Page 2 of Lie For Me

She liked quiet on the approach so she could take in the scene. The lanes narrowed, the tree line parted, and the black, wrought iron gates came into view. Huge stone pillars joined at the top by a curved iron arch. Written out in huge black iron script was one word.

Dulcetcoombe.

Lucy eased the Volvo through the open gates and onto the long, tree-lined driveway. She drove at a crawl down the gravel track, cattle sunning themselves in the fields on either side of her. She passed the Welcome to Dulcetcoombe sign and the map showing the way to Visitors Parking, Ticket Office, and Café.

She drove slowly past the No Public Access sign, and as the rolling parkland gave way to clipped lawns, the house itself came into view. It had been nearly six years since she started working there, but Lucy still caught her breath every day when she saw it.

The huge gothic building glowed in the morning sunlight, a creamy, buttery colour, benign and serene. Lucy grinned at it. The house was a living, breathing thing. It looked and felt different every day, depending on the weather and the time of year, and how the changing light coloured the weathered Yorkshire stone.

She had seen it in the spring, surrounded by daffodils, in the drab days of January when it squatted in the winter-bare landscape like it too was hibernating. On dark autumn nights when it fell into eerie shadows and looked as if Dracula himself might slide out of the door. They kept the horror-film-like photos out of the events brochures. The house behaved differently throughout the year, too. The doors that swelled and stuck in the damp winter air, moved freely in summer, and the whistles of the autumn wind through tiny holes in the window frames were quiet at the moment. No matter how the house felt, it was her home from home.

Lucy edged the car around the side of the building and into the staff car park at the rear, rolling to a stop in her regular spot. She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and shoved at the door with her knee. The car door opened stiffly with a groan. Lucy caught a stray crisp packet that blew out and shoved it back into the driver’s door holder, alongside chocolate wrappers, crumpled tissues, empty paracetamol packets and a rolled-up crossword puzzle book with a lot of completed but incorrect puzzle answers. She jumped out then lunged back into the car to retrieve her travel mug, which had somehow leaked lukewarm, milky coffee onto the passenger seat. She cursed at the mug under her breath, perched it on the roof of the car and rooted in her bag for a clean tissue to mop up the mess. Two minutes later she elbowed the car door shut, smoothed down her T-shirt and made for the staff entrance.

Dulcetcoombe was a stately home in trust. The family was long gone, the upkeep of an estate like this far beyond their failing fortunes. Unable to find a buyer for such a big estate and flailing under the costs of maintenance, heating bills, and taxes, the family gifted the estate to the local authority. The council, galled at the prospect of the unexpected bequest but unable to say so publicly, promptly divested themselves of it and found a charity to take on the romantic but frankly daunting task of maintaining an old and decaying building.

The volunteers of the Friends of Dulcetcoombe had been restoring Moneypit, as they affectionately called the place, to her former glory for the past twelve years without relenting. Funding had gradually allowed for a manager and later a fundraiser, and the staff team had grown to support the house. Six years ago, after careful restoration works, the house opened to the public. And that was where Lucy came in.

As Events and Volunteers Manager, it was up to Lucy to train and manage the many volunteers who welcomed the visitors, sold the tickets, ran the tours, and helped in the kitchen gardens. It fell to Lucy to develop and run the events programme that helped keep visitors returning to Dulcetcoombe and generate much-needed income for its never-ending repairs and upkeep. With the help of the volunteers, Lucy ran the annual Easter egg hunt and summer Discovery Trails and welcomed thousands of local school children every year. But her favourite of all was Christmas.

At Christmastime, Dulcetcoombe was transformed into a wonder of Christmases past, with enormous trees in every room, smothered in red, gold, and silver glass baubles, huge ribbons tied in bows, and decked in warm, twinkling lights. Vast wreaths of greenery ran along the bannisters, and choirs sang carols every day. Outside, carriage rides took people on tours around the wintry grounds as they sipped mulled wine and hot ginger ale, and the gift shop did a roaring trade in anything labelled vintage, Victorian, or traditional.

The Christmas Fayre was a Herculean effort that involved most of the staff and volunteers, and the house was closed entirely for two weeks to allow for all the preparations. It ran for several weeks every year from late November, culminating on Christmas Eve.

Each January, as soon as the decorations were down, Lucy had to begin planning for the next Christmas. So, while most people in January focused on dropping the extra ten pounds they’d added during festivities and assessing the damage to their credit card, Lucy was already thinking about colour schemes, baubles, and Father Christmas. And now, in summer, preparations went up a notch. Lucy had to get the copy for the Christmas brochure to the printers by the end of the week.

Lucy took the stairs to the old servants’ quarters that now housed the staff offices two at a time, the leaky travel mug dribbling coffee over her hand. She stuck her head in to say hi to Sue, Dulcetcoombe’s unflappable manager, and grinned a good morning at Eric, their finance officer, before reaching her shared office at the end of the narrow attic corridor.

As she pushed open the door, she saw Cassie squinting at her computer screen and jabbing numbers into a calculator.

Lucy dug in her bag, slapped the cream-embossed envelope down on Cassie’s desk, and asked, ‘How big a lie is too big a lie?’

2

‘Ah, good morning to you too, sunshine,’ Cassie said.

She eyed the envelope Lucy had deposited in front of her.

Lucy ambled across to the tea station in the corner of their shared office and flicked the kettle on. She abandoned her near-empty travel mug behind a half-eaten packet of Hobnobs, sighed in the direction of the cheap instant coffee, and wiped her damp, coffee-stained hands on a tea towel.

‘Coffee?’ she asked as she watched Cassie inspect the envelope.

‘What?’ Cassie asked, glancing up. ‘No drugs or booze?’

Lucy grinned as she pulled two mugs down off the shelf. ‘Mmm, sorry. Fresh out today.’

‘Hmph, the service here has really gone downhill. I’ll take the coffee.’ Cassie tapped a tower of papers on her desk. ‘But I’ll be reporting this on my visitor feedback form,’ she said darkly.

Lucy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the stack of visitor comment cards.

‘Ooh, how are we doing?’ she asked. ‘Have we won everyone over to what a great day out we offer?’

Cassie nodded as she thumbed through the feedback forms.

‘Pretty good. A couple of grumbles about people parking inconsiderately—not much we can do about that. One woman is cross that the water in the loo hand basins was too warm for her liking. And my personal favourite.’ Cassie plucked a card from the stack. ‘Someone who felt the old wine cellars were a little dark and cold and asked if we had considered installing central heating.’

Lucy cackled.

‘Okay, but what about the important stuff?’ She splashed milk into the mugs. ‘Any comments about the overall visitor experience? Or recent events we’ve held?’

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