by Kelly Doust
Gigi could be a blast – she said exactly what she thought, because there wasn’t much filter between brain and mouth – but she could also be a little much to take at times.
Ooh, she’s up, thought Sylvie with amusement. Her grandmother rose and, with slow, careful movements, packed away a set of crystals in a felt pouch, secreting it into one of her many pockets. Making her way up to the house, she held on to the hem of her voluminous kaftan, picking her way through weeds glistening with dew, looking for a moment in the dappled light like the wild-haired young girl she used to be, so often pictured in black and white photos in fashion magazines.
Suddenly she appeared in the doorway, altering all the atoms in the room.
‘Sylvie! You’re home. How goes it in New York, darling?’ Gigi gripped Sylvie’s shoulders, engulfing her in a firm, intoxicating hug. She was a big hugger, was Gigi.
‘Oh good. You know . . . busy,’ Sylvie said, trying to catch her breath.
‘You know, I had a dream about you the other night. I sensed you were in trouble . . . You were calling out to me, like a drowning woman, or a sybaritic mermaid . . .’
‘Oh really?’ Wendy’s tone was dry. ‘Fancy that.’
Gigi winked. ‘Siren of the sea.’
‘I just thought it was about time I came home . . .’ Sylvie trailed off. She didn’t feel like going into it all over again, particularly not after last night.
Gigi shrugged. ‘Ah well, it could have been you, it could have been Jane Birkin . . . You look a bit the same, have I told you that before?’ She wheeled around. ‘And who are you, sweetheart, with the soulful dark eyes?’
‘H-hello . . . I’m Tabs. A friend of Sylvie’s.’ Sylvie was amused to see that Tabs was looking starstruck – a common reaction among her friends when they met her grandmother for the first time.
Tabs was fidgeting a little in excitement. She’d been dying for ages to meet Sylvie’s grandmother, who was a legend in certain music and fashion circles. Early on in their first year at St Martins, Tabs had proudly announced to their fellow students that Gigi Love (as Gigi had called herself in those days) was Sylvie’s very own grandmother, to a general collection of ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s.
‘What, really? I thought she was dead! Didn’t Gigi overdose sometime back in the eighties?’ asked one student.
‘She’s a total inspiration for me,’ said another. ‘I loved that spread Rolling Stone did on her back in the early seventies. I managed to get an original copy off Ebay – it’s on my mood board now.’
‘I heard she broke up The Jam – is that true?’ said yet another.
‘No, she’s not dead. Yes, she nearly overdosed – a few times. And I haven’t the foggiest,’ Sylvie told them, deadpan, before briskly changing the subject. As far as she knew, it was only in the mid-eighties that Gigi had stopped touring with bands and managed to kick her smack habit for good after several rounds of rehab. That’s when Gigi threw herself into spirituality and based herself in Big Sur, reinventing herself as a total flake, in Sylvie’s opinion. Though she had to admit, none of it seemed to have dimmed Gigi’s allure in Tabs’s eyes.
To be fair though, Sylvie hadn’t really gone into that much detail with Tabs about Gigi over the years, or the way her grandmother had abandoned her father and Lizzie to pursue a life on the road, going merrily from unsuitable man to unsuitable man, from great band to great band. Who was she to judge, anyway? She understood the need to get away from Bledesford and the stifling weight of history on your shoulders, but she knew Tabs took a more romantic view. Even without meeting her, she’d idolised Gigi as a salty old broad who’d been everywhere and done everything and was all the wiser for it, but Sylvie thought she was more of a good-time girl who left messes behind her at every turn, unconcerned about the outcome.
‘I’ve just been telling Sylvie and Tabs all about our plans, Gigi. For the estate. We still haven’t breathed a word of it to Lizzie, but the girls are on board.’ Wendy stood solidly by the stove, continuing to stir her jam, and flicked a look at Sylvie.
Gigi swept past them and picked up the kettle, filling it with water at the rusty spout, wafting a trail of neroli oil behind her. ‘Tea, anyone? Will you join me in a juniper berry and hibiscus flower tisane? It’s very good – helps with the hormones and does wonders for your skin.’
