Twenties Girl (36 page)

“You know, sometimes you hear a voice in your head,” Ed says, as though the thought has just occurred to him. “Like … an instinct.”

“I know you do,” I say miserably. “You hear a voice and it has a message and it’s telling you to go away. I understand.”

“It’s telling me the opposite.” Ed moves forward and firmly takes hold of my shoulders. “It’s telling me not to let you go. It’s telling me you’re the best thing that’s happened to me and I better not fuck this one up.”

And before I can even take a breath, he leans down and kisses me. His arms wrap around me, strong and secure and resolute.

I’m in a state of total disbelief. He’s not walking away. He’s not listening to Sadie. Whatever voice is in his head … it’s not hers.

At last he draws away and smiles down at me, pushing a strand of hair gently off my face. I smile back, breathless, resisting the temptation to pull him down straightaway for another snog.

“Would you like to dance, twenties girl?” he says.

I want to dance. I want to do more than dance. I want to spend all evening and all night with him.

I shoot a surreptitious glance at Sadie. She’s moved away a few feet and is studying her shoes, her shoulders hunched over, her hands twisted together in a complicated knot. She looks up and shrugs, with a tiny sad smile of defeat.

“Dance with him,” she says. “It’s all right. I’ll wait.”

She’s waited years and years and years to find out the truth about Stephen. And now she’s willing to wait even longer, just so I can dance with Ed.

There’s a tugging in my heart. If I could, I’d throw my arms around her.

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “It’s your turn. Ed …” I turn to him with a deep breath. “I have to tell you about my great-aunt. She died recently.”

“Oh. OK. Sure. I didn’t know.” He looks puzzled. “You want to talk over dinner?”

“No. I need to talk about it right now.” I drag him to the edge of the dance floor, away from the band. “It’s really important. Her name was Sadie, and she was in love with this guy Stephen in the 1920s. And she thought he was a bastard who used her and forgot about her. But he loved her. I know he did. Even after he went to France, he loved her.”

My words are spilling out in an urgent stream. I’m looking directly at Sadie. I have to get my message across. She has to believe me.

“How do you know?” Her chin is as haughty as ever, but her voice has a giveaway tremble. “What are you talking about?”

“I know because he wrote letters to her from France.” I speak across Ed to Sadie. “And because he put himself in the necklace. And because he never painted another portrait, his whole life. People begged him to, but he would always say,
‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peinare.’
‘I have painted the one I wanted to paint.’ And when you see the painting, you realize why. Because why would he ever want to paint anyone else after Sadie?” My throat is suddenly thick. “She was the most beautiful thing you
ever saw. She was radiant. And she was wearing this necklace. … When you see the necklace in the painting, it all makes sense. He loved her. Even if she lived her whole life without knowing it. Even if she lived to one hundred and five without ever getting an answer.” I brush away a tear from my cheek.

Ed looks lost for words. Which is hardly a surprise. One minute we’re snogging. The next I’m downloading some random torrent of family history on him.

“Where did you see the painting? Where is it?” Sadie takes a step toward me, quivering all over, her face pale. “It was lost. It was burned.”

“So, did you know your great-aunt well?” Ed is saying simultaneously.

“I didn’t know her when she was alive. But after she died I went down to Archbury, where she used to live. He’s famous.” I turn again to Sadie. “Stephen’s famous.”

“Famous?” Sadie looks bewildered.

“There’s a whole museum dedicated to him. He’s called Cecil Malory. He was discovered long after his death. And the portrait is famous too. And it was saved and it’s in a gallery and everyone loves it… and you have to see it. You have to see it.”

“Now.” Sadie’s voice is so quiet, I can barely hear her. “Please. Now.”

“Sounds awesome,” says Ed politely. “We’ll have to go see it someday. We could take in some galleries, do lunch—”

“No. Now.” I take his hand. “Right now.” I glance at Sadie. “Come on.”

We sit on the leather bench, the three of us, in a silent row. Sadie next to me. Me next to Ed. Sadie hasn’t spoken since she came into the gallery. When she first saw the portrait, I thought she might faint. She flickered silently and just stared, and then at last exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for an hour.

“Amazing eyes,” says Ed at length. He keeps shooting me wary looks, as though he’s not sure how to deal with this situation.

“Amazing.” I nod, but I can’t concentrate on him. “Are you OK?” I give Sadie a worried glance. “I know this has been a real shock for you.”

