Sophie Kinsella - Twenties Girl

God, I would have loved to be a movie star.

“Lara.” Uncle Bill has stopped panting by now and almost regained control of himself. He wipes his face and pulls a towel around his waist. Then he turns and smiles at me with that old suave, patronizing air. “Very stirring stuff. But I have no idea what you’re talking about, nor how you got past my guards-”

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say scathingly. “You know.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

There’s silence except for the waves washing onto the beach. The sun seems to be beating even more intensely than before. Neither of us has moved.

So he’s calling my bluff. He must think he’s safe. He must think that the anonymous agreement protects him and no one will ever be able to find out.

“Is this about the necklace?” Uncle Bill says suddenly, as though the thought has just struck him. “It’s a pretty trinket, and I can understand your interest in it. But I don’t know where it is. Believe me. Now, did your father tell you, I want to offer you a job? Is that why you’re here? Because you certainly get marks for keenness, young lady.”

He flashes his teeth at me and slides on a pair of black flip-flops. He’s turning the situation. Any minute now he’ll be ordering drinks and somehow pretending this visit was all his idea. Trying to buy me, trying to distract me, trying to turn everything his own way. Just like he’s done all these years.

“I’m not here about the necklace, or the job.” My voice cuts across his. “I’m here about Great-Aunt Sadie.”

Uncle Bill raises his eyes to heaven with a familiar exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Lara. Will you give it a rest? For the last time, love, she wasn’t murdered, she wasn’t anything special-”

“And the painting of her that you found,” I carry on coolly. “The Cecil Malory. And the anonymous deal you did with the London Portrait Gallery in 1982. And the five hundred thousand pounds you got. And all the lies you told. And what you’re going to do about it. That’s why I’m here.”

And I watch in satisfaction as my uncle’s face sags like I’ve never seen it before. Like butter melting away under the sun.

It’s a sensation. It’s front-page news in every paper. Every paper.

Bill “Two Little Coins” Lington has “clarified” his story. The big, one-to-one interview was in the Mail, and all the papers jumped on it immediately.

He’s come clean about the five hundred thousand. Except, of course, being Uncle Bill, he went on at once to claim that the money was only part of the story. And that his business principles could still be applied to anyone starting out with two little coins. And so actually the story isn’t that different and, in a sense, half a million is the same as two little coins, it’s simply the quantity that’s different. (Then he realized he was on to a loser there and backtracked, but too late-it was out of his mouth.)

For me, the money really isn’t the point. It’s that finally, after all this time, he’s credited Sadie. He’s told the world about her instead of denying her and hiding her away. The quote that most of the papers used is: “I couldn’t have achieved my success without my beautiful aunt, Sadie Lancaster, and I’ll always be indebted to her.” Which I dictated to him, word for word.

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 Millennium Dome. It’s been parodied in all the tabloids, every single comedian has made a joke about it on television, and the publishers are so embarrassed, they’re offering money back on it. About twenty percent of people have taken up the offer, apparently. I guess the others want to keep it as a souvenir, or put it on the mantelpiece and laugh at it, or something.

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.