The Legacy of Lucy Harte: A poignant, life-affirming novel that will make you laugh and cry. Emma Heatherington
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It’s him. It’s his number, glaring at me, urging me to pick up and actually … well, talk, I suppose. Actually speak instead of typing bravado questions and messages. Talk.
I quickly tie my hair back.
‘Hello?’
‘Maggie!’ says a very rich, more mature and confident voice than I had expected. But then he breaks slightly. ‘My God, Maggie.’
I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I sit down on the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, but I don’t know what the answer to that question is. Am I okay? Probably not. Is it anything to do with him? Probably not.
Or maybe it is. I don’t know anything any more.
‘I’m looking at flights to Belfast,’ he says eventually. ‘Are you free this weekend for a coffee? I need to see you, Maggie. In person.’
I stand up again. Then I sit again. A coffee? With him? Here? In Belfast? What the actual fuck? Already? What?
‘Flights?’
‘Yes,’ he laughs. ‘You know those things that take you from one country to another in an aeroplane. Flights. At least that’s what we call them in Scotland.’
This has floored me. We only found each other yesterday and now he wants to fly here and get together over a coffee? His accent is delicious. He sounds like Gerard Butler. He is not Gerard Butler, I remind myself.
‘Are you sure you want to meet me? Isn’t this all a bit –?’
‘Soon?’ he asks.
‘Yes, soon.’
‘Maggie, I have waited for years to find you,’ he says. One minute his voice is an emotional quiver and then it extends into an almost overactive excitement. ‘There is a football game this weekend I need to cover in Belfast – well, that’s not exactly true. I don’t need to cover it but I could if I wanted, so I figured I can mix business with, well, with finally getting to meet you. Only if you want to, of course. If you decide after this that you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s fine. It just feels amazing to have been able to chat to you.’
I seriously do not know what to say. I can’t really argue with what he has said. Why wouldn’t we meet up for a coffee? It’s what I have always wanted. Closure. A chance to say thank you to someone related to the mysterious Lucy Harte.
But the weekend… that is soon. I need to prepare myself. I need to prepare the apartment. Will he want to come here at any time? I look around my bedroom. It’s an absolute tip. The spare room is a mess. The living room is a mess and the kitchen resembles a bombsite. Is he expecting to stay here? I did tell him about my apartment and that I had a spare room. I feel a bit claustrophobic with it all.
‘I can book in somewhere nearby,’ he says, as if he read my mind.
Oh, thank God.
‘Oh-okay,’ I say with relief. ‘Well, then, yes. Why not? Let’s meet for a coffee. I know a great B&B on the Lisburn Road. It’s lovely and it has real chandeliers and a library. Yes, okay. No harm in that at all.’
Real chandeliers and a library? What the hell am I on about?
‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘You had me at chandeliers. Send me the name and I will book in. I’ll check out more flight options and text you when I get into Belfast on Friday afternoon. I can’t wait to meet you in person and I can’t wait to tell you all about Lucy.’
I relax again. Simon is cool. Any pressure I felt for that moment has passed.
‘I can’t wait to hear about her too,’ I tell him and I really do mean it.
I am in Flo’s kitchen, freshly applied au natural look make-up on my face and rollers in my hair. Yes, rollers. Not the little-old-lady type but the big giant ones that promise volume and lift to my long hair, which is in need of some TLC. Flo is tweaking and checking the rollers as Billie vies for my attention, wriggling like a worm to get up on my knee and then immediately wanting to get back down again. He then ditches me for Peppa Pig.
Story of my life, being ditched for a pig – so no surprise there…
‘So let’s go over this all again,’ says Flo. She is beginning to sound like my mother.
‘Honestly, Flo, there really is no need. It’s not like this is some dodgy online date, you know,’ I retort. ‘You are being over-protective.’
‘I am not being over-protective. I am being sensible and wise,’ she says, undoing one of the rollers and then putting it back in its place. ‘Now, the signal is, you tweak your right earring if you need help and I will call your phone.’
‘Who said I was going to wear earrings?’
‘You always wear earrings. That way, you can make an excuse and go outside to take the call if you think he is a nutcase and I will follow you out and make up an escape plan.’
She is beginning to sound ridiculous.
‘Flo! Simon is not a nutcase! He is the same as me in this whole situation,’ I explain, picking a sticky stray Cheerio courtesy of Billie from the edge of my jeans. ‘He just wants some closure and, on top of it all, he seems really nice, so there is no need for you to come along and sit at another table in the bar like some undercover detective. And besides, what will you do with Billie? There is no way he will sit for any length of time in a public place and he will probably make it clear that he knows me.’
Billie gives me a knowing look. He goes bananas when he hears my voice on the phone and is always hyper at first sight. I guess that’s something to do with the treats and toys I brought for him, but as his godmother I believe that is my duty.
Flo rolls her eyes. There is no way I am putting her off.
‘Billie is going to Ursula’s for the afternoon. You know, Jack’s mum from the mother-and-toddler group? We take turns when things come up to arrange a quick playdate to allow us both the odd hour off here and there out of daycare hours. I don’t know what I would do without her.’
Now it is my turn to roll my eyes. I have heard it all now. A play date.
‘So you mean, Ursula is going to babysit for a while at her place? Why didn’t you just say that? What’s with all these fancy ‘new-age mummy’ terms? What is happening to you?’
Flo laughs. She knows I have a point. It’s the type of thing the two of us would have sneered at before Billie came along, only because we were secretly jealous, of course, and would love to be in the whole baby club. Now she is in that club up to her neck, though it’s not exactly how she had planned it.
‘Oh your day will come, Miss Power Suit,’ she tells me. ‘I bet you will be making up your own terms for mummy issues when you have a little ankle-biter. Now, let me see you.’
She has unravelled all the rollers and, I have to say, she has done a great job on my hair and my make-up is so subtle and effortless, which is exactly what I wanted for today. For the last ten years of her career, Flo was one of the city’s most sought-after top stylists and beauticians, but had to work part time from home when little Billie came along and the aptly named Damien (think The Omen) she made him with did a runner. It’s how I met her. She cut my hair for my job interview at Powers and we have been best friends ever since.
‘Oh you’re a star,’ I tell her, loosening the curls with my fingers. My hair is well grown down, which is just how I like it and the curls give it just a little bit of bounce. ‘I could never have done that in a million years. Now, do you still think jeans and a nice top? Or should I go summer dress? It’s not too bad outside. Or maybe I should glam it up just a wee bit? You know, show an effort?’
Flo is concerned. I know she is. She does this thing with her nose, like a tiny twitch, when she is hesitant or a bit anxious about something. I’m trying to control my nervous excitement but we know each other