Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘Here, drink this,’ he commanded. ‘Now,’ he went on as I drank the water and placed the glass on the floor, ‘what the hell was all that about? Why in God’s name did you suddenly start singing? If you can call that wheezing and coughing actually singing…?’

  ‘So who told you about Lucy? And where I was born?’ I felt almost calm now and looked at David with some defiance.

  ‘Lucy? Lucy who? And I’ve no idea where you were born… I assume somewhere around here? Is it important in the general scheme of things?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, wearily. ‘Tell me your plan. Tell me your proposal.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to now. Probably a silly plan anyway.’

  ‘Oh, don’t sulk. Don’t take your bat home.’

  ‘I can assure you, Clementine, I never sulk.’

  ‘OK, OK, hit me with the big proposal. So, you’re going to buy this house? For what purpose? Hm? Hmmm?’

  David looked at me with raised eyebrows. ‘So that between us, you and I can turn it into the most amazing restaurant-cum-cookery-school-cum-extremely-expensive-retreat-cum-wedding-venue-cum… whatever else we think will make us lots of money…’

  ‘Sorry?’ My head shot up and I stared at David.

  ‘Do you want me to repeat all that? OK. So that between us, you and I can turn it—’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I heard you the first time.’ I continued to stare at David, at his handsome tanned face: his genuinely kind, lovely face. ‘Oh my God. I thought, I thought…’

  David was truly puzzled. ‘What? What did you think?’

  ‘I thought you…’ I took a deep breath. ‘I thought you were trying to set me up as some sort of madam in a brothel. Or… or…’ I knew I had to tell him the truth. ‘Because you’d found out that my sister is a prostitute, you thought I was too and were trying to set me up as your mistress, your whore even.’ I felt myself go scarlet with embarrassment.

  David looked at me, eyes wide in astonishment, and then threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Clem, this is the twenty-first century. Does anyone set oneself up with a mistress these days? You’ve been reading too many Mills and Boon romances.’ He laughed again and then took my hand. ‘Clem, I didn’t know your sister was a prostitute.’

  ‘She’s not just my sister. She’s my identical twin.’

  ‘OK, I didn’t know your identical twin is a sex worker—it makes absolutely no difference to me what your family is. I just know that you have a gift for creating the most delicious, original food and this is one of the most beautiful houses in Midhope. Put the two together and I have every intention of turning them both into an extremely lucrative business.’ He paused for a second. ‘Ah, now I see what all that was about tonight with Vanessa’s husband. And then I come along with my proposal… I can see what you must have been thinking.’

  I giggled. ‘Oh shit, and then I started singing “Hickory Holler’sTramp” in your face. You must have thought I’d gone mad.’

  ‘Well, I did wonder. Assumed you were still in shock from that nasty little weasel’s performance. So, tell me about Lucy. Where is she? Why aren’t you helping her to get off the streets? Presumably she wants to get off them?’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated, David.’ I hesitated. ‘I’ve had to put her out of my mind for a while what with marrying Peter and everything. Harriet and Grace know the whole story. Well, almost. Anyway, they’re going to help me to find her and… she’s a heroin addict, you see… it’s a bit like trying to help an alcoholic. You have to want to be helped. So, now you know that Lucy is out there and that I need to spend time trying to find her, to help her if I can, do you want to abandon this plan?’

  David frowned. ‘No, of course not. But, Clem, this will be a lot of hard work. Do you want to think about it?’

  ‘Well, obviously I need to know what you have in mind. I mean, will the kids and I still be able to live here?’

  ‘Of course, yes. Absolutely. This is your and their home. Look, Clementine, I don’t take on any project I don’t think will be a success.’

  ‘Golly, you should be on Dragons’ Den.’

  ‘They did ask, but I turned them down—can’t stand that Peter Jones fellow. So, what I envisage is that my company will buy the house, and Peter’s estate can be settled with that money—’

  ‘You know all about that then? That Peter gambled most of it away?’

