by Paula Byrne
Edward opened another bottle, as he warmed to his theme, convinced that he had found all the answers. Then he checked himself. It didn’t quite all add up.
‘Lisa, one thing surprises me. I can see that he stalked you on Twitter and wrote the anonymous letters. He wanted to destroy our marriage. But the blog. That puzzles me. It doesn’t feel like him. And the voice sounded different.’
Lisa stopped him in his tracks, before he could suggest that maybe the blog was by someone else. They weren’t going to go down this road now. No more paranoia. What they knew, they knew.
They decided that they would tell no one. Least of all Milly. She had never really known her husband, and what he was capable of, but there was nothing to be gained by enlightening her now. Wives very often don’t know what their husbands are capable of. Ignorance really is bliss.
At least the Chamberlains had their answers. No more looking over their shoulders in the school grounds. Although she felt bad about all the innocent people she had suspected, Lisa felt content. No one had really got hurt. But she felt particularly guilty about Schrodinger.
Sean seemed to be doing well. He had stopped tweeting, and had joined Facebook, and had been posting lovely photographs of his family. There was no contact with Lisa, and she wanted it that way. She had truly loved him. But it would never have lasted between them. All she wanted to know was that he was happy. He would always be loved. He was that kind of man. The heart surgeon with the enormous heart.
She had allowed herself a last tweet of the ‘meant for Sean’ variety.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
She wanted to build her life again on the firm ground of ordinary pleasures; her children, the garden … #LornaGarman
CHAPTER 37
Launch
The burden was lifted. Lisa was back in the swing of things. She rebooted her blog and her column for City & County. She wrote like a demon. And just over a year later, as winter turned to spring, she finally published her second book.
It was a biography of Elsa Schiaparelli, who in her time had been as famous as Coco Chanel, but whose fame had not endured so well. She had not already been the subject of a dozen biographies. She was especially known for her knits, and for inventing the wrap dress. She had a fantastic sense of colour. It was one of Schiaparelli’s firsts in this area that gave Lisa her title. The biography was called Shocking: Elsa Schiaparelli and the Invention of Pink.
Edward, so proud, wanted to throw a lavish celebration, but Lisa wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted a small, intimate party in the Albion. Dicky was delighted, and promised to clean the shop. Bee, knowing better, brought her Marigolds and got to work a couple of hours before the party began.
Lisa had invited Schrodinger, mainly to assuage her guilt about suspecting him of being the troll. She had also invited Sean and his wife. She knew that he wouldn’t come, but she wanted him to know that he was welcome. Sean didn’t text or DM or email. He sent a beautiful, hand-written letter. He told her that he was well, and that he was happy, that he often thought of her, that he would never regret a single minute of their relationship. He made her laugh when he wrote that he had finally met a patient who had survived a Takotsubo heart attack. He could always make her smile. Then he wrote something that made her cry, warm sobs that splashed onto the pages.
You are a remarkable woman, Lisa. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as loved as you. You’re so warm, so full of life and love and laughter, so giving and selfless. You’re a free spirit and Edward knows and understands this, that you need space and a degree of freedom to thrive and be truly happy. I regret nothing, and am so happy that you came into my life.
There would always be a tiny part of her heart that belonged to Sean, the doctor who had saved her daughter, and helped to mend her own heart, and then broken it. Edward was right. She was a better person for having had her heart broken. She folded the letter. It was time to get ready for the party.
*
Dicky had paid for the piano to be tuned. He and Bee had hung tiny fairy lights across the ceiling, and there were jam jars full of spring flowers; paper-white narcissi, blue grape hyacinth, and late-flowering snowdrops.
They were to drink pink champagne, and Lisa had ordered tiny pink fairy cakes embellished with lobsters. Dicky was delighted to showcase his china plates, but was pretending to be grumpy, complaining about potential breakages. His shop was full, and that made him happy, though he would never admit to it.
Lisa was wearing a Schiaparelli hot pink strapless gown of flowing crêpe de Chine teamed with silver strappy sandals (Lucy Choi, a better cobbler than Jimmy Choo, in her opinion). Copies of Shocking were stacked in huge piles on tables covered in pink silk. Edward’s launch present was a pink Montblanc fountain pen for signing.
After the speeches, the guests mingled, sipping their pink fizz. Freddie and Helen, the newly-weds, chatted with Bee, and Lisa could see her publisher, Annabelle, talking to Dicky, and looking rather admiringly at his handsome nostrils. Edward was deep in conversation with Schrodinger. There were others, too. Jan and Milly had come from Liverpool, and there was a good turn-out from the Blagsford staff. To her surprise, many of the students had come along. Best of all, John Misty was there. Her oldest, dearest friend.
