The ambitious Minister for Environmental Affairs, who many tipped as a potential leader of the Conservative Party, today offered his resignation to the Prime Minister.
Epilogue
A year later: The Humanitarian Awards, Royal Albert Hall
And so the great and good gathered to heap praise on each other at a five-hundred-quid-a-head gala dinner.
Jos Sedley, in a perfectly cut suit at last and quite dazed at the number of people who stopped by his table to talk to him about how the superfood technology behind his protein balls was eradicating world hunger.
Rawdon Crawley, due to be honoured for his tireless efforts to publicise the plight of the endangered New Zealand southern elephant seal, as he filmed what had turned out to be the most successful film franchise in motion-picture history. He’d begged to be seated at the very back of the room so he didn’t run into any old friends. He was joined in social Siberia by his brother and sister-in-law, Pitt and Jane Sheepshanks-Crawley, who didn’t realise they’d been seated on the worst table. On the contrary, they were simply thrilled to be invited and even happier to have a night away from their five young charges so they could discuss what to do with Thisbe (always Thisbe) now that he’d been expelled from his fifth school. ‘It really isn’t any reflection on our parenting skills or lack thereof,’ Pitt assured Jane who smiled gratefully. ‘I see a lot of my late father in the boy.’
On a much better table sat Amelia and Dobbin, both glowing with happiness, which meant their faces were almost the exact same shade of red. Amelia was six months pregnant and as soon as her divorce was finalised, she and Dobbin planned to plight their troth and devote their lives to good causes.
George Wylie, of course, wasn’t present. It was best not to show one’s face when fifteen (and counting) very comely and very telegenic junior parliamentary researchers had all come forward to accuse one of taking liberties with them. George had retreated to his father’s estate and was wondering if he could ever dare to show his face again. ‘For God’s sake, man,’ the Chief Whip had said witheringly during the most humiliating ten minutes of George’s life. ‘We all do it, but the difference is, most of us are smart enough not to get caught doing it.’
Everything comes to she who waits, Becky Sharp thought as she lovingly caressed the Humanitarian of the Year award she’d just won for the benefit of the assembled photographers. Then she handed it over to Briggs, who was hovering dutifully behind her. ‘Be a dear and stash this somewhere, will you? It’s really ugly and I don’t want to have to cart it around all night.’
‘It is very eighties,’ Briggs agreed with a shudder and disappeared to deposit the award in the green room and say hello to a couple of celebrities en route. No one was more relieved than Briggs that Becky’s philanthropic endeavours now centred around black-tie dinners and they didn’t have to go schlepping around any more refugee camps.
‘Who’d have thought that we’d end up here,’ Amelia gushed as Becky sat back down at their table. ‘Six years ago we were on Big Brother.’
‘Was I on Big Brother? I don’t remember,’ Becky drawled, lifting up a languid hand to wave at Bono who was a few metres away, hoping that he wouldn’t come over. She’d sat next to him at one of Cindy Crawford and Rande Gerber’s dinner parties and he really was the dullest man alive.
‘Ooh! Is that Bono? Is he coming over?’ Amelia asked excitedly, as Becky quickly stood up again.
‘I have to go and say hello to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge,’ she muttered. ‘It would be so rude if I didn’t.’
She hurried off as fast the tight skirt of her black gown allowed, shouldering Bono out of the way as if she hadn’t seen him. It was so like Becky, Amelia thought. She herself had so many reasons to be grateful to Becky and so many reasons to still be furious with her that she could never decide if she liked or hated her.
Probably it was some complicated mixture of both, especially as Amelia suspected that very soon, she and Becky would be more than friends.
Very, very soon, because Jos sat down in the chair that Becky had just vacated and with shaking hands, pulled a little box from the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘It’s not like I can ask her father for her hand, on account of him being dead,’ he said, trying to prise open the lid with fumbling fingers. ‘But you know Becky better than anybody …’
‘Does anyone really know that Sharp woman?’ Dobbin asked, earning himself a fierce poke from Amelia, who’d asked him not to keep calling Becky that.
‘She has many layers,’ Jos agreed gravely. ‘But she’s given me reason to think that she’d quite like to become Mrs Sedley … she said that we could be the new Bill and Melinda Gates …’
‘You’re not that rich, Jos,’ Amelia said drily.
‘Almost that rich,’ Jos said, because so many governments around the world had reserved parts of their aid budgets to purchase his famine-busting protein drink that he had more money than he knew what to do with. Even with Becky taking 25 per cent, like they’d agreed when she first came to him with the idea. But then Jos couldn’t say no to her. His life without Becky Sharp in it had been a barren wasteland. ‘Should have married her six years ago, as it goes, but was too much of a fool to realise it. Got your George to thank for that.’
‘He’s not my George,’ Amelia said crossly, as Dobbin patted her hand, which rested on her bump. ‘And he never really was.’
‘But I have your blessing to marry Becky?’ Jos asked nervously. ‘I know she can be a bit tricksy, but the poor girl’s had to fight her whole life.’
