by Kelly Doust
Sylvie ran to her side. ‘Lizzie, Lizzie, what’s wrong!? It’s me, Sylvie – remember?’
The old woman dropped her hands from her face and blinked, her chest heaving. ‘Syl . . . Sylvie,’ she faltered. ‘Oh. Of course, it’s you . . . Sorry, for a moment, I thought, I thought . . .’
‘I’m so sorry if I freaked you out, Grandmama.’ Sylvie patted her hand anxiously. ‘I wanted to show you the dress, and then I was going to— Well, it doesn’t matter . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she saw Lizzie’s white face. She sank down on the wooden chair beside the bed and gripped her great-grandmother’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right, darling,’ wheezed Lizzie. ‘Please ignore me . . . Now, what were you going to say?’
‘Well, Tabs and I thought we could set up a trunk show and take it to London, but – look, no, don’t worry about that, I can talk to you about the new label another time.’ Sylvie hitched her chair closer the bed. ‘Lizzie, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about: do you remember Lady Rebecca Tarlington?’
‘Lady Tarlington? Of course I do.’ The colour was returning to Lizzie’s face, Sylvie was relieved to see. ‘Interfering old woman, always trying to take over at the town meetings. Thinks she knows everything, does Rebecca, just because she’s had so much success with the Trust.’
Sylvie sat up straighter. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. What do you think about doing something similar, here at Bledesford?’ Sylvie held her breath, before rushing on. ‘I went to visit Lady Tarlington – Nick took me, as he’s done some landscaping work for her – and she gave me lots of pointers on how we could go about it. I was thinking, we could convert the orangerie into a function room – don’t you think it would look beautiful for a wedding? A gorgeous reception venue . . . And tours through the gardens, once Nick and Sam have finished—’
Lizzie held up a hand, cutting her off abruptly. ‘That’s an awful idea, Sylvie. You know how much I detest people snooping about. We Dearloves value our privacy. Or at least, that’s how I was brought up. It’s simply not right or proper to have people traipsing through Bledesford. I’ll never agree to it.’
‘I never said—’ Sylvie started, but then realised there was no point. Lady Tarlington had been right: Lizzie was always so obstinate about the things she thought were ‘right’ and ‘proper’. She was a stubborn old goat, and Sylvie would never be able to make her see sense or appreciate a different vision for the place. Her heart sinking, Sylvie thought she might as well go for broke, even if Lizzie seemed to have her back right up.
‘Well, what about this then? If you don’t like the idea of weddings or catering to tourists, what about a lovely documentary about Rose and the legacy she left behind? There’s a man I’ve been speaking to, a filmmaker called Rufus Davies. He did that wonderful doco on Nancy Astor – remember, you said yourself that you thought it was very good? Anyway, I’m certain he would do a great job. And it would raise our profile enough to help us explore other revenue streams. He thinks,’ this next bit, Sylvie said very carefully, ‘that maybe there’s more to her story than we think. You know, when Rose went to Paris.’ Sylvie let out a deep breath.
Lizzie’s eyes flashed again and her voice rose. ‘Good God. Revenue streams? Documentaries? Fashion shows? What vulgarity will you propose next? No, no, no, I won’t allow it! Over my dead body. Go get your father, girl. I want to talk to him about my will. Now,’ she said, rolling away.
Shocked, Sylvie got up and slowly made her way to the door. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Lizzie frowning into the distance, looking out the window. Sylvie hesitated, thinking for a moment Lizzie must be about to apologise for losing her temper, but when she saw the look in her great-grandmother’s eyes, it stopped her in her tracks.
‘Another thing,’ Lizzie said crossly, raising a quivering finger to point at Sylvie when she saw her staring. ‘Don’t you dare think about naming your label Dearlove again. I saw that dreadful Daily Mail piece . . . You’ve brought this family enough shame and embarrassment already. Now close the door and leave me alone.’
It felt like a punch to the gut. Tears sprang to Sylvie’s eyes as she closed the ballroom doors. Had Lizzie always been this spiteful? Or had Sylvie only just noticed what she was really like?
Feeling badly shaken, she wondered what to do. Time was running out – her parents would need to make a decision by the end of this week – and God help her, Sylvie thought, taking a deep breath, she only had one last option. Her grandmother. Perhaps the great Gigi Love would know what to do?
