Twenties Girl

Sadie’s portrait has been on every single front cover. The London Portrait Gallery has been besieged. She’s like the new Mona Lisa. Only better, because the painting’s so massive there’s room for loads of people to look at her at once. (And she’s way prettier. I’m just saying.) We’ve gone back there a few times ourselves, just to see the crowds and hear all the nice things they say about her. She’s even got a fan site on the Internet.

As for Uncle Bill’s book, he can say all he likes about business principles, but it won’t do any good. Two Little Coins has become the biggest object of ridicule since the Mille

I’m flicking through an editorial about him in today’s Mail when my phone bleeps with a text: Hi I’m outside. Ed.

This is one of the many good things about Ed. He’s never late. Happily, I grab my bag, bang the flat door shut, and head down the stairs. Kate and I are moving in to our new office today, and Ed’s promised to come and see it on his way to work. As I arrive on the pavement, there he is, holding a massive bunch of red roses.

“For the office,” he says, presenting them to me with a kiss.

“Thanks!” I beam. “Everyone will be staring at me on the tube.” I stop in surprise as Ed puts a hand on my arm.

“I thought we could take my car today,” he says conversationally.

“Your car?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods at a smart black Aston Martin parked nearby.

“That’s yours?” I goggle at it in disbelief. “But… but… how?”

“Bought it. You know, car showroom… credit card… usual process… Thought I’d better buy British,” he adds with a wry smile.

He bought an Aston Martin? Just like that?

“But you’ve never driven on the left.” I feel a sudden alarm. “Have you been driving that thing?”

“Relax. I took the test last week. Boy, you have a fucked-up system.”

“No we don’t,” I begin automatically.

“Stick shifts are the work of the devil. And don’t even get me started on your right turn rules.”

I can’t believe this. He’s kept this totally quiet. He never mentioned cars, or driving… or anything.

“But… why?” I can’t help blurting out.

“Someone told me once,” he says thoughtfully, “if you’re going to live in a country, for however long, you should engage with it. And what better way to engage than learning how to drive in that country? Now, you want a ride or not?”

He opens the door with a gallant gesture. Still flabbergasted, I slide into the passenger seat. This is a seriously smart car. In fact, I don’t dare put my roses down in case they scratch the leather.

“I learned all the British curses too,” Ed adds as he pulls out into the road. “Get a move on, you nobhead!” He puts on a Cockney accent, and I can’t help giggling.

“Very good.” I nod. “What about ‘That’s right out of order, you wanker!’”

“I was told ‘Bang out of order, you wanker,’” says Ed. “Was I misinformed?”

“No, that’s OK too. But you need to work on the accent.” I watch as he changes gear efficiently and cruises past a red bus. “But I don’t understand. This is a really expensive car. What will you do with it when-” I stop myself before I can say any more, and cough feebly.

“What?” Ed may be driving, but he’s as alert as ever.

“Nothing.” I lower my chin until my face is practically nestling in the rose bouquet. “Nothing.”

I was going to say, “when you go back to the States.” But that’s something we just don’t talk about.

There’s silence-then Ed shoots me a cryptic look. “Who knows what I’ll do?”

The tour of the office doesn’t take that long. In fact, we’re pretty much done by 9:05 a.m. Ed looks at everything twice and says it’s all great, and gives me a list of contacts who might be helpful, then has to leave for his own office. And then, about an hour later, just as I’m elbow deep in rose stems and water and a hastily bought vase, Mum and Dad arrive, also bearing flowers, and a bottle of champagne, and a new box of paper clips, which is Dad’s little joke.

And even though I’ve only just showed the place to Ed, and even though it’s just a room with a window and a pin board and two doors and two desks… I can’t help feeling a buzz as I lead them around. It’s mine. My space. My company.

“It’s very smart.” Mum peers out of the window. “But, darling, are you sure you can afford it? Wouldn’t you have been better off staying with Natalie?”

Honestly. How many times do you have to explain to your parents that your former best friend is an obnoxious, unscrupulous total liability for them to believe you?

“I’m better off on my own, Mum, honestly. Look, this is my business plan…”

I hand them the document, which is bound and numbered and looks so smart I can hardly believe I put it together. Every time I read it I feel a fierce thrill, mixed with yearning. If I make a success of Magic Search, my life will be complete.

I said that to Sadie this morning as we were reading yet more articles about her in the paper. She was silent for a moment, then to my surprise she stood up with a weird light in her eye and said, “I’m your guardian angel! I should make it a success.” And then she disappeared. So I have a sneaky feeling she’s up to something. As long as it doesn’t involve any more blind dates.

“Very impressive!” says Dad, flipping through the plan.

“I got some advice from Ed,” I confess. “He’s been really helpful with all the Uncle Bill stuff too. He helped me do that statement. And he was the one who said we should hire a publicist to manage the press. Did you see the Mail piece today, by the way?”

“Ah, yes,” says Dad faintly, exchanging looks with Mum. “We did.”

To say my parents are gobsmacked by everything that’s happened recently would be an understatement. I’ve never seen them so poleaxed as I when I rocked up at the front door, told them Uncle Bill wanted to have a word, turned back to the limo, and said, “OK, in you go,” with a jerk of my thumb. And Uncle Bill got out of the car silently, with a set jaw, and did everything I said.

Neither of my parents could manage a word. It was as though sausages had suddenly started growing out of my head. Even after Uncle Bill had gone and I said, “Any questions?” they didn’t speak. They just sat on the sofa, staring at me in a kind of stupefied awe. Even now, when they’ve thawed a little and the whole story is out and it’s not such a shock anymore, they still keep darting me looks of awe.

Well. Why shouldn’t they? I have been pretty awesome, though I say so myself. I masterminded the whole press exposé, together with Ed’s help, and it’s gone perfectly. At least, perfectly from my point of view. Maybe not from Uncle Bill’s point of view. Or Aunt Trudy’s. The day the story broke, she flew to a spa in Arizona and checked in indefinitely. God knows if we’ll ever see her again.

Diamanté, on the other hand, has totally cashed in on it. She’s already done a photoshoot for Tatler with a mock-up of Sadie’s painting, and she’s using the whole story to publicize her fashion label. Which is really, really tacky. And also quite smart. I can’t help admiring her chutzpah. I mean, it’s not her fault her dad is such a tosser, is it?

I secretly wish Diamanté and Great-Aunt Sadie could meet. I think they’d get on. They’ve got a lot in common, even though they’d each probably be horrified at that idea.

“Lara.” I look up to see Dad approaching me. He looks awkward and keeps glancing at Mum. “We wanted to talk to you about Great-Aunt Sadie’s…” He coughs.