Lucy paused in the doorway of her apartment before entering. The door was slightly ajar and she could smell jasmine. It didn't seem as though the entry had been forced. She steeled herself and nudged the door with her foot. Had this been a horror film, she was sure it would have creaked on its hinges, but instead it swung wide until it bumped into the broom cabinet she'd installed behind it. On the carpet in front of her was a brown paper package. The red sealing wax looked liked blood stains on the string.
"Hello?"
If there was a burglar, she thought it was the proper etiquette to alert them of her presence. She knew how unpleasant it was to be interrupted mid-way through a task that required concentration. If she'd been a horse, she knew her ears would be twitching as they listened for movement, but none was forthcoming. Lucy stepped across the threshold and paused. Her head swivelled around, looking for evidence of an intruder or of missing valuables, but so far her TV, laptop and furniture were where she'd left them. She inched closer to the package, moving slowly, while trying to keep her footfalls silent. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind blasted past her and slammed the front door shut. She sighed. There would be a note in her postbox from Mrs Saunders about the noise again. She could almost hear the scraping of ballpoint on lavender-scented paper from her foyer.
Lucy dumped her bag on the table under the mirror and kicked off her shoes. She leaned into each of the adjoining rooms; nothing. Everything was as she'd left it, apart from the lingering scent of jasmine. The last time she'd smelt it this strongly was when she'd walked through St Petersburg two years before. She returned to the foyer and stared at the package. There was a smudged postmark over the stamps, and they too were indecipherable. Her name and address stood to attention in large, black capital letters. The brown paper was slightly torn at the edges and it appeared that, at times, it had strained against the string, leaving strange creases and ridges on the surface.
Her mind began to race. What if it was a bomb? Or a bag of anthrax? Perhaps it was poisoned chocolates or a shipment of rare animals, like an armadillo or something? She shuddered.
"There's only one way to find out," she said. She went into the kitchen, donned her yellow gloves and retrieved a paring knife from the drawer. Part of her hoped that the parcel contained a Hogwarts letter; it would account for the suspicious circumstances around its appearance in her flat. She began by sliding the knife under the wax seals until the string came away. She turned the parcel over: no return address. It was surprisingly light, despite its bulky appearance. She turned it over and over, looking for a tear along the edge into which she could slip the blade. There was a small flap on the underside, and she guided the knife along the seam of the parcel. As she did so, she released jasmine perfume into the air. She tipped the contents onto the floor in front of her, wincing in case it was a letter bomb after all. After a few seconds, she slitted her eyes at the ground. All she could see was white tulle or chiffon, she couldn't tell. Not a bomb, then. She scooped up the fabric and realised she was holding a bridal veil. It looked old but well-preserved. The tiara had beaded jasmine blooms sewn into it. It still didn't explain the source of the scent. A thud distracted her. A cream envelope had fallen out of the folds. Without giving it a second thought, Lucy placed the veil on her head and checked her reflection. Not bad. She retrieved the envelope and carried it into the kitchen. If this was a letter bomb, she wanted to be near water. Her paring knife made quick work of the seal. She held the paper away from her face and over the sink. No light or oxygen-based accelerants were activated, and again she smelt jasmine.
The letter was written by hand and the ink was brown rather than black. The handwriting might have belonged to Elizabeth Bennett or Jane Eyre. But most surprising was the fact that it was addressed to her using the name nobody ever called her by.
Lucinda
You have received this veil as a sign that you will get married soon. The veil always chooses the wearer and it is said that it will bring you a thousand years of love and good fortune, should you wear it with pure intent on your wedding day.
That made her laugh. It sounded like something from a science fiction or fantasy movie that took itself too seriously.
Although your present situation does not lend itself to marriage, rest assured that your life will change for the better very soon. After your wedding, leave the veil by an open window and it will choose the next wearer. Do not try to hide or destroy the veil; it is indestructible and cannot remain hidden for long. You may not keep the veil: you are only its custodian until after you have said "I do".
She turned the page with a smirk on her face. This must be some elaborate prank by her grandmother; the old bat had been banging on about Lucy walking down the aisle for the past year or so.
It does not matter whether you believe in the veil or not. It chooses the wearer and it is never mistaken. Your best course of action is to allow what must be to unfold, and it will unfold perfectly for you.
