Hidden Cottage (23 page)
With people now looking on at them, Daisy had instantly stopped crying and said that of course she’d known all the time that Father Christmas didn’t really exist. No way was she going to let her brother and sister think she didn’t have a Scooby Doo about anything, or that she wasn’t as smart as them.
In contrast to that crystal-clear memory, she couldn’t remember the exact moment when she stopped believing in the myth that was her father, or to be precise, when she stopped worshipping him. She supposed it had crept up on her, a slow realization that he wasn’t the perfect superman she’d believed him to be. Or wanted him to be. Hand in hand with that realization came a gradual sense of disappointment, combined with a massive awareness of her frustration that she could do nothing in her own right, nothing that wasn’t fully endorsed by Dad. She had felt utterly trapped, like a butterfly kept in a glass jar. As she’d later learnt through the help of a counsellor, she had made herself ill as a way to seize control, to release herself from the glass jar. But, of course, all she’d done was replace one trap with another.
Her father’s words –
You thought starving yourself to death was the right thing to do not so long ago
– had hit her as physically as though he’d struck her. She had hardly been able to bring herself to tell Scott what he’d said and had only done so because he was so concerned for her – apparently she had been shaking and the colour had literally drained from her face when she’d ended the call. Furious, Scott had insisted she switch off her mobile for the next twenty-four hours so that she couldn’t be further upset or bullied into talking to Dad. The following morning he had been all for speaking to her father himself, but by then she had calmed down and said that they would speak to him together, just not now; she wasn’t ready. She knew she was being a coward, but she couldn’t help it. Scott had suggested she tell her mother what Dad had said, in the hope she might be able to talk some sense into him, but Daisy didn’t want to drag her mother into it. This was strictly between Dad and her; it wasn’t Mum’s problem. They had spoken quite a bit on the phone in the last few weeks, and Mum had asked her straight out what had gone on between her and Dad, but she’d kept quiet, knowing that if she told Mum the truth, it would only lead to more trouble.
Nearly three weeks on and Daisy knew, for her own sanity, and for Mum’s sake, that she had to put things right with Dad before she left for Sydney. To do that, she had to find the courage to talk to him.
The weird thing was, and she couldn’t really get her head round this, was that while at times Dad made her feel stifled and angry by his overpowering love for her, a part of her still wanted to please him and gain his approval, just as she had when she’d been little.
She might not be able to fully comprehend why that was, but what she did understand was that her father’s refusal to accept her as an adult stopped her from being the person she wanted to be. Only with Scott did she feel that she was truly herself. As he’d once said, love was supposed to set you free, not hold you captive.
‘You OK?’
She turned away from the kettle, which she’d forgotten all about plugging in and found Scott standing behind her. ‘Just thinking,’ she said.
He smiled that slow, reassuring smile of his, the one that always made her think everything was going to be all right.
Sunday morning and Eliza was at Heathrow airport. The arrivals hall was surprisingly busy, given that it was so early, only a quarter to seven.
Serene’s flight from Singapore was due in the next ten minutes, and factoring in the time it would take for her friend to pass through passport control and retrieve her luggage, Eliza reckoned she just had time to satisfy her rumbling stomach with some breakfast. She queued for a croissant and a cappuccino, eschewing the bucket-sized option in favour of a normal cup, and found a table that gave her a view of a screen with its rolling flight information.
Being here made her think of Greg, of the travelling he did and the many airports he passed through. She knew from the little she did that air travel was not in the slightest bit fun or exciting when it was done on a regular basis. During his last visit Greg hadn’t been his usual self and had fallen asleep on the sofa while she’d been getting supper ready. He’d been sleeping so soundly she hadn’t had the heart to wake him and so had eaten her supper alone and watched the television with the sound turned down low. When he’d finally woken, he’d apologized, saying that he was shattered. She’d kissed him and said, ‘That much was obvious.’
That had been last weekend and for the two nights that he’d stayed with her there had been a subtle tension between them, a strain that left her feeling flat and disappointed.
He’d left early Monday morning, shortly before she’d caught the train for work up in Milton Keynes with Simon. ‘So how was your weekend with Lover Boy?’ Simon had asked her after he’d returned from the buffet car with a paper carrier bag of coffee and shortbread biscuits. With her virtually paranoid need to keep her private and work life separate, Simon was the only one at work with whom she discussed anything remotely personal.
‘I’ve told you before, don’t call him Lover Boy,’ she’d said. ‘His name’s Greg.’
‘Ooh, snappy, snappy,’ Simon had replied, passing her coffee and biscuits to her. ‘Does that mean it wasn’t a good weekend?’
‘It means if you had any sense you’d back off and leave me alone.’
‘In that case you’d better have my biscuits as well as yours; you need sweetening up. No way am I spending the day working with you when you’re in such a foul mood.’
‘My mood was fine until you started on at me. Now drink your coffee and be quiet.’
‘Bossy as well as snappy. I can see I’m in for a helluva day. I’m so glad I’m not stuck in a hotel all week with you.’
‘I never knew you could be so annoying.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah, you did; I’m the one big constant in your life. So for the sake of our excellent working relationship, tell me what Lover— I mean, Greg did at the weekend to upset you.’
Reluctantly, just to get Simon off her case, she’d explained. ‘It’s my fault,’ she’d said quickly, not wanting to appear as though she was whingeing, ‘I know it is. We spend so little time together, that when we do, I expect too much.’
‘Long-distance relationships aren’t the easiest,’ Simon had said, stirring his coffee. ‘But the guy needs to shape up, in my opinion; you deserve better. Tell him straight, Eliza, you’re a woman with needs that need satisfying. Some old bloke dozing on the sofa ain’t gonna cut the mustard. No, siree. You need to find someone your own age.’
