Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  She must have been still in her teens, but the layer of tan foundation together with the thick black rings of kohl around her eyes were unable to mask the lack of life and light in her world-weary eyes.

  ‘A cup of tea? In there?’ The girl nodded her bleached-blonde hair towards my back door. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I thought maybe you’d been on your feet all night…’ I stopped, embarrassed.

  ‘Well, I ’ave, but I’m ’oping to get off ’em soon, if you know what I mean.’ She looked up from under her sooty lashes, suddenly suspicious. ‘Is there just you in there, ‘cos I don’t do nowt perverse. Don’t do nowt like freesomes like some sickos want.’

  ‘Forget it, really. I just wanted to see if you were OK…’

  ‘Well, if yer offering, like, I could do with a cup of tea.’

  I led the girl into the kitchen, already regretting my impulsiveness. I had Allegra upstairs, for heaven’s sake. Making sure my bag was in sight, I made tea, poured her a mugful and watched as she drank thirstily.

  ‘Is this tea?’ she asked suspiciously once she’d surfaced from the mug. ‘Tastes a bit different from usual. You haven’t put summat in it, have you?’

  ‘Oh sorry, it’s Lady Grey. It’s the only tea I drink.’

  She nodded and continued drinking, even though mine was far too hot to do anything more than sip at.

  ‘So, what happened out there tonight?’

  ‘Oh, he couldn’t get it up and was about to go off without paying me. Then he got mad and said I’d called him a fucking fag and no way was he giving me money if I thought he was a fucking fag.’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘What? Called him a fucking fag? No I certainly hadn’t. I said he were a fucking gay twat.’

  ‘Erm, maybe just as bad, do you not think?’ I wanted to smile. She was so young, so indignant.

  The girl handed me her empty mug, took a mirror from one pocket and an eye pencil from the other and proceeded to add another layer to her already black eyes. ‘Right, love, thanks for the tea and all that. Best get going now.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there was a reason I asked you in.’ My heart was beating uncomfortably and I took a deep breath. ‘Can I show you something?’

  She looked alarmed for a second and then tittered, ‘As long as it’s not yer bits and pieces, love. As I said, I’m not into any of that pervy stuff.’

  I picked up my bag and took out my wallet and realised the girl probably thought I was about to give her money. From the back pocket of the purse I found what I was looking for and handed the photograph to her.

  ‘Do you know this girl?’

  The girl looked at it for several seconds before looking back up at me.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘No, it’s Lucy,’ I replied before taking the photo out of her hands, putting it back in its place in my purse and ushering the girl out of the house.

  6

  The only way Godzilla at The Black Swan would let me have the Saturday of the dinner party off was if I did a swap with someone else’s shift. Luckily Bronwen, another student, was desperate to have the Friday night off for her boyfriend’s birthday bash somewhere in town and was more than willing to swap with me. And because my mother realised that I had to do this swap in order to ‘free up my Saturday for David Henderson and his colleagues’ as I heard her telling one of her golf mafia on the phone, she agreed to have Allegra on the Friday night without applying her usual ‘you are putting me out’ demeanour on top of her Revlon Cool Beige foundation.

  ‘Erm, Peter, is it OK if a couple of Izzy’s friends come along on Saturday?’ Peter had been waiting on the doorstep when Allegra and I had arrived home from school on the Thursday evening, eager to collect instructions and a list of the food that I didn’t have the time, transport or, let’s face it, the money to go shopping for myself.

  ‘Friends of Izzy’s?’ Peter frowned. ‘Who are they? What are they like? I mean, I don’t know who they are… I haven’t even met Izzy and Declan yet…’

  I was quite taken aback. Before I could say anything, Peter went on, ‘…Will they get on with Neville and David Henderson? They’re rather VIP, you know. Neville and David Henderson, I mean.’

  I wanted to laugh; he was acting as if I’d told him I’d invited a couple of the Big Issue sellers from the town centre when the Queen and Prince Philip were coming to eat. In fact, I nearly did, then thought better of it.

