Tom saunters over smiling.
‘Luce, it is so good to see you, what are you doing now? Last I heard you were training to be a babysitter.’ I give him a jokey slap.
‘Oh, how dare you!’ I exclaim. It’s a bit more in depth than supervising a sleeping child I’ll have you know. I’m working in a Care Home now. I love it, old people can be so funny.’
‘Same old you,’ Tom laughs, ‘never one to do things by halves. From the youngest to the oldest in the space of two jobs.’ He leans in and plants a peck on my cheek. ‘It really is so great to see you, Lucy,’ he says. I cast a nervous glance in the direction of the bar. Paul silently fumes. The bartender is keeping a close eye on him over the top of the pint he is pouring. I try to ignore him and continue my conversation with Tom. I hear about the law practice he has opened with two other guys from our year, and about Jane, his live-in girlfriend who is definitely ‘the one’. No offence to me, he laughs. None taken. I give him an offended sniff, and laugh along. Jane hadn’t been able to make it this evening as she is a nurse and on night shift.
Tom glances around to make sure no-one is listening, and then he leans into me to whisper in my ear.
‘We just found out Jane is six weeks pregnant. I can’t wait to be a father. Keep it to yourself though, you know, first three months and all that.’ I squeal and squeeze Tom’s arm, oblivious to the fact that Paul is heading our way. Until I hear Jess mumble:
‘Uh-oh, trouble ahead,’ and turn in the direction of the bar.
With the sickening thud of knuckles on bone, Paul’s fist smashes into Tom.
‘You slag!’ screams Paul in my face. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? Showing me up with your ex-boyfriend, ignoring me!’ I stand there in stunned silence. Tom holds his hand over his nose, blood pouring through his fingers.
‘Listen, mate,’ begins Tom, through gritted teeth. I can tell he is struggling to control his temper, but doesn‘t want to retaliate. ‘I can assure you…’
Bang!
Tom wavers for a moment before crashing to the floor. The bouncer has Paul in a double arm lock and is thrusting him towards the door. All around us chaos breaks out. Tom lies unconscious on the floor, surrounded by broken glass from the pint he had been holding. I stare at him in horror. Silently willing him to wake up. Please don’t let Paul have just killed the father of an unborn baby.
‘Call an ambulance,’ someone screams.
After four hours in Casualty at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary – and a hundred apologies later from me – Tom is released. Two black eyes and a severely bruised jaw for his troubles. He graciously declines the offer of a stay at my house and the experience of my very amateur nursing skills, and heads back to Seb’s in a cab.
Somewhere around 5am I crawl into bed, after cleaning up as much broken glass as I can. A brick has been thoughtfully thrown through my bedroom window. I fall into a restless sleep.
I dream that Harry walks into my bedroom.
‘Oh, you perv,’ I laugh. ‘I am not one of your wanton women!’
He chuckles heartily. ‘Oh, I know you’re not,’ he says. ‘If only you had been fifty years younger…’
‘Try sixty,’ I smile wryly.
‘Anyway, Luce, I only wanted to say that you deserve so much more.’
‘Yes, Harry. I know. He is so dumped first thing in the morning. I’d do it now if I had the energy.’
‘Lucy, you’re a good girl. Remember what I told you now, never settle for second best.’ Harry places a kiss gently on my forehead.
‘I’ll see you again, honey.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry. I’m on a late. Now let me sleep, you old git.’
I drift off as Harry leaves my room, with a backwards glance and a smile.
I phone into work the next afternoon to say I’d be ten minutes late. Dashing into the kitchen, I almost run into Maisie.
‘You’re late,’ she observes astutely.
‘I know, I know.’
‘There was an ambulance here last night. 2am. What do you know? Nobody tells us anything. Bloody night staff!’
‘Maisie, I’m sorry. I know nothing. I have to go to the handover meeting. Make me a coffee please – and I know you can, before you start.’
I walk quickly to the office, saying hello to clients as I go. The group quietens as I enter.
‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. ‘I know it’s the second time this week I’ve been late, but…’
My senior, Ellie, stands up.