There was no signature. Lucy raised a single eyebrow at the script in her hands. It had to be a prank. She caught her reflection in the microwave. The veil did look good on her, that much at least was true. With a sigh, she removed it, careful not to bend the tiara or crush the flowers, and bundled it, along with the letter, back into the brown paper package. Not knowing where else to put it, she shoved the lot into her drinks cabinet and tried to forget about the absurdities of the afternoon.
The next day, Lucy was en route to the supermarket for her weekly visit when a shop she'd not noticed before snagged her eye. There was the most gorgeous dress in the window: it was made from ivory bridal satin and draped over the mannequin like a fabric waterfall. She gasped and then frowned. The stupid letter had messed with her mojo; weddings and marriage were the last thing on her mind. She returned her attention to whether she wanted chicken breasts or thighs for dinner.
Three days later, while scrolling through her favourite social media app, she noticed that all the advertisements were for bridal shoes: pumps, wedges, kitten heels, stilettos and even brogues. She had to stop herself from throwing her phone across the room.
"Stop it," she said to the empty room. "I'm not getting married."
The following week she was sorting her mail at the office, after an uneventful weekend spent reading books about art theft during the Second World War and avoiding her phone, TV and neighbours. In between the promotional flyers and press releases, a messenger appeared with a generous bouquet of white roses from a client. It seemed that they were especially happy with a review she'd written about them for the community newspaper. The card, apart from the usual pleasantries, also contained a voucher for wedding photography. She stapled it to her noticeboard on the partitioning with more violence than necessary.
"Everything OK, Lucy?" Her colleague Helen leant into her cubicle.
"Yes," she said, through gritted teeth.
"Yes, no, it's just that you knocked my wedding photo over just now. You know, when you were stapling something to the divider. It's no biggie. But, if you want to talk..."
"Everything is fine," Lucy hissed.
"Oh-kay," said Helen.
After keeping her head down and trying to concentrate on writing her opinion piece about the newest exhibition of unclaimed artworks that had been looted between 1933 and 1945, Lucy decided that she deserved a treat. She allowed herself to visit her favourite perfume store and browse. She let her nose guide her from musky and fresh to spicy and floral scents.
"I did a course once," she heard a man say. "I learnt about top notes and so on, but that was a long time ago. My question is: do you have this fragrance in a less potent form? I can't wear cologne at work because my colleague claims he's allergic to it. He usually smells like a wet dog, which nobody is allowed to comment on."
Lucy turned to look at him while he chuckled at his own joke. She could only see him from the back and he was wearing a red checked shirt with dark blue jeans. It was elegant despite being casual. The shop assistant looked flustered. Lucy decided, against her better judgement, to intervene and grabbed a bottle of her father's favourite scent before handing it to him. "You could try this. It's subtle, but fresh. My father loves it." She swallowed as she took in his features. His eyes were magnets for her gaze.
"Oh, that's kind of you, thank you." He removed the cap and the shop assistant had the presence of mind to hand him a tester paper.
Lucy couldn't move even if she wanted to. His actions were both fluid and deliberate and she marvelled at how he turned the moment into an occasion. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if to savour the scent.
"Yes," he said. "This is the one." He handed the bottle to the shop assistant, who scurried away to find a boxed bottle for him. "I believe I am in your debt," he said.
"It's no trouble, really." Lucy took a step backwards, but he caught her arm before she bumped into a carousel of mascara and eyeshadow.
"You know your perfume," he said.
"Not as well as you. I never did a course."
He blushed. "I didn't realise I was speaking so loudly."
"You weren't. I was eavesdropping. And she's new." She nodded in the direction of the shop assistant. "It can be terrifying to help people find the right fragrance when you don't know them very well."
"The people or the fragrances?"
She grinned. "Both."
"What are you looking for?"
"A distraction."
"Hard day at the office?"
"In a manner of speaking."
One side of his mouth curled into a smile. Then he leant forward and sniffed her collar. "You have good taste. But the weather is changing. You need something that smells like summer."
The shop assistant reappeared with his cologne and caught the tail end of the conversation. "Yes, we have just the thing for that! A new collection arrived today. I tested the new 'I Do' range called 'By the Sea' earlier. It's divine."
"Oh, for goodness's sake," said Lucy and walked out of the store.
