14. Chapter 14
Lucy stood in the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She dragged a towel across the steamed-up surface, trying to see more clearly, twisting her head this way and that, examining her face. She slapped moisturiser on and started vigorously rubbing, hoping to smooth out the combined effects of a lack of sleep and an afternoon on the lake.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Luce? You done in there? I need to shower.’
She wrapped the towel firmly around her and opened the door, steam billowing into the bedroom. Jack stepped back, wafting his hands dramatically.
‘All yours,’ she said, tripping deftly past him. She spun back. ‘And knock before you come back into the bedroom. I might be getting dressed,’ she added primly.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he ran a hand through his hair and grinned, ‘your mother is expecting me at my handsome best. I don’t want to rush perfection.’
He disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Lucy chuckled and flicked on the hair dryer.
She was on her third attempt at an elegant yet relaxed and effortless-looking hairdo and had about twenty-three pins stuck in her head when the bathroom door opened just a crack. Jack had crooned his way through a number of country songs for which he had to make up half the words and a strangled-sounding version of Sting’s ‘Englishman in New York,’ but had now fallen silent.
‘Lucy?’
‘I’m decent,’ she called. ‘You can come in.’
‘No, can you pass me a towel, please?’
Lucy glanced at the hand sticking out of the crack in the door, pruney fingers wiggling in the escaping steam, waiting for a towel.
‘You didn’t take a towel in with you?’
‘Clearly not,’ came the voice from behind the door.
‘Oh dear. This is a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?’
Lucy sat back in her chair.
‘Lucy,’ Jack said, through the crack in the door. ‘Don’t be an arse. Just give me a towel.’
‘Ah, now. I think you’re forgetting something.’
Jack sighed. ‘What’s that?’
‘The magic word.’
Behind the door, Lucy heard muttering that sounded like, ‘For fuck’s sake.’
Then, ‘Fine! Give me a towel please, before I come out there with just this tiny bathmat and you see things you can never unsee.’
In a sugar-coated angelic voice, Lucy said, ‘Of course, no problem at all. Here’s the towel you so sweetly asked for.’
Jack snatched the towel from her, and the hand and towel disappeared back into the bathroom, along with a lot of muttering and cursing. A few minutes later, strains of John Denver’s ‘Country Roads’ drifted from the bathroom, and Lucy assumed Jack had calmed down about the towel.
She was applying mascara when the bathroom door was flung open, and Jack strode out, the damp towel slung low around his waist. Lucy took in his tanned torso, the smattering of dark hairs on his chest, and the dark, damp hairs that clung to his forehead. She hadn’t really seen this much of Jack before. Their friendship generally played out over brunches, pubs, muddy walks and phone calls for mutual therapy. She swallowed and quickly looked back at the mirror. Her hand wobbled, and she poked herself in the eye with the wand and smeared mascara below her eyelid. Her eye started streaming, and mascara was bleeding from top and bottom lashes.
‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh nothing, just got mascara all over my face.’
Lucy’s hands flailed about the dressing table, trying to find a tissue.
Jack came over.
‘Let me see.’
He stood in front of her, in nothing but his towel and tipped her head up towards him. Lucy tried to pull away.
‘Don’t be a baby,’ he said, her chin in his fingers.
Lucy was only looking out of one eye. The other eye was squinted shut and weeping. Jack was leaning over her, still damp from his shower. He smelt of soap and hotel shampoo, toothpaste and some sort of spicy aftershave. Lucy could feel the heat from his body, and his stomach, with a scattering of dark hairs disappearing beneath the towel, was inches from her face. She tried not to breathe. Jack had a tissue and was gently wiping at her eye.
‘It’s okay, really.’ Lucy swallowed and jerked her head back. ‘Really, I can do it. You get ready,’ she said, a little more harshly than she meant.
She pushed his hands away and snatched the tissue from him.
‘Thank you, though.’
Jack backed off and held his hands up in appeasement.
‘Okay, okay, so long as you’re all right.’
Jack held her gaze, but she couldn’t read the expression in his dark eyes. He turned and started sorting through clothes.
She knew letting too long pass without them speaking would turn things awkward.
‘Nice singing,’ she offered and smiled. ‘Didn’t know you were a country music fan.’
Jack, shaking faint creases out of his neatly folded shirt, glanced at her.
