The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  Guy sighs.

  “Come on,” he says, resigned. “Let’s get you a taxi.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What the hell? Where have you been?” The inquisition, courtesy of Aggie, begins the moment Jess walks through the door. “You look rough.”

  Jess groans and shivers—the dehydrated aftermath of the worst hangover, coupled with a ten-hour sleepless flight.

  “I feel rough, thanks,” she says, staggering through the hallway to the kitchen where she immediately pours and downs a pint of water. “I’m a husk.”

  “So?” says Aggie, fixing her sister a Berocca with water and offering her a handful of mystery vitamins.

  “Don’t ask,” says Jess. “It was some kind of lost-weekend thing.”

  “Lost weekend? Really? Tim told me you suddenly demanded a trip to Hollywood.”

  “I didn’t demand. I invited him. He said it wasn’t convenient, so I went alone. My god, it was just a mini-break, a few days abroad. No crime has been committed.”

  As she says this, her insides churn. Aggie gives a haughty sniff.

  “Tim says—and I agree—that there is something amiss.”

  “What? Because I decided to have a last-minute holiday?”

  “Because you’re being all mysterious and you keep covering your phone up and—”

  “Oh, Aggie, you’re overthinking,” says Jess, pummeling the ache in her forehead. “I’m fine. I’m just reminding myself to live again.”

  But not too much, she thinks, still reeling from the sting of what her phone had shown her postflight. As soon as she’d landed, before even collecting her baggage, like a clingy, insecure teenager, she’d switched it on and looked up Guy’s profile. Having tortured herself about him for the entire flight, she’d been hoping for a sweet text or at least an expression of regret that their extraordinary evening—their surprise dinner of dinners, one of the surrealist, loveliest nights of her life—had ended so abruptly. Instead she’d found a dozen images of him partying, shirtless, around a neon-lit pool, with several young women and, in particular, Stella Weston. None of the images were incriminating, but the aftertaste was nonetheless sour. So much for flying out just for her! For all she knew, he’d had the trip planned all along, one of his Stella Weston jet-set perks.

  Well, she thinks, at least now she can feel glad she didn’t give in to lustful want and, most importantly, she didn’t jeopardize her future with Tim, who would never sneak off to an LA after-party or spin bullshit stories about flying across the world just to “be in her company.” She swallows Aggie’s vitamins, her nerves crackling, as she thinks of all those others who, in the beginning, made her feel so special and wanted. She knows the pattern. As soon as they hook their catch, they throw it back.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call Tim,” she says, yearning to be back in the nook, safe and secure, her head cozy against his warm, comforting chest.

  “Yes,” says Aggie, clapping her hands together. “That’s a start.”

  ***

  Later that evening, after sleeping all day, Jess makes her way down to the kitchen in a haze of queasy-stomached jet lag for something to eat. At the TV room door, which is slightly ajar, she overhears Aggie and Ed talking quietly between themselves.

  “What is it, you think?” says Ed. “I mean, she jokes about having a quarter-life crisis, but this is getting out of hand.”

  Immediately Jess knows they’re talking about her. Steph, their other favorite subject of analysis, is still firmly in the teenage rebellion zone, the quarter-life yet to come. As for the midlife, well, that’s anyone’s game. With a wince, Jess lingers, listens in.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says Aggie. “Some long, bloody quarter-life if it is. She’s finished her thirties. Really, she needs to be getting her act together now, not running off to random corners of the world on a whim. I thought the shock of the accident would be the catalyst, make her grow up. And things were going so well with Tim, but—”

  “Maybe it’s her pain medication? I’ve watched her, Aggie. She pops some pretty strong stuff—”

  Because I have to, thinks Jess. Because if I didn’t, I’d be on my knees, gibbering in a corner, begging for relief from the agony of my mangled pelvis that’s been pinned together with seven metal plates.

  “Talk to her,” Ed continues. “If she’ll listen to anyone, Aggie, it’ll be you.”

  “I wish that were true,” says Aggie, “but honestly, she’s a law unto herself. Always has been.”

