Twenties Girl (27 page)

Josh frowns irritably. “What else would there be?”

“The photo of us!” I’m scrabbling desperately. “On your phone. You must have kept that for a reason.”

“Oh. That.” Josh’s face softens, exactly the same way I saw it soften before when he looked at the two of us on that mountain. “I love that picture.” He gets his phone out and looks at it. “My favorite view in all the world.”

His favorite view.

“I see,” I say at last. My throat is aching from trying not to cry. I think, finally, I do see.

For a while I can’t say a word. I’m just circling the rim of my wineglass around and around with my finger, unable to look up. I was so convinced. I was so sure that once he was back with me he’d realize. We’d click. It would be fantastic, like it was before.

But maybe I’ve been thinking about a different Josh all this time. There was real-life Josh and there was Josh-in-my-head. And they were almost,
almost
exactly the same, except for one tiny detail.

One loved me and the other one didn’t.

I lift my head and look at him now as though for the first time. At his handsome face; his T-shirt with some obscure band logo, the silver bracelet he always wears around his wrist. He’s still the same person. There’s nothing wrong with him. It’s just … I’m not the violin to his bow.

“Have you ever been to Geneva?” Josh is saying, and my thoughts are wrenched back to the present.

For God’s sake. Geneva. A zoo. How did Sadie
think
of all this stuff? She’s totally screwed with his mind. She’s so irresponsible.

Thank God she’s stuck to meddling with my love life, I think grimly. Thank God she hasn’t gone around trying to influence any world leaders or anything. She would have caused global meltdown.

“Josh, listen,” I say at last. “I don’t think you should move to Geneva. Or train as an astrophysicist. Or open a zoo. Or …” I swallow hard, psyching myself up to say it. “Or … be with me.”

“What?”

“I think this is all a mistake.” I gesture at the table. “And … it’s my fault. I’m sorry for pestering you all this time, Josh. I should have let you get on with your life. I won’t bother you again.”

Josh looks poleaxed. But then, he’s looked fairly poleaxed throughout most of the conversation.

“Are you … sure?” he says feebly.

“Totally.” As the waiter approaches the table, I close the menu I’m holding. “We’re not going to eat anything after all. Just the bill, please.”

As I walk back to the office from the tube, I feel almost numb. I turned Josh down.
I
told
him
we weren’t right together. I can’t quite process the enormity of what just happened.

I know I did the right thing. I know Josh doesn’t love me. I know Josh-in-my-head was a fantasy. And I know I’ll come to terms with it. But it’s hard to accept. Especially when I could have had him so easily. So
easily
.

“So!” Sadie’s voice jolts me out of my reverie. She’s obviously been waiting for me. “Did I prove a point? Don’t tell me, it’s all over between you.”

“Geneva?” I say coldly. “Astrophysics?”

Sadie bursts into giggles. “Too funny!”

She thinks it’s all just entertainment. I
hate
her.

“So what happened?” She’s bobbing around, her face lit up with glee. “Did he say he wanted to open a zoo?”

She wants to hear that she was completely right and it’s all over and it was all down to her super-skills, doesn’t she? Well, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. I’m not going to have her exulting over me. Even if she
was
completely right and it
is
all over and it
was
all down to her super-skills.

“Zoo?” I adopt a perplexed expression. “No, Josh never mentioned any zoo. Should he have?”

“Oh.” Sadie stops bobbing.

“He mentioned Geneva briefly, but then he realized that was a ridiculous idea. Then he said he’d been hearing this really annoying, whiny voice in his head recently.” I shrug. “He said he was sorry if he hadn’t been making much sense. But the most important thing was, he wanted to be with me. And then we agreed to take things slowly and sensibly.” I stride on, avoiding her eyes.

“You mean … you’re still seeing each other?” Sadie sounds astounded.

“Of course we are,” I say, as though surprised she’s even asking. “You know, it takes more than a ghost with a loud voice to break up a real relationship.”

Sadie looks utterly flummoxed.

“You can’t be serious.” She finds her voice. “You
can’t
be.”

“Well, I am,” I shoot back, as my phone buzzes with a text. I glance down, and it’s from Ed.

Hey. R u still on for sightseeing on Sunday? E

“That was from Josh.” I smile lovingly at my phone. “We’re meeting up on Sunday.”

“To get married and have six children?” says Sadie sarcastically. But she sounds on the defensive.

“You know, Sadie,” I give her a patronizing smile, “you may be able to sway people’s heads. But you can’t sway their hearts.”

