Twenties Girl - Kinsella Sophie - Страница 83

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“Lara?” Ed’s waving a hand in front of my face. “Speak to me. What is it?”

“The year 1982.” I look up in a daze. “Sound familiar? That’s when Uncle Bill started up Lingtons Coffee. You know? With his famous ‘Two Little Coins.’” I do quote marks with my fingers. “Or was there, in fact, half a million pounds which started him off? Which he somehow forgot to mention because it wasn’t his in the first place?”

There’s silence. I can see the pieces falling into place in Ed’s mind.

“Jesus Christ,” he says at last, and looks up at me. “This is huge. Huge.”

“I know.” I swallow. “Huge.”

“So the whole Two Little Coins story, the seminars, the book, the DVD, the movie…”

“All complete bullshit.”

“If I were Pierce Brosnan, I’d be calling my agent right about now.” Ed raises his eyebrows comically.

I’d want to laugh, too, if I didn’t want to cry. If I wasn’t so sad and furious and sick at what Uncle Bill did.

That was Sadie’s painting. It was hers to sell or keep. He took it and he used it and he never breathed a word. How dare he? How dare he?

With sickening clarity, I can see a parallel universe in which someone else, someone decent like my dad, had found the painting and done the right thing. I can see Sadie sitting in her nursing home, wearing her necklace, looking at her beautiful painting throughout her old age, until the very last light faded from her eyes.

Or maybe she would have sold it. But it would have been hers to sell. It would have been her glory. I can see her brought out of her nursing home and shown the painting hanging in the London Portrait Gallery. I can see the joy that would have given her. And I can even see her sitting in her chair, having Stephen’s letters read aloud to her by some kind archivist.

Uncle Bill robbed her of years and years of possible happiness. And I’ll never forgive him.

“She should have known.” I can’t contain my anger anymore. “Sadie should have known she was hanging up here. She went to her death with no idea. And that was wrong. It was wrong.”

I glance over at Sadie, who has wandered away from the conversation as though she’s not interested. She shrugs, as though to brush away all my angst and fury.

“Darling, don’t drone on about it. Too dull. At least I’ve found it now. At least it wasn’t destroyed. And at least I don’t look as fat as I remember,” she adds with sudden animation. “My arms look rather wonderful, don’t they? I always did have good arms.”

“Too twiggy for my taste,” I can’t help shooting back.

“At least they’re not pillows.”

Sadie meets my eyes and we exchange wary smiles. Her bravado doesn’t fool me. She’s pale and flickery, and I can tell this discovery has thrown her. But her chin is up, high and proud as ever.

Malcolm Gledhill is still looking deeply uncomfortable. “If we’d realized she was still alive, if anyone had told us-”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, my anger abated a little. “We didn’t even know it was her ourselves.”

Because Uncle Bill didn’t say a word. Because he covered the whole thing up with an anonymous deal. No wonder he wanted the necklace. It was the only thing left linking Sadie to her portrait. It was the only thing which might uncover his massive con trick. This painting must have been a time bomb for him, ticking away quietly all these years. And now, finally, it’s gone off. Boom. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to avenge Sadie. Big-time.

All four of us have silently, gradually, turned to face the painting again. It’s almost impossible to sit in this gallery and not end up staring at it.

“I told you that she’s the most popular painting in the gallery,” says Malcolm Gledhill presently. “I spoke to the marketing department today, and they’re making her the face of the gallery. She’ll be used in every campaign.”

“I want to be on a lipstick,” says Sadie, suddenly turning with determination. “A lovely bright lipstick.”

“She should be on a lipstick,” I say firmly to Malcolm Gledhill. “And you should name it after her. That’s what she would have wanted.”

“I’ll see what we can do.” He looks a little flustered. “It’s not really my area.”

“I’ll let you know what else she would have wanted.” I wink at Sadie. “I’ll be acting as her unofficial agent from now on.”

“I wonder what she’s thinking,” says Ed, still gazing up at her. “That’s quite an intriguing expression she has.”

“I often wonder that myself,” chimes in Malcolm Gledhill eagerly. “She seems to have such a look of serenity and happiness… Obviously, from what you’ve said, she had a certain emotional connection with the painter Malory… I often wonder if he was reading her poetry as he painted…”

“What an idiot this man is,” says Sadie scathingly in my ear. “It’s obvious what I’m thinking. I’m looking at Stephen and I’m thinking, I want to jump his bones.”

“She wanted to jump his bones,” I say to Malcolm Gledhill. Ed shoots me a disbelieving look, then bursts into laughter.

“I should be going.” Malcolm Gledhill has clearly had enough of us for one night. He picks up his briefcase, nods at us, then swiftly walks away. A few seconds later I can hear him practically running down the marble stairs. I look at Ed and grin.

“Sorry about the diversion.”

“No problem.” He gives me a quizzical look. “So… any other old masters you want to unveil tonight? Any long-lost family sculptures? Any more psychic revelations? Or shall we go get some dinner?”

“Dinner.” I stand up and look at Sadie. She’s still sitting there, her feet up on the bench and her yellow dress flowing around her, gazing up at her twenty-three-year-old self as though she wants to drink herself in. “Coming?” I say softly.

“Sure,” says Ed.

“Not quite yet,” says Sadie, without moving her head. “You go. I’ll see you later.”

I follow Ed to the exit, then turn and give Sadie one last anxious look. I just want to make sure she’s OK. But she doesn’t even notice me. She’s still transfixed. Like she wants to sit there all night with the painting. Like she wants to make up for all the time she lost.

Like, finally, she’s found what she was looking for.

I’ve never avenged anyone before. And I’m finding it a lot trickier than I expected. Uncle Bill is abroad and no one can get in contact with him. (Well, of course they can get hold of him. They’re just not going to do so for the crazy stalker niece.) I don’t want to write to him or make a phone call. This has to be done face-to-face. So at the moment, it’s impossible.

And it’s not helped by Sadie going all moral-high-ground on me. She thinks there’s no point dwelling on the past, and what’s done is done, and I should stop “droning on about it, darling.”

But I don’t care what she thinks. Vengeance will be mine. The more I think about what Uncle Bill did, the more livid I am, and the more I want to phone up Dad and blurt it all out. But somehow I’m keeping control. There’s no rush. Everyone knows revenge is a dish best served when you’ve had enough time to build up enough vitriol and fury. Plus, it’s not like my evidence is going anywhere. The painting is hardly going to disappear from the London Portrait Gallery. Nor is the so-called confidential agreement that Uncle Bill signed all those years ago. Ed’s already hired a lawyer for me, and he’s going to start formal claim proceedings as soon I give him the say-so. Which I’m going to do as soon as I’ve confronted Uncle Bill myself and seen him squirm. That’s my aim. If he grovels it’ll be the icing on the cake, but I’m not that hopeful.

I heave a sigh, screw up a piece of paper, and throw it into the bin. I want to see him squirm now. I’ve honed my vengeance speech and everything.

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