Twenties Girl (15 page)

Sadie doesn’t even hear me. Or, if she does, she pretends not to. “I’ve found you a frock,” she announces. “Come and see! Hurry up!”

If she doesn’t want to talk, she doesn’t want to talk. I can’t
make
her.

“Great. So what did you choose?” I get up and start heading toward my bedroom.

“Not there.” Sadie darts in front of me. “We have to go out! It’s in a shop!”

“A shop?” I stop and stare at her. “What do you mean, in a shop?”

“I was forced to go out.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “There was nothing in your wardrobe. I’ve never seen such bedraggled clothes!”

“They’re not bedraggled!”

“So I went out, and I found an
angel
of a dress! You simply have to buy it!”

“Where?” I’m trying to think where she could have gone. “Which shop? Did you go into central London?”

“I’ll show you! Come on! Get your purse!”

I can’t help feeling touched at the thought of Sadie wafting around H&M or wherever, trying to find an outfit for me.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “As long as it doesn’t cost a zillion pounds.” I reach for my bag and check I’ve got my keys. “Come on, then. Show me.”

I’m expecting Sadie to lead me to the tube station and drag me to Oxford Circus or somewhere. But instead she veers around the corner and into a grid of backstreets I’ve never explored.

“Are you sure it’s this way?” I hesitate, puzzled.

“Yes!” She tries to drag me forward. “Come on!”

We pass rows of houses and a little park and a college. There’s nothing here that looks like a shop. I’m about to tell Sadie that she must have got her bearings wrong, when she turns a corner and makes a triumphant flourish.

“There!”

We’re in front of a tiny parade of shops. There’s a newsagent and a dry cleaner and, right at the end, a tiny shop with a wood-painted sign reading
Vintage Fashion Emporium
. There’s a mannequin in the window wearing a long satin dress, gloves up to the elbow, a hat with a veil, and lots of brooches everywhere. Next to her is a pile of old hatboxes and a dressing table holding a large selection of enamel hairbrushes.

“This is by
far
the best shop you have in your area,” says Sadie emphatically. “I’ve found everything we need. Come on!”

Before I can say anything, she’s disappeared into the shop. I
have no choice but to follow her. The door gives a little
ting
as I enter, and a middle-aged woman smiles at me from behind a tiny counter. She has straggly dyed hair in a vivid shade of yellow and is wearing what looks like an original seventies caftan in a wild green circular print, together with several amber necklaces strung around her neck.

“Hello!” She smiles pleasantly. “Welcome to the shop. I’m Norah. Have you shopped here before?” “Hi.” I nod back. “This is my first time.” “Were you interested in a particular garment or era?” “I’ll… just have a browse.” I smile at her. “Thanks.” I can’t see Sadie, so I start wandering around. I’ve never been into vintage clothes, but even I can tell there’s some pretty amazing stuff here. A pink psychedelic sixties dress is displayed next to a beehive wig. There’s a whole rack of original-looking boned corsets and petticoats. On a dressmaker’s mannequin is a cream lace wedding dress with a veil and a tiny dried-flower bouquet. A glass case holds some white leather skating boots, all creased and weathered with use. There are collections of fans, handbags, old lipstick cases—

“Where are you?” Sadie’s impatient voice pierces my eardrum. “Come here!”

She’s beckoning from a rack toward the back. Feeling sudden misgivings, I head toward her.

“Sadie,” I say in a low voice. “I agree this stuff is cool and everything. But I’m only going for a casual drink. You can’t possibly think—”

“Look!” She gestures in triumph. “Perfect.” I’m never letting a ghost give me fashion advice again. Sadie is pointing at a 1920s flapper’s dress. A bronze silk flapper dress with a dropped waist, little beaded capped sleeves, and a matching cape. The store tag reads:
Original 1920s dress, made in Paris
.

“Isn’t it darling?” She clasps her hands and whirls around,
her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “My friend Bunty had one very similar, you know, only in silver.”

“Sadie!” I find my voice. “I can’t wear that on a date! Don’t be stupid!”

“Of course you can! Try it on!” She’s urging me with her skinny white arms. “You’ll have to cut off all your hair, of course—”

“I’m not cutting off my hair!” I move away in horror. “And I’m not trying it on!”