Her commute home was quiet. It was becoming unnerving, all this wedding focus. A week ago she'd not even considered any of it. And then that blasted veil had shown up and everything felt upended and backwards. But she had to admit that the man had a voice like caramel and eyes like tanzanites. The bus stopped and the driver announced that it was the end of the route. Drat. She'd taken the wrong one. She stepped onto the pavement and plunged her hands into her pockets. The wind bit into any flesh that was exposed. She traipsed down the road, taking the route past the church, and lost herself to her thoughts about her article and the line of argument on looted art. A voice rang out and she stopped and turned. A girl, probably 12 or 13, was standing on the church steps and singing Ave Maria. She was surrounded by what looked like a thousand candles. Lucy felt the hair on her neck stand on end as the girl reached the crescendo. A group of passers-by huddled around her, seemingly as mesmerised by the singing as she was. The wind continued its assault and, when her eyes watered, she attempted a surreptitious swipe across her cheeks. Pressure on her shoulder, followed by the appearance of a white handkerchief, made her look to the left. Those eyes.
"I'm all right," she said, attempting a smile.
He shrugged and pocketed the handkerchief. The song ended and the crowded moved off around them. "Lovely voice," he said. "Especially since she's so young."
Lucy nodded and made as if to walk away.
He placed his hand on her arm. "I didn't get a chance to thank you earlier," he said.
"It was nothing," she said.
"And I didn't get to introduce myself either." He extended his hand. "My friends call me Topher."
"I'm Lucy." She glanced at the clock above the door to the church. "I'd best be..."
"Let me take you to coffee." He swivelled her body so that she was facing a café. "I've heard they do a great cappuccino. Apparently it made some Italian tourists weep and wail that they missed home when they tried it." He took her hand. "Look, the pedestrian light is green."
Lucy felt like she was attached to a leashed dog with too much energy as he half-led, half-dragged her across the road. She found herself sitting at a table for two and could just make out Topher placing their coffee order with the waitress over the din. He scooted his chair closer and their knees grazed.
"I hope you don't mind; I asked her to bring one of those French marzipan things to go with the coffee." He chuckled. "I have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I find it's better if I share things rather than scoffing them in one go."
Lucy inclined her head.
"Do I make you nervous?"
"What?"
"It's just that since we met you've hardly said a word and you keep bolting whenever an opportunity presents itself."
"I'm sure you're perfectly nice," she said and he winced playfully, "but I have a lot going on at the moment."
The waitress slid their cups across the table's surface and the plate containing the halved pastry landed with a thunk between them before she disappeared.
"Lucy," he said, "I only offered to buy you coffee."
"And cake."
"Technically it's a piece of protest pastry."
"What?"
"You don't know? The bakers of Hamburg came up with this as a way to stick it to French. The story goes that Napoleon's army arrived in Germany and demanded croissants wherever they went. The Hamburg bakers pretended to misunderstand and made this, in my humble opinion, delicious and subversive recipe chockful of marzipan, cinnamon, sugar and resistance."
Lucy laughed. "You made that up."
He straightened and held up his right hand. "I swear on my life, it's true. I heard the story from a real Hamburger the last time I visited."
"I bet you say that to all the girls."
"Only when I think it will work."
She hid her smile in the cappuccino foam.
The waitress made a point of placing the chairs on the tables around them. Lucy looked at her phone; they'd been there for three hours. Topher took the hint and palmed some silver at the waitress before leading Lucy out. The night air was fresh and the wind had retreated.
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
"What happened to the charade of taking my number, waiting for 48 hours and calling or, as is the custom, pretending to forget to call?"
Topher's breath caught in his chest. "Is that a yes? I'll meet you in the park in front of the city hall at noon."
"You should be so lucky," said Lucy.
"I'm willing to bet on it," he said, walking backwards for a few paces before turning and disappearing down a side street.
Lucy's cheeks hurt. "Oh, for goodness's sake."
That night, Lucy slept with all her windows open despite the chill. She hoped the scent of jasmine would evaporate if she aired her flat well enough. At 3am she couldn't take the cold any longer and discovered, to her dismay, that the scent was stronger. It wasn't the only reason she couldn't sleep. She turned on her laptop and studied her work in progress: the article on looted art. There was one fact she was finding hard to substantiate, so she opened her browser to see if somehow the World Wide Web could provide her with supporting evidence. Her search turned up links to online forums; those would never hold any water. She was about to close the window when she found herself attempting a new search about Topher. She didn't know his surname, so she coupled his name with their city. There couldn't be many living people called Topher in a population of 140 000, right? There were seventy, and a quick browse revealed they were either too old or too dead to be the man she was looking for. She closed her laptop and made a mental note to ask him for his full name the next time she saw him. A glance at her mobile told her that she had to be up for work in three hours. By the time her alarm went off, she felt as though she'd only closed her eyes for five minutes.
