Twenties Girl

TWENTY-ONE

Where is she? Where the bloody fuck is she?

This is getting beyond a joke. I’ve spent three days searching. I’ve been to every vintage shop I can think of and hissed “Sadie?” through the racks of clothes. I’ve knocked on the doors of all the flats in this building and called out “I’m looking for my friend Sadie!” loud enough for her to hear. I’ve been to the Flashlight Dance Club and peered among the dancers on the dance floor. But there was no sight of her.

Yesterday I went to Edna’s house and made up a story about my cat being lost, which resulted in both of us going around the house, calling, “Sadie? Puss puss puss?” But there was no answer. Edna was very sweet, and she’s promised to get in touch if she sees a stray tabby around the place. But that doesn’t exactly help me.

Looking for lost ghosts is a total pain, it turns out. No one can see them. No one can hear them. You can’t pin a photo to a tree with Missing: Ghost. You can’t ask anyone, “Have you seen my friend the ghost, looks like a flapper, shrieky voice, ring any bells?”

Now I’m standing in the British Film Institute. There’s an old black-and-white movie playing and I’m at the back, scanning the dark rows of heads. But it’s no good. How am I supposed to see anything in this pitch blackness?

I start creeping down the aisle, crouching down, looking right and left along the dimly lit profiles.

“Sadie?” I hiss, as discreetly as I can.

“Shh!” says someone.

“Sadie, are you there?” I whisper as I reach the next row. “Sadie?”

“Shut up!”

Oh God. This will never work. There’s only one thing for it. Plucking up all my courage, I stand up straight, take a deep breath, and call out at the top of my voice.

“Sadie! It’s Lara here!”

“Shhhh!”

“If you’re here, please let me know! I know you’re upset and I’m sorry and I want to be friends and-”

“Shut up! Who is that? Be quiet!” There’s a wave of head-turning and angry exclamations along the rows. But no answering call from Sadie.

“Excuse me?” An usher has come up. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“OK. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I follow the usher back up the aisle toward the exit, then suddenly turn around for one last shot. “Sadie? Sa-die!”

“Please be quiet!” exclaims the usher furiously. “This is a cinema!”

I’m desperately peering into the blackness, but there’s no sight of her pale skinny arms, no beads clicking, no feathers bobbing among the heads.

The usher escorts me right out of the BFI, issuing me with stern warnings and lectures all the way, then leaves me alone on the sidewalk, feeling like a dog who’s been kicked out of a house.

Deflated, I start trudging along, shrugging my jacket on. I’ll have a coffee and regroup. Although, to be honest, I’m nearly out of ideas. As I head toward the river, there’s the London Eye, towering into the sky, still making its way around jauntily, like nothing ever happened. Glumly, I turn my head away. I don’t want to see the London Eye. I don’t want to be reminded of that day. Trust me to have a painful, embarrassing moment on the most prominent sight in London. Why couldn’t I have chosen a small out-of-the-way spot which I could then avoid?

I head into a café, order a double-strength cappuccino, and slump into a chair. It’s starting to get me down, all this searching. The adrenaline that powered me to begin with is fading away. What if I never find her?

But I can’t let myself think like that. I have to keep going. Partly because I refuse to admit defeat. Partly because the longer Sadie’s gone, the more worried I am about her. And partly because, if I’m honest, I’m clinging on to this. While I’m searching for Sadie, it feels as if the rest of my life is on hold. I don’t have to think about the where-does-my-career-go-now thing. Or the what-do-I-tell-my-parents thing. Or the how-could-I-have-been-so-stupid-about-Josh thing.

Or even the Ed thing. Which still upsets me whenever I let myself think about it. So… I just won’t. I’ll focus on Sadie, my Holy Grail. I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel like if I can just track her down, everything else might fall into place.

Briskly, I unfold my list of Find Sadie ideas, but most of them are crossed out. The cinema was the most promising. The only other entries are Try other dancing clubs? and Nursing home?

I consider the nursing home for a moment as I sip my coffee. Sadie wouldn’t go back there, surely. She hated it. She couldn’t even face going in. Why would she be there now?

But it’s worth a try.

I almost put on a disguise before I arrive at the Fairside Home, I’m so nervous. I mean, here I am, the girl who accused the staff of murder, pitching up on the doorstep.

Did they know it was me? I keep wondering in trepidation. Did the police tell them, “It was Lara Lington who besmirched your good name”? Because, if so, I’m dead meat. They’ll surround me in a nurse mob and kick me with their white clumpy shoes. The old people will bash me with their walkers. And I’ll deserve it.

But as Ginny opens the door, she shows no sign of knowing I’m the false-accusation-maker. Her face creases into a warm smile, and of course I feel guiltier than ever.

“Lara! What a surprise! Can I help you with that?”

I’m slightly laden down with cardboard cartons and a massive flower arrangement, which is starting to slip out of my arms.

“Oh, thanks,” I say gratefully, handing her one. “It’s got boxes of chocolate in it for you all.”

“Goodness!”

“And these flowers are for the staff too…” I follow her into the beeswax-scented hall and put the arrangement on the table. “I wanted to say thank you to everyone for looking after my great-aunt Sadie so well.”

And not murdering her. The thought never crossed my mind.

“How lovely! Everybody will be very touched!”

