Twenties Girl

FOURTEEN

I can never resist telling people good news. I mean, why not brighten someone else’s life too? So by the following morning I’ve texted all my friends that Josh and I are back together. And some of his friends, just because I happened to have their numbers programmed in my phone. And the guy at Dial-a-Pizza. (That was a mistake. He was pleased for me, though.)

“Oh my God, Lara!” Kate’s voice bursts through the office door at the same time as she does. “You made up with Josh?”

“Oh, you got my text,” I say nonchalantly. “Yeah, it’s cool, isn’t it?”

“It’s amazing! I mean… it’s incredible!”

She doesn’t need to sound quite so surprised. But it’s nice to have someone pleased for me. Sadie’s such a downer on the whole thing. She hasn’t said she’s happy for me once, and every time I got a text back from one of my friends last night, she huffed. Even now she’s gazing disapprovingly at me from her perch on top of the filing cabinet. But I don’t care, because I’ve got my most important phone call of all to make, and I am so looking forward to it. I dial the number, lean back, and wait for Dad to pick up. (Answering the phone makes Mum anxious, because it might be kidnappers. Don’t ask.)

“Michael Lington.”

“Oh, hi, Dad, it’s Lara,” I say in the casual tone I’ve been practicing all morning. “I just thought I’d let you know that Josh and I are back together again.”

“What?” says Dad after a pause.

“Yes, we bumped into each other yesterday,” I say airily. “And he said he still loved me and he’d made a huge mistake.”

There’s another silence at the other end of the phone. Dad must be too gobsmacked to answer.

Ha. This is such a sweet moment! I want to relish it forever. After all those weeks of people telling me I was sad and deluded and should move on. They were all wrong.

“So it looks like I was right, doesn’t it?” I can’t resist adding. “I said we were meant to be together.” I shoot Sadie a gloating look.

“Lara…” Dad doesn’t sound as happy as I thought he would. In fact, he sounds pretty stressed, bearing in mind his younger daughter has found happiness in the arms of the man she loves. “Are you absolutely sure that you and Josh…” He hesitates. “Are you sure that’s what he meant?”

Honestly. Does he think I’ve made it up or something?

“You can call him if you like! You can ask him! We bumped into each other, and we had a drink and talked about stuff, and he said he still loves me. And now we’re back together. Just like you and Mum.”

“Well.” I can hear Dad breathing out. “That’s quite… incredible. Wonderful news.”

“I know.” I can’t help smiling complacently. “It just goes to show. Relationships are complicated things, and other people shouldn’t barge in and think they know all about it.”

“Indeed,” he says faintly.

Poor Dad. I think I’ve practically given him a heart attack.

“Hey.” I cast around for something to cheer him up. “Dad, I was thinking about our family history the other day. And I was wondering, have you got any pictures of Great-Aunt Sadie’s house?”

“Sorry, darling?” Dad sounds like he’s having trouble keeping up.

“The old family house that burned down. In Archbury. You showed me a photograph of it once. Have you still got it?”

“I think so.” Dad’s voice is wary. “Lara, you seem a bit obsessed by Great-Aunt Sadie.”

“I’m not obsessed,” I say resentfully. “All I’m doing is showing a little interest in my heritage. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am pleased,” says Dad quickly. “Of course I am. I’m just… surprised. You’ve never been interested in family history before.”

This is a fair point. He brought out some old photo album last Christmas and I fell asleep while he was showing it to me. (In my defense, I had eaten quite a few liqueur chocolates.)

“Yes, well… people change, don’t they? And I’m interested now. I mean, that photo’s the only thing we’ve got left of the house, isn’t it?”

“Not quite the only thing,” says Dad. “You know, the oak desk in the hall came from that house.”

“In our hall?” I stare at the phone in surprise. “I thought everything was lost in the fire.”

“A very few things were salvaged.” I can tell Dad’s relaxed a little. “They were put in a storage unit and left there for years. Nobody could face dealing with it. It was Bill who sorted it all out, after your grandfather died. He was at a loose end. I was doing my accountancy exams. Strange to imagine, but Bill was the idler in those days.” Dad laughs, and I can hear him take a sip of coffee. “That was the year your mother and I got married. That oak desk was our first piece of furniture. It’s a wonderful piece of original art nouveau.”

“Wow.”

I’m riveted by this story. I’ve walked past that desk about ten thousand times, but it’s never once occurred to me to wonder where it came from. Maybe it was Sadie’s own desk! Maybe it has all her secret papers in it! As I put the phone down, Kate is working industriously. I can’t send her on yet another coffee run. But I’m desperate to tell Sadie what I just heard.

