“Yes, thanks. Much.”
“Good. Lucy, meet Sara Pentire, from the sailing club,” said Fiona. “She’s Josh’s girlfriend.”
“Hi,” said Lucy, holding out her hand, determined to make up for not shaking Josh’s earlier, even if she had had a good excuse, clutching her towel and bath soak.
Sara smiled but didn’t take her hand. “No need for formality here, Lucy. Tresco Creek is a laid-back kind of place. You can chill out here.”
“Once you’ve realized the locals aren’t going to hit you over the head with a wrench,” said Josh.
“Doh,” said Lucy, striking herself on the forehead as if she was highly amused, yet really quite pissed off.
“It’s OK, really, Lucy,” said Sara, patting Lucy’s arm. “We understand. I’m sure Josh isn’t offended, are you darling?”
Sara’s expression was very like the look the nurses had on
Casualty
when they were telling someone they’d got something embarrassing and/or incurable. Josh didn’t reply but Lucy noticed him glancing at his watch. Lucy, too, was longing for them to go so she could find out what Fiona had told them about her. Sara didn’t sound Cornish either. Definitely more Cheltenham Ladies College than Penzance Comprehensive.
“More ginseng tea, Sara?” said Fiona.
“No. One’s enough for me,” said Sara, tossing back her blond ponytail. “Good stuff, though. Did you order it over the web?”
“No, it’s from… some little shop near my flat in London.”
“Organic?”
“Yes… you could say that,” said Fiona. Lucy almost choked on her coffee. Fiona broke out in a rash at the mere thought of healthy eating. Josh downed the last of his drink. “Fiona, I’ll have to shoot off. I need to do some work on Porthcurno before the visitors arrive.”
“And I’ve got an RYA catamaran course to teach,” trilled Sara.
“Oh, that sounds high-powered,” said Lucy, impressed. Hearing the wind gusting outside she also thought it sounded too uncomfortable and dangerous by half.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just a novice’s course, but you do have to lay these courses on for beginners, no matter how boring. And I’m sure capsize drill is nothing compared to the sort of pressure you’ve been used to dealing with.”
“I’ve explained to Josh and Sara that you’re here for a little rest from your job in the City,” said Fiona.
“My job in the City?” echoed Lucy.
“In merchant banking,” said Josh, making it sound like a disease. He clicked his fingers to summon Tally.
“Oh, Josh, don’t bother Lucy with that now. She’s come to Tresco Creek to escape from all that,” said Sara, beaming. “And you know, getting out on the water is one of the best stress relievers there is. Do you sail?”
“Er… not often.”
“You should. I’d be happy to put you through your paces. You only have to ask.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, smiling through gritted teeth.
“It’s a pleasure. Anything I can do to help. You too, Fiona. I’m sure Josh would love to get you out on a board. We’ll have you planing in no time, won’t we, Josh, darling?”
Before he could reply, Fiona gave a broad smile. “Very kind of you, Sara, and I’d absolutely love to—if only I could swim.”
Sara stared at Fiona in horror. Josh drained his coffee, by which Lucy guessed he was trying not to sneer. “You can’t swim?” squeaked Sara.
“Not a stroke. Hengist, leave Tally’s tail alone, please. She has to be off now.”
Josh tugged his keys from his pocket by way of a hint.
Fiona led the way through the back garden and round to the gate at the front of the cottage. “Thanks for doing the heating. Put it on my bill,” she said as Josh unlocked the pickup truck and Tally jumped into the cab.
“No problem,” he said, hand already on the ignition key. Lucy thought he was going to rev up the engine and roar off, he seemed so eager to get away.
Sara climbed deftly into the passenger seat. “Lucy—hope to see you at the club soon. I presume you can swim?”
“Like a fish,” said Fiona, closing the door before lowering her voice. “I’ll make sure she digs out her swimsuit.”
Lucy was sure she could hear them laughing as they bumped off down the road. When they were gone, she held her hands up to her head. “Swim like a fish? Job in the City? Stressed out?”