  “You’ll sort it out, love. Just keep steering her in the right direction.”

  The right direction? Jess bristles. According to whom?

  Will they never see that she has chosen her lifestyle rather than failed her way into it? Or that Marcus genuinely prefers the valleys of Minecraft to the local park? Or that Steph adores Jared the Vegan regardless of his inability to provide a John Lewis marble countertop? Aggie and Ed mean well, she has no doubt, but she is not their puppet, not their pet project. She is and always will be her own person, who can make decisions for herself. Fury brewing inside, she retreats, resolving that the quicker she can move out, the better, and then her relationship with Tim can be her business—no one else’s.

  Overwhelmed by the need to hear his voice, she calls him, no longer bothered by what kind of mood he’ll be in. All she wants is comfort, the reassurance of his soft, kind tones.

  “Tim?”

  “Jess!”

  “Oh, Tim, it’s so nice to hear your voice. Listen, I’m really sorry I left like that, with an atmosphere between us. Did you get my pictures? I should have sent more, but I thought… Anyway…now I’m back…and…are we okay?”

  “Jess, we’re fine. I was a bit sore at first, I’ll admit, but then I thought, yeah, I’m being a boring middle-aged person. I should have gone with you. It was a lovely idea. I’m sorry too. I missed you.”

  Relief washes over her. That’s Tim, his response more mature and dignified than she could have hoped.

  “Can we hang out?”

  “Of course.”

  “And can we move in together quick?”

  “Definitely.”

  She smiles into the handset, enjoys the sense of him, an anchor in a storm. And while she hates to admit it, Aggie is right. It is time to get her act together, to embrace the things she’s supposed to want. Her feelings toward Guy… Surely they are nothing more than self-sabotage, her mind’s topsy-turvy way of testing her commitment to grown-up life, proving to herself that she’s ready. The fine four: marriage, home, career, babies. Definitely ready. Guy Arlo van der Meer can party in Los Angeles all he likes. He can also sweep her off her feet, try to carry her off into the Hollywood Hills. He can even dare to fire her passions by nearly kissing her. He can do all of those things and more. But he can’t, and she’s pretty certain of this, ever make her feel secure.

  ***

  Aggie lies awake in bed, Ed snoring beside her, eyes fixed to the spotless white ceiling, questions stampeding through her head. What is Jess up to? All this sneaking around, disappearing to the other side of the world, being secretive on her phone. It’s like having another Steph. Oh god, they’re peas in a pod! It doesn’t suit a thirty-year-old to be behaving like a teenager though. This needs to be brought into check.

  She tosses and turns, stretching the bedsheets, giving Ed repeated prods to stop him spluttering. No, Ed isn’t perfect. He’s hardly a thrill—never was. But together, somehow, they mesh. He lets her do what she does best: organize the show. Is she bored with him? Sometimes. Is he bored with her? Well, he’s not allowed to be, but if he is, he tolerates it. He accepts the fact that this is family life. It doesn’t have to be fireworks and show-ponies and spontaneous trips to America. It just has to…function.

  Oh, who is she kidding? Ed has tuned out. And that’s the truth of it. She and Ed function because they’re b
oth in a state of permanent distraction. She keeps herself busy ruminating on everybody else’s problems. While he just dials down the volume. But at least they’re not swinging from one disaster to another, like Jess has done all these years. No roots, no security, and endless heartbreak. The money she’s wasted, dossing about in a no-responsibilities paradise, ripe to be exploited by the next self-obsessed flake that walks into the backpacker dorm!

  There’s no future in that. And those eggs aren’t getting any fresher. She’ll want children soon. And Tim is a sure bet for that. He talks about it all the time. They’ll be late starters—there’ll be almost a generation between their children and Aggie’s—but all to the good. She was only nineteen when she gave birth to Steph, spent her twenties rocking prams and wiping bibs. And her thirties resenting it. But hey.

