‘Well, I bet you were a catch too,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve seen your old pictures – you were really glam.’
‘Maybe,’ she shrugs. ‘I never thought so in those days, though.’
‘Why?’
She ponders. ‘I don’t know, really – I just didn’t. If I’m honest, I used to try to make out I was better than I really was. I used to be a terrible one for exaggeration, Lucy.’
‘Oh, what did you say?’
‘I’d tell people all sorts of nonsense. You saw how difficult it was to drag me to salsa? I’m not one of life’s natural dancers. But when I met your dad, I managed to convince him I was on the brink of being signed by Pan’s People.’
‘The dance troupe?’ I giggle.
She chuckles. ‘I was always at it – pretending I was more talented or glamorous than I was. Fortunately, your dad worked out I was boring old Carolyn Gates and decided he liked me anyway.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Be glad it hasn’t run in the family.’
I stop laughing and something strikes me.
‘Why are you blushing?’ Mum asks.
‘Am I? Oh, no reason,’ I say.
‘The point is, your dad and I have always loved each other, warts and all. The fact that we don’t run down the streets shouting it every other day doesn’t make it any less true.’
I’m sure she’s right, that after thirty-one years together that’s normal. I can’t help preferring the Hollywood version of true love though.
‘Lucy,’ she says again, her tone quite gentle for a change, ‘is that the only thing that’s the matter?’
‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘Look, I may have got the wrong end of the stick, so by all means tell me to butt out.’
‘What are you on about?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘Ever since this makeover business, I’ve sensed you’ve been a bit . . . funny. I don’t mean to pry, love, but do you have feelings for Henry?’
I bite one of my nails. ‘Of course. He’s my best friend.’
‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’
As I meet her eye, something inside me seems to break. Tears well up and my lips start wobbling uncontrollably.
‘You can tell me, love. I’m your mother.’
I take a shuddering breath and attempt to compose myself. I fail. Instead, I collapse into a heap of tears.
‘I’m in love with him, Mum,’ I sob. ‘Only, so is one of my best friends.’
Chapter 77
Mum and I were never big on heart-to-hearts. I knew a girl at university who was happy to discuss with her mother the finer details of everything from contraception preferences to inverted nipples. Not Mum and I. We stuck to whether I’d stocked up on baked beans, and that was how I preferred it.
Today though, I’m discovering that she’s not a bad shoulder to cry on. And cry I have.
‘I think it’s too late, Mum,’ I weep, as she puts her arm around me.
‘It’s never too late,’ she promises.
‘But it’s not like he’s going out with just anyone now. He’s going out with Erin. Worse than that, she loves him. And he thinks she’s “sexy in an understated sort of way”. Oh God!’
Mum frowns. ‘I’m not saying it’s not complicated. I know you have your loyalty to Erin. But I stand by my guns. You’ve got to tell him.’
‘But, Mum, I tried to tell him before I found out he was seeing Erin and it was hard enough then. Now it’s impossible.’
Mum leans back in her seat. ‘Can I tell you something, Lucy? I’ve always thought there was something special between you and Henry.’
‘Have you?’ I feel a flicker of hope.
‘What you’ve got – what you’ve always had – goes beyond friendship. Even when you were twelve, it was as if you really loved each other.’
I smile shakily. ‘I suppose we did, in a way.’
‘I never thought anything would happen because I assumed there was no attraction there.’
‘That was then – I fancy the pants off him now. Only now he can have anyone he chooses.’
Mum hesitates. ‘So you keep saying. But I can’t help but think, Lucy, that given the choice . . .’
‘What?’
‘He’d choose you.’
As I close the door and walk to my car, Dad is on his way in.
‘All right, love?’ he says, taking his keys out of his back pocket.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I mutter, wanting to get to the car before he notices I’ve been crying.
Something makes me pause. ‘Hey – Dad?’
He turns round. ‘Yeah, love?’
