“I’d like to see that, and you’re right. The boring crap can wait. Let me know when you’re ready to start and I’ll show you the ropes.”
***
“You’ve done
what
?”
Fiona wasn’t speechless when Lucy told her she was staying on in Tresco Creek, but she did spill half a glass of red wine over herself. A ruby stain started spreading over the crotch of her diamond-white skinny jeans. “Hell’s bells, these jeans cost a fortune!”
“I’ll fetch a cloth.”
“No, that’ll make it worse. Lucy, what in the name of the saints has possessed you to do this? Chuck in a perfectly good job?”
“A perfectly
boring
job, Fiona.”
“A perfectly boring job that kept you in clean knickers and takeouts. And what about the flat?”
“They have knickers and takeouts down here too, and what’s more they’re a lot cheaper. I’ve got a strategy… oh, and keep on raising your eyebrows like that and you’ll end up like Joan Rivers.”
“B-but—”
“No goldfish impressions either, please, Fi. I have made a decision,” said Lucy dramatically, half enjoying Fiona’s stunned reaction. “Everything is sorted. Well, kind of sorted. I phoned Charlie tonight. He knows a couple of Australian students who want a place for the summer so I can sublet the flat.”
“Students? Holy Mary, the place will need an exterminator when you get back.”
“That’s very narrow-minded of you, not to mention ‘studentist,’” said Lucy, following Fiona into the kitchen. She opened the door of the fridge and fetched out a bottle of white wine.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t try and put me off the scent by plying me with alcohol. I want to know how living a lie really has finally driven you bonkers.”
“The wine is for your jeans. And I’m not bonkers. In fact, I think I just made the most rational decision ever. It’s time I did something slightly reckless for a change.”
“
Slightly
reckless?
Jesus, shacking up with a megalomaniac and turning down his offer of marriage on live telly wasn’t reckless? I’d hate to see you do something completely reckless. What about Nick? Does he know?”
“It’s none of his business and I don’t think he’ll be giving me a second chance.”
“Do you want one?”
“I don’t know what I want. All I know is that for the first time in my life I need to take a risk.”
Fiona shimmied out of her jeans, laid them on the tiles, and started pouring white wine on them. “What about your job? What will Able & Lawson say?”
“I’ve left a message and I’m going up next week to hand in my resignation.”
“Can’t they sue you if you don’t work out your notice?”
“I’ll have to see what they say, but I’ll call in sick if I have to. I’ve made up my mind, Fiona, and if you or anyone else doesn’t like my decision, I’m afraid it’s tough.”
Hengist wedged himself between them and started licking the wine off the jeans. Fiona snatched them up off the floor. “Hengist, I don’t mind you having the odd curry, but I draw the line at sampling my D&Gs.”
She opened the door of the washing machine and shoved them inside, then turned to Lucy. “OK. I know I should mind my own business, it’s your life, and I love you to bits, Luce, but how are you going to keep yourself? Have you any idea where you’re going to stay?”
Lucy grabbed the half-empty wine bottle. “That’s what I’ve got to talk to you about. Come into the lounge, I think you should sit down.”
“Lucy, you can’t be serious?”
Oh dear, thought Lucy, that was exactly what Fiona had said when she’d asked if she could move into Creekside Cottage for the summer. Now Letitia, sitting opposite her in the flat in London, was staring at her with saucer eyes. The tiny table had been dragged into the sitting room and an assortment of chairs laid round it.
“I am serious, Letitia, I went in to see Mr. Lawson this afternoon and explained that I’m leaving,” said Lucy.
“But I thought this was a ‘welcome home’ dinner. You can’t actually go! I’ll be bereft! Who’ll fetch my carrot cake? They’re doing a low-carb version now, you know, for fatties like
moi
.”
Letitia patted her almost nonexistent tummy. After giving birth to little Crispin, Lucy thought she was as slender as if she’d never been pregnant at all.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone else to visit the deli—or you could go yourself?”
