The Trouble with Lucy by Carol Marinelli

Author:Carol Marinelli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tule Publishing
Published: 2014-08-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-seven

Get it together, Lucy.

I drop Charlotte at school and I go to the stables.

Good news awaits me, because the float has sold.

Nearly four thousand pounds!

But I don’t want to get rid of her tack.

‘Sort it, Lucy.’ I can hear his voice.

I’m trying to sort it—I’m trying to sort out the mess you left, I think, as I pick up shit for the last time and hose down Noodle’s old stable. There are flies everywhere and it’s a filthy job but, now I’m here, now I’ve set my mind to it, I get it done in a few hours.

I want her to have a pony.

I want her to be happy again.

It’s been weeks since he died and, if anything, she’s worse than when it first happened.

I’m worse.

It’s going to get better, I tell myself, as I pick up her tack and load it into the car.

She will get a pony.

So, instead of polishing it up to go on eBay, I stack it in the garage and I cover it up, because I don’t want the constant reminders for her.

It’s already after three, so I head to the school. I almost droop with relief when I pick her up and she tells me she’s been invited to sleep at a friend’s tonight and that they’re all having pizza.

She packs up a little bag and I drive her to her friend’s.

‘I shan’t come in,’ I say and smile when invited. ‘I’ve been at the stables.’

That’s the mad thing about the village—you can look and smell like shit, just as long as you’re wearing boots and have been at the stables.

I wonder what to do with my night off.

I’m in a vaguely good mood, maybe because I’ve got some cash—even better, cash that Luke doesn’t know about. I might say we sold it for five hundred pounds.

I change lanes as I drive past the supermarket and I consider going in.

I can have what I want for dinner.

Ice cream if I like but I keep on driving towards home.

I park in the drive and get into the house. I ignore the cupboards and freezer, instead, I head straight for the laundry and I strip off.

There and then.

I throw my clothes in the washing machine and I watch the black water go around.

God, Lucy!

Despite my resistance to what Luke suggested about seeing my GP, I do read some of the pamphlets that Dr Patel gave me. I sit naked at the table and read, and apparently, not washing and poor personal hygiene can be a sign of depression.

I’m not depressed—I look up and into my tidy kitchen and things are starting to come together I’m sure.

I don’t have poor personal hygiene; I’m just overloaded at the moment.

Busy.

You’d stink too if you’d spent a day cleaning out shit.

I just need a bit of space.

And tonight I’ve got it.

I’m going to have a beauty night, I decide.

I’m going to exfoliate and shave and rub in moisturiser, I’m going to put on a face mask and cut my nails and then paint them.

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