Twenties Girl

Twenties Girl Page 152

“Well, I really admire you. If it were me, I’d want to … trash him.”

“I could trash him.” She shrugs. “I could go to the south of France and make his life a misery. But would I be a better person?” She hits her slim chest. “Would I feel better inside?”

“The south of France?” I stare at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, the south of France?”

Sadie immediately looks shifty. “I’m… guessing. It’s the kind of place he would be. It’s the kind of place wealthy people go.”

Why is she avoiding my eye?

“Oh my God.” I gasp as it suddenly hits me. “You know where he is, don’t you? Sadie!” I exclaim as she starts to fade away. “Don’t you dare disappear!”

“All right.” She comes back into view, looking a little sulky. “Yes. I do know where he is. I went to his office. It was very easy to find out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” She gives a distant, noncommittal shrug.

“Because you didn’t want to admit that you’re just as mean and vengeful as me! Come on. What did you do to him? You might as well tell me now.”

“I did nothing!” she says haughtily. “Or at least… nothing much. I just wanted to have a look at him. He’s very, very rich, isn’t he?”

“Incredibly.” I nod. “Why?”

“He seems to own an entire beach. That’s where I came across him. He was lying on a bed in the sun, covered in oil, with several servants nearby cooking food for him. He looked terribly self-satisfied.” A rictus of distaste passes across her face.

“Didn’t you want to yell at him? Didn’t you want to have a go at him?”

“Actually… I did yell at him,” she says after a pause. “I couldn’t help myself. I felt so angry.”

“That’s good! You should yell. What did you say?”

I’m utterly agog. I can’t believe Sadie has gone and confronted Uncle Bill on his private beach, all on her own. To be honest, I feel a bit hurt that she left me out. But then, I guess she has the right to seek revenge in any way she wants. And I’m glad she let him have it. I hope he heard every word.

“Come on, what did you say?” I persist. “Tell me word for word, starting at the beginning.”

“I told him he was fat,” she says with satisfaction.

For a moment I think I must have heard wrong.

“You told him he was fat?” I stare at her incredulously. “That was it? That was your revenge?”

“It’s the perfect revenge!” retorts Sadie. “He looked very unhappy. He’s a terribly vain man, you know.”

“Well, I think we can do better than that,” I say decisively, putting my mug down. “Here’s the plan, Sadie. You’re going to tell me where I need to book a flight to. And we’re going to get on a plane tomorrow. And you’re going to take me to where he is. OK?”

“OK.” Her eyes suddenly brighten. “It’ll be like a holiday!”

Sadie has taken the holiday theme seriously. A little too seriously, if you ask me. She’s dressed for our trip in a backless flowing outfit made out of orange silky stuff, which she calls “beach pajamas.” She has on a massive straw hat, is clutching a parasol and a wicker basket, and keeps humming some song about being “sur la plage.” She’s in such a chipper mood I almost want to snap at her that this is serious business and can she please stop twirling the ribbons on her hat? But then, it’s OK for her. She’s already seen Uncle Bill. She’s yelled at him. She’s released her tension. I’ve still got mine, coiled up inside me. I haven’t mellowed. I haven’t got distance. I want him to pay. I want him to suffer. I want him to-

“More champagne?” A smiling air hostess appears at my side.

“Oh.” I hesitate, then hold out my glass. “Er… OK, then. Thanks.”

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.