Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘Thanks, Harriet, it’s all pretty horrid,’ I sighed, handing her a coffee.

  ‘How much does Allegra know of it all?’

  ‘Well, she knows Lucy is her real mother, but I certainly haven’t told her Lucy wants her back. I just can’t tell her, Hat, I can’t.’

  ‘God, I’m not surprised. So, what’s happening at the moment?’

  ‘She’s at Mum and Dad’s at the moment for the day. Now that school’s over for the summer they like to take her out occasionally.’ I smiled. ‘One day is usually enough, and to be honest I don’t like to let her out of my sight at the moment. I keep thinking there might be a time when I don’t have her at all…’

  ‘Surely not? No court in their right mind would take her away from you after six years. Especially when Lucy went back on the heroin before she was born and then abandoned her to go back on the streets?’

  ‘Although my solicitor tries to be upbeat about it, he’s worried that I didn’t tell Allegra that I wasn’t her real mother. He tells me if a real mother is off drugs and wants to resume care of the child she has to make an application to court—which we’re still waiting to hear if Lucy has done—and then her situation will have to be assessed. The thing is, I should have let Lucy see Allegra, let her get to know her when she came round. And now I can’t because I don’t know where she is. Lucy is very crafty—she’ll tell the courts I wouldn’t let her see Allegra.’

  ‘But that’s understandable…’

  ‘Probably not in the eyes of a court. I should have arranged for Lucy to come round and meet Allegra.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have let her,’ Harriet said stoutly.

  ‘Apparently, some professionals have a view that a drug user is not necessarily a bad parent.’

  ‘And being a prostitute?’ Harriet raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Hat, it’s a profession. There are plenty of street workers who are loving, caring mothers just like any other. Kit’s a good-looking boy,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘The afternoon-tea ladies will love having him waiting on them.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘Well, they’ll have to get past Poppy first. She and Kit have become quite an item over the last year.’

  ‘Where’s she from? Does she live near you?’

  ‘No, not at all. She lives near Harrogate—a vicar’s daughter, no less. When Kit goes over there, he crosses himself, as much as from being on hallowed ground as to protect himself from the vicar. Bit of a bad-tempered old git, according to Kit. If Poppy is going to work for you, I think it can only be at the weekends. She can stay overnight with us then, but getting her back to Harrogate at other times might be difficult. It also means I get some sleep…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I spend the nights when she’s staying with us listening for every creak and footstep that might mean Kit is up to no good. I tell you, it’s knackering. It’s bad enough losing sleep when your kids are babies; no one said you have to go through it all again when they’re eighteen.’

  I laughed at Harriet’s gloomy face. ‘And Nick doesn’t help. He just says let them get on with it, and then snores the night away. I suppose it’s because she’s a vicar’s daughter I feel particularly responsible.’

  ‘Well, there’s five of them, including Emily, who all want to do some work. There’s some basic food preparation—Betty is always twittering she needs help—but the rest is waiting on. It might be that they just get to work a day—two at the most—every week. And I know they’re all going off on family holidays at different times—Sam’s parents have asked Sophie to go to Italy with them for a week—so there is work for all of them, albeit not full-time.’ I looked at my watch. ‘And I’m interviewing a new chef in an hour. I’m a bit excited because he’s—hopefully—about to jump ship from The Ash House in Wetherby.’

  ‘Wow.’ Harriet was impressed. ‘I love that place—Nick took me there for my last birthday—I think he’s still paying back the bank…’

  ‘David says if we can get him, hire him. We are so busy I just can’t do it all on my own even with the sous chef and the other kitchen staff we now employ.’

  ‘Oh, Clementine, you have done so well. I’m so pleased for you.’ Harriet beamed, draining her cup. ‘Right, must dash. Anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Tell you what, leave the kids with me—the silver needs cleaning and shelves need wiping down. In fact, there are loads of little jobs that need sorting.’ I looked at my watch again. ‘Shit, where does the time go? You wouldn’t drop Max off up in Netherdene would you? He has holiday cricket sessions all this week.’

