Sometimes it was very hard to love George Wylie. But then Amelia would look out of the window of her study and see Pianoforte trotting happily in the lower paddock, and she’d remember why she loved George. Though truthfully, she didn’t like him very much lately.
He’d also been extremely gloating when she’d had to admit that she needed help with Georgy. He was now a rambunctious toddler who couldn’t be put to her breast and then fall asleep for an hour while she took a meeting or did an interview. In fact, much to Amelia’s dismay, Georgy had decided that he no longer wanted ‘booby’ and would much prefer a packet of Pom-Bears.
George had been quite smug about that too, though the smile had been wiped off his face when he saw who was going to pick up the slack when it came to childcare.
‘There has to be someone else,’ he complained when Mrs Sedley turned up to stay for the weekend so Amelia could go to Paris for the first French Un Million de Mamans day of action.
‘I thought you were all about family values,’ Amelia said as Mrs Sedley caught sight of Georgy, squealed in delight (‘he looks so much like Jossy did at that age’) and covered her protesting grandson in kisses.
Mrs Sedley was quite recovered from her migraines, which had turned out (to no one’s surprise) to be psychosomatic after all. It had inspired her to train as a counsellor and she’d now launched an offshoot movement of the Million Mums. Great Grannies was a global volunteer network of older retired ladies who provided babysitting and childcare so that mothers could go off and protest or stand for political office.
‘Well, it gets me out of the house,’ she’d said to Amelia, because she and Amelia’s father were still tied to the poky little house in Burnt Oak, though Mrs Sedley was now a stalwart member of the local residents’ association and commanded a certain amount of respect on the estate. ‘Leaves your father free to write his letters and really, he’s been much better since the residents’ association agreed that he could be their treasurer.’ She’d sniffed, because a contemptuous sniff was something that had been handed down the maternal line. ‘I’m not sure I’d trust him with the raffle money, but there you go.’
Mrs Sedley had been drafted in to look after George this weekend too. Amelia had been invited to Pumpernickel, a German spa town, for a global conference on children and women’s rights. Not just invited, she was going to speak on a panel about digital activism.
Apart from the round of media interviews when she’d won Big Brother (which now seemed as if it had happened several lifetimes ago and to someone else), Amelia had never done any public speaking. Even a year ago, the prospect of talking to a room full of important people would have terrified her, but now Amelia felt as if she could do anything if she set her mind to it. In the last six months she’d found her voice.
She was waiting quite happily in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport reviewing her talking points, when her attention was caught by one of the TV screens directly in her line of vision.
It was a news report on the terrible conditions in one of the refugee camps on the Syrian border. Amelia sighed. Those poor children. Still, one couldn’t help all the children in the world … Hang on! That wasn’t … It couldn’t be …
‘Becky Sharp!’ she gasped out loud, because it was Becky in that dusty refugee camp, swathed in something loose-flowing and impossibly snowy-white, given the conditions. Her head was covered by a black headscarf, which really showed off her porcelain skin and green eyes to their best advantage. She looked more beautiful than ever as she cradled a very skinny baby and … No! That wasn’t … It couldn’t be …
It was Jos! There was Jos in the background, smiling proudly as Becky spoke to a reporter. Normally Amelia was a stickler for security and keeping a tight hold and an eagle eye on her luggage, but she leapt to her feet to get nearer to the TV so she could hear what the hell was going on.
‘… and so I asked my lovely old friend Jos Sedley, who has the most successful protein-ball company in the United States, if there was some way we could apply the same principles behind superfoods and protein snacks to feed starving people.’ Becky smiled triumphantly. ‘And it turned out there was.’
‘It’s an energy drink, then?’ asked the reporter.
‘Well, it’s more of a high-calorie, special protein drink and the really great thing about it is that it has a very long shelf life and can be stored in any kind of temperature,’ Becky said enthusiastically. ‘Best of all, it’s main ingredient is a very resilient natural plant protein that can be grown even in a very dry climate. We’ve been talking to the United Nations about establishing a micro-loans scheme so that communities will be able to grow their own food.’
