Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘Rafey, it’s me, it’s… Izzy…’

  *

  ‘Well, I think that was what can only be described as one hell of a huge success,’ David Henderson grinned a week later, emptying the last drops of Moet into his glass. ‘What do you reckon, Clementine?’

  ‘I’m going to have to sit down,’ I grinned back. ‘I cannot believe the amount of press that were here. I know you said the local press would be here, but The Yorkshire Post…?

  The sheer number of people who had been invited and actually turned up to Clementine’s official opening had bowled me over. It was so exciting, so wonderfully gratifying. The Orangery, that offered a private, fine—and exceptionally expensive—dining experience to a maximum of twelve at any one sitting, was already booked up three months ahead. Mel had been in charge of the diary and, throughout the three hours of this spring Saturday afternoon and early evening invitation, had calmly and professionally listened to what people wanted, assuring them they could discuss with me in the weeks before their booking what they would like to eat or, if they preferred, be served a menu of my choosing.

  David had stood up and spoken to the gathered guests, introducing me as a former chef from La Toque Blanche in Leeds and telling them—while I blushed at the words—that they were witnessing the creation of a totally new and original venture that had his full backing and which, he was sure, would be copied, nationwide. Clementine’s was now officially available for private parties, for retreats, for summer picnics in the grounds; for individual and group cookery tuition, for individual and group tennis lessons followed by Pimm’s and whatever food they would like Clementine and her staff to cook for them. And for much, much more. He held up the glossy pamphlet which Mel, Grace, David and I had agonised and argued over for hours at a time, and was applauded heartily by foodies and David Henderson groupies alike, all eager to experience anything the Richard Branson of the north had put his name to.

  High on the adrenalin of success, I just couldn’t stop talking. ‘And did you see Annabelle Ahern? Didn’t she look wonderful? She was out in style with her Sixties mates, wasn’t she? Not that I knew who any of them were,’ I laughed. ‘All before my time.’

  ‘Well, for your information, Clem, in your sitting room today was Bobby Santano, Juliette Manning, Carol Fallon and Dave Clark…’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of him. From the Dave Clark Five? I wondered who it was my mum kept trying to talk to. She always used to tell Lucy and me how she’d adored him when she was a teenager. She still had ‘Bits and Pieces’ on a 45 record when we were little girls, and if Lucy had been good she’d let us play her old music.’

  David laughed. ‘I thought your mum and dad were here to help look after Allegra and Max rather than get acquainted with past idols? Annabelle was obviously in her element, showing her old London mates how very forward-thinking we are oop north. I noticed she’d brought Selena Hamley-Smith and her cronies from Harrogate as well.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘The Honourable Selena Sykes that was. She was here with her mother, Lady Anne Sykes—Anne and Annabelle were big mates in London in the Sixties and then both ended up here in the north. Gerald Sykes—Lord Sykes he is now—was a big mill-owner in Bradford and was very friendly with Mandy’s parents. They were all at our wedding: the northern contingent en masse can be quite intimidating.’

  David suddenly stopped talking, holding my gaze across the kitchen table and my heart began to race. He reached over, tucking a tendril of hair that had escaped from my ponytail back into place. His face was so near to mine, I could see the beginnings of dark stubble on his olive skin and caught the subtle citrus tang of some expensive aftershave. Unable to look away, I only knew I so very badly wanted to kiss him, the adrenalin coursing through my veins from the excitement of the evening needing some outlet. I felt high, reckless, suddenly not caring that he might see the naked want on my face. God, I wanted him to kiss me.

  David moved his hand from my hair to my cheek, stroking my face with the backs of his fingers. ‘Clem? Clemmie, I—’

  ‘Mummy, where are you?’ Allegra and Max could be heard galloping down the stairs towards the kitchen. ‘Mummy, Auntie Mandy says can me and Max go over to her house for a little walk? She says we can look at the fish in the pond and they’ve got white birds like ours too.’

  Allegra raced in as David sat back calmly in his chair. He was so unruffled I actually began to wonder if I’d imagined the gentle touch of his fingers on my burning cheeks.