‘Lucy…’ She pauses, breathes deeply and closes her eyes: ‘Harry’s gone.’
I stare at Ellie, confused for a moment. A sea of concerned faces all around me. This isn’t real. Not my Harry. This can’t be happening. I run from the room and down the corridor, tripping over a discarded hoist and bump my forehead on the skirting board.
‘Lucy?’ shouts Maisie, from somewhere behind me. I pick myself up and keep running until I’m outside. I take in huge gulps of freezing, drizzle-soaked air.
He came to say goodbye.
Chapter Five
It has been two weeks since Harry’s funeral. His only living relatives, the niece in London and her family, want his remaining money, but no personal items. This angers me so much. After hearing this, I walk out of the handover meeting at the beginning of my shift and storm along to Harry’s old room. I glower at the picture his great niece has done. Where are you now? Where are any of you? You will never know what you’ve missed. I hope you enjoy your money. I angrily punch Harry’s bed before sitting down and picking up his photograph; Jimmy and Harry, now together with people who really care. Ellie appears at the door, silhouetted against the bright light behind her, making it impossible to read her expression. I sigh wearily and ask her if I may have the photo? I hear a smile in her voice as she tells me it’s mine, I look down at it again and when I look up, she has gone. I rummage around in Harry’s bedside drawer and find a sticky bag of boiled sweets covered in fluff from being in his dressing gown pocket. I won’t eat them, of course, but it was just so Harry. He used to suck them in bed, even though the night staff confiscated many bags as it was a choking risk. Today we are having a clear-out of Harry’s things. There’s a lady moving in tomorrow. This is the last day I can sit here and feel like I’m totally with Harry. Come tomorrow, the new lady will be busying herself with turning the room into hers, and trying to get rid of the old man smell that so reminds me of Harry.
His niece didn’t attend the funeral. Only Care Home staff and a smattering of Harry’s old Navy friends, including one elderly lady nicknamed ‘Vera Lynn’. Fond of the Navy boys in her younger days, she had entertained the troops in a whole different way to the real ‘Forces Sweetheart.’
The organ played the opening bars of Abide with Me and the choir joined in. I stared sadly at the stained glass windows, my chest tight with the grief I wouldn’t let go, and thought how ridiculous it was that the closest I have got to my George Bailey was an eighty seven-year-old man. Albeit dirty-minded, but one who was charming, funny and kind. Harry wasn’t religious but the ceremony was, as he hadn’t stated what he wanted.
‘I’m not going to be at the party, so why would I care?’ he had said.
At the end of the service, I walked over to the coffin and popped a half bottle of whiskey at Harry’s side. He looked peaceful – a cliché, I know – but he really did. A small smile seemed to have been playing on his lips when he went.
‘I’ll miss you, old bugger,’ I smiled sadly, ‘don’t go terrorising those poor angels too much.’ I kissed his cold cheek, feeling the roughness of bristle from an overdue shave that never arrived.
Things settle back down at the Care Home and I don’t hear from Paul again. I heard that he was spotted out with another poor unsuspecting soul, both looking miserable as they drank their pints. I swear off men for a good long while. Instead, I seem to have a different view of life. Maybe, after Harry, I realised how quickly it can be snatched away, but I’m not sure. I start by quit
ting smoking. I give away my last fourteen cigarettes in a pack to Bessie, along with my ashtray and lighters. I also stop drinking for a few weeks as my resolve to stop smoking weakens terribly when I add alcohol. I walk the forty minutes to work and back, more for something to take my mind off cigarettes than anything else, and find I am quickly shedding the pounds too. I have no appetite. There are good days, when my intention is to live my life as fully as I can, and others when I’m angry and flop into bed pulling the covers over my head, not wanting to talk to anybody.
Everything reminds me of Harry.
After a few weeks of feeling really low and grumpy due to nicotine withdrawal (OK, I admit it, borderline psychotic) things start to look up again. I spend my time seeing movies and going to the gym with friends. I’m beginning to feel more positive than I’ve been in a long time. Like a tiny stream of light has appeared from behind a dark cloud after days of storms.
