“It’s not enough to believe!” Sadie’s voice is suddenly passionate, almost savage. “Don’t you see that, you stupid girl? You could spend your whole life hoping and believing! If a love affair is one-sided, then it’s only ever a question, never an answer. You can’t live your life waiting for an answer.”

She flushes and swivels away.

There’s a sharp silence, except for two EastEnders laying into each other on-screen. My mouth has dropped open in astonishment, and I notice I’m about to tip wine all over the sofa. I right my hand and take a gulp. Bloody hell. What was that outburst all about?

I thought Sadie didn’t care about love. I thought she only cared about having fun and tally-ho and the sizzle. But just then she sounded as if…

“Is that what happened to you, Sadie?” I say tentatively to her back. “Did you spend your whole life waiting for an answer?”

Instantly, she disappears. No warning, no “see you later.” She just vanishes.

She can’t do this to me. I have to know more. There’s got to be a story here. I switch off the TV and call loudly into thin air. All my annoyance has evaporated; I’m consumed by curiosity instead.

“Sadie! Tell me! It’s good to talk about things!” The room is silent, but somehow I’m sure she’s still there. “Come on,” I say, wheedling. “I’ve told you everything about me. And I’m your great-niece. You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Still nothing.

“Whatever.” I shrug. “Thought you had more guts than that.”

“I do have guts.” Sadie appears in front of me, looking furious.

“So tell me.” I fold my arms.

Sadie’s face is motionless, but I can see her eyes flickering to me and away again.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she says finally, her voice low. “It’s simply that I do know what it’s like to think you’re in love. I know what it’s like to squander all your hours and all your tears and all your heart on something which turns out to be… nothing. Don’t waste your life. That’s all.”

That’s all? Is she kidding? She can’t leave it there! There was a something. What was the something?

“What happened? Did you have a love affair? Was there some guy when you were living abroad? Sadie, tell me!”

For a moment Sadie looks as though she’s still not going to answer, or else disappear again. Then she sighs, turns away, and walks toward the mantelpiece.

“It was a long time ago. Before I went abroad. Before I was married. There was… a man.”

“The big row with your parents!” I suddenly put two and two together. “Was that because of him?”

Sadie tilts her head forward about a millimeter in assent. I should have known it was a man. I try to picture her with a boyfriend. Some dapper twenties guy in a boater, maybe. With one of those old-fashioned mustaches.

“Did your parents catch you together or something? Were you… barney-mugging?”

“No!” She bursts into laughter.

“So what happened? Tell me! Please!”

I still can’t quite get over the fact that Sadie’s been in love. After giving me such a hard time about Josh. After pretending she didn’t care about anything.

“They found sketches.” Her laughter dies away and she hugs her skinny chest. “He was a painter. He liked to paint me. My parents were scandalized.”

“What’s wrong with him painting you?” I say, puzzled. “They should have been pleased! I mean, it’s a compliment, an artist wanting to-”

“Naked.”

“Naked?”

I’m gobsmacked. And kind of impressed. I would never pose naked for a painting. Not in a million years! Not unless the painter could do some kind of airbrushing.

Brushing, maybe. Whatever artists do.

“I had a drape over me. But, even so, my parents…” Sadie presses her lips together. “That was a dramatic day, the day they found the sketches.”

My hand is clapped over my mouth. I know I shouldn’t laugh, I know it’s not really funny, but I can’t help it.

“So they saw you-your-”

“They became absolutely hysterical.” She gives a tiny snort, almost a laugh. “It was funny-but it was dreadful too. His parents were as angry as mine. He was supposed to be going into law.” She shakes her head. “He would never have made a lawyer. He was a great big shambles of a man. He painted all night, and drank wine, and smoked gaspers back to back, stubbed them out on his palette… We both did. I used to spend all night with him at his studio. In his parents’ shed. I used to call him Vincent, after van Gogh. He called me Mabel.” She gives another tiny snort.

“Mabel?” I wrinkle my nose.

“There was a maid at his house called Mabel. I told him I thought it was the ugliest name I’d ever heard and they should make her change it. So he instantly started calling me Mabel. Cruel beast that he was.”

Her tone is half jokey, but there’s a strange flickering in her eyes. I can’t tell if she wants to remember all this or not.

“Did you…” I begin-then chicken out before I can finish the question. I wanted to ask, “Did you really love him?” But Sadie’s lost in her own thoughts, anyway.

“I used to creep out of the house when everyone was asleep, climb down the ivy…” She trails away, her eyes distant. Suddenly she looks really sad. “When we were discovered, everything changed. He was sent to France, to some uncle, to ‘get it all out of his system.’ As if anyone could ever stop him painting.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Stephen Nettleton.” Sadie breathes out heavily. “I haven’t said that name aloud for… seventy years. At least.”

Seventy years?

“So what happened? After that?”

“We were never in touch with each other, ever again,” says Sadie matter-of-factly.

“Why not?” I say in horror. “Didn’t you write to him?”

“Oh, I wrote.” She gives a brittle smile that makes me wince. “I sent letter after letter to France. But I never heard from him. My parents said I was a nave little simpleton. They said he’d used me for what he could get. I wouldn’t believe them at first, hated them for saying it. But then…” She looks up, her chin set, as though defying me to pity her. “I was like you. ‘He does love me, he really does!’” She puts on a mocking, high-pitched voice. “‘He’ll write! He’ll come back for me. He loves me!’ Do you know how it felt when I finally came to my senses?”

There’s a taut silence.

“So… what did you do?” I hardly dare speak.

“Got married, of course.” I can see the flash of defiance. “Stephen’s father conducted the service. He was our vicar. Stephen must have known, but he didn’t even send a card.”

She lapses into silence, and I sit there, my thoughts teeming. She got married to Waistcoat Guy out of revenge. It’s obvious. It’s awful. No wonder it didn’t last.

I’m totally deflated. I wish I hadn’t pressed Sadie so hard now. I didn’t want to stir up all these painful memories. I just thought she’d have some fun, juicy anecdote and I could find out what sex was like in the 1920s.

“Didn’t you ever think about following Stephen to France?” I can’t help asking.

“I had my pride.” She gives me a pointed look, and I feel like retorting, “Well, at least I got my guy back!”

“Did you keep any of the sketches?” I’m desperately casting around for an upside.

“I hid them.” She nods. “There was a big painting too. He smuggled it to me, just before he left for France, and I hid it in the cellar. My parents had no idea. But then, of course, the house was burned and I lost it.”

“Oh God.” I sag in disappointment. “What a shame.”

“Not really. I didn’t care. Why should I care?”

I watch her for a minute pleating her skirt, over and over, obsessively, her eyes busy with memories.

“Maybe he never got your letters,” I say hopefully.

“Oh, I’m sure he did.” There’s an edge to her voice. “I know they went into the post. I had to smuggle them out of the house and into the postbox myself.”