Chapter 4 - Lucy
I’m wearing my favourite blouse. The one that makes me feel important, like I belong.
It’s a soft, a pale peach that complements my eyes, and the fabric drapes just right, not too tight, not too loose. It makes me feel effortlessly pretty, which is my preferred kind of perfection. The kind that lets me breathe.
The skirt is practical. The shoes are not.
The heels are the pair I shouldn’t have bought, the ones I justified because I’d landed three solid clients that month and told myself I deserved one nice thing.
They’re comfortable enough, but more importantly, they make me stand taller.
They remind me that I belong in rooms like this.
I even wore my good lipstick. The one I only pull out when I need to seal a deal.
So far, so good.
I’m seated at a round table near the center of the restaurant with three potential clients, listening carefully as they talk about the upcoming fundraiser.
It’s for a chronic illness foundation, one that funds access to treatment and in-home care for families who can’t afford it. Which means I care... a lot.
“We want it to feel hopeful, real, attainable,” the woman across from me, Deidre Lenon, says, twisting her napkin in her fingers. “Not… clinical.”
I nod, already picturing it. “Hope is about acknowledgment and experience,” I say. “Things like lighting, music and room flow can make a big difference. But you want people to feel like they’re part of something human, not just donating to a cause.”
Her husband, Dr Howard Lenon, exhales, relieved. “That’s exactly it. It can be a tricky balance to get people to care without making them uncomfortable.”
And that I absolutely understand. So, I smiled. I let it show how much I believe in what he is saying, what they are trying to do. This is the moment I love, when the tension leaves the table, and everyone leans in instead of back. When people feel seen instead of sold to.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t check it.
I don’t need to.
It’s payday.
Payday is never just payday. It always comes with so much pressure.
I keep my focus on the conversation, walking them through ideas, a live string quartet, warm lighting, and a storytelling moment from a family the foundation has helped. I talk about accessibility, pacing, and donor engagement.
My phone buzzes again.
I feel it, this time. The familiar tightness. The countdown clock I live with most days.
I wait for a natural pause and smile apologetically. “I’m so sorry. Please excuse me for a moment.”
In the bathroom, the lighting is brighter, like it's peeling back my curated layers.
I pull my phone out.
Em: Lu, did the deposit go through?
Em: The pharmacy called again
Em: Mom’s meds are due tomorrow
I close my eyes.
Shit, I worked straight through the day and all the way to this meeting. Now that I think about it, this may be the first time I stopped today.... did I even eat?
I type quickly.
Me: Sorry, I am still working.
Me: It hit. I will transfer it now.
Me: I’ve got it, Em.
Me: How’s Mom tonight?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Em: She’s pretending she’s fine
Em: Which means she’s not
Em: She keeps saying she’s sorry
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe.
Me: Tell her to stop apologizing.
Me: This is what family does.
Me: I’ll be home soon.
I open my banking app and move the money without thinking too hard about the number that remains. It’s enough. It always has to be.
I study myself in the mirror. My brown hair hangs loosely.
I had an event space to approve this morning, and I didn't get much sleep last night because my mom was in another flare-up, so I didn't have much time to get ready. Freckles across my nose that I used to wish would disappear and now don’t bother covering.
Brown eyes that look tired up close but determined.
I reapply my lipstick carefully.
You’re okay, I tell myself.
You’re always okay.
No one else is going to help.
Mom and Em need you.
Get out there and smile.
Back at the table, I slide into my seat as if nothing happened.
“Sorry about that,” I say lightly. “Now, if we anchor the night around storytelling instead of speeches, you’ll keep people engaged longer.”
They nod and smile. They trust me.
By the time dessert menus arrive, we’re laughing. The deal is done before anyone says it out loud.
“I feel so much better about this,” Deidre says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “You just… get it.”
I smile, warmth spreading through me. “I really care about this.”
Everyone at the table goes quiet as a man approaches us.
I recognize him immediately. He is hard to miss. He is tall and broad, tailored to absolute perfection, with a golden tan and short blonde hair styled to look messy. His light blue eyes are bright and inviting.
Graham Whitaker.
Which makes absolutely no sense. He is entirely out of my professional league. He's the name people drop carefully. He smiles like he already knows the room belongs to him.
“Miss Bennett,” he says.
I blink. Why is he talking to me? “Oh..." Get it together, "please, call me Lucy.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement? Interest? I’m not sure. I am too busy trying to keep my cool, and I am not sure if I am even doing that well.
“I’ve been wanting to introduce myself for a while,” he says, voice smooth. “You are a hard one to track down. So, when I saw you here this evening, I had to come over and say hi.”
I laugh, a little embarrassed. What do I say to that? “Hi.”
He gives me a blinding smile, and I can feel the heat on my cheeks.
Deidre raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained, Dr Lenon chuckles lightly, and I feel like I am in some sort of twilight zone.
Graham’s gaze stays on me. “I’d like to talk sometime.”
“Of course,” I say automatically, because this must be about my work.
He reaches into his jacket and slides a card into my hand, slower than necessary. Intentional. His fingers linger as he closes my hand around the card.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he says.
As he walks away, Deidre leans in conspiratorially. “Lucy,” she whispers, “that man was flirting with you.”
I laugh. “What? No. He absolutely was not.”
She grins. “Oh, sweetheart. He absolutely was.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “You’re imagining things.”
Why would someone like him flirt with me?
I tuck the card into my purse, and we finish the dinner meeting.
As I gather my things, heart steady, shoulders relaxed, my mind keeps bouncing back to Graham. Was he flirting with me? No... And does it even matter? It's not like I have anything to offer someone like him. It's not like I even have the time... My focus needs to be on Mom and Em.
Outside, the night air is cool and grounding.
I breathe deeply.
I did well tonight.
I landed another client, a big event that will do good for their cause and mine.
Now I just have one more thing to take care of.