After a couple of months hiding out like a recluse, seeing only non-smoking friends and allowing myself a maximum of two wines total on a weekend night, I decide it’s time for the re-launch. I’ve gone from a size fourteen to a ten, so Jess and I hit the town for some power shopping. For the first time since I was a teenager, I enjoy buying clothes. Instead of being bright red in the face, struggling to button up a fourteen whilst grunting like a stuck pig, I slide easily into a size ten jeans and they sit snugly on my hips. I want to cartwheel through the changing rooms. The last time I had gone shopping I had, to my shame, got stuck in a slinky satin top. Mortified, I struggled for ten minutes with my arms over my head, stuck from the chest up, before I gave in and shouted on the pre-pubescent stick insect assistant to help me. Chewing her gum loudly in my ear as she attempted to release me, she eventually ripped the seam and pulled the top free. Just in time for me to notice three of her colleagues disappear, giggling, around the corner. Of course I had to pay for it even though, technically, she had ripped it.
Why do they allow these foetuses to work in clothes shops? It doesn’t make me want to go in there. Flaunting around in their size six clothes with ridiculously trendy names as they shout across a crowded store.
‘Jaz, can you check if we have this in a size fourteen – or maybe a sixteen, actually – for this customer?’ While looking disdainfully at me through a too-long fringe.
I want to be served by women whose arses are bigger than mine and who have shared the experience and humiliation of being stuck in a garment. I want them to say in hushed tones that they have the same trouble as me finding trousers to fit. I mean, the average UK size is a sixteen. I’m not alone here in being a real woman.
I do not want to hear the size six brigade tittering behind their hands and saying in mock awe: ‘It really suits you.’
Wait ‘til you hit real womanhood, sweetie, with your boobs swinging round your knees. So now I want to walk back in the manner of Julia Roberts in that scene from Pretty Woman:
‘Big mistake. Huge!’ I want to smirk as I flaunt my new look at them. I figure they won’t know the relevance of my statement. Probably haven’t ever watched a movie that wasn’t Disney. So I stick to getting my own back by dangling my arm out of the changing room curtain, shouting: ‘Service please, would you happen to have this in an eight?’ It’s fairly lost on them, sadly. In their minds anything over an eight is obese.
Laden with shopping bags, I head for the final part of my re-launch preparation – a new haircut. I exit an hour later with glossed, long choppy layers. It’s just what I needed. Twirling around in the street, Jess and I squeal at my reflection in a shop window. Much to the annoyance of people attempting to pass by. Serving staff in the shop look at us curiously.
‘Now, lunch,’ states Jess and we head to our local to chill out and discuss which of our new purchases we will wear tonight. As Jess hurries back from the bar, with two glasses of Pinot Grigio, she pushes my head down to near table level.
‘Stay there,’ she hisses.
She rummages in my River Island bag and chucks a pair of boot-cut jeans and a slinky top at me. She takes off her skyscraper heels and throws the lot in a carrier along with my makeup bag.
‘Toilet, now!’ she orders. ‘And don’t come out ‘til you’d make Kate Moss look like a complete dog.’
‘Eww, gross! I’m not putting on “still warm” shoes. Reminds me of that time we went bowling, I swear I got a verruca…’
‘I don’t have any verrucas – now seriously, go!’ Jess hisses, giving me an almighty shove. I have no idea why I am doing this, but I also know there will be a good reason. Even if temporary insanity is the cause.
I exit the bathroom ten minutes later, having preened myself thoroughly, and walk down the stairs to find Jess sitting at the table shoeless. She grins widely and points to the bar, where Sean and a sulky-looking Charmaine are waiting to be served. I teeter past as quickly as I can on four inch heels and sit down.
‘What the hell are they doing in Edinburgh?’ I ask.
‘I overheard Sean saying they are through for the day to fix up some gigs for The Magic Mushrooms,’ whispers Jess. ‘You have got to go over.’
‘No!’ I look at Jess in horror. ‘And let them have one up on me as they flaunt their relationship? I think not.’
‘Lucy, you look amazing. She looks like the side of a house and, by the sound of things, all is not rosy.’
I listen closely to their muffled words. Indeed, it does sound like Charmaine is having a go at Sean over something. I take a deep breath, pull in my tummy and head over. Jess claps her hands with glee.
