“Is that really Nancy?” asks Steph, as she paws over the Denmark Street photos. “And is that the necklace?”
“It is.”
“It’s lush. Why didn’t you buy it?”
“You know why,” says Aggie. “It was too much money. Plus we were pipped to the post by a most unfortunate human.”
Jess squirms, aware that Aggie is putting more emphasis on the word unfortunate than necessary. Does she know something? Can she smell the chemicals of attraction? It is possible, of course, that she has read Jess’s text messages and seen her and Guy’s ongoing interactions. It’s a pet habit of Aggie’s to “accidentally” see the pop-ups on other people’s mobiles. But whatever she knows, she won’t say directly. She’ll just lace her chat with knowing looks and meaningful nods.
“Who do you think Paul Angel Photography is?” asks Steph.
“I’d love to know,” says Jess. “I’d ask Nancy, but—”
“Oh, Jess, I meant to say, while you were away, the hospital called. They said Nancy’s picked up a bit. Your visit must have boosted her. Anyhow, the old bird’s clinging on. For what I don’t know.”
For the necklace, thinks Jess, as a ray of sunshine illuminates the kitchen island.
“Perhaps I should speak to our dad?” she says, thinking out loud. “Maybe he’ll be able to fill me in on a few details. I should call him.”
“Ugh, really?” says Aggie. “Like he’d care. The last time I spoke to our dearest, darling father all he wanted to talk about was Eileen and her cruises. He didn’t ask a single question about me. Or you, for that matter, Jess. No ‘How’s it going, girls?’ or ‘How are my grandchildren doing?’”
Jess nods. On this, she and Aggie agree. Their relationship with their father, Richard Barrow, has rarely born fruit. There was no dramatic falling-out, just a slow disintegration of the bond. It didn’t help that, a decade ago, he met Eileen, remarried, moved to Kettering, and had two more children, twins, Rosie and Ben. He’d come to Jess’s bedside after her accident, but as soon as he’d realized she was going to survive, he’d sloped back to his Other Family shadow world, despite promises to visit every week. He’d gone awkwardly, apologetically. And it was this that dismayed Jess most, his toadying loyalty to his high-maintenance second wife. More than that, the sense that he knew it was wrong, was embarrassed by it. Yet he still did it.
Jess sighs.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Between sips of tea, she talks on. Aggie is only vaguely impressed to learn that there is truth in Nancy’s Hollywood claim, but Steph is chuffed at the prospect of being related to a movie mogul. Jess catches her checking her reflection in the oven door, looking over her shoulder, pouting like a movie star.
“I never heard the name,” says Aggie dismissively. “Christopher Roderick? Doesn’t ring any bells. Probably made B movies.”
Jess is about to suggest they look him up, when Steph, two steps ahead, waves her phone and presents the Christopher Roderick Wikipedia entry.
“‘Christopher Arnold Roderick, 1904–1972,’” she reads. “‘Hollywood movie producer, best known for the box-office flop Descent of the Sun. Roderick went on to direct a series of low-budget horror films in the late 1930s, but postwar, his career went into decline.’”
“There we are,” says Aggie with a self-satisfied smile. “A Hollywood has-been. I knew it.”
“Does it say anything about his personal life?” asks Jess.
“Just that he died of lung disease and that he lived with his partner…Bernard.”
“Bernard?”
“Bernard Almer. That’s what it says.”
“Okay,” says Jess, her mind ticking.
“Oh, and there’s this,” Steph continues, “‘Roderick’s mansion on Hollywood Boulevard, having been untouched since his death, has recently been acquired by the Golden Age Restoration Trust and is now open to the public.’”
Jess’s eyes pop wide.
“How cool is that! We have to go! We have to see it!”
“Can we?” Steph grins. “Mum? Can we go?”
Jess claps her hands with glee, while Steph hops up and down like an excitable kitten.
“Oh, please,” says Aggie. “No one is going anywhere. This is sheer whimsy.”
“But it’s our bloodline,” says Jess, “our heritage!”
