Twenties Girl

Twenties Girl Page 86

“I do have guts.” Sadie appears in front of me, looking furious.

“So tell me.” I fold my arms.

Sadie’s face is motionless, but I can see her eyes flickering to me and away again.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she says finally, her voice low. “It’s simply that I do know what it’s like to think you’re in love. I know what it’s like to squander all your hours and all your tears and all your heart on something which turns out to be… nothing. Don’t waste your life. That’s all.”

That’s all? Is she kidding? She can’t leave it there! There was a something. What was the something?

“What happened? Did you have a love affair? Was there some guy when you were living abroad? Sadie, tell me!”

For a moment Sadie looks as though she’s still not going to answer, or else disappear again. Then she sighs, turns away, and walks toward the mantelpiece.

“It was a long time ago. Before I went abroad. Before I was married. There was… a man.”

“The big row with your parents!” I suddenly put two and two together. “Was that because of him?”

Sadie tilts her head forward about a millimeter in assent. I should have known it was a man. I try to picture her with a boyfriend. Some dapper twenties guy in a boater, maybe. With one of those old-fashioned mustaches.

“Did your parents catch you together or something? Were you… barney-mugging?”

“No!” She bursts into laughter.

“So what happened? Tell me! Please!”

I still can’t quite get over the fact that Sadie’s been in love. After giving me such a hard time about Josh. After pretending she didn’t care about anything.

“They found sketches.” Her laughter dies away and she hugs her skinny chest. “He was a painter. He liked to paint me. My parents were scandalized.”

“What’s wrong with him painting you?” I say, puzzled. “They should have been pleased! I mean, it’s a compliment, an artist wanting to-”

“Naked.”

“Naked?”

I’m gobsmacked. And kind of impressed. I would never pose naked for a painting. Not in a million years! Not unless the painter could do some kind of airbrushing.

Brushing, maybe. Whatever artists do.

“I had a drape over me. But, even so, my parents…” Sadie presses her lips together. “That was a dramatic day, the day they found the sketches.”

My hand is clapped over my mouth. I know I shouldn’t laugh, I know it’s not really funny, but I can’t help it.

“So they saw you-your-”

“They became absolutely hysterical.” She gives a tiny snort, almost a laugh. “It was funny-but it was dreadful too. His parents were as angry as mine. He was supposed to be going into law.” She shakes her head. “He would never have made a lawyer. He was a great big shambles of a man. He painted all night, and drank wine, and smoked gaspers back to back, stubbed them out on his palette… We both did. I used to spend all night with him at his studio. In his parents’ shed. I used to call him Vincent, after van Gogh. He called me Mabel.” She gives another tiny snort.

“Mabel?” I wrinkle my nose.

“There was a maid at his house called Mabel. I told him I thought it was the ugliest name I’d ever heard and they should make her change it. So he instantly started calling me Mabel. Cruel beast that he was.”

Her tone is half jokey, but there’s a strange flickering in her eyes. I can’t tell if she wants to remember all this or not.

“Did you…” I begin-then chicken out before I can finish the question. I wanted to ask, “Did you really love him?” But Sadie’s lost in her own thoughts, anyway.

“I used to creep out of the house when everyone was asleep, climb down the ivy…” She trails away, her eyes distant. Suddenly she looks really sad. “When we were discovered, everything changed. He was sent to France, to some uncle, to ‘get it all out of his system.’ As if anyone could ever stop him painting.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Stephen Nettleton.” Sadie breathes out heavily. “I haven’t said that name aloud for… seventy years. At least.”

Seventy years?

“So what happened? After that?”

“We were never in touch with each other, ever again,” says Sadie matter-of-factly.

“Why not?” I say in horror. “Didn’t you write to him?”

“Oh, I wrote.” She gives a brittle smile that makes me wince. “I sent letter after letter to France. But I never heard from him. My parents said I was a nave little simpleton. They said he’d used me for what he could get. I wouldn’t believe them at first, hated them for saying it. But then…” She looks up, her chin set, as though defying me to pity her. “I was like you. ‘He does love me, he really does!’” She puts on a mocking, high-pitched voice. “‘He’ll write! He’ll come back for me. He loves me!’ Do you know how it felt when I finally came to my senses?”