Gigi was pottering around outside the little stone gatekeeper’s cottage, pulling up weeds, as Sylvie drew up on her pushbike. She’d barely needed to pedal, coasting the mile or so down the drive from the big house, gravel flying out in all directions. Gigi was wearing another of her billowy kaftans and a fantastic felt hat against the sun. Her forehead was sweating under the wide-brimmed fedora, but she straightened up, smiling, with hands on hips.
‘Sylvie! How are you, my love? What’s been going on?’ There was something in the way Gigi stood that meant Sylvie caught a glimpse of the great beauty her grandmother had once been.
Gigi’s hands were filthy. ‘You’re gardening?’ Sylvie asked with surprise, a little shocked to see her grandmother doing something so . . . pedestrian.
‘I like the earth between my fingertips.’ Gigi stretched out her arms overhead. ‘Makes me feel grounded, and more connected to Mother Earth. But it kills my back.’ She rubbed at the base of her spine. ‘What do you need? Or just coming to say hello? Actually, it’s good you’re here.’ Gigi raised an eyebrow. ‘I could do with some help.’
Sylvie looked at the stack of weeds at her grandmother’s feet.
‘No, not with this – inside. I’ve set up this thing on the computer, you see. I’ve been making some recordings for— Well, let me show you.’
Inside, Gigi washed her hands and grabbed a large glass jar from the fridge, twisting off the cap and pouring a bright, amber-coloured liquid into two small Turkish tea glasses.
Sylvie eyed the mixture, which looked cloudy and strange. It had a jellyfish-like substance floating on the surface.
‘What’s this? Ginger beer?’ she asked, sniffing cautiously.
‘No – kombucha. I made it myself. Very good for the gut.’
Sylvie tipped her head to the side dubiously.
‘Oh, darling, get with the program. Probiotics? Gut health? Just try it.’
Sylvie sniffed again, before taking a sip. It was quite good, actually. Sweet, and sour, with a few bubbles that reminded her of champagne. She drank the rest down. ‘It’s good.’
Opening a drawer, Gigi pulled out her laptop and made a few clicks with the mouse. ‘Now, what do you think about this, my love?’
A chant of Ommm reverberated throughout the tiny galley kitchen, filling the low-ceilinged space with her grandmother’s voice, pitched almost inaudibly low: ‘Breathe in, breathe out. Breath is life,’ Gigi’s voice intoned over the speakers. It made Sylvie want to giggle, but she managed to keep a straight face and looked enquiringly at Gigi.
‘It’s a guided meditation. To help people on their journey.’
‘Now, count backwards from ten, going down in numbers every time you breathe out . . .’
‘I’m talking to someone about designing my own meditation app.’
Sylvie looked up at Gigi with sparkling eyes. ‘Wow. I like it – it’s a good idea. I must say, though, it’s very entrepreneurial of you, Gigi.’
Her grandmother guffawed. ‘Yes, picture me, an entrepreneur. How Jimi would have laughed. But I thought I’d try something new. I’ve written a book as well, about shamanic journeys, and all the work I’ve been doing . . . well, over the course of a lifetime, really. It’s going to be published in a couple of months. With Hay House. I’m going on a book tour – to mind body spirit festivals and bookshops across the country, and then on to America.’
‘You
’ve done what?’ Sylvie asked, taken aback. ‘Why didn’t you say something? That’s just amazing, Gigi!’
Gigi shrugged. ‘The universe provides, darling, that’s what I always say. But I wanted your opinion – you’re so good at this sort of thing, always have been . . . Remember when you were little and you set up that roadside stall, selling dolls’ clothes you’d made? Quite a determined little thing, you were. Your mother and I took it in turns sitting with you for hours.’
Sylvie had forgotten that. It was funny, though, remembering because it felt like clothes and fashion merchandising had always been in her blood, one way or another. Maybe she’d just got mixed up somewhere along the way about where her true talents lay? And with Tabs by her side – who was so good at pattern cutting, production and costings, all those things that she found difficult and finicky – she would be free to do more designing and styling, without the pressure of feeling solely responsible for everything.
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all under control,’ Sylvie said, tearing her thoughts away from Tabitha Rose. ‘How can I help?’