  She must make sure Jess works things out with Tim. Maybe she should talk to him, alert him to all this shifting sand? It’s not interfering. It’s just…guidance. Jess doesn’t know what’s best for her. But she deserves happiness, after everything she’s been through.

  Next worry on the list: tomorrow’s “chat” with Steph’s head teacher. Address the “phase.” Fair enough, teenagers need phases. Goodness knows, she had a few! The year she went grunge, the bad jeans, that ill-fitting woolen dress, and the jacket with the daisies on it…but these were just clothes, paired with a few CDs. They didn’t lead to extreme beliefs about meat eating or banking, and they certainly didn’t entice her to put her future prospects on the line. Skipping class? She never did that.

  Aggie shudders. Oh, Steph. If she could only make her daughter see the amazing future that lies ahead of her. She’ll give her all the support she needs. She’ll pull her out of that school if she has to, get her into the private place on the hill. The money for the Mercedes, she can sacrifice it. Whatever it takes to turn Steph away from the dead-end disaster that is Jared Fisher.

  Pushy maybe, but at least Steph has a mother to push her, which is more than she and Jess ever had. With a pang of anguish, Aggie throws off the duvet. Jess doesn’t understand. She was too young to remember the details, but Aggie has them etched in her memory. That necklace—the arguments it caused. The door slamming, voices erupting, the vehemence between the only two people those girls had. Her father, usually mild-mannered, screaming at Nancy, telling her she had “no idea of the insult…no respect…no care!”

  Nancy yelling back, “You had no right!”

  Jess thinks the necklace is something joyous, some wonderful tribute to her beloved Taylor ancestry. But as far as Aggie can tell, none of those women ended up with secure, happy marriages. No wonder Jess is like she is. Perhaps it’s in the genes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the morning of the Capital Gala, Jess visits Nancy’s care home, her bag brimming with Jossop photographs, the doodled film script, and Anna’s letters. The thought of sharing these treasures with Nancy gives her goose bumps, but when she enters the room, a team of nurses is around the bed.

  “It’s okay,” says her favorite nurse, the one with the Victorian locket. “We’ve finished our checks now. Go ahead, spend some quality time together. I’m sure she’ll be glad you’ve come.”

  As she says this, she lightly touches Jess’s arm. Jess understands what the gesture means: the time is coming. She catches the nurse outside the door.

  “How long?” she says, realizing there’s no other way to ask.

  “We estimate around forty-eight hours,” says the nurse. “Maybe a little less. Maybe more. We’ll keep you updated, so if you want to be with her at the end you can.”

  Jess swallows, stops herself from tearing up. Suddenly she wishes she could bottle up that fierce, eccentric, independent spirit and preserve it forever. With a sigh, she goes to Nancy’s bedside, takes her hand, and starts a monologue, hopeful that if Nancy can’t respond, she can at least hear and be comforted.

  “I took a leaf out of your book, Grandma,” she says, her voice high and tremulous. “I went on another trip. You’d be proud of me. Last minute, I booked myself three nights in Hollywood. And you wouldn’t believe the time I had. I went to Zedora, Grandma. Oh, if I could take you, I would.”

  She pauses, wipes her eyes.

  “I also went to Jossop’s,” she says, rummaging in her bag, pulling out the Descent of the Sun script. “The owner gave me this. Look, it’s your mother, it’s Anna, her initials on the back of Christopher Roderick’s movie script. Did…did she ever talk about someone called Archie with you? I think he meant a lot to her. I think…I think he was the man she was really in love with.”

  At this, Nancy stirs. “And so I told them,” she cries out, “all that glitters is not gold!”

  “Nancy?” says Jess, leaning in.

  Tell me, she thinks. Tell me everything.

  But Nancy sinks back, lowers her eyelids.

  After twenty minutes of silence, Jess concedes defeat and kisses her grandmother goodbye. Just as she’s leaving, however, she hears another murmur from Nancy’s lips.

  “My necklace,” she whispers. “Did you get it? Paul is waiting.”

  “Not yet,” says Jess, heavy-hearted. “But I will. Hold on, Nancy, and I will get for you.”

