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Books by Lucy Robinson
Six thirty a.m., a Tuesday in April. A lone girl walks through an empty landscape at daybreak. Around her is a web of fine white lace, a million tiny pearls of water scooped up from the English Channel and carried high over Exmoor before settling in the fields. Every few paces she turns and looks at the little footsteps she’s left, as if to check she is still alone. Sometimes I did that. Pictured myself as if I were in a film script: a lone woman picking her way through an empty landscape. It was the sort of thing that only the maddest article would do, probably, but it kept me on my toes. ‘Never forget the man in your shadow,’ I muttered to myself. Continue reading
It was an emergency. Tomorrow I was starting a post-graduate diploma in opera at the Royal College of Music, alongside ten of the world’s most talented young singers. Even though I was not a performer of any kind. Let alone an opera singer, with a wardrobe full of satin gowns and a family who owned a large country estate in Gloucestershire with butlers and horses. I was a quiet girl from a council estate in the Midlands, who hated attention. Did you hear me? I was not an opera singer. Continue reading
‘Why are you here?’ I asked timidly. Because you are all small and poorly with a broken leg and I want to sweep you up in my arms, drive you off in my Jaguar and take you to my architecturally significant house by a loch, I willed him to say. We will sit drinking single malt as the sun goes down and I will gently cut out a section of your plaster so we can make love.
John smiled again, only this time with a plastic veneer that did not make my plaster-bound crotch tingle. It made my plaster-bound crotch contract with fear. Continue reading
Thursday night came, Gin Thursday relocated itself to my local, but I didn’t go. Dave had been texting, Leonie had been calling and Stefania had been bellowing through my cat flap but I couldn’t face human company at the moment. I simply could not see the point in socialising; I wanted to die quietly in my bed and have a moving obituary in the Observer stating that I had died of natural causes and that I left an evil homeless cat behind me. Continue reading