Sylvie shook her head but Tabs nodded, exuberant as a puppy. ‘Yes please . . . er . . .’
‘Call me Gigi, darling.’
Sylvie couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw her mother roll her eyes.
Gigi passed Tabs her tea and asked Sylvie about New York. ‘So, tell me, darling, what’s it like there now? I remember Greenwich Village . . . I’ll never forget what it was like when I lived there with Nico for a spell. We shared an apartment off Washington Square in the late sixties. Good old Lou used to pop in every other day, to play us songs . . .’
Tabs gave a little squeak, while Gigi blew on her tea, cool as a cucumber, and Sylvie was reminded that, no matter what she did in life, or what adventures she might have, her grandmother had always been there first and done something far more outrageous. Growing up in the shadow of Gigi’s legend had rather negated the need to rebel.
‘But you aren’t half looking gorgeous, darling,’ Gigi said, eyeing up Sylvie. ‘Just like Rose in the Sargent painting. Doesn’t she look like Rose, Wendy? Apart from the hair . . . There’s not an ounce of fat on you, lucky thing! And where’s that man of yours? I can hardly believe he’s left you alone, even for a second.’ Gigi put down her tea and pounced, lifting Sylvie’s oversized jumper and encircling her waist with her beringed fingers.
‘Look at this, Wendy. Eighteen inches!’ she cried, hands warm on Sylvie’s pale skin.
‘Get off, stop it!’ Sylvie squirmed and laughed, pushing her away.
‘Ah, remember that? What I wouldn’t give . . .’
Sylvie swatted her away.
‘Get away with you,’ she laughed, pulling down her jumper, secretly pleased. Even she’d noticed lately that she was looking more lithe and slim. The stress of the last six months had made the hollows under her cheekbones appear sharper, and sometimes her hipbones jutted out above the line of her knickers. It was the only upside of her business going down the gurgler, Sylvie thought.
She saw her mother’s flicker of annoyance as Gigi tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
‘Still designing, then?’ Gigi asked, smiling indulgently and patting her cheek. ‘Those scarves were so wonderful, darling. I still have the one you gave me last time, when you were home. Everyone always comments when I wear it, and I tell them it’s a Dearlove original. They’re green with envy, of course . . . What have you brought me this time?’
Sylvie gulped down the sudden lump in her throat, her mouth horribly dry. ‘Um, nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Give her a break, Gigi,’ said Wendy quickly. ‘Sylvie’s just having a little . . . time out, for the moment.’
‘Time out? Whatever for? I thought things were going great guns – what’s happened?’
‘I, uh . . . I had to close Dearlove down,’ Sylvie said, heart thumping. ‘Or rather, I was shut down,’ she said, voice wavering. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I don’t think I was cut out for running my own business after all,’ she said, giving a mirthless laugh that sounded more like a bark. Her heart started pummelling. Not again, Sylvie thought, trying not to cry.
‘Don’t be silly, darling! What are you talking about?’
At that moment Tabs’s phone rang in her pocket. ‘It’s work,’ she said, pulling it out and mouthing her apologies. ‘I really have to take this— Hello, hello? Yes, I’m here, can you hear me? No— It’s the reception, let me just . . .’
Sylvie could Tabs talking as she left them in the kitchen and strode back upstairs, looking for more bars on her phone. She was feeling quite faint and her heart rate was zooming. She stumbled over to the bench, leaning against it for support.
‘
Sylvie? Sylvie, what’s wrong?’
The last thing she saw was Gigi’s face zooming in and out of her vision, before she fell to the floor, out for the count.
13
‘Darling, darling – are you all right?’ Wendy’s concerned face loomed into Sylvie’s view. She was sitting in the old cane chair in the corner of the kitchen, and her mother was crouched down beside her, patting her forehead with a wet tea towel. ‘Oh, thank goodness, she’s coming around.’
‘My . . . my . . . pills,’ Sylvie croaked out. ‘They’re in my bag . . . over there.’