‘When was the last time you bought Mum flowers?’
He looks at me as if I’m speaking an obscure dialect of Swahili. ‘Flowers?’
I nod. ‘Yeah. Even from the garage. Or supermarket. Anything.’
‘Your mum and I don’t go in for that sort of thing,’ he laughs, shaking his head as he puts his key in the door.
‘Dad,’ I say, before he can get inside the house, ‘you should. You really should. When was the last time you did something really special for her?’
‘I’m always doing special things for her. I got Sky Plus for her, didn’t I? And I’ve got something coming in a bit that she’ll love.’
‘Oh?’
‘A Jacuzzi,’ he tells me proudly.
‘A Jacuzzi?’ I repeat in disbelief. ‘Where the hell are you going to put one of those?’
‘We’ve got plenty of room since you and Dave moved out,’ he says casually. ‘It’ll be great. Millsy’s coming over to plumb it in, in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Giving up, I open my car door and toss my handbag on the passenger seat. ‘You really are the last of the romantics, aren’t you?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘D’you know what, Lucy? You sound more like your mother every day.’
Chapter 78
The last time I watched Henry playing rugby he was sixteen. I’ve never seen him play in adulthood and can’t help thinking that if I had, I’d have realized long ago how attractive he is.
He’s sensational on the pitch, tackling fearlessly, scoring effortlessly, playing faster and harder than anyone else. As he celebrates another try – his third of the match – I squeal with pride as his team-mates dive on top of him.
Then I remember he’s not mine. His rippling, muddied biceps aren’t mine. The toned torso under his gloriously sweaty shirt isn’t mine. The long, muscular legs aren’t mine. They’re Erin’s.
Along with the gorgeous smile and gentle personality that makes him unconcerned about what anyone thinks as he waves to me energetically at the sidelines.
‘What a fantastic surprise,’ he says, running over as soon as the whistle blows. ‘I didn’t think you were interested in rugby.’
‘I hadn’t realized I was. I was really getting into it then!’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he grins. ‘We’ll make a fan of you yet.’
‘Er . . . I wouldn’t go that far.’
He laughs. ‘Can you give me ten minutes to shower and change? I’m in a real state.’
When Henry emerges, he looks just as sensational, his hair wet from the shower and his clean jeans and T-shirt clinging to his body. Today he smells of fabric conditioner and deodorant, and this makes my pulse flutter uncontrollably.
Mum’s words flash into my head again. Given the choice, he’d choose you.
I have no idea whether it’s true, but I do know one thing: this time I’m telling him. It might destroy everything – but I’ve got to tell him.
‘Good match, Henry.’ The voice belongs to one of his team-mates, a tall, Afro-Caribbean scrum-half. ‘Catch you later,’ he adds, slapping him on the back.
Henry raises his hand. ‘See you, Carl.’
When we’re alone again, I take my courage in both hands. ‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask him. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I’ve got to talk about.’
He slows down and looks at me.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I reply hastily. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’
The beer garden of the Black Lion is relatively quiet – probably because it’s unseasonably chilly for the start of July. I head for our favourite spot, under the jasmine in the cobblestoned patio. I pull the arms of my jumper over my hands and shove them between my legs as Henry returns from the bar.
‘Are you not too cold?’ he asks, putting down the drinks and rubbing my back. As his hand makes contact with my body – even through two layers of clothes – warmth radiates through me.
‘I’m fine – are you?’
‘You know me: I’m used to a bit of cold. We needed to be suffering frostbite before Dad would put on the central heating when I was growing up.’
There’s a silence. I can see he’s expecting me to say something.
‘How’s work?’ I decide I need a warm-up to the grand declaration.
‘Brilliant, actually. The clinical trials in Tanzania that some of the team are involved in are really promising.’
‘Hey, that’s great.’
He nods. ‘It’s complicated though because malaria isn’t like polio or measles where there’s one vaccine – you need lots of different ones to fight it. But we seem to be going in the right direction.’