‘So, you’ve gone from the red carpet to literally eradicating world hunger?’
Becky laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I had the initial idea but it was Jos and lots of very hard-working food scientists and climate specialists that did the heavy lifting …’
‘Flight BA127 to Cologne now boarding at Gate Thirteen.’
They were calling her flight. In a daze, Amelia turned back to check that her luggage was still there and hadn’t been infiltrated by any terrorists.
On the way to board the plane, she stopped at the newsagent to stock up on barley sugar so her ears wouldn’t pop and to search the papers so she could find out what the hell was going on with Becky Sharp, who’d fallen off the face of the earth for nearly two years.
But Amelia didn’t need to search very hard because as she entered the newsagent, there was a pile of glossy magazines with a familiar face wearing a familiar half-smile staring back at her.
VANITY FAIR
THE RISE AND FALL (AND RISE) OF BECKY SHARP
She’s been a reality-TV star, a trophy wife, an Instagram sensation, a tabloid cause célèbre and now Becky Sharp is adding global philanthropist to her CV. Emily Swastz meets the woman who took on Lord Steyne and lived to tell the tale …
Free from both entourage and make-up, Becky Sharp strides into the garden terrace of the Beverly Hills Polo Lounge with a bright smile and her hand outstretched in greeting. Dressed in simple white blouse and black cigarette pants, red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, her beauty is unadorned but no less radiant for it.
Over a large cappuccino (‘I seem to be the only woman in LA who does caffeine and full-fat milk’) and two croissants (‘I also refuse to give up carbs’) she’s refreshingly candid about her rise to the top and her shocking tumble from grace.
‘I’ve made mistakes, a lot of mistakes,’ she says with a rueful grin and a graceful wiggle of her shoulders. ‘But really, I only ever did three things that were unforgivable, and that was to be female, working class and ambitious …’
Chapter 39
Pumpernickel was a horrible little hole of a place and Becky couldn’t imagine why anyone had thought it was a good idea to hold a conference there. Any kind of conference, even one about office stationery products, let alone a global conference about children and women’s rights, attended by all sorts of movers and shakers in the world of A-list philanthropy.
But she was the guest of honour so she had to show willing. She had been on her best behaviour a lot lately – it was quite dull. As was the plain, though beautifully cut, black dress she was wearing, accessorised with a pair of hot-pink heels, to give the keynote speech.
‘As soon as I was in a position to make a difference, to have some influence, I’ve always worked with charities that are especially dear to my heart,’ Becky said to a packed house and hundreds of thousands of people around the world who were having the speech live-streamed to their devices. ‘In particular, charities who work with the most vulnerable in society: children.’
She swallowed hard, just as she’d rehearsed back in the presidential suite of her hotel. ‘This won’t come as any surprise because my entire life has been tabloid fodder, but I lost my mother when I was eight and my father went to prison when I was twelve, then died when I was fifteen. I had to s
tand on my own two feet at a very young age and use whatever means necessary to survive. I won’t apologise for that and I absolutely refuse to be condemned for it either.
‘But compared to the children I’ve met in Syria, who’ve had their lives torn apart by war, or the two little boys, Munir and Rana, that I met in South Sudan who lost their family in the terrible famine, I realised that even at my very lowest moments, compared to these children, I had so much.
‘And that’s why I’m so humbled to be appointed a UN Ambassador for Children. In this role I’m determined to give a voice to the voiceless, to give power to the powerless, to lift up those who have sunk to the bottom through no fault of their own.’
It was a great speech, put together by one of Barack Obama’s former speechwriters, who said that even Obama hadn’t made as many changes as Becky had. But she knew exactly what she wanted to say and she didn’t need any fancy four-syllable words to say it.
Of course, when she was done, she was given a standing ovation. It would have been pretty bloody rude if people had kept their arses on their seats. Once again, Becky was bathed in the warm glow of a hundred camera lenses and the sound of all those people clapping was like champagne corks popping.
Oh, how she’d missed this!