‘A little louder,’ she’d hissed. ‘I don’t think they heard you four coaches up.’
Checking the screen – Serene’s flight had just landed – Eliza had since decided that for all Simon’s flippancy, he was basically saying the same as Mum: she had to make her feelings clearer to Greg. And if they did take their relationship to the next level and planned to be together more permanently, which one of them would move to be with the other? She really couldn’t imagine giving up her job, but if push came to shove, if it was that or lose Greg, she would do it.
Thinking about Greg, she dug out her iPhone to check her emails, to see if he’d sent her a message. He’d been on his way yesterday afternoon to San Francisco for a meeting with a new start-up company. To her delight, he’d been in touch. She read his email and smiled –
You know you’re in San Francisco when the stranger in the lift with you says he has eight body piercings. And none of them visible
.
Hope your weekend with your friend is going well. X
She put her mobile away, finished her croissant and thought how much she was looking forward to seeing Serene. It was a shame her friend’s visit would be so short, but it was very much a last-minute arrangement with Serene managing to squeeze a few days out of her busy itinerary to see Eliza on her way to Barcelona for a trade fair.
Her coffee finished, Eliza went to find herself a good vantage point from which she would be able to spot Serene’s arrival. She had just slung her bag over her shoulder when she did a double take. Telling herself she was imagining things, she stared across the concourse to where a steady stream of arrivals was spilling out, some of them looking around for a familiar face or a placard with their name written on it, the luckier ones meeting with an immediate hug and a kiss from a loved one. You are
so
imagining things, she told herself again.
But she wasn’t. It
was
him!
Almost as if her feet had registered this knowledge before her brain, she began moving towards him, dodging around people and trolleys laden with luggage, her gaze fixed on his face as he stared straight ahead, unaware of her and her joy at seeing him so unexpectedly. He must have had a last-minute change of schedule and was actually planning to surprise her. A pity she was going to spoil his surprise, but what were the odds of her actually being here in the airport when he flew in?
She was close enough now to call out his name and she was on the verge of doing so when a small child rushed forward. ‘Daddy!’ the little boy shouted, flinging himself at Greg’s legs with such force he took a step back. ‘Steady on there,’ Greg laughed, ‘or you’ll have us both over.’ He leant down and picked the boy up and kissed him. ‘Have you been good while I was away?’
The boy nodded solemnly, his eyes wide. He was impossibly cute. ‘I’ve been very good, haven’t I, Mummy?’
Eliza’s heart was pounding wildly, her mouth was dry, and a voice was screaming inside her head,
No, no, no, this can’t be happening!
She wrenched her gaze from Greg and looked at ‘Mummy’, who was now leaning in for a kiss and a hug. She was a pretty, petite woman with a glossy bob of dark brown hair, the same colour as the boy’s, and there next to her was a pushchair with a baby fast asleep in it.
Eliza felt physically sick. And having been rooted to the spot with shock and disbelief, her feet once again took charge and she backed away, a hand clasped to her mouth. Her eyes brimming with tears, she stumbled through the crowd, bashing blindly into people, not caring that they were tutting or giving her filthy looks.
She saw the sign for the Ladies’, burst through the door and locked herself into one of the cubicles. She retched and retched and when it was over, she flushed the toilet and leant back against the door clammy and weak with exhaustion. She squeezed her eyes shut. He was a father. And very probably a husband. Why? Why had he done it? All those lies. All those times they’d lain in bed together and he’d said he loved her. What had it all been about?
From somewhere she could hear the sound of a phone ringing. It took her a while to realize it was her mobile. She grabbed it from inside her bag and her immediate response was to hope it was Greg calling her. The thought was enough to make her sick all over again.
But it was Serene. Oh God, she’d forgotten all about her! ‘I’ve arrived,’ her friend said.
‘Sorry,’ she managed to say, ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
‘Fine, no worries.’
She rang off quickly and unlocked the cubicle door. She went to the row of basins and splashed water onto her face, summoning all her willpower to compose herself.
She was drying her face with a paper hand towel when the door opened and a child’s cheerful sing-songy voice said, ‘Will Daddy help me build my marble run when we get home?’
Eliza froze.
‘Perhaps not straight away,’ a woman’s voice replied, ‘but later on, when he’s had a little nap and recovered from his long flight, I’m sure he will.’ Leading him towards a cubicle, the woman – ‘Mummy’ – caught Eliza’s eye and smiled.
Eliza saw a flash of rings on her wedding ring finger and wanted to die.
Of shame and humiliation.
Of abject misery.
Unable to return the smile, she wrenched the door open and shot outside, terrified that if she stayed in there a second longer she would blurt out what a bastard Daddy was, that he was the very worst kind of man, that he didn’t deserve such a sweet little boy.
She turned the corner practically at a run and went slap into Greg who was minding the pushchair. He looked directly at her and his face dropped. Then the colour rose to his cheeks and the full extent of his horror was plainly visible. ‘Eliza,’ he said faintly.
‘Quite the happy family man, aren’t you?’ she said, glancing at the pushchair. ‘I’ve just seen your son and presumably your wife in the toilets.’
‘I— I . . .’
‘What? You can explain? Now this I have to hear.’ She suddenly felt scarily calm.
When he didn’t say anything, not even to deny the woman was his wife, just looked nervously over her shoulder, she felt a surge of powerful anger course through her. And knowing she would never get this opportunity again, she struck him hard on the cheek with the open palm of her hand. He never saw it coming and recoiled, and if it was possible, he looked even more shocked.
‘You vile, cheating, lying bastard,’ she said, aware that a couple of teenage lads a few yards away were getting a good eyeful.
‘Go on, love,’ one of them said, ‘whack him again and I’ll take a picture.’ The lad held up his mobile phone. Nothing was private any more. Not even a humiliating break-up.
