Chapter 1
Lucy
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TO DO:
Send flowers to Donna
Buy milk, bread etc
Find bedclothes/make bed
Find can opener
Moving is more than exhausting. Anyone who’s done it can tell you it’s about so much more than boxes. And leaving in a hurry makes it even harder.
It took me twenty years to create my “forever home” – and I have just two hours to leave it behind for good. More of that later.
Briefly back at my beloved old home, I am like a bird plucking bits of straw out of a hay bale – just enough to build my new life. It’s like dismantling my soul, but hey. Who actually needs a custom built symmetrical entry staircase with stone supports to match the chimney? I don’t even glance at my white rose gardens along the wide front fence and the perfectly curved pathway, my former pride and joy.
I’ve hired movers while Bart is in Barbados. I force the images of swaying palm trees and cocktails as far out of my mind as I can. He used to take me there; but now he’ll be with the Minx, the traitor.
They’re welcome to each other, I tell myself, as I load up the best of my remaining clothes, photos of Phoebe in silver frames, from bald baby dome to gap-toothed fairy, pink tween and rangy teen with attitude to beaming high school graduate, taken only a couple of years ago – plus kitchen necessities and a few items of furniture. There’s not much space in my new place, but I don’t need space. I need security. My own key. I can’t wait to leave this showhouse – this house of betrayal.
My whole shabby chic furniture business is now bound for the ReUse charity. There was no way I could take it all back with me to my little rented apartment at Brighton Court, and I certainly can’t afford to hire studio space.
The ReUse people are over the moon, and that’s great. I’ll do a media event to maximize their publicity, so when they auction my pieces they’ll get a great return. Celebrity humiliation plus beautifully restored furniture should create a blockbuster fundraiser. It’s great to think there’s some kind of silver lining for heartbreak and divorce in your late forties. It has to be good for me, too, right? Better than living a lie. Why stay with Bart when he’s in love with his Personal Assistant?
Besides, I’m done with suburbia, with its perfect lawns and tidy fences, the barking dogs and fresh air. That’s what I tell myself. Thank goodness it’s winter, and my beloved garden is hiding its treasures, the bare twigs blackened and bent against the bitter wind, roses all thorns against marauders – like my heart.
But this is no pity party. I’m determined to find the bright side. Life will be so much better without Bart. My future’s an open book. Well, there’s Phoebe, who doesn’t return my calls and messages, but I can’t solve everything at once. First, I’ll get myself sorted out.
Dear Donna has sheltered me for almost a year and given me work in her relocation and unpacking business – her whole family is into every aspect of real estate – but it’s time for my fresh start – at Brighton Court. I love my rental, so close to downtown. It’s a brick apartment building from the late 1940s, a real mix of architecture styles. Solid. Full of character. There are even some trees and a bit of garden. Well, you wouldn’t call that overgrown mess a garden, but wait till I get my hands on it.
Donna assures me it’s a great neighborhood, west side of the river, just east of downtown, and she’d know. With her relocation business, she moves people in and out all over town. She says my area is “up and coming – cusp of uptown” even if some of the apartments at Brighton Court have seen better days. The curtains in the garden apartment are drawn and shabby – a bit sinister – and my apartment badly needs new paint, but there’s a healthy mix of blinds and curtains in the windows of the other apartments, and I like that in a place – room for individuality.
I know for certain that the Brighton Court penthouse is sensational, because I recently took on the job of unpacking for the new owner of the penthouse. All those fixtures are brand spanking new. It even has one of those marble waterfall kitchen benches, recessed ceilings, lights under the bookshelves, a floating bathroom cabinet – the latest.
The purchaser’s things fit perfectly – classy, timeless pieces in polished wood and pale leather, and expensive clothes. Men’s clothes. Lots of books and original artworks. Must be someone professional, retired maybe. If someone with such good taste chose Brighton Court, surely it’ll be great for me too. When I saw the “for rent” sign for one of the apartments below the penthouse while I was there, I had to inspect it. I’d already decided it was time to give Donna back her own space. The apartment for rent was in almost original condition, so a bit beat up, like me – but it had so much character I signed the lease on the spot.
Back at my old dream house, I pack all the makings for my lamps into boxes – all the fabrics and shades and bases and pompons and trims, and of course my beloved glue gun that makes everything so easy. Who knows? Maybe I’ll offer to make lamps for all my new neighbors. That’s an idea. My heart quickens at the thought of meeting everyone. I’ve always liked people.
The wiry guy with neck tattoos loads the final few boxes into the little truck without a hitch. We’re almost done here. I force my eyes away from my show home, every last part of it decorated exactly as I’d wanted it – every picture hung in exactly the right place, each piece of furniture re-upholstered with love in the perfect fabric, every item selected and placed with so much care. For nothing. For a man who considered me dispensable, and a daughter who refuses to speak to me.
I can only focus on the future. One day soon, I’ll buy my own place, more modest by necessity, but just as nice. Somewhere cosy, somewhere like Brighton Court, a place where my friends and Phoebe will always be welcome.
I’ll patch things up with Phoebe – surely it’s possible. I won’t stop trying. Ever.
“Ready, Mrs Hardenburg?” says the stocky mover with the eyebrow ring.
“‘Ms Beston’ now, please,” I say. “I guess I’ll never be any more ready. Thank you so much. Couldn’t have done it without you. Can I buy you pizza at the other end?”
“Sure, lady, Mrs Beston.”
“Ms. Okay. Let’s go!”
Back at Brighton Court, as the professional unpacker I’ve become, I make short work of my own belongings. I stash kitchen and bathroom essentials, hang clothes and line up my shoes. The bed’s inviting, but the night is young.