Hey, Sadie! I type in a new document. Not everything was lost in the fire! There were some things in a storage unit! Guess what? We have a desk from your old house!

Maybe it has a hidden drawer full of all her lost treasures, I’m thinking excitedly. And only Sadie knows how to open it. She’ll tell me the secret code, and I’ll gently tug it open and blow off the dust, and inside will be… something really cool. I gesticulate at her and point at my screen.

“I know that desk was saved,” says Sadie, after reading my message. She sounds deeply unimpressed by the news. “I was sent a list of things at the time, in case I wanted to claim anything. Hideous crockery. Dull bits of pewter. Dreadful furniture. None of it interested me.”

It’s not dreadful furniture, I type, a little indignantly. It’s a wonderful piece of original art nouveau.

I look up at Sadie, and she’s sticking a finger down her throat. “It’s minging,” she says, and I can’t help giggling.

Where did you learn that word? I type.

“Picked it up.” Sadie gives an insouciant shrug.

So I told my dad about Josh, I type, and look at Sadie for a reaction. But she rolls her eyes and disappears.

Fine. Be like that. I don’t care what she thinks, anyway. I lean back, take out my mobile, and flip to one of Josh’s texts. I feel all warm and content, as though I just drank a cup of hot chocolate. I’m back with Josh, and all’s right with the world.

Maybe I’ll text Josh and tell him how pleased everyone is for us.

No. I don’t want to hound him. I’ll leave it half an hour or so.

Across the room, the phone rings, and I wonder if maybe it’s him. But a moment later Kate says, “I’ll put you on hold,” and looks up anxiously. “Lara, it’s Janet from Leonidas Sports. Shall I put her through?”

All the hot chocolate drains out of my stomach.

“Yes. OK, I’ll speak to her. Just give me thirty seconds.” I psych myself up, then lift the phone with my breeziest top-recruitment-consultant manner. “Hi, Janet! How are you? Did you get the short list all right?”

Kate emailed the short list to Janet last night. I should have known she’d call. I should have gone out for the day or pretended to have lost my voice.

“I hope you’re as excited by it as I am,” I add brightly.

“No, I’m not,” Janet says in her usual hoarse, peremptory tones. “Lara, I don’t understand. Why’s Clive Hoxton on the list?”

“Ah, Clive,” I say, trying to sound confident. “What a man. What a talent.”

OK, so here’s the thing. I know my lunch with Clive didn’t end brilliantly. But the truth is, he’d be perfect for the job. And I might be able to talk him around before the interview. So I put him on the list anyway, with provisional after his name in small letters.

“Clive’s a really bright executive, Janet.” I launch into my spiel. “He’s experienced in marketing, very dynamic, ripe for a move-”

“I know all that.” Janet cuts me off. “But I bumped into him at a reception last night. He said he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested. In fact, he was shocked to learn he was on the short list.”

Fuck.

“Really?” I summon tones of astonishment. “How… strange. How very strange. That’s not the impression I got at all. As far as I was aware, we had a great meeting, he was enthusiastic-”

“He told me he walked out,” says Janet flatly.

“He… left the meeting, obviously.” I cough. “As we both did. You could say we both walked out-”

“He told me you were on the phone to another client throughout and he never wanted to do business with you again.”

My face flushes red. Clive Hoxton is a mean sneak.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Janet, I’m baffled. All I can say is we must have had mixed messages-”

“What about this Nigel Rivers?” Janet has clearly moved on. “Is he the man with the dandruff? Applied to us once before?”

“It’s a lot better these days,” I say hastily. “I think he’s using Head and Shoulders.”

“You know our MD has strong views on personal hygiene?”

“I… er… was not aware of that, Janet. I’ll make a note of it-”

“And what about this Gavin Mynard?”

“Very, very talented,” I lie at once. “A very talented, creative guy who has been… overlooked. His résumé doesn’t reflect his… wealth of experiences.”

Janet sighs. “Lara…”

I stiffen with apprehension. Her tone is unmistakable. She’s going to fire me right now. I can’t let it happen, I can’t, we’ll be finished…

“And, of course-I have another candidate!” I hear myself saying in a rush.

“Another candidate? You mean, not on the list?”

“Yes. Much better than any of the others! In fact, I’d say this candidate is definitely your person.”

“Well, who is it?” says Janet suspiciously. “Why don’t I have the details?”

“Because… I need to firm things up first.” I’m crossing my fingers so hard they hurt. “It’s all very confidential. This is a high-profile person we’re talking about, Janet. Very senior, very experienced-believe me, I’m excited.”

