by Ellen Berry
Lucy had been through every possibility she could think of: he’d been tired and taken a wrong turning. Yet that was unlikely, as Ivan had driven that journey hundreds of times and often remarked, ‘Christ, Luce – the car could do that trip by itself.’
Maybe he’d intended to stop off along the way – but where, and what for? She had studied the map of the area until it ceased to represent anything at all, and even driven the route herself. There were a couple of rather nondescript villages; neither seemed to have any amenities, like a shop or petrol station, that he might have planned to stop at in order to buy something. He wouldn’t have anyway. If he’d planned to bring treats home, he’d have bought them in one of the chi-chi independent food stores that had popped up close to Si Morley’s offices in Manchester.
After the accident, the police had brought her the contents of Ivan’s car. There had been some work documents, his zip-up bag containing his laundry, his gym kit and a couple of novels, and a beautiful Christmassy bouquet, wrapped in cellophane with a plain white card attached.
Thank you so much! the message read – in Ivan’s handwriting. What had he been thanking Lucy for, and why was he bringing her flowers that night? Although Ivan was far from mean, it wasn’t his usual sort of gift. Maybe he’d just grabbed them in a hurry?
Of course, there was an alternative version of events, but that would have forced Lucy to accept that things hadn’t been as they seemed, and that perhaps her loving, loyal husband wasn’t quite the man she’d thought he was. In this version, the flowers hadn’t been intended for her at all.
This thought tore at her mind now as she hauled the wretched lawnmower back across the straggly grass. He’d been seeing someone else. She could think of no other explanation for his movements that night. Maybe it had started after they’d moved here, when he’d admitted that he’d felt under-stimulated and ‘spied upon’, living in the country. After all, she had tricked him into viewing Rosemary Cottage in the first place – and he had never truly wanted to run a B&B. Or perhaps the miscarriage last year had been the trigger, when she’d been so down and distraught and hadn’t felt like having sex for months on end? Was that why he’d done it? It was classic, wasn’t it – husband feels neglected and unloved so he jumps into bed with someone else.
And who could blame him, really?
Lucy’s eyes were brimming with tears as she dragged the mower up the small ramp into the garage. When Ivan had still been here, she had never considered that he might have lied to her. She had trusted him absolutely, right up until the day he died. But now, as she gave the mower one final kick for humiliating her in front of Irene Bagshott, she no longer knew what to think.
Tears were falling freely now; thank God the kids were out with Rikke. They’d gone up into the hills to collect bits and pieces for a nature project they were doing at school. That’s what Lucy should have been doing right now – enjoying the spring day, collecting fluffy pink blossom instead of imagining Ivan being with someone else.
That was why she lost concentration as she reached up to close the up-and-over garage door. She grabbed at the plastic handle on the end of the rope and tugged it hard – but her mind was so filled with anguish about Ivan cheating on her that she forgot to step out of the way. There was a metallic clang as the door slammed down onto her head, and Lucy reeled backwards, falling to the ground.
Chapter Thirteen
Her first thought as she came to was: Someone attacked me. They hit me over the head but I’m okay, I’m alive. Then: Christ, I’d never have imagined something like that happening here … Lucy’s eyes were open now, and although her vision was blurry she managed to assess her surroundings as she gathered herself up to a seated position.
She was on the gravel next to her house, and that appeared to be her old wooden garage in front of her. How bizarre this was. Its door was hanging half open. Had someone burgled it? If so, what had they been after in here – some half-used cans of emulsion and foldable camping chairs? She exhaled slowly and looked upwards. The sky was clear blue and streaked with transparent clouds, and the sun was shining brightly. There was a light breeze and the distant sound of cars. Slowly, Lucy moved one hand until it was resting lightly on the top of her head. She prodded about, fingers spread, assessing the tenderness of her scalp.
That had been some whack. As her hair didn’t seem to be sticky or wet, she decided it was probably only her skull and/or brain that had been damaged so at least she wouldn’t look a fright around the village. There’d be no rush of concern or fussing over her at the school gate.