  ‘Apparently Izzy’s best friend from years ago is soon to be moving back to Midhope from Essex. Izzy has totally got her dates mixed up and had forgotten that this friend and her husband were staying with them this weekend while they’re house-hunting in the area. Mel and Julian, I think Izzy said they were called. And, the problem is, Peter, that if you’d really rather these two didn’t come, then Izzy and Declan won’t come either. It had totally slipped Izzy’s mind they were up for the weekend when she accepted our invitation for dinner.’

  ‘Bit forgetful, is she?’ Peter was still put out. ’She will get on with Neville and Hilary, won’t she?’

  ‘Oh, Izzy gets on with everyone,’ I soothed. ‘She’s a GP. Meets all sorts—doesn’t bat an eyelid.’

  Peter frowned again, trying to work out if, in the process of praising my mate, I was also dissing Oliver Cromwell. He smiled suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, Clementine. Of course they’re welcome. I was just thinking of you.’ Peter came up behind me and put both his hands on my shoulders ‘As I do all the time. You must know that? And, you see, I really want this to be a special occasion with special people…’

  ‘Oh?’ Gosh, he was putting a lot in store by old Chief Roundhead Neville. Ah, maybe this was the build-up to his being promoted? Well, if that was what Peter wanted, I was more than happy to cook my little socks off to help him up the slippery Roundhead pole as it were.

  I smiled at Peter, at his anxious face. ‘I think I know what you’re hoping for, Peter? Why don’t you get some champagne while you’re out? Just in case?’

  Peter beamed. ‘Already sorted. Now, if there are two extra do I need to up the food?’ He glanced at the list I’d handed over. ‘Gosh, Clementine, I don’t even know what half this stuff is, never mind how you’d go about cooking it.’

  ‘Just leave that side to me, Peter. It will all be fine. Don’t worry.’

  *

  ‘Mummy, when we get to Peter’s house will George be there?’

  ‘Of course he will. You know he will.’ I smiled at Allegra, who was thoroughly overexcited at the thought of a sleepover at Peter’s. She’d already packed her little case with pyjamas, books, dog treats she’d insisted we buy at Mr Shadique’s corner shop up the road plus as many dolls as she could reasonably squeeze in.

  ‘And Max as well?’ Allegra must have asked this twenty times already so far and it was only 9 a.m. My daughter’s love for Peter’s dog was nothing compared to the obsession she seemed to have developed for his eight-year-old son. And I could understand why: Max was a good-looking boy, blond-haired and blue-eyed who, on the couple of occasions we’d met, had been polite and friendly with me and tolerant of a little girl trailing after him wherever he went. He’d even tried to teach Allegra how to play cricket, which, according to Peter, came only second to his son’s love of football in general and Manchester United in particular.

  ‘I’ve told you, darling, I’m sure he’s going to be there for some of the time. It depends if his mummy lets him…’

  ‘Peter’s here!’ Allegra shouted, running into our tiny patch of garden where the already warm May sunshine was intent on brightening even my scrubby patch of lawn. ‘And Max is with him too,’ she added triumphantly over her shoulder.

  Unfortunately Allegra’s shouting, accompanied by the sudden opening of my rusting and unoiled garden gate, sent next door’s dog into a paroxysm of angry barking and flinging itself against the dividing fence—and Allegra back in screaming.

  Max’s face as he came into my tiny sitting room was a pict
ure. He’d probably never, in all of his privileged eight years, seen how the other half lived. ‘Gosh, do you live here?’ he asked, gazing round in wonder at the knackered sofa, the mismatched cushions and the table, laden with ancient computer, papers and files, which acted as my study as well as where we ate.

  ‘Hello, Max. Where’s your dad? What’s he doing?’

  The three of us, Allegra now holding my hand, went back out into the garden where a red-faced Peter was involved in some sort of argument with the dog’s heavily tattooed owner.

  ‘There’s really no need for that language,’ Peter was saying. ‘I merely asked if you think it a good idea to let out such an obviously bad-tempered beast into such a small garden and next to where a little girl lives.’

  ‘Well merely fuck off then and mind your own merely fucking business. Don’t you come round here so fucking early on a Saturday morning waking us all up with your noise.’