What she hadn’t missed was the meet and greet. The mingling. Having to shake the clammy hands of people she didn’t know and didn’t care to know and make polite but meaningless conversation with them even though she hoped to God she’d never have to meet any of them again.
In particular, the Pumpernickel conference was full of dreary do-gooders. Not at all like the glamorous world of global philanthropy where Angelina Jolie, George and Amal Clooney and Colin and Livia Firth were now close, personal friends.
Then a name caught her attention.
‘And this is Captain William Dobbin of Her Majesty’s Royal Regiment who’s here to have his humanitarian work recognised,’ droned one of the publicists from the (slightly dodgy) investment bank that was sponsoring the conference. ‘He literally rescued babies from a burning building.’
‘Becky? Becky Crawley? What on earth are you doing here?’
Why couldn’t the hapless Captain Dobbin have styled it out so they could both pretend they’d never met and merrily go their separate ways after a few seconds?
‘It’s Becky Sharp, as I’m very happily single these days, Dobbin,’ Becky said sweetly, as the publicist melted away. ‘And I’m here, I can’t quite believe it’s escaped your notice, because I’ve just been made a UN Ambassador—’
‘Becky! Becky Sharp! I’ve been so cross with you for so long but gosh! It’s so good to see you!’
A very hot, very red-faced Amelia Sedley threw her arms around Becky and hugged her like they were hugging friends who’d kept in touch, their past grievances long forgotten.
‘Amelia, how lovely to see you,’ Becky said, removing Amelia’s arms from their death grip around her neck and taking a step back. ‘No George?’ She angled an arch look at Amelia and then at Dobbin. ‘Unless you and the good captain …’
‘No, no, George and I are still very much together. Of course we are,’ Amelia insisted manically and then she dared to glance shyly up at Dobbin who was the only person in the very crowded and stuffy reception room who was more red-faced than she. ‘Dobbin … William, I had no idea you’d be here too. It’s been so long. I’m so, so glad you’re not dead!’
‘I’m rather glad I’m not dead too,’ Dobbin said gravely as Becky stifled a yawn. What a pair of utter imbeciles they both were. ‘I did say that I’d come back … to you.’
‘And you’re not the sort of person who breaks his promises,’ Amelia said sadly, thinking of all the thousands of promises that Gorgeous George Wylie had made to her and then broken.
‘Do you want to get a room?’ Becky asked with such a sincere expression that neither Dobbin nor Amelia could tell if she was joking. ‘I mean, seriously, you two …’
‘Gosh, I say! The old gang’s back together!’ said a braying voice from behind them and Jos Sedley lumbered up, his face aglow with genuine delight, followed by Briggs, laden down with Becky’s coat, handbag, a bottle of mineral water and a box of press packs. ‘Emmy! You got a hug for big bruv?’
‘Jos!’ The two Sedley siblings hugged. ‘Though I’m very cross with you too because you didn’t come home for Christmas and you never even told me that you and Becky were … With the protein drink and … What exactly are you and Becky?’
‘She’s the brains behind the brawn. My muse. My inspiration …’ Jos paused as he tried to sum up exactly what Becky Sharp was to him ever since she’d walked back into his life some eighteen months ago and turned it upside down.
‘We’re old friends,’ Becky said firmly. ‘Who work very well together.’
‘So well,’ Jos echoed and even Amelia, who loved her elder brother dearly, had to admit that he’d never looked better.
He was no longer triangular in shape and his neck was no longer the same circumference as his waist, now that he’d stopped bench pressing his own body weight and was taking a more holistic approach to his health and fitness.
Jos had also gone quite a few shades lighter (twenty, by a conservative estimate) on the fake tan and was now a light latte rather than a deep, deep mahogany.
It hadn’t been the easiest transformation. There had even been tears when Becky had pointed out that no one would take Jos and his protein balls seriously in the world of global philanthropy if he looked like Buzz Lightyear on steroids. ‘Nobody’s going to give you any awards for having the most over-developed pecs and guns on the West Coast,’ she’d said as Jos had fretted about losing his precious, precious muscle mass.
