Staying at Daisy's (6 page)

The wedding party was in full swing as Daisy pushed through the double doors. Outside it had grown dark, but here in the ballroom the chandeliers blazed, candles flickered on the tables around the edge of the room, and the dancing had begun.

Unsurprisingly, Hector was already there, swinging the radiant bride around the dance floor and making her laugh with his usual lavish compliments. Watching Annabel’s face light up and her elaborate dress swirl around her ankles, Daisy told herself that Tara had done the right thing. If everyone went around calling off weddings willy-nilly, simply because the groom was an untrustworthy little shit, well, there wouldn’t be a lot of married people around.

The band began to play ‘In The Mood.’ Annabel was claimed by some walrus-mustachioed elderly relative and Hector promptly swept Annabel’s mother onto the floor. In her vast purple outfit she looked like a hot-air balloon, but a delighted and deeply flattered hot-air balloon. Within seconds she was giggling like an overexcited schoolgirl at Hector’s flirtatious remarks, her purple sequined shoes a glittering blur as she jitterbugged merrily away.

‘If you like,’ a voice offered in Daisy’s ear, ‘we could dance together while you’re making your groveling apologies to me.’

It was Dev Tyzack, the expression in his eyes faintly mocking, his tone conversational. No longer sporting jeans and a polo shirt, he now wore a well-cut dark suit. He had loosened his tie and there was a faint peach-tinted lipstick mark on the collar of his white shirt.

Oh well, get it over with, thought Daisy. Being forced to be polite to people who didn’t deserve it was all part of the joys of hotel management. At least after today she’d never have to see him again.

‘I’m sorry. How could I ever have doubted you? Your friend Dominic did nothing wrong and my chambermaid was entirely to blame for what happened earlier. Please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies,’ lied Daisy, shooting him the blandest of smiles.

‘Oh dear.’ He started to laugh. ‘That wasn’t very convincing. Surely you can do better than that.’

I could, thought Daisy, but I’m jolly well not going to.

Treating Dev Tyzack to another blatantly insincere smile, she said, ‘I meant every word.’

‘And I think you could do with a drink.’ Effortlessly catching the attention of a passing waitress, he presented Daisy with a flute of champagne.

It was a mocking gesture, clearly designed to tell her that it was time she loosened up.

As if.

‘No thanks.’ Daisy shook her head. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘Of course you are. Well, we could still have that dance.’

He was so enjoying having the upper hand.

‘I don’t think so.’ She nodded briefly in the direction of his neck. ‘You’ve got lipstick on your collar, by the way.’

Dev raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky you aren’t my wife, then.’

‘Very lucky.’ Very lucky for
me
, thought Daisy.

‘So are you married?’ He glanced with some amusement at her ringless left hand.

‘No.’

‘Incredible. Who’d have thought it? You know, if you relaxed more,’ Dev advised, ‘I’m sure you could find yourself a husband.’

Luckily, the cake-cutting knife had by this time gone back to the kitchen.

‘A husband?’ Daisy opened her eyes wide. ‘One of my very own, you mean? Or somebody’s else’s?’

He laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, I understand. Young girl running her dad’s hotel, desperate to prove to him that she’s up to the job. It can’t be easy having to admit that you made such a big mistake.’

Don’t retaliate,
don’t
retaliate…

‘It isn’t easy.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy saw that both the mother and sister of the bride were watching her. ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Tyzack. And as I said before, I can only apologize. Still, at least it’s ended well. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. I’m sure the bride and groom will be very happy.’

‘You don’t think any such thing,’ Dev Tyzack remarked cheerfully. ‘You think Dominic’s only marrying Annabel for her money.’

Daisy looked innocent. ‘Why, does she have some?’

‘Her father was in the underwear business, in quite a major way. When he died last year he left forty million pounds to be shared between his family. That’s the three of them—his wife, Jeannie, and Annabel.’

Forty million. Phew. That explained a lot. Crikey, forty
million
.

‘In that case,’ said Daisy, ‘it must be true love. What’s more,’ she went on sweetly, ‘I can’t imagine what you’re doing wasting time talking to me. You really should be over there dancing with Annabel’s sister.’

***

‘Come in, come in, look at you, you’re soaked through,’ Maggie chided, ushering Daisy in out of the driving, icy rain and through to the welcoming warmth of the living room. ‘Shift your big bottom, Tara, let the poor girl sit by the fire.’ Apologetically she added, ‘You’ll have to excuse her, Daisy, she’s a bit maudlin.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Teasingly, because she knew how much Tara hated it, Daisy reached over and ruffled her spiky, peroxide-blonde hair.