‘You said that we would have one drink and go. You’ve had no luck in finding a gig and I’m tired. We’ve done five bars now and I’m not having you throwing up in my car again on the way home. You either come now, or I’m leaving on my own,’ threatens Charmaine.
Sean looks tired. I try not to smile. I note the solitaire engagement ring on Charmaine’s finger. Knowing Sean, it’s not a diamond. It’d be from a Lucky Bag if he thought he’d get away with it. He storms off to play the bandit.
I order another two glasses of Pinot Grigio and smile sweetly at the gorgeous barman, Callum, who has been flirting outrageously with Jess and I since we came in. Charmaine turns in recognition of my voice.
‘You!’ she stares at me in disgust.
I look at her in confusion. ‘Sorry, do we know each other?’ I ask politely.
‘Charmaine!’ she exclaims, looking me up and down. ‘You used to go out with Sean. Don’t make out you don’t know me,’ she says indignantly.
‘Sorry,’ I smile. ‘I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.’
I saunter back to my seat as Charmaine heads over to Sean, shaking her head and pointing in our direction. He walks toward us, smiling:
‘Lucy, oh my God, you look great!’ he announces, giving me an approving once over. ‘Oh. Sorry, I realise who you are now,’ I whisper to Charmaine.
Jess dashes to the bar where she is waving her arms and chatting enthusiastically to Callum. I smile at Sean and ask how he’s been.
‘Just been signed up for three gigs in Edinburgh,’ he says smugly. Charmaine shoots him a ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ look.
‘Only went to five bars. Had to turn two down and take the best three. You know how it is.’
Suddenly, I am swept backwards. Callum plants a kiss on my lips and says:
‘I’ll only be half an hour longer, gorgeous. Then I’m all yours. I’ve booked the restaurant for 7pm. You were right, when I gave my name, suddenly there was a table after all, Sir.’ Callum turns to Sean: ‘I don’t usually like to name drop, but a rich music biz Daddy does work wonders.’ He smiles knowingly and walks away.
Sean’s face is a picture. ‘Who… who is that?’ he stutters.
‘Like the man said, he doesn’t like to name drop,’ I shrug. ‘Sorry, I can’t help.’
With that, Jess and I wave sweetly to Callum and gather up our bags. We’ll have lunch somewhere else.
�
�Sean, it really was a pleasure. Best of luck with the gigs and Chantelle, good luck, sweetie.’ I glance pointedly at Sean when I say this. She’s going to need it.
‘It’s Charmaine!’ she screeches after us in disbelief.
Laughing loudly, we walk out into the sunshine, leaving an open-mouthed Sean and a silently fuming Charmaine staring after us.
Chapter Six
I head in to work on Monday morning, after a hectic Saturday night and a very relaxed Sunday. I never got out of bed, other than to answer the door once and for a couple of calls of nature. Just read, watched TV and ordered a pizza. I arrive at work to discover we have lost another client in the Home – Bessie. For a lot of people the mortality rate in this job is not easy to accept – three of our people in as many months – but I admit, I have a philosophical approach to it all. There have been a couple of issues since Harry went, but nothing serious. Muddled up shifts and a couple of sick days. Nothing that the other staff don’t do. I walk into a supervision meeting with Ellie, precariously balancing two coffee cups with a plate of biscuits on top of one. Ellie looks troubled. Getting straight to the point, she kindly informs me that, with the best of intentions, she is referring me to go on a bereavement management course. I roll my eyes and tell her I’m fine. I’m coping! She looks at me intently and says that the course will do me no harm anyway, and it may help me. I agree to do it – I have to. The company is very into preventative measures. Of what, I’m not sure. Nipping things in the bud is how it’s referred to. They don’t want people off on stress leave, I guess. Understandable really and great in theory, but not when you’re coping as well as I am. I’m just wasting their money and my time. But I sit and listen, making the right noises until I can head back to the clients. I decide to go out at lunchtime and call around a few agencies for nanny work. Hopefully, the prognosis will be better when the people you care for are younger…
Crappily Ever After Page 6