‘How exciting to be involved in something like that.’ I put my elbows on the table.
‘You’re right, it is exciting. It’s going to be difficult to leave . . .’
He stops mid-flow, giving me a stricken look. As his words sink in, my brain starts whirring. Was he about to say what I thought?
‘To leave?’ I repeat.
He takes a ponderous mouthful of beer, lowering his eyes. ‘I suppose I needed to tell you at some point.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I’ve been dreading it because I feel awful about the flat and—’
‘Tell me what, Henry?’ My voice is wobbly.
‘Though I’m sure it’s silly. I know you’ll be happy for me, because that’s the way you are.’
‘Henry!’ I snap. ‘Tell me what you’re talking about?’ My heart is thumping as I stare at him in a befuddled daze.
He swallows. ‘You know how Erin’s been talking about going travelling?’
‘Yes.’ I suddenly feel numb.
‘Well, she’s finally decided to go ahead.’
‘Oh.’ For a tiny, split second, my heart surges with joy at the thought of Erin being off the scene. I know it doesn’t make me a nice person, but I can’t help it.
‘When she suggested that I should go with her, at first I dismissed it. Then, after a while, the idea seemed more appealing. An opportunity that was too good to miss.’
I look up at him again, realizing what he’s trying to tell me. My stomach turns inside out and my chest feels as though someone’s tightening a belt round it.
‘I never took a gap year before university and that’s probably one of the few things I regret in my life,’ he continues. ‘I guess I didn’t have the confidence then. But that’s changed now.’
I get a waft of jasmine and the intense sweetness I usually adore makes me want to regurgitate my lunch.
‘So,’ he smiles, ‘I’ve made a decision.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m going with her.’
His face is filled with excitement and happiness. As I lift my wine glass to my lips I can hear it chattering against my teeth.
‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’ he asks quickly. ‘Over the flat, I mean? I figured you’d easily get another flatmate and, if not, there are lots of one-bedroom places available. If you couldn’t sort yourself out, I’d continue paying rent while I’m away. The last thing I want is to cause you any trouble.’
I gulp in an attempt to hide my emotions.
‘It’s no trouble, Henry,’ I manage.
‘Honestly, Lucy,’ he continues, ‘there’s no way I’m going to leave you in the lurch. You can take as long as you want.’
‘I – I know. It’s fine.’ I force a smile.
‘I knew you’d understand.’
He leans over and hugs me. As his arms envelop my shoulders I fight tears and try to pull myself together. When he finally releases me, he brushes a strand of hair from my face and looks into my eyes.
‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’
I go to shake my head. Then I nod instead.
‘Oh, Lucy,’ he tuts, putting his arm around me again. ‘You’ve got Dominique to look after you while I’m away. You’ll be fine.’
‘How long are you going for?’
‘A year.’
Two simple words. Yet they punch me twice in the stomach.
‘Perhaps longer,’ he goes on. ‘We’ll play it by ear.’
‘A year?’ I reply hoarsely.
‘It’s you I’ve got to thank for this,’ he whispers, stroking my hair again.
I look up, the pain in my chest worsening. ‘Me?’
He nods.
‘I could never have done this if you hadn’t given me the confidence. Honestly, Lucy Tyler – you’re the best friend in the world.’
Chapter 79
I’ve never had a little black book. I’ve had a little purple book, covered in silk with a picture of an oriental bird on the front. I got it on a fifth-year excursion to a Wildlife and Wetlands Trust Centre, and buying it was the highlight of the trip. That might make me sound like a philistine, but after six cold hours observing three ducks and a temperamental Whooper Swan, I’m unapologetic. At least they had a shop. I went home with a china tea-cup, a tin pencil-case, several new rubbers and my little purple book. I was happy.
In the ten years after I bought it, the book was gradually filled with the names and numbers of men I went out with. Briefly and unsuccessfully went out with.
