Short Stories

He climbed out of the vintage Jag and rubbed his cashmere coat sleeve on the door handle to get rid of any fingermarks. He glanced at the old country house in front of him and then poked his head back in the car, waving his hand in his wife’s face.

Linda, are you listening?

Still sat in the car, she turned her head slowly to look him in the eye.

Thank you, he growled. Now, don’t forget I’m going to lead this. Don’t go saying anything while we’re looking round, okay? I simply want your view on whether we can add value quickly and sell it on at a decent profit. 

Linda sighed. How had she coped before she met him? Oh yes, perfectly well, now she recalled; she had been a global PR Director, living in London, with a lovely house of her own. Until she’d met Gary, ten years ago. To be fair, she told herself, she had been at a very low ebb at the time. But she wished she’d known then what she knew now: in the property development company he owned, he was called Ghastly Gary. 

She reached for her handbag and found herself fiddling again with the platinum ring on her left hand. It stuck at the knuckle, no matter how hard she tugged. She gritted her teeth and swung her elegant legs out of the car. Having picked up her husband’s scarf from the back seat, she wound it around his neck, just for a second imagining what it would feel like to wind it ever tighter. Catching herself, she tucked it nicely into his coat and patted it.

 Gary strode ahead of Linda to the door and knocked loudly on the heavy, old cast iron knocker. The door opened and the smell of burnt baking seeped out.

 Hello, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Noone, here to view the house? said a friendly voice with a southern Irish accent. I’m Dolores O’Neill. 

She smiled and pushed her wayward hair from her face with the back of her hand.

 I’m so sorry about the smell, she said. The kids were making scones earlier, you see. We were hoping to offer you some, but I’m afraid it went a little, um, awry. Anyway, come in, come in. She wiped her hand on her apron and shook Linda’s hand. When she offered her hand to Gary, he glanced and walked straight past her into the kitchen.

 Would you like some tea, perhaps?

 No, no, we won’t be long, he said. Tell me, how long have you lived here?

 Well, let me see…

Dolores walked over to the old mahogany sideboard and picked up a photo of two happy boys playing on a beach.

 Hmm, now, our Jack there, he was just two when we moved here. He’s our youngest, and now he’s ten, so that makes it eight years. We’ve loved it here, all of us.

 Why are you moving, if you don’t mind my asking? asked Linda. Gary frowned at her.

 I, um, I lost my husband last year, unexpectedly. 

 Oh, I’m so sorry, said Linda, looking her straight in the eye.

They exchanged a small smile.

 Thank you, she said. Yes, it’s still… it’s just a bit difficult. All this, well, to be honest, it’s simply too much for me, what with running the kids around and doing the holiday rental. 

She paused and took a deep breath. 

Anyway, this is a beautiful place to live, for sure, but you have to have a car. We’re going to move into town, it’ll be easier and cheaper for us, frankly. 

Gary had already started to stride into the next room.

Oh, please, Dolores said to Linda, if you’d prefer, you’re welcome to wander on your own. I’ve banished the boys next door for half an hour, so it’ll be nice and quiet for you.

 Linda smiled and thanked her. Gary immediately walked round the lounge peering at everything, his shiny brogues clunking on the oak floor. He looked down at the piles of old magazines, toys strewn across the rugs and various pairs of muddy football boots and trainers scattered by the French doors to the garden. He put his mouth close to Linda’s ear and hissed,

 How on earth can people live like this? Good god, this mess will affect the price they’ll get significantly.

 Well, I think it’s lovely, it has a warm feeling, you can tell it’s a happy house, said Linda.. 

She turned away to gaze through the window, the weak winter sun finding the strength to shed a late afternoon ray over the fields, full of winter barley.

 People never fail to amaze me, he persisted in a louder voice. She should have taken advice on how to present a house to the market. Ha! Well, it’ll work in my favour, that’s for sure. Anyway, the combination of the income from the main house and the holiday rental should add nicely to the coffers, hmm?