“Lord, no. I can’t be seen in there myself. Oh, Lucy, the plants have suffered since you left, you know. Your spike wilted and we had to throw it out.”
“Perhaps that was for the best,” murmured Lucy.
Letitia tried her most winning smile. “We’ll miss you so much. We’ve got a temp, you know, and she tries terribly hard but all she talks about is
EastEnders
and her vacations with the RV club. Can you believe it?”
Letitia made
EastEnders
sound like hardcore porn and the RV club like a demonic sect and Lucy, unable to stop smiling, realized she was going to miss Able & Lawson more than she thought.
“She has that awful Ross Kemp pinned on the filing cabinet and she is nowhere near as good at managing the website as you. Oh, do say you’ll stay!”
It was almost tempting but Lucy was prepared. “No, I’ve promised to take this housekeeping job now. I want a fresh start after all the”—she thought of Mr. Lawson’s face when she had handed in her resignation—“unpleasantness.”
“Wasn’t Hugo very disappointed to lose you?”
In truth, Lucy wasn’t sure Hugo Lawson had been disappointed or just plain annoyed when she’d asked to be let go from her job without working her notice. She suspected he was the type of man who’d go a long way to avoid confrontation of any kind.
“I wasn’t in there long, but he did mutter something about ‘the situation being damned inconvenient.’”
Letitia’s mouth opened wide. “Oh gosh, he must be devastated. Hugo never uses profanities. Didn’t he try and persuade you to stay?”
“He said they’d be happy to have me back when I’d got over this particular episode of my life.”
“Well, that’s something…”
“
If
there was a vacancy.”
The door buzzed and Lucy jumped to her feet with a degree of relief. She wasn’t enjoying having to justify her move to a chorus of largely skeptical friends, not to mention her mother. “That’ll be Charlie and Fi.” A small earth tremor also appeared to be shaking the building. “And Hengist too.”
After kisses all round, Hengist was settled in the corner with a bumper pack of dog biscuits and Charlie handed over a miniature Elvis suit for baby Crispin which had Letitia in ecstasy for a full five minutes. Lucy went to check on dinner. When she got back, Fiona had opened a bottle of Blush Zinfandel and serious glugging had begun. She’d barely taken a sip when three pairs of eyes were focused on her like cats staring at a goldfish bowl. What was coming next was as predictable as rain on a bank holiday.
“OK. What? Have I got spinach in my teeth or something?”
Charlie shot a glance at Fiona. Fiona slurped her wine. Letitia reached out and patted her hand as if she were a patient in a rest home. “We’re only thinking of you. We don’t want you to go, you see.”
“Thanks, but I’ve made my decision. I know it seems like I’m bonkers.”
Fiona snorted but Lucy ignored her. “I guess you think I’m nuts to give up my job, but like I told Mr. Lawson, you have to take risks sometime in life. This thing with, well, with Nick has made me think about what I really want from life.”
“But is cleaning cottages what you really want?” asked Letitia.
“I only do the changeovers part of the week. I’m hoping to build up a small marketing business in my spare time.”
Charlie took a drag of his Gauloise and puffed out smoke in a perfect ring. “But why Cornwall, darling? You could set up your own empire here and get a better-paid job.”
Lucy felt uncomfortably warm. “I don’t want an empire and a fresh start means just that. Totally fresh.”
“Very fresh,” said Fiona with what she obviously thought was an enigmatic leer.
Lucy aimed a kick at her leg under the table.
“Have you heard from Nick yet?” said Letitia.
Lucy kept her voice level. “No. Not yet. I tried to phone him while I was in Tresco but his PA answered so I hung up.”
“Coward,” said Charlie then leaned over and kissed Lucy’s cheek to show he didn’t mean it. “Actually, I saw him in the
Standard
last week. The bugger must be making a fortune. He’s already won a contract for his catering thing from a bank. All those Hooray hedge-fund managers getting shit-faced at Wimbledon while Nick plies them with strawberries at a grand a pop. They all deserve each other.”