‘Well, they gave me a tidy little advance for the book a few months ago, and the publisher has big hopes for this meditation app lark. I’m glad, because I don’t want to be a financial drain on your parents, but I do wonder – do you have any ideas about the social media? My agent tells me that authors need to be able to promote themselves online these days. They’re already gearing up for the sequel, and I don’t even really know how Facebook works.’
‘You’ve got an agent? And a two-book deal?! But that’s amazing!’ Sylvie was floored.
‘Of course.’ Her grandmother smiled placidly. ‘It’s good karma, darling. All the love you make over the course of your life means more love in your life. And darling’ – Gigi leaned in towards her and lowered her voice – ‘let me tell you, I have made rather a lot of love. Did I tell you about my affair with Bob—’
Sylvie stepped in to head off another disturbing revelation. ‘Goodness, well, you’re obviously on your way – good on you, Gigi. But maybe I can show you a few things. Have you heard about Instagram?’
‘No – what’s that?’
Sylvie pulled out her phone from her back pocket and launched into an explanation, showing Gigi all the recent images she’d uploaded.
‘Wow, Sylvie, when did you start getting into all of this?’ Gigi marvelled, flicking through the photos rapidly. ‘My Brigitte Bardot dress! Oh, Sylvie, I haven’t seen that thing in years. Doesn’t it look darling on you, the way you’ve modelled it.’
Sylvie reddened. ‘Ah, thanks.’
‘It looks stunning! What are you going to do with all of this?’ she asked, looking up into Sylvie’s face. Her inky, kohl-rimmed eyes sparkled. ‘You have to do something.’
‘Well,’ Sylvie said nervously. ‘Actually, that’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to you,’ she said, plucking up her courage. ‘Have you heard about the grants the National Trust is awarding for properties of interest?’ she asked, watching Gigi’s face. ‘Nick told me . . . Well, actually he took me to a place that managed to secure one, and it was pretty amazing. They get stacks of visitors each year, but they don’t have to always be open and on show to the public. I was thinking, what if Bledesford were to win a grant?’ she asked, biting her lip. ‘I’ve actually already put in the initial forms . . . I just went to speak to Lizzie, and she’s – well, it was quite awful actually. She shouted at me, and was adamant she wouldn’t allow it, but if you could maybe say something to Mum and Dad, they might just reconsider selling. And then we – I – could, well, perhaps we could all stay.’
Gigi enveloped her in a warm hug, instantly making Sylvie feel better. ‘Oh, darling – that would be wonderful! Your father mentioned the grant once, if I remember rightly. Someone approached him, oh, years ago, but Lizzie predictably put the kybosh on it. I was in India at the time, doing a three-month silent retreat, so I had no idea. That was back when your father was still painting and doing quite well, so he wasn’t so keen, but it may be time for you to put it to him again. It seems like a better idea than letting the place go altogether,’ she said, fixing Sylvie with a gimlet stare. ‘You know, don’t you, that I’m dead against this horrible development proposal, even though I said it’s up to you three?’
‘I thought as much. But I expected you’d be horrified by this option as well,’ Sylvie said, unable to hide her surprise. ‘You’ve kind of been a recluse since, well – since you got out of rehab all those years ago . . . at least, you’ve hidden from the public eye. And there would be people around all the time . . .’
Gigi smiled beatifically. ‘Well, I’m not a recluse any more. I adore being around people. What do you think I was up to in California? I was running retreats – can’t get more social than that. And I think it’s a wonderful idea. I love the idea of opening up all this beauty’ –she flung open her arms, her bangles jingling – ‘to people everywhere. It’s the right thing to do. And,’ she added, poking Sylvie, ‘don’t be upset by Lizzie. She can be a right cow at times. You’ve never really ever known her like this – she shows you only the best of her – but let me tell you, she can be a temperamental old thing. You mother has suffered that, more than most.’
‘Yes, I know. At least, that is, now I can see that,’ Sylvie said, contrite. ‘Poor Mum.’
‘She’s strong, your mum,’ said Gigi. ‘Stronger than you realise. But then, we all are – you included.’ She fixed Sylvie with a knowing look.