  ‘Ah, there you are, you two. You must be very proud, Clementine. What an amazingly successful afternoon.’ Mandy Henderson walked quietly into the kitchen behind the two children. As usual she looked fabulous—coolly chic in an understated navy wool pencil-skirt and crisp white shirt. A navy cashmere sweater was slung around her neck and very high navy court shoes emphasised her stunning legs and height. ‘Now, if that’s OK with you, Clementine, I’ll take these two across home with me. I think I have a couple of Easter eggs with their names on them.’

  ‘Can we, Clem? Can we walk across with Mandy?’ For the first time in months, since his parents’ death, Max seemed animated.

  ‘Yes, darling, of course you can.’ I couldn’t look at David, couldn’t meet his eyes. Oh God, had I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes at his touch? Had I shown my hand? I had an awful feeling I had. Turning to the kids I said, too brightly, ‘You’ll need wellies, both of you, the fields are still very wet and muddy.’

  ‘Come on, David, grab your jacket and let’s go. I’ll drop these two off in an hour or two before it gets dark, Clementine.’

  ‘You can’t walk in those, Mandy,’ David said impatiently, nodding towards her red-soled Louboutins.

  ‘I’m sure Clementine has a pair of something, somewhere, that I can borrow? Yes? Lovely, off we go then,’ Mandy trilled. ‘Oh, is the dog coming too? Come on then, George, you’re welcome as well…’

  There wasn’t much tidying left to do—the three waiting staff Mel had hired on an ad hoc basis had quietly and efficiently cleared most of the dirty glasses, plates, napkins and bottles of champagne, stacking the clean stuff in the huge built-in cupboards expressly designed for that purpose.

  I was shattered but restless. I walked through the French windows, whistling for George before remembering he’d gone with the others, and went to sit on the patio with the remains of my mug of tea.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mel came out to join me, buttoning up her jacket against the cool evening air. ‘Gosh, it’s chilly out here, do you want your coat?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Mel, thank you so much for today—and for the last few months. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  Mel smiled and came to sit beside me. ‘I’m loving it, Clem, absolutely in my element. You and David are onto a winner here: this is just the start.’

  When I didn’t say anything Mel leaned over, unexpectedly taking my hand. ‘Is it David?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Startled at the direct question, I felt my face redden and tried to hide it in my mug of tea.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘No. No not really. But working so closely with you both over the past few weeks once couldn’t help but notice the frisson between the pair of you.’

  ‘What am I going to do? I think I sort of fell in lust with him the minute he walked into Peter’s kitchen on my very first visit here—gosh, exactly a year ago.’

  ‘Oh, don’t ask me, Clem. I wouldn’t have a clue.’ Mel paused and then said, ‘OK, I suppose you can do one of three things…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘One: totally go all out for it if you think he feels the same. End up having an affair with him, wreck his marriage and claim him for yourself. Two: totally go all out for it, end up having an affair with him knowing he will never leave Mandy and become his mistress for as long as it lasts. Clementine’s is probably most at risk with option two…’

  ‘And three?’

  �
��Three: you accept that David Henderson is not yours to have. He is married to the exceptionally ravishing Mandy, has been for the past however many years, and any affair with him can only lead to heartache… and I reckon you’ve had enough of that in the past few years, Clem.’

  *

  The next few weeks were a rollercoaster of emotions as Mel, Grace and I, together with new kitchen and serving staff, gardeners and cleaners charted new oceans in what appeared, at times, to be a particularly leaky and unreliable vessel. Suppliers let us down; I had to fire two kitchen staff on their first day for utter incompetence and a new gardener taken on to help Peter’s old gardener, Eric, was caught mid-thrust, his trousers round his ankles, with one of the cleaners at the bottom of the garden just as, with what I hoped was a particularly beatific smile, I was serving Good Friday hot cross buns and afternoon tea on the lawn to the Bishops of Wakefield and York, together with a whole team of their overseas visiting dignitaries.

