Perhaps delving deeper was something she and Will could think about tonight. A frisson of excitement shot through her thinking about Will cooking for her. If anything it would be good to get out of Deux Tourelles for the evening. Even if it was only next door. Clara was right: Lucy really did need a hobby. Work wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Or maybe it was being here, with a lot more time on her hands, that made her acknowledge that sobering fact.
And then there was still the issue of what to do about Clara. How to approach her sister again now that it was clear she wasn’t going to apologise. They had to talk about it but did Clara expect Lucy to apologise first? Maybe that’s what Clara was holding out for. Lucy would do it, if that’s what it took to get the ball rolling on a reconciliation. Oh, what on earth had happened between them that things had descended so horrifically after Lucy had only been back here for such a short amount of time?
She caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window as she ran the cold tap and filled a glass with water. She looked red-facedand grubby, but it was the most exercise Lucy had engaged in for weeks. Perhaps she should take up running. Actually, perhaps she should take up gardening. It had been quite enjoyable and she knew the basics. She could get the garden spruced up before the house went on the market. It sorely needed it.
Maybe she could take up house renovation as well. The house was crying out for a bit of DIY and heaps more love than Lucy had available to give it, but a start couldn’t hurt, surely. And hadn’t she always seen on those property shows on Channel 4 that houses sold for much more money if they were ‘staged’ or spruced up in some way rather than shown in their worst, slightly dilapidated light – which was how Deux Tourelles looked now?
Yes, that’s the hobby Lucy would allocate herself. She was going to do the house up, paint the rooms in a delicate range of colours from Farrow & Ball, make it look a bit more appealing rather than its current drabness with the faded, flaking magnolia that currently adorned far too many walls in the property. Strip the floors, sand them down, varnish them, maybe get some new rugs. Although she wouldn’t go all out. She had to remember she wasn’t actually going to be living here. It was just for staging. Just to sell. And the garden: she was going to tackle the rest of the garden while she was here.
But she supposed first she needed to ring round a house clearance company or some charity shops and sort out if any wanted the oversized and ancient-looking furniture. Or was it best leaving the furniture in the house so it looked more lived-in; better for potential buyers? Yes, that’s what she needed to do. She felt pleased with herself. She’d made a grown-up decision, without Clara getting involved, and it wasn’t that difficult.
As night closed in and the sun began to descend in the sky, Lucy sent a quick series of messages to Clara telling her what she had planned for the house. Clara replied that she’d sorted out a visit from three estate agents who would take valuations the next day. The next day? What planet was Clara on? Why was she insuch a hurry? It gave Lucy no time to paint anything, or indeed to actually go out and buy paint and fresh flowers with which to jazz up the house. But she would explain to the agent they were intending to make it look nicer in time for photographs and that should buy some time.
Before she knew it, it was nearly eight o’clock and Lucy needed to be down the lane at Will’s cottage. She’d rushed through her going-out routine, showering off the grime of a day spent in the garden and putting on the only nice day dress she’d brought with her; red, short-sleeved and just above the knee. Was it too much? Will had only seen her in jeans thus far and she didn’t want to give the impression she was keen. But she didn’t want to give the impression she didn’t care enough to at least change out of her daily uniform of jeans and a top. To counterbalance the panic she put on a pair of wedges and reasoned that it was a good halfway choice between the slightly more formal pair of heels she’d worn to Dido’s funeral and her usual pair of trainers. Why was dressing so complicated, each item laced with meaning?
She arrived at Will’s cottage, clutching the bundle of shorthand notes she remembered she’d put in a drawer in the bedroom for safekeeping, the poster relating to the concentration camp and a gift of a bottle of white wine she’d hastily grabbed from the fridge. Will opened the door and failed to mask his surprise at how she looked. Her hair was still a bit damp at the ends as she’d run out of time to dry it properly but she’d put on make-up; slightly more than she wore in the day, paying attention to elongate her lashes with a few sweeps of mascara and swiping a nude lipstick across her lips. He smiled but didn’t speak.
‘Hi,’ she said first and when he just nodded she said, ‘Am I … Have I got the right night?’
‘Yes. Sorry, come in,’ he said hastily.
‘I was going to offer a lame joke about being late because the commute was so dreadful,’ she said. ‘But you’ve put me off now.’
He laughed. ‘The old jokes are the best.’
‘This is for you.’ She handed him the wine. ‘A thank you for dinner.’
‘You’ve not eaten it yet. You might not thank me.’
‘Well I can’t really cook so whatever you’re making is guaranteed to be a vast improvement on what I eat usually.’
‘What have you been cooking, while you’ve been here?’ he asked, leading her through a small but impeccable entrance hall and towards the kitchen. The cottage was small, with only two rooms downstairs, one either side of the entrance hall and staircase. Wood beams were exposed and old architectural drawings were arranged neatly in dark frames on the wall. It was tidy, but masculine; no plants on the kitchen windowsill, no scented candles, no hint of a woman’s presence, which Lucy found interesting. Although now she thought about it, asking her over for dinner wasn’t something any man in his right mind would have done if he did have a girlfriend, surely.
‘This and that.’ She didn’t like to tell him she’d mostly been living off toast and Marmite and pasta with the odd glass of wine thrown in for good measure. She wondered if the jokes about grapes in wine counting as one of the five a day might actually have a bit of truth about it. God, she hoped so. ‘I live on my own anyway so I’m used to cooking for one, but usually I’m out a lot for dinner with friends so this new solitude makes a nice change.’
‘There’s a good little kitchen garden out the back at Deux Tourelles. Have you seen?’ Will asked.
‘I’ve found a few things that look edible but the weeds have started taking over I’m afraid,’ Lucy said.
‘Probably. Dido wasn’t really into the garden, just strangely keen that the vegetable patch should be maintained. She admitted it harked back to the war when rationing was in full force. And I’ve not been out there since the end of January when she let me weed it and sow some beans, carrots and onions so it’s no surprise it’s gone to wrack and ruin since then. The veg I sowed has probably died in the ground now with no one looking after it.’
‘She “let” you plant vegetables?’ Lucy frowned.
‘I was quite happy having a bit of company and so I forced my services on her a bit, I think. Some elderly people are eternally grateful for any help you give them. While, as I learnt from my grandfather, others secretly want to tell you to piss off. I’m not sure which one Dido was. Either way, I was rewarded with a bit of chat and biscuits that I forced down. I hope she enjoyed the company too.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about her sister?’
‘No,’ Will said as he moved over to the modern-looking hob and put a wok on, adding some oil. ‘She asked a lot of questions about me, was intrigued why I’d upped sticks and moved here. Couldn’t get her head round why a city boy like me would choose Guernsey, despite the fact she’d lived here her whole life.’
Lucy wasn’t sure what to make of that. ‘Didn’t she like it here then?’
Will shrugged. ‘Can you pass me the peppers from over there?’ gesturing towards some vegetables he’d pre-cut. ‘Not sure she was in love with her home. Just maybe didn’t have it in her to move anywhere else,’ he said.
‘What are you cooking?’ she asked as he put another pan on, added oil and when it warmed, threw in some diced chicken, which sizzled comfortingly. He switched the extractor on overhead.
‘Fajitas. I should have asked, are you a vegetarian?’
‘No, and I’m very at home with fajitas given I ate them twice last week courtesy of my niece Molly’s new-found culinary skills.’
