Twenties Girl (33 page)

“Lara?” Dad peers at me. “Are you OK, darling?”

I try to smile back at him, but I’m too preoccupied. There are two voices arguing in my head, right across each other. The first is crying out,
Sadie’s real, you know she is! She’s out there! She’s your friend and she’s hurt and you have to find her!
The second is calmly intoning,
She doesn’t exist. She never did. You’ve wasted enough time. Get your life back
.

I’m breathing hard, trying to let my thoughts balance out, let my instincts settle. But I don’t know what to think. I don’t trust myself anymore. Maybe I really am crazy….

“Dad, do you think I’m mad?” I blurt out in desperation. “Seriously. Should I see someone?”

Dad bursts into laughter. “No! Darling, of course not!” He puts his coffee cup down and leans forward. “I think your emotions run high and sometimes your imagination too. You get that from your mother. And sometimes you let them get the better of you. But you’re not mad. No madder than Mum, anyway.”

“Right.” I swallow. “Right.”

That’s not much consolation, to be honest.

With fumbling fingers, I pick up Uncle Bill’s letter and read it through again. If I look at it in a completely different way, there’s nothing sinister. There’s nothing wrong. He’s just a rich guy trying to help out his niece. I could take the job. I’d be Lara Lington of Lingtons Coffee. I’d have a great future in front of me, salary, car, prospects. Everyone would be happy. Everything would be easy. My memories of Sadie would melt away. My life would feel normal.

It would be so,
so
easy.

“You haven’t been home for a while,” Dad says kindly. “Why not come and spend the weekend? Mum would love to see you.”

“Yes,” I say after a pause. “I’d like that. I haven’t been back for ages.”

“It’ll restore your spirits.” Dad gives me his endearing little crooked smile. “If your life’s at a juncture and you need to think about things, there’s nowhere better than home. However old you are.”

“‘There’s no place like home.’” I raise half a smile.

“Dorothy had a point. Now eat up.” He gestures at my tuna melt. But I’m only half listening.

Home
. The word has riveted me. I never thought of that.

She could have gone home.

Home to where her old house used to be. After all, it’s the place of her earliest memories. It’s where she had her big love
affair. She refused ever to go back during her lifetime—but what if she’s softened? What if she’s right there, right now?

I’m stirring my Lingtoncino around and around obsessively. I know the sane, sensible move would be to blank out all thoughts about her. Accept Uncle Bill’s job and buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate with Mum and Dad. I know this.

But … I just can’t. Deep down, I can’t believe she’s not real. I’ve come so far, I’ve tried so hard to find her. I have to give it one last go.

And if she’s not there I’ll take the job and give up. For good.

“So.” Dad wipes his mouth with a chocolate-brown napkin. “You look happier, darling.” He jerks his head toward the letter. “Have you decided which way you want to go?”

“Yes.” I nod firmly. “I need to go to St. Pancras station.”

TWENTY-THREE

K. This is the very, very last place I’m looking. This is her last chance. And I hope she appreciates the effort I’ve made.

It took me an hour from St. Pancras to St. Albans and another twenty minutes in a taxi to Archbury. And now here I am, standing in a little village square, with a pub and a bus stop and a weird modern-looking church. I suppose it would be quite picturesque if lorries didn’t keep rumbling by at a million miles an hour and three teenage boys weren’t having a brawl under the bus shelter. I thought it was supposed to be quiet in the country.

I edge away before one of the boys pulls out a gun or something and head over to the green. There’s a board with a map of the village, and I quickly locate Archbury Close. That’s what they turned Archbury House into after it burned down. If Sadie really has gone home, that’s where she’ll be.

After a few minutes’ walk, I can see the gates ahead: wrought iron with
Archbury Close
written in swirly iron writing. There are six little red-brick houses, each with a tiny drive and garage.
It’s hard to imagine that once upon a time there was just one big beautiful house sitting in its own gardens.

Feeling conspicuous, I enter through a small side gate and start to wander around, peering in through the windows, crunching on the little patches of gravel, and murmuring, “Sadie?”

I should have asked Sadie more about her home life. Maybe she had a favorite tree or something. Or some favorite corner of the garden, which is now someone’s utility room.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, so after a bit I raise my voice a little. “Sadie? Are you here? Sa-die?”

“Excuse me!” I jump in shock as someone pokes me in the back. I turn to see a gray-haired woman in a flowered shirt, tan slacks, and rubbery-looking shoes peering at me suspiciously.

“I’m Sadie. What do you want?”

“Er…”

“Are you here about the drainage?” she adds.

“Um … no.” I find my voice. “I was after a different Sadie.”

“Which Sadie?” Her eyes narrow. “I’m the only Sadie in this close. Sadie Williams. Number four.”