‘I’m not,’ he shrugged. ‘Dad was.’
Lucy sat, mascara wand in hand and felt the breath catch in her throat. Jack turned and gave a half smile. She wanted to say something, but before the words came to her, he said, ‘Now come on. You need to shake a tail feather, or we’ll be late. Again.’
His eyes didn’t quite match the cheer of his words, but he disappeared back into the bathroom humming, ‘New York State of Mind.’
Lucy turned back to the mirror. Her elegant yet effortless hairdo that had taken three attempts and thirty minutes and was held together with twenty-three pins was hanging down on the left side. Her right eye was red and puffy, and she was blinking uncontrollably.
Her face had gone slightly blotchy and there were still mascara streaks down her cheek. She sighed and emptied her makeup bag, hoping there was a miracle in there somewhere.
***
‘So, who’s at this thing tonight?’ Jack asked, as they picked their way down the ancient staircase back to the function rooms.
‘This thing is the rehearsal dinner, and it’s pretty much everyone you met at brunch today, but I think my Aunt Renee and Uncle Rich will be there too, with my cousins, and a few more of Ollie and Sophie’s friends who are arriving early.’
Lucy ran her fingers through her hair, hanging loose around her shoulders. After the left side of the effortlessly elegant do had collapsed, Lucy cut her losses and pulled the rest of the pins out.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ Jack remarked, his eyes moving admiringly over her face. ‘Nicer like that than when you had it up.’
Lucy ducked her head.
‘Mm, thanks.’
She fiddled with a strand of hair and held onto the bannister.
At the entrance to the restaurant, her parents were greeting arriving guests. As per tradition, the groom’s family paid for the rehearsal dinner, and Lucy’s father took his responsibilities as host seriously. Dressed in a suit with a lavender pocket square and cravat, he was beaming and shaking everyone’s hand vigorously.
His grin grew even wider when he saw Lucy. ‘Hello, Lucy-Lou,’ he wrapped her in a bear hug before planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘You look lovely.’
Lucy sank into her dad’s comforting embrace and squeezed him back. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she mumbled in his ear.
She pulled back and took in her dad’s attire for the evening. ‘Dad, why are you wearing a cravat?’ she asked.
Valerie rolled her eyes and her head simultaneously, making her look like she was possessed.
‘I’ve said this,’ she said, in the tone of a woman who has exhausted all efforts and been ignored. She threw her hands up and muttered, ‘He looks ridiculous, never worn a cravat in his life and I doubt he’ll wear it again after—’
‘I will,’ James interrupted. ‘In fact, this is just the first in my collection. You’ll have to get used to it.’
He reached out to pat Valerie’s bottom.
‘James, for goodness sake,’ she hissed, batting his hand away. ‘We’re in public. Come here, you haven’t even tied it straight. It looks like a bib.’
James submitted happily enough to being trussed up by his wife, whose lips were pressed into a thin pink lipstick slash. He whispered into Valerie’s ear, and she broke out into giggles.
Lucy dragged Jack away before she could hear what they were saying and be scarred for life.
‘Eurgh, come on.’
‘It’s nice,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t even remember seeing my parents kiss when they were together.’
Lucy cringed as she thought of what Jack had shared with her earlier.
‘Sorry. I forget it’s very different for you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Jack said. ‘It’s just nice to be around a family who actually enjoy each other’s company.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Lucy mumbled.
Jack’s hand was on the small of her back, guiding her to a table.
‘Take a seat, I’ll get us some drinks,’ he murmured in her ear.
He disappeared in the direction of the bar and was soon swallowed up in a throng of giddy guests and new arrivals, all clamouring for the bar staff’s attention.
Lucy spied Heather, standing across the room with Mark and their kids Peter and Thomas, clock Jack’s departure. Patting Mark on the arm and disengaging herself from the boys, she made a beeline for Lucy.
Uh oh.
‘Hello, Little Blister.’ Heather sank down into an empty chair beside Lucy, greeting her with the nickname from their childhood. ‘How are you?’
‘Hello, Big Blister,’ Lucy replied.
Heather was elegant, though a little sternly dressed, her hair drawn back in an updo so tight that it looked as if it could iron out wrinkles. Lucy ran a hand through her own loose and wavy hair.
‘It’s a nice evening,’ she said, looking around at the milling guests, half-empty plates and brimming glasses.
