Twenties Girl
Page 127
“Is there anywhere you could look for your relation?” Kate surveys me anxiously. “Is there any way you could track her down?”
“Dunno.” I shrug despondently. “I mean, she knows where I am, she knows how to get hold of me-”
“Maybe she wants you to make the first move, though?” Kate says tentatively. “You know, if she’s feeling hurt, maybe she’s waiting for you to get hold of her . It’s just an idea…” she calls as the doors begin to close. “I don’t want to interfere…”
The lift starts inching creakily downward, and I stare at the grotty carpet-wall, suddenly transfixed. Kate’s a genius. She’s got it in one. Sadie’s so proud, she’d never make the first move. She’ll be waiting somewhere; waiting for me to come and apologize and make up. But where?
After what seems like hours, the lift arrives at the ground floor, but I don’t move, even though this box is starting to weigh my arms down. I’ve left my job. I have no idea what my future is. My life feels as if it’s just been through the shredder, on extra-fine, totally destroy mode.
But I refuse to wallow. Or cry. Or drone on about it. I can almost hear Sadie’s voice in my ear. Darling, when things go wrong in life, you lift your chin, put on a ravishing smile, mix yourself a little cocktail…
“Tally-ho!” I say to my reflection in the grimy mirror, just as Sanjeev, who works on the ground floor, walks into the lift.
“Sorry?” he says.
I summon the most ravishing smile I can. (At least, I hope it’s ravishing, as opposed to deranged-looking.) “I’m leaving. Bye, Sanjeev. Nice knowing you.”
“Oh,” he says in surprise. “Well, good luck. What are you doing next?”
I don’t even pause to think.
“I’ll be doing a bit of ghost-hunting,” I say.
“Ghost-hunting?” He looks confused. “Is that like… headhunting?”
“Kind of.” I smile again and head out of the lift.
TWENTY-ONE
Where is she? Where the bloody fuck is she?
This is getting beyond a joke. I’ve spent three days searching. I’ve been to every vintage shop I can think of and hissed “Sadie?” through the racks of clothes. I’ve knocked on the doors of all the flats in this building and called out “I’m looking for my friend Sadie!” loud enough for her to hear. I’ve been to the Flashlight Dance Club and peered among the dancers on the dance floor. But there was no sight of her.
Yesterday I went to Edna’s house and made up a story about my cat being lost, which resulted in both of us going around the house, calling, “Sadie? Puss puss puss?” But there was no answer. Edna was very sweet, and she’s promised to get in touch if she sees a stray tabby around the place. But that doesn’t exactly help me.
Looking for lost ghosts is a total pain, it turns out. No one can see them. No one can hear them. You can’t pin a photo to a tree with Missing: Ghost . You can’t ask anyone, “Have you seen my friend the ghost, looks like a flapper, shrieky voice, ring any bells?”
Now I’m standing in the British Film Institute. There’s an old black-and-white movie playing and I’m at the back, scanning the dark rows of heads. But it’s no good. How am I supposed to see anything in this pitch blackness?
I start creeping down the aisle, crouching down, looking right and left along the dimly lit profiles.
“Sadie?” I hiss, as discreetly as I can.
“Shh!” says someone.
“Sadie, are you there?” I whisper as I reach the next row. “Sadie?”
“Shut up!”
Oh God. This will never work. There’s only one thing for it. Plucking up all my courage, I stand up straight, take a deep breath, and call out at the top of my voice.
“Sadie! It’s Lara here!”
“Shhhh!”
“If you’re here, please let me know! I know you’re upset and I’m sorry and I want to be friends and-”
“Shut up! Who is that? Be quiet!” There’s a wave of head-turning and angry exclamations along the rows. But no answering call from Sadie.
“Excuse me?” An usher has come up. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“OK. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I follow the usher back up the aisle toward the exit, then suddenly turn around for one last shot. “Sadie? Sa-die!”
“Please be quiet!” exclaims the usher furiously. “This is a cinema!”