"This came for you," said Helen. She nodded in the direction of a confectioner's box.
"Thanks." When Lucy opened the lid, she saw that a note was taped to the underside. It said "City Hall, 12". As if she could forget. The protest pastry had stained the bottom of the box. It smelled promising.
Helen craned her neck around the partition. "Are you going to eat that?"
"Yes." She took an aggressive bite before opening her email programme.
"Oh-kay," said Helen, retreating back to her desk.
It was drizzling when Lucy stepped across the plaza outside the city hall. She'd forgotten how impressive the clocktower looked from this angle. Topher appeared with an umbrella and embraced her.
"You made it."
"So it seems. Thanks for the pastry reminder."
"You got it, then? Your colleagues had eyes on stalks when they saw the box."
"I know. But I didn't share it."
He smiled.
Lucy became aware of the pressure of his body next to hers as they huddled under the umbrella. "You've got me here. Now what do you plan to do with me?"
He offered her his arm. "You're going to have to wait and see."
"I demand to know what we're going to do."
"Not much. Just visit Russia."
"What?"
He led her along the canal and to the water's edge. He talked about the area, mentioning things he recalled from childhood or pointing out interesting sights as they walked. She'd walked down the same streets a million times before, but they'd never been that interesting.
"Lucky for us, the rain's stopped," Topher said, shaking the umbrella out before closing it. He adjusted the strap of his backpack.
"Oh, sorry." She realised she was still holding on to his arm.
"Don't be," he said. "Here we are."
She followed his gaze. "This is the Castle."
"Wrong."
"I can clearly see the sign over there."
His grin was broad. "Wrong again. It's Russia."
She opened her mouth to retort, but he strode ahead and she had to scramble to keep up with him. He led the way to a courtyard where she could see wooden benches, a birdbath and a statue of a short man who was seriously lacking in the looks department. "What happened to artists photoshopping their subjects?"
"That's Peter the Third," said Topher. "No photoshop - ancient or modern - could change the fact that he was one degree away from being as ugly as a Habsburg."
"You mean the Austrian royals with chins bigger than China?"
He nodded as he laughed. "Poor Peter was desperate to be considered great..."
"But he fell short?" Lucy nodded at his statue.
Topher laughed again. "Not to mention that he was overshadowed by his wife, who would later become Catherine the Great." He placed his backpack on a bench and unzipped it.
"Must've been a bitter pill to swallow."
"Wouldn't know. She had him murdered." After rummaging for a moment, Topher opened a wax-coated sheet and placed it on the ground. He then threw a blanket on top of that.
"Can I help?"
"You can have a seat," he said. He brought out two brown paper bags and handed one to her. He placed his backpack between them and joined her on the blanket. "Bon appétit!"
It was a simple sandwich with pesto, thick cheese and fresh tomato. The curry bread was slightly toasted and covered in pumpkin seeds.
Lucy groaned. "Wow. That's good. Almost makes up for the fact that I'm going to have basil in my teeth for the rest of the day."
Topher smiled. "So, how do you like this piece of Russia?"
"I never knew it was here."
"It hasn't been for very long. But I like it. It connects me to the Russia of the 18th Century; you know, their heyday before they turned Communist."
"Have you ever been?" she asked, between mouthfuls.
"No, but I really want to go. You?"
"Yes. I was in St Petersburg, Novgorod and Moscow two years ago. We also visited Minsk, which is part of the former 'White Russia'..."
"In Belarus, yes. The last outpost of the former Soviet Union. But don't tell them I said so." Topher nibbled on his sandwich. "So, which city was your favourite?"
"I loved St Petersburg. It smells like jasmine. The Winter Palace is every bit as magnificent as you can imagine, and it was incredible to stand in the room where Alexander Kerensky and the Provisional Government had their last meeting before the Bolsheviks seized power. Catherine the Great's bedroom was also something else: mirrors on the ceiling and everything about the decor was red and silver. We even saw the house where Rasputin breathed his last after Felix Yusupov and his accomplices had him over for an arsenic dinner, amongst other things..." She looked at her hands. "I'm rambling, sorry."
"Don't be. Did you like Moscow?"