Dolores sat quietly in the study, hearing him mutter and tut. As they went upstairs, she heard him say something about the brats probably running feral.

 Less than ten minutes later, Gary and Linda reappeared. Gary coughed into his scarf.

 Not that it’s particularly relevant for you, but I assume you know this will be a commercial venture for us? 

 Yes, Dolores replied, the agent did say something like that. It’s none of my business, of course, what you’d want to do with the house. Ideally, it would have been lovely if another family could make it home and – well, be as happy as we’ve been here. But I understand that’s not why you’re here.

Yep, he said, cutting in. Opening the front door himself, he stepped out onto the path.

 So, we’ll let the agent know. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.

And that was that. After she’d got the boys to bed, she poured a large glass of red and sank with a sigh into her husband’s worn old leather armchair, pulling the throw over her, to see if she could still catch the scent of him – but nothing there.

The next morning, Dolores heard the phone buzzing but she couldn’t find it. It went to voicemail before she managed to retrieve it from behind the chair cushion. It was a number she recognized, but it wasn’t a contact. She rang the number.

 Hello, my name is Dolores O’ Neill, I believe you just called me…

 Aah yes, the male singsong voice chirped. Helloooo, it’s Damian here from Price & Moore, the estate agents. I’m delighted to say that Mr. Noone, who came to see your house yesterday, would like to make you an offer.

Dolores gripped her fist and put it to her mouth.

 He wants to move swiftly, in fact he insists on exchanging within two weeks, no survey required. As I intimated, he’s a cash buyer. I’m sure you’ll understand his offer reflects that. He’d like to offer £550,000 and he wants the house cleared and vacated within a month. 

But that’s £50,000 below the asking price and you advised me to price it low to sell fast. I can’t afford to accept that. You see, it’s all rather difficult at the moment, financially. No, no I’m sorry, I just can’t accept that offer. 

What were you thinking of as a figure, Mrs. O’Neill?

Dolores shut her eyes and crossed her fingers.

 I won’t accept anything below asking price. 

Damian said he thought that was, unfortunately, highly unlikely, but he would call her back. Five minutes later the phone rang again.

 Mrs. O’Neill? It’s Damian again. Mr. Noone will not pay you asking price, I’m afraid, given the, er, state of the house. His words, not mine, you understand. However, he has increased his offer to £555,000, exchange by close of business Friday 31st, two weeks from today. He’s clearly an entrepreneur and not averse to risk. If I were you, Mrs. O’Neill, given your … er… circumstances, I’d take his offer.

There was a very long pause. Then Dolores answered in a small, flat voice,

 I knew this was how it was going to be. 

There was a long silence.

I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I? 

Damian stayed quiet.

Okay, she sighed, I’ll have to accept his offer then. Thank you for your help. I’m sorry, I have to go now, goodbye.

She looked around at the family room filled with memories, of him with her and the boys, happy and carefree. That was a different time, a different world. The last year had been hell and this one wasn’t going to be much easier. 

Later that evening, Dolores sat tucked away in the corner seat in The Chequers for her Friday night supper with her friend Jill, telling her about the offer.  Then she heard a familiar voice behind her, booming,

 Oh, come on, Linda, you know how it works. She was obviously desperate. I’ll just wait until twenty-four hours before exchange, tell her I reckon there’s too much work needed on the house and that I need to reduce my offer to £500,000. She’ll still be good for it - she has to be. And if she isn’t, we’ll move onto the next one. Now come on, be a good girl, let’s get the drinks in.

Linda got up from her chair and stood straight. In her heels, she was a good two inches taller than him. 

 Gary, I’ve had enough of treating people like this, I’m not prepared to do it. I’m sorry, I don’t want to live like this.

She walked out, followed by Gary hissing,

 Linda! Linda! Don’t be ridiculous! Linda!