Jos would never be handsome but at least he no longer burst the seams of all his suits and …
‘You look happy,’ Amelia said in wonder. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever looked this happy, apart from that one Christmas when Daddy bought you a mini-Bentley.’
‘I am happy,’ Jos said and he looked at Becky in rapt admiration, then had to ease a stubby finger round the collar of his shirt, because some things never changed.
‘And are you happy with Gorgeous George?’ Becky asked and though that was Amelia’s cue to bristle, for the tears to prick her eyes as she thought back to Becky’s disgraceful behaviour in Cannes, she remained both bristle- and tear-free.
‘I’m happy with little Georgy,’ she said, whipping out her phone so Dobbin and Becky could admire how handsome he was. Becky had to clench her jaw to stop herself from yawning again. This much restraint couldn’t be good for her blood pressure and what could one say about a toddler with something orange dribbling from its mouth?
‘Charming,’ Becky said. ‘Very cute.’
‘He has your eyes,’ said Dobbin, who’d been silent all this time.
‘Oh? You don’t think he looks like George?’ Amelia asked in surprise because George’s family always said that there was absolutely nothing of Amelia in Georgy, apart from a propensity to whine, and that he was a Wylie through and through.
‘He has a sweetness to his face which is all you,’ Dobbin said and Becky really wanted to put a finger to her mouth and make gagging noises or at least say something very cutting. Being a UN Goodwill Ambassador was really cramping her style.
‘I’m not quite as sweet as I used to be,’ Amelia said and she didn’t finish the sentence with a self-deprecating giggle or flush bright red. Becky looked at her former BFF with genuine interest for maybe the first time in all the years that they’d known each other.
There was a determined focus to Amelia’s blue eyes, a certain, uncompromising set to her mouth and she had a new habit of raising her chin as if she was expecting an argument and planned to give as good as she got. How ironic that being married to George Wylie had been the making of her, and not in a way that either Amelia or George had expected.
‘You’ve grown up, Emmy,’ Becky decided. ‘Got a backbone. Good for you.’
&nbs
p; ‘For God’s sake Becky, Emmy’s always had a backbone,’ Dobbin said, rounding on Becky, who raised her eyebrows, not giving an inch, even though Dobbin was a good foot taller and much, much, much angrier than her. ‘She was a lovely girl and she’s become a lovely woman.’
‘Calm down, dear. I hope you have a bit more self-control when you’re commanding your soldiers,’ Becky said, and she took a step to the side so she no longer had to be confronted by the furious, huffing Dobbin, and so she was face to face with Amelia, who was definitely easier on Becky’s eye and ear, for that matter.
‘Well, we should catch up properly,’ Becky said, as she really didn’t relish having to spend the evening in Pumpernickel, having to socialise with dull people who wanted to talk about dull things like education and period poverty. ‘Tonight. We’ll have dinner.’
‘I’d love to,’ Amelia said. Becky was now a UN Goodwill Ambassador and surely the UN wouldn’t have given her the gig if she were lacking in goodwill? And Becky was still the most funny, fascinating person Amelia had ever met, even if she still hadn’t forgiven her for all the wrongs she’d done. And yet … ‘I’m meant to be having dinner with some women who want to set up Million Mum organisations in Germany and Holland.’
‘I’m not going to beg, Emmy, but having dinner with me is going to be heaps more fun than with some downtrodden mothers,’ Becky said firmly because she hadn’t lost the art of saying something crushing about a cause close to Amelia’s heart, whether it was George Wylie back in the day or the grassroots movement that had politicised an entire generation of women. It was quite reassuring in such a topsy-turvy world.
‘I did want to catch up with Dobbin too,’ Amelia said hesitantly, as the good captain looked as if he were about to cry happy tears.
‘Fine, Dobbin can join us,’ Becky said wearily as if she was talking about being booked in for root-canal surgery. ‘Jos, you’ll want to come too, I suppose.’
The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp Page 32