She eyed her sister warily. It had been two years since they had seen one another. Since Heather, drunk on red wine at Peter’s christening, had made a point of telling Lucy that it was her decision not to make Lucy godparent to either of her boys. Lucy, unfazed, had smiled and said okay, she understood. Heather and Mark had a lot of friends, people who lived closer to them—it made sense to ask them.
But Heather, having started, was keen to wield the knife. She told Lucy she hadn’t asked her because she thought Lucy would be a poor role model, because she didn’t have a decent job and, as far as Heather was concerned, lacked ambition for both her career and her personal life, which wasn’t the example she wanted for her sons.
Lucy was, Heather said, ‘drifting aimlessly through life.’
Heather had laughed, flashing teeth stained blue with red wine, as she mocked Lucy’s ‘little job” at Dulcetcoombe, where she ‘looked after the old people and decorated the place at Christmas.”
Lucy had tried to stand up for herself. She said that Heather didn’t understand her job, said that she was happy in her life and money wasn’t everything, which made Heather snort with derision.
‘That’s what people with no money tell themselves to justify their crappy choices in life, sis,’ she had snarled.
Heather and red wine had always been a toxic mix, but Lucy also knew that Heather believed what she was saying. Good manners and sobriety normally enabled her to keep it to herself.
Upset and taken aback by Heather’s nastiness, Lucy had stumbled outside in tears. Her mother, seeing her leave, had followed and told her not to make a scene—this was Heather and Mark’s day. Lucy had left the christening reception as soon as possible and hadn’t spoken to Heather in nearly two years until Ollie intervened.
Neither of them had called the other, and Lucy had found excuses not to be with family on Christmas Day (the only time they usually saw one another), visiting her parents later in the holidays once Heather and her family had gone. Lucy wasn’t entirely sure how much Heather remembered of their fight—but it was enough to maintain a stony silence until Ollie’s wedding forced an uncomfortable truce. They’d agreed to let bygones be bygones, said it was water under the bridge and other things which, in practice, simply meant they’d never speak of it again. Forgiving and forgetting were another matter.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Ollie hasn’t stopped smiling. Sophie is the sweetest and keeps hugging everyone and crying with joy.’ Heather leaned in. ‘I think she’s a little tipsy, to be honest.’
Heather pulled a face suggesting this was not exactly how the bride should behave the night before her wedding.
‘But,’ Heather continued, ‘she’s a lovely drunk. Ma and pa and Sophie’s parents seem delighted with it all and with each other…all in all, it’s going well.’
Heather glanced in the direction of the bar and then back to Lucy. ‘So, Jack….’
Heather got to the real reason she had chosen this moment, when Jack was absent, for their first chat. Lucy was nervous, wondering if Heather was looking for ways to find fault. She looked over at Jack standing at the bar, penned in by her nanna and Aunty Jacques and smiled. Nanna held herself up by holding onto Jack’s arm, which he held out for her like a brace, and Aunty Jacques, who had no sense of personal space or propriety, was touching his hair and smoothing it behind his ears.
‘Mum said you’re a couple now.’ Heather arched an eyebrow. ‘Nice to see you with someone.’
Lucy let the second comment slide and simply replied, ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’
It felt both odd and natural to refer to Jack as her boyfriend—the lie slipped from her mouth with ease. She was no longer stumbling over the words as she tried to explain their relationship. However, providing Heather with more details than absolutely necessary was to be avoided, so she swiftly changed the subject.
‘Mum said you’re doing a reading tomorrow,’ Lucy said.
‘Ah yes.’ Heather sighed and rubbed her temples. ‘Ollie and Sophie asked me,’ she said on an out breath, as if weary of the burden. ‘I could hardly say no.’
She watched Lucy’s face and took a sip of her wine.
‘I am sure they would have asked you too, if there was time in the ceremony.’
Lucy smiled.
‘Happy not to do it. I’m not keen on standing up in front of people.’
‘Yes, well, it’s another one of those skills I’ve had to master,’ Heather said, with the tone of one who found life to be one constant trial after another. She continued, ‘So, I am doing the reading,’ she started counting on her fingers, ‘Peter and Thomas are ring bearers, and I made the huge photo display that’s going up in the reception. It’s a carefully curated selection of photographs charting Ollie and Sophie’s relationship,’ she added when Lucy looked blank.