  ‘I’ve known about Peter’s, erm, shall we say, little problem, for years.’

  ‘Years?’ I was shocked. ‘I thought it was all fairly recent.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know the whole ins and outs of what Peter was up to, but I was very concerned about your getting yourself mixed up in the whole mess. I wasn’t at all certain what future there was actually going to be for you and Allegra with Peter.’

  ‘That’s why you told me to be careful? The night of our dinner party after Peter proposed so publicly?’

  ‘Yes. I think, Clementine, that had he lived, Peter would have ended up in prison. I think he knew that too.’

  I felt tears well. ‘He wasn’t a bad man, you know, David. I think he wanted to try and get Vanessa back, but that involved making a lot more money than he was doing. Probably things just got out of hand and then…’

  ‘And then he met you and fell in love with you. He did, you know. He really loved you. I think he probably thought you were like Vanessa and needed the designer cars and handbags to stay with him.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t keep Vanessa, did they? She left anyway.’

  David smiled. ‘From what I know of Vanessa she would have assumed she would end up with half, or more than half, of everything that Peter owned when she left him. Even half of what she thought he had would have kept her happy over the next few years. That Justin fellow obviously jumped on the gravy train, and imagined he’d have a life of luxury with an extremely rich man’s ex-wife.’

  I was mortified. ‘Put like that, I’m no better than Justin…’ I hesitated. ‘I didn’t love Peter, David.’

  ‘I know,’ he said gently. ‘I know that. But you do love your little girl. I’m sure she was the big reason for your accepting his proposal?’

  ‘I really wanted it to work, David. And it was doing, it really was. Allegra and I were actually really settling in here. We had a ready-made family and for the first time in years I was beginning to feel safe.’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Yes. I know that sounds a bit melodramatic. You see—you may as well know my whole past —Lucy and I were adopted.’

  David raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  ‘We were born to a violent drug smuggler. We were born in the women’s prison near Manchester. This woman—our mother—obviously didn’t want us and basically gave us away. When you don’t really know who you are, when you see your identical twin totally going off the rails, become a drug addict, you really begin to wonder which gene pool you’ve sprung from. And with Peter I actually did feel safe. Not that it lasted very long,’ I added wryly, and David squeezed my hand.

  ‘Well, I see no reason why you and Allegra shouldn’t continue to feel safe again here. And Max, of course. Poor little chap. He’ll be delighted to stay, won’t he?’

  ‘But David, I’m not sure I can do all this.’ I suddenly felt panicky at the thought of being given so much responsibility by the notoriously ball-breaking David Henderson. ‘What if it doesn’t work? What if no one wants to come to a cookery school? There must be hundreds of restaurants going under on a daily basis.’

  ‘You sound just like Harriet Westmoreland did when Nick and I started L’uomo—and I fully understand your fears. But you have to remember I have really good financial advisors and I will be just over the field. I’m getting a bit fed up swanning all over the world with Nick. It will be great to walk to work occasionally instead of flying off to Milan and China so much.’

  ‘But I’m really not sure I’m the best person for the job. I’ve never done anything like this.’

  ‘Haven
’t you just completed your degree in hotel management?’ David asked patiently.

  ‘Well, yes…’

  ‘And you’ve learned about, what? Finance? Managing employees? Health and Safety?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? I’m hoping that most of the time you will be cooking and showing people how to cook. A fabulously expensive place to come and learn from a superb master.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect and I began to feel his excitement. ‘OK, put it this way,’ he went on. ‘Let’s say you and I had never met. Let’s say you saw an advert in The Telegraph or The Times or even the local paper advertising this job. To be part of an exciting, innovative new business backed by me, and my company, where you would do lots of cooking, some teaching, some management. Where basically you would be in charge of the whole kit and caboodle. Would you apply?’

  I swallowed, terrified at the very thought. ‘Well, no, I’d have had no experience and… I’d be shit scared of you.’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Well, you do have a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘All unfounded as you now know.’