“I wonder what Bernard has to say about that. Live in the present, Jessica. Never mind the lavender marriages of the Taylors of yore. For all we know, it’s a bunch of nonsense that our great-grandmother was engaged to a movie producer. I never heard the name Christopher Roderick before. And if he and Anna were together at any point, one can only wonder what kind of relationship it actually was—”
“Maybe he identified as bi?” says Steph.
Aggie sighs, rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure they used that term back then. Anyway, why are we even discussing this? Think about the here and now. What about your new flat, Jess? Your kitchen plans?”
Of course. A house project, Aggie’s favorite kind of project. No doubt she already has a Pinterest board set up and has been rabidly pinning images of tiles, backsplashes, and integrated dishwashers, testament to her impeccable taste and extensive wallet.
“Think of all the gadgets you’ll be able to get,” she pesters. “You’ll need a NutriBullet and a decent coffee machine. Bean to cup, obviously. And a KitchenAid.”
Jess shakes her head.
“You’re the chef of the family, Aggie, not me. I’ll be fine with a gas hob and a saucepan.”
Aggie huffs. “You mean you’re denying me the opportunity to purchase household appliances? How could you?”
Steph steps between them. “You two, honestly! Grow up!”
Then everyone is saved by the clatter of the letter box.
Aggie fetches the pile of letters, hands one to Jess. Casually Jess accepts, expecting another hospital bill, then sees a handwritten address and unfamiliar lettering. With a rush of self-consciousness, she lifts the seal, peeks inside, and spies the stiff, gilded edge of an invite.
“What is it, Aunty?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Looks like a card.”
“It’s just…a circular.”
Aggie eyes her suspiciously.
“I better go,” says Jess, “get on with some jewelry post.”
She hastens to her room, the envelope pressed against her chest, mind bursting. An invite. Guy van der Meer has sent her an invite to the Capital Gala. Her heart starts to race involuntarily. Dangerous territory, she knows it’s dangerous territory, but it feels so deliciously tantalizing. How did he get her address? That took some effort. Okay, so the address is blatantly on her website, but still…the Capital Gala! What is his game? What is he playing at? Does he expect her to come? Does he want her to come? Is this about the necklace…or about her? She checks the date of the event: Saturday 6th August. Nearly two weeks away. But Nancy may not survive that long. Then what? Then it will all be in vain.
Thank you for the invitation. Am I expected? Jess (of D-nuts)
Well, obviously. That’s the point of an invitation :) Guy
I’ll think about it.
How is she anyway, your Big G? Hanging in there?
She’s okay, thanks. For now.
Wanna hunt?
Hunt?
Hunt for treasure. Then have coffee. And cake. The sun is shining. Come to Portobello, my territory. I’ll take you to my favorite jewelry shops.
Presumptuous.
Just get on the Tube, will you? It’ll be fun.
Jess shuts off her phone, feels her heart pounding in her rib cage. His cheeky confidence, his focus on her… She’s certain it’s all for show, yet it feeds her self-worth, makes her feel prized. What did she have planned anyway? Wrapping and posting a box of diamanté hair slides. Working
her way through her tedious and painful list of physical exercises. A good walk is physical enough, surely? She chews her lip, stares at the clock. Tim won’t finish work until six, then he’ll have cycling and then he’ll probably want to grab a pint at the Star. He won’t even have to know.
Okay, she replies.
Message sent, she cups her mouth with her hand. That’s it. She has crossed a line. She has agreed to a non-necklace-related meetup with Guy van der Meer, almost qualifying as a date. She knows she should be ashamed of herself, but while she’s scared of the lie that this is starting to become, deep down, she realizes she is more scared of the thought that, perhaps, with Tim, she is living a lie.
***
Portobello Road—with its bohemian street-market a mix of food, antiques, curios, fashions, and trinkets—thrives in the sunshine. The area has seen its fortunes rise and fall, then rise again, neglected for much of the twentieth century and gentrified in the eighties by an influx of the fashionable, young, and affluent. Three centuries ago, it was a country lane leading to a farm, which then became a network of elegant crescents and terraces, which were crowned in 1864 by the arrival of Ladbroke Grove railway station. Which is where Jess meets Guy.
Notably he is on time, wearing a slim T-shirt and wide-legged trousers, like a throwback from the Rat Pack, befitting the vibrant surroundings. His greeting—a smile and a peck on the cheek—is a mix of warmth and wry conceit. Jess senses he’s pleased to have tempted her here, the cat that got the cream with the diamond in it. But his eyes belie him; beneath those errant curls there is a candid all-in glow.
He buys two strong coffees, then paying no regard to her stiff gait and walking cane, he strides off through the stalls. At first indignant, struggling to keep pace, she then realizes her left leg can move a little faster than she’d thought. It’s simply a matter of willing it. She has grown so used to the people in her sphere always slowing down, making exceptions, making sure she’s okay, that it’s become her default. But here, now—chasing Guy’s heels—she wonders if she can in fact push out, do more.
“So you like art nouveau?” says Guy, as she catches up with him, a little out of breath, but smiling.
“I do.”
“Me too. I like that it’s ornamental, yet deeply earthy. Hard to define, but if it was a Shakespeare play it would definitely be—”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” says Jess. “Magic, love, and a hint of the macabre?”
“Exactly.”
They approach a stall of dream catchers. Jess picks one up, runs her fingers through its feathered fronds.
“Do you think Stella Weston appreciates the enigmatic qualities of art nouveau jewelry?” she asks pointedly.
“What can I say,” says Guy, shrugging. “She’s got a thing about butterflies.”
“Oh, how adorable.”
“Jess, she’s no fool. But yes, her main aim in life is to get good coverage in fashion magazines. And no, your necklace doesn’t mean to her what it clearly means to you.”
“Because I worry,” says Jess, replacing the dream catcher on its stand, “about how she’s taking care of it. Plique-à-jour is known for its fragility.”
Guy stops, gives her a look.
“Don’t you just trust me?” he says.
“That,” says Jess, flicking the ground with her cane, “is an interesting question.”
“You need to trust me, Jess. I’ll get your necklace for you.”
“I’d like to believe you, and in a way I do, but trust is earned. Otherwise it’s just wishful thinking.”
“You and that force field,” he says with a grin, leading her to a stall of midcentury retro cuffs, embellished with colored stones.
“Which one’s your favorite?”
“The aubergine one,” says Jess, pointing to a deep-hued lump of amethyst.
“Aubergine?”
“You might say purple, but I believe it to be aubergine.”
Guy laughs.
“I see why you’re a jewelry nut. You like color. Let me show you this.”
He leads her to another stall, displaying trays of brooches bearing the same distinct gem combination: green peridot, purple amethyst, and white diamond. She recognizes them immediately: the colors of the suffragette movement, worn by thousands of women in the early 1900s to enhance awareness and encourage solidarity for women’s votes.
“Joy to the eye is one of jewelry’s more minor tricks,” says Guy.
“Agreed. The best stuff reflects more than mere aesthetics. Political allegiance, for instance. Religious devotion. Tokens between lovers. Soul mates.” She catches his eye and bites her lip, tormented by his out-of-bounds attractiveness. “Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t real power in the heirloom jewels we covet. They’re not just static keepsakes. They’ve been through so much, seen so much. Surely they carry some trace of this within them?”
Guy shuts his eyes as though the intensity of the conversation is getting under his skin.
“I’m sorry,” says Jess. “Have I said something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” he says, adjusting his leopard ring.
Then he grins, blinks.
“What I’m thinking is why…why is it that when I talk with you, I get the feeling I’ve known you all my life?”
“That’s such a line!”
She goofily pushes him away, deflecting the forces that keep drawing them together.
“It’s not a line,” he argues. “You are so suspicious, Jess. You’ve already made your mind up about me, haven’t you? You’re convinced I’m some feckless, womanizing playboy—”
“Yup.”
“So why agree to meet me?”
“For the kicks.” She shrugs, realizing she has no answer. No appropriate one, anyhow.