Amelia took her brother’s hand. ‘You really love her and she really loves you?’
‘I love her to the moon and back,’ Jos declared instantly, though the second part of his sister’s question took a little longer to answer. ‘She did say that when she got married again, it would be forever.’
That wasn’t exactly true. What Becky had said was, ‘The first time I married for money, but now I’m very rich in my own right, so the second time I get married, it has to be for something better than being very rich.’
But Becky had just come out of a spin class and had been glistening with sweat and Jos had had her legs around his ears as he’d helped her stretch (Becky found it almost endearing just how much Jos hadn’t changed over the years), so he hadn’t been listening that closely.
Amelia stroked her bump meditatively. ‘In that case, if she makes you happy, then you have my blessing.’
‘And may God rest your soul,’ Dobbin muttered under his breath, earning himself another poke in the ribs.
Meanwhile Becky was deep in conversation with the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge about how much work there was still to be done to eradicate world hunger, and also to finally finish the renovations to their private quarters at Kensington Palace.
‘I know, underfloor heating is more trouble than it’s worth,’ she was saying when a tall man in a double-breasted suit greeted the Duke.
Another hanger-on, Becky thought, raising her eyes just as the Duke said, ‘Rebecca, I don’t believe you’ve met my father.’
The Prince of Wales, recently enough widowed that he was still wearing a black armband, but not so recently widowed that it was considered improper for him to attend a social function, smiled as Becky curtsied, which gave him a delightful view of her cleavage.
‘Ms Sharp and I have met on several occasions,’ the Prince said, taking Becky’s hand as she straightened up. ‘Though I’m sure you don’t remember talking to an old bore like me.’
‘That’s not true,’ Becky said, shooting the heir to the throne a little sideways look from under her lashes. ‘We had an absolutely riveting conversation about Lady Hornblower’s hat at a garden party a couple of years ago.’
‘I was sure you’d have forgotten,’ the Prince said, guffawing with delight. It was the first time he’d laughed since he’d been widowed. ‘Those purple feathers.’
‘You said that it looked like a gigantic feather duster and then I said how the h
ell do you even know what a feather duster is,’ Becky recalled and they both laughed, but it was very bad manners to monopolise royalty, so Becky murmured something about having to talk to Bono and retreated.
Being a global philanthropist had become quite boring, Becky mused as once again she blanked Bono, otherwise she’d be stuck talking to him for hours. Yes, she’d restored her reputation and also saved hundreds of thousands of people from dying of hunger, but being a professional do-gooder was so tedious that the whole thing made her want to scream.
She really needed to find a new project. A new challenge. New heights to scale. So it was very serendipitous that a moment later, the Prince of Wales’s private secretary appeared at her side to ask if she might be free to dine at Clarence House later in the week. A private dinner. Just Becky and HRH, who was very keen, ‘very keen indeed’, to become better acquainted with her.
‘I’d love to,’ Becky said. As she glided back to her table, she wondered if she’d still be allowed to take the title of Queen, what with her being divorced …?
Enough! She was getting carried away. It would be a much better use of her time to rehearse what she’d say to Jos when she refused the absolutely hideous ring he’d bought a few weeks ago. Then she’d be free to devote all her time and energy to new projects. Happily, she was something of an expert when it came to old men and at least this one had more going for him than her previous conquests. Several palaces, quite a few duchies, not to mention the Crown Jewels …
But this was ridiculous: he wasn’t the King yet! Although the current Queen couldn’t live forever and when she did croak, HRH would need a lot of comforting, and Becky did look splendid in black …
‘Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? Or having it, is satisfied?’
Vanity Fair, W. M. Thackeray
Acknowledgments
My most excellent editor, Martha Ashby, for asking me if I’d ever thought about writing a contemporary retelling of Vanity Fair, putting up with backchat in the comment boxes and saving me from several counts of libel. Thanks also to Kimberley Young and the team at HarperCollins.
My agent, Rebecca Ritchie, or The Other Becky as she’s now known, for cheerleading me through a really tight deadline.
Simon Fox was a firm but fair copyeditor. My aunt Lesley Lawson seemed to be the only person in Britain who’d actually read Vanity Fair and could listen to me wondering aloud how to parse the Napoleonic Wars into the modern day. Eileen Coulter hadn’t read Vanity Fair but she was still happy to listen to me banging on about it.
And to all the people who have ever wronged me, thank you. Every uncharitable thought that you’ve ever made me thunk, I channelled into Ms Becky Sharp. I couldn’t have done it without you.
About the Author
Sarra Manning is an author and journalist. Her novels include Unsticky, You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me and The House of Secrets.
Sarra has written both adult and YA novels and has contributed to the Guardian, ELLE, Grazia, Stylist, Fabulous, Stella, You magazine, Harper’s Bazaar and is currently the Literary Editor of Red magazine.
Sarra lives in London.
@sarramanning
@sarra_manning
Also by Sarra Manning
Unsticky
You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me
Nine Uses for an Ex-Boyfriend
It Felt Like a Kiss
After the Last Dance
The House of Secrets
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The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp Page 34