“Well,” I say awkwardly. “On behalf of the family, we’re all very grateful and feel bad that we didn’t visit my great-aunt… more often.”

Ever.

As Ginny unpacks the chocolates, exclaiming in delight, I surreptitiously sidle toward the stairs and look up them.

“Sadie?” I hiss under my breath. “Are you here?” I scan the upstairs landing, but there’s no sign.

“And what’s this?” Ginny is looking at the other cardboard carton. “More chocolates?”

“No. Actually that’s some CDs and DVDs. For the other residents.”

I open it and pull out the CDs. Charleston Tunes. The Best of Fred Astaire. 1920s-1940s-The Collection.

“I just thought sometimes they might like to listen to the tunes they danced to when they were young,” I say tentatively. “Especially the really old residents? It might cheer them up.”

“Lara, how incredibly thoughtful! We’ll put one on straightaway!” She heads into the dayroom, which is full of elderly people sitting in chairs and on sofas, with a daytime talk show blaring out of the television. I follow, looking all around the white heads for any sign of Sadie.

“Sadie?” I hiss, looking around. “Sadie, are you here?”

There’s no reply. I should have known this was a ridiculous idea. I should leave.

“There we are!” Ginny straightens up from the CD player. “It should come on in a minute.” She zaps the TV off and we both stand motionless, waiting for the music. And then it starts. A scratchy 1920s recording of a jaunty, jazzy tune. It’s a bit faint, and after a moment Ginny increases the volume to full blast.

On the other side of the room, an old man sitting under a tartan blanket with a tank of oxygen next to him turns his head. I can see the light of recognition coming on in faces around the room. Somebody starts humming along in a quavery voice. One woman even begins tapping her hand, her whole self lit up with pleasure.

“They love it!” says Ginny to me. “What a good idea! Shame we’ve never thought of it before!”

I feel a sudden lump in my throat as I watch. They’re all Sadie inside, aren’t they? They’re all in their twenties inside. All that white hair and wrinkled skin is just cladding. The old man with the oxygen tank was probably once a dashing heartthrob. That woman with distant rheumy eyes was once a mischievous young girl who played pranks on her friends. They were all young, with love affairs and friends and parties and an endless life ahead of them…

And as I’m standing there, the weirdest thing happens. It’s as if I can see them, the way they were. I can see their young, vibrant selves, rising up out of their bodies, shaking off the oldness, starting to dance with each other to the music. They’re all dancing the Charleston, kicking up their heels skittishly, their hair dark and strong, their limbs lithe again, and they’re laughing, clutching each other’s hands, throwing back their heads, reveling in it-

I blink. The vision has gone. I’m looking at a room full of motionless old people.

I glance sharply at Ginny. But she’s just standing there, smiling pleasantly and humming along to the CD, out of tune.

The music is still playing away, echoing through the rest of the home. Sadie can’t be here. She would have heard the music and come to see what was going on. The trail’s gone cold yet again.

“I know what I meant to ask you!” Ginny suddenly turns to me. “Did you ever find that necklace of Sadie’s? The one you were looking for?”

The necklace. Somehow, with Sadie gone, that all seems a million miles away now.

“No, I never did.” I try to smile. “This girl in Paris was supposed to be sending it to me, but… I’m still hoping.”

“Oh well, fingers crossed!” says Ginny.

“Fingers crossed.” I nod. “Anyway, I’d better go. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Well, it’s lovely to see you. I’ll show you out.”

As we make our way through the hall, my head is still full of the vision I saw of all the old people dancing, young and happy again. I can’t shake it.

“Ginny,” I say on impulse as she opens the big front door. “You must have seen a lot of old people… passing on.”

“Yes, I have,” she says, matter-of-factly. “That’s the peril of the job.”

“Do you believe in…” I cough, feeling embarrassed. “In the afterlife? Do you believe in spirits coming back and that kind of thing?”

My mobile phone rings shrilly in my pocket before Ginny can answer, and she nods at it.

“Please, do get that.”

I haul it out-and see Dad’s number on the ID display.

Oh God. Why is Dad calling? He’ll have heard about me leaving my job somehow. He’ll be all stressy and asking what my plans are. And I can’t even dodge the call, with Ginny watching.

“Hi, Dad,” I say hurriedly. “I’m just in the middle of something, can I put you on hold a minute?” I jab at the phone and look up at Ginny again.

“So what you’re asking is, do I believe in ghosts?” she says with a smile.

“Er… yes. I suppose I am.”

“Truthfully? No, I don’t. I think it’s all in the head, Lara. I think it’s what people want to believe. But I can understand what a comfort it must be to those who have lost loved ones.”

“Right.” I nod, digesting this. “Well… bye. And thanks.”

The door closes and I’m halfway down the path before I remember Dad, still waiting patiently on the line. I grab my phone and press Talk.

“Hey, Dad! Sorry about that.”

“Not at all, darling! I’m sorry to disturb you at work.”

Work? So he doesn’t know.

“Oh, right!” I say quickly, crossing my fingers. “Work. Yes. Absolutely. Work! Where else would I be?” I give a shrill laugh. “Although, as it happens, I’m not in the office right now…”

“Ah. Well, this may be ideal timing, then.” Dad hesitates. “I know this may sound odd. But I’ve got something I need to talk to you about and it’s rather important. Could we meet?”