Читать книгу One Day in Cornwall - Zoe Cook - Страница 7

London, July, 2010

Lucy tipped the white powder from a carefully folded lottery ticket onto the mirror of her compact. She scraped it into a neat line with her credit card and took the rolled bank note from the back of her wallet. She sniffed quickly and quietly, pausing for a second to feel the immediate hit of energy. She placed the folded paper and card in the zipped section of her purse, straightened herself up and walked out of the toilet cubicle back to her desk.

It was 5:55pm before Lucy had time to check her personal emails on Tuesday. Work was manic, as it always was in the lead-up to an awards ceremony. For Spectrum, the Screenies were the event of the year, a real prestige project and a massive money-spinner. The grand-scale, live-broadcast awards show at the Metropolis on Park Lane, which celebrated all things TV, dominated spring at Spectrum, with a huge production team recruited, doubling the number of people in the office for the months leading up to the show. Emma had too many meetings to fit into each day and, as her PA, it was Lucy’s job to make them all happen – somehow. Emma’s mood alternated between manic happiness at the prospect of an evening of guaranteed attention, and sudden bursts of furious disappointment at the team she employed to run Spectrum TV’s events. Lucy had mostly escaped her wrath, instead taking the role of confidante, which she actually felt even less comfortable with. Every time she was called into Emma’s office she dreaded the instruction to ‘close the door’, which signaled an imminent verbal assassination. Lucy hated how Emma dragged her into her bitter inner world of hatred towards the production team, most of whom had absolutely no idea they had done anything to upset her. Already this week she’d heard how angry Emma was with Frankie, the lovely associate producer working on the awards, because she’d cut her long hair short so close to the event.

‘II would never have employed her looking so butch,’ Emma had spat.

‘We’ll have to reassign her role for the evening, she can’t be talent-facing now,’ she’d sighed, as if Frankie’s new hairstyle might prove too much for any delicate celebrity-type unfortunate enough to set eyes on her at the ceremony. Lucy hated herself for not standing up for anyone, for just sitting there listening to it all, making herself complicit by her inaction. She wanted an easy life with Emma, she’d seen what happened to people who dared to disagree and she valued her career too much to be the next person bullied out of their job. She needed it, needed the money. It had taken so long to earn a wage that meant she could afford her own flat, or near enough afford it, at least; she couldn’t entertain the prospect of having to start on a lower salary elsewhere. So she sat there, like the baddy’s little lap dog, being stroked and kicked alternately, depending on the day, Emma’s mood, the weather – taking whatever shit Emma threw her way and never standing up for anything or anyone.

Emma was having one of her good days today. Lucy had found it relatively easy to juggle her schedule, field her calls and keep her happy. She hadn’t sat down at her desk for more than five minutes at a time and her feet hurt like hell in her new heels, but that didn’t matter too much. The day was nearly done, Emma was due at an event at 7pm, so a car would be picking her up at 6:30pm and Lucy could get out at a reasonable hour for the first time in weeks. She scanned through her inbox, deleting junky emails and opening a couple of ‘funny’ round robins – was she the only person in the world who hated those cat videos? Her eyes were drawn to the email sent at 11:47pm the night before. Subject line: ‘Hello’, from: Thomas Barton.

Her first thought was that it couldn’t be him, that it was a coincidence. Tom never called himself ‘Thomas’, he thought it sounded stuffy and old. Clicking the bold ‘Hello’, her heart began to race at the possibility that it was him, and she ran her eyes over the long email that opened on her screen to the bottom of the page. ‘I still think about you and I hope you’re okay,’ she read. It was signed off ‘Tom’.

Emma called for Lucy to help her into her dress before she could read his words. She guiltily shut her MacBook at the call of her name, afraid of being caught reading something from Tom, something personal. Not that Emma would have had a clue who he was, no one in the office would, but Lucy felt exposed, made vulnerable, even, by his electronic presence. In Emma’s office, sounds and voices appeared as if she was under water and she remembered the sensation of noise bursting into technicolour each time she came up for breath in swimming galas as a young girl. She desperately wanted to get outside for some fresh air, or to the toilets for another line to sharpen her thoughts.

