LUCY
Richard Thompson examines his trousers and shirt with a growing sense of irritation before tossing them back onto the armchair.
How is he supposed to go out in this? The trousers are all creased, theres not even a trace of a crease down the leg, and the seat shines from wear. Hes lost about a stone these past months so the trousers hang off him like a sack. The shirt is even worse: its turned from pale blue to a nondescript grey, the cuffs are frayed, and the collar has gone limp and shapelessan absolute disgrace! Lucy wouldnt have let him pop round the corner to Tesco in a shirt like this, and here he is expected to lecture at the university. He never really cared much about his clothes before, but he always managed to look not just respectable, but almost dapper. What a contrast to now!
He never noticed how shirts changed, new jackets and raincoats appeared, ties, flat caps, and polished brogues, just by sticking out his hand into the wardrobe or simply mentioning to Lucy that he needed to look presentable tomorrow…
Oh, Lucy, what on earth have you done, what possessed you?! He never expected such betrayal from her. She was almost ten years younger, hardly ever ill, and there hadnt been the slightest sign that anything was wrong this time either. She had a fever for three days with a nagging cough, nothing more. She would never have gone to the doctor if she hadnt needed a medical certificate before the new school year started. Off she went to the surgery with the other teachers, expecting nothing but a formality at the GP.
The check-up should have been routine at that poky little surgery, and yet Lucy was sent straight to hospital, and from there, everything started spinning like a nightmare, ending, horribly, just before Christmas. Richard understood all this rationally, but he still struggled with a deep resentment toward the GPirrationally blaming the surgery itself, as if it had taken Lucy from him, even though it was they who had first raised the alarm. But it felt to him, like a wounded child, that because it all started there, that’s where the blame lay.
Hed met Lucy when he was a second-year PhD student leading tutorials in calculus, and Lucy, a blushing first-year with rosy cheeks, freckles even in winter, and the tiniest chubby fingers with bitten nails stained with ink, joined his class. Odd, really, that she captured his attention at allhed always been drawn to lively, confident girls, full of character and noise. But there was just something about those little ink-stained handshe found himself charmed, drawn in.
He started walking her home, sitting with her and her nan making dumplings, and after that there was nothing left for it but to marry her. And despite the fact that in the forty years that followed, Lucy had doubled in size, cut off her plaits, smoked a pack a day, and become the deputy head at the local grammar school, all Richard ever saw were those child-sized hands and bitten nailshis heart stung for her, and no one else would do.
Not that life together was any kind of fairytale. Forty years brings its share of tempests. Richard had, admittedly, not been the perfect husbandone or two rather regrettable indiscretions, and more than a handful of foolish moments, even once leaving home entirely. Lucy had her turns as well, giving as good as she got, including a three-year affair with the manager at the factory that sponsored her school. But they had two daughters, and those anchors kept their family ship steady through every storm.
And it hardly seemed fair. At first, they were penniless, living on top of one another, then busy with little girls, balancing between piano lessons, art class, school runs, figure skating, and endless childhood illnesses. Now, with a spacious flat of their own, the girls living their own lives and bringing the grandchildren over only on special occasions, it should have been finally time to enjoy things. And thats when Lucy did what she did and left him with no instructions at all.
Richard never imagined Lucy might surprise him like that. For weeks, he hardly realised what had happened, behaving at her wake more as if he were at a birthday luncheon than a funerala fact many guests noted, deciding he couldnt be too grief-stricken. Perhaps they were wrong. The truth hit him later, three months on, when spring crept in, and it struck him hard. He faded badly: lost weight, grew restless, and couldnt stand being alone at home.
Living with his daughters simply wasnt an option: one jetted off with conservation groups, saving dolphins or tracking migratory birds, the other lived with her husband, absorbed in her own child, and Richard simply didnt have a place in her carefully ordered life. So Richard began drifting into his friends homes.
