Sophie Kinsella - Twenties Girl

Ladies and gentlemen.” My voice booms so loudly, I stop and clear my throat. I’ve never spoken into such a big loudspeaker system, and even though I did a “Hello, Wembley, one-two, one-two” sound check earlier, it’s still a bit of a shock.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” I try again. “Thank you so much for being here today at this occasion of sadness, celebration, festivity…” I survey the mass of faces gazing up at me expectantly. Rows and rows of them. Filling the pews of St. Botolph’s Church. “… and, above all, appreciation of an extraordinary woman who has touched us all.”

I turn to glance at the massive reproduction of Sadie’s painting which is dominating the church. Around and beneath it are the most beautiful flower arrangements I’ve ever seen, with lilies and orchids and trailing ivy and even a reproduction of Sadie’s dragonfly necklace, made out of the palest yellow roses set on a bed of moss.

That one was done by Hawkes and Cox, which is a top London florist. They contacted me when they heard about the memorial service and offered to do it for free, because they were all such fans of Sadie and wanted to show their appreciation of her. (Or, to be more cynical, because they knew they’d get great publicity.)

I honestly didn’t intend this event to be such a massive deal at first. I just wanted to organize a memorial service for Sadie. But then Malcolm at the London Portrait Gallery heard about it. He suggested they announce the details of the service on their website for any art lovers who wanted to come and pay their respects to such a famous icon. To everyone’s astonishment, they were besieged by applications. In the end they had to do a ballot. It even made the London Tonight news. And here they all are, crammed in. Rows and rows of them. People who want to honor Sadie. When I arrived and saw the crowds, I actually felt a bit breathless.

“I’d also like to say, great clothes. Bravo.” I beam around at the vintage coats, the beaded scarves, the occasional pair of spats. “I think Sadie would have approved.”

The dress code for today is 1920s, and everyone has made a stab at it of some sort. And I don’t care if memorial services don’t usually have dress codes, like that vicar kept saying. Sadie would have loved it, and that’s what counts.

All the nurses from the Fairside Home have made a spectacular effort, both with themselves and also with all the elderly residents who have come. They’re in the most fabulous outfits, with headdresses and necklaces, every single one. I meet Ginny’s eye and she beams, giving an encouraging wave of her fan.

It was Ginny and a couple of other nurses from the home who came with me to Sadie’s private funeral and cremation, a few weeks ago. I only wanted people there who had known her. Really known her. It was very quiet and heartfelt, and afterward I took them all out for lunch and we cried and drank wine and told Sadie stories and laughed, and then I gave a big donation to the nursing home and they all started crying again.

Mum and Dad weren’t invited. But I think they kind of understood.

I glance at them, sitting in the front row. Mum is in a disastrous lilac drop-waisted dress with a headband, which looks more seventies ABBA than twenties. And Dad’s in a totally non-1920s outfit. It’s just a normal, modern single-breasted suit, with a silk spotted handkerchief in his top pocket. But I’ll forgive him, because he’s gazing up at me with such warmth and pride and affection.

“Those of you who only know Sadie as a girl in a portrait may wonder, who was the person behind the painting? Well, she was an amazing woman. She was sharp, funny, brave, outrageous… and she treated life as the most massive adventure. As you all know, she was muse to one of the famous painters of this century. She bewitched him. He never stopped loving her, nor she him. They were tragically separated by circumstances. But if he’d only lived longer… who knows?”

I pause for breath and glance at Mum and Dad, who are watching me, riveted. I practiced my whole speech for them last night, and Dad kept saying incredulously, “How do you know all this?” I had to start referring vaguely to “archives” and “old letters” just to keep him quiet.

“She was uncompromising and feisty. She had this knack of… making things happen. Both to her and to other people.” I sneak a tiny glance at Ed, sitting next to Mum, and he winks back at me. He knows this speech pretty well too.

“She lived ’til one hundred and five, which is quite an achievement.” I look around the audience to make sure everyone is listening. “But she would have hated it if this had defined her, if people just thought of her as ‘the hundred-and-five-year-old.’ Because inside, she was a twenty-three-year-old all her life. A girl who lived her life with sizzle. A girl who loved the Charleston, cocktails, shaking her booty in nightclubs and fountains, driving too fast, lipstick, smoking gaspers… and barney-mugging.”

I’m taking a chance that no one in the audience knows what barney-mugging means. Sure enough, they smile back politely, as though I’ve said she loved flower arranging.

“She loathed knitting,” I add, with emphasis. “That should go on the record. But she loved Grazia.” There’s a laugh around the church, which is good. I wanted there to be laughter.

“Of course, for us, her family,” I continue, “she wasn’t just a nameless girl in a painting. She was my great-aunt. She was part of our heritage.” I hesitate as I reach the part I really want to hit home. “It’s easy to discount family. It’s easy to take them for granted. But your family is your history. Your family is part of who you are. And without Sadie, none of us would be in the position we are today.”

I can’t help shooting Uncle Bill a steely gaze at this point. He’s sitting upright next to Dad, dressed in a bespoke suit with a carnation buttonhole, his face quite a lot gaunter than it was on that beach in the south of France. It hasn’t been a great month for him, all told. He’s been constantly in the news pages and the business pages, and none of it good.

At first, I wanted to ban him from this altogether. His publicist was desperate for him to come, to try to redress some of the bad PR he’s had, but I couldn’t bear the idea of him swaggering in, stealing the limelight, doing his usual Uncle Bill trick. But then I reconsidered. I started thinking, why shouldn’t he come and honor Sadie? Why shouldn’t he come and listen to how great his aunt was?

So he was allowed to come. On my terms.

“We should honor her. We should be grateful.”

I can’t help looking meaningfully at Uncle Bill again-and I’m not the only one. Everyone keeps glancing at him, and there are even a few nudges and whispers going on.

“Which is why I’ve set up, in Sadie’s memory, the Sadie Lancaster Foundation. Funds raised will be distributed by the trustees to causes of which she would have approved. In particular, we will be supporting various dance-related organizations, charities for the elderly, the Fairside Nursing Home, and the London Portrait Gallery, in recognition of its having kept her precious painting so safely these last twenty-seven years.”

I grin at Malcolm Gledhill, who beams back. He was so chuffed when I told him. He went all pink and started talking about whether I’d like to become a Friend, or go on the board, or something, as I’m clearly such an art lover. (I didn’t want to say, “Actually, I’m just a Sadie lover; you can pretty much take or leave all those other pictures.”)

“I would also like to announce that my uncle, Bill Lington, wishes to make the following tribute to Sadie, which I will now read on his behalf.”