He took her aside: ‘Blaize, I told you all those years ago that if you lost weight and got yourself some decent clothes, you’d do OK. Now look at you!’
‘Fuck off, Misty. How very dare you come along to a launch party about the fashion industry wearing a dog collar and a black dress?’
‘And no knickers. Do you want a quick flash? No, I thought not. I’m so proud to be your friend, Blaize. Have I told you how much I love you?’
‘You always do, Misty.’
‘And you never say it back.’
‘I love you, John.’
They chatted briefly about Sean, and Chuck.
‘The thing is, Misty, I was too busy for real friends, using Twitter as a substitute for the real thing. I was lonely. But I was too stubborn to make new friends in Blagsford, tarring everyone with the same brush. I look around now, and everyone I love is in this bookshop. Well, almost everyone.’
Her eye caught Schrodinger, who was staring at her. She excused herself and approached him.
‘Thanks for coming.’
He was clutching a copy of Shocking. As she spoke, he blushed to almost the same hot pink as the jacket cover.
‘Lisa, Edward just told me about the anonymous letters, the trolling, the fake blogs. God, what you must have been through. It’s appalling.’
‘It’s OK. It’s all over now.’
‘That time when Edward saw me with the naked picture of you. I was taking it down. I didn’t want you to be humiliated. I always looked out for you.’
He blushed again as he spoke, and Lisa finally understood.
‘I’m sorry. I thought it was you. I thought you hated me. I got it all wrong.’
‘I could never hate you. But why didn’t you just ask me, and I would have told you the truth?’
‘I do believe it, and I ask thy pardon.’
Schrodinger took her proffered hand and raised it to his lips.
‘Just one thing, though,’ he said. ‘The real reason I came tonight is that I’m a massive fan of Father John Misty and I saw his name on the message board of your Paperless Post invitation. But I’ve just met him and he’s only a bloody priest.’ Lisa cracked up.
Strains of Cole Porter tinkled from the piano, and the guests gathered around. Dicky began softly singing ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’. Bee was buzzing around, lighting tea candles, graceful and beautiful as ever. Dearest Bee, so full of love. Lisa looked about for Onions, who had promised to make an appearance. She was finally about to meet the famous genius.
Edward took her hand. ‘Time for us to go. I promised to read to the children. And I promised to phone my mum. We’ll help clear up in the morning. Let’s go quietly.’
‘Yes,’ said Lisa, ‘and I need to fee
d the baby.’
As they left in the pink Fiat, Lisa saw a grey-haired man in a long tweed coat walking into the Albion. She saw Bee squeal with delight and throw her arms around him, whilst Dicky glared. It was Onions.
*
The next morning, her editor rang to thank Lisa for the party, and for introducing her to Dicky. Annabelle and Dicky had clicked, and Dicky had told her about his unpublished novel, Guys and Dolly Birds. Annabelle had loved the sound of it, and Dicky had promised to send her the manuscript. Lisa was delighted. Then they chatted about Shocking.
‘Tweet all the coverage to your followers, every mention helps,’ Annabelle told her.
There were good reviews, and interviews on the radio, and even a brief television appearance on Midlands Today. The book – lavishly illustrated, so a great coffee-table present for the style-conscious reader – squeezed into the non-fiction bestseller list. Lisa was thrilled. Before she knew it, she was being interviewed for the cover story of the glossy Style magazine of the Sunday Times.
Lisa tweeted the news that she was in the Top Ten, together with a message telling her followers to look out for the forthcoming interview. The paper had sent a photographer, who caught her on a bright spring day in the White Garden, looking relaxed and happy, purposeful and professional, and just a tiny bit sexy.
The following Sunday, the picture filled the front cover of the magazine, along with the caption ‘Meet the New Face of Fashion History’. She was on her way. A bestselling author, in the public eye.
EPILOGUE
Ratby, Leicester
He was thrilled when he bought his new home after his divorce. It was a two double-bedroom terraced house on a newly developed estate in Ratby, just 4.9 miles from Leicester. It was situated just off the A46, with easy access to the M1 and M69. He was pleased to note, when he got the house particulars, that close by was a Co-op, various small local shops, including a well-stocked newsagent, and a good choice of public houses. He liked a pint after a hard day’s work.
