“Are you coming to vote?” she says, smiling warmly at me, “or are you having some kind of crisis?”
I smile at her, my eyes flicking down to thePINS FOR LYNNbadge she has in pride of place on her lapel. I want to fall into her soft arms and be patted on the head.
“Sorry, I’m turning into the town madwoman,” I say, as she threads her arm through mine and guides me toward the church.
“Turning?” she says, scoffing, and then she squeezes my arm. “Is everything okay, Mara?”
“No,” I say. “But this is your day, so don’t let me bring you down.”
“Your happiness is my happiness,” she says.
I resist the urge to call her a classic Libra, but as we approachthe gates to the church, I stop in my tracks and pull her in for a hug. “Whatever happens in the election, Lynn, I want to say that I know what you’ve been doing for the lido, and subsequently for all of us. I’m in absolute awe of your kindness.”
Lynn stiffens in my hug but I hold her tight until I feel her relax again.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, as I wave at Samira, who is standing by the main doors, and the guy from the lido coffee cart, who’s doing a roaring trade in Election Day coffee. “Do you believe in fate?”
“Yes,” she says, without skipping a beat.
“I’ve always had faith in it. Always. It’s been my comfort, really. But I am coming to believe that faith is just trust in something other than myself. And that perhaps I can make my own fate.”
Lynn unthreads her arm and smooths down her blue jacket and pants. “How do I look?” she asks.
“You look like a politician,” I say.
“Good,” she replies, “because I have no idea how to be one, so as long as I look the part.”
She turns to leave before stopping and taking a deep breath and looking at me. “If you need someone to tell you what to do, I can do that,” she says.
I nod.
“Ha. Sorry, love. You have to figure this out on your own,” Lynn says, and then she turns on her boxy, mid-height heels and heads to her people. “Simon Weston! How the devil are you? Helen! You got out of the football, I see. And, Benji, did you really think we wouldn’t notice the new Tesla?” she says, as the crowds turn to face her.
It’s Ash.I know it. But I can’t help the niggling feeling I mightbe wrong. It’s like after a decade of second-guessing myself, I can’t truly be sure which decision means I’m following my intuition—my gut. Is the “be careful” voice my intuition, or my fear?
I walk slowly toward the church, knowing that after we cast our votes we’re off for a celebration lunch at the Star and Anchor. I feel my heart beating in my chest and an insatiable need for oxygen because my lungs feel like they are being squeezed.
Samira greets me. She’s wearing a floating red dress, with a serious blazer over the top, and is conducting what looks like an exit poll by the entrance.
“Well, well, well,” she says, “look who has finally emerged out of the love nest.”
“How the hell do you know?” I say.
She shrugs. “Don’t question it. That grapevine is why our exit poll is looking so very strong.” She hands me the clipboard and I am amazed to see Lynn out ahead by at least thirty votes.
“Wow,” I say, “we might actually do it.”
“You were really the instigator,” says Samira, “but, yes, I will take some credit. She has nine hundred and eighty-one Broadgate followers on Instagram now. That’s basically over the million mark, if she were in London.”
“You’ve done such an amazing job, Samira,” I say.
“Are you okay? You look kind of shell-shocked.”
“Yeah, totally fine,” I lie.
“Sure, Mara,” she says, touching my arm. “Here if you need. By the way, Lynn said to tell you that she donated your car to the church. She said she was very sorry but she had to promise them something and it was just sitting there. And you love your new bike. I mean, you and that fringe with a sourdough in the basket? You can’t drive a hearse anymore.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