  ‘No problem. Oh, and Poppy’s mum, Sarah, will pick her and Kit up. Apparently Sarah’s mother is friendly with Annabelle Ahern, so Sarah’s going to bring her over for a drive out, drop her off for half an hour or so and then come and pick the kids up.’

  33

  ‘Clementine?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rafe Ahern.’

  My perfidious heart that, only the previous week, had refused to open even one eye at David Henderson’s kiss, leapt out of its slumber and was immediately doing a back somersault.

  ‘Clementine? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Right. OK. Listen, I feel I owe you thanks for the other night with Twiggy and…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… and the scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Really, really no problem at all,’ I gushed. ‘More drama there than on The Archers, ha ha…’

  ‘Right. OK. So, do you have time in your busy schedule to let me take you out for dinner?’

  I stuck the phone under my chin and plunged both wrists into the nearby sink of icy water full of blanched asparagus. Anything in order to slow my pulse and return to speaking as a sensible grownup, rather than a helium-imbibing teenager.

  ‘Shit…’ I could hear Rafe speaking as, panicked, I delved among the asparagus to retrieve my dropped mobile.

  ‘Sorry, Clementine? You’ve gone a bit faint and woozy?’

  ‘Sorry, Rafe, just dropped the phone in the asparagus’

  ‘Right. I can hardly hear you, Clementine. Monday night any good? I know restaurants tend not to be too busy on Mondays?’

  ‘Thank you, Rafe. That would be very pleasant,’ I said, speaking slowly and an octave lower in an effort to sound relaxed and in control but sounding, instead, like Margaret Thatcher on the Today programme. I didn’t even bother looking at my diary. It would have to be OK.

  *

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Izzy asked as, ten minutes later, she walked into the kitchen with Sid. ‘You’ve got a right soppy look on your face.’

  ‘Rafe Ahern is taking me out for dinner.’

  ‘Heathcliffe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him? You said he’s really bad-tempered…’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And arrogant…’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And when I said I fancied him, you said I must be blind…’

  ‘I believe I did.’

  ‘And, is he, erm, still with the gorgeous JoJo Kennedy?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Hmm. I take it that means yes? I saw him on TV the other night. He’s a bloody good reporter. Is he back from Syria then?’

  I frowned. ‘He must be, unless he was ringing me from London. He’s not taking me out until next Monday.’

  ‘So what sort of dinner is it?’

  ‘What sort? Oh, only a thank you dinner,’ I said, coming back to earth with a bump at the mere mention of JoJo Kennedy, and realising that that was all it was. ‘You know, to say thanks for helping to get Twiggy back on the catwalk as it were…’

  ‘Catwalk?’

  ‘Well, horse walk, then. Now, your daughter has done a sterling job with the silver and I’ve given her some idea, and a bit of practice, of what I expect from her as a waitress. She’s outside with the others having pizza if you want to take her home in ten minutes.’

  ‘Have yo
u time for ten minutes yourself? I want to know what’s happening with Allegra. Where is she?’ Izzy glanced out of the window.

  ‘Sorry, Sid,’ I said, handing him a biscuit. ‘She’s at my parents.’

  ‘Go and play outside, Sid, so Clem and I can have a chat…’

  *

  ‘Hellooo?’ A tall, attractive woman with a mass of dark cloudy hair who I guessed to be in her late forties, knocked on the open French window before stepping through and into the kitchen where Betty, Jim—my sous chef—and I were in full swing with preparations for tonight’s menu in The Orangery, as well as baking numerous cakes for another private tennis party and picnic the following day.

  I couldn’t think who she was and looked at her, trying to work out if I’d met her before.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sarah, Poppy’s mum. I’ve come to pick up Poppy and Kit…? Oh what a heavenly place, what a wonderful kitchen. Gosh…’

  Of course. This must be the grumpy old vicar’s wife from Harrogate. ‘Hi, Sarah, do come in. The kids are just finishing off skinning broad beans for me outside. It’s such a tedious job, I told them to sit in the garden with some music.’

