Rainy Day Sisters (4 page)

“Why—why did you . . . ,” Lucy began, stammering a bit, and Juliet braced herself for whatever prying question her sister was going to ask. Then Mary plonked their plates on the table and the moment broke, much to Juliet's relief, although she couldn't quite suppress a flicker of disappointment that Lucy hadn't finished asking her question—not that she'd intended to answer it.

Lucy

ON THE FIRST DAY
of school Lucy woke up with a stomachache. She used to get them quite a lot when she was younger; seventh grade in particular had been the Year of Stomachaches. Her mother had been commissioned to do a sculpture in Boston Common, and the day before school had started, it had been installed: a huge, lumpy breast with a grotesque nipple pointing heavenwards. Just remembering that awful thing still made Lucy cringe fifteen years later.

It had been controversial, of course, and her mother had always thrived on controversy. She'd been in all the papers, on all the news networks, defending her creation against the “uninformed bigots” who protested against shepherding their children past a huge, ugly boob. Lucy had sympathized with those so-called bigots, although she'd never told her mother so.

And then that first day of school . . . walking into a strange new middle school with everyone knowing who her mother was and the sculpture she'd made. Lucy's stomach clenched at the memory. There had been an outline of a breast, complete with pointy nipple, scrawled on her locker in permanent pen before first period.

In second period a popular boy in eighth grade called her Boob Girl; by lunchtime everyone in the school was calling her that.

By November she was throwing up every morning from stress, and begging her mother to let her switch schools. Her mother had sighed, looking sympathetic for about a millisecond, and then refused.

“If you can't stand up to petty bigots now, Lucy, you never will. Trust me, I'm doing you a favor.”

Her mother had done her a lot of favors over the years. She'd endured three more months of teasing, sitting alone at lunch and walking through corridors with a determined smile on her face, as if she could appreciate the joke they were all making endlessly at her expense, until people had finally, thankfully, grown tired of it, and even better, the sculpture had been taken down.

Eighth grade had been better. Her mother had had no major commissions.

But things were different now. She was starting school, yes, but she was twenty-six, not twelve, and her mother was on a different continent. Her boss might have his doubts about her, but she could prove him wrong. Prove herself capable. And best of all, no one in Hartley-by-the-Sea, except Juliet, knew about what had happened in Boston. None of them would have read Boston's newspapers; they probably hadn't seen the blogs and editorials online. They might not have even heard of Fiona Bagshaw.

Smiling a little at the thought, Lucy rose from bed to get ready for the day.

Washed and dressed, she entered the kitchen to find Juliet busy making fry-ups for another group of walkers who had come in last night, two high-flying couples in their thirties with expensive equipment and a van service that would ferry it for them so they could walk with just their day rucksacks.

“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 Juliet
had
any 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 meet people 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.”

“You
do
sound 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. But
I'm
not 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 few months,” 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.”

“Mmm,” Lucy said again. It seemed the safest answer at this point.

The next hour blurred by; Maggie pointed out various office machines and policies, mentioned various children's allergies (“We're a nut-free school”) and photocopier codes and the government's new policy on first aid. “No plasters, I'm afraid, just ice packs.”

Lucy felt as if her head might explode from all the information she knew she wouldn't remember. It had taken her a few seconds just to remember that plasters were Band-Aids. She really had become American.

There was a staff meeting in a cramped room with a few worn sofas and chairs, a fridge and a sink, and a big notice board with lots of official-looking announcements on it as well as things scribbled on a whiteboard: “Chicken soup is mine,” “WHERE are the music sheets?!?!” and more. The jumble of it both comforted and surprised Lucy; she would have expected Alex Kincaid to run his staff room with military precision.

He came into the room when all the teachers and staff were already seated, balancing cups of tea on their knees as they chatted about their summers. Lucy stood in the corner, smiling awkwardly. A few people had smiled back, and some had said hello, but she wasn't exactly feeling a part of things. Yet.

“Right.” Alex closed the door behind him with a firm-sounding click and gazed around at all the teachers with only the barest hint of a smile. “Welcome to a new year at Hartley Primary School.”

A few people clapped; a few others murmured a rather sarcastic “hooray,” followed by a few titters. Lucy pressed back against the wall. She hadn't been bold enough to plonk herself down next to someone in the staff room, and she was now positioned, unfortunately, at the front of the room, next to Alex Kincaid, as if she were somehow in charge.

He spared one second's irritated glance for her, and then turned back to his staff and began to drone on about new government policies and repairs that had been done to the school, until Lucy tuned out and wished yet again that she hadn't eaten oatmeal for breakfast.

“Miss Bagshaw?”

From Alex Kincaid's annoyed tone, Lucy was pretty sure that was not the first time he'd said her name. She pinned a wide smile on her face. “Yes!”

“I was just,” Alex informed her with chilly politeness, “introducing you to the rest of the staff?” He raised his eyebrows in expectation, and with a bubble of panicked laughter swelling inside her, Lucy wondered how she was supposed to respond.

She widened her smile. “Hello.”

“Nancy,” Alex informed everyone, “will be back in January.” His tone suggested that such a time couldn't come a moment too soon. Lucy kept smiling, trying not to let his comment sting. Good-looking or not, Alex Kincaid was, she decided, pretty much an ass.

Fortunately Maggie Bains made up for him, at least a little. “Mr. Kincaid is always like that,” she told Lucy when they were back in the reception office. “Stern, I mean. He's brought the school right up in the league tables, though, so I reckon he knows what he's about. Just do your job and don't pay him too much mind,” she whispered conspiratorially, before handing Lucy a much-needed cup of sugary tea.

A few pupils had started coming up the lane, all of them dressed in bright blue polo shirts and gray trousers or pinafores, swinging blue schoolbags with the school name emblazoned on them in red. Lucy thought they looked rather sweet, at least from a distance. Close-up, she tended to find children far more intimidating; at least Thomas's two sons, Will and Garrett, had been. She couldn't remember their glaring faces without suppressing a shudder.