by Henry Sands
She held his face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Completely bloody daft.’
And those were his last words.
Moments later, the machines stopped bleeping, and David’s eyes shut for the last time. And that was that. With a two-year-old child and another expected in less than a month, Lucinda was a widow at just twenty-seven.
*
With the support of her family, and some money that had been set aside for her from David’s trust, Lucinda was managing with Sophie and Jack okay in Ladbroke Walk. Their move to Hampshire no longer made sense, and she pulled out of the sale and took Ladbroke Walk off the market.
Her mother would visit twice a week and look after the children, giving her at least a little time for herself, a rare indulgence since Jack had been born.
Just when she thought her life was as happy as it could be, the rug had been pulled out from under her feet, and her life had been turned on its head.
She missed her friends, and she missed her job too and the little insights into the lives of all her customers that came with it. But most of all, she missed David. Enormously.
Each day, she forced herself to be strong and crack on with the duties in hand, doing everything she could to give Sophie and Jack the happiest childhood possible. For that’s what David would have wanted her to do. And although she was both surprised and relieved at just how well she was coping, each morning when she woke up in their marital bed without him, she was reminded of her loss and the heartache she had suppressed before the day started all over again.
As the children grew up and became more restless, Lucinda found it harder and harder to manage them in London, what with their different after-school engagements and weekend sports clubs. Her mother was still driving down for two days a week from Norfolk to help her, and she had an au pair to pick up Sophie from school on another two, but she still struggled without the support of her husband to help.
She still dreamt of living in a farmhouse, with her children growing up and running around in the open countryside, and having a similar rural upbringing to the one that she and her sister had so enjoyed. Hampshire no longer made any sense at all, though. David had only wanted to move there precisely because he knew so few people there. Now Lucinda needed all of the support and companionship that she could get.
She knew her friends had concerns over her leaving London as a young widow. But, having endured two years of acquaintances trying to arrange blind dates and issuing supposedly random dinner invitations with questionable other singletons, Lucinda was comfortable in the knowledge that she was never going to replace David. She therefore felt no inclination to try to do so. What she had was irreplaceable, and she had grown to be content with that.
With Sophie turning six and Jack nearly four now, Lucinda packed up Ladbroke Walk for the last time and moved to Ferryman’s Cottage, which, despite the modesty of its name, was a gracious four-bedroom Georgian house with beautiful proportions typical of the era, and much more space. It was made available from a nearby estate, the owner of which was a friend of Lucinda’s parents, who had decently let them know it was soon to be available as an injection of cash was needed to sure up some of the other properties on the estate.
The house was positioned on the edge of the village of Castle Acre, a pretty and originally Norman settlement in West Norfolk, and overlooked the church green.
It also had a small garden, which opened up onto nearby farmland. And as a Savills brochure might have read, it boasted a beautiful view of the Nar Valley as well as a chalk stream popular with local anglers flowing gently down through its lush green banks.
Conveniently, it was also only ten minutes down the road from where Lucinda had grown up and where her parents still lived. Being a single mother living down the road from her parents was far from what she had expected from life; any concerns she had had about having her mother now living on top of her were far outweighed by the additional childcare support she now had at her disposal.
*
She had met Anthony Palmer at Fakenham Racecourse on New Year’s Day, six months after moving back to Norfolk.
Lucinda had taken Sophie and Jack, along with some friends and their children, as it was one of the most popular social events of the year for everyone to get together and forget about their hangovers from the night before.
A large group of family friends were having drinks on the edge of the pavilion next to the finish line of the track, when she noticed Anthony standing slightly awkwardly on the edge of a conversation with Lucinda’s cousin, Charlie.
He was probably a little older than Lucinda, though well dressed, and he looked, well, likeable. Lucinda joined the conversation and soon found herself speaking to him alone.
Anthony hadn’t been married before, not that it seemed to bother him. He lived a quiet, straightforward life, living in a small three-bedroom terraced house on Rowena Crescent in Battersea. He’d been up in Norfolk for New Year, visiting one of his old Oxford friends who had married a local girl, having received a fairly last-minute invitation after his hosts realised they were short on men for the evening.
Lucinda hadn’t thought that much about trying to find a new husband since she’d moved to Norfolk. When she left London, she left with the full intention of a quiet single life – perhaps getting back into painting if she ever had the time – but she had been surprised by the loneliness she felt, particularly when the days drew shorter. This contrasted with London life, when even if she hadn’t been busy herself, the buzz of everything going on around her created an impression of purpose. At Ferryman’s Cottage, once the children had gone to bed, there was no noise. Just silence; and she found herself spending many nights looking at the bright stars above and reading.
She was also becoming increasingly aware of the rate at which her finances were depleting. With much of the money from the sale of Ladbroke Walk being locked up in trusts for Sophie and Jack, which they gained access to when they reached their 21st birthdays, as it had come from David’s family trust in the first place, there wasn’t all that much left over. Having left her job to look after the children and with no income, she was conscious of finances for the first time in her life.
