Maximum Exposure (21 page)

Chapter Three

The tale was simple but tragic. Eric Irvine, in a fit of profound irritation at some repeated failure to communicate his meaning to his wife, had grown increasingly violent. Janet, frightened and unable to cope, had phoned her best friend and strongest support, Kath Gillies. Daisy gleaned these facts when, barely twenty minutes later, she pushed open the front door to find her mother still sobbing into a sheaf of sodden tissues.

‘You weren’t around, Daisy, I did try to reach you, so I phoned Kath and asked if she could come over. She said she’d be round at once, but she didn’t arrive. It’s only a ten-minute drive from their place and I thought she must have been held up by something so I waited half an hour then called again. Martin answered and told me that she’d left right after I’d called.’

She was shaking and there wasn’t a vestige of colour in her face. Her father, who must have taken in the news, sat subdued and silent in his chair next to the fire. His face seemed to be sagging even more than usual and his eyes were dull.

‘It’s all right, Mum, take it easy. Here,’ Daisy quickly fixed her mother a small brandy and handed it to her.

Janet took a small sip, spluttered, and found in the neat spirits the strength to go on. ‘I started to get really worried. So did Martin. Then just as I was on the phone, I could hear his doorbell ring. He put the phone down but I could hear voices in the background, then there was this terrible cry, like a wounded bear or something and I was shouting down the phone, “Martin! Martin! Martin! What’s happened? Tell me!”’

The brandy in the little glass was being shaken so much that it threatened to swill over the rim so Daisy eased it out of her mother’s quivering hands and set it back down on the side table.

‘I was just going to put the phone down and get in your father’s car and drive round myself, never mind having to leave your father alone for half an hour, when Ben came on the phone.’

Daisy could hear Ben’s steady voice in her head, picture his dark burnt-sugar eyes. The impressions were so strong that she felt almost as if he was in the room with her. Her hand went up to her heart in a swift, involuntary movement. It was as if she was connecting to him in some invisible way, feeling his pain. ‘What? What did he say, Mum?’

The tears were flowing freely down Janet’s face. Daisy watched numbly as small rivers formed on the dry, papery cheeks and glistened in the harsh glare of the overhead light. When she spoke, her mother’s voice was thick, choking, stifled, almost unrecognisable. ‘He said, “Janet? It’s the police.”’ She gasped for air then stuttered, ‘“There’s … there’s been an accident. It looks as though it might have been caused by a young lad racing round the blind corner down near Mains village, though it’s too early to say. It’s bad news, I’m afraid.”’

Now she was sobbing and her next words were incoherent. From the corner of the room, came a deep, guttural noise. For a minute, Daisy couldn’t work out what it was. Then she realised.

It was her father, weeping.

There are times when you feel as though you are holding the fabric of your life together with the flimsiest of threads; when the smallest of tugs in any direction will rend it apart to reveal the rawness of the skin beneath. Yet you have to cling to the hope that the stitches will hold, that somehow you will walk through the dark days with your delicate covering intact so that somehow, sometime, on the far side, you will be able to mend the rips and slowly, carefully, patch together a new garment to wear into the future.

That week, that was how Daisy felt. Each day was an agony. Janet could do nothing but go over and over and over the incident, full of remorse and self-condemnation. ‘I shouldn’t have called her. I should have managed myself.’

Nothing Daisy could say seemed to ease her guilt. Her mother was like the walking dead, barely functioning. She spent a fair part of each day in tears. She needed to recreate her remorse again and again, desperately seeking a way through it. Only time would heal that pain, Daisy’s instinct told her, but in the meantime she had to take on most of the caring, cooking, cleaning, and shopping and many other chores that were necessary to get her parents through the day. On top of it all, she carried her own guilt. If she’d had her phone on … if she’d checked back earlier … if she hadn’t been so self centred and headed out in the first place. She carried out her chores like an automaton, the thoughts circling in her head. If only she had … if only she hadn’t –

It was pointless. The fact is, she had gone out. She hadn’t had her mobile on. If her mother had been more capable, she could have dealt with the situation without having to call on Kath. It had been sheer bad timing that Kath had been driving round that blind corner at the exact moment that the boy racer had swerved into the centre of the road from the other direction.