Lucy lived in fear of people deciding she ‘wasn’t coping’, and the onslaught of casseroles starting up again.
For a few moments she just sat there, aware of a swill of nausea and a dull pounding in her head as she remembered now what had happened. She hadn’t been attacked after all. She had slammed the garage door down on top of herself. She let out a gasp of exasperation, for being incapable of mowing the lawn – it was all coming back to her now – and, worse still, being unable to shut the garage without knocking herself out.
She stood up unsteadily, the nausea intensifying and causing her to grab at the side of the garage for support, like a drunk person. Oh, she didn’t feel well at all. She needed to get into the house and sit down and drink something sweet. But for now, all she could do was stand there, a hand placed across her eyes, waiting for the swell of sickness to subside.
‘Mum!’ Sam’s voice rang out from down the lane.
She pulled her hand away from her face. ‘Hi, love,’ she said, trying her best to look normal. She smiled wanly.
He was approaching with Marnie and Rikke, and Lucy could see that all three were giving her curious looks as they grew closer. ‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Marnie asked with a frown.
‘I, uh, just bumped my head, love.’ Now she felt as if she might actually throw up. She touched her forehead; it was clammy with sweat.
‘What happened?’ Rikke asked, hurrying towards her. ‘Oh, you look terrible, Lucy. You’re so pale.’
‘I pulled the garage door down on my head,’ she admitted. ‘It was so stupid of me.’
‘Poor Mum!’ Marnie exclaimed, clutching at her arm. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll be fine in a few minutes,’ she said.
‘Does it really hurt?’ Sam asked, peering up at her.
‘Just a bit,’ she fibbed.
Rikke stepped forward and examined Lucy’s head, parting her hair gently. ‘Looks like there’ll be some bump here.’
Lucy flinched. ‘There isn’t a cut or anything, is there?’
‘No, I don’t think so …’ How reassuring Rikke seemed; this strong, capable young woman with her no-nonsense blonde crop and pink cheeks. ‘You need to be checked out, though, just to make sure.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Lucy said quickly, moving away from her now. ‘It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. What an idiot I am! I’ll be fine.’ She started to make for the house with the children scampering along at her side, staring up at her.
‘But you might have concussion,’ Rikke said firmly. ‘It can be dangerous, you know.’
‘What’s going to happen to you, Mum?’ Sam cried out, grabbing her hand.
‘Nothing,’ Lucy replied. ‘I just banged my head and I need to rest and then I’ll be—’
‘No, you must see a doctor,’ Rikke said firmly. ‘The Heathfield surgery is closed on Sundays so it’ll have to be hospital, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not going to hospital,’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘They’ll just look at me and send me straight home.’
‘I hope they do,’ Rikke said, pulling out her phone from her pocket, her nostrils flaring now as she exhibited a fierce determination that Lucy hadn’t witnessed before.
And now she found herself complying – albeit rather huffily – as Rikke made a brisk call to Della, then outlined the plan: she would drop off the children at the bookshop (‘Hurrah!’ whooped Marnie, who loved the place, mainly
because there was always a jar of home-made cookies on the counter for customers). Then she would return with her car to pick up Lucy and take her to Heathfield Hospital – so could she please go and get ready?
Lucy nodded and hugged the children, and as they were whisked away she hurried into the house to grab her bag.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she reminded Rikke several times on the journey to hospital.
‘Lucy,’ Rikke said with a trace of exasperation, ‘what would you do if one of the children had banged their head so badly they’d lost consciousness?’
‘Well, I’d take them to hospital of course.’
‘So there you go then.’
