I don’t actually mind having this morning to myself, because I’ve always secretly wanted to see what it’s like inside a convent. I mean, I know I don’t exactly make it to church every week, but I do have a very spiritual side to me. It seems obvious to me that there’s a greater force out there at work than us mere mortals — which is why I always read my horoscope in The Daily World. Plus I love that plainchant they play in yoga classes, and all the lovely candles and incense. And Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story.
In fact, to tell you the truth, a part of me has always been attracted to the simplicity of a nun’s life. No worries, no decisions, no having to work. Just lovely singing and walking around all day. I mean, wouldn’t that be great?
So when I’ve done my makeup and watched a bit of telly, I go down to reception — and after asking fruitlessly again about my package (honestly, I’m going to sue), I order a taxi to St. Winifred’s. As we trundle along the country lanes, I look out at all the lovely scenery, and find myself wondering what Luke’s deal can be about. What on earth is this mysterious “something he’s always wanted”? I mean, I would have thought he’s already got everything he wants. He’s the most successful publicist in the financial field, he’s got a thriving company, he’s won loads of prizes… So what could it be? Big new client? New offices? Expanding the company, maybe?
I screw up my face, trying to remember if I’ve overheard anything recently — then, with a jolt, I remember hearing him on the phone a few weeks ago. He was talking about an advertising agency, and even at the time, I wondered why.
Yes. It’s obvious, now that I think about it. He’s always secretly wanted to be an ad director. That’s what this deal is all about. He’s going to branch out from PR and start making adverts.
And I could be in them! Yes!
I’m so excited at this thought, I almost swallow my chewing gum. I can be in an ad! Oh, this is going to be so cool. Maybe I’ll be in one of those Bacardi ads where they’re all on a boat, laughing and water-skiing and having a great time. I mean, I know it’s usually fashion models, but I could easily be somewhere in the background. Or I could be the one driving the boat. It’ll be so fantastic. We’ll fly out to Barbados or somewhere, and it’ll be all hot and sunny and glamorous, with loads of free Bacardi, and we’ll stay in a really amazing hotel… I’ll have to buy a new bikini, of course… or maybe two… and some new flip-flops…
“St. Winifred’s,” says the taxi driver — and with a start I come to. I’m not in Barbados, am I? I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, in Somerset.
We’ve stopped outside an old honey-colored building, and I peer through the window curiously. So this is a convent. It doesn’t look that special, actually — just like a school, or a big country house. And I’m wondering whether I should even bother getting out, when I see a nun. Walking past, in black robes, and a wimple, and everything! A real live nun, in her real habitat. And she’s completely natural. She hasn’t even looked at the taxi. This is like being on safari!
I get out and pay the driver — and as I walk toward the heavy front door, I feel prickles of intrigue. There’s an elderly woman going in at the same time who seems to know the way, so I follow her along a corridor toward the chapel. And as we walk in, I feel this amazing, holy, almost euphoric sensation coming over me. Maybe it’s the lovely smell in the air or the organ music, but I’m definitely getting something.
“Thank you, Sister,” says the elderly woman to the nun. And she starts walking off to the front of the chapel — but I stand still, slightly transfixed.
Sister. Wow.
Sister Rebecca.
And one of those lovely flowing black habits, and a fantastic clear nun complexion all the time.
Sister Rebecca of the Holy…
“You look a little lost, my dear,” a nun says behind me, and I jump. “Were you interested in seeing the Bevington Triptych?”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm… yes. Absolutely.”
“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a… a piece of tapestry?
But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she’s staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It’s fantastic!
“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”