She spoke to Ben, briefly, the day after the accident, a short, formal conversation. She expressed her sorrow, wished it could be different. Was there anything she could do and when was the funeral? Ben sounded strained but his voice was level. Thank you. No, nothing. The funeral is on Tuesday next week, in St Andrews Church. She left it at that for now. For the moment every ounce of energy she had was being poured into the many things she had to do at Laurel Lane.

To compound the evils of the week, Daisy found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time on the Saturday morning. Leaving her mother in charge for a brief hour, she allowed herself a quick trawl round the shops on the High Street for something suitable to wear for the funeral. She was just ten yards from the car when a wedding party emerged from the Registry Office. It was Jack Hedderwick and Iris Swithinbank.
Iris Hedderwick
now, she supposed.

She stopped dead. A small crowd had gathered to watch the bride emerge. She’d be more noticeable if she moved than if she stayed where she was, almost hidden behind a large woman and her equally obese friend. Iris looked radiant. As for Jack – Daisy scanned her erstwhile lover dispassionately. She felt detached from the scene, as if she were watching a movie screen rather than real life. Jack looked just as attractive as he had on the day she’d met him but she felt absolutely nothing for him. Her heart felt empty, scoured out, raw but at the same time numb, past pain. In the scale of things, in the face of Kath’s death, the wedding was insignificant. Perhaps her embarrassment the night she’d attempted to throw herself back at Jack had acted like a weed-killer, eradicating the roots of her misplaced feelings. Perhaps distance had put things in perspective. Maybe the delightful hours spent making love with Majik had liberated her from the shackles of the past, or maybe Ben’s declaration of his feelings for her had sown itself somewhere in her being and was germinating under the surface, simply waiting for sunshine.

There were cheers and flashbulbs and the first drops of rain from a sky that threatened much more. In front of her, the large women started to move off. Keeping pace with them on the kerb side, she successfully avoided being spotted. Once, she would have killed to be by Jack’s side, in this place. It had taken a great length of time, but at last she could say with complete honesty that she was glad she wasn’t.

‘Thank you for your kind wishes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve been very kind. Everyone has been.’

‘I’m so pleased you came. Thank you.’

Daisy could hear the phrases repeated over and over in front of her as she waited to leave the church after the funeral. Martin Gillies, his hair now pure white, looked gaunt, but managed to smile at every mourner who had turned out – and the large church had been full. By his side stood Ben. She’d seen him earlier, of course. He’d gone to the lectern and given a speech of such bravery and such humour that it had broken her heart.

‘My mother –’ his voice cracked a fraction before he managed to gather himself and go on. ‘My mother would have loved to be here. She always enjoyed a good party.’

She didn’t hear much after that, just saw the head held high and a brightness in the eyes that looked most unnatural. He was balancing, she thought, on the edge of a knife.

Her father was there, in a wheelchair, his head lolling to the side, his mouth drooping. Janet, getting through the days with the aid of sedatives and sleeping pills, was robotic. Daisy waited until the church was almost empty before steering them to the door.

‘So kind of you to come.’

Hearing Martin’s words, Janet buckled and started to collapse. He caught her, put a firm hand under her elbow, pulled her close. Daisy watched as her mother clung to him for support. She and her mother, she thought, they’d always allowed themselves to be subordinated by her father’s rough will. She looked at the scene around her. There was a new story now and the people told it through the way they were arranged – Martin clinging to Janet. Her father, slack-limbed and helpless. Ben, his feet planted wide to give himself the strongest possible base, his usual good colour drained by exhaustion. They were all victims now.

‘Daisy.’

