficult to hold a pen or deal with a computer keyboard.
Rumours of my condition have been greatly exaggerated. I am quite well. A little tear in the cruciate ligament, which will heal quite nicely with rest and physio, but scuppered any chances of being sold to the highest bidder at auction.
Instead a very nice young man arranged for me to move to a riding school where I’ll be nursed back to health then earn my keep by being ridden by pony-mad youngsters. Apparently, I’ll get lots of hugs, all the apples I can eat and will never have to do anything more vigorous than a canter.
The best news is that my new digs are in Totteridge, which isn’t far from you. Being a horse, I’ve never taken a bus but I understand you can catch the 251 from the top of your road and it will take you door to door. That is, if you fancy hanging out with …
Your old friend
Pianoforte
Amelia had stopped floating in favour of crying. But they were happy tears. Rather than being sold to a cruel-looking lottery winner or sent off to the knacker’s yard, Pianoforte would have a lovely retirement just a bus ride away.
And it was George (so like him to mockingly describe himself as ‘a very nice young man’) who had made it happen, even going so far as to forge Pianoforte’s ‘signature’. Yes, he could be careless and selfish sometimes, but underneath it all, he was the kindest, most caring, most wonderful man that Amelia had ever met, and she couldn’t wait to show him how grateful she was.
Chapter 23
A year later
The sun beat down and the flags on the promenade fluttered gently in the Mediterranean breeze as Becky and Rawdon enjoyed a leisurely al fresco breakfast on the terrace of a fancy restaurant on the Croisette.
She’d have been perfectly happy to have her spinach-and-egg-white omelette and a revolting green juice on the yacht, where there was a team of handsome young men in tight white T-shirts and shorts all ready to satisfy her every wish, but Rawdon had put his foot down.
‘I want to see more of Cannes than one of the guest suites of a super yacht, then red carpet, photo call, champagne reception, repeat to fade,’ he’d complained as if those were all very terrible things to endure.
So, now they were eating a €50 breakfast, though neither of them were doing carbs, and Rawdon could rub shoulders with the common man and woman. Becky didn’t have the heart to point out that it was the common man and woman who had made his breakfast, served his coffee and would do the washing up afterwards.
So much had changed in a year. For one thing, the honeymoon was well and truly over. Rawdon had been shooting movies back to back and reacquiring all his bad habits, so it was just as well that Becky’s side-hustle as an Instagram influencer and spokesmodel was proving lucrative. She really couldn’t rely on Rawdon for anything much, but thank God, he finally had a new film coming out, so Becky’s red-carpet appearances and increased media profile would lead to even more endorsements and opportunities. A girl always had to have a plan B, after all.
‘Let’s go for a stroll,’ Rawdon said now, leaning over to take Becky’s hand. ‘See the real Cannes.’ Becky moved her hand away, apparently to adjust her enormous sunglasses, which didn’t prevent her from seeing the crestfallen look on her husband’s face.
As long as the real Cannes involved popping into the boutiques that Becky had seen on their walk from the yacht – Chanel, Prada, maybe Gucci –she was perfectly happy to spend an hour letting Rawdon buy things for her. ‘Then I have to start getting ready for tonight,’ she said, already thinking of the hairdresser, the make-up artist, the stylist with rails full of dresses, who would all be heading to the yacht to get Becky ready for yet another red-carpet appearance and yet another premiere and one more champagne reception. Perhaps Rawdon did have a point – it did get a little boring after a while. But Becky would much rather be bored in a designer dress with a glass of vintage champagne in her hand, surrounded by movie stars and millionaires, than how she used to be bored: standing on a freezing Soho street corner waiting for the convenience store to open at seven so she could charge up the meter key and buy a Pot Noodle with the money she’d scrounged up from going through Frank Sharp’s pockets while he’d passed out in a drunken stupor. Fun times.
‘It used to be a fishermen’s village,’ Rawdon was saying. ‘Maybe we could find some fishermen.’
Becky pushed up her sunglasses so her most withering look wouldn’t be wasted. ‘Why would we want to do that?’ Then her attention was caught by a curious sight. ‘At your three o’clock … oh, for fuck’s sake, do be discreet, Rawdy … is that … is that Jos Sedley?’
Rawdon swivelled around – he was getting worse and worse at taking direction – then stood up and waved. ‘Hey! Sedders! Over here!’
It was Jos Sedley, scuttling along the cobbles with that strange top-heavy gait of his. No other man on earth could be that particular shade of mahogany or quite that triangular. He was wearing white knee-length shorts and a tight, tight, white T-shirt as if no one had thought to tell him that that was what all the best-dressed super-yacht deckhands were wearing that season. Considering it had been nearly two years since Becky had last clapped eyes on him, he also had much more hair than he used to.
He waved back enthusiastically.