  ***

  In a daze, Jess takes a cab to Denmark Street. Her tears for Nancy still at the surface, she knows the street will have changed since Paul Angel’s photographs were taken and, sure enough, as the cab pulls in, the ciphers of urban development surround her. New buildings, new cladding, new windows. But she is pleased to find hints of the street’s rock-and-roll past still humming from its walls, its blue plaques, and the few remaining rare and vintage guitar shops. How much longer the hum will last is anyone’s guess. The city is changing all the time.

  She walks up the street, then halfway along, beneath a scaffolding-covered eighteenth-century terrace, she sees the remnants of a shop sign, the words Angel and Photography just about visible. She rushes to the window, but the cement floor and “Under Development” posters give nothing away. The sign, with its dated lettering, is clearly not the most recent incarnation. The ragged edges suggest it has been previously covered over, maybe multiple times: different shops, different eras, different prospects. She backs away, then stumbles into a man walking the other direction.

  “Oh sorry!”

  “No worries, love.”

  Jess’s attention catches on the man’s Celtic cross earring and steampunk skull pendant. She takes in the rest of him: late sixties, leather jeans, band T-shirt, concentrating on his hand-rolled cigarette.

  “You okay, love?” he says, noting her red eyes and teary, blotched cheeks.

  “Uh, yes, thanks.”

  She moves on, but from the corner of her gaze, she sees the man enter Gary’s Guitars opposite. She pauses, turns to him.

  “Excuse me,” she calls. “Do you work here?”

  He nods.

  “Do you know much about this place?”

  She points to the empty shop.

  “You looking for somewhere to rent?”

  “No, I–I’m just curious about the sign. Paul Angel Photography.”

  “Ah, that’s well old. It’s been a drum shop since, then a T-shirt printer, then a deli-café…along with all the other deli-cafés. As for what it’ll be next, who knows? Hopefully nothing corporate is all I can say. But yeah, Paul went out of business decades ago.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Sure, he and my old man went way back. They were good mates.”

  Jess brightens.

  “Really? It’s just I’m doing some research, family stuff.”

  The man shrugs. “Well, come in the shop,” he says affably. “Have a brew. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  She obliges with a smile, wondering perhaps if someone, somewhere is deliberately putting these Taylor messengers in her way. Bevan Floyd. Ellen Jossop. And
now the aging rocker from Gary’s Guitars.

  Inside, the shop is a tatty but dedicated space for musicians and amp enthusiasts.

  “I buy and sell rare models,” he—Gary?—explains. “The older, the better. I like the way they sound. Obviously the technology was a bit more basic back then, but the care that went into them… I mean, you go to shops now and see rows and rows of anything and everything. Some of it so cheap, it looks like it knows its imminent future is landfill. Too much stuff everywhere and no heart in any of it. Do you play?”

  Jess laughs. “I can thrash out a few three-chord clangers. I formed a girl band in high school. We were called the Lucky Bitches. We mostly covered Brit pop hits.”

  “Blimey!”

  “Don’t worry. The drummer and I fell out after our first gig.”

  “Musical differences?”

  “Yes. And the fact that we were both snogging the same boy. So, are you Gary?”

  “I’m Nick. Gary was my dad. He started the shop back in 1958, on the crest of the music boom. I took it all on when he died, the guitars, the lifestyle, the stories…everything. I see it as my duty, you see, to keep the history going. Denmark Street, there’s no other place like it.”

  He passes her a tea in a chipped mug.

  “Please,” she says, “tell me about Paul Angel.”

  “He was already in business when my dad set up on the street. Music photographer, one of the best. Proper gentleman. Old school. Never took the piss. Not like nowadays.”

  Jess takes out a few of Nancy’s photos and shows them to Nick.

  “Could you tell me anything about this woman? Her name is Nancy Taylor. She’s my grandmother. Paul Angel’s label is on the back.”

  Nick studies the images. “Well, I never! That’s his girl. That’s Nancy!”

  “So you know her?” she says, wide-eyed. “They were together?”