One word. One word, spoken so softly that she barely caught it. One word that held a plea she knew he would never express in any other way. Turning, she slipped her arm round his waist and put her head against his chest. They were in a long tunnel and she saw no light at the end of it. Ben’s heart was beating sluggishly. She could feel the thud, thud, thud of it against her ear and wondered, wretchedly, if he was warm enough on this chill November day in his thin suit and crisp white shirt.

His arms rose hesitantly and locked round her. In the dark of the tunnel, a small glow flickered.

Chapter Four

Ben was not a man given to high drama. In the course of his thirty-two years he’d had his share of ups and downs, of jobs done well, of failures, of girls won and lost, of pride swollen or battered, of feelings bruised, and great times enjoyed. For the most part, he coasted through it all, learned whatever lessons he could, and moved on, secure in his conviction that whatever cards life dealt him, he could handle. He was not ambitious, but he was confident in his abilities. Girlfriends had been plentiful enough to keep him happy.

Falling for Daisy Irvine had been a mistake. He understood that now. He’d been chasing a dream, probably on the rebound from Martina. He had allowed something about her familiarity, from their childhood friendship, to draw him in and make him feel as if she was the right woman for him. It had all been illusory. He’d travelled half across Europe, laid himself open for her, and he’d been knocked back. Well, it was done. Over before it had started. When she’d put her arms round him after the funeral service, he understood that there had been nothing in the least bit romantic about the gesture.

To be frank, Ben thought as he sat in his room on the third floor of his parents’ home – his
father’s
home – he couldn’t cope with it now if she did harbour feelings for him because for the first time in his life, Ben felt as if he had been dealt a hand that was unplayable. In the cold, clear light of a mid-November day, he could see almost as far as the sea. Perhaps he should put on his boots and walk. Walking was about the only thing that brought him any relief at the moment. He found himself walking about ten or twelve miles a day. He could feel the flesh melting off him. Bones he’d never known he had were beginning to appear. He was making an acquaintance with his own skeleton. The idea fascinated him for a moment, then passed. Thinking about skeletons was too difficult.

He stood, stretched, turned round, ruffled his hands through his hair. He should stay in and work. His laptop sat on the small desk he’d placed under the window, where Nefertiti used to stand. He missed Nef. When he’d gifted the dummy to Lizzie, he’d been on the move, full of optimism about what lay in front of him. It had been the right thing to do. Yet she would have been a comforting presence here now, unanswering, uncritical, just
there
. His mother had loved to dress her.

His mother.

Ben stared at the screen of the laptop. He had two articles to complete and he had to make up his mind about whether to take on another commission from the travel publisher. Russia. A couple of weeks ago, he’d have leapt at the opportunity, but now he had to think about his father. In any case, since the accident, making any kind of decision was completely beyond the bounds of possibility. All he could see was mangled metal and sightless eyes. The swift brutality of it haunted him. It was so unjust. His mother had been a good person, a warm, loving, funny, generous person who had lost her life trying to help someone else.

He felt adrift. His hands went through his hair again, leaving it standing on end in a mad way. He slumped down again on his chair and buried his face in his hands. He felt the loss of his mother not like a dull ache but like a searing pain. Memories crowded in. Memories from far back – a face close to his, smiling, mouthing sweet babyish endearments; the perfume from a sweater as his face pressed into her chest in the midst of some playful hug; playing cricket in the garden, his mother running and laughing; her love of gossip, her many kindnesses; the sound of her laughter, the laughter he would never hear again.

He couldn’t bear it.

‘Ben?’ There was a knocking at his door. His father’s voice barely penetrated into his torpid brain. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

He swung round on his chair, his mind about a minute behind the words. He had to work. Things were waiting for his attention. Articles. Decisions. He had to walk. His body needed him to walk. He had to write. That was what he did. He was a writer. But he had to walk something out of his system. Work. Write. Walk. Work. Write. Walk. What? What did he have to do? A visitor? Finally, the word snaked past his defence system. He stood up. His jeans slipped downwards, loose around his hips. He tugged vaguely at them as the door opened.