I sit on the edge of my bed, alone while Henry and Erin shop for new rucksacks, and silently flick through its pages.
I dug it out because in films, when the heroine has a romantic crisis, she reaches for her address book and conjures up a stream of hunky specimens from her past. My expectations are significantly lower – but surely there must be someone I could ask out without risking a restraining order.
I open the first page, where there are seven entries. I can’t believe I’m only on A and there are that many.
Right . . .
Chris Austen. He was ages ago – just after university. As I remember, he had the bum of a sprinter and a smile that could melt icecaps. But that’s about all I can remember. I put a star next to his name. Promising.
Next . . .
Ben Ainsley. He must have been three years later. A trainee property surveyor with whom I went to see Minority Report. Not bad-looking as I recall, although slightly tight-fisted (I bought the popcorn), with a funny lisp that . . . oh no. I can’t phone him. He was the one whose car I directed into a ditch the size of the Panama Canal. He was so unreasonable about that.
Next . . .
Marc Abbott. No, no, no. Shattering his mum’s patio window with my red patent leather stiletto is not my proudest moment – particularly since my version of the ‘Time Warp’ song from The Rocky Horror Show wasn’t even the most animated at the party. God, that was unfair. As I watched the shoe hurtle off my foot, through the air and straight through his mother’s window, there was only one thought in my head. Why has this happened to me and not Caroline Decker, when I’m sober (relatively) and she’s drunk a bottle of Malibu and has danced as if she’s being electrocuted all evening?
By the time I’ve got through the book an hour and a half later, I’m even more depressed. Is my adult life really little more than a series of disastrous dates?
I sit up straight and force myself to think positively. Besides, I’ve got stars next to eleven men who I think it’s worth another shot with. It’s not that I remember them as being spectacular examples of manhood, or even that we hit it off especially. These are the ones with whom I didn�
��t make a complete fool of myself. At least, I think not.
I pick up the phone, my heart pounding, and dial Chris Austen’s number. I’m looking forward to speaking to him again, and not least because it’s making me think of that bum. It’s years since I’ve seen him so he’s probably got a new number, but—
‘Hello?’
I don’t recognize the voice immediately.
‘Hi,’ I say nervously. ‘Is Chris there?’
‘Speaking.’
My heart skips a beat.
‘Oh. Chris. Right. Well. You might not remember me after all these years. In fact, I’m sure you don’t remember me because it’s been ages. But my name is Lucy Tyler and—’
‘Lucy Tyler?’ he interrupts.
‘Yes, and—’
‘Of course I remember you.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, pleasantly surprised. ‘Gosh, that’s a turn-up for the books. I assumed because it’d been so long that—’
‘Lucy, love, I could never forget you.’
The way he says it makes me feel uneasy.
‘Really?’
‘I still tell the story of the night we went for a quiet Chinese,’ he continues. ‘The doctors had me worried at first when they said my sight might not return.’
It comes back to me in a sickening flash.
‘They’d never seen anyone stabbed in the eye with a chopstick before.’
Oh God. I hold my breath, as the memory unfolds in glorious Technicolor.
‘I don’t think I quite stabbed you, Chris,’ I say, hoping my indignation covers my embarrassment. He always was prone to exaggeration, but still. ‘I’m not trying to shirk responsibility or anything, but it was more of a . . . poke than anything else. And very easily done.’
‘Don’t worry, Lucy – I’m not going to sue you. It was fine after a few days. Well, weeks. The blurring went eventually and my sight’s as right as rain now. And, to think, you spent all that time in the Far East – I thought you’d have been an expert.’
‘Um, yes,’ I mutter. ‘But I was out of practice with the chopsticks and—’
‘That anecdote was one of the first things I told my wife on the night I met her. She says that story was what attracted her to me – she knew immediately I had a blinding sense of humour. Ha! Blinding! Geddit?’
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