Jill laid her hand on Dolores’s arm,

Don’t cry, D. He’s just full of hot air. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. The estate agents won’t let him do that, you’ll see. Come on, let’s get you home.

 By 11am Monday morning, the solicitor had called to say she had a list of initial enquiries for Dolores to complete. The list was intimidating. Dolores sighed and spent the rest of the week digging around in the archives for anything from restrictive covenants to insurance against breaking covenants from 1925 onwards. She submitted the list late that Friday and heard nothing further until the following Tuesday, when another list of questions arrived, even more obscure than the last lot.

Well, she thought, at least he’s taking it seriously and being thorough – and he hasn’t asked for a reduction. 

She did her best and thought she could not possibly tell him anything else if he asked. She delivered her final response by hand to the solicitor on Wednesday afternoon.

On Thursday afternoon, she called Damian from Price & Moore, who assured her in his special soothing voice, honed for just these occasions, that the silence was nothing to worry about, and that Mr. Noone would be reviewing her final responses, with a view to moving to exchange of contracts the next day. She then rang her solicitor, who also assured Dolores, but in her professional brisk voice, that everything was set for exchange within twenty-four hours.

After a night of very little sleep, Dolores got up at 6am Friday 31st, in the dark, and wandered around the house alone, before the boys woke, hugging her coffee mug in her hand. She looked at the leather armchair and wondered where on earth she could fit it in the new house. She walked over to the kitchen window, and stood in her dressing gown, watching the sun come up. She ran her hand over the photos on the sideboard.

The morning passed with no phone calls.

Well, she thought, they say no news is good news. I’ll give it till midday.

Damian had gone for an early lunch and the solicitor was in a client meeting.

At 1.30 she called Damian again, who suggested she call her solicitor, as Mr. Noone was not returning his calls. The solicitor’s secretary said she would ask the solicitor to call her just as soon as she returned from her late lunch. Dolores’s stomach was cramped. She put the kettle on and waited, her phone beside her.

At 3.10 p.m. the phone made Dolores jump. 

Hello there Mrs. O’Neill, this is Damian here, from Price & Moore. I’ve actually just had a call direct from Mr. Noone. I have to tell you, I am somewhat surprised. 

His chirpy voice had disappeared and, in its place, a stumbling hesitancy. Dolores held her breath.

I’m, er, afraid to tell you, that Mr. Noone has decided that, due to the amount of renovation work he perceives needs to be done to the house, that he….

Dolores gripped the phone. 

He’s reduced his offer to £500,000, am I right?

Good heavens, how did you know that? Yes, I’m afraid that is indeed the case. It is, of course, up to you to consider, but he says he will need an answer today. Perhaps you’d like an hour to consider this?

I don’t need an hour, said Dolores, in a low voice that sounded to her like someone else altogether. The answer is no, I will not sell for that price. And I will not sell to a man who breaks his word, under any circumstances. Please tell him that. Goodbye.

 She sat at the kitchen table and leant forward, her face in her hands.

At 5.25pm, her phone rang again.

 Mrs. O’Neill, it’s Damian again. Well, this is a day of extraordinary events, I must say. I have just had a call from Linda Noone. Apparently, her circumstances have now changed and she wants to make you an offer on your house, independently of her husband. 

Damian cleared his throat.

I’m, er, guessing you may be able to read between the lines here. She loves your home and she is prepared to offer you the full asking price, subject, of course, to a full survey. She emphasises that her offer has nothing whatsoever to do with her husband. 

Damian paused, but Dolores said nothing.

Mrs. O’Neill? I don’t know how you feel about all this? She says she’s happy for you to take your time to consider.

Dolores stood up.

Please tell her there’s no need for me to consider it any further. I accept her offer. And please thank her. I’m sure we can work out the timing together.

 One week later a letter dropped through Gary Noone’s letterbox. It was embossed with the logo of a firm of London solicitors.

