“Fine, thanks,” I say lightly. “He thinks I’m having a reunion with an old school friend.”
“You know he’s told his mother about you.”
“What?” I turn toward her. “How do you know?”
“I happened to be passing his office the other night,” Sadie says airily. “So I thought I’d pop in, and he was on the phone. I just happened to catch a few snatches of his conversation.”
“Sadie,” I hiss. “Were you spying on him?”
“He said London was working out really well for him.” Sadie ignores my question. “And then he said he’d met someone who made him glad that Corinne did what she did. He said he couldn’t have imagined it and he hadn’t been looking for it-but it had happened. And his mother told him she was so thrilled and she couldn’t wait to meet you, and he said, ‘Slow down, Mom.’ But he was laughing.”
“Oh. Well… he’s right. We’d better not rush things.” I’m trying to sound all nonchalant, but secretly I have a glow of pleasure inside. Ed told his mother about me!
“And aren’t you glad you didn’t stay with Josh?” Sadie suddenly demands. “Aren’t you glad I saved you from that hideous fate?”
I take a sip of champagne, avoiding her eye, having a slight internal struggle. To be honest, going out with Ed after Josh is like moving onto Duchy Originals super-tasty seeded loaf after plastic white bread. (I don’t mean to be rude about Josh. And I didn’t realize it at the time. But it is. He is. Plastic white bread.)
So really I should be truthful and say, “Yes, Sadie, I’m glad you saved me from that hideous fate.” Except then she’ll become so conceited I won’t be able to stand it.
“Life takes us on different paths,” I say at last, cryptically. “It’s not up to us to evaluate or judge them, merely respect and embrace them.”
“What drivel,” she says contemptuously. “I know I saved you from a hideous fate, and if you can’t even be grateful-” She’s suddenly distracted by the sight out of the window. “Look! We’re nearly there!”
Sure enough, a moment later the seat-belt signs come on and everyone buckles up-apart from Sadie, who is floating around the cabin.
“His mother is quite stylish, you know,” she says conversationally.
“Whose mother?” I’m not following.
“Ed’s, of course. I think you and she would get on well.”
“How do you know?” I say in puzzlement.
“I went to see what she was like, of course,” she says carelessly. “They live outside Boston. Very nice house. She was having a bath. She has a very good figure for a woman of her age-”
“Sadie, stop!” I’m almost too incredulous to speak. “You can’t do this! You can’t go around spying on everyone in my life!”
“Yes, I can,” she says, opening her eyes wide as though it’s obvious. “I’m your guardian angel. It’s my job to watch out for you.”
I stare back at her, flummoxed. The plane engines begin to roar as we start our descent, my ears begin to pop, and there’s a slight heaving in my stomach.
“I hate this bit.” Sadie wrinkles her nose. “See you there.” And before I can say anything else, she disappears.
Uncle Bill’s mansion is a longish taxi ride from Nice Airport. I stop for a glass of Orangina in the village café and practice my schoolgirl French on the owner, to Sadie’s great amusement. Then we get back in the taxi and head the final stretch to Uncle Bill’s villa. Or complex. Or whatever you call a massive white house with several other houses dotted around the grounds and a mini-vineyard and a helicopter pad.
The place is staffed pretty heavily, but that doesn’t matter when you have a French-speaking ghost by your side. Every member of staff we come across is soon turned into a glassy-eyed statue. We make our way through the garden without being challenged, and Sadie leads me swiftly to a cliff, into which steps are cut, with a balustrade. At the bottom of the steps is a sandy beach and, beyond that, endless Mediterranean.
So this is what you get if you’re the owner of Lingtons Coffee. Your own beach. Your own view. Your own slice of sea. Suddenly I can see the point of being immensely rich.
For a moment I just stand shading my eyes from the glare of the sun, watching Uncle Bill. I’d pictured him relaxing on a sun lounger, surveying his empire, maybe stroking a white cat with one evil hand. But he’s not surveying anything, or relaxing. In fact, he’s not looking as I imagined him at all. He’s with a personal trainer, doing sit-ups and sweating profusely. I gape, astonished, as he does crunch after crunch, almost howling with pain, then collapses on his exercise mat.