‘Yes, but I’m not a child. I’m forty-two and I—’
‘I don’t think there’s an age when concussions stop being dangerous,’ she retorted, and despite her thumping head, Lucy couldn’t help smiling at that. Oh to have a Rikke type on hand constantly to take care of her. Someone to make the numerous decisions that were required of her throughout the day: what to cook for dinner, whether to battle with Marnie over her maths homework or just let it go, whether to agree to spend the whole two weeks’ school holiday at her parents’ over Easter, as her mother was urging her to do, or stick to her guns and make it a shorter visit … None of these were major issues really, but they all piled up and sometimes Lucy felt frozen in indecision.
She glanced at Rikke as she slowed her speed. They were coming into Heathfield now, a pleasant historical market town with a medieval castle and a wide selection of artisan shops. Rikke drove smoothly through town and towards the hospital. Occasionally, Lucy yearned to tell her about Ivan being on the ‘wrong’ road home the night he died – because Rikke would probably come up with some kind of sensible explanation. For the flowers, too. Maybe the bouquet of poinsettias and red Christmas roses had been intended for someone they knew in the village? Lucy tried to imagine Ivan explaining that he’d bought them for Della or Irene – but she knew in her heart that it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d do. He was kind, yes, but not in a random, bestowing-presents-upon-neighbours kind of way.
He must have bought them for me, she tried to reassure herself – but that didn’t feel right either, and she knew she couldn’t risk mentioning it to Rikke without it sounding weird.
The only person she had told was Andrew, her closest friend back at Claudine. They had worked together for over a decade and often had lunch and after-work drinks; she had met his partner, Roger, many times, and Andrew had met Ivan – but they had never really socialised as couples (Ivan had often referred to Lucy’s workplace friends as ‘your fashiony mates’).
Andrew had come to the crematorium for Ivan’s service, and visited again when Lucy’s mother had gone home. ‘I think maybe Ivan was having an affair,’ she’d blurted out, going on to explain about the wrong road and the flowers.
‘That’s crazy talk,’ Andrew exclaimed. ‘Oh, Luce. You know he’d never have done that to you. It was probably just a nice, spontaneous gesture to mark the start of the Christmas holidays.’
‘But it wasn’t his kind of thing,’ she’d protested. ‘He was more likely to buy me a book, or a necklace or perfume – never flowers.’
‘Look.’ Andrew put an arm around her as they sat up late by the fire. ‘If Ivan was up to something, d’you really think he’d put “Thank you very much!” with an exclamation mark on the card?’
It was typical of Andrew to home in on punctuation. He’d almost had a seizure when their new boss had sent out a group email at work, announcing: Meeting in board room at 3 to discuss social media push. Come brimming with idea’s!
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she’d conceded, ‘but what would he have been thanking me for?’
‘For being all-round bloody brilliant?’ Andrew had said with a smile.
Now Rikke turned to Lucy as they parked up in the hospital car park. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘Much better,’ Lucy replied. ‘In fact, I’m really not sure about going in and bothering them. They’re only going to say I’m wasting their time.’
‘Well, look,’ Rikke said, already unbuckling her seatbelt and clambering out of her car, ‘we might as well have you looked at anyway, seeing as we’re here.’
Now Lucy understood why Marnie and Sam behaved so impeccably for Rikke. Although not yet thirty, she had that air of authority that made people do as she asked, just as Lucy was doing now.
Into the hospital they went, to sit and wait amongst the genuinely sick and injured, the limping and bleeding, to finally be examined and told that Lucy’s responses seemed fine. Rikke had even insisted on accompanying her, as if she thought Lucy might underplay the seriousness of the incident.
‘You’re okay to go home now,’ said a young doctor with a milk-pale face, ‘but remember that the effects of concussion can sometimes be delayed. Make sure you have someone responsible with you for the next few hours.’ As if Lucy were seven years old, when this supposed medical professional looked as if he might be just about of age to join the high school chess club.
‘Thanks for bringing me,’ she said to Rikke, as they left the building.
‘That’s no problem,’ Rikke said. ‘It’s best to be safe.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Now Lucy just wanted to get back to the village, pick up the children from Della’s and pour herself a large wine. She glanced at Rikke, noticing that she seemed a little distracted as they made their way across the car park.
