Sophie Kinsella - Twenties Girl

Traveling with Sadie is an experience unlike any other. She shrieked at the passengers at the airport and we found ourselves ushered to the head of the queue. Then she shrieked at the check-in girl and I found myself upgraded. And now the hostesses keep plying me with champagne! (Mind you, I’m not sure if that’s because of Sadie or because of being in a posh seat.)

“Isn’t this fun?” Sadie slides into the seat next to me and eyes my champagne longingly.

“Yeah, great,” I murmur, pretending to be talking into a Dictaphone.

“How’s Ed?” She manages to get about ten insinuating tones into one syllable.

“Fine, thanks,” I say lightly. “He thinks I’m having a reunion with an old school friend.”

“You know he’s told his mother about you.”

“What?” I turn toward her. “How do you know?”

“I happened to be passing his office the other night,” Sadie says airily. “So I thought I’d pop in, and he was on the phone. I just happened to catch a few snatches of his conversation.”

“Sadie,” I hiss. “Were you spying on him?”

“He said London was working out really well for him.” Sadie ignores my question. “And then he said he’d met someone who made him glad that Corinne did what she did. He said he couldn’t have imagined it and he hadn’t been looking for it-but it had happened. And his mother told him she was so thrilled and she couldn’t wait to meet you, and he said, ‘Slow down, Mom.’ But he was laughing.”

“Oh. Well… he’s right. We’d better not rush things.” I’m trying to sound all nonchalant, but secretly I have a glow of pleasure inside. Ed told his mother about me!

“And aren’t you glad you didn’t stay with Josh?” Sadie suddenly demands. “Aren’t you glad I saved you from that hideous fate?”

I take a sip of champagne, avoiding her eye, having a slight internal struggle. To be honest, going out with Ed after Josh is like moving onto Duchy Originals super-tasty seeded loaf after plastic white bread. (I don’t mean to be rude about Josh. And I didn’t realize it at the time. But it is. He is. Plastic white bread.)

So really I should be truthful and say, “Yes, Sadie, I’m glad you saved me from that hideous fate.” Except then she’ll become so conceited I won’t be able to stand it.

“Life takes us on different paths,” I say at last, cryptically. “It’s not up to us to evaluate or judge them, merely respect and embrace them.”

“What drivel,” she says contemptuously. “I know I saved you from a hideous fate, and if you can’t even be grateful-” She’s suddenly distracted by the sight out of the window. “Look! We’re nearly there!”

Sure enough, a moment later the seat-belt signs come on and everyone buckles up-apart from Sadie, who is floating around the cabin.

“His mother is quite stylish, you know,” she says conversationally.

“Whose mother?” I’m not following.

“Ed’s, of course. I think you and she would get on well.”

“How do you know?” I say in puzzlement.

“I went to see what she was like, of course,” she says carelessly. “They live outside Boston. Very nice house. She was having a bath. She has a very good figure for a woman of her age-”

“Sadie, stop!” I’m almost too incredulous to speak. “You can’t do this! You can’t go around spying on everyone in my life!”

“Yes, I can,” she says, opening her eyes wide as though it’s obvious. “I’m your guardian angel. It’s my job to watch out for you.”

I stare back at her, flummoxed. The plane engines begin to roar as we start our descent, my ears begin to pop, and there’s a slight heaving in my stomach.

“I hate this bit.” Sadie wrinkles her nose. “See you there.” And before I can say anything else, she disappears.

Uncle Bill’s mansion is a longish taxi ride from Nice Airport. I stop for a glass of Orangina in the village café and practice my schoolgirl French on the owner, to Sadie’s great amusement. Then we get back in the taxi and head the final stretch to Uncle Bill’s villa. Or complex. Or whatever you call a massive white house with several other houses dotted around the grounds and a mini-vineyard and a helicopter pad.

The place is staffed pretty heavily, but that doesn’t matter when you have a French-speaking ghost by your side. Every member of staff we come across is soon turned into a glassy-eyed statue. We make our way through the garden without being challenged, and Sadie leads me swiftly to a cliff, into which steps are cut, with a balustrade. At the bottom of the steps is a sandy beach and, beyond that, endless Mediterranean.

So this is what you get if you’re the owner of Lingtons Coffee. Your own beach. Your own view. Your own slice of sea. Suddenly I can see the point of being immensely rich.

For a moment I just stand shading my eyes from the glare of the sun, watching Uncle Bill. I’d pictured him relaxing on a sun lounger, surveying his empire, maybe stroking a white cat with one evil hand. But he’s not surveying anything, or relaxing. In fact, he’s not looking as I imagined him at all. He’s with a personal trainer, doing sit-ups and sweating profusely. I gape, astonished, as he does crunch after crunch, almost howling with pain, then collapses on his exercise mat.

“Give… me… a… moment…” he gasps. “Then another hundred.”

He’s so engrossed, he doesn’t notice as I quietly make my way down the cliff steps, accompanied by Sadie.

“Per’aps you should rest now?” says the trainer, looking concerned as he surveys Uncle Bill. “You ’ave ’ad a good workout.”

“I still need to work on my abs,” says Uncle Bill grimly, clutching his sides in dissatisfaction. “I need to lose some fat.”

“Meester Leengton.” The trainer looks totally bemused. “You ’ave no fat to lose. ’ow many times must I tell you thees?”

“Yes, you do!” I jump as Sadie whirls through the air to Uncle Bill. “You’re fat!” she shrieks in his ear. “Fat, fat, fat! You’re gross!”

Uncle Bill’s face jolts with alarm. Looking desperate, he sinks to the mat again and starts doing more crunches, groaning with the effort.

“Yes,” says Sadie, floating about his head and looking down with disdain. “Suffer. You deserve it.”

I can’t help giggling. Hats off to her. This is a brilliant revenge. We watch him wincing and panting a while longer, then Sadie advances again.

“Now tell your servant to go!” she yells in his ear, and Uncle Bill pauses mid-crunch.

“You can go now, Jean-Michel,” he says breathlessly. “See you this evening.”

“Very well.” The trainer gathers up all his pieces of equipment, brushing the sand off them. “I see you at six.”

He heads up the cliff steps, nodding politely as he passes me, and heads toward the house.

OK. So now it’s my turn. I take a deep breath of warm Mediterranean air and start to walk down the rest of the cliff steps. My hands are damp as I reach the beach. I take a few steps over the hot sand, then just stand still, waiting for Uncle Bill to notice me.

“Who’s…” He suddenly catches a glimpse of me as he comes down onto the mat. Immediately he sits up again and swivels around. He looks utterly stupefied and slightly ill. I’m not surprised, after doing 59,000 sit-ups. “Is that… Lara? What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

He looks so dazed and drained, I almost feel sorry for him. But I’m not going to let myself. Nor am I going to be drawn into small talk. I have a speech to make and I’m going to make it.

“Yes, it is I,” I say, in the most imposing, chilling voice I can muster. “Lara Alexandra Lington. Daughter to a betrayed father. Great-niece to a betrayed great-aunt. Niece to a betraying, evil, lying uncle. And I will have my vengeance.” That bit was so satisfying to say, I repeat it, my voice ringing across the beach. “And I will have my vengeance!”