  ‘My noise?’ Peter was incredulous, momentarily silenced by my neighbour’s invective, and I took the opportunity to grab our bags, lock the door and usher Allegra and Max towards the street.

  ‘Come on, Peter,’ I soothed, touching his arm and pulling him away from the altercation. ‘It’s OK, the dog can’t get over the fence. Let’s go.’

  ‘Yeah, fuck off, Peter, or I’ll set Cyril on you.’

  ‘Cyril?’ Peter looked at me, his eyebrows raised, as he took our things and made sure Max was following. ‘Who on earth is Cyril?’

  ‘The dog, you wanker,’ came from over the fence. ‘Named after me granddad Cyril—and he were an evil bastard too.’

  ‘Clementine, I don’t see how you can find any of that remotely funny…’ Peter said as we walked up to his car.

  ‘No, you’re right, Peter. It wasn’t—isn’t—funny living next door to that. It’s just the idea of calling a pit bull—or whatever the damned thing is—Cyril. I mean, they’re usually called Titan or Caesar or something…’

  ‘I can’t believe you continue living down here, Clementine. With Allegra, I mean. It’s dangerous. It’s just not suitable. It’s not fair on her.’

  I didn’t say anything: I knew Peter was right. I’d initially moved back into my parents’ home, out of necessity, when I needed help with Allegra as a tiny baby and was no longer able to work at the restaurant. Once I’d enrolled at the university and been able to put Allegra into its subsidised crèche, things were a lot easier and, a year ago, I’d taken the lease on the house on Emerald Street to be nearer to the centre of town and college. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. My mother had a good idea why I’d chosen the Emerald Street area of town but, relieved to have a sticky-fingered toddler away from her Capodimonte and symmetrical, forty-five-degree-angled cushions, she’d said very little.

  And my father had never said anything.

  7

  ‘I’ve put Allegra in here,’ Peter said, opening a door next to the room he’d already allocated to me. ‘It’s Sophie’s old room—when she got to thirteen she insisted she’d outgrown the pink, and Vanessa did up the loft space for her birthday. It was one of the last things she did before she left.’

  ‘What’s Sophie now? Fifteen?’

  ‘Nearly sixteen. I’ve been meaning to do something with this old room of hers, but I’ve been too busy—never got round to it. It was always Vanessa who sorted the design and décor—that was her job after all.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise that was what she did for a living. And does she still?’

  ‘Well, she likes to think she does, but I’m not sure how much she’s taking on now. Her widowed mother has Alzheimer’s, and Vanessa has her in that really expensive home up near Upper Clawson. Costs an absolute fortune—’

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, look.’ Allegra grabbed my hand and pulled me into what I can only describe as a pink paradise. A bedroom any little girl could only dream of. I remembered seeing a feature on some IT girl—possibly Tamara Ecclestone—in the OK! magazine I’d picked up in the dentist’s waiting room. It had photograph after photograph of a room not dissimilar to this old room of Peter’s daughter’s, and I’d felt almost as much pain knowing I could never give my own daughter anything like this as the root canal procedure I’d had to endure ten minutes later.

  *

  I was in heaven that Saturday morning. Saint Peter had opened the golden doors to his kitchen and let me in, while the white-bearded God of my Sunday school days felt ever present, smiling and encouraging as my cooking revved up and took off, and canapés, starters and puddings began to rack up in the huge American fridge. I’d be singing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ in a minute.

  Allegra was off outside as if she owned the place, running across the lawn with George at her side, and then settling herself down on the spring grass, making daisy chains and singing the latest ditty she’d learned at school, before festooning both the dog and a plethora of her dollies in garlands of white.

  Peter had gone back into town for some reason, dropping Max off at football practice for an hour or so on the way. So engrossed was I in slowly dribbling oil onto an emulsion of eggs and vinegar for mayonnaise that I didn’t realise someone had walked in through the French windows until he spoke. I jumped, spilling oil onto the granite work surface.

  ‘Oh sorry, Clementine, I’ve made you jump,’ David Henderson said, patting my arm as he reached for a cloth. ‘I was just out walking—it’s so glorious out there today—and thought I’d pop in and ask if you had any preference for wine for this evening?’