“It was the best I could do when Sara started asking me who you were. Would you rather I told them the truth? That you’re a notorious celebrity bitch whose bare arse was spread all over the
Sun
last week?”
“It was not bare. I had my thong on!”
“Even better. If they do read the
Sun
, they won’t recognize your face. But then again, I don’t think Josh or Sara have time for the tabloids or morning news shows…”
Lucy thought back to Sara’s tiny waist, brown legs, and toned arms. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of an O’Neill ad. Even Josh had a golden tan and biceps to die for. You didn’t get that by an addiction to
Desperate
Housewives
and frosted carrot cake.
“Somehow, I don’t think they have couch potatoes in Tresco Creek,” she said. “But, Fiona, do I look like I’ve a job in the City? Look at my nails, look at my hair. How many merchant bankers buy their jeans from H&M?”
“Ones who’ve flipped at work and been sent on gardening leave.”
“Oh, Fiona.”
“It’s for the best, Lucy. If they think you’re slightly bonkers and you’ve come here to get away from the rat race, you can behave as oddly as you like. It makes sense, you know. They say the only difference between a lunatic and an eccentric is a million or two in the bank.”
“The trouble is, Fiona, that even if I actually enjoyed pretending to be a stressed-out City exec, I’m totally crap at lying. You know I won’t be able to keep it up if people start asking questions and then I’ll just look even more bonkers…”
Fiona was unrepentant. “Shall I go and put an ad in the
Porthstow
Mercury
, then, announcing the arrival of Lucy Gibson in Tresco Creek?”
“You know that’s ridiculous, but I hate all this deception. It’s just not me.”
Fiona pushed open the gate to the cottage. “Be realistic. They’ll leave you alone now. I told them you can’t face talking about your past life. It’s part of your therapy: Tresco Creek; the simple life, the fresh air, the sea.”
Lucy groaned. “I don’t think a year at drama school would help me carry this off!”
Fiona patted her arm. “Stop worrying. Aunty Fi will help you. Now, come in and have an almond croissant, Miss Hyde.”
Lucy stopped by the door, hardly able to believe her own ears. “
Miss
Hyde?
Oh please. You haven’t, have you? Please say you haven’t told them that?”
Fiona came the closest to blushing Lucy had ever seen. “I know, I know. Bit pathetic, but hey, it was the best I could think of on the spur of the moment and I’d just been reading an old Robert Louis Stevenson in the loo and…”
That topped it all, thought Lucy, stalking off into the house in disgust and shame. She was now named after a sinister madman with hairy knuckles and it probably served her right.
Lucy was halfway through
Hanging
by
a
Thread
, Fiona’s fourth book, when she knew she had to get out of the cottage or go mad. There wasn’t anything wrong with the novel; it was gripping. But then again, so had been books one, two, and three. Continuous poisonings, stabbings, and stranglings took their toll eventually.
Lolling on the sofa or in the little garden with a coffee and a book had, for about a day, seemed like exactly the therapy she needed. Yet the problem with hiding was that because no one could see you, in a sense, you ceased to exist. She hadn’t been forced to run away, she could have taken her leave of absence in the flat. The press interest would have died down eventually. Everyone became yesterday’s news at some point; maybe her backside was wrapped around some french fries by now.
Fiona had been locked away in her room until late into the night, having been visited by the muse, or rather, by a pretty nasty conversation with her editor. Lucy had taken her bagels and coffee at regular intervals and Fiona had waved a hand in thanks, rolled her eyes apologetically, and started typing again.
Lucy had taken the hint. She had been too scared to go out for the first few days in case she met anyone who recognized her, but she was beginning to think that was ridiculous. After all, Josh and Sara hadn’t shrieked and pointed their fingers when they met her. Well, Josh almost had but not because he recognized her from the TV. In fact, why should anyone recognize her down here? She’d changed her hair.