“I’ve found you some matching shoes too.” She flits eagerly to a rack and points at some little bronze-colored dancing slippers. “And some proper makeup.” She whirls over to a glass counter and gestures at a Bakelite case next to a little sign reading:
Original 1920s makeup set. Very rare
.

“I had a set just like this.” She’s gazing at it fondly. “This is the best lipstick that was ever made. I’ll teach you how to do yours properly.”

For God’s sake.

“I know how to do my lipstick properly, thanks—”

“You have no idea,” she cuts me off crisply. “But I’ll teach you. And we’ll marcel your hair. There are some irons for sale.” She points at an old cardboard box inside which I can see some weird-looking ancient metal contraption. “You’ll look
so
much better if you make an effort.” Her head swivels around again. “If we could just find you some decent stockings—”

“Sadie, stop it!” I hiss. “You must be crazy! I’m not getting any of this stuff—”

“I still remember that delicious smell of getting ready for parties.” She closes her eyes briefly as though transfixed. “Lipstick and singed hair—”

“Singed hair?” I squeak in horror. “You’re not singeing my hair!”

“Don’t fuss!” she says impatiently. “We only singed it
sometimes
.”

“Are you getting on all right?” Norah appears, jangling amber, and I jump in surprise.

“Oh. Yes, thanks.”

“Are you particularly interested in the 1920s?” She heads over to the glass case. “We’ve some marvelous original items here. All fresh in from a recent auction.”

“Yes.” I nod politely. “I was just looking at them.”

“I’m not sure what this was for. …” She picks out a little jeweled pot mounted on a circular ring. “Strange little thing, isn’t it? A locket, maybe?”

“A rouge ring,” says Sadie, rolling her eyes. “Does no one have any idea about
anything
anymore?”

“I think it’s a rouge ring,” I can’t help saying casually.

“Ah!” Norah looks impressed. “You’re an expert! Maybe you know how to use these old marcel irons.” She takes out the metal contraption and hefts it cautiously in her hand. “I believe there was quite a knack to it. Before my time, I’m afraid.”

“It’s easy,” says Sadie scornfully into my ear. “I’ll show you.”

There’s a
ting
from the door and two girls come in, oohing and aahing as they look around. “This place is wicked,” I hear one of them saying.

“Excuse me.” Norah smiles. “I’ll let you keep browsing. If you’d like to try anything on, let me know.”

“I will.” I smile back at her. “Thanks.”

“Tell her you want to try the bronze dress on!” Sadie shoos me forward. “Go on!”

“Stop it!” I hiss as the woman disappears. “I don’t want to try it on!”

Sadie looks bemused. “But you have to try it. What if it doesn’t fit?”

“I don’t have to, because I’m not wearing it!” My frustration bubbles over. “Get real! This is the twenty-first century! I’m not using some ancient old lipstick and curling irons! I’m not wearing a flapper’s dress on a date! It’s just not happening!”

For a few moments Sadie seems too taken aback to reply.

“But … you promised.” She fixes me with huge, wounded eyes. “You promised I could choose your dress.”

“I thought you meant normal clothes!” I say in exasperation. “Twenty-first-century clothes! Not this.” I pick up the dress and brandish it at her. “It’s ridiculous! It’s a costume!”

“But if you don’t wear the dress I choose, then it might as well not be my date at all. It might as well be your date!” Sadie’s voice starts rising; I can tell she’s cranking up into a scream. “I might as well stay at home! Go out with him on your own!”

I sigh. “Look, Sadie—”

“He’s
my
man! It’s
my
date!” she cries passionately. “Mine! With my rules! This is my last chance to have some fun with a man, and you want to spoil it by wearing some frightful dreary outfit—”

“I don’t want to
spoil
it—”

“You promised to do things my way!
You promised!”

“Stop shouting at me!” I pull away, clutching my ear. “Jesus!”

“Is everything all right back here?” Norah appears again and eyes me suspiciously.

“Yes!” I try to compose myself. “I was just… er … on the phone.”

“Ah.” Her face clears. She nods toward the bronze silk flapper dress, still in my arms. “You want to try that on? Wonderful piece. Made in Paris. Have you seen the mother-of-pearl buttons? They’re exquisite.”