“That’s very bitter, Charlie,” said Lucy. “Making lots of money isn’t necessarily evil.”
“My Henry’s a hedge-fund manager,” said Letitia, obviously miffed.
“Partners of present company excepted,” said Charlie, flashing her a generous smile. “So there’s no new man in Cornwall? No rugged surfer or wickedly handsome smuggler?” he offered, stubbing out his cigarette.
Lucy smiled. “Smuggling ended a couple of hundred years ago, Charlie.”
Letitia sighed dreamily. “I know, but the whole thing sounds so romantic, don’t you think? All that Daphne du Maurier–style swashbuckling?”
“Being carried off against your will by a brooding pirate in tight breeches.” Charlie grinned.
“They wear wetsuits these days,” said Fiona.
Charlie licked his lips. “I still wouldn’t mind having my buckle swashed by a nice taut blond.”
Lucy had a horrible feeling her face now matched the Zinfandel. “I’m going to be a housekeeper. I won’t have a chance to be swashed or swept away by anyone.”
Letitia smiled sympathetically. “Of course you won’t, and I suppose there’s an upside to a manual job. I must admit, you do look fit and you’ve done your hair purply again. I quite like it now.”
“Yes, she’s positively blooming,” said Fi, eking out the dregs into her glass. “Charles, petal, can I have one of your vile French fags before we open another bottle?”
He handed over the packet but Lucy got there first. “No. You promised Hengist you’d give up,” said Lucy, snatching the packet from Fiona’s fingers before the flat was engulfed in a blue fog. She stood up, determined to be assertive.
“Guys, I have something to say. I love you all and I’m grateful for your advice, concern, and general barking madness over the years. But this time, I’m on my own. If I get things wrong, it’s down to me. You can say I told you so when I slink back here with my tail between my legs.”
As if on cue, Hengist gave a whimper.
“On Monday, I’m going to Cornwall, at least until the end of September, maybe for longer. I’m going to clean toilets and work on my tan. I might also eat my own weight in meat pies and sign up with a pilchard fishing crew.”
Letitia looked horror-struck and Lucy treated them all to an indulgent smile.
“The point is, I won’t
have
to do anything or
be
anyone. I won’t be the marketing assistant, I won’t be the girl who waters the plants, and I won’t be that bitch from the telly who dumped Nick Laurentis. I can just be
me
.”
Three pairs of eyes stared back at her, three tongues twitched but didn’t move. Charlie ran his hands exaggeratedly through his hair and gave a knowing smile. Fiona sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowed like a cat’s.
“But you always have been just Lucy,” said Letitia, the only genuinely innocent one among the trio.
Lucy was sure that Fiona had been talking to Charlie about Josh. In fact, it would be a miracle if she hadn’t been making up stories. Well, they could think what they liked.
She
knew why she was going back to Cornwall and it had nothing whatsoever to do with a man this time. She snatched up a tea towel.
“Thank you, Letty, but I’m still leaving. Now, anyone for some lamb tagine? It’s a new recipe I got from a friend and I hope you’ll like the taste.”
A week later, Lucy was back in Cornwall, knocking on the door of Tresco Farmhouse, ready to run through the procedure for cleaning and preparing the cottages with Josh. She’d brought her car down this time, cramming every corner of it with her stuff. Having decided to move into the main bedroom at Creekside Cottage, after Fiona had returned to London, the solitary closet was stuffed full of clothes. Far more had been packed away and stored in the attic at her London flat. She guessed Charlie’s student friends had already started trashing the place, but at least they were paying enough to cover the bills so that was all that mattered. After she’d got over the shock, Fiona had refused point-blank to accept a penny in rent but Lucy was determined to pay her back sometime, if only by keeping the cottage clean and cared for.
She banged on the door of the farmhouse again. Josh was taking a long time to answer, so she bent her head to the letterbox, pushed it open, and called in a chirpy, Cockney cleaning-lady voice: “Hell-oo, Mr. Standring, it’s your new cleaning lady come to do for you! Can you let me in?”