They walk on, bodies so close they’re almost touching, oblivious to the crowds of shoppers and tourists in their periphery, past the rows of colorful Georgian terraces with neat front gardens and the shops selling vintage shoes, old vinyl, military memorabilia, Indian sari silk, belt buckles, and designer cupcakes.
“I love living in Portobello,” says Guy. “There’s always something random to look at.”
“Can’t be cheap. Do you rent?”
He smiles, a little shamefacedly.
“Sort of…not really. I, um, occupy Stella Weston’s mews house.”
“Rrrright.”
“I know how it sounds, but she needed a tenant, someone she could rely on, and I needed a roof. Stella has several properties around the world. She flits between them.”
“So she doesn’t live in the mews house with you?” says Jess, keen to unveil the exact machinations of Guy’s relationship with Stella.
“Sometimes. When she’s in town.”
“Just friends?”
“Just friends.”
“With benefits?”
“Questions, questions,” he says evasively. “If you must know—and keep it to yourself—Stella’s main romantic interest is a Greek dot-com billionaire whom she sees twice a year. They sunbathe on his yacht in Mykonos and…she thinks it’s love.”
“Sounds a bit sad,” says Jess.
“It is. I mean, Stella’s world, it’s extraordinary and remote. Beauty and fortune have given her everything, yet she’s one of the neediest people I know.”
“You care about her, don’t you?” Jess ventures.
“I do. She’s been good to me. But look, Stella and I are close, but we’re not romantic close. We look out for each other, that’s all. She’s lonely. She wants a little loyalty in her life, so I do my best to be there for her.”
“In exchange for social status and a crash pad in Ladbroke Grove?”
“Jess, that’s so cynical. You say it like you think I’m using her, but Stella knows the score. She’s all for helping me network and build my p
rofile. It’s a mutual thing.” He huffs, folds his arms. “We all have to play the game at some point. That’s just how it goes. So there.”
“Okay, okay,” says Jess, surprised by this sudden turn of defensiveness, his got-it-all-sewn-up confidence turning sour. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he says curtly, pulling his cards in.
They come to a churros stall. The smell of hot, sweet batter and melting chocolate is intoxicating, and it breaks the mood.
“Rude not to,” says Guy jovially, before ordering a large portion with extra cinnamon sugar—successfully swerving away from any further scrutiny of his personal life in the process.
Through the sunny air, they walk on, but Jess remains unsettled by Guy’s blurry meta-signals. What was that, she wonders—a glimpse of insecurity? A smoke screen? Or a straight-up dose of shady man-baby fuckwittery? Either way, she feels cautioned, reminded to keep her distance. A self-professed game player: dicey territory, no matter how gorgeous he is. At least with Tim, she always knows where she stands. He’s decent to a fault and it’s so refreshing. Tim, whom everyone loves. Whom she loves. The “good one” she’s finally bagged. So what’s she even doing here with Guy? She gives her pelvis a poke. Perhaps she’s ovulating, hormones rocking her judgment. Then he turns to look at her with those deep-set sparkly eyes. Most definitely the hormones.
“So what of the other Taylor women?” he asks as they walk on. “Explain what I’m getting into here—”
“Getting into?”
“Well, clearly I enjoy your company—”
“Steady,” she whispers, a flush brightening the apples of her cheeks. “Save the schmooze for someone who’ll buy it.”
Guy shrugs, unperturbed.
“They all buy it,” he quips. “It’s just I don’t always want to sell it.”
“Oh no?”
Jess cackles. Truth or lie, she doubts she’ll ever know for sure. She sips her coffee and smiles to herself, amid the aromas of spicy street food and the shouts of stall traders.
“Since you ask,” she says, pausing to admire a cluster of china figurines, “I’ve embarked on a mission to find out what I can about my Taylor roots, about where the necklace came from. At first I just wanted to understand why Nancy was so desperate for it, but now it’s given me a heap of questions about my entire family. I’d like to know more, because…sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself. Does that make sense?”
The Lost and Found Necklace Page 13
