now, Lucy,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I want my fiancée back.’
‘She was my friend before she was your fiancée,’ she shouts, getting all possessive as she drops my hand.
Becker stops, his hand poised on the kitchen door handle. ‘Do you give her good-fucking-mornings, -afternoons, -evenings, and -nights?’
‘What?’ Lucy throws me an inquisitive look, which I refuse to acknowledge, before returning her attention to my cheeky, bold man.
‘Trust me, you don’t.’ The door closes and Lucy swings to face me, catching the grin on my face. ‘He’s a magnificent cock, that’s what he is. I can’t believe you’re marrying him. What the hell, Eleanor?’
I shrug. ‘I love him.’
She shakes her head in wonder. ‘But it’s so soon.’
I can’t possibly be defensive. It’s very soon, but . . . ‘I guess when you know, you know.’
‘And you know?’
‘Oh, trust me, I know.’ I know everything.
She seems to take a deep breath. ‘Then I’m happy for you.’
‘Thank you.’ For the first time, I wonder what my mother will make of this. I’ll tell her when I go home. I need to be face-to-face. Or should I call her?
I point to Lucy’s bag. ‘You should call Mark.’
She cringes. ‘Would you want to speak to me if you were Mark?’
I stand and brush myself down. ‘If I loved you, then yes.’ I head towards the door.
‘Hey, Eleanor,’ Lucy calls, pulling me to a stop. I turn, prompting her to go on. ‘Is it me, or did Becker make an uncanny amount of threats to spank your arse last night?’
‘Um . . .’ Fuck, what do I say to that? Yes? Yes, he has a fetish for slapping my arse stupid? God, I hope that’s all she heard. ‘You must have been dreaming.’ I turn quickly . . . and walk right into Mrs Potts.
‘Morning,’ she says.
‘Morning,’ I sing, moving to the side to let her into the kitchen. But she doesn’t shift, so I sweep my arm out in gesture for her, polite as can be. She hums thoughtfully, looking down at my hand. My left hand. Oh boy. I wait for her to speak, fidgeting nervously. She eventually lifts her eyes to mine. Smiling eyes. She knows. Gramps must have told her. She winks, happy, wobbling past me, clocking Lucy at the kitchen table. ‘And who have we here?’
‘This is my friend.’ I rush to enlighten her. ‘Lucy. She got locked out last night so Becker said she could stay here.’
Mrs Potts raises her nose in the air, eyeing Lucy, who has wilted under the old dragon’s glare. ‘You look like you’ve been in a scrap with a tank of gloop. Would you like breakfast? Tea?’
‘I’m gagging for a cuppa.’
Her phone rings, and Lucy’s face drops.
‘Answer,’ I prompt.
‘What should I say?’ she asks, glancing down at her bag. I see every muscle in her tiny frame tense.
‘He’s calling, which means he wants to talk.’
‘Right.’ She dives on her bag like it might run away if she doesn’t seize it quickly, and after grappling clumsily for a few seconds, she pulls out her phone. Then stares at the screen, her face twisting. ‘It’s my mum.’ She stabs at the reject button and tosses it down. ‘I can’t be doing with her now.’
‘Rather uncharitable of you, dear.’ Mrs Potts says scornfully, and I look across to find her lips pursed in disapproval.
‘She’ll just nag me about going home to see them.’
‘And why don’t you?’
‘Because I’ll be forced to muck out at five in the morning. I’ve been in London for over two months and I can still smell horse shit embedded in my skin.’ She raises her arm to her nose and sniffs on a grimace.
‘Oh, you lived in the country? How lovely.’ Mrs Potts wobbles over with her tray of teacups. ‘I lived in the countryside when I was a girl. Where do you come from, dear?’
I open the door again and make my exit, leaving Lucy and Mrs Potts chatting. The smooth fabric of my knickers rubs my tender arse as I wander the corridor to Becker’s office. But I still smile.
Pushing my way in, I find him with his phone at his ear. He looks frustrated, his fingers slipping under his glasses and rubbing into his sockets. ‘I’ll pay whatever they want, just don’t let that car go to auction.’
My jaw tightens when I quickly get the gist of the conversation. The vintage Ferrari that he wants and which Brent Wilson also wants. Becker’s potent aggravation tells me the call isn’t going