Unlike so many of the men that she had been set up with since David died, Anthony was altogether a rather different kettle of fish. An anomaly.
Friends had understandably, but wrongly, assumed that the sort of man Lucinda would be looking for would be almost a like-for-like replacement for David. What they failed to comprehend was that, in Lucinda’s eyes at least, her charming, considerate, vivacious David was always going to be irreplaceable. So why, she thought, try?
Anthony was steady, reliable and sufficiently financially stable to cover the costs of their lives, including the school fees for Sophie and Jack. That would do, wouldn’t it? Lucinda knew she had found the best man she could have hoped for with her first marriage, which had been driven entirely by the passion of the heart. This time around, she just needed stability. And Anthony offered that.
And so, after less than nine months of weekend visits to Ferryman’s Cottage, during which time Anthony had managed to strike up a firm fondness for the children, and they for him, who they called “Ant-Ant”, their engagement was announced. The news was received with full understanding and support, if not euphoria, from their broad circle of friends, both in London and Norfolk.
*
What would happen to Ferryman’s Cottage once she had left? Lucinda wondered to herself. Although she had been the one who originally bought it, Anthony technically now owned most of it if you calculated the mortgage repayments. And that was before considering the additional 22 acres of land Anthony purchased outright from the local farmer, Jon Mason, when he needed a cash injection after his experiment with a new exotic sugar replacement crop backfired dramatically, leaving him nothing to harvest at all for one full year.
From her
bedroom window, she could see through to the kitchen below, where in the corner of her eye she was aware of Anthony still slumped in his chair. But she wasted no energy setting her eyes on him. Instead, she looked out beyond the kitchen, out over her back garden and down towards the River Nar below that flowed more heavily in the winter months.
Lucinda had a huge attachment to Ferryman’s Cottage. After all, she had moved in when she had been at her most vulnerable, and had somehow managed to build a new life there. She would love to be able to include the house in her future plans, but as she plotted her escape, she was realistic about the fact that she would likely need to sell the house to raise some much-needed cash to fund her adventures, whatever they might be.
Her family time at Ferryman’s Cottage had nothing but fun memories for her, from Sophie’s weekend sleepovers with young teenage school friends to Jack’s erotic vampire-themed 18th birthday party, which amusingly led to much concern amongst the neighbours that a sexually devious death cult had arrived in their sleepy Norfolk village.
But since Sophie and Jack had headed off to university, their visits home had, as to be expected, become much less regular, and they had fewer houseguests than ever. They didn’t really need the space, though it had certainly helped enable her and Anthony to live the independent lives that they had increasingly become used to. Perhaps it had been the reason why the marriage had lasted this long. ‘There are few things that can’t be fixed through the protection of personal space,’ her friends would regularly remind her if she spoke of her marital boredom. No, she would look back fondly on the time they’d had there.
Lucinda had devised her plan. This Christmas, she would make even more effort than before to make sure it was a happy, joyful occasion, particularly for Sophie and Jack. She would be careful not to reveal her plans to anyone throughout the holidays, and then quietly and without fuss, once Sophie had returned back to Scotland and Jack to London, she would purchase her plane tickets and commence her adventure. She was unsure yet of exactly where she was going to go, but just the knowledge that her life was about to change, after what had felt to her like twenty-two years of numbness, brought a smile to her face.
- Chapter Two -
Tulum, Mexico
Jack’s senses were in overdrive as the Mexican hash seeped into his bloodstream. It was 6pm and he was leaning back on a bamboo mat on the beach next to the bar at Camp Mayo, the luxury campsite where he was working. The DJ had just started his sundown set.
Chilled electronic music filled the air around him as the gentle waves from the warm Caribbean Sea splashed his feet.
Jack had been in Tulum for five weeks now. He had originally planned to spend two months travelling across the country, starting in Tulum before finishing up in Cabo on the far west side of Mexico before heading home and starting his new job as a junior property surveyor at Brennan & Co, the upmarket commercial real estate business based in Marylebone. He found, though, that having spent a week by the Caribbean Sea, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave, and made an executive decision to scrap the rest of the trip and stay put for the rest of his time in Mexico. Jack had always been one for sticking to something once he liked it, and he very much liked Tulum.
He had met Leonardo on one of his first evenings in Tulum as he took a sunset stroll along the sand and stumbled across a meditation class taking place around a campfire on the beach. Originally from New York, Leonardo, who was ten years older than Jack, had arrived in Tulum five years ago after deciding he no longer wanted to run nightclubs for the rich and famous in New York.
He set up a small, trendy camp of twelve yurts close to the Mayan Ruins, capitalising upon the rising popularity of the luxury eco-glamping scene. Using his experience from the world of high-end nightclubs, Leonardo knew how to create a marketable environment for wealthy Americans wanting to play the comfortable hippy for a few days before returning to their corporate jobs. He had effectively created Camp Mayo as a permanent boutique festival for its guests, with yoga and classes in spiritual awakening during the day, before transitioning to sunset dance parties on the beach, and where a liberal approach to both sex and drugs was encouraged.
