The Man From her Wayward Past

‘I’m not here for a massage,’ Lucia explained in a shaking voice.

‘No,’ the woman said in basso profundo. ‘You are here for waxing.’

‘Correct.’ Dropping her shoulders, Lucia lifted her chin. Wasn’t this a rigmarole women the world over put up with? Was she less than the rest? Was she a wuss?

Yes.

She was lying prone and stiff on the hard, plastic-covered couch, just wondering how to broach the subject of the thong, when Veruschka turned.

‘We start with the moustache and then we move on to the big guns.’

What?

‘Oh, good … Perhaps …’

Too late. The pot, the Titan and the red-hot wax were on their way.

The wax cooled rapidly. So far so good—though she hadn’t realised her moustache covered half her face before. And …

Youch!

Was it supposed to hurt so much?

‘Tell you what, Veruschka. Shall we leave it there?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. By the time Veruschka thundered something in reply Lucia was already in the changing cubicle, tugging on her jeans.

‘Just take it,’ she said, thrusting money at the dazed receptionist. ‘No—no change. And definitely no vouchers for a return visit,’ she insisted, waving them away.

Get a cool new wardrobe.

It wasn’t all lose-lose. Now she had made a start on her to-do list another item followed swiftly on the heels of the wax. It was late-night shopping in town—the perfect opportunity to choose a couple of smart suits for when the guest house was finished and she was front of house. Being given free rein was quite a novelty after the black suit or black suit choice she had had in London. And she could put something fairly nice together without spending too much money if she shopped around …

This was so ridiculous she couldn’t believe she was doing it—except it was something she felt compelled to do. It was almost dark and she was down on the beach, showing off her new outfits to her mother. She wanted her to see them. She was wearing one of her new suits—a smart, tailored navy blue number—teamed with a violet top underneath. One exclamation mark per outfit was enough, Lucia’s mother had always told her.

The suit fitted Lucia like a glove. She had even had to go down a size. Not that she was back to her old self yet—far from it—but with high heels on she didn’t look half bad.

‘Just a minute,’ she said, teetering about as first one and then the other heel sank into the sand. ‘There,’ she murmured, imagining her mother watching her. ‘What do you think?’ she said, slowly turning in a circle.

‘I think you look amazing …’

She nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Luke!’

‘Who else were you talking to?’

She laughed a little nervously. This wasn’t the time to admit she had been communing with her long-dead mother. ‘You really think so?’ she said, frowning. ‘You don’t think the violet top is too much?’

‘I think the colour combination is as unique as you, Lucia.’

Was that good or bad? she wondered wryly. She took a chance. ‘I’m glad you approve.’

‘Do you need me to steady you?’ he asked, when she stood like a stork to take her shoes off.

‘You’ll never do that, Luke.’

Humour flashed across his eyes. ‘It won’t stop me trying.’

She rested one hand on the hard muscles of his upper arm. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’