  Word had spread about the fine dining in The Orangery, and I found I had to extend bookings to include Wednesdays and Thursdays instead of just at the weekend, in order to deal with the demand for tables. I took on more and more staff, Mel dealing proficiently with the applications, but insisting I interview prospective candidates myself for all positions, however lowly.

  There was absolutely no let up from the hard work, but I loved every minute of it, thriving on the challenge of turning Peter’s house into the in-place to be seen at, but also a place for retreat from the modern world for those wealthy enough to be able to make it a temporary haven from whatever modern-day life and relationships had thrown at them.

  Grace came up with the idea of a two-day retreat for abandoned wives—she said we could extend it to abandoned husbands if the idea took off—where these women would be free to do nothing but eat, (if they hadn’t lost their appetite along with their beloved) drink, cry and talk, with a counsellor and divorce lawyer on hand to listen and advise. Izzy said she was ready to divorce Declan who was moaning and wanting attention because he had man flu, and asked if we had mates’ rates and would the lemon cheesecake be a feature of the cathartic two days away?

  ‘My aim,’ I’d told the young reporter from The Yorkshire Post, feeding him a particularly delectable truffle risotto, ‘is for Clementine’s to be the most talked about venue, not just in Yorkshire but the whole of the north of England.’

  ‘Yorkshire is the new London,’ was the headline splashed across the cover of the Yorkshire Post’s Cultural Magazine while inside, a six-page spread was given over to me looking very professional in my Clementine’s black and orange apron as I worked in the kitchen. There was an interview with David and me and myriad photographs of the house and grounds showing it at its ravishing best. The phone never stopped ringing the week after its appearance on the newsstands in late May, both from other publications wanting to do features but, more importantly, from people wanting to book learner cookery courses, select, bijou christening and wedding receptions as well as the ever popular The Orangery at Clementine’s. There was even a phone call from Yorkshire television who, eager to jump on the Great British Bake Off bandwagon, were making initial enquiries about our hosting a new competition called the ‘Great Yorkshire Take Off’.

  While Max and Sophie had initially wanted nothing at all to do with Clementine’s, they began to realise and accept that without the business they would have been unable to stay in their much-loved house with all its comforting memories of their parents. Eventually, some of the excitement of their home being regularly featured in magazines and Sunday supplements was beginning to rub off on them until even Sophie, although she wouldn’t openly admit it, appeared proud of how the place was turning out.

  David was always on hand to help, coming over for at least a couple of hours each day but more often coming for breakfast and staying until he went home to Mandy for dinner. While he never again stroked my face or held my hand as he had the evening of our opening do, the air always appeared charged when we were together in a room and I loved the little glances across the room, the holding of each other’s eye, which happened whenever he was over at the house.

  One Monday, at the beginning of June, I had an evening off. I really needed it and had been looking forward to it all day. I’d prepared and served lunch to ten somewhat excitable elderly ladies in the shady part of the garden, their blue rinses bobbing in direct proportion to the amount of Pinot Grigio that was being quaffed as they celebrated yet another of their gang achieving her eightieth birthday.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any of those Chippendale chappies on tap to entertain us?’ the birthday girl had asked as two of my waitresses and I cleared the pudding plates.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ I’d laughed. ‘You should have said, Celia—I’d have had them ready and raring to go for you.’

  ‘Well, we may as well give it all we’ve got for as long as we’ve got it,’ Celia cackled.

  ‘Oh, darling Celia, mine upped and went years ago,’ one of them sighed. ‘I’m more than happy with Ryvita and Marmite and the parish magazine in bed these days. You might end up with crumbs in your nightie but at least you have the bed to yourself and no snoring to put up with.’

  Max and Allegra were asleep, and Sophie was out with the lovely Sam whom she’d met in her first week at sixth-form college. Once she’d been well enough to pick up her AS level studies again she’d gone, on that first day, very hesitantly to the college and returned home full of it all, eyes bright, chattering about how lovely it was to be at a school with boys as well as incredibly friendly, welcoming girls. Her transformation from the terribly unhappy, quite obnoxious sixteen-year-old to the pretty, clear-skinned, shiny-haired almost-seventeen-year-old was nothing short of a miracle and I offered thanks on a daily basis both to Mel, who had been particularly patient with and friendly towards Sophie, but also to Sam who clearly adored her.