 ‘Dear Mr. No-one,

 I am instructed by your present wife, Mrs. Linda Noone, to file for divorce immediately. Formal documentation will follow. I am specifically instructed to tell you that you have, unfortunately, significantly underestimated her value.’

Lucy Atkinson, at sixteen, was best described as a trier. Average height, with average, mid-length, brown hair and a body that required a diet blitz for a good few days before she allowed it out to parties. She secretly wished with all her heart that she had been born beautiful and not brainy. She didn’t want to be ungrateful to her parents for giving her a smart brain, but she knew for a fact that, if she were beautiful, people would instantly adore her, just like Romanie Cavendish in her class, known simply as Ro, even by the teachers. Ro was tall and willowy, with blonde hair down to her waist, that always looked as if it had just been ironed. No-one seemed to mind that her lights were on but no-one was in. Ro floated through life, bestowing her perfect smile on a few selected people for specific purposes - always getting exactly what she wanted, effortlessly.

Lucy had always tried to hide her intelligence. She developed a self-deprecating humour which, she found, endeared people to her, though it usually came at the cost of putting herself down. Ro relied on her smile and Lucy on her humour. Maybe they had something in common after all. But Lucy found having a smart brain was hard work, always pushing herself to achieve things she thought she couldn’t. There was just no let-up. Her brain was a damn nuisance.

The day before the last exam, Ro unexpectedly sidled up to Lucy in the toilets, wearing The Smile. Lucy moved away slightly, suspicious of beautiful Ro paying her any attention.

Hey, Lucy, you okay for tomorrow’s French exam?

Bit nervous, said Lucy, but I expect we all are.

Ro didn’t look remotely nervous, just flicked her hair, and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Without looking at Lucy, she idly commented,

Someone told me you’ve got a handy list of fancy French phrases you use. Any chance you could share them with me?

This was definitely crossing the uncrossable line between beauty and brains. If she were going to agree to trade her smart idea, she wanted something in return.

They’re called idiomatic phrases, said Lucy. You get extra points for them. I don’t mind sharing them with you, but you have to remember them (obviously) and use them in the right way. How about doing something for me in return?

Oh, said Ro, surprised that Lucy wasn’t prepared to offer her something for nothing. Um, I know, how about I do your makeup for you, ahead of Charlie’s party next Saturday? I mean, I am really good. The trick is to make it look like you’re not wearing much, you know what I mean?

Lucy didn’t. But she pondered the value of the offer. In beauty terms, it could be quite significant.

I could do your hair, too, Luce? The Smile broadened. You’ve actually got decent hair, you know. It’d look way better wavy, though. I could do that, too – if you like. If you want me to come round your house, I could even help you choose an outfit too.

She must need that list badly, thought Lucy.

How about you teach me how to do makeup properly? Lucy ventured. As well as doing it for the party first.

She felt almost ashamed for asking.

It’s a deal, said Ro. I’ll see you at 7 p.m. next Saturday, Cinderella.

Right, thought Lucy, I have exactly eight days to lose half a stone. If I run every day, and have slim soups and crackers, that’s doable. I could even squeeze in a sunbed session. I’ll never look anything, but at least I won’t be quite so embarrassed.

At 7 p.m. the following Saturday, Lucy was looking out of her bedroom window, waiting for Ro to arrive. It got to 7.15 p.m. and Lucy was worried she’d been scammed. A mix of annoyance and anxiety churned around her stomach. At 7.30 p.m. the doorbell rang and Lucy dashed down the stairs.

Sorry, said Ro, airily. I got lost.

Lucy didn’t point out to Ro that she only lived two roads away.

My god, Ro, you look like you’re moving in, said Lucy, looking at the neon pink suitcase Ro was lugging up the stairs.

Ah, that’s my magic pink box, she said. You’re in for a surprise. Seeing you were so helpful with the French stuff, I’ve also found a couple of outfits for you to borrow.