“I need a name!” she barks angrily. “I need a résumé! Lara, this is all highly unprofessional. Our in-house meeting is on Thursday. Can I speak to Natalie, please?”

“No!” I say in panic. “I mean… Thursday. Absolutely! You’ll have all the information on Thursday. I promise. And all I can say is, you’ll be bowled over by the caliber of this particular candidate. Janet, I must dash, great to talk.” I put the phone down, my heart thumping.

Shit. Shit. What am I going to do now?

“Wow!” Kate looks up, eyes shining. “Lara, you’re such a star. I knew you’d do it! Who’s this amazing high-profile candidate?”

“There isn’t one!” I say desperately. “We have to find one!”

“Right.” Kate starts looking urgently around the office, as though a top-level marketing executive might be hiding in the filing cabinet. “Er… where?”

“I don’t know!” I thrust my fingers through my hair. “There aren’t any!”

There’s a shrill electronic burble as my phone receives a text, and I grab it, hoping for one mad moment that it’s a top marketing executive asking me if I have any jobs in sports retail going. Or maybe Josh, asking me to marry him. Or maybe Dad, saying he now realizes I was right all along and would like to apologize for ever having doubted me. Or even Diamanté, saying she doesn’t need that old dragonfly necklace after all, should she send it around by courier?

But it’s none of them. It’s Natalie.

Hi babe! Am doing some yoga on the beach. It’s so mellow here. Have sent u a pic, look at the view. Awesome, huh? Nataliexxxx PS Everything OK in the office?

I feel like hurling it out of the window.

By seven o’clock my neck is aching and my eyes are red-rimmed. I’ve made a new, emergency long list of candidates, using old issues of Business People, the Internet, and a copy of Marketing Week I made Kate run out and buy. But none of them will even take my call-let alone talk about a job, let alone allow me to quickly slap them onto a short list. I have less than forty-eight hours. I’m going to have to invent a top marketing director. Or impersonate one.

On the plus side, they had a half-price offer on pinot grigio at Oddbins.

The minute I get home, I turn on the TV and start glugging down the wine at speed. By the time EastEnders starts, I’ve got through half a bottle, the room is swinging from side to side, and my work troubles are receding nicely.

After all. I mean. All that really matters is love, isn’t it?

You have to get things in perspective. In proportion. Love is the thing. Not work. Not marketing directors. Not scary conversations with Janet Grady. I just need to cling on to that and I’ll be OK.

I’m cradling my phone in my lap, and every so often I turn on my texts to read them again. I’ve been texting Josh all day, just to keep my spirits up. And he’s sent two texts back! Quite short ones, but even so. He’s at some dreary work conference in Milton Keynes and he said he can’t wait to be back home.

Which obviously means he can’t wait to see me!

I’m debating whether to send him another light, friendly text, asking him what he’s doing, when I glance up and notice Sadie sitting on the fireplace in a pale gray chiffony dress.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “Where did you get to?”

“At the cinema. I watched two films.” She shoots me an accusing look. “You know, it gets very lonely during the day. You’re so preoccupied with your work.”

She’d be preoccupied if she had Janet Grady on her tail.

“Well, I’m very sorry I have to earn a living,” I reply, a little sarcastically. “I’m sorry I’m not a lady of leisure and can’t watch movies all day-”

“Have you got the necklace yet?” she says, right over me. “Have you done anything more about it?”

“No, Sadie,” I say tetchily. “I haven’t. I’ve had a few other problems today, as it happens.” I wait for her to ask what those problems are, but she just gives a distant shrug. Isn’t she even going to ask me what happened? Isn’t she going to offer me any sympathy? Some guardian angel she is.

“Josh has been texting me; isn’t that great?” I add, to annoy her.

She gives me a baleful look. “It’s not great. The whole thing is absolutely false.”

She glares at me and I glare back. Obviously, neither of us is in a brilliant mood tonight.

“It’s not false. It’s real. You saw him kiss me; you heard what he said.”

“He’s a puppet,” says Sadie dismissively. “He said whatever I told him to say. I could have told him to make love to a tree and he would have done. I’ve never known anyone so weak-willed! I barely had to whisper at him and he jumped.”

She’s so arrogant. Who does she think she is, God?

“That’s rubbish,” I say coldly. “OK, I know you nudged him a bit. But he would never say he loved me unless there was a basis of truth. He was obviously expressing what he really feels, deep down.”

Sadie gives a sarcastic laugh. “‘What he really feels deep down.’ Darling, you’re too amusing. He doesn’t have any feelings for you.”

“He does!” I spit. “Of course he does! He had my picture on his phone, didn’t he? He’d been carrying it around all this time! That’s love.”