Ha. Take that, ghostie
.

Sadie glowers at me, and I can tell she can’t think of a reply. She looks so disconcerted, I almost feel cheered up. I swing around the corner and into the door of our building.

“There’s a girl in your office, by the way,” says Sadie, following me. “I don’t like the look of her one little bit.”

“Girl? What girl?” I hurry up the stairs, wondering if Shireen has come by. I push open the door, stride in—and stop dead with shock.

It’s Natalie.

What the hell is Natalie doing here?

She’s right there in front of me. Sitting in
my
chair. Talking on
my
phone. She’s looking deeply tanned and wearing a white shirt with a navy pencil skirt, and laughing throatily at something. As she sees me, she demonstrates no surprise, just gives me a wink.

“Well, thanks, Janet. I’m glad you appreciate the work,” she
says in her confident, drawling way. “You’re right—Clare Fortescue has hidden her light under a bushel. Hugely talented. Perfect for you. I was determined to woo her. … No, thank
you
. That’s my job, Janet, that’s why you pay me my commission. …” She gives that deep, throaty laugh again.

I shoot a shocked glance over at Kate, who gives me a helpless shrug.

“We’ll be in touch.” Natalie’s still talking. “Yeah, I’ll talk to Lara. She obviously has a few things to learn, but… Well, yes, I did have to pick up the pieces, but she’s a promising girl. Don’t write her off.” She winks at me again. “OK, thanks, Janet. We’ll do lunch. Take care now.” As I stare in disbelief, Natalie puts down the phone, swivels around, and smiles at me lazily. “So. How’s tricks?”

NINETEEN

t’s Sunday morning, and I’m still seething. At myself. How could I be so
lame?

On Friday I was so shocked that somehow I let Natalie take charge of the situation. I didn’t confront her. I didn’t make any of my points. They were all buzzing around my head like trapped flies.

I know
now
all the things I should have said to her. I should have said, “You can’t just come back and act like nothing’s happened.” And: “How about an apology for leaving us in the lurch?” And: “Don’t you dare take credit for finding Clare Fortescue; that was all down to me!”

And maybe even: “So you were fired from your last job, huh? When were you planning to tell me that?”

But I didn’t say any of those things. I just gasped and said feebly, “Natalie! Wow! How come you’re—What—”

And she launched into a long story about how the guy in Goa turned out to be a two-timing asshole, and there’s only so much
downtime you can have before you go crazy, and she’d decided to surprise me, and wasn’t I relieved?

“Natalie,” I began, “it’s been really stressy with you gone—”

“Welcome to big business.” She winked at me. “Stress comes with the territory.”

“But you just disappeared! We didn’t have any warning! We had to pick up all the pieces—”

“Lara.” She held out a hand, as though to say,
Calm down
. “I know. It was tough. But it’s OK. Whatever fuckups happened while I was gone, I’m here to put them right. Hello, Graham?” She turned to the phone. “Natalie Masser here.”

And she carried on all afternoon, moving seamlessly from phone call to phone call, so I couldn’t get a word in. As she left for the evening, she was gabbing on her mobile and just gave Kate and me a casual wave.

So that’s it. She’s back. She’s acting like she’s the boss and she did nothing wrong and we should all be really grateful to her for coming back.

If she winks at me one more time, I will
throttle
her.

Miserably, I wrench my hair into a ponytail. I’m barely making any effort today. Sightseeing does
not
require a flapper dress. And Sadie still thinks I’m going out with Josh, so she’s not bossing me around for once.

I eye Sadie surreptitiously as I do my blusher. I feel a bit bad, lying to her. But then, she shouldn’t have been so obnoxious.

“I don’t want you coming along,” I warn her for the millionth time. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wouldn’t
dream
of coming along!” she retorts, affronted. “You think I want to trail along beside you and the ventriloquist’s dummy? I’m going to watch television. There’s a Fred Astaire special today. Edna and I will have a lovely day together.”

“Good. Well, give her my love,” I say sarcastically.

Sadie’s found an old woman called Edna who lives a few streets away and does nothing but watch black-and-white films. She goes there most days now, sits on the sofa beside Edna, and
watches a movie. She says the only problem comes when Edna gets phone calls and talks through the movie—so now she’s taken to yelling,
“Shut up! Finish your phone call!”
right in Edna’s ear. Whereupon Edna gets all flustered and sometimes even thrusts the phone down mid-sentence.