  I had the house to myself. What utter bliss! I stretched, propping my bare feet up on the kitchen table and, ignoring the fact that a pedicure was long overdue, reached for my mug of tea and the crossword. I’m happy, I thought. So, so happy.

  She came into the kitchen through the open French windows so quietly it was several seconds before I realised I was no longer alone.

  ‘Hello, Clem,’ Lucy said, crossing the kitchen and joining me at the table. ‘I want to see Allegra; I want to see my little girl.’

  28

  Lucy took a good look round at my beautiful kitchen, scrubbed, gleaming and ready for an early start in the morning and smiled, the little cat-like smile I recognised so well of old.

  ‘Well, Clem, you’ve done OK for yourself, haven’t you? But then you always did, didn’t you? Always the one to come up smelling of roses while I continue to be covered in shit.’

  ‘Lucy…’ I got up from the table and went to hug her. ‘Oh, Lucy…’ She felt tiny, brittle almost, but her huge brown eyes were clear and her hair was clean.

  ‘So, this is a bit of all right, Clem, isn’t it? Read all about you in the paper.’ She frowned. ‘I could do with a drink/’ She gazed around the kitchen once more ‘I’m sure you’ve plenty on offer round here.’

  My heart was still beating frighteningly in my chest and I had to take several deep breaths to try and stay calm. ‘There’s tea, coffee, water, juice. What would you like?’

  ‘Oh come on, Clem, I haven’t come all the way from Leeds for a cup of tea. You must have a bottle open somewhere?’ She moved over to the huge industrial fridge that had been installed with the renovations and found a three-quarters-full bottle of white wine. ‘No champers, Clem? In a posh place like this? You see, I have something to celebrate, so I could do with a glass of bubbly… but never mind, I’ll just have a glass of this—if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Lucy, why are you here?’

  ‘I told you. I want to see Allegra. You can’t stop me seeing her, Clem. She is my daughter.’

  ‘Lucy, you know you can’t just have access to her like this. Y
ou know you have to apply through the courts.’

  ‘Or social services, Clem. You know that.’

  ‘No, Lucy, social services have absolutely no involvement anymore. Not for a couple of years now. They know I’m Allegra’s legal guardian, that I am legally able to make all decisions about her welfare.’

  ‘Yes but, Clem, I’m clean…’ Lucy rolled up the sleeves of her thin sweatshirt and thrust both arms at me. ‘Look. Look, Clem,’ she said, angrily. ‘I’ve been off H for six months now. I’m clean, I really am. Allegra’s mine… she’s mine.’

  ‘Ssh, for God’s sake, Lucy, be quiet…’ I could feel pinpricks of sweat on my forehead and I wiped them away as I desperately thought what to do for the best. ‘Look, you know you just can’t come here at this time of night, just turn up and expect to see her. It’s not fair on me and it most certainly is not fair on her.’

  Lucy left her untouched glass of wine and started pacing the kitchen. ‘Fair? Fair, Clem…? You talk about fair when you have all this—’ she flung her arms round in anger and then came back to the table ‘—when you have all of this and my daughter.’ She stalked right up to me and her face was white. ‘I tell you what, Clem, I’ll do you a swap; you walk the streets of Chapeltown and Midhope and see how fair you think that is then. Do you know the going rates?’

  I glanced at the door leading to the hall and stairs, terrified Allegra or Max had woken and were creeping down to see what was going on. ‘Shh, Lucy, please. For God’s sake, lower your voice.’

  ‘No? Well let me tell you, just so you’ll know when we swap places, and you can then talk to me about what’s fair and what isn’t. Hand job? Cheap at the price: a tenner. Blow job? What do you reckon, Clem? What would you charge for some guy to stick his dick in your mouth round the back of the Sports Centre? Well, that’s twenty quid—more if they can persuade you not to use a condom.’