“It’s not love. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sadie seems so sure of herself, I feel a swell of absolute fury.

“Well, you’ve never even been in love! So what would you know about it? Josh is a real man, with real feelings and real love, something you know nothing about. And you can think what you like, but I really believe I can make things work, I really believe Josh has deep feelings for me-”

“It’s not enough to believe!” Sadie’s voice is suddenly passionate, almost savage. “Don’t you see that, you stupid girl? You could spend your whole life hoping and believing! If a love affair is one-sided, then it’s only ever a question, never an answer. You can’t live your life waiting for an answer.”

She flushes and swivels away.

There’s a sharp silence, except for two EastEnders laying into each other on-screen. My mouth has dropped open in astonishment, and I notice I’m about to tip wine all over the sofa. I right my hand and take a gulp. Bloody hell. What was that outburst all about?

I thought Sadie didn’t care about love. I thought she only cared about having fun and tally-ho and the sizzle. But just then she sounded as if…

“Is that what happened to you, Sadie?” I say tentatively to her back. “Did you spend your whole life waiting for an answer?”

Instantly, she disappears. No warning, no “see you later.” She just vanishes.

She can’t do this to me. I have to know more. There’s got to be a story here. I switch off the TV and call loudly into thin air. All my annoyance has evaporated; I’m consumed by curiosity instead.

“Sadie! Tell me! It’s good to talk about things!” The room is silent, but somehow I’m sure she’s still there. “Come on,” I say, wheedling. “I’ve told you everything about me. And I’m your great-niece. You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Still nothing.

“Whatever.” I shrug. “Thought you had more guts than that.”

“I do have guts.” Sadie appears in front of me, looking furious.

“So tell me.” I fold my arms.

Sadie’s face is motionless, but I can see her eyes flickering to me and away again.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she says finally, her voice low. “It’s simply that I do know what it’s like to think you’re in love. I know what it’s like to squander all your hours and all your tears and all your heart on something which turns out to be… nothing. Don’t waste your life. That’s all.”

That’s all? Is she kidding? She can’t leave it there! There was a something. What was the something?

“What happened? Did you have a love affair? Was there some guy when you were living abroad? Sadie, tell me!”

For a moment Sadie looks as though she’s still not going to answer, or else disappear again. Then she sighs, turns away, and walks toward the mantelpiece.

“It was a long time ago. Before I went abroad. Before I was married. There was… a man.”

“The big row with your parents!” I suddenly put two and two together. “Was that because of him?”

Sadie tilts her head forward about a millimeter in assent. I should have known it was a man. I try to picture her with a boyfriend. Some dapper twenties guy in a boater, maybe. With one of those old-fashioned mustaches.

“Did your parents catch you together or something? Were you… barney-mugging?”

“No!” She bursts into laughter.

“So what happened? Tell me! Please!”

I still can’t quite get over the fact that Sadie’s been in love. After giving me such a hard time about Josh. After pretending she didn’t care about anything.

“They found sketches.” Her laughter dies away and she hugs her skinny chest. “He was a painter. He liked to paint me. My parents were scandalized.”

“What’s wrong with him painting you?” I say, puzzled. “They should have been pleased! I mean, it’s a compliment, an artist wanting to-”

“Naked.”

“Naked?”

I’m gobsmacked. And kind of impressed. I would never pose naked for a painting. Not in a million years! Not unless the painter could do some kind of airbrushing.

Brushing, maybe. Whatever artists do.

“I had a drape over me. But, even so, my parents…” Sadie presses her lips together. “That was a dramatic day, the day they found the sketches.”

My hand is clapped over my mouth. I know I shouldn’t laugh, I know it’s not really funny, but I can’t help it.

“So they saw you-your-”

“They became absolutely hysterical.” She gives a tiny snort, almost a laugh. “It was funny-but it was dreadful too. His parents were as angry as mine. He was supposed to be going into law.” She shakes her head. “He would never have made a lawyer. He was a great big shambles of a man. He painted all night, and drank wine, and smoked gaspers back to back, stubbed them out on his palette… We both did. I used to spend all night with him at his studio. In his parents’ shed. I used to call him Vincent, after van Gogh. He called me Mabel.” She gives another tiny snort.

“Mabel?” I wrinkle my nose.

“There was a maid at his house called Mabel. I told him I thought it was the ugliest name I’d ever heard and they should make her change it. So he instantly started calling me Mabel. Cruel beast that he was.”

Her tone is half jokey, but there’s a strange flickering in her eyes. I can’t tell if she wants to remember all this or not.