  ‘Oh, what utter heaven,’ Sarah repeated, gazing round in wonder at the fully equipped kitchen that, although extremely functional, had managed to retain some aspects of its former life as a bespoke country house kitchen. ‘What are you making? May I see?’

  Betty glanced over at me, making a face behind Sarah’s back at her effusive enthusiasm, but I fully understood the magnetic pull, the almost sexed-up feelings Sarah was obviously experiencing.

  ‘I’ve read all about this place, of course,’ Sarah said as she walked round, looking at everything, sniffing the pots of herbs and the tiny, wonderfully sweet home-grown tomatoes Eric had just brought in; stroking the metallic fridges and worktops almost with reverence. Oh well, she was a vicar’s wife, I supposed, but weren’t these religious types supposed not to worship any false idols?

  ‘Do you cook?’ I asked, smiling at her wide-eyed demeanour.

  ‘Oh God, yes. I adore anything to do with food. Baking’s the thing I really love, but I’ve been experimenting with a lot of Middle Eastern and vegetarian stuff at the moment. I was so envious when Poppy said you might have some work for her, that I bundled my poor old mother into the car and said I was bringing her to see Annabelle Ahern—do you know Annabelle?’ Sarah laughed. ‘She and my mother were great pals in London in the Sixties. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind but I used my mother and Annabelle as an excuse to pick Poppy up and have a good look round.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’ I smiled. ‘I’m always happy to have people here who love food and cooking as much as I do.’ I raised my eyes pointedly at Betty who tutted into the cream she was over-whipping.

  ‘That is so kind. My sister said this was an amazing place…’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Selena Hamley-Smith. She brought Mummy over to your opening day…?’

  ‘Oh of course, they were both with Annabelle. I remember now. Golly, do I curtsey to you? David Henderson said Selena was an “Honourable”—so I guess you are too?’

  Sarah laughed and Betty banged her bowl on the steel worktop and revved up the mixer to high. ‘Well, yes, I am—well I was the Honourable Sarah Sykes.’ She frowned. ‘It all seems to have gone a bit downhill since those days.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Betty…’ I took Sarah’s elbow and motioned her outside. ‘She’s like a woman obsessed with that mixer. Come on, let’s find Poppy…’

  *

  My life over the next week or so was, it seemed, spent split three ways. Physically, I was in the kitchen: cooking, preparing food, watching Paul, the new chef we’d purloined from The Ash House at Wetherby, meeting guests, running the first of a ten-week advanced cookery course and sorting problems, as well as in meetings with David, Mel and Grace. Emotionally, I was either in a state of nervous anxiety as I waited every morning for the official letter from court telling me I must present myself to a judge or bench of family magistrates or, still in a state of nervous anxiety, planning what to wear and practising little things I might say on my forthcoming dinner date with Rafe Ahern.

  You’ve probably totally blown up your feelings for this man anyway, I scolded myself as I bashed bread dough into submission. When you see him, you’ll probably laugh, ‘Ha ha’ at the ridiculous notion you thought the bad-tempered tractor driver in any way attractive.

  ‘You’re talking and laughing to yourself again, Clem,’ Betty would sniff. ‘You’ll have them men in white coats after you if you don’t watch it…’

  With regards to Allegra, my solicitor had outlined what course of events he thought might happen but, as it was rare for Special Guardianship Orders to be revoked anyway, and because his firm had never had to handle such a revocation, he couldn’t really be sure, he said, how it might pan out, or what timescale we were looking at.

  *

  On the Monday morning of my dinner date with Rafe, Izzy rang to say she was coming over to pick up both Max and Allegra so that I could go and buy myself something lovely to wear for my ‘hot date’.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, loving the idea of some time to myself in the shops.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Izzy said firmly. ‘You’ve not had a day off in months. I’m assuming Top Cat can hold the fort for the day?’

  ‘Top Cat?’

  ‘Oh, I mean Top Chef don’t I? Your whizz kid?’

