Lessa
Our new and improved calendar says Dec 19th, but the weather is doing its best to prove this is the 31st. We wake up to find La Canette blanketed in white; trees heavy with snow make the morning sun’s reflection so bright it almost hurts the eye.
Today, the postman brought me a package, a letter from my sister with a small jewellery box containing sapphire earrings. They’re from Clive, sent care of her address in the hope she can get them to me. The little card just says, “Happy Christmas, darling.”No signature, of course. He can’t take a chance in case the post is intercepted. Christmas, New Year’s Day, and Valentine’s are always the best times to catch secret liaisons. We have all been warned to watch out.
I touch the little sapphire studs. They’re nice, but it doesn’t feel right to wear them alone without him. La Canette feels so far away from London, from Clive, from my old life.
It’s why I’m desperate to find a way to work with the women’s refuge, something to remind me of the Alice I used to be.
According to the charity’s website, The Lady Isobel Centre for Women and Children was set up a few years ago by George Du Montfort. Initially, a shelter for those escaping domestic violence. But all they seem able to offer is a temporary refuge, a little advice and counselling, not only for the women but also the children. It’s almost painful to read this because they could do so much more.
Courses, career advice, workshops, a million things to help women who have lost everything make a new start, a new life away from danger. It is exactly what my Phoenix project was trying to do.
I’ve looked up their annual reports filed with the Charities Commission. They tell the usual depressing story, not enough funding. They can’t expand, not without additional money.
I can help. I want to help. Women escaping, hiding, unable to stay in touch with family and friends in case their abusers can track them down? Let’s just say, I’ve had a taste of that.
Who better to fight for them than me, the experienced speech and policy writer who knows all the right charities to lobby?
Obviously, I need to wait and play this carefully. They don’t know me here, so I’m starting by collecting berries. Millie said she’d buy all I can give her; the money will go to the charity. So, I’ve been picking as much hawthorn and guelder rose berries as I can without freezing my fingers off or maiming myself on the killer thorns.
It should smooth the way for my introduction to the manager of the women’s centre.
By 10am, I’m too restless and don’t know what to do with myself, so I go down to pester Brandon.
He is perched on the arm of the sofa, achy and stiff after a week of bathroom DIY.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up from studying a catalogue and swipes the hair out of his eyes. It needs a cut, but the dishevelled look rather suits him.
“What’s next on your brother’s list? I might be able to help.”
His expression goes stern. “You want to help? Start by not paying me rent, that way you can qualify for thehelping a person in needwish?”
“Woah.” I laugh. “You can’t have your cake and eat it. It’s like with discount coupons, you can’t use two special offers on the same purchase. I’m either your best friend or a person in need. Which do you prefer?”
I hold his gaze for a long moment, then say. “If I were you, I’d pick the friend thing, because as a friend, I can help you with other conditions on this letter. Much better than being a helpless person in need.”
His eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “You? Helpless. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more resourceful person in my life.”
I try to suppress my pleasure at the compliment; it sounds especially glowing because he doesn’t usually gush. “Okay, so what’s next on your to-do list?”
He points to the catalogue. “Wall painting.”
“And you can’t decide on colours?”
“I think I have decided. Classic off-white.”
“Classic off-boring, you mean.” I stick a finger in my throat and pretend to vomit.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s right with it?” I look over his shoulder at the paint catalogue. He’s circled cream, magnolia, mat cream, silk magnolia, creamy beige...ugh. “Really, for a man who works in the arts, how can you be so bland?”
“The experts all agree that neutral colours are best…er…” He tails off, his eyes on my clothes which are anything but neutral.
Over the last few weeks, and in an effort to stop feeling like an exile from Westminster, I have started wearing things more in keeping with the local scenery. I may hate this island a little, but only a woman with no soul wouldn’t love the beautiful autumn colours in the forest. Consequently, I now wear a lot of warm shades. I have several wide skirts and knitted tops, a patchwork coat in brown, gold, moss green, marmalade orange, and burgundy. It all goes rather well with my hair. Should any journalists find out I live here, they’ll never recognise me for the sleek blonde political aide in slim, tailored grey suits and sharp designer shoes.