‘Oh God, now he’s coming over,’ Becky hissed, because Jos was scurrying towards them, a wide smile on his face to show off all that expensive Californian orthodontistry, which dimmed as he saw who his old school friend
was with.
‘Crawley,’ he managed to say in a strangulated voice. ‘Won’t disturb you.’
‘Don’t be a dick,’ Rawdon said, still standing up, so it wasn’t as if Becky could kick him under the table. ‘Join us. You know Becky, don’t you? Used to be friends with your sister.’
One of the most irritating and yet, at the same time, endearing qualities about Rawdon Crawley was his absolute inability to retain information. Learning lines was a nightmare, but it was very useful when it came to changing the narrative (he was surprised anew every time Becky’s Big Brother appearance reared its ugly head), and now he obviously couldn’t remember that ridiculous front-page story after Jos had humiliated Becky outside that stupid nightclub.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Jos muttered, eyes fixed on his feet, which were clad in an extraordinary pair of backless, sky-blue Gucci loafers. ‘Talking of my sister …’
Jos stepped aside and hiding behind his bulk was … ‘Emmy?’ Becky said, pushing up her sunglasses again to confirm that yes, there was Amelia Sedley beaming at her toothily and clutching the hand of … George Wylie.
‘Une autre table et trois chaises, s’il vous plaît,’ Rawdon was saying to the maître d’ in a perfect French accent, which always made Becky quiver a little (she was only human, after all), even though she was also absolutely furious with him right now. Not just for inviting Jos to join them – that was the very least of his crimes. Last night, so coked up to the eyeballs that he could barely stand, Rawdon had begged Becky not to ‘make such a fuss about it’ when the studio head who’d invited them to stay on the super-yacht had tried to do something unspeakable to her in the hot tub with a champagne bottle.
‘Come on, you’ll join us for breakfast.’
‘Bit late for breakfast,’ George pointed out. Unlike Jos, he was the perfect sartorial representation of an Englishman in the South of France. He was wearing a cream, summer-weight wool suit, a pink shirt and aviator shades, his usually pale skin toasted to an exquisite shade of light caramel, thanks to a distant ancestor from Martinique.
‘Brunch, then,’ Rawdon decided, pulling Amelia in for a hug, then a kiss on each cheek, while she tried (and failed) not to look thrilled. ‘Garçon! Champagne!’
Becky stood up, pasting on her best ‘delighted’ face.
‘Emmy!’ she said again, holding out her arms so Amelia had to awkwardly squeeze through the tiny gap between table and railing to be very lightly hugged by Becky and kissed on the cheek. Amelia went in for the second kiss but Becky was already sitting down. ‘It’s so good to see you. Come and sit next to me … there’s loads of room if you just breathe in and we can share the big parasol. You are awfully red. Do you need some sunblock? I get mine specially blended from a lovely woman who has a little salon in Mayfair.’
‘I’m fine,’ Amelia said, as a waiter followed Becky’s directions and placed a chair next to her. Then Amelia squeezed through the tiny gap again, which made her redder. ‘Maybe a glass of water.’
‘Oh, we can do better than a glass of water.’ Becky put her hand over Amelia’s and leaned in so she could whisper and not embarrass her poor friend. ‘Don’t worry about not being able to afford breakfast. Honestly, I nearly fainted when I saw the prices too, but it’s my treat. How funny that now I’m the one that’s treating you and not the other way round.’
‘I suppose it is funny.’
‘I mean, not funny ha ha, funny peculiar,’ Becky said, running a hand through her hair, which was so much sleeker, straighter and shinier than it used to be. ‘So, you and Gorgeous George, what gives?’
Across the table, Rawdon and Jos were deep in conversation about Jos’s interminable protein balls, while George sat slightly apart, eyes glued to his phone.
‘Not that much,’ Amelia said a little sadly. ‘We’ve been seeing each other since last year. But not officially seeing each other … you won’t say anything to anyone?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ Becky said, drawing a little cross over her heart so Amelia couldn’t help but glance at the plunging neckline of Becky’s white sundress. Then she couldn’t help but notice that George’s eyes had strayed in the same direction.
He smiled blandly at Amelia then went back to his phone. ‘Even on holiday, George never stops working,’ Amelia said. Could the girl not manage one whole sentence without sounding a little sad when she spoke?
‘And are you working?’ Becky asked, not that she was interested but it seemed the polite thing to do, as Amelia hadn’t even bothered to ask one question about what Becky had been up to lately.
‘Oh yes! I’m working at a riding stables in Totteridge.’ It was the first thing that Amelia hadn’t said sadly. On the contrary, her eyes were now gleaming with an evangelical zeal, like she was about to tap Becky for funds for Riding For The Disabled or a Pit Pony Refuge. ‘It’s quite a funny story really and it’s all down to George …’
Listening to Amelia’s story, Becky doubted that George Wylie would do anything altruistic unless there was something in it for him. She allowed herself a little sniff and George looked up from his phone, looked at Becky appreciatively (a far cry from how he used to look at her, like she was dog shit that an underling had tracked into the carpet), then glanced over at Amelia who was coming to the end of her long, meandering rant about her minimum-wage job mucking out stables.