  I giggled. ‘Top Cat will do actually; he reminds me of a self-satisfied cat that’s got the cream. God, he’s full of himself but, yes, he’s really excellent and will be more than happy to try and get the better of batty Betty…’

  ‘Well, I hope he can do it better than you can say it,’ Izzy laughed. ‘Right, Sid and I will be over in half an hour, so get your flat shoes on in readiness for pounding those pavements.’

  *

  Just over an hour later I was at Piccadilly Station in an exceptionally hot and humid Manchester, running for the free bus that would take me down to the shops of St Anne’s Square and King Street. I felt ridiculously excited at the thought of buying new things not only for me, but for Sophie, Max and Allegra too. Once Peter’s solicitors had dropped the bombshell that we were hugely in debt, the kids had had nothing new at all, apart from inexpensive gifts for birthdays and Christmas.

  The heatwave of the past few weeks had been threatening to break in a thunderstorm all day and, as I came out of Karen Millen into the mid-afternoon sticky city heat, the heavens opened with a vengeance. Desperate to protect my totally over-the-top amount of newly acquired purchases, I dashed once more for the free bus that would take me up to Piccadilly and the train home. Everyone else, unfortunately, had the same idea and bus after bus went by full of very wet passengers fleeing the downpour. By the time I managed to board a bus I was soaked through and it was standing room only. Clutching my carrier bags, rather than any means of keeping myself upright, I endeavoured to keep my balance but it was like being a domino; as the bus lurched so did I, knocking into people who, glaring at me, found themselves falling too. After a second woman shouted, ‘For God’s sake,’ at me, a middle-aged, balding man took obvious pity on me and, standing, offered his seat.

  ‘No, no,’ I shouted, lurching once more into the people standing in the aisle. ‘Thank you so much, but I’m sure the pregnant lady there—’ I nodded towards a large, sweating woman, ‘—would like to sit down before me.’

  ‘Who are you calling pregnant?’ she shouted back. ‘I’m not fucking pregnant.’

  Scarlet with mortification but, despite myself, emitting little uncontrollable snorts of hysterical giggling, I managed to keep myself upright until the bus came to a standstill. My phone beeped as I excused my way to the exit.

  Rafe.

  Betty Boop informs me you’re out shopping. Is seven-thirty all right for tonight?

  I texted back, my heart hammering at the thought of seeing him later that evening.

  Lovely, I�
�m hot, wet and ready to come

  Shit! I looked in horror at my phone. Entangled with shopping, I’d hit the send button before writing ‘home.’

  Home, that should have ended with home.

  I desperately hit the buttons and sent the message. Jesus, I was a damned liability. I go AWOL for one day and cause mayhem. And Rafe Ahern would think I was just as silly as I’m sure he’d always thought.

  All the way home on the train I kept waiting for a message to come back from Rafe.

  Nothing at all.

  *

  ‘Blimey, Clem, you look gorgeous.’ I’d decided at the last minute to wear the beautiful black dress Peter had bought me for the ‘big proposal’ and Sophie, who’d never seen it before, had me twirling round to get a better look. Most of the stuff I’d bought in Manchester was for the kids, but I’d treated myself to a ravishing pair of red strappy sandals. ‘Hang on,’ she said and disappeared upstairs, returning five minutes later with a tiny red Mulberry clutch. ‘Dad bought me this,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘It’s not really my thing, but it goes fantastically with those shoes.’

  And it did.

  ‘I’m a bit nervous,’ I admitted to Sophie and Sam who were babysitting Max and Allegra for the evening.

  ‘Why?’ Sophie asked, mystified. ‘It’s only old Rafe Ahern taking you out to thank you for being assistant midwife.’

  Sam grinned. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sophie…’

  ‘What…? Oh, my God, she doesn’t fancy him, does she?’ She turned to me. ‘You don’t fancy him, do you? But you’ve always said Rafe Ahern is a bad-tempered, miserable old sod with no sense of—’

  ‘Shh,’ I warned, blushing furiously as Rafe appeared at the kitchen door. My heart went into overdrive, as much at seeing him—tall, dark, blue-eyed and utterly sublime—standing in the kitchen and looking at me with raised eyebrows, as what he might have just overheard.