Poor Edna.

I finish doing my blusher and stare at my reflection. Black skinny jeans, silver ballet pumps, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Normal, 2009-style makeup. Ed probably won’t recognize me. I should stick a feather in my hair just so he knows it’s me.

The thought makes me snort with laughter, and Sadie glances at me suspiciously.

“What’s funny?” She looks me up and down. “Are you going out like that? I’ve never
seen
such a dull ensemble. Josh will take one look at you and expire of boredom. If you don’t expire of boredom first.”

Oh, ha ha. But maybe she has a point. Maybe I’ve dressed down
too
much.

I find myself reaching for one of my twenties vintage necklaces and looping it around my neck. The silver and jet beads fall down in rows and click together as I move, and at once I feel a bit more interesting. More glamorous.

I line my lips again in a darker color, giving them a bit more of a twenties shape. Then I pick up a vintage silver leather clutch and survey myself again.

“Much better!” says Sadie. “And what about a darling little cloche?”

“No, thanks.” I roll my eyes.

“If it were me, I’d wear a hat,” she persists.

“Well, I don’t want to look like you.” I throw back my hair and smile at myself. “I want to look like me.”

I suggested to Ed that we start off our tour at the Tower of London, and as I come out of the tube station into the crisp air, I feel
immediately cheered. Never mind about Natalie. Never mind about Josh. Never mind about the necklace. Look at all this. It’s fantastic! Ancient stone battlements, towering against the blue sky as they have done for centuries. Beefeaters wandering about in their red and navy costumes, like something out of a fairy tale. This is the kind of place that makes you feel proud to be a born-and-bred Londoner. How could Ed not even have bothered to come here? It’s, like, one of the wonders of the world!

Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually visited the Tower of London myself. I mean, gone in or anything. But that’s different. I live here. I don’t have to.

“Lara! Over here!”

Ed’s already in the queue for tickets. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, either, which is interesting. I had him down as someone who’d look smart even at the weekend. As I draw near, he looks me up and down with a little smile.

“So you do sometimes wear clothes from the twenty-first century.”

“Very occasionally.” I grin back.

“I was convinced you were going to turn up in another twenties dress. In fact, I found an accessory for myself. Just to keep you company.” He reaches in his pocket and produces a small rectangular case made of battered silver. He springs it open and I see a deck of playing cards.

“Cool!” I say, impressed. “Where did you get this?”

“Bid for it on eBay.” He shrugs. “I always carry a deck of cards. It’s 1925,” he adds, showing me a tiny hallmark.

I can’t help feeling touched that he went to that effort.

“I love it.” I look up as we arrive at the head of the queue. “Two adults, please. This is on me,” I add firmly as Ed makes to get out his wallet. “I’m the host.”

I buy the tickets and a book called
Historic London and
lead Ed to a spot in front of the tower.

“So, this building you see before you is the Tower of London,” I begin in a knowledgeable, tour-leader tone. “One of our
most important and ancient monuments. One of many, many wonderful sights. It’s criminal to come to London and not find out more about our amazing heritage.” I look at Ed severely. “It’s really narrow-minded, plus you don’t have anything like it in America.”

“You’re right.” He looks suitably chastened as he surveys the tower. “This is spectacular.”

“Isn’t it great?” I say proudly.

There are some times when being English is really the best, and big-historic-castle time is one of them.

“When was it built?” asks Ed.

“Um …” I look around for a handy sign. There isn’t one. Damn. There should be a sign. I can’t exactly look it up in the guidebook. Not with him watching me expectantly.

“It was in the …” I turn casually away and mumble something indistinct. “… teenth century.”

“Which century?”

“It dates from …” I clear my throat. “Tudor. Er … Stuart times.”

“Do you mean Norman?” suggests Ed politely.

“Oh. Yes, that’s what I meant.” I dart him a suspicious look. How did he know that? Has he been boning up?

“So, we go in this way.” I lead Ed confidently toward a likely-looking rampart, but he pulls me back.

“Actually, I think the entrance is this way, by the river.”

For God’s sake. He’s obviously one of these men who have to take control. He probably never asks for directions either.

“Listen, Ed,” I say kindly. “You’re American. You’ve never been here before. Who’s more likely to know the way in, me or you?”

At that moment, a passing Beefeater stops and gives us a friendly beam. I smile back, ready to ask him the best way in, but he addresses Ed cheerily.

“Morning, Mr. Harrison. How are you? Back again already?”