‘I’m not maudlin,’ Tara defended herself, batting Daisy’s hands away from her head. ‘Just mad. Pissed off with men in general and complete arseholes like Dominic in particular. I’ve decided to be a spinster all my life, like Maggie. A metaphorical spinster,’ she added, wagging her finger as Maggie opened her mouth to object. ‘OK, so you were married once, but that doesn’t count. I’m talking about now and next year and the next twenty years after that. You know, I used to feel sorry for you,’ Tara earnestly informed her aunt. ‘I used to think it was dead sad, you leading such a boring lonely life with nothing ever happening in it, but now I realize you have absolutely the right idea. And that’s it. From now on, I’m going to model myself on you.’

‘Blimey, how much wine has she had?’ Daisy seized the bottle of Montepulciano and held it up to the light. ‘I think I’d better drink the rest of this.’

‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m not totally bollocksed,’ Tara grumbled. ‘Not hog-whimpering drunk. Just… just… piglet-whimpering.’ God, why did whimpering have to be such a hard word to say?

‘And you have every right to be.’ Daisy gave Tara’s arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘But if you want to carry on living here in this cottage, I’d stop calling your brilliant and generous auntie a sad, lonely old spinster if I were you.’

Tara shook her head emphatically, slopping red wine down the front of her sweatshirt. Luckily, being her designated staying-in-and-getting maudlin sweatshirt, it was used to being slopped on.

‘No, no,
no
. I meant it in a nice way. It’s a compliment! Maggie has the loveliest life of anyone I know, and from now on I want to be just like her. I’m going to start making jam and sewing things and listening to
The Archers
and baking cakes.’

‘Fantastic.’ Daisy kept a straight face.

‘I’m going to give up nightclubs,’ Tara was warming to her theme, ‘and take up tapestry.’

‘Oh, good grief, now I need a drink too,’ exclaimed Maggie, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a chilled bottle of Frascati and two more glasses. ‘All this fuss over some silly ex-boyfriend you didn’t even care about. Daisy, red or white?’

‘But that’s the whole point,’ Tara argued. ‘If someone you don’t even care about can cause this much trouble, think what could happen if it was someone you were madly in love with! I’m telling you, I’m better off out of the whole thing. Go on then, I’ll try the white now you’ve opened it.’

‘You won’t be able to drink like this when you’re a professional spinster,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ll end up baking the tapestries and sewing the jam.’

‘How did the wedding go?’ Maggie sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire. ‘Everything run smoothly in the end?’

Daisy pulled a face. ‘Well, they got married.’

‘I don’t know why he’s bothering,’ Tara snorted. ‘He’ll only cheat on her.’

‘I could hazard a guess.’ Daisy’s tone was dry. ‘He’s probably bothering because she’s just inherited a few million. Her father was big in knickers, apparently.’

‘So she’s loaded. No wonder he married her. Oh well.’ Tara sighed and pulled the sleeves of her black sweatshirt over her knuckles. ‘That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose. At least nobody’s ever going to want to marry me for my money.’

‘Speaking of fathers.’ Eager to get Tara off the subject of Dominic, Maggie turned to Daisy. ‘How’s your dad? When I bumped into him outside the shop the other day he told me he’d done something to his knee.’

‘It’s fine again now.’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘When I left the reception he was still dancing away, charming the slingbacks off all the women there. Do you know, they were actually arguing over who was next in line for a dance? And the bride’s mother was foxtrotting around the room with him looking the picture of smugness. Honestly, she was like a whale wrapped up in a shiny purple shower curtain. Oh God,’ Daisy groaned at the thought, ‘and she’s a stinking rich widow, probably on the lookout for husband number two. Poor Dad, what chance does he have? By the time I get back she’ll have carted him off to Gretna Green.’

Laughing, Maggie topped up their glasses. ‘I’m sure your father can look after himself.’

‘She had an awfully determined glint in her eye. And huge long purple nails.’

‘Speaking of nails,’ Tara raised her head in order to rejoin the conversation, ‘why did that best man look familiar? I know I don’t know him, but I’m sure I’ve seen him before.’

‘Dev Tyzack,’ Daisy explained for Maggie’s benefit. ‘He used to play rugby for Bath and England. He retired last year. But I don’t see what he has to do with nails.’

‘He’s as hard as nails. As mean as nails. All sharp and pointed and horrible, and I’d love to hit him on the head with a hammer.’ At the sight of their blank faces, