Читать книгу The Legacy of Lucy Harte: A poignant, life-affirming novel that will make you laugh and cry - Emma Heatherington, Emma Heatherington - Страница 11

My mother calls me later that afternoon when I am toying between a bunch of lilies or a bunch of tulips in Tesco.

‘And I just told her that when it comes to John Joe, he will do what he wants when he wants and no one, not even her, will stop him,’ she says.

‘Told who?’

‘Vivienne!’

I am still none the wiser. ‘Who?’

‘Vivienne! John Joe’s girlfriend!’

I have no idea why my mother thinks the domesticities of my older brother and his latest squeeze hold any interest for me, but I try and keep up with her.

‘Right, okay,’ I mumble, checking the price tags on the flowers to help me decide. Tulips it is.

‘I mean, even your father says that John Joe is his own worst enemy when it comes to relationships. He can’t handle sharing his space. He can’t handle sharing a bag of bloody chips, never mind anything that might dare last longer! So I thought I did right by setting the poor girl straight. What do you think? Did I say too much?’

‘What?’

‘Did I say too much? I mean, it’s not as if I have even met her, but she called me for advice and I could barely make out her accent. I think she is French. I always try to give good impartial advice, even to the lovers of my own two children, no matter what their nationality.’

I put the tulips back and pick up the lilies. I should probably get a basket. I fancy a browse around the clothes section for Billie.

‘You did the right thing, Mum,’ I reassure her, even though I have barely listened to a word she was saying. ‘Is this the girl who had his name tattooed on her chest?’

‘Lord no,’ she says. ‘She was last year’s model. This is the girl that his friend Clive, the country singer, introduced him to. You see, our John Joe was working on Clive’s ranch shoeing horses near Nashville for a few weeks and he met her. Poor girl. She is in for an almighty fall.’

‘Oh men! They are all filthy rotten lying fucking bastards,’ I say a little too loud and a passing stranger gives me a dirty look.

‘Exactly!’ says my mum. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. And speaking of men … any word from –’

‘No, Mum, no word from Jeff,’ I reply quickly. ‘I don’t want to … oh no!’

I trail off. I freeze. Ah Jesus. Ah Jesus no.

‘Maggie?’ my mother calls. ‘Maggie, are you there?’

Please no. Don’t do this to me. Not now. No.

My skin goes cold. I didn’t think that could actually physically happen but every part of me tingles with angst from my very toes to my fingertips. Fizzy, prickly, pins and needles of anxiety.

‘I have to go, Mum. I’ve just spotted … someone I used to know. I’ll call you back.’

I stand there, bunch of lilies in one hand and my phone in the other, in the kids’ clothes section of my local Tesco watching, as if in slow motion, as Jeff, my ‘husband’ and his fancy woman walk obliviously towards me, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes as she pushes a trolley full of fucking groceries.

I think I am going to actually vomit as an invisible wrench clasps my whole insides. Oh God!

She leans on the trolley and he stands behind her, playfully putting his hands on her waist as she walks along, scanning the aisles with a love-struck smile on her face.

He used to do that to me.

‘Are you okay, love?’ asks a little old lady. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jeff sees me.

Our eyes lock and he raises his hand, a desperate look of guilt replacing the smug look of love from seconds before. I can’t move. I don’t want to look but like one does at a car crash I can’t help but stare and stare and then she follows his eye line and looks towards me and her face sours and she looks panicked up at him and I just want to go home. Now.

‘Have some lilies,’ I tell the old lady, handing her the flowers. ‘You’re right. I have seen a ghost. I have to get out of here.’

I make it to the car before I burst into tears and huge unapologetic cries of despair empty out from my lungs.

I hit the steering wheel.

‘Bastard! Seventeen fucking months! What does she have that I don’t have? What?’

I turn the ignition. I am in no fit state to drive. I want to go to Loch Tara, far away, and lock myself in my room and hide under my duvet and hug my mum and dad and just crawl out of my own skin.

I want to punch him. I want to punch her.

I have no energy to punch anyone.

A message comes through on my phone but I don’t dare look at it yet. If it is Jeff … if he has the audacity to apologise in a text message, I don’t know what I will do. I don’t want to hear from him. I want to hear from him, but I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want.

I look at the phone. It’s not a text, but an email and it’s from Simon Harte.

‘Can I call you?’ is all it says.

I put the car into reverse and speed out of the car park.

I need a fucking glass of wine.

