‘Don’t you have to go to work?’ Lucy said pointedly. She wasn’t in the mood to discuss anything else now.
‘I do, yes.’ Clara pulled out her purse and left money for her share of the bill then kissed Lucy awkwardly on the cheek. The same cheek she’d slapped her on, Lucy noticed, and then realised that was an unhelpful way of thinking.
Lucy pulled her phone out and searched for a DIY shop nearby. There was one in the town only a few streets away and so she ignored the stream of emails that had arrived on her phone during coffee, put her phone in her pocket and went out into the High Street, through the hustle and bustle of St Peter Port’s main shopping street. She spent far too long choosing paint colours, wishing she’d actually looked at colour charts before going shopping. She eventually ordered all the paints for each of the rooms and all the fripperies that went with it including sheets to cover floors and furniture that it hadn’t even occurred to her that she might need until pointed out by the shop assistant.
This was one of the most grown-up things she’d sorted in such a long time. She wasn’t allowed to paint her rented flat so, she realised, this would actually be the first time she’d ever painted a wall. It was the first time she’d been inside a DIY shop, come to think of it. Homeownership was odd and strangely detailed.
After ordering the items, which the assistant said he’d deliver this afternoon and leave tucked by the side of the garage, Lucy stood in the sunshine, dug her sunglasses out of her bag and sent Will a message.
I’m ready for this museum now. If you still want to go, that is.
She wondered if he did still want to go with her. Yesterday, when he’d come to her rescue he’d said goodbye in such a strange, stilted way that it half crossed her mind he was a little bit annoyedwith her. He’d been ready enough to jump to her defence and had handled removing Simon from the house masterfully, but Lucy had come out of it looking more than a little deranged. She should have been braver. She should have said,Actually Simon, I find you terribly dull and repugnant and do not want to sleep with you. Please leave.She imagined herself doing this in an imperious way and she laughed out loud in the street. The woman walking in front of her turned, and gave Lucy a look that left her in no doubt she thought she was not quite all there.
‘Maybe I am deranged,’ Lucy said to herself as she went to find a café and caught up on some work. And then as time ticked by with still no word from Will, Lucy ordered herself some lunch. The chat on the sofa with Will had been nice. It had been more than nice. It had been everything the evening with Simon had categorically not been. The evening with Simon had only served to highlight that she and Will had something … a spark of something. Was she imagining it? She glanced down at her phone, but there was nothing from Will. Not everyone replied within five minutes, she reminded herself. After she left the café, Lucy spied a bookshop and decided to pop in and find a book about gardening.
After half an hour of neither Will replying nor finding a book that she resonated with, the shop assistant asked if Lucy required help, which she obviously did.
‘I know the difference between a weed and a flower,’ Lucy said to the woman. ‘I think. But I need something easy to follow; some instructions, someone to tell me what to prune, when to do it and how to do it. Gardening for idiots, something like that.’
The shop assistant reached down and found a beginner’s guide to gardening, which looked colourful and more importantly, small. ‘Idiot proof,’ the assistant said.
‘Perfect,’ Lucy replied, flicking through the illustrations and photographs. Out of it fell a leaflet about distance-learning gardening courses to be studied mostly online. She glanced at it briefly and then thought of something else. ‘Do you have a local section?’
‘Local authors?’ the assistant clarified.
‘No, but I’ll take a look at that too. I meant, local history, local … er … books,’ Lucy said uncertainly.
The assistant nodded and led Lucy to the other side of the shop where there were more books than she knew what to do with. The assistant clearly sensed Lucy’s confusion. ‘What can I help you find?’
‘Local history, the war, in particular, something with lots of pictures,’ Lucy joked, although now she thought about it, pictures were actually the most interesting bits of history books.
The woman pointed her in the right direction and Lucy looked at her phone when she’d been left alone to peruse the section. Still no reply from Will. Maybe she’d go to this museum on her own then. No, that wasn’t very kind. She wanted to go. But more than that, she wanted to go with him.
She found a lovely hardcopy book of Channel Islands photography and flicked through. Dramatic coastlines and windswept beaches met her gaze. Dark high waves crashing against the lighthouse, the wartime fortifications, the rise and fall of gulls above bunkers, the Little Chapel in Les Vauxbelets adorned with pebbles and pieces of china, a mosaic of beauty. Looking through this book again it was easy to fall back in love with the island she’d once called home. But now, to Lucy it was neither home nor holiday; Guernsey inhabited a halfway space in her mind. Why was that? Why could Will come here and call it home, and she had returned and couldn’t? She wondered if Will might like the book.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. Why was she thinking about him quite so much? She chose one of the history books and took it to the counter with the island photography book and paid.
As she was leaving, Will replied.
Ready whenever you are. Now?
Lucy parked the car near the museum and climbed out. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, yourself,’ he said. Why did he always look so neat and presentable? There was something about a toned man in a tight V-neck tee. She should have bought some better clothes while in St Peter Port. She needed to up her fashion game. Breton tees paired with jeans and summer dresses – on the odd occasion the weather held up – were about the full extent of her wardrobe. She felt like a slob suddenly in her stripy top and jeans but his wide smile indicated he’d not noticed.
He walked towards her and she wondered if he was going to lean forward, kiss her on the cheek in greeting. But no. If she did it now, after this long a pause it would look false, awkward.
She grabbed the shopping bag from the back of the Renault. ‘I’ve been shopping. I have a thank you present for your gallantry last night. I hope you like it. I hope you don’t already have it.’ She handed him the photography book and smiled, becoming quiet as he opened it and flicked slowly through the pages.
‘This is lovely,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I don’t remember the last time anyone bought me a present when it wasn’t either Christmas or my birthday.’
‘I felt you deserved it,’ she said. ‘Last night, you were … terrific. I was impressed. Slightly pissed off I came out of it looking like a lunatic, but impressed nonetheless.’
He chuckled. ‘You’re welcome. I think.’
‘I don’t make a habit of going on terrible dates.’
He shrugged. ‘You won’t know they’re terrible if you don’t go on them in the first place.’