“Did you…” I begin-then chicken out before I can finish the question. I wanted to ask, “Did you really love him?” But Sadie’s lost in her own thoughts, anyway.

“I used to creep out of the house when everyone was asleep, climb down the ivy…” She trails away, her eyes distant. Suddenly she looks really sad. “When we were discovered, everything changed. He was sent to France, to some uncle, to ‘get it all out of his system.’ As if anyone could ever stop him painting.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Stephen Nettleton.” Sadie breathes out heavily. “I haven’t said that name aloud for… seventy years. At least.”

Seventy years?

“So what happened? After that?”

“We were never in touch with each other, ever again,” says Sadie matter-of-factly.

“Why not?” I say in horror. “Didn’t you write to him?”

“Oh, I wrote.” She gives a brittle smile that makes me wince. “I sent letter after letter to France. But I never heard from him. My parents said I was a nave little simpleton. They said he’d used me for what he could get. I wouldn’t believe them at first, hated them for saying it. But then…” She looks up, her chin set, as though defying me to pity her. “I was like you. ‘He does love me, he really does!’” She puts on a mocking, high-pitched voice. “‘He’ll write! He’ll come back for me. He loves me!’ Do you know how it felt when I finally came to my senses?”

There’s a taut silence.

“So… what did you do?” I hardly dare speak.

“Got married, of course.” I can see the flash of defiance. “Stephen’s father conducted the service. He was our vicar. Stephen must have known, but he didn’t even send a card.”

She lapses into silence, and I sit there, my thoughts teeming. She got married to Waistcoat Guy out of revenge. It’s obvious. It’s awful. No wonder it didn’t last.

I’m totally deflated. I wish I hadn’t pressed Sadie so hard now. I didn’t want to stir up all these painful memories. I just thought she’d have some fun, juicy anecdote and I could find out what sex was like in the 1920s.

“Didn’t you ever think about following Stephen to France?” I can’t help asking.

“I had my pride.” She gives me a pointed look, and I feel like retorting, “Well, at least I got my guy back!”

“Did you keep any of the sketches?” I’m desperately casting around for an upside.

“I hid them.” She nods. “There was a big painting too. He smuggled it to me, just before he left for France, and I hid it in the cellar. My parents had no idea. But then, of course, the house was burned and I lost it.”

“Oh God.” I sag in disappointment. “What a shame.”

“Not really. I didn’t care. Why should I care?”

I watch her for a minute pleating her skirt, over and over, obsessively, her eyes busy with memories.

“Maybe he never got your letters,” I say hopefully.

“Oh, I’m sure he did.” There’s an edge to her voice. “I know they went into the post. I had to smuggle them out of the house and into the postbox myself.”

I can’t bear this. Smuggling letters, for God’s sake. Why didn’t they have mobile phones in the 1920s? Think how many misunderstandings in the world could have been avoided. Archduke Ferdinand could have texted his people-I think a weirdo’s following me-and he wouldn’t have got assassinated. World War I wouldn’t have happened. And Sadie could have called her man; they could have talked it through…

“Is he still alive now?” I’m gripped by irrational hope. “We could track him down! We could Google him, we could go to France, I bet we’d find him-”

“He died young.” Sadie cuts me off, her voice remote. “Twelve years after he left England. They brought home his remains and had a funeral in the village. I was living abroad by then. I wasn’t invited, anyway. And I wouldn’t have gone.”

I’m so horrified, I can’t reply. Not only did he leave her, he died. This is a rubbish story with a terrible ending, and I wish I’d never asked.

Sadie’s face is drawn as she gazes out of the window. Her skin seems paler than ever, and there are shadows under her eyes. In her silver-gray dress she looks like a vulnerable little wisp. I feel tears spring to my eyes. She loved this artist. It’s obvious. Underneath all the bravado and the back chat, she really loved him. All her life, probably.

How could he not have loved her back? Bastard. If he were alive now I’d go and find him and beat him up. Even if he was some quavery million-year-old man with twenty grandchildren. “It’s so sad.” I rub my nose. “It’s just so sad.” “It’s not sad,” she retorts at once, her old flippant air returning. “It’s the way things are. There are other men, there are other countries, there are other lives to live. But that’s why I know.” She suddenly rounds on me. “I know, and you have to believe me.”

“Know what?” I’m not following her at all. “Believe what?”

“You’ll never work things out with your chap. Your Josh.”

“Why?” I glare back at her defensively. Trust her to bring Josh into it.

“Because you can want and want and want.” She turns away, hugging her knees. I can see the bony line of her spine through her dress. “But if he doesn’t want you back… you might as well wish the sky were red.”