Sylvie laughed and blushed. ‘And you too, Gigi. A book deal no less, and then a tour – and now an app – what a comeback!’
‘Thank you. But I’m more concerned with what’s going on with you. I’m wondering, darling, what’s going around and around in that brain of yours,’ she said thoughtfully, smoothing down Sylvie’s hair and planting a kiss on her head. ‘Clearly that young man of yours in New York isn’t doing it for you, or you wouldn’t still be here. But something else is bothering you, isn’t it, my sweet?’
Sylvie nodded, wondering at her grandmother’s insight. ‘The thing is, what if I convince Mum and Dad not to sell, but we can’t make the Trust thing happen? I know how to work hard, but sometimes that’s not what gets you through. I mean, that’s what happened with Dearlove – I tried my hardest, and it still all went down the gurgler. I keep wondering: am I going to do the same here and let everyone down again? Because I’m not sure I can go through that again,’ Sylvie said, her voice trembling.
Gigi put her arm around her. ‘Nonsense, darling. You mustn’t worry so much about failing. Fail hard and fail often, it’s the only way to figure out what you really want in life. Here, let me read your tarot cards . . .’
A prickle of unease stole over Sylvie. She remembered, back when she was about to move to New York, Gigi trying to give read her a reading then. But she’d stubbornly refused. It’d sounded like stuff and nonsense to her, and besides, she’d hated the idea that Gigi might tell her something she didn’t want to hear, or tell her any myriad of ways it might go wrong. But what did she have to lose now? Nothing, was the answer.
‘Okay.’
‘Excellent,’ Gigi said, reaching down into a drawer. ‘Now, my darling, cut the cards and concentrate on the question you want answered.’
Sylvie, feeling ridiculous, did just as Gigi asked, then watched as her grandmother carefully and deliberately laid the cards down on the coffee table in front of them, talking all the while.
‘Here.’ Gigi’s swollen, beringed fingers tapped one of the cards. ‘This is all about power – you have the power to bring people together, and coordinate the talents of other people to build a successful empire. But this card here, this indicates that you have a life lesson you’re still in the process of learning.
‘Oh, and . . .’ Gigi laid down another card and looked up, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, Sylvie Rose Dearlove, this is a very good card indeed. It means harmony and love. Domesticity. Happiness. Marriage . . . It’s all in your future.
’
Sylvie’s thoughts turned immediately to Nick, and she blushed despite herself.
‘And here,’ Gigi pointed again to the cards, ‘this arrangement of cards means “home” – you have a very strong connection to a place – or a person. Clearly, you’re ready to settle down.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘Oh, Gigi, you’re just telling me what I want to hear!’
‘No, darling,’ Gigi shook her head, suddenly very serious. ‘I wouldn’t do that. I only tell what the cards say. And this is what they’re saying.’
Sylvie felt a shortness of breath as she looked down at the cards. She felt like she was in a chrysalis of sorts, gathering up all her power to emerge as something new. She could feel it in her very bone marrow, fizzing with anticipation. But what she would emerge as, she had no idea.
‘You know,’ Gigi said, and sat back on the couch, ‘to be honest, I didn’t want to come back here either. I thought I needed constant change and adventure – you know me – but when Lizzie asked me to come back a few years ago, I realised it was time. I didn’t want to believe the signs at first. I kept reading my tarot over and over again, trying to come up with a different interpretation, but the cards all kept saying the same thing: go home.’
‘But I thought Lizzie said . . .’
Lizzie had spoken to Sylvie often about Gigi over the years, always with a thread of contempt in her voice, repeating stories that seemed to get more and more extreme every year. ‘The shock, my God. Gigi was a mess and absolutely filthy . . .’ Lizzie had told Sylvie many times over the years about how Gigi had turned up one day at Bledesford, barely twenty, after running away when she was sixteen years old. ‘Barefoot and pregnant. She’d been a sullen and rebellious teenager, interested in clothes and music and not much else – she made life hell for me, with her drinking and constant partying – and then she turns up pregnant, the hussy!’ According to Lizzie, Gigi had stayed home for a short time with her infant son, seemingly turning over a new leaf, but then she ran away again when Robin was a year old, returning to her wild ways in the swinging sixties, becoming the infamous Gigi Love and absolutely mortifying Lizzie.
