Stifling laughter, the children crept out from behind the shed and ran to the enormous oak tree that spread its boughs over the entire lower portion of the garden. From here they peeped round, scanning the surroundings. ‘The coast’s clear,’ murmured Hally. They favoured the language of the young adventurers they’d read about in books.
‘Go!’ Lucy commanded, and they charged as a pack towards the currant bushes around the side of the house. They grabbed at the berries and stuffed them into their pockets and mouths. In truth, the redcurrants were rather tart and not nearly as delicious as raspberries or even the less favoured blackberries that they often found in the wild. It was more about the thrill of the build-up than the actual prize. On a previous occasion, Hally had scoffed so many that he’d been gripped with cramping pains and had had to tell his scary dad that it was a stomach bug. At least, Lucy had gathered that he was scary. She hadn’t actually met him. Hally had explained that he was a ‘woodsman’ and that they had an actual wood, close to their house a little way out of the village – which sounded straight out of a dark fairy tale.
Was chopping logs a real job, she wondered? Hally had mentioned that he sold Christmas trees, but what about the rest of the year? She also knew that Hally’s mum had died when he was six, three years before she’d met him. Although the Linton kids had been to Hally’s, Lucy understood that it wasn’t the kind of home he could just invite his friends to whenever he wanted. Occasionally, on rainy days, they hung out at the Lintons’ pink pebble-dashed bungalow in the village. But their most thrilling adventures happened outdoors.
As they grabbed at Kitty’s redcurrants, a sharp rap on a side window of the cottage stopped them in their tracks. Moments later, they heard the front door opening. ‘What are you lot doing there?’ Kitty yelled.
‘Nothing!’ Hally shouted back.
There was a bang of the front door and they heard her running towards them. They saw her then – skinny and wiry, all furious eyes and flaming cheeks: ‘Clear off, the lot of you or I’ll phone the police!’ Thrilled by the drama, the children charged towards the wrought-iron gate and clattered through it, running as fast as they could until her cries faded away.
‘Mission accomplished!’ they yelled, once they were safely away down the street. Years later, Lucy would wonder if those childhood holidays would have been half as thrilling without Hally, the Lintons and Kitty’s fruit.
It wasn’t fair that Kitty lived there, she decided later that night. With its thatched roof and untamed garden filled with flowers, Rosemary Cottage seemed magical – if rather neglected. If Lucy had lived there she’d have given the house a fresh coat of white paint, and cut back the overgrown shrubs to give the roses and lupins room to breathe. She could picture exactly how it would look, under her care. She would paint the dull grey shed a bright sky blue, and the old wooden garage at the side of the house would become an art studio or a den. She would lavish the place with the love it deserved.
When Lucy was thirteen, Uncle George had a heart attack and died suddenly. Shortly afterwards, Babs moved into sheltered housing, where she only lived for a few months longer before passing away in her sleep. As Lucy’s family had no other ties with Burley Bridge, her visits there came to an end with no chance to say goodbye to her friends. If she’d had Hally’s address she might have written him a letter, but she didn’t even know his proper name. So Lucy lost touch with him and the Linton kids, and although she thought of them all occasionally, those memories gradually made way for the all-consuming matter of being a teenager. A few years after that she was going on cheap, rowdy package holidays to Greece and Spain with her college friends, and those summers spent building dens and scrambling over Kitty Cartwright’s garden wall seemed a lifetime away.
Gradually, the village that had once shone so brightly in Lucy’s mind began to fade like the image on an overwashed T-shirt. Apart from Rosemary Cottage, that is. It remained as vivid as it had ever been, and she never managed to shake off the fantasy that, one day, it would be hers.
Whenever someone asked Lucy Scott, ‘So, what do you do?’ she could truthfully reply, ‘I work in lingerie.’ Responses varied from, ‘Ooh, is that allowed?’ to, ‘I don’t suppose they’re hiring?’ It was brilliant for getting laughs at parties.
Lucy would then explain that her employer, Claudine, was an online underwear retailer that sounded foxily French, but was actually based on an unlovely industrial estate in Manchester.
Not that Lucy minded. At forty years old, she loved her job as head buyer; it was creative and pretty hectic, and many of her colleagues were also her friends. Throughout the thirteen years she’d worked there – breaking only for two maternity leaves – she had never considered moving anywhere else.
However, recently there had been a sea change. Without warning, the company had been bought out. Her former boss, Ria, who had spearheaded Claudine’s image of seductive glamour, had now been booted and a new direction had been announced.
‘Hold on to your knickers, guys,’ Lucy’s right-hand man Andrew had muttered grimly. ‘It’s going to be a bumpy ride.’ And he was right. As the brand veered downmarket, Lucy was involved in numerous heated debates on the subjects of hoistage and underwired support.
‘It sounds more like engineering,’ her husband Ivan had joked, trying to ease her tension after a particularly trying day.
‘It is engineering,’ she remarked. ‘That’s exactly what it is – and it’s beautiful too. What I’m trying to tell Max is, it can be both. It’s next to woman’s skin, you know? It’s an intimate thing. It should feel lovely to wear—’
‘Hey, you don’t need to convince me,’ Ivan said with a smile. ‘I think it’s totally gorgeous stuff.’
Lucy sighed. ‘Well, unfortunately, our totally gorgeous stuff might not be quite so gorgeous in a few months’ time.’
She was right. After she had given an impassioned presentation to the new senior team, it looked as if the future was even bleaker than Lucy had imagined. ‘The Claudine customer doesn’t give a stuff about heritage,’ boomed Max, the flashy new CEO. ‘She wants value and fun.’
Lucy glanced at Andrew, who was sitting beside her in the meeting room. They had worked together so long, they could almost read each other’s thoughts. ‘She also wants beautifully made pieces that last,’ Lucy remarked.
‘We’re not after the granny market here,’ retorted Max.
‘The average age of our customer is thirty-seven!’ spluttered Lucy.
‘Hmm, whatever.’ The boss drummed his fingers impatiently. ‘No one wants to bankrupt themselves over a bra.’
‘They’re not expensive,’ Andrew muttered. ‘For the quality and workmanship, they’re competitively priced—’
‘Never mind that,’ Max said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘We know what women are looking for. They want oomph.’
Lucy inhaled deeply and glanced at the wall clock, wishing she could spirit herself out of here right now. She hated that word. It smacked of uncomfortable, scratchy push-up bras designed to please men – and never mind the poor woman trapped in the darned thing all day. Behind his back, Max was known in the company as MC – Max Cleavage.
The day after her presentation, his secretary phoned