“Right. The Sadie I want is … actually … a dog,” I improvise. “She ran away and I was looking for her. But I expect she’s run off somewhere else. Sorry to bother you. …”

I start to walk off, but Sadie Williams grabs my shoulder with surprisingly strong fingers.

“You let a dog loose in the close? What did you want to do that for? We have a dog-free policy here, you know.”

“Well… sorry. I didn’t know. Anyway, I’m sure she’s run off somewhere else—” I try to wriggle free.

“She’s probably prowling around in the bushes, waiting to strike!” Sadie Williams is glowering furiously at me. “Dogs are dangerous beasts, you know. We’ve got kiddies living here. You people are irresponsible!”

“I’m not irresponsible!” I retort indignantly before I can stop myself. “She’s a perfectly friendly dog. I wouldn’t let a dangerous dog loose!”

“All dogs are savage.”

“No, they’re not!”

Lara, stop it. You’re talking about an imaginary dog
.

“And, anyway.” I finally wrench myself free from the woman’s grasp. “I’m sure she’s not here, because she would have come when I called. She’s very obedient. In fact … she’s a prizewinner at Crufts,” I add for good measure. “So I’d better go and find her.”

Before Sadie Williams can grab me again, I start walking swiftly toward the gates. There’s no way Sadie’s here. She would have come out to watch the entertainment.

“What breed is she, then?” calls Sadie Williams tetchily. “What are we looking for?”

Oh God. I just can’t help myself.

“Pit bull,” I call back over my shoulder. “But, like I say, she’s very friendly.”

Without looking back, I hurry out of the gates, back along the road, and toward the village square. So much for that bright idea. What a waste of time.

I head to the bench on the green and sink down and take out a Twix, my gaze fixed ahead. Coming here was stupid. I’ll eat this, then call a taxi and head back to London. I’m not even going to think about Sadie anymore. Let alone look for her. I’ve used up enough of my life already. I mean, why should I think about her? I bet she isn’t thinking about me.

I finish my Twix and tell myself to dial the taxi number. It’s time to go. It’s time to put all this out of my mind and start on a new, sane, ghost-free life.

Except…

Oh
God
. I keep having flashes back to Sadie’s stricken face on Waterloo Bridge. I keep hearing her voice.
You don’t care about me. … No one cares
.

If I give up after only three days, am I proving her right?

I feel a sudden surge of frustration—at her, at myself, at the whole situation. Crossly, I scrunch up my Twix wrapper and
chuck it into a bin. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I’ve looked and looked and looked. If she would just
come
when I called her … if she would just
listen and
not be so stubborn….

Hang on. A new thought strikes me, out of the blue. I’m psychic, aren’t I? Maybe I should
use
my psychic powers. I should summon her from the underworld. Or Harrods. Or wherever she is.

OK. This is my last try. I really, really mean it.

I stand up and approach the little pond on the green. I’m sure ponds are spiritual places. More spiritual than benches, anyway. There’s a mossy stone fountain in the middle, and I can just picture Sadie dancing in it, splashing and shrieking, all those years and years ago, with some policeman trying to drag her out.

“Spirits.” I extend my arms cautiously. There’s a rippling in the water, but that could just be the wind.

I have no idea how to do this. I’ll make it up as I go along.

“It is I, Lara,” I intone in a low sepulchral voice. “Friend to the spirits. Or, at least, one spirit,” I amend quickly.

I don’t want Henry the Eighth appearing.

“I seek … Sadie Lancaster,” I say momentously.

There’s silence, except for a duck quacking on the pond. Maybe
seek
isn’t powerful enough.

“I hereby summon Sadie Lancaster,” I intone, more commandingly. “From the depths of the spirit world, I call her. I, Lara Lington, the psychic one. Hear my voice. Hear my summons. Spirits, I entreat thee.” I start to wave my arms around impressively. “If thou knowest Sadie, send her to me. Send her to me now.”

Nothing. Not a voice, not a glimpse, not a shadow.

“Fine!” I say, dropping my arms down.
“Don’t
be summoned.” I aim my words into the air, in case she’s listening. “I don’t care. I’ve got better things to do all day than stand here talking to the spirit world. So there.”

I stump back to the bench, pick up my bag and grab my mobile
phone. I dial the taxi firm that brought me here and ask for a taxi straightaway.

Enough is enough. I’m out of here.

The taxi guy tells me the cab driver will meet me in front of the church in ten minutes, so I head over to it, wondering if they might have a coffee machine in the lobby or anything. The whole place is locked up, though. I head back out and am just reaching for my phone again to check my texts, when something catches my eye. It’s a sign on a gate:
The Old Vicarage
.

The Old Vicarage. I suppose that would have been where the vicar lived in the old days. Which means … it would have been where Stephen Nettleton lived. He was the son of the vicar, wasn’t he?