‘Anyway it just won’t do,’ she finally tuned in to Emma’s snapping voice, ‘You’ll have to tell her tomorrow that it’s not her job to do that.’ Emma had finished and Lucy had no idea what, or who, she had been talking about. ‘Absolutely,’ Lucy smiled at her boss in what she hoped was a normal manner.

‘How do I look?’ Emma spun around, her dress lifting far too high with the hideously girlish action, revealing her black underwear and cellulite at the tops of her thighs. ‘Fantastic,’ Lucy lied, ‘Really great.’

Lucy walked to the station too fast, she was breathless and clammy by the time she reached her platform. Her heart raced and she felt a familiar pang of fear about just how much damage she might be doing to herself with her habit. She forced the thoughts aside and focused instead on the rare victory of securing a seat, which she slipped into self-consciously. The drugs always made her feel a little paranoid. As they pulled out of the platform towards Scott’s flat, Lucy hovered over Tom’s email, debating half-heartedly whether to read it now or later. She opened it, unable to resist, and read his words, hearing his voice rather than her own.

From: Thomas Barton

To: Lucy Robertson

Subject: Hello

Lucy, hi, it’s Tom. How are you? It’s been a while. I hope you’re really good. I’ve been meaning to get in touch for a while. It’s hard to know how to after so much time has passed. I’m sure you understand that more than most. Nina tells me you’re doing really well up there. I knew you would be, good on you. You did it!

Everything’s good down here, same as ever, really, but good. Mum and Dad send their love. The café’s doing well, just starting to get busy now with the good old tourists. God bless them.

You should come here, come and see everyone, see how little it’s all changed. That’s why I’m writing to you, actually. I know you’re busy, Nina tells me you’re some kind of TV high-flyer, which sounds fun, but definitely busy, so I know it’s probably difficult. But you should come, Luce. Nina and Kristian are up for it, we’ve been speaking loads recently and we all want to get the gang back together again one more time. They’re coming for August, staying here in the house, and you should come too. The four of us, a summer on the beach, like old times. We all want you here for it. I want you here for it. It’s been so long since I saw you.

Just think about it, anyway. Promise me that much. Promise me you won’t just stubbornly decide ‘no’ and refuse to consider it. Maybe it’s a stupid idea – we both know I have plenty of those, but it would be fun, wouldn’t it? Humour an old friend?

I know we haven’t spoken in a really long time, but I still think about you and I hope you’re okay.

Tom

When she reached the bottom of the email Lucy took a deep breath and counted to ten; she’d done that ever since she was little when she felt like she might cry. It had been five years since she’d spoken to Tom, five years since she’d seen him. She knew he was still in Hideaway Bay; Nina had kept her vaguely informed with updates. But Nina had left too, with Kristian – travelled the world with him after university, and although those two were still in touch with Tom, they knew better than to talk much about him to Lucy.

The idea of going to Cornwall was preposterous, of course. She had a job, responsibilities, a flat, for Christ’s sake. The idea that she could take August off work for some nostalgic road trip to her home town and a reunion with her ex-boyfriend would almost be laughable if it wasn’t so bloody annoying that he’d even thought he could ask. Who the hell did he think he was, suggesting she just ditch all of her own plans to fit in with his pipe dream of a summer reunion? Asking her to promise him things. What did he actually want? To relive their happy summers before she’d left and he’d refused to come with her, the summers before he’d given up on them and let her leave without ever looking back?

How had Nina not told her about this? They’d only spoken a few days ago and seemingly she knew all about this stupid plan. Had Nina thought it was a good idea for Tom to get in touch, go for the weak spot and perhaps Lucy would just melt into a pathetic little puddle at the sound of his name all over again? She wouldn’t go. She’d ignore the email; maybe send a polite response in a couple of days to show that she wasn’t petty, that she was over it. She looked out of the window as the train doors bleeped shut and swore out loud, too loudly, judging by the shocked faces glaring at her from around the busy carriage. She’d just missed her stop.