Page 1 of Lie For Me

1

Lucy erupted out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel on her head, toothbrush in hand. Wafting steam away from her face, she hummed ‘9 to 5’ by Dolly Parton as she ploughed across the bedroom towards the wardrobe.

The wardrobe, with bare hangers and sparsely filled shelves, looked as if someone had recently looted it. Her eyes alighted on the towering pile of ironing teetering on the chair beside her. She glanced at the clock and realised that this was not the day to start taking pride in her appearance. Sighing, she picked through the ironing stack, hoping some of the items at the bottom of the pile had been squashed crease-free and would now be passable.

Pulling out a faded red T-shirt and jeans, Lucy shoved the toothbrush into her mouth and shook the towel off her head.

Every evening, Lucy set her alarm to give her enough time to get ready without rushing, and every morning she snoozed it until she had to get ready in a hot panic. Dragging a brush through her damp hair, Lucy pinned it messily on top of her head with whatever pins she could find within reach and flicked wayward strands out of her face before vigorously rubbing moisturiser into her skin.

After yanking her jeans on, she clattered down the stairs of the old cottage, slowing her pace as she hit the flagstones at the bottom. As with every morning, she skidded into the kitchen and hit the button on the kettle. No matter what, she had to make coffee before she left the house.

As the kettle purred to life, Lucy patted down the creases in her T-shirt and dug through the fruit bowl. A somewhat blackened but passable banana lurked underneath a wrinkled apple and some wizened grapes. She dropped the banana into her bag for later.

The kettle clicked off, and the low rumble of the boiling water faded into silence as Lucy heaped coffee grounds into the cafetiere then splashed in the boiling water. She plucked at the past-their-best grapes as she waited for the coffee to brew, fingers deftly searching through the wrinkled berries for any still plump and firm.

Glancing across the room, her eyes fell on the cream envelope propped against the butter dish on the kitchen table. She burst a grape in her mouth, crossed her arms, and contemplated the letter. Outside, the early morning Yorkshire mist was lifting. Sunlight streamed through the old casement window, casting everything in the room in a soft, beatific glow, and the cream envelope glowed yellow in the sunshine. It had been resident in the kitchen for months, occasionally migrating from the table to the dresser then back again. Lucy had done a marvellous job of ignoring it. A suspicious stain marked one corner after the envelope got in the way during a night of fajitas and margaritas. Every time she saw it, she promised herself, I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Only now, she was running out of tomorrows. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, an idle thought from a few days earlier slowly shaping into an idea. Whether it was a good idea, it was too early to tell.

The rich and bitter smell of hot coffee snapped Lucy back to the moment. She glanced up at the kitchen clock.

‘Fuck,’ she swore loudly.

Grabbing the cafetiere, she hastily filled her travel mug to the brim. Lucy stared down at the mug, black coffee lapping at the rim.

‘Bollocks.’

She lurched to the sink and splashed some of the coffee down the drain, little droplets jumping up and splatting on her T-shirt. She hopped onto one foot and lunged at the fridge, grabbing the milk and trying to get the lid off while still holding the travel mug. Lucy sloshed milk into the mug and then took three attempts to get the screw lid on straight.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she muttered, screwing it on tightly.

Snatching her bag from the back of a chair, she grabbed the envelope from its perching place, dropped it into her bag on top of the banana and skated out of the kitchen, squelching a stray grape on the flagstones underfoot as she went.

At the front door, Lucy dug through a basket full of shoes for her black flats. She grabbed a stray lace attached to one black shoe, and a flip-flop sprang from the basket. She jabbed her foot into the shoe and dove back into the basket.

‘Oof!’ Lucy huffed as she rooted about.

She pulled out red heels, a pair of boots, one wellington, and an old slipper, but no left-foot shoe. She blew her hair away from her face and glanced at the living room clock.

‘Fuck-a-doodle-do,’ she muttered, gritting her teeth.

Lucy didn’t have time for this. She kicked the shoe off, and it flew under the coffee table. Making a mental note to retrieve it from there later, she shoved her feet into her trainers and heaved open the heavy old door.

The sun was already burning off the cool of the early morning and heralding another hot day as Lucy slung her bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel of her old Volvo.

Five minutes later, coaxed, Lucy felt sure, by ample swearing and one sharp slap on the dashboard, the elderly car grunted to life. The car cranked and lurched as she shifted gears along the Yorkshire lanes, belting out tunelessly but enthusiastically to Whitney’s ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’ Rabbits darted back into the verges, ears down, and birds made for the skies as the travelling sound bomb rolled past. A bolt of noise into the countryside and then gone.

Rounding another corner, Lucy bellowed cheerfully, squalling as she tried to join in with Whitney on the high notes.

Green hedges and hills rolled out before her, and Lucy drank in the lush sights of rural Yorkshire in August.

Soul food.

On this summer’s day, the trees were in full leaf, casting dappled shade along the lanes. Wild basil and pink corn-cockle flowers swayed in the verges, and ox-eye daisies and sleepy soapwort flowers bobbed their heads in green fields.

Her drive to work––through some of the most stunning views in the country––never ceased to tug at her heartstrings. While others were stressed and swearing in traffic jams or jammed nose-to-armpit on the tube, Lucy’s job required her to take the scenic drive five days a week.

With one hand on the steering wheel on an open stretch of road, she reached for the old radio console and twisted the knob to shush Bryan Adams.

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