"The underground was incredible. So much art and splendour from the 20th Century, and by that I mean there's communist symbolism at every turn. And the sheer size of the city is something I can't really convey. Although, St Basil's looks incredible with the sunlight glinting off the domes and I stood in a queue for ages to see Lenin in his mausoleum. Totally worth getting drenched for, although I was a bit disappointed that he didn't sit up when I squelched around his tomb in my wet shoes."
He chuckled, and handed her a bottle of ginger ale and a serviette. "Have you ever watched Dr Zhivago?"
"Only once. I have the extended version DVD. You even have to turn it over halfway." She raised her eyebrows. "I've never had to turn a DVD over before."
Topher played with his bottle cap. "Everyone thinks its a romantic story."
"Those are the very people who think the same about Romeo and Juliet."
"You don't?"
"In my book, romantic stories deserve a happy ending. I don't think those two elements should be mutually exclusive."
He crumpled his paper bag and chucked it into his backpack. "Catherine the Great used to think that too. She tried really hard to love this ridiculous oaf that the Tsarina Catherine the First had chosen as her heir. She wanted to be a good wife to him and shed her German self to become Russian royalty, but he rejected her."
"That's not an uncommon story. The same could be said of Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette." She sipped her ginger beer. "Do you think romance and happy endings are mutually exclusive?"
He flinched. "Everything in history suggests that is the obvious outcome."
Lucy hugged her knees to her chest.
Topher was staring into the distance, and when his eyes met hers again they were rimmed with emotion. "We should head back."
She nodded and helped him fold the blanket and ground sheet. His fingers grazed hers as he took the blanket and placed it in his backpack.
They retraced their steps in silence.
At the plaza outside the city hall she thanked him for lunch and hugged him tightly. She watched him walk a few steps before calling to him. "About what you said before: the fact that you invited for lunch suggests that you're hoping history is wrong."
He smiled with half of his face and was about to turn when she shouted after him: "Hey. What's your surname?"
"Harpin. Yours?"
"Stewart."
A tap on her shoulder made Lucy pull one of the earbuds out of her ear. She was knee-deep in an analysis of rightful ownership when the interruption came. "This had better be good," she said, swivelling her chair to face the intrusion. She came face-to-face with a messenger.
"Lucy Stewart? Sign here."
She scribbled on the screen with the proffered stylus and accepted the brown paper package that was heavily scented with jasmine. Once again, there was no return address. "Who's this from?"
The messenger shrugged. "Have a nice day."
She seriously doubted it.
Helen craned her head around the partition. "Do I smell flowers? Do you have a new boyfriend, Lucy? I wouldn't ask, only it's the second delivery you've had today."
"No and no and so what." Lucy plugged her earbud back into her ear and turned up the volume. She hoped Rammstein would be enough to drown out more questions from Helen. She could feel the package staring at her, begging to be opened, but she resisted despite the overwhelming jasmine perfume. She was about to get back to her article when an instant message popped up on her screen.
Hello. It's Topher.
Also the last person on earth that she expected to hear from.
You're not an easy woman to find.
Yet here you are, she replied.
A laughing emoji filled her screen.
She grinned. Thank you for lunch. I loved visiting Russia.
You're welcome. I'm sorry I was a bit melancholy. I just got out of a relationship.
There it was. The bald-faced truth. She was his rebound. Don't worry about it, she said. Let me know what I owe you for lunch. She hesitated before sending and then deleted the last line.
When can I see you again?
She closed her eyes and sent a message without looking at what she'd typed. Same time next week?
Topher smiled at the simplicity of her answer. Until then.
Lucy waited a few minutes before reopening her eyes. She wasn't sure what Topher might have said in reply, but she wasn't expecting to feel the enormous promise that those two small words held. Realistically, she knew he was beautiful and possibly a little messed up from whatever his ex had done, and yet... Until then.
That night, Lucy stared at the brown paper package on her kitchen table. The scent of jasmine was not as powerful as before, but it lingered. She made quick work of the paper and string and found a satin-bound photo album with the words "Our Wedding" embroidered on the cover. It was decorated with pearlescent beads and there was a glass window where, presumably, a smiling photo of the newlyweds should go. She opened the album and found another envelope.
Lucinda
The first step to a healthy relationship is realising that not all memories will be picture-perfect. It is in embracing the totality of the other and offering unconditional love and acceptance that real joy can be found. When you realise this, then your happy-ever-after will be realised.
P.S. You're right: it is not mutually exclusive and history can be wrong.