“I… um…”

“You promised!” Sadie’s about three inches from me, her chin set, her eyes fiery. “You promised! It’s my date! Mine!
Mine!”

She’s like a relentless fire-engine siren. I jerk my head away, trying to think straight as best I can. There’s no way I can cope with a whole evening of Sadie yelling at me. My head will explode.

And let’s face it. Ed Harrison thinks I’m a nutter anyway. What difference does it make if I turn up in a flapper dress?

Sadie’s right. It’s her evening. I might as well do it her way.

“All right!” I say at last, cutting across Sadie’s insistent voice. “You’ve talked me around. I’ll try on the dress.”

TEN

f anyone I know sees me, I will die. I will
die
.

As I get out of the taxi, I look quickly up and down the street. No one in sight, thank God. I have never looked so ludicrous in my life. This is what happens when you let a dead great-aunt take control of your looks.

I’m wearing the flapper dress from the shop, which I only just managed to zip up. Clearly they didn’t go in for boobs in the twenties. My feet are squished into the dancing slippers. Six long bead necklaces are jangling around my neck. Circling my head is a black headband, beaded with jet, and sticking out of that is a feather.

A
feather
.

My hair has been tortured into a series of old-fashioned-looking waves and curls, which took about two hours to do with the marcel irons. When it was done, Sadie insisted I smother it in some weird pomade stuff that she also found in the vintage shop, and now it feels rock solid to the touch.

And as for my makeup: Did they honestly think this was a good look in the 1920s? My face is covered in pale powder, with a spot of rouge on each cheek. My eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. My lids are smeared with a lurid green paste, which came out of the old Bakelite case. I still don’t know exactly what’s on my eyelashes: some weird lump of black goo which Sadie called “Cosmetique.” She made me boil it up in a frying pan and then smear it all over my lashes.

I mean, hello, I
have
a new Lancôme mascara. It’s waterproof, with flexible fibers and everything. But Sadie wasn’t interested. She was too overexcited by all this stupid ancient makeup and telling me how she and Bunty used to get ready for parties together and pluck each other’s eyebrows and take little swigs from their hip flasks.

“Let me see.” Sadie appears beside me on the pavement and scans me. She’s in a gold dress, with gloves up to her elbows. “You need to touch up your lipstick.”

There’s no point suggesting a nice subtle MAC lip gloss instead. With a sigh, I reach in my bag for the pot of red gunk and pat yet more color onto my exaggerated Cupid’s bow.

Two girls pass by, nudging each other and giving me curious smiles. They obviously think I’m off to a costume party and am going for Most Over the Top outfit.

“You look divine!” Sadie hugs herself with excitement. “You just need a gasper.” She starts looking up and down the street. “Where’s a tobacconist? Oh, we should have bought you a darling little cigarette holder—”

“I don’t smoke,” I cut her off. “And you can’t smoke in public places, anyway. It’s the law.”

“What a ridiculous law.” She looks aggrieved. “How does one hold a cigarette party?”

“We don’t hold cigarette parties! Smoking gives you cancer! It’s
dangerous!”

Sadie makes an impatient
tchuh
noise. “Come on, then!”

I begin to follow her up the street toward the
Crowe Bar
sign,
barely able to walk in my vintage shoes. As I reach the door, I realize she’s disappeared. Where’s she gone?

“Sadie?” I turn around and scan the street. If she’s left me in the lurch I will absolutely murder her—

“He’s in there already!” She suddenly appears, looking even more hyper than before. “He’s absolutely swoonsome.”

My heart sinks. I was hoping he might have stood me up.

“How do I look?” Sadie’s smoothing her hair down, and I feel a sudden pang of compassion for her. It can’t be much fun, going on a date and being invisible.

“You look great,” I say reassuringly. “If he could see you, he’d think you were really hot.”

“Hot?” She looks confused.

“Sexy. Pretty. You’re a hottie. It’s what we say.”

“Oh, good!” Her eyes travel nervously to the door and back. “Now, before we go in, remember this is
my
date.”

“I know it’s your date,” I say patiently. “You’ve drummed it into me enough times—”

“What I mean is—be me.” She fixes me with an urgent look. “Say whatever I tell you to say. Do whatever I tell you to do. Then I’ll feel as though it’s really me talking to him. Do you understand?”