“I’m good.” Ed sounds puzzled. “Thanks for asking.”

“I’m all right.” Sadie gives me a wan smile. Then she resumes gazing at the painting. She’s already been up close to it, to see the portrait of Stephen hidden in her necklace, and her face was briefly so contorted with love and sorrow that I had to turn away and give her a moment of privacy.

“They’ve done some research at the gallery,” I say to Ed. “She’s the most popular painting here. They’re going to launch a range of products with her picture on them. Like posters and coffee mugs. She’s going to be famous!”

“Coffee mugs.” Sadie tosses her head. “How terribly vulgar.” But I can see a sudden glimmer of pride in her eyes. “What else will I be on?”

“And tea towels, jigsaw puzzles …” I say as though informing Ed. “You name it. If she was ever worried about not making any mark on this world …” I leave my words trailing in the air.

“Quite the famous relative you have.” Ed raises his eyebrows. “Your family must be very proud.”

“Not really,” I say after a pause. “But they will be.”

“Mabel.” Ed is consulting the guidebook which he insisted on buying at the entrance. “It says here:
The sitter is thought to be called Mabel
.

“That’s what they thought.” I nod. “Because the painting says
My Mabel
on the back.”

“Mabel?”
Sadie swivels around, looking so horrified I can’t help snorting with laughter.

“I told them it was a joke between her and Cecil Malory,” I hastily explain. “It was her nickname, but everyone thought it was real.”

“Do I
look
like a Mabel?”

A movement attracts my attention and I look up. To my surprise, Malcolm Gledhill is entering the gallery. As he sees me, he gives a sheepish smile and shifts his briefcase from one hand to another.

“Oh, Miss Lington. Hello. After our conversation today, I just thought I’d come and have another look at her.”

“Me too.” I nod. “I’d like to introduce…” Abruptly I realize I’m about to introduce Sadie to him. “Ed.” I quickly switch my hand to the other direction. “This is Ed Harrison. Malcolm Gledhill. He’s in charge of the collection.”

Malcolm joins the three of us on the bench, and for a moment we all just look at the painting.

“So you’ve had the painting in the gallery since 1982,” says Ed, still reading the guidebook. “Why did the family get rid of it? Strange move.”

“Good question,” says Sadie, suddenly waking up. “It belonged to me. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”

“Good question,” I echo firmly. “It belonged to Sadie. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”

“And what I want to know is, who
did
sell it?” she adds.

“Who
did
sell it?” I echo.

“Who
did
sell it?” repeats Ed.

Malcolm Gledhill shifts uncomfortably on the bench.

“As I said today, Miss Lington, it was a confidential arrangement. Until such time as a formal legal claim is made, the gallery is unable to—”

“OK, OK,” I cut him off. “I get it, you can’t tell me. But I’m going to find out. That painting belonged to my family. We deserve to know.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Ed is finally showing a real interest in the story. “Someone
stole
the painting?”

“Dunno.” I shrug. “It was missing for years, and then I found it here. All I know is, it was sold to the gallery in the 1980s, but I don’t know who sold it.”

“Do you know?” Ed turns to Malcolm Gledhill.

“I… do.” He nods reluctantly.

“Well, can’t you tell her?”

“Not… well… no.”

“Is this some official secret?” demands Ed. “Does it involve weapons of mass destruction? Is national security at stake?”

“Not so to speak.” Malcolm looks more flustered than ever. “But there was a confidentiality clause in the agreement—”

“OK.” Ed snaps into his business-consultant, taking-command-of-the-situation mode. “I’ll have an attorney on this in the morning. This is ridiculous.”

“Absolutely ridiculous,” I chime in, bolstered by Ed’s bullish attitude. “And we won’t stand for it. Are you aware my uncle is Bill Lington? I know he will use every resource to fight this … ridiculous confidentiality. It’s
our painting.”

Malcolm Gledhill looks utterly beleaguered.

“The agreement clearly states…” he manages at last, then trails off. I can see his eyes constantly flicking toward his briefcase.

“Is the file in there?” I say, in sudden inspiration.

“As it happens, it is,” says Malcolm Gledhill guardedly. “I’m taking the papers home to study. Copies, of course.”

“So you could show the agreement to us,” says Ed, lowering his voice. “We won’t snitch.”