She swore under her breath when she read the last line. Perhaps Orwell had been on to something after all. She shoved the new parcel into the drinks cabinet too, and paused before shutting the door while she considered downing some of the Amarula - for medicinal reasons, of course. Lucy thought better of it and stalked back into the kitchen. She decided to bake some bread. It always took her mind off whatever was troubling her, whether it was a new research piece or, in this instance, a serious case of Big Brother.
The following Wednesday, she woke up to the sun shining in her eyes. Almost overnight the seasons had turned and she was even tempted to leave her gloves at home when she went out. Her article on looted art had been well received, and her next assignment was on the evolution of courtship. When her editor handed her the task, she had to stifle a groan. Big Brother was on her case in a big way: first the veil, then the wedding album and now even her work. At 11:30am she returned to her desk with a mug of tea, ready to browse through Elizabeth Gilbert's marriage memoir for research because her boss said it was a better starting point than Wikipedia. She'd just arranged her post-its and highlighters beside her keyboard when a notification tone made her look up at the screen.
City Hall, 12pm?
Lucy's breath caught. It had slipped her mind. She checked her computer's clock. Until then, she replied. She returned her attention to the book but looked up again when she heard the tone.
Cheeky.
Her face split into an involuntary smile.
"Could you, um, turn the sound off?" Helen's face appeared around the partition. "It's really distracting."
"Done." Lucy also turned off the screen but kept a close watch on her clock. Twenty-two minutes and counting.
The sun broke through the clouds as Lucy stepped across the plaza. Topher was waiting for her, leaning casually against a balustrade. "You made it."
"I almost didn't. Thanks for the reminder."
"Should I send pastry again?"
"Please no. My colleague Helen will start all kinds of rumours."
"Good, then it's settled." He offered his arm. "We're not going to Russia today," he said, when she hesitated. "Promise."
Their destination was a bench along the jetty, with a clear view of the open sea. The breeze was refreshing, if a little biting, but he'd come prepared with a Thermos of coffee and two spinach and feta pies that were still steaming.
"I feel really bad," Lucy said. "You're spending a small fortune on these lunches of ours. And then you also paid for coffee that time."
"It's pocket change," he said. "Besides, I get to spend time with you this way. If it costs me a sandwich or a pie, so be it."
"Are you feeling better than when we last spoke?" She didn't look at him directly when she asked, but noticed him surreptitiously rubbing his left hand.
"I am, thank you." He grinned. "I am prone to melancholy sometimes. I hope it doesn't make you think less of me."
"On the contrary, I am relieved. Now I know I can have a full-on PMS meltdown and you won't run for the hills."
His laughter made her smile wider. Then he became serious. "Could you at least wait until after I leave to have a meltdown? I don't think I brought any chocolate with me today. Unless you count this..." He held up a plastic keyring in the shape of a chocolate bar. There was a bite missing from the corner.
"Based on those teeth marks, I think you'd better keep it. You clearly need it more than I do." When she met his eyes, he was grinning.
They were distracted by a pair of seagulls who were eyeing their pies. "I think we'd better chew more and speak less," he said.
When the wind picked up, he moved his backpack to the ground and she moved closer to him. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder, in companionable silence. The seagulls had found other passersby to pester so, apart from the wind, they were alone.
"Shall we go for a stroll?"
She nodded but missed the warmth of his arm against hers. They walked into the wind, and she closed her eyes, savouring the contrast of the sun's warmth and the chill on her face.
"I never asked you if you were, you know... Seeing somebody." His expression was anxious.
"Would it change things if I was?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
She nudged his arm with hers. "I thought I was just your rebound girl."
"Far from it," he said.
"I am not seeing anyone, Topher."
He didn't need to answer for Lucy to read the message in his eyes.
In the shadow of the clock tower at the city hall, he hugged her and when she pulled back, he rubbed her shoulders. "I really enjoyed our lunch today," he said.
She was about to offer a repeat invitation for the following week when he pulled out his mobile.
"Selfie?"
Lucy nodded.
He took two.
"Will you send them to me?"
"Email or text?"
She bit her lip. "Oh, whichever is easiest."
"Text then. What's your number?"
She punched the numbers into his phone. Within seconds, hers vibrated with a message from him. The photos were good. They looked like a couple. "Thank you. You can be my photographer from now on."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
The clock chimed loudly on the hour. He hugged her again, pressing his cheek against hers. "I'll be in touch," he said, and then he was gone.