“Don’t worry! I get it. You feed me the lines and I’ll say them. I promise.”

“Go on, then!” She gestures at the entrance.

I push through the heavy frosted glass doors and find myself in a chic lobby with suede-paneled walls and low-level lighting. There’s another set of double doors ahead, beyond which I can see the bar. As I pass through, I catch a glimpse of myself in a tinted mirror and feel a clench of dismay.

Somehow I feel a million times more ludicrous here than I did in my flat. My necklaces are jangling with every step. My feather is bobbing around in my headdress. I look like a twenties-o-gram. And I’m standing in a minimalist bar full of cool people in understated Helmut Lang.

As I’m edging forward, all prickly with self-consciousness, I suddenly spot Ed. He’s sitting about ten yards away, in a conventional trousers-and-jacket combo, drinking what looks like a conventional gin and tonic. He looks up, glances my way, then does a double take.

“You see?” says Sadie triumphantly. “He’s transfixed by the sight of you!”

He’s transfixed, all right. His jaw has fallen and his face has turned a pale green color.

Very slowly, as though forcing himself through noxious mud, he gets to his feet and approaches me. I can see the bar staff nudging one another as I walk through the bar, and from a nearby table comes a sudden gasp of hilarity.

“Smile at him!” Sadie is insisting loudly in my ear. “Walk toward him with a shimmy and say, ‘Hello, Daddy-O!’”

Daddy-O?

It’s not my date, I remind myself feverishly. It’s Sadie’s. I’m only acting a part.

“Hello, Daddy-O!” I say brightly as he draws near.

“Hi,” he says faintly. “You look …” He moves his hands helplessly.

All around, the buzz of conversation has died to a halt. The whole bar is watching us. Great.

“Say some more!” Sadie is hopping around in excitement, clearly oblivious to the awkwardness. “Say, ‘You look pretty dapper yourself, you old thing.’ And twirl your necklace.”

“You look pretty dapper yourself, you old thing!” I fix him with a rictus smile, swinging my beads around so hard that one of the necklaces catches me in the eye.

Ow. That hurt.

“OK.” Ed seems barely able to talk for embarrassment. “Well. Can I … get you a drink? A glass of champagne?”

“Ask for a swizzle stick!” instructs Sadie. “And smile! You haven’t laughed once!”

“Could I have a swizzle stick?” I give a high-pitched giggle. “I simply adore swizzle sticks!”

“A swizzle stick?” Ed frowns. “Why?”

Fuck knows why. I dart a helpless look at Sadie.

“Say, ‘To stir the bubbles out, darling!’” she hisses.

“To stir the bubbles out, darling!” I giggle brightly again, and twirl my necklaces for good measure.

Ed looks like he wants to sink into the floor. I don’t blame him.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” he says in a strained voice. “I’ll bring over the drinks.”

I head over to the table where he was sitting and pull up a suede upholstered chair.

“Sit like this,” commands Sadie, adopting an affected pose with her hands on her knee, and I copy as best I can. “Open your eyes wider!” She looks restlessly around at all the clusters of people sitting in groups and standing at the bar. The hum of chatter has resumed, and there’s a low throbbing of lounge-style music. “When does the band arrive? When will the dancing start?”

“There
isn’t
any band,” I mutter. “There
isn’t
any dancing. It’s not that kind of place.”

“No dancing?” she says fretfully. “But there has to be dancing! Dancing is the whole point! Don’t they have any snappier music? Don’t they have anything with a bit of life?”

“I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “Ask him.” I jerk my head toward the barman, just as Ed appears before me with a glass of champagne and what looks like another gin and tonic. I should think it’s a treble. He sits down opposite, puts down the drinks, then lifts his glass.

“Cheers.”

“Chin chin!” I say with a dazzling smile, give my champagne a brisk stir with a plastic swizzle stick, and take a glug. I look up for Sadie’s approval—but she’s disappeared. I surreptitiously
look around and spot her behind the bar, yelling something in the barman’s ear.

Oh God. What havoc is she causing now?

“So … did you have far to come?”