  ‘Well, all right then, yes, obviously. It would be a dream job.’

  ‘So there you go. The job’s yours and you don’t even have to fill in an application form or send me your CV.’ He grinned. ‘I think I’ve found out more about you this evening then I ever needed to know.’

  ‘Why are you doing this, David?’

  ‘Believe me, Clem, I don’t take on any new project that doesn’t have an extremely good chance of succeeding. L’uomo, Nick’s business, went through the roof in an extremely short time. Now, I know the food and catering business is a totally different ball game and I certainly don’t expect the same miraculous profits that Nick and I achieved and so quickly. And I’m certainly not doing this out of some sort of sense of altruism. I can be a horror to work with, as well—ask Harriet—but I believe in you. I really think we might have something here.’

  ‘Oh gosh, David, you make it all sound so easy.’ I paused and then, excited at the prospect, asked, ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘Well, now I have you on my side—and you seem to be coming round to the idea—tomorrow my company will put in an offer on this place. I’m hoping I can negotiate directly with the solicitors and creditors before the estate agents actually take it on. So, first job is to actually get hold of the house before someone else does.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then a lot of discussion about what exactly our USP will be.’

  ‘Our USP…?

  ‘Unique selling point. We need to create something innovative that people will try to copy but won’t succeed in being as good as the original.’

  ‘A bit like Uggs you mean?’

  ‘Exactly like Uggs: expensive, does the job, everyone wants the original…’ David smiled at my allegory. ‘People will boast that they’ve been here before their friends. They will have to book weeks ahead. So what do you think, Clem?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you, Clem. This place is going to revolve around you and your wonderful food.’

  Excited now, I said, ‘I’ve always loved the idea of an evening where twenty or so single people, who’ve never met before, gather around the kitchen unit to watch a cookery demonstration of romantic food—strawberries, champagne cocktails etc—and then they sit and eat it as they get to know each other. A sort of Blind Date meets MasterChef.’

  ‘Brilliant. And we charge them a fortune to do it. Mums, desperate to get their single thirty-somethings married off, will buy gift vouchers for Christmas…’

  ‘And then fabulous afternoon teas like at Betty’s or The Ritz even.’

  ‘Aim high, Clementine, aim high,’ David grinned.

  ‘And… and… cooking courses for high-flying executives who can run big businesses but can’t boil an egg…’

  ‘I’m first on that list.’ David was laughing now. ‘How about tiny, upmarket weddings? I know there isn’t the space for hundreds of guests, but for those who just want a place to get married with ten, maybe twenty guests at the most?’ He frowned. ‘The orangery could seat four or five tables, do you think? And we could always put up a marquee.’

  ‘There’s the lodge house that some housekeeper of Peter’s used to live in years ago. Ooh, and the summerhouse in the Secret Garden. They would be perfect for a romantic hideaway for a newly married couple or for any couple come to that. And this house and grounds would be perfect for a writers’ retreat. There are actually bedrooms above the stables you know, where the grooms used to sleep. We could do something with those—kit them out with writing tables. What bliss for a writer trying to finish their novel: a beautiful en-suite bedroom with writing table; the tennis court when they need a break; fabulous meals to help their creative thought flow…’

  ‘I think I might start writing a book,’ David said seriously, and then smiled. ‘Well, it’s got you thinking anyway, Clementine. We would have to form a new limited company and employ staff. I can think of someone already who I think would love to be part of this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I mean, I might be totally wrong and I certainly haven’t approached her yet. In fact, it’s only just come to me…’

  ‘Grace?’

  David grinned. ‘Exactly. She is so creative, she would be perfect being part of Clementine’s.’

  ‘Clementine’s?’ I actually felt my jaw drop.

  ‘Of course, you daft thing. What else would your new enterprise be called?’

  *

  Much later, when I’d checked on the children, ensured all the doors were locked and tried, but failed, to sleep, I got out of bed and went back downstairs for hot milk and Patrick Gale. As I turned to go back up the stairs, the phone rang.