I dash into my apartment block to avoid the late-afternoon April shower, kicking myself for being so upset at seeing Jeff and that giraffe-like bitch who he was all over like a rash.

I am bigger and better than that, I say, as I climb the stairs to my front door, stomping up each step with vengefulness. How dare he? How dare he?

I fling off my coat and throw my bag on the floor, then bend down to get my phone and contemplate messaging Simon back. I don’t know if I have the energy for Simon and Lucy Harte.

I will shower, get freshened up and then I will reply to him. Maybe.

I am towel-drying my hair when the phone rings and I look at it in disbelief. It’s him. It’s his number, glaring at me, urging me to pick up and actually … well, talk, I suppose. Actually speak instead of typing bravado questions and messages. Talk.

I quickly tie my hair back.

‘Hello?’

‘Maggie!’ says a very rich, more mature and confident voice than I had expected. But then he breaks slightly. ‘My God, Maggie.’

I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I sit down on the bed.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, but I don’t know what the answer to that question is. Am I okay? Probably not. Is it anything to do with him? Probably not.

Or maybe it is. I don’t know anything any more.

‘I’m looking at flights to Belfast,’ he says eventually. ‘Are you free this weekend for a coffee? I need to see you, Maggie. In person.’

I stand up again. Then I sit again. A coffee? With him? Here? In Belfast? What the actual fuck? Already? What?

‘Flights?’

‘Yes,’ he laughs. ‘You know those things that take you from one country to another in an aeroplane. Flights. At least that’s what we call them in Scotland.’

This has floored me. We only found each other yesterday and now he wants to fly here and get together over a coffee? His accent is delicious. He sounds like Gerard Butler. He is not Gerard Butler, I remind myself.

‘Are you sure you want to meet me? Isn’t this all a bit –?’

‘Soon?’ he asks.

‘Yes, soon.’

‘Maggie, I have waited for years to find you,’ he says. One minute his voice is an emotional quiver and then it extends into an almost overactive excitement. ‘There is a football game this weekend I need to cover in Belfast – well, that’s not exactly true. I don’t need to cover it but I could if I wanted, so I figured I can mix business with, well, with finally getting to meet you. Only if you want to, of course. If you decide after this that you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s fine. It just feels amazing to have been able to chat to you.’

I seriously do not know what to say. I can’t really argue with what he has said. Why wouldn’t we meet up for a coffee? It’s what I have always wanted. Closure. A chance to say thank you to someone related to the mysterious Lucy Harte.

But the weekend… that is soon. I need to prepare myself. I need to prepare the apartment. Will he want to come here at any time? I look around my bedroom. It’s an absolute tip. The spare room is a mess. The living room is a mess and the kitchen resembles a bombsite. Is he expecting to stay here? I did tell him about my apartment and that I had a spare room. I feel a bit claustrophobic with it all.

‘I can book in somewhere nearby,’ he says, as if he read my mind.

Oh, thank God.

‘Oh-okay,’ I say with relief. ‘Well, then, yes. Why not? Let’s meet for a coffee. I know a great B&B on the Lisburn Road. It’s lovely and it has real chandeliers and a library. Yes, okay. No harm in that at all.’

Real chandeliers and a library? What the hell am I on about?

‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘You had me at chandeliers. Send me the name and I will book in. I’ll check out more flight options and text you when I get into Belfast on Friday afternoon. I can’t wait to meet you in person and I can’t wait to tell you all about Lucy.’

I relax again. Simon is cool. Any pressure I felt for that moment has passed.

‘I can’t wait to hear about her too,’ I tell him and I really do mean it.

I am in Flo’s kitchen, freshly applied au natural look make-up on my face and rollers in my hair. Yes, rollers. Not the little-old-lady type but the big giant ones that promise volume and lift to my long hair, which is in need of some TLC. Flo is tweaking and checking the rollers as Billie vies for my attention, wriggling like a worm to get up on my knee and then immediately wanting to get back down again. He then ditches me for Peppa Pig.

Story of my life, being ditched for a pig – so no surprise there…

‘So let’s go over this all again,’ says Flo. She is beginning to sound like my mother.

‘Honestly, Flo, there really is no need. It’s not like this is some dodgy online date, you know,’ I retort. ‘You are being over-protective.’

‘I am not being over-protective. I am being sensible and wise,’ she says, undoing one of the rollers and then putting it back in its place. ‘Now, the signal is, you tweak your right earring if you need help and I will call your phone.’

‘Who said I was going to wear earrings?’

‘You always wear earrings. That way, you can make an excuse and go outside to take the call if you think he is a nutcase and I will follow you out and make up an escape plan.’