But they won’t… Lucy began.

Bet they do fit you, said Ro. You’re thinner than you think. Anyway, we’ll see.

One hour later, and Lucy had rewashed her hair, had it blow-dried and been subjected to Ro’s special hot waving appliance.

Can I see yet? said Lucy.

Absolutely not, said Ro. You only get to look in the mirror at the end when I’m finished.

After an age of pulling faces and sitting very still, Lucy was done.

Now we need to choose your outfit, said Ro.

She took a sideways glance at Lucy’s dress on the hanger.

That looks like you borrowed it from your mum, said Ro. Here, I’m lending you my sparkly tank top.

Thanks, but no, my tummy’s far too big, Lucy protested.

Rubbish, said Ro. You’re a good shape and this will fit just fine. Now, try on my faded spray-on jeans. They’re a bit short for me, but they should fit you perfectly. And before you say it, no you’re not too fat for them, okay?

Nervously, Lucy tried it all on. To her amazement, the top fitted fine. She was dreading having to suffer the indignity of lying down on the floor to winch on the jeans with a coat hanger. But she stayed standing to pull them up – without fainting - and put on the belt. Ro looked her up and down and twirled her around. Then she shook her head and smiled.

Do I look awful? Lucy said. I bet I do.

Shut up and come over here, said Ro. All I’ll say is: who knew?

Lucy swallowed hard and turned to look in the mirror. A gorgeous young woman looked back, in a tiny sparkly tank top, which showed off her new tan, and a tight pair of pale blue jeans. Her new wavy hair looked full and fresh; the cleverly applied make-up gave her skin a glow and accentuated her blue eyes.

Wow, Lucy said, staring at herself. I’m not really me at all.

You can look how you want, said Ro. Come on Cinders, you shall go to the ball.

Music was blaring from the big white house, with the steps up to a double-fronted door. Lucy was squeezed in the back of Ro’s dad’s car, with Ro’s brother Seb, also gorgeous, who was coming too. Lucy wasn’t sure whether arriving with these two would make her look even uglier in comparison, or whether some of their family stardust might just rub off on her.

The doors to the imposing house swung open, welcoming Lucy and Ro into a large, spacious hall. On a polished pale wood table was a huge vase of white lilies, the scent hanging heavy. They each looked up at the high ceiling, from which hung a crystal chandelier.

Wow, I should have been brought up in a house like this! gasped Ro, pointing towards the contemporary artwork on the white walls.

Downstairs in the kitchen! called Charlie, the host and down they went, towards the sound of Madonna blasting out Vogue. The kitchen, running the length of the house, was heaving, with French doors opening into a long garden, lined with pleached trees, and a mirror on the wall at the far end, making it all seem infinite.

Ro, you gorgeous creature! shouted Charlie. And you’ve brought another beautiful girl with you. Pleased to meet you, whoever you are.

I’m Lucy, and thanks for sort of inviting me, she laughed. Amazing house. Oh, and happy birthday.

Thanks, he grinned. You’ll see my folks around, trying to look inconspicuous – tricky when they’re in a swarm of sixteen-year-olds. But they’re cool, you know, about the drink and stuff. Help yourselves – wine and beer.

Ro found someone she recognised, and Lucy, shy in large gatherings, stood in a corner, gazing out into the garden and the uplit garden trees, taking it all in. What a magical place this was, far away from her parents’ respectable but compact semi. She still felt self-conscious in Ro’s outfit, fiddling with the top to make sure nothing much was on show or about to pop out. She couldn’t stand there all evening, so she headed for the kitchen and helped herself to a ladle-full of whatever it was in the large punch bowl. It tasted fruity and she downed it quickly. She soon started to relax and the kitchen rapidly filled up. A few of the cool girls from school approached her:

Oh my god, Lucy! You look so different! Wow, honestly you should look like this all the time, it really suits you. Love your hair.