  ‘Clementine?’

  I didn’t recognise the voice and stood there, frowning, thinking, dear God, not Justin again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Clementine, my dear, I know it’s rather late, but I happen to be in your area…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought I could pop in and see you, m’dear… see if I can offer you some company for ten minutes. See how you’re bearing up?’

  ‘Who is this?’ I sort of recognised the rather oily voice but still couldn’t put a name to it.

  ‘It’s Neville, dear.’

  ‘Neville…?’

  ‘Neville Manning… Oliver to you.’

  ‘Oh. Oliver. Oliver Cromwell?’

  ‘Absolutely. Are you free for a little drink, dear? I can be with you in five minutes.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Mr Cromwell, I think you’ll find, like Christmas that you so happily cancelled, I too am cancelled: not available, off limits. Goodnight, Olly, and may your Roundhead wilt and perish!’

  And with that, I carefully replaced the receiver, smiled at myself in the huge, sitting room mirror and went back to bed with Patrick Gale.

  26

  ‘You’re doing what?’ Sophie shouted, her face within inches of my own. ‘You’re turning dad’s house—my house—into a… a café? Well, you can sodding well forget that right now. There’s no way that I’m going to let you do that. This is mine and Max’s house, not yours.’

  ‘Look, Sophie—’

  ‘No, you look. In fact, why don’t you and…and little Austin… little Audi just fuck off back down to Emerald Street where you belong and leave us to it? I’m sixteen—old enough to look after myself. And Max too. He’s my responsibility, not yours.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, Sophie.’

  ‘I’m being ridiculous?’ Sophie yelled. ‘Me? It’s not me that wants to turn our beautiful home into a stupid hotel.’ She glared at me and then laughed nastily. ‘And I suppose you’ll be in charge of extras?’

  I knew exactly where she was going with this one, but as calmly as I could—difficult when I wanted to slap her—looked her in the eye and asked, ‘Extras, Sophie? As in?’

  ‘As in once
they’ve eaten, you’ll take them upstairs for a… for a good seeing-to.’

  ‘Erm, no, Sophie, extras won’t be a part of Clementine’s,’ I said mildly. If the whole situation hadn’t been so unpleasant I might have been tempted to laugh at her vernacular. ‘It will be wonderful food, fine dining, upmarket cookery courses—as well as a hell of a lot of hard work.’

  ‘You’re not doing this, Clementine, you’re not.’

  I looked at Sophie’s angry face, at her greasy blonde hair, her spots and fingernails bitten down almost to the quick and, despite the fury and disdain she was throwing out at me daily, felt a wave of pity for her. She was a little girl who’d lost her mum and dad and now her home was being turned upside down around her.

  ‘Look, Sophie, I know you’re missing your friends at your old school and don’t want to be here—with me—at the moment. Shall I see if I can persuade your dad’s solicitors to release any money there might be available from the estate which would let you go back to school there rather than starting sixth-form college—at least until the end of the academic year?’

  ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get me out of your way so you can take over Dad’s house properly?’

  ‘I was thinking of you, Sophie. What you would like.’

  ‘And you seriously think that going back to that damned boarding school is what I would like? God, you have no idea. I hated the place. Hated the girls, all with their GHD-straightened long hair and their constant texting and their not eating…’

  I was stunned; I thought she’d loved being away at school, couldn’t wait to get back there. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I thought school was the one place you were happy. And what do you mean “their not eating”?’

  ‘What do you think I mean?’ Sophie looked at me as if I were a halfwit. ‘If you aren’t a size four, and aiming for size zero, you’re nothing there.’ She pulled at the puppy fat around her middle. ‘This—or rather the lack of this—is what you’re judged on at school. If you’re seen to be actually enjoying the scrambled eggs and toast at breakfast or the shepherd’s pie at supper you’re looked upon as some sort of food pervert.’