“Luxury walking,” Juliet had told her last night with a wry twist of her lips, almost a smile, and when Lucy had smiled back, she’d almost felt as if they were complicit in something.
She wanted to get along with Juliet so badly, but it wasn’t coming easily. She’d been here for four days and besides that surprising admission at the beach café, they’d barely had a conversation. Lucy had tidied her room, worked up the courage to ask for the Wi-Fi password, and spent several gluttonous hours on Facebook, gorging on the details of everyone else’s far more interesting lives. She’d returned her car to Workington, a dismal-named town if she’d ever heard of one, and taken the train back that ran along the coast, gazing out at the endless, choppy gray sea and feeling as if she were teetering on the very edge of the world. It wouldn’t take much to fall right off, she’d thought, just one good push.
The next day she’d walked up to the post office shop, half-hoping to find a potential friend in its cozy interior, but the man behind the counter was surly and six feet four with tattoos up both arms and when Lucy had attempted a cheery conversation opener, telling him she’d just moved into Tarn House, he’d simply given her a flat stare before silently putting her change on the counter. Although he looked to be roughly the same age as Juliet, he clearly wasn’t one of her friends.
Lucy wasn’t actually sure Juliethadany friends. She seemed to be consumed by the bed-and-breakfast business, churning out full English breakfasts every morning and making up beds and tidying endlessly in between walking the dogs. Lucy had, tentatively, offered to walk Milly and Molly, to which Juliet had pursed her lips and said, “Wait till they get used to you.”
And now she was starting her job and despite her stomachache, she was clinging to her optimism. She could meetpeople at the school, teachers who would be far friendlier than grumpy Alex Kincaid. Kindred spirits, even. She was still hoping for picnics and pub crawls.
In the kitchen Lucy murmured good morning before grabbing a bowl for her own breakfast of microwaved oatmeal. At moments like this she felt like an interloper and even a freeloader in her sister’s house, and she wasn’t sure if that feeling would pass with time. Maybe she should offer to pay rent.
“You’d better be getting on,” Juliet said after the two couples had left and she’d dumped all the pans into the sink to soak. “You’re meant to be there right at eight, aren’t you?”
“Yes . . .” Lucy glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight and the oatmeal she’d eaten felt like a stone inside her stomach.
“Get on with you, then,” Juliet said briskly, and made a shooing motion. Lucy couldn’t tell if she was being encouraging or just wanted her out of the house. “It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
Lucy nodded and reached for the proper waterproof she’d bought in Whitehaven, at Juliet’s instruction. It wasn’t actually raining this morning, although it had been last night.
Now as she stepped outside, she saw the sky was a fragile blue, the sun streaming weakly from behind shreds of cloud. A few people were walking briskly towards the train station, but otherwise the street was quiet and empty.
Lucy took a deep breath and headed up towards the school. As she battled with the school’s front door, a sudden gust of wind making it nearly impossible to open, she saw that a woman was already installed in the little reception office. She hurried out to help, closing the door behind her as Lucy blew herself in.
“Sorry,” she said, gasping, and tried to force her now-frizzy hair into some kind of submission. Wind was not kind to hair like hers.
“You must be the Yank,” the woman said, and Lucy blinked.The Yank?Seriously? The woman gave a booming laugh. “Oh,never mind me, I’m just having you on. Juliet said you were born here, weren’t you?”
“In Hampshire,” Lucy answered. She slipped off her coat and hung it on the stand in the corner of the office. “I moved to Boston when I was six.”
“Youdosound American.” The woman put her hands on her hips and surveyed her, making Lucy aware of how bright and fuzzy her sweater was. She’d paired it with what she considered to be a very sensible black velveteen skirt, but the outfit was a far cry from her companion’s lavender twin set and tweed skirt. She was definitely zero for two in the first-impressions department. “Well, then,” the woman said. “I’m Maggie Bains.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Kincaid mentioned you—”
“I covered last term. And I’m here for a day or two to show you the ropes, but you’ll get the hang of it in no time, I’m sure, and then I’m off to Newcastle to visit the grandkids.” She smiled and bustled over to the photocopier. “Now, first things first. Mr. Kincaid is hard, but he’s fair.”
Just like Juliet’s tough but good. Lucy was now officially terrified. Perhaps Maggie read her expression, for she let out another booming laugh and said, “Now, now, don’t let him scare you. I’d say his bark is worse than his bite, but he’s never bitten anyone, as far as I know. He’s a lovely man, really.”
“Mmm.”
“And he hasn’t had an easy time of it, by any means. ButI’mnot one to gossip,” Maggie stated, making Lucy think she probably was. “So here’s the agenda for the staff meeting this morning,” she continued, taking a sheaf of papers from on top of the photocopier. “You’ll be responsible for that in future, but don’t worry. Mr. Kincaid always e-mails you the points beforehand.”
“Okay,” Lucy said, trying to sound as if this were no problem at all. Already she felt overwhelmed. What on earth made her think she could do any of this?
“And here’s Diana,” Maggie announced cheerfully. “She teaches Year Five.” A woman with curly auburn hair and a gap-toothed smile came in the front door, lugging a box of craft supplies. “Hallo, Diana. Have a good summer, did you?”
“Oh, fine,” Diana replied. “The usual. Down to Manchester as often as we can to see Andrew.”
Maggie clucked sympathetically. “How’s the new job, then?”
“It’s in Manchester,” Diana answered, her voice turning a little flat. “And always will be.”
“Diana’s husband has been working in Manchester for the last year,” Maggie explained to Lucy. “It’s a long commute.”
“He comes home for weekends,” Diana answered. “Mostly. Although I don’t blame him for wanting a break from the kids after a long week’s work.” She let out a laugh that didn’t sound quite convincing. “Can’t believe I’m back already. Now, who’s this?”
“This is Lucy Bagshaw, the new receptionist,” Maggie said, and put one arm around Lucy.
“Ah, you’re covering for Nancy? Well, the best of luck to you. It can be a bit of a madhouse here sometimes, but Mr. Kincaid does try to run a tight ship.”