Lucy was ambivalent about her new-found celebrity status. In her mind, she was a fraud looking like this. It wasn’t her real face, plus she didn’t really like people looking at her, it felt uncomfortable. On the other hand, she was getting compliments about how good she looked, which she’d never had.

Just relax and enjoy it, whispered Ro into her ear.

Everyone started to dance as M C Hammer came on, and suddenly she was caught in the jumping throng. It didn’t seem to matter that she was on her own, people were just grooving anyway. Her body loosened as she went with the rhythm, throwing some shapes.

Ow, Jesus! shouted a voice behind her.

She spun around to see a tall, sinuous dark-haired boy shielding his eye.

Oh no, she said, coming back down to earth with a mortifying bump. Did I just hit you?

Yeah, unfortunately my eye got in the way of your elbow. Never mind, he shrugged, I’ve always got the other one. Shame I haven’t got another t-shirt with me, though, you managed to knock my beer over me as well. Interesting moves.

Oh God, I’m so sorry, she said. Hang on, I’ll grab a cloth.

Don’t worry, really, it’s fine … he said, backing away.

No, it’s the least I can do … she said, grabbing a tea towel and soaking it. If you want to step into the garden, I’ll do my best.

He looked doubtful but stepped outside anyway. She dabbed at his black t-shirt, blushing at their forced intimacy. She tried to avoid looking at him, as she pressed the tea towel against his chest. He smelled faintly of sandalwood. When she looked up, she saw black eyes and longish, black, messy hair.

Thanks, that’s fine, honestly. Um, what’s your name? he said, moving from one foot to the other.

Lucy, she muttered, holding the stinky beer-soaked tea towel.

Hello, Lucy, he said. Shall we start again, minus the eye injury? I’m Alex. It’s probably safer if we don’t dance, but would you like a drink? I’ll get them?

Lucy smiled and nodded, and he headed back to the kitchen. The music began to slow, as that part of the evening inevitably arrived. Existing couples immediately wound themselves around each other to smooch. Lucy sat down on a garden bench, sipping her water, alone again. She took in the evening scent of the white jasmine bush that was next to her. This felt like a dream. Then Seb appeared, chatting to the boy she’d just met, who was holding two glasses. Lucy was mesmerised. Dark, wild hair, those black eyes; he looked exotic. He caught her eye and smiled; she instantly looked away.

Lucy, come over, Alex wants to dance with you! called Seb.

Alex shoved him in the ribs with his elbow. Lucy got up, smoothed down her jeans and walked over, trying to look casual.

Hello again, she said, looking down.

Okay, gotta go, see you later, said Seb and disappeared, leaving the two of them facing each other.

His t-shirt showed off his lightly muscled, brown arms, and his white jeans fitted perfectly. He looked foreign, with those dark features and a tan that few English people ever had. Even though it was cool in the garden, Lucy was taking shallow breaths.

I liked watching you dance – well, until I met your elbow. You looked beautiful. Kind of lost in your own world.

Oh no, I’m very ordinary, she said.

That’s not what I see, he said.

Sinead O’Connor was singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’, and he said nothing, just took her hand and gently pulled her to him to dance. She rested her hands lightly on his chest, warm under his damp t-shirt. He held her, swaying slowly, not moving anywhere. She could feel her head wanting to lean on his shoulder and she slid her arms around his neck, as he pulled her closer. The music stopped and neither of them moved. Eventually she woke from her trance and took a step back. They smiled at each other. He kept hold of her hand and they walked to the end of the garden and sat on the grass.

His full name was Alejandro Garcia, Alex as he was known. His mother was from Mallorca and his British father was an international lawyer. They lived between Mallorca and England. Alex went to a posh international school a few miles away.

Gosh, that all sounds very glamorous, said Lucy. Nothing like my world. My mum’s a university lecturer and my dad’s a doctor.

Well, that sounds pretty impressive, said Alex. My mother doesn’t have a job. She just paints. My dad’s got one office in London and one in Palma.