Lucy nodded. ‘Sounds lovely.’
‘It is,’ Heather said, all self-assurance. ‘I think it adds a really romantic touch to the day.’
Lucy thought that, as it was a wedding, it should be fairly romantic anyway, or something had gone badly wrong somewhere, but she kept her counsel.
‘How’s that job of yours going?’
Heather made air quotes with her fingers when she said job.
‘Why do you say it like that?’ Lucy said irritably.
Heather laughed and reached for a bottle to refill her wine glass.
‘Well, come on, I just mean,’ she shrugged, ‘what is it you do? Potter around and help to look after some old house? Hardly a real job though, is it, Little Blister, swanning about the gardens, chatting to old boys about compost and helping old dears manage the till in the gift shop.’
Lucy swallowed and said tightly. ‘As I am sure you know, there’s a lot more to it than that. I run all of the annual events—’
‘Oh yes,’ Heather laughed. ‘Kiddies Easter egg hunts and cute Christmas parties.’
Lucy gritted her teeth. Never mind that she had overseen a hundred and fifteen per cent increase in earned income from events and visitors in her nearly six years at Dulcetcoombe. Never mind that their traditional Christmas Fayre had made the ‘must see’ list of events in the region for the past two years, and no matter that annual visitor numbers had more than tripled since she started. No—to her family, and especially to Heather, she was playing at working and her role was simply to help older volunteers master the complexities of the digital tills. She wouldn’t be taken seriously until she was clad head to toe in a grey designer suit and stuck in an office until 8pm every day. And the more she protested and tried to explain the impact of her work, the more Heather mocked. She clenched her jaw and persisted.
‘And I support many volunteers, some of whom are a little older,’ Lucy conceded, ‘and without whom Dulcetcoombe couldn’t function. We were shortlisted for Yorkshire Tourist Attraction of the Year for the first time last year, nominated by our visitors and members.’
Lucy felt the pride swell up in her chest as she said the last bit, knowing that they had found a place in people’s hearts and lives, that they mattered to their immediate community and knowing that their visitors fell in love enough to remember to vote for them even after their visit to Dulcetcoombe was nothing more than a fading memory and a clutch of photos on a smartphone.
Heather raised her eyebrows and made an ‘oooh’ shape with her mouth. Lucy hated that it took just three minutes in her sister’s company, and they reverted to being teenagers again.
‘Not quite the same as intellectual property law, though, is it?’ she said.
Lucy sighed internally and glanced across at Ollie and Sophie. She would put up with this for their sake, she told herself.
Heather rubbed her temples again.
‘Work is sooo stressful.’
Lucy hadn’t asked, but Heather wanted to tell.
‘They’ve made me partner.’
She paused for a beat for Lucy to jump in and shower praise.
Lucy nodded and mumbled, ‘Yes, I know. You told me. You must be so pleased.’
‘Not before time, and of course, it’s great to be recognised, but it also means I’m on a sixty-plus hour week. It’ll be gruelling.’
Heather looked at Lucy, waiting for a reaction.
Lucy said nothing. She wasn’t going to indulge Heather’s martyr streak.
Heather suddenly lunged towards Lucy’s throat. Lucy jumped and moved away. Heather pulled at something, and Lucy felt a tug on her dress.
‘Oh, Lucy,’ Heather whispered. ‘Really? Has it come to this?’
Lucy strained her chin down to see what Heather was pulling at and realised she had left a tag on her dress. Heather arranged her features into a picture of concern and rested her hand on Lucy’s knee.
‘Is that little job so bad that you have to return that dress,’ she looked Lucy up and down, ‘after the wedding?’
Lucy shook her knee to dislodge Heather’s hand.
‘No, Heather,’ she fumbled for the tag. ‘I just didn’t realise I hadn’t cut it off.’
Heather leaned back in her chair and surveyed Lucy, running a hand over her own sleek hairdo.
‘You know this is a wedding, a big family event. You really should take a bit more care. A bit more pride in your appearance.’ She glanced over at the bar where Jack stood. ‘I’m sure the effort would be appreciated.”
‘You know what, Heather?’ Lucy sighed and felt her jaw clench as she scrabbled to reach the tag that was poking out of the neckline of her dress. ‘It’d be great if you could sit here and not pass judgement for five minutes.’