  ‘Wine? Oh gosh, I’m afraid I’ve very little knowledge about wine.’ I frowned. ‘Apart from knowing some is red and some is white. Are you a bit of a wine buff?’

  ‘Well, I do have a wine cellar—most of it inherited from my father when he died. I’m learning all the time and adding to what’s already there, but I do find it really interesting. It’s becoming a bit of a hobby of mine deciding what goes with what food.’ He smiled and I thought what an incredibly attractive man he was. Too old for me—he must have been pushing forty-five—but his dark hair, cut short and greying at the temples, together with those very dark eyes and an almost olive complexion, meant he must have broken some hearts over the years. ‘Would you mind giving me some rough idea of what you’re cooking?’ he asked. ‘And then I can go home and get my books and magazines out and annoy Mandy, my wife, who thinks I do it to show off.’

  I couldn’t imagine this man ever having the need to show off; he carried such an air of calm intelligence that anyone would want to listen to what he was saying without thinking he was boasting about it.

  I screwed up my eyes, concentrating on recalling all that I intended to make, ticking off on my fingers as I gave David the lowdown on what I was cooking and, again, feeling as if I was a contestant on MasterChef.

  David stared at me for a couple of seconds. ‘Goodness, Clementine, where’ve you learned all this? Are you a chef somewhere?’

  I was embarrassed, but then shook myself. I could cook. It was the one thing I could do with a fair degree of confidence. ‘Used to be,’ I said. ‘Worked at La Toque Blanche in Leeds for several years. Learned on the job as it were. It’s what I love doing…’

  It was David’s turn to look a bit flustered. ‘La Toque Blanche? Wow, I often take Mandy there if it’s a special occasion. Golly, I didn’t realise you were such a professional. I hope I can sort out the best wines for you. So, where are you cooking now? Somewhere in Midhope or are you still in Leeds?’

  ‘Neither. I’m doing a degree in hotel management at Midhope University. After my little girl came along, working in restaurants with split shifts and all that that entails just wasn’t on any longer.’ I smiled. ‘I miss cooking dreadfully.’

  David smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. ‘So now you cook wonderfully?’

  I laughed with him. ‘Hopefully. You’ll have to tell me after you’ve eaten, this evening.’

  ‘And Peter? I’ve met up with him quite a bit recently over the situation we�
�re having with Rafe Ahern and the fields, and he’s obviously smitten with you,’ David teased.

  I could feel myself blush and turned away, opening a couple of drawers to hide my face.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Clementine. That was terribly rude of me …’

  ‘Ah, David,’ Peter said affably, making a show of looking at his watch as he walked into the kitchen with Max. ‘You’re a tad early.’

  ‘Just going, Peter. I dropped in to have a word about wine and also on the off chance you might have been in touch with Rafe this week?’

  ‘Nope, ’fraid not. Mind you, I’ve not actively searched him out—been too busy really.’

  David frowned. ‘I’ve tried a couple of times. His sheep have been in the garden again. I’m going to have to get someone to mend the dry-stone walls and send him the bill if he doesn’t fix it soon.’

  *

  ‘I think you’re a bit of a hit with our Mr Henderson,’ Peter said when he came back into the kitchen after seeing David out.

  ‘Nice man,’ I said. ‘I liked him very much—he’s easy to talk to.’

  ‘Mind like a steel trap,’ Peter said admiringly. ‘Very clever man. Made a fortune over the years. Er, Clementine, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way and do tell me if I’m out of order…’ He handed me a black and gold expensive looking carrier bag sporting the unmistakable logo of Midhope’s most expensive and exclusive dress shop.

  Bows and Belles stood out, among the pound shops and charity shops of Midhope’s High Street, like a Ferrari in a forecourt of Corsas and Fiats, and was a real magnet for Midhope’s as well as neighbouring Leeds and Manchester’s wealthy women shoppers. I’d once, in a fit of temper over something my mother had said, spent an hour when I should have been in a food hygiene lecture, trying on the most expensive of their dresses and then slunk out, overcome with guilt at wasting the very pleasant owner’s time as well as utterly despondent that I would never be able to own such beautiful things.