The house had gas central heating, double-glazing, a fitted kitchen with hob and extractor fan, and a small, fully enclosed rear garden. The fence was nice and high, with solid panels. Real cosy. Just what he needed after the wife left. There was also a parking slot for his red Skoda. Neighbours nice enough, kept themselves to themselves. He liked it like that.
He spent most of his time in his bedroom on his computer. Easy just to fall into bed when he felt tired. The bedroom was a bit messy. A clothes maiden and a few plastic laundry baskets of unwashed shirts lay behind his swivel chair. He had a nice IKEA desk, though. Plenty of space for his computer and printer. He absolutely loved Halo 3.
The man was bald, slightly overweight, and in his forties. He was dressed in a bottle-green zipped jumper and jeans, with the belt unbuckled. He had spotless hands and neatly cut fingernails. He wore a watch with a leather strap. His glasses were gold-rimmed. He was clean-shaven.
The bedroom was painted a shade of yellow clotted cream, and adorning the walls were pictures of women. They were mainly celebrities, cut out from magazines or downloaded from the Internet and fixed with Blu-Tack. Every inch of wall space was covered. Cameron Diaz, Angelina Jolie, Holly Willoughby. Gary Brandon liked a classy girl. No Katie Price or Cheryl for him.
In pride of place, over his double bed, was a large photograph that had been cut out of a plastic banner.
He went to his desk. He switched on his computer and entered his password. The Dell Ultra-Sharp 34-inch curved monitor flickered slowly to light and said ‘Welcome, Gary Brandon’. It then revealed a screensaver of Charlize Theron on a South African beach, clad only in a diaphanous black kaftan, curling between her thighs and exposing her ample buttocks. He liked a back view.
He looked down at the colour supplement on his desk. Not his usual hunting ground, he would be the first to admit. He smiled.
He had been waiting for a chance to meet the girl on his wall. It had been dark when he had seen the banner outside Sainsbury’s and swiftly slit around her face with his Stanley knife. He didn’t bother to try to find out who she was. He just liked having her above him on the bed, that face, that hair, as if she was about to come down on him.
But when he had gone to the newsagent that morning to get his Sun on Sunday (he only bought it out of nostalgia for the pre-Internet days when he had to rely on top-shelf magazines and The News of the World), he had spotted the face on the front of the colour magazine. ‘Going upmarket this week, sir?’ said the Asian newsagent as he handed over the cash. He made a point of not answering.
Now he had her name. He opened Twitter, and typed it into the search box. Up it popped, the thing he needed. So easy these days. Her Twitter handle and profile.
@Lisa_Blaize
Fashion historian and author of bestseller Shocking: Elsa Schiaparelli and The Invention of Pink. Married with three fantabulous children. Special interest in textiles and lingerie.
Halo Guy @1972Halo
@Lisa_Blaize. Hello Lisa.
Acknowledgements
Lisa and Sean owe their knowledge of the affair between Laurie Lee and Lorna Garman to Cressida Connolly, The Rare and the Beautiful: The Lives of the Garmans (Harper Perennial, 2010) and Valerie Grove, The Life and Loves of Laurie Lee (André Deutsch, 1983). As Lee’s authorized biographer, Grove had access to his unpublished diaries, from which she quotes but without specific references. Sean’s quotations are from longer diary extracts quoted by Grove in The Life and Loves of Laurie Lee. The quotation attributed to Alexander McQueen was on the wall of the V&A’s exhibition Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty (2015).
The author is grateful to her loyal editor Arabella Pike, for allowing her to dip her toe in the murky waters of fiction and to Susan Watt for hands-on editing with scrupulous attention to detail and many bright ideas.
Huge thanks to Hilary Davidson for fashion advice. And to the malicious communicator for some (very) raw material.
Also by Paula Byrne
Perdita: The Life of Mary Robinson
Mad World: Evelyn Waugh and the Secrets of Brideshead
The Real Jane Austen: A Life in Small Things
Belle: The True Story of Dido Belle
Stressed, Unstressed: Classic Poems to Ease the Mind (co-editor)
Kick: The True Story of Kick Kennedy, JFK’s Forgotten Sister, and the Heir to Chatsworth
The Genius of Jane Austen: Her Love of Theatre and Why She Is a Hit in Hollywood
About the Author
Paula Byrne is the author of the bestselling biographies Perdita, Mad World, The Real Jane Austen, Belle and Kick. She lives in Oxford. This is her first novel.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
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New Zealand
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United Kingdom
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United States
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New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
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