When do you get home? Lucy asked.

She knew nothing about this kind of schooling and lifestyle. Hers was exactly the same every day, home by 4.15 pm with a fifteen-minute walk.

I go home every school holiday, he said. We all do. But apart from that, I’m here.

Lucy thought his hint of a Spanish accent was incredibly sexy, but she just smiled.

Will you be a lawyer too? she asked.

I don’t know, he said. I want to go to Oxford, so it’d be amazing if I can get in to study law. See if I like it enough to do it for life I suppose. What about you? Do you know what you want to do?

Oh, I’m a bit weird, she said. I love music, but I also like science. Everyone keeps telling me to do something with science, because it’s the sensible option, but I don’t want to just spend my life in a lab. I don’t know. I’m a dreamer really. I just know I don’t want to live an ordinary life.

He leaned back on the grass, resting on his elbows, and looked at her in the moonlight.

I can’t imagine you ever being ordinary, he said.

But I am, she said. I just don’t want to be. Ro even had to do my makeup for me, I don’t usually look like this.

He laughed.

Lucy, I don’t care whether you’re wearing makeup or not. I can still see you, you know.

They chatted away about all kinds of things, from their favourite singers to the reunification of Germany. Seb came to find them.

God, are you two still nattering? Dad’s here, Lucy, he said. Time to go.

Alex extended a hand to help her up and held onto it for a moment.

I think we’ll remember this night, he said. I hope I can see you again, Lovely Lucy.

Lucy looked into his eyes and they smiled, as if they knew a secret.

Can I ask Ro for your number? he said.

She gulped and nodded.

Come on Luce, said Seb.

Alex leaned towards her and very softly kissed her neck. Her body tingled all over. She turned and neither of them spoke. He watched her walk away.

As she snuggled up in her bed, she couldn’t stop smiling. It still felt like a dream, but it was real. How could a boy who looked like he did fancy a girl who looked like she did? She felt lightheaded, dizzy with the smell and the feel of him. A boy had never held her like he had in his arms. Alex had barely brushed the skin on her neck and yet she felt like a star had exploded inside her.

She went over every moment of their conversation. Unlike the other boys, he seemed genuinely keen to get to know her, her likes and dislikes, her dreams. He seemed to enjoy her smart brain, rather than being intimidated or just put off by it. He was easy to talk to, even though they clearly came from different worlds. But his family sounded so sophisticated and his lifestyle so glamorous. Why on earth would he be interested in her? And yet he did seem to be. She hugged her pillow and drifted off to sleep with a secret smile.

The morning sunshine made her squint as she gingerly opened her eyes.

I don’t need to ask if you had a good party, do I? grinned her mum, as she walked in with a cup of tea.

She looked at her bedside clock. 10.30 a.m. already.

Did you meet anyone nice? asked her mum, casually, with a sideways glance.

Lucy closed her lips tight, but, even then, couldn’t hide her smile from her mum.

Maybe, she said, grinning.

What’s his name? her mum smiled, sitting down on Lucy’s bed.

Alex. He’s from Mallorca but he’s at school over here, at the international school. He’s amazing, Mum. Oh, and he’s gorgeous.

That’s nice, Lovey. I’m glad you had a good party. You did look special last night, I must say. Ro did a fab job with your makeup and your clothes. You looked a gorgeous young woman. You see, you can be brainy and beautiful at the same time. I told you so, didn’t I?

I just hope it’s real, Mum. I think he meant it, but how can you tell?

Well, there’s one way, Darling. And that’s whether he wants to see you again.

I didn’t even give him our number, Mum. He said he’d get it from Ro, but maybe he won’t be able to get hold of me.

Her mum stroked her hair, smiled at her darling girl, and said softly,

He already rang an hour ago, Sweetheart. He wants to know if you’d like to go for a walk by the river this afternoon. Here’s his number.