‘You really don’t need to stay with me when we get back,’ Lucy added. ‘I don’t need looking after. If I feel dizzy or sick, I can call someone.’
‘It’s okay, we can watch a film or something.’
‘Rikke, you’re welcome to come around,’ Lucy added, amusement in her voice now, ‘but it wouldn’t feel like we were just watching a film together, would it? It’d seem like you were babysitting me …’ She broke off as Rikke raised a hand. At first, Lucy thought she was just dismissing her protestations. But as she followed her gaze she saw that she was waving to two men who looked as if they, too, had just left the hospital.
‘Hi!’ Rikke called out, and both men acknowledged her with a wave back. Rikke glanced at Lucy. ‘That’s the guy I work for, with his son. Remember I told you about Kenny?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Lucy said. Rikke had mentioned that she was helping out an elderly man who lived just outside the village – although she hadn’t gone into much detail about his circumstances. Not for the first time, Lucy had marvelled at how she managed to keep her numerous plates spinning.
Both men were tall and slim, wearing jeans and sweaters, and were making their way between the parked cars towards them. Please don’t come over, Lucy thought, her heart sinking. On good days she was just about capable of socialising with people she knew well. She certainly wasn’t keen on chit-chat with strangers.
But now here they were and there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Lucy, this is Kenny and James,’ Rikke said with a bright smile.
‘Hi,’ Lucy said, as cheerily as she could manage. Despite the older man’s full beard, she surmised immediately that there was a strong father–son resemblance. Both had intensely dark eyes and were strong-looking, handsome men; Kenny was the older, hairier version. There was something familiar about James, she decided. Perhaps she’d seen him out and about around the village.
‘What’re you doing here?’ James asked Rikke.
‘Lucy had a bit of an accident,’ she explained.
‘Oh, really?’ He turned to her with a look of concern.
‘But I’m fine,’ Lucy said quickly. ‘Just a bump on the head.’
‘How about you two?’ Rikke asked. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Seems like it is,’ James replied. ‘I just wanted to make sure—’
‘He made me come,’ Kenny cut in with a disgruntled shrug. ‘I said I thought I’d swallowed a bone, a fishbone.’
‘We had cod and chips at the chippie for lunch,’ James exp
lained.
‘And I got this scratchy feeling,’ Kenny added, indicating his throat. ‘Wish I’d never mentioned it now, wasting the NHS’s resources when they have proper emergencies to deal with.’
‘Okay,’ James said, laughing now as he held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘But you said you could feel it in your throat, Dad. You said it was annoying you, that it wouldn’t go away and you thought it was lodged.’ He shook his head and exhaled. ‘I made the mistake of looking it up online.’
‘That’s what we all do when we’re ill,’ Rikke conceded.
‘They gave me an X-ray,’ Kenny added, ‘and there was nothing there. They said it’s probably just scratched. A phantom bone, they called it.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ Rikke said brightly. ‘Better than a real bone, anyway?’
‘I guess so,’ James said, turning to his father. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Dad?’
As Kenny mumbled disgruntedly, Lucy found herself observing the scene as if she wasn’t a part of it. She was convinced now that she had definitely met James before – and gradually, it came to her where their paths had crossed.
He was chatting away now about a job he’d been doing on his dad’s house. Something about a rotten windowpane, and now Rikke was telling James about an outing to the cinema that she and Kenny were planning next week. But Lucy wasn’t listening properly. Her mind was racing. All she wanted was to hurry away to Rikke’s car and go home.
She’d had this urge to hide herself away ever since Ivan died. It was why she still didn’t answer the door sometimes when friends and neighbours came around to see how she was doing. Lucy still wasn’t functioning properly – she was only too aware of the fact. It was probably why she still fixated on those wretched Christmas flowers that were found in Ivan’s car, and the ‘other woman’ she had conjured up in her mind who would of course be incredibly gorgeous and sexy and successful.