She is beginning to sound ridiculous.

‘Flo! Simon is not a nutcase! He is the same as me in this whole situation,’ I explain, picking a sticky stray Cheerio courtesy of Billie from the edge of my jeans. ‘He just wants some closure and, on top of it all, he seems really nice, so there is no need for you to come along and sit at another table in the bar like some undercover detective. And besides, what will you do with Billie? There is no way he will sit for any length of time in a public place and he will probably make it clear that he knows me.’

Billie gives me a knowing look. He goes bananas when he hears my voice on the phone and is always hyper at first sight. I guess that’s something to do with the treats and toys I brought for him, but as his godmother I believe that is my duty.

Flo rolls her eyes. There is no way I am putting her off.

‘Billie is going to Ursula’s for the afternoon. You know, Jack’s mum from the mother-and-toddler group? We take turns when things come up to arrange a quick playdate to allow us both the odd hour off here and there out of daycare hours. I don’t know what I would do without her.’

Now it is my turn to roll my eyes. I have heard it all now. A play date.

‘So you mean, Ursula is going to babysit for a while at her place? Why didn’t you just say that? What’s with all these fancy ‘new-age mummy’ terms? What is happening to you?’

Flo laughs. She knows I have a point. It’s the type of thing the two of us would have sneered at before Billie came along, only because we were secretly jealous, of course, and would love to be in the whole baby club. Now she is in that club up to her neck, though it’s not exactly how she had planned it.

‘Oh your day will come, Miss Power Suit,’ she tells me. ‘I bet you will be making up your own terms for mummy issues when you have a little ankle-biter. Now, let me see you.’

She has unravelled all the rollers and, I have to say, she has done a great job on my hair and my make-up is so subtle and effortless, which is exactly what I wanted for today. For the last ten years of her career, Flo was one of the city’s most sought-after top stylists and beauticians, but had to work part time from home when little Billie came along and the aptly named Damien (think The Omen) she made him with did a runner. It’s how I met her. She cut my hair for my job interview at Powers and we have been best friends ever since.

‘Oh you’re a star,’ I tell her, loosening the curls with my fingers. My hair is well grown down, which is just how I like it and the curls give it just a little bit of bounce. ‘I could never have done that in a million years. Now, do you still think jeans and a nice top? Or should I go summer dress? It’s not too bad outside. Or maybe I should glam it up just a wee bit? You know, show an effort?’

Flo is concerned. I know she is. She does this thing with her nose, like a tiny twitch, when she is hesitant or a bit anxious about something. I’m trying to control my nervous excitement but we know each other too well to keep any secrets.

‘Remember, Maggie. This is not a date.’

‘I know it’s not! He has a wife, for goodness sake, and a pregnant one at that. Plus, in case you didn’t notice, I am in no fit state to be on a date, but I just want to look nice. You would too!’

‘I just want you to be careful,’ says Flo, hoisting little Billie on to her hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m constantly amazed at how motherhood totally transforms a woman and I can’t help but wish that woman one day soon will be me. Though not like Flo. I want the man too, if you don’t mind, but I’m not exactly going in the right direction for that – with a failed marriage behind me.

‘It’s like this,’ I explain, hoping to reassure her. ‘Simon is the brother of the little girl who gave me life. I have had so many issues and struggles with trying to close the door on Lucy Harte for seventeen years now. She has haunted me forever and this might be my ticket to let her go.’

I sigh from the tips of my toes and get my coat, ignoring for now the chocolate finger prints that Billie has kindly left on it for me. Just as well this coat wasn’t part of my planned outfit for later this afternoon.

‘Simon gets into the city at two; we are having some pub grub and a chat at The John Hewitt after that. It’s all very cool and it’s all very casual and if you insist on sitting at a table in a corner in case he murders me in a public place, then so be it. I know what I am doing, Flo. Believe me.’

She walks me to the door and I give her a light hug, then kiss Billie very quickly on the cheek. There is no way I am risking kid snot or dribble on my newly applied make-up.

‘Say what you want but I will be there just in case,’ she says.

‘Say what you want but you’re just nosey,’ I say, walking to my car. ‘You’re dying to check him out all for yourself.’

She expertly pinches Billie’s snot and wipes it on her shirt.

‘Believe me, sunshine,’ she says in earnest. ‘Gawping at a man is the last thing on my mind right now. Go get ready. I’ll be the one in the long trench coat. Just call me Jessica Fletcher.’