Curiously, I peer over the wooden gate. It’s a big old gray house with a gravel drive and some cars parked at the side. There are some people going in the front door, a group of about six. The family living here must be at home.

The garden’s overgrown, with rhododendrons and trees and a path leading round the side of the house. I can just glimpse an old shed in the distance and wonder if that’s where Stephen did his painting. I can just imagine Sadie creeping along that path, her shoes in one hand, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

It’s quite an atmospheric place, with its old stone wall and long grass and shady patches in the garden. Nothing modern seems to have been introduced. It’s still got the feel of history to it. I wonder—

No. Stop it. I’m giving up. I’m not looking anymore.

But maybe—

No. She wouldn’t be here. No way. She’s got too much dignity. She said it herself—she’d never be a trailer. Never in a million years would she hang around an old boyfriend’s house. Especially the old boyfriend who broke her heart and never even wrote to her. It’s a stupid idea—

Already my hand is unlatching the gate.

This is the very, very,
very
last place I’m looking.

I crunch over the gravel, trying to think of an excuse to be here. Not a lost dog. Maybe I’m studying old vicarages? Maybe I’m an architecture student. Yes. I’m doing a thesis on “religious buildings and the families who live in them.” At Birkbeck.

No. Harvard.

I approach the entrance and am raising my hand to ring the old bell when I notice the front door is unlatched. Maybe I can sidle in without anyone noticing. I cautiously push the door open and find myself in a hall with paneled walls and old parquet. To my surprise, a woman with a mousy bob and a Fair Isle jumper is standing behind a table covered with books and leaflets.

“Hello.” She smiles as though she’s not at all surprised to see me. “Are you here for the tour?”

The tour?

Even better! I can wander around and I don’t even have to invent a story. I had no idea vicarages were charging for tours these days, but I suppose it makes sense.

“Er … yes, please. How much?”

“That’ll be five pounds.”

Five whole
pounds?
Just to see a vicarage? Bloody hell.

“Here’s a guide.” She hands me a leaflet, but I don’t look at it. I’m not exactly interested in the house. I walk swiftly away from the woman, into a sitting room filled with old-fashioned sofas and rugs, and look all around.

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

“This would have been where Malory spent his evenings.” The woman’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t realize she’d followed me.

“Oh, right.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Lovely. I’ll just go through here. …” I head into an adjacent dining room, which looks like a stage set for a period drama. “Sadie?”

“This was the family dining room, of course. …”

For God’s sake. People should be able to take tours of vicarages without being followed. I head over to the window and
look out at the garden, where the family I saw before is wandering around. There’s not a whisper of Sadie.

This was a stupid idea. She’s not here. Why would she hang around the house of the guy who broke her heart, anyway? I turn around to leave and almost bump into the woman, standing behind me.

“I take it you’re an admirer of his work?” She smiles.

Work? Whose work?

“Er … yes,” I say hastily. “Of course. A great admirer. Very great.” For the first time I glance down at the leaflet in my hand. The title reads:
Welcome to the House of Cecil Malory
, and underneath is a landscape painting of some cliffs.

Cecil Malory. He’s a famous artist, isn’t he? I mean, not like Picasso, but I’ve definitely heard of him. For the first time I feel a spark of interest.

“So is this where Cecil Malory once lived or something?” I ask.

“Of course.” She looks taken aback by the question. “That’s the reason for the house being restored as a museum. He lived here ’til 1927.”

Until 1927? Now I’m genuinely interested. If he was living here in 1927, Sadie would have known him, surely. They would have hung out together.

“Was he a friend of the vicar’s son? A guy called Stephen Nettleton?”

“Dear…” The woman eyes me, apparently perplexed at the question. “Surely you know that Stephen Nettleton
was
Cecil Malory. He never used his family name for his work.”

Stephen was Cecil Malory?

Stephen … is
Cecil Malory?

I’m too gobsmacked to speak.

“He later changed his name by deed poll,” she continues. “As a protest against his parents, it’s thought. After his move to France …”

I’m only half listening. My mind is in turmoil. Stephen
became a famous painter. This makes no sense. Sadie never told me he was a famous painter. She would have boasted unbearably about it. Didn’t she
know?

“… and never reconciled before his tragically young death.” The woman ends on a solemn note, then smiles. “Perhaps you would like to see the bedrooms?”

“No. I mean … Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I’m a bit … confused. Steph—I mean Cecil Malory—was a friend of my great-aunt, you see. She lived in this village. She knew him. But I don’t think she ever realized he became famous.”

“Ah.” The woman nods knowledgeably. “Well, of course, he wasn’t during his lifetime. It wasn’t until long after his death that interest began in his paintings, first in France and then in his homeland. Since he died so young, there is of course a limited body of work, which is why his paintings became so prized and valuable. In the 1980s they shot up in value. That’s when his name really became known widely.”