To call it visiting was giving it too much credit: hed turn up at ungodly hours, wolf down meals, nap in armchairs, silently drink tea with ginger nuts or digestives, littering crumbs over his faded shirt and their kitchen tables, and would only leave when it finally became rude not to. Then hed trudge home, just to repeat it all again in a day or two.
At home, he hardly ate at allodd, since for forty years hed been the family cook, but couldn’t bring himself to bother for one. He deteriorated physically, aged before his time, and finally his friends decided enough was enoughhe needed to be married off, and quickly.
Which is how he found himself about to go, again, to the theatre with an Anne Preston. Absolutely nothing would come of it. Even with Lucy, hed only ever gone to plays for her sake. It all seemed fake and pedestrianawkward, often poorly done But Lucy had always watched with such rapture, cherishing the programmes, recounting the plays to him again and againhow could he refuse her?
Now, his well-meaning friends had made it their mission to keep him on track, shoving tickets into his hands and sending him trudging across town with unfamiliar women to dreary performances, sitting three hours in a stiff chair, his back aching in ill-fitting shoes, suffocating from musty perfume, treating these women to juice and stale cakes in the interval, all the while longing for his own pillow, which still, or so he imagines, smells faintly of Lucy. He cant bring himself to offend his friends, so he goes along. He understands, in his head at least, that hes not fit to live alone, though why he should try to keep living, he cant exactly say.
Todays Anne Preston turns out to be younger than he expected, surprisingly attractive. Richard even considers, with a pang, that a decade ago, she would have been just his type. Fifteen years his junior, petite, impeccably put together, clever, and quite at ease in social settings. Next to her, Richard feels ancient and drab. Yet Anne clearly signals her interest in seeing more of him, suggesting one idea after another for the weekend.
At least tonights play was mercifully short, with no interval. Afterwards, hes expected to offer dinner, since they didnt manage on theatre snacks. But fate intervenes on his behalf. Anne mentions she lives right by the theatre, near the Tube, and shes just made a particularly good roast and piewould he like to share supper at hers? The spontaneity is clearly staged, but Richard is so hungry for a bit of warm, domestic cosiness that he doesnt even pretend to refuse.
Anne, it turns out, is the perfect hostess. Her flat is spotless, warm, and smells of cinnamon and vanilla. She slips away briefly, returning in a tracksuit that makes her look even younger. She bustles about the kitchen, serving up homemade delights, chatting with easy charm, and Richard finds himself thinking, perhaps he could stay here forever, in this gingerbread house, and let all his ghosts finally rest.
He only leaves after midnight. The following day, he and Anne have agreed to meet at a private collections museum, then shop together for some new clothescant have him shaming his date, she teasesand on Saturday, a home-cooked lunch at Annes. Shed prefer to take him for a country walk and show off her holiday cottage, but her daughter has asked her to collect her granddaughter from school for a few hours, so lunch with the child it is, and the country outing postponed for Sunday.
On Saturday, Richard pops into the barbers early, and feels at least five years younger for the fresh trim. He completes the effect with a new check shirt and soft corduroy jeans, grabs flowers and a bar of chocolate for the granddaughter, and heads for Annes house.
The stairwell is thick with the smell of roasting duck and freshly baked puddings. Richard catches himself humming and, seeing his reflection in the old lift mirror, realises hes actually smiling.
Anne greets him warmly, leads him to the kitchen. Wheres your granddaughter? Richard asks.
Ill call hershes in a sulk and wouldnt leave the bedroom, Anne grins. Richard arranges flowers in a vase, uncorks a bottle of wine, pours juice for the girl, cuts the bread, and sits at the table.
Lucy, come and meet Richard!
He sees a pair of wide, clear eyes, pink cheeks, and freckled nose. Lucy stares at him suspiciously, gnawing, out of nerves, at the nail of her thumb. Hope I dont collapse on the spot, Richard thinks, and quickly steps out into the hall…
