Twenties Girl

“What?”

“Funeral,” says Mum, in her “discreet” voice.

“Exactly.” Dad nods. “It’s something we’ve been meaning to bring up. Obviously once the police were sure she hadn’t been…”

“Murdered,” puts in Mum.

“Quite. Once the file was closed, the police released her… that’s to say…”

“Remains,” says Mum in a whisper.

“You haven’t done it yet.” I feel a bolt of panic. “Please tell me you haven’t had her funeral.”

“No, no! It was provisionally set for this Friday. We were pla

Yeah, right.

“Anyway!” says Mum quickly. “That was before.”

“Quite. Obviously things have somewhat changed now,” Dad continues. “So if you would like to be involved in pla

“Yes. I would like to be involved,” I say, almost fiercely. “In fact, I think I’ll take charge.”

“Right.” Dad glances at Mum. “Well. Absolutely. I think that would only be right, given the amount of… of research you’ve done on her life.”

“We do think you’re a marvel, Lara,” says Mum with a sudden fervor. “Finding all this out. Who would have known, without you? The story might never have come out at all! We might all have gone to our deaths, never knowing the truth!”

Trust Mum to bring all our deaths into it.

“Here are the funeral directors’ details, darling.” Dad hands me a leaflet, and I awkwardly pocket it, just as the buzzer goes. I head to the video intercom and peer at the grainy black-and-white image on the little screen. I think it’s a man, although the image is so crap, it could equally well be an elephant.

“Hello?”

“It’s Gareth Birch from Print Please,” says the man. “I’ve got your business cards here.”

“Oh, cool! Bring them up!”

This is it. Now I know I really have a business. I have business cards!

I usher Gareth Birch into our office, excitedly open the box, and hand cards around to everyone. They say Lara Lington, Magic Search, and there’s a little embossed picture of a tiny magic wand.

“How come you delivered them personally?” I ask as I sign the delivery form. “I mean, it’s very kind, but aren’t you based in Hackney? Weren’t you going to send them by post?”

“I thought I’d do you a favor,” Gareth Birch says, giving me a glassy stare. “I value your business greatly, and it’s the least I can do.”

“What?” I stare at him, puzzled.

“I value your business greatly,” he repeats, sounding a bit robotic. “It’s the least I can do.”

Oh my God. Sadie. What’s she been doing?

“Well… thanks very much,” I say, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I appreciate it. And I’ll recommend you to all my friends!”

Gareth Birch makes his exit and I busy myself unpacking the boxes of cards, aware of Mum and Dad looking at me, agog.

“Did he just bring these himself, all the way from Hackney?” says Dad at last.

“Looks like it.” I try to sound breezy, as though this is a normal course of events. Luckily, before they can say anything else, the phone rings and I hurry to answer it.

“Hello, Magic Search.”

“May I speak to Lara Lington, please?” It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize.

“Speaking.” I sit down on one of the new swivel chairs, hoping she doesn’t hear the crunch of plastic. “Can I help?”

“This is Pauline Reed. I’m head of human resources at Wheeler Foods. I was wondering, would you like to come in for a chat? I’ve heard good things about you.”

“Oh, how nice!” I beam over the phone. “From whom, may I ask? Janet Grady?”

There’s silence. When Pauline Reed speaks again, she sounds puzzled.

“I don’t quite recall who. But you have a great reputation for sourcing talent, and I want to meet you. Something tells me you can do good things for our business.”

Sadie.

“Well… that would be great!” I gather my wits. “Let me look at my schedule…” I open it and fix up an appointment. As I put the phone down, both Mum and Dad are watching with a kind of eager hopefulness.

“Good news, darling?” says Dad.

“Just the head of human resources at Wheeler Foods,” I say casually. “She wanted a meeting.”

“Wheeler Foods who make Oatie Breakfast Treats?” Mum sounds beside herself.

“Yup.” I can’t help beaming. “Looks like my guardian angel’s watching out for me.”

“Hello!” Kate’s bright voice interrupts me as she bursts through the door, holding a big flower arrangement. “Look what’s just been delivered! Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lington,” she adds politely. “Do you like our new office? Isn’t it great?”

I take the flower arrangement from Kate and rip open the little card.

“To all at Magic Search,” I read aloud. “We hope to get to know you as clients and as friends. Yours, Brian Chalmers. Head of Global Human Resources at Dwyer Dunbar plc. And he’s given his private line number.”

“How amazing!” Kate’s eyes are wide. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone at Dwyer Dunbar?”

“Er… no.”

Mum and Dad both seem beyond speech. I think I’d better get them out of here before anything else crazy happens.

“We’re going to lunch at the pizza place,” I inform Kate. “Want to come?”

“I’ll be along in a sec.” She nods cheerfully. “I need to sort a few things out first.”

I usher Mum and Dad out of the office, down the steps, and onto the street. An elderly vicar in a clerical collar and robes is standing directly outside on the pavement, looking a bit lost, and I approach him, wondering if he’s OK.

“Hi. Do you know where you are? Can I give you directions?”

“Well… yes, I am a stranger to the area.” He gives me a dazed look. “I’m looking for number 59.”

“That’s this building-look.” I point to our foyer, where 59 is embossed on the glass.

“Ah, yes, so it is!” His face clears and he approaches the entrance. But to my surprise he doesn’t go in. He just raises his hand and starts making the sign of the cross.

“Lord, I call on you to bless all who work in this building,” he says, his voice a little quavery. “Bless all endeavors and businesses within, particularly at this time Magic-”

No way.

“So!” I grab Mum and Dad. “Let’s go and get some pizza.”

“Lara,” says Dad weakly, as I practically manhandle him down the street. “Am I going mad, or was that vicar-”

“I think I’ll have Four Seasons,” I interrupt him brightly. “And some dough balls. How about you two?”

I think Mum and Dad have given up. They’re just going with the flow. By the time we’ve all had a glass of valpolicella, everyone’s smiling and the tricky questions have stopped. We’ve all chosen our pizzas and are stuffing in hot, garlicky dough balls, and I’m feeling pretty happy.

Even when Tonya arrives, I can’t get stressed. It was Mum and Dad’s idea to ask her along, and the truth is, even though she winds me up, she’s family. I’m starting to appreciate what that means.

“Oh my God.” Her strident greeting rings through the restaurant, and about twenty heads turn. “Oh my God. Can you believe all this stuff about Uncle Bill?”

As she arrives at our table, she’s obviously expecting a bit more of a reaction.

“Hi, Tonya,” I say. “How are the boys? How’s Stuart?”

“Can you believe it?” she repeats, giving us all dissatisfied looks. “Have you seen the papers? I mean, it can’t be true. It’s tabloid rubbish. Someone’s got an agenda somewhere.”

“I think it is true,” Dad corrects her mildly. “I think he admits as much himself.”

“But have you seen what they’ve written about him?”

“Yes.” Mum reaches for the valpolicella. “We have. Wine, darling?”

“But…” Tonya sinks down into a chair and looks around at us all with an aggrieved, bewildered expression. She clearly thought we would all be up in arms on Uncle Bill’s behalf. Not merrily tucking into dough balls.