What?

What
just happened? Ed knows the Beefeaters? How does Ed know the Beefeaters?

I’m speechless as Ed shakes the hand of the Beefeater and says, “Good to see you, Jacob. Meet Lara.”

“Er … hello,” I manage feebly.

What’s going to happen next? Will the queen arrive and ask us in for tea?

“OK,” I splutter as soon as the Beefeater has continued on his way. “What’s going on?”

Ed takes one look at my face and bursts into laughter.

“Tell me!” I demand, and he lifts his hands apologetically.

“I’ll come clean. I was here Friday. It was a work team-building day out. We were able to talk to some of the Beefeaters. It was fascinating.” He pauses, then adds, his mouth twitching, “That’s how I know the tower was begun in 1078. By William the Conqueror. And the entrance is this way.”

“You could have told me!” I glare at him.

“I’m sorry. You seemed so into the idea, and I thought it would be cool to go around with you. But we can go someplace else. You must have seen this a million times. Let’s rethink.” He takes the
Historic London
guidebook and starts consulting the index.

I’m flipping the tickets back and forth in my hands, watching a group of schoolkids take pictures of one another, feeling torn. Obviously he’s right. He saw the tower on Friday so why on earth would we go around it again?

On the other hand, we’ve bought the tickets now. And it looks amazing. And I want to see it.

“We could head straight down to St. Paul’s.” Ed is peering at the tube map. “It shouldn’t take too long—”

“I want to see the Crown jewels,” I say in a small voice.

“What?” He raises his head.

“I want to see the Crown jewels. Now we’re here.”

“You mean … you’ve never seen them?” Ed stares incredulously at me.
“You’ve
never seen the Crown jewels?”

“I live in London!” I say, nettled at his expression. “It’s different! I can see them anytime I want, when the occasion arises. It’s just that … the occasion has never arisen.”

“Isn’t that a bit narrow-minded of you, Lara?” I can tell Ed’s loving this. “Aren’t you interested in the heritage of your great city? Don’t you think it’s criminal to ignore these unique historic monuments—”

“Shut up!” I can feel my cheeks turning red.

Ed relents. “Come on. Let me show you your own country’s fine Crown jewels. They’re great. I know the whole deal. You realize that the oldest pieces date from the Restoration?”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” He starts guiding me through the crowd. “The Imperial State Crown contains an enormous diamond cut from the famous Cullinan Diamond, the largest diamond ever mined.”

“Wow,” I say politely. Obviously Ed memorized the entire Crown jewels lecture yesterday.

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “At least, that’s what the world thought until 1997. When it was discovered to be a fake.”

“Really?”
I stop dead. “It’s
fake?”

Ed’s mouth twitches. “Just checking you’re listening.”

We see the jewels and we see the ravens and we see the White Tower and the Bloody Tower. In fact, all the towers. Ed insists on holding the guidebook and reading out facts, all the way around. Some of them are true and some of them are bullshit and some … I’m not sure. He has this totally straight face with just a tiny gleam in his eye, and you honestly can’t tell.

As we finish our Yeoman Warder’s tour, my head is spinning with visions of traitors and torture, and I feel I don’t need to hear anything else about When Executions Go Horribly Wrong, ever again. We wander through the Medieval Palace, past two guys in medieval costume doing medieval writing (I guess), and
find ourselves in a room with tiny castle windows and a massive fireplace.

“OK, clever clogs. Tell me about that cupboard.” I point randomly at a small, nondescript door set in the wall. “Did Walter Raleigh grow potatoes in there or something?”

“Let’s see.” Ed consults the guidebook. “Ah, yes. This is where the Seventh Duke of Marmaduke kept his wigs. An interesting historical figure, he beheaded many of his wives. Others he cryogenically froze. He also invented the medieval version of the popcorn maker. Or ye poppecorn, as it was known.”

“Oh, really?” I adopt a serious tone.

“You’ll obviously have learned about the poppecorn craze of 1583.” Ed squints at the guidebook. “Apparently Shakespeare very nearly called
Much Ado About Nothing, Much Ado About Ye Poppecorn.”

We’re both gazing intently at the tiny oak door, and after a moment an elderly couple in waterproof jackets joins us.

“It’s a wig cupboard,” says Ed to the woman, whose face lights up with interest. “The wigmaster was compelled to live in the cupboard along with his wigs.”

“Really?” The elderly woman’s face falls. “How terrible!”