I’m desperately peering into the blackness, but there’s no sight of her pale skinny arms, no beads clicking, no feathers bobbing among the heads.
“Dunno.” I shrug despondently. “I mean, she knows where I am, she knows how to get hold of me-”
“Maybe she wants you to make the first move, though?” Kate says tentatively. “You know, if she’s feeling hurt, maybe she’s waiting for you to get hold of her . It’s just an idea…” she calls as the doors begin to close. “I don’t want to interfere…”
The lift starts inching creakily downward, and I stare at the grotty carpet-wall, suddenly transfixed. Kate’s a genius. She’s got it in one. Sadie’s so proud, she’d never make the first move. She’ll be waiting somewhere; waiting for me to come and apologize and make up. But where?
After what seems like hours, the lift arrives at the ground floor, but I don’t move, even though this box is starting to weigh my arms down. I’ve left my job. I have no idea what my future is. My life feels as if it’s just been through the shredder, on extra-fine, totally destroy mode.
But I refuse to wallow. Or cry. Or drone on about it. I can almost hear Sadie’s voice in my ear. Darling, when things go wrong in life, you lift your chin, put on a ravishing smile, mix yourself a little cocktail…
“Tally-ho!” I say to my reflection in the grimy mirror, just as Sanjeev, who works on the ground floor, walks into the lift.
“Sorry?” he says.
I summon the most ravishing smile I can. (At least, I hope it’s ravishing, as opposed to deranged-looking.) “I’m leaving. Bye, Sanjeev. Nice knowing you.”
“Oh,” he says in surprise. “Well, good luck. What are you doing next?”
I don’t even pause to think.
“I’ll be doing a bit of ghost-hunting,” I say.
“Ghost-hunting?” He looks confused. “Is that like… headhunting?”
“Kind of.” I smile again and head out of the lift.
TWENTY-ONE
Where is she? Where the bloody fuck is she?
This is getting beyond a joke. I’ve spent three days searching. I’ve been to every vintage shop I can think of and hissed “Sadie?” through the racks of clothes. I’ve knocked on the doors of all the flats in this building and called out “I’m looking for my friend Sadie!” loud enough for her to hear. I’ve been to the Flashlight Dance Club and peered among the dancers on the dance floor. But there was no sight of her.
Yesterday I went to Edna’s house and made up a story about my cat being lost, which resulted in both of us going around the house, calling, “Sadie? Puss puss puss?” But there was no answer. Edna was very sweet, and she’s promised to get in touch if she sees a stray tabby around the place. But that doesn’t exactly help me.
Looking for lost ghosts is a total pain, it turns out. No one can see them. No one can hear them. You can’t pin a photo to a tree with Missing: Ghost . You can’t ask anyone, “Have you seen my friend the ghost, looks like a flapper, shrieky voice, ring any bells?”
Now I’m standing in the British Film Institute. There’s an old black-and-white movie playing and I’m at the back, scanning the dark rows of heads. But it’s no good. How am I supposed to see anything in this pitch blackness?
I start creeping down the aisle, crouching down, looking right and left along the dimly lit profiles.
“Sadie?” I hiss, as discreetly as I can.
“Shh!” says someone.
“Sadie, are you there?” I whisper as I reach the next row. “Sadie?”
“Shut up!”
Oh God. This will never work. There’s only one thing for it. Plucking up all my courage, I stand up straight, take a deep breath, and call out at the top of my voice.
“Sadie! It’s Lara here!”
“Shhhh!”
“If you’re here, please let me know! I know you’re upset and I’m sorry and I want to be friends and-”
“Shut up! Who is that? Be quiet!” There’s a wave of head-turning and angry exclamations along the rows. But no answering call from Sadie.
“Excuse me?” An usher has come up. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“OK. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I follow the usher back up the aisle toward the exit, then suddenly turn around for one last shot. “Sadie? Sa-die!”
“Please be quiet!” exclaims the usher furiously. “This is a cinema!”
I’m desperately peering into the blackness, but there’s no sight of her pale skinny arms, no beads clicking, no feathers bobbing among the heads.