‘… and so fulfilling, you know.’ Amelia was done at last and reached for her glass of water. As she’d barely stopped for breath she must have been parched, Becky thought, as her former BFF gratefully gulped down the mineral water at €12 a bottle. ‘And of course you’re well. I see you in all the papers and magazines.’
Becky waved a dismissive hand. ‘I can’t imagine why they’re so interested in me,’ she said, even though she now had her own agent, publicist and social-media intern who were all paid handsomely (apart from the social-media intern who just got her travel expenses) to ensure that the whole world was interested in Becky Sharp.
Amelia’s brow furrowed. ‘But what exactly is it that you do?’ she asked so artlessly that George was forced to put down his phone.
‘Quite rude,’ he opined gently, but enough to make Amelia blush on top of the ruddy glow she already had. ‘“What do you do?” works just as well.’
‘It wasn’t rude at all,’ Becky said, because George Wylie was the very last person who should ever lecture someone on rudeness. ‘Anyway, I’m a spokesmodel for two charities, one that helps homeless teens and another that helps the victims of bullying. Isn’t bullying the worst, Emmy?’
‘The absolute worst,’ Emmy agreed, thinking not of the woman sitting next to her, who could always be relied upon for a spot of timely undermining, but how horrid the press and their Burnt Oak neighbours had been.
‘I never asked to be thrust into the public eye,’ the former Big Brother contestant continued. ‘And I never asked my Rawdy to fall in love with me.’ The object of her affection left off from his conversation with Jos about squats versus lunges to shoot Becky a doting smile tinged with relief that she didn’t seem to be furious with him any longer. ‘But he did fall in love with me, and being married to a very famous actor has given me a platform, so I want to use it for the greater good. Give something back, you know?’
‘Oh yes, I’d do exactly the same thing,’ Amelia assured her quickly. ‘It’s why I spent those two weeks in Niger hugging those poor orphans.’
Becky waved a dismissive hand at the mention of the poor orphans of Niger. ‘So, anyway, my charity work is very important but then I’m also a brand ambassador for a fashion label and a high-street chain, and I’m hoping to get a beauty client on board because that’s where the real money is,’ Becky said, raising her eyes to the heavens because some divine intervention would really help on that score. ‘And then companies pay me to feature their products on my Instagram. Not tat either. You wouldn’t even believe how much I got for being all hashtag bliss over an Italian coffee maker. It does actually make
really good coffee but Rawdy and I haven’t got the first clue how it works.’
‘It all sounds wonderful,’ Amelia said sadly because she was back to saying things sadly again. ‘Do you remember how, after Big Brother, I got sent all those things?’
Becky nodded. ‘Though me being on Big Brother has been officially purged from my record. Didn’t happen.’
‘But … but you were on Big Brother. I was right there with you!’
‘Fake news, Emmy!’
Becky smiled, all pink, healthy gums and newly veneered teeth. Not the little half smile that she’d perfected over the last two years, but something more natural and unaffected so that Amelia couldn’t help but smile back and remember how Becky Sharp could make you feel as if you were the only person in the world that truly mattered to her.
A big bottle of champagne had arrived, a Jeroboam, carried aloft with some ceremony by a waiter. ‘A glass for everyone,’ Rawdon said with a magnanimous sweep of his hand like it was fizzy pop and not hideously expensive vintage Taittinger.
‘It’s funny, but when you have nothing, everything costs more,’ Amelia mused. ‘You have no bank credit so you have to have your electricity supplied on a meter, which is more expensive than paying by bill. Same with pay-as-you-go mobiles. And now I’ll walk an extra ten minutes and go to two different supermarkets just to save a couple of pounds, because those two pounds matter.’
‘But when you have everything, people are literally queuing up to give you free stuff,’ Becky said. ‘Not just clothes and accessories and beauty products, but sending cars and arranging for you to spend a day at a polo match so you can be photographed drinking a certain brand of champagne, when I can buy my own clothes and toddle off to the polo under my own steam, if I wanted.’
‘Supply and demand,’ said George loftily, finally able to find a way into their conversation. He was at Cannes on a little work jolly, a so-called ‘fact-finding mission’ sponsored by the British Film Foundation, though he too could have gone to Cannes on his own dime, if so inclined. ‘Anyway, Becky, having everything obviously agrees with you.’ He raised his espresso cup in a toast to the girl he once despised, as the girl who loved him wilted at the gesture. ‘What is it they say? “I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich and rich is always better.”’
The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp Page 19