“I could not show you anything!” Malcolm Gledhill nearly falls off the bench in horror. “That, as I keep repeating, is confidential information.”

“Of course it is.” I adopt a soothing voice. “We understand that. But maybe you could do me a small favor and check the date of acquisition? That’s not confidential, is it?”

Ed gives me a questioning glance, but I pretend I haven’t noticed. Another plan has occurred to me. One which Ed won’t understand.

“It was June 1982, as I remember,” says Malcolm Gledhill.

“But the exact date? Could you just have a quick look at the agreement?” I open my eyes innocently at him. “Please? It could be very helpful.”

Malcolm Gledhill gives me a suspicious look but obviously can’t think of any reason to refuse. He bends down, clicks open his briefcase, and draws out a file of papers.

I catch Sadie’s eye and jerk my head surreptitiously at Malcolm Gledhill.

“What?” she says.

For God’s sake. And she calls
me
slow.

I jerk my head again at Malcolm Gledhill, who is now smoothing out a sheet of paper.

“What?” she repeats impatiently. “What are you trying to say?”

“Here we are.” He puts on a pair of reading glasses. “Let me find the date. …”

My neck’s going to crick if I jerk my head any more. I honestly think I’m going to die of frustration in a minute. There’s the information we want. Right there. Open for anyone to read who happens to be of a ghostly invisible nature. And still Sadie is peering at me uncomprehendingly.

“Look!” I mutter, out of the corner of my mouth. “Look at it!
Look at it!”

“Oh!” Her face snaps in sudden understanding. A nanosecond later she’s standing behind Malcolm Gledhill, peering over his shoulder.

“Look at what?” says Ed, sounding puzzled, but I barely hear him. I’m avidly watching Sadie as she reads, frowns, gives a small gasp—then looks up.

“William Lington. He sold it for five hundred thousand pounds.”

“William Lington?” I stare back at her stupidly. “You mean … Uncle Bill?”

The effect of my words on Malcolm Gledhill is extreme and
immediate. He starts violently, clutches the letter to his chest, turns white, turns pink, looks at the letter, then clasps it close again. “What—what did you say?”

I’m having a hard time digesting this myself.

“William Lington sold the painting to the gallery.” I try to sound firm, but my voice is coming out faint. “That’s the name on the agreement.”

“You are fucking kidding.” Ed’s eyes gleam. “Your own uncle?”

“For half a million pounds.”

Malcolm Gledhill looks like he wants to burst into tears. “I don’t know how you got that information.” He appeals to Ed. “You will be a witness to the fact I did not reveal any information to Miss Lington.”

“So she’s right?” says Ed, raising his eyebrows. This only seems to panic Malcolm Gledhill more.

“I can’t say whether or not—whether—” He breaks off and wipes his brow. “At no stage was the agreement out of my sight, at no stage did I let it into her view—”

“You didn’t have to,” says Ed reassuringly. “She’s psychic.”

My mind is going around in circles as I try to get over my shock and think this all through. Uncle Bill had the painting. Uncle Bill sold the painting. Dad’s voice keeps running through my mind:
… put in a storage unit and left there for years. Nobody could face dealing with it. It was Bill who sorted it all out. … Strange to imagine, but Bill was the idler in those days
.

It’s all obvious. He must have found the painting all those years ago, realized it was valuable, and sold it to the London Portrait Gallery in a secret agreement.

“Are you OK?” Ed touches my arm. “Lara?”

But I can’t move. Now my mind is moving in bigger circles. Wilder circles. I’m putting two and two together. I’m putting eight and eight together. And I’m making a hundred million.

Bill set up Lingtons Coffee in 1982.

The same year he secretly made half a million from selling Sadie’s painting.

And now, finally,
finally…
it’s all falling into place. It’s all making sense. He had £500,000 that no one knew about, £500,000 that he’s never mentioned. Not in any interview. Not in any seminar. Not in any book.

I feel light-headed. The enormity of this is only slowly sinking in. The whole thing is a lie. The whole world thinks he’s a business genius who started with two little coins. Half a million notes, more like.

And he covered it up so no one would know. He must have realized the painting was of Sadie as soon as he saw it. He must have realized it belonged to her. But he let the world believe it was some servant called Mabel. He probably fed them that story himself. That way, no one would come knocking on any Lington’s door, asking about the beautiful girl in the painting.