‘What? Okay, I’ll fetch them. Stay here, Gigi, hold her hand, won’t you? Don’t let her stand up just yet.’
Returning to her side, Wendy’s brow furrowed deeply as she held out the little bottle. ‘What are these?’
‘They’re for . . . for panic attacks. I’ve been having them recently . . . You don’t need to worry. They’re not life-threatening or anything. Just a nuisance.’
‘Yes, but – here, have some water – why didn’t you say anything?’
‘What with everything else going on, it completely slipped my mind,’ Sylvie said dryly, sitting up. Her vision swam. Wendy passed her a glass of water and looked pained as Sylvie gulped it down, trying to quell the nausea in her stomach.
Gigi’s long, lacquered nails tapped on the arm of the chair. ‘You really shouldn’t be taking that rubbish. I have something that’s far better for anxiety.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I simply have to say something: I thought you loved fashion. Why on earth are you back here? Designing is your legacy, darling – you were born to it. All those costumes and outfits to play dress-ups with. I always said you’d be a designer – didn’t I always say it, Wendy? I would have been one myself, if life had turned out differently.’
Here she goes again, thought Sylvie, closing her eyes, making everything about herself.
Gigi was still talking. ‘If your business is over, why aren’t you fighting tooth and nail to save it? Or dusting yourself off to start another one?’
Sylvie felt the anger come out of nowhere. ‘I— You don’t understand!’ She pushed aside her mother’s hovering hand and stood up, legs trembling. ‘You really have no idea how awful it’s been . . .’ She shook her head, unable to continue.
‘I’m sorry, darling – I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Gigi’s voice softened. ‘But what are you doing back here, really? We don’t need your help, do we, Wendy? We can manage getting the estate in order ourselves – you haven’t lived here in years, after all. You’re young, free of responsibilities – you should be travelling and collecting more experiences of your own. Besides, you can never really go home again, isn’t that the truth? You know what Rumi says, darling – Don’t be satisfied with stories, and how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth . . .’
‘Thank you, Black Magic Woman,’ muttered Wendy under her breath, before saying more loudly, ‘I for one am glad Sylvie’s home.’
Gigi shrugged. ‘Think about it,’ she said, leaning over to give her granddaughter a kiss on the cheek. She eyed Sylvie appraisingly as she stood up. ‘And stop taking those drugs, they’re no good for you. I can help you with something more natural when you’re ready. As I said, come see me in the gatehouse,’ she sailed from the room, ‘and I’ll tell you your fortune . . .’
‘The bloody cheek of her,’ Wendy muttered, turning back to the stove. ‘Ignore her, darling – you know what she’s like. We’re thrilled to have you home. Your father, too. You must tell Ben he’s most welcome as well. I’ve said that already, haven’t I?’ Wendy frowned, patting Sylvie’s hand.
Ben. Sylvie’s thoughts turned to him. They’d been going out for almost eighteen months – since about the time things started to fail with Dearlove, but well before they’d turned truly gruesome. He’d been so patient, so kind. And it had been Ben’s father, a doctor, who had diagnosed her panic attacks after the second or third trip to hospital, when the triage nurses had been too busy to see her until after the attacks had subsided. Ben insisted on asking his father on her behalf, but Ben’s whole family had seemed to fall in love with her the very first time he took her home to Texas. She’d felt like such a fish out of water in Houston, with all those intimidating women with big hair and too much makeup, but they’d welcomed her into the fold like she was one of their own.
Tall, sandy-haired and built like the college quarterback he once was, Ben was charming, sincere and earnest. He was also utterly devoted to her. And then there was the ring . . . Sylvie squeezed her eyes shut tight, feeling a little sick at the thought. She’d been rummaging through his bedside drawer a couple of weeks ago, looking for matches to light a candle, and found it just sitting there – a massive, pear-cut sparkler in a dark blue box. She’d dropped it back into the drawer quickly, as if she’d burnt her fingers. And booked her ticket home a week later.