My attention is wrenched away. Ed’s talking to me. And there’s no Sadie to feed me any lines. Great. I’m actually going to have to make conversation.

“Er … not too far. Kilburn.”

“Ah. Kilburn.” He nods as though I’ve said something really profound.

While I’m trying to think of something to say, I run my eyes over him. Nice charcoal jacket, I have to admit. He’s taller than I remember, with a broader, firmer frame, in an expensive-looking shirt. A hint of five o’clock shadow; the same V of frown lines that he had in the office. For God’s sake. It’s the weekend, he’s on a date, yet he looks as if he’s at some really serious board meeting where everyone’s about to be fired and lose all their bonuses.

I feel a flash of irritation. He could at least
try
to look like he’s having a good time.

“So! Ed.” I make a heroic effort and smile at him. “From your accent I’m guessing you’re American?”

“That’s right.” He nods but doesn’t volunteer any more.

“How long have you been over?”

“Five months.”

“How do you like London?”

“Haven’t seen much of it.”

“Oh, you must!” I can’t help my natural enthusiasm pouring out. “You should go to the London Eye, and Covent Garden, and then you should take a boat to Greenwich. …”

“Maybe.” He gives me a tight smile and takes a slug of his drink. “I’m pretty busy at work.”

That is the lamest thing I ever heard. How can you move to a city and not bother to get to know it? I
knew
I didn’t like this guy. I glance up to see Sadie by my side, her arms folded sulkily.

“That barman is very stubborn,” she says. “Go and tell him to change the music.”

Is she
nuts?
Shooting her a discreet glare, I turn back to Ed and smile politely.

“So, Lara, what do you do?” Clearly he feels he’s got to join in this conversation too.

“I’m a headhunter.”

Immediately, Ed looks wary. “You’re not with Sturgis Curtis, are you?”

“No, I have my own company, L&N Executive Recruitment.”

“Good. I wouldn’t have liked to offend you.”

“What’s wrong with Sturgis Curtis?” I can’t resist asking.

“They’re vultures from hell.” He has such a look of horror on his face, I almost want to giggle. “They pester me every day. Do I want this job? Am I interested in that job? They use tricks to get past my secretary. … I mean, they’re
good.”
He shudders. “They even asked me to sit at their table at the
Business People
dinner.”

“Oh, wow.” I can’t help sounding impressed. I’ve never been to the
Business People
dinner, but I’ve seen it written up in the magazine. It’s always held at a big hotel in London, and it’s pretty glam. “So … are you going?”

“I’m speaking at it.”

He’s
speaking?
Oh my God, he must be really important. I had no idea. I look up to raise an eyebrow at Sadie, but she’s disappeared.

“Are you going?” he asks politely.

“Er … not this year.” I try to imply this is just a temporary blip. “My firm wasn’t quite able to make up a table this year.”

Bearing in mind tables hold twelve people and cost five thousand pounds. And L&N Executive Recruitment has precisely two people and about minus five thousand pounds.

“Ah.” He inclines his head.

“I’m sure we’ll be there next year, though,” I say quickly.

“We’ll probably make up two tables. You know, do it properly. We’ll probably have expanded by then. …” I trail off. I don’t know why I’m making any effort to impress this guy. He clearly isn’t interested in anything I say.

As I swizzle my drink again, I realize the music has stopped. I turn to look at the barman, and he’s standing by the CD player behind the bar, obviously experiencing a momentous struggle between his own will and the sound of Sadie shrieking something in his ear. What is she up to?

At last, with a visible capitulation, the barman takes a CD from its box and slides it into the machine. The next minute, some scratchy, old-fashioned Cole Porter-type band music fills the air. Sadie sweeps up behind Ed’s chair, a beam of satisfaction on her face.

“At last! I
knew
that man would have something suitable in his drawer. Now ask Lara to dance!” she instructs Ed, and bends close to his ear.
“Ask her to dance!”

Oh God. No way.

Resist her
, I silently message Ed.
Don’t listen. Be strong
. I’m sending him my strongest telepathic signals. But it’s no good. As Sadie bellows in his ear, a pained, confused look is coming over Ed’s face. He looks like someone who really, really doesn’t want to vomit but is having no choice.

“Lara.” He clears his throat and rubs his face. “Would you like to … dance?”