Hot
Shots
had only had ten million viewers—how many of them had come to Tresco Creek on vacation? Very few, she guessed, and on that basis Lucy felt she wasn’t likely to bump into any of them in the immediate surroundings of the cottage.
“This is no good, Hengist,” she said to the snoring dinosaur spread over the patio. She could see his lead hanging off the peg on the back door. Through the open window of Fiona’s room, she could hear the clatter of a printer as she ran off her latest chapter. Scribbling a note on the back of a council tax demand, she unhooked his lead and prepared to be flattened by 140 pounds of canine exuberance.
Five minutes later, she was heading along the green lane which (according to the wooden signpost) led down to Tresco Creek. The sun was shining between white clouds scurrying across the sky. Blown by the breeze, they seemed to be bounding along almost as joyously as Hengist.
Several meters ahead of her, he nuzzled the banked-up hedgerows, panting, snorting, and snuffling, reveling in the doggy equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet. Lucy didn’t have to have a snout and a tail to enjoy the scents. She recognized some of them from her childhood, the times when, before they’d split up, her parents had taken her to visit her gran in Shropshire. She had been so young then, she reflected, as she spotted wild garlic, honeysuckle, and hawthorn in the hedges.
At the end of the green lane, the high banks opened out into a meadow that sloped down to the creek. Lucy knew that Tresco Farm was about a mile inland from the sea and the creek was tidal, but it was hard to tell, right now, which way the tide was moving, as sandbanks were visible among the pools of water. She could see the eddies and swirls as the sea flowed in—or out—of the narrow inlet. There was bright green seaweed shining on some of the banks, the odd rowing boat wedged on the higher sand bars. The sun came out and, for the first time, she felt the warmth on her arms as the breeze stirred her hair.
“Hengist!” she called, seeing a flash of creamy fur bobbing about on the shore at the edge of the creek. She hoped he could swim and climbed over the stile and into the meadow. After the recent rain, the earth was soggy beneath her feet and her trainers sank in almost to the laces. She knew she should have brought her wellies, but then again, footwear hadn’t been a high priority when she’d left London.
Down by the water, Hengist had met up with Tally and she seemed just as interested in him as he was in her. They were doing a lot of highly irregular sniffing; the canine equivalent of foreplay, Lucy guessed. At least Hengist had found love. Lucy also knew that Tally’s owner couldn’t be far, and when she glanced along the bank out toward the sea, she saw him, striding toward her.
“Tally!” he called. “Come here, girl!”
Lucy knew it was no use ordering Hengist to do anything. She might have been holding a whole bag of bones and dog chews and he still wouldn’t have paid her any attention. He had tastier dishes in mind and Lucy suddenly felt rather sorry for Tally.
“Hey, Tally,” Josh called more sharply this time, as the two dogs bounded into the shallows.
To Lucy’s surprise, Tally didn’t race back to Josh and lie by his side. In fact, she ignored him and Lucy felt an inexplicable twinge of satisfaction. It was a relief to know that he didn’t have everything under control. Too bad, she was going to have to speak to him, at least to exchange pleasantries; although, by his eagerness to escape from the cottage on their previous encounter, she suspected they’d both rather say nothing at all.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” she said as he drew near.
She thought they’d both pass by but the dogs had other ideas. They continued to romp together and Lucy fixed her eyes on the seagulls perched on a rowing boat. Neither of them seemed ready for conversation.
“Tide’s on the turn,” said Josh eventually.
“Is it? You can’t really tell, can you? I mean, you can probably tell because you see it every day—sometimes twice, of course, but… sorry, I must sound like a real klutz.”
Now, in London, thought Lucy, most people, even guys, would have said, “Not at all. How could you know? Isn’t it a glorious day? Have you tried the meat pies in the village shop? You must come and share a flagon of scrumpy with Sara and me,” etc. Just for politeness. Even if they did think you were a klutz. But Josh just nodded as if to confirm that yes, indeed, she was the queen of klutziness. Which was a lot easier to deal with than actually being invited to tea and having to pretend she was a stressed-out bond trader.