‘The gardens will be the biggest problem,’ Wendy was saying, returning to talk of the estate. ‘Your father and I have been discussing it, and I don’t think we can avoid getting someone in. Even if we have to take out another loan, it should be worth it. And I think we’ll make it back, soon enough. Do you have any idea who we could use, sweetheart?’
‘Me?’ asked Sylvie, still distracted by thoughts of Ben. ‘No.’
‘Yes, well I was thinking,’ Wendy said hesitantly. ‘What about Nick?’
‘Nick?’ Sylvie asked blankly. ‘Nick who?’ Then she remembered Tabs’s recent Facebook post and the old picture taken near the duck pond.
Nick Henshaw was the youngest son of the family in the neighbouring estate. He and Sylvie had grown up together, and for a while, when she was ten and he was eight, they’d almost been inseparable. Her memories of him were all skinny limbs, skinned knees and climbing trees together. Then she’d moved away to London and Nick had gone off to agricultural college to learn how to run his parents’ business and they hadn’t seen much of each other at all, bar the odd occasion when they were both home together on vacation. She supposed you could call Nick ‘the boy next door’, if next door took into account the hundred acres or so of land separating their houses. He was like a younger sibling to her – the brother she’d never had. He had an older brother, Greg, but Nick always wanted to play with her instead (Greg was four years older, and at twelve had begun to outgrow him).
Mill Cottage and its surrounding pastures had once been a part of the Dearlove estate but had been sold off to help repair the roof. That’s when the Henshaws had bought it. Success hadn’t happened overnight, but by the time Nick was a teenager, they’d managed to create a thriving business called Rasberry Hills Farm, selling handmade cheeses and berries. If only her parents had been able to cash in on some of Raspberry Hill’s cachet, Sylvie often thought. The Henshaws’ farm seemed to attract tourists from all over the country to buy its locally grown, organic produce, and Sylvie had always thought they should do something similar with Bledesford.
‘I’m not sure, Mum . . . I haven’t spoken to Nick in years. And I expect he’s got his hands full with the family business.’
‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s not working on the farm any more, he’s set up his own landscaping firm. It’s doing very well apparently. I ran into Rosemary Henshaw the other day, and she said Nick’s taken on some help, which has freed him up considerably. I gather both the farm and his business are virtually running themselves . . . He’s doing even better than his older brother, who lives in London now. You know, I’m sure he could find some time to help us. I heard he helped the Johnsons get Scatterley in order, and they sold it for a packet in the end.’
‘Well, if you think so.’ Sylvie shrugged. ‘Why don’t you call him?’
‘Hmm,’ said Wendy. ‘But if you call him, darling, he might give us a bit of a discount, what do you think?’ She put down her spoon with a clink. ‘This jam’s done, it has to cool. Shall we head upstairs now and I can show you the state of the attic? It’s not in good shape, I’m afraid,
but we have to start somewhere.’
Sylvie thought about all the old boxes and steamer trunks upstairs and felt a little spasm of dread go through her – but at least she wasn’t feeling nauseous and her chest had stopped thumping so wildly. No matter what Gigi thought, her pills had worked.
‘All right, may as well.’
Removing her apron, Wendy laid it on the counter, dusting down her trousers.
‘Come on then, sweetie – let’s go see.’
From an English newspaper clipping, dated 1916
Openings & Art Shows
L’Art Moderne en France / Salon d’Antin
Held between 16 and 31 July at Galerie Barbasanges, 109 Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, Paris, France.
Featuring new works by Pablo Picasso, Amedeo Modigliani, Moïse Kisling, Manuel Ortiz de Zárate and Marie Vassilieff. Includes poetry readings by Max Jacob and Guillaume Apollinaire, and concert performances by Igor Stravinsky and Georges Auric.
Photo caption: Heiress Beatrice ‘Birdie’ Dearlove, pictured here with friend, the designer Paul Poiret, at André Salmon’s Salon d’Antin opening, wearing the designer’s signature ‘Sultana’ skirt. Also pictured in the background: emerging artist Pablo Picasso’s ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’ painting.