During the days that followed, Lucy found it difficult to think about anything other than her work. The piece on looted art had spawned a number of other events: the local university invited her to be the keynote speaker at an anniversary symposium, which also tied into some guest lectures she agreed to give at universities in the surrounding towns. There were radio interviews, a TV spot on a talk show and she had to appear at the National Gallery to open their exhibit of recovered (and as-yet unclaimed) looted art. By Saturday night she was happy to be at home with a glass of wine, and a large pizza for one. She was about to decide on a romcom for entertainment when she spotted a notification light flashing on her mobile.
How are you?
Knackered. Busy week. You?
The same. There was a pause and she considered replacing her mobile on the coffee table. Fancy a walk to the park tomorrow? I could meet you at Tackmann's bakery at 10.
Love to. She backspaced. Sounds good, thanks.
He replied with a smiling emoji. Until then.
Lucy arrived just before 10 and ordered coffee and pastry to go. As she collected her order, she spotted him hovering outside. "Here you are," she said, handing him a cup. "I hope you don't mind. I thought it was my turn to spoil you for a change."
"Ah, bliss," he said.
"But wait, there's more!" She held up a bag containing the pastries.
"Not protest pastry?"
"Better than that. I call it appreciation pastry."
"Sounds delicious," he said. "Shall we?" They strolled along the back streets where it was quieter and leafier than the main routes. They were passed by some cyclists and an old couple walking their Scottie.
"How was your week?" They laughed.
"You first," said Lucy.
"Ok." Topher described some scenarios that had required patience and composure when he would have preferred to yell.
Lucy recognised that he was a masterful storyteller and that he left out all the boring bits. She was in stitches. And by the time he was finished, they both had flushed cheeks and big grins on their faces.
Topher took her empty cup and the pastry bag, which only contained some wayward crumbs, and placed them into a nearby bin. "And what's this I hear about your new celebrity status? Should I get your autograph before you become too busy to see me?"
Lucy chuckled. "How do you know about that?"
"I know things," he said. "I'm cleverer than I look."
"Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but it's no big deal. Just a few appearances, some lectures and a speech. Hardly worth writing home about."
"I disagree. Your article was very good."
"You read it?"
"Sure. The same day you told me your name, I Googled you."
"And what did you find?"
"Well, nothing for the first few days. And then lots of things. All connected to your article."
"Wait, so you Googled me more than once?"
"Should I not have said anything? I'm still not sure what the right etiquette is for this."
Lucy laughed. "It's OK. I Googled you too. Once."
"And?"
"There are seventy Tophers in our city, many of whom are currently pushing daisies."
"Oh my."
"Yeah. For a while I wasn't sure if you were real."
His laughter came from his belly. "How do you do that?" He wiped his eyes.
"Do what?"
"Make me feel better."
Lucy unlocked her front door, stepped inside and closed it. She leant her palms against the table under the mirror. When she looked up, she told her reflection: "I really like him." Her cheeks still hurt from all the smiling, and if she closed her eyes, she could feel the impression of his hug on her body and smell his aftershave - the one she'd recommended. She unzipped her jacket and hung it on a coathook. She was just positioning her bag on the table when she noticed something in the reflection. There was another brown paper package sticking out of the pocket of her jacket. And it hadn't been there before. The telltale scent of jasmine meant she didn't have to wonder who it was from.
Lucinda
It's a delicious feeling, don't you agree, when you fall in love? And experience has taught you that this feeling rarely lasts - in fact, scientists give it a timeframe of two years. The real secret to hanging on to how you feel now (blissful, joyous, content) is to keep looking for the best in Topher. Because, by focusing on the best in him, you bring out the best in you. It looks good on you. The two of you work well together. Savour this time. It is our promise to you that, when the time comes for you to wear the veil, you'll mean your vows - and so will he.
This will be our last letter to you. You have done well by opening your heart. While the journey ahead may be challenging, don't forget that you have a thousand years of happiness to look forward to. There is no rush. Cherish every moment with Topher. He's a keeper - and so are you.
With all our love
The Godmothers of the UniverseHa! She knew her grandmother was behind it. Correction. Her grandmother couldn't have been behind this. Her grandmother was only interested in grand-babies. These Godmothers, whoever they were, were interested in her happiness. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
I had a wonderful time today. Thank you for the coffee and laughs. Again soon?Lucy smiled. This was beginning to feel a lot like real love.
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