‘Hi Ben.’ Daisy Irvine stood in a shaft of sunshine, her dark hair shot with rust as the light sparked off it. She was steady and sweet and dearly familiar and Ben felt a rush of feeling flood into what a second before had been an arid desert. But he couldn’t move.

‘Are you hugging?’

He heard the words, little more than a whisper, and found his lips framing the response. ‘Are you asking?’

‘I’m asking.’

‘Then I’m hugging.’

It wasn’t sudden passion. She wasn’t declaring undying love for him. She wasn’t, Ben realised, offering anything other than friendship – but that, for now, was enough. More than enough. It was the dearest, most precious thing she could have given him. Love? He couldn’t have dealt with that. He wouldn’t have trusted it. He wouldn’t have had any faith in his own feelings, lying as they did in the shadow of death.

The hug went on a long time. Minutes. He was grateful, to the core of his being, for her presence there, for the solid
realness
of her.

At length they moved apart and sat, as they had once before, on the floor.

‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘I’m not eating much. Plus, I’m walking a lot.’

‘How’s Martin? I thought he looked good, considering.’

Ben and his father didn’t talk about Kath. It was a man thing, he supposed. They drank together a lot. They talked about other matters, like the football and whether Martin should enter the competition at his golf club or not and the prospects for Scotland in the Six Nations rugby. They marvelled at how quickly the kitchen got into disarray and puzzled at the dial of the washing machine and were astonished when the washing came out blue. It had never happened before. They didn’t think to make a shopping list before heading to the supermarket and found they had forgotten several essentials but had a great range of bread to choose from – bread that would turn green long before they were able to eat it all. ‘Considering. I suppose. Yes.’

‘Are you working?’ She nodded toward his laptop.

‘Trying. I’m not –’ he hesitated, then confessed, ‘My mind doesn’t seem to be very focused. I keep thinking about –’ It seemed like a weakness to say it.

Daisy finished for him, gently, ‘Thinking about your mother. It’s all right, Ben. It’s not bad to feel bad. We all mourn her, but you were a
part
of her. She made you, she loved you in a way no one else ever has or ever will.’

The lump in Ben’s chest felt like lead, heavy and poisonous.

‘You’ll always think about her. She’ll never leave you, but in time it won’t hurt and you’ll only remember the good times, not the times you argued or got cross with each other or said things to each other you didn’t mean to say.’

He stared at her. How did she know?

‘So what’s your deadline?’

His mind was drifting everywhere – to a row he’d had with his mother when they’d told him the family was moving to London; to how his father was coping and whether he should be finding strength from somewhere to give him more support; to the feature he was trying to write on an alternative therapy he’d been researching; to Daisy and her amazing intuition.

‘Ben? Deadline?’ She reached forward and took his hand in hers. He liked the feel of her hand. It was warm and small and very smooth. He curled his fingers round her palm.

‘Deadline? Yesterday, I think.’

‘And how’s it going?’

‘It’s not really going at all. I’ve done all the research, I just have to pull it together.’

‘You’ll do it though.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘
Ben.
This is your job. Your livelihood. You can’t let it slip. You mustn’t. You have to separate the grief part of your life from the work part.’

‘Is that possible?’

She looked at him squarely. ‘Yes. I’ve done it. And if I can do it, you can too.’

He stared at her. How did he know what she’d been through? Dizzy Dais, with her sad, unrequited passion for Jack Hedderwick. He thought she’d been running away when she’d fled to Nice, but she must have understood that she was not fleeing, she was simply seeking a cure, because right now, in the face of his inexpressible weakness, she seemed to him like a tower of strength.

‘Can’t you?’ she repeated, giving the hand entwined with his a gentle shake.

His mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. ‘I can try,’ he said.