When Jack first arrived in Tulum, he had been staying in a small beach hut for $40 a night further down the beach. Leonardo needed an extra pair of hands helping with the day-to-day running of Camp Mayo, managing guests and occasional extra support on the music decks, and Jack leapt at the chance. He thought it best not to mention that he didn’t actually have any experience as a DJ, and was confident that through his Spotify account he’d be able to find some pretty reasonable pre-mixed sets, leaving him to twist the balance and fade nozzles on occasion to give the impression of someone who knew what they were doing. Besides, at Camp Mayo, most of the guests didn’t want anything too specialised; some standard trippy trance vibes, starting gently while the sun went down before increasing the pace and intensity as the night drew on, worked ideally for them.
On this particular evening, it was Diego who was DJing to the crowd of forty-odd swimwear-clad tourists, watching the sun going down. Unlike Jack, Diego really did know what he was doing and was widely considered to be the number one DJ in Tulum for that season. He was a friend of Leonardo, so he would occasionally come and play at the Camp when he wanted to test out new material ahead of his two big nights a week. They were held at Casa Jaguar on Thursdays, a chic Argentinian restaurant and club in the town, and at Papaya Playa Project on Saturdays, a large beachfront bar at the far end of the beach.
Jack lay back on the sand and closed his eyes. There was something about smoking hash that made everything feel so much better, he thought. Every sense he had would become immeasurably heightened. The music developed a hypnotic rhythm, food would taste delectable and even sex gained an indescribable intensity. He was feeling pretty good.
With a Corona in one hand, Jack sat up and stared out to sea, thinking about his life. At moments like this, he would often think about his father. Although he had died just a few weeks before he was born, Jack felt he had a pretty good idea of what his father was like. He suspected this image of him stemmed from photographs and the stories his mother and others had recounted to him over years. Although he was fond of Anthony, and always appreciated the way he had been a support for his mother, that didn’t stop him wondering what life would have been like had his father not had his accident.
Jack relit his now extinguished joint and inhaled deeply, holding it in his lungs for as long as was comfortable. He was not a habitual smoker but had enjoyed it occasionally in the past, though in Tulum, he’d certainly increased his intake. He knew about the perceived risks and his mother’s claims that it would fry his brains, but Jack was becoming adamant that his brain worked best, in fact, after he had been smoking. He could put his mind to any subject, issue or being and would be able to provide himself with a depth of analysis and thought that he would rarely be able to conjure up otherwise.
At that moment, his laser focus directed his thoughts towards the impossibly perfect curves of a young brunette girl’s bottom as she danced a few yards away on the edge of the sea. Wearing very tight denim shorts and a shell-stitched green bikini top, he guessed the girl was about twenty-two. The inevitable impact gravity would one day have on her ample bust remained far into the future.
The girl was dancing with her hands twisting up in the air, pushing them through her long brown hair as she swung her head from side to side and moved her body to the tribal beats of the music that was gradually increasing in pace and volume.
He half wondered if Diego had spotted her dancing too and was purposely increasing the intensity of the music to watch her body respond, as if he was operating her limbs like a puppet on strings; only his strings were the beats of the tunes.
With Leonardo being the only other possible contender, Diego had had more flings with Tulum’s most beautiful women than anyone else in the area. Being the top DJ on the s
trip, performing at the two biggest nights of the week, meant that everyone knew Diego. And every woman – as well as a good handful of men – wanted to go to bed with him at the end of the night. Diego knew the power his music gave him. He knew that the cocktail of dancing, pheromones, alcohol and drugs amongst such an attractive group of people more often than not led to one thing: sex. He knew no one was more appealing to people dancing away than he was, fuelling their night with his jungle beats. Jack admitted that Diego was probably right about that; but he also knew that the woman he had set his eyes on that late afternoon, dancing away in front of him, was a woman that he wanted for himself.
Gesturing to Simmy, the barman, he had a couple of margaritas made up and walked over to introduce himself to the girl in green. The rich flavours of the fruit in the cocktail, mixed with the salt-dusted rim of the glass, were a wonderful tonic for his now hyper-exaggerated tastebuds.
Jack introduced himself and handed the girl one of the margaritas. Her name was Makenna, and she had joined three of her friends in Tulum for a week’s holiday following their final exams at the University of South California, just outside LA.
With a striking jawline and dark, penetrating eyes, there was something beguiling about Makenna which immediately infatuated Jack. They spoke and danced with each other for about half an hour, before the sun had completely disappeared. Diego was winding his set down, and people started heading back to their hotels to get ready for dinner and the night ahead. Jack took the opportunity to persuade Makenna to join him for an early supper at a little beach bar, a leisurely five-minute walk further up the beach.
At the bar they were given a table in what resembled a giant bird’s nest made from rattan, with some cushions to sit on and a hurricane lantern for light. The wind swung the nest gently, reinforcing their enclosed privacy. The waiter brought them a sharing plate of fish tacos and a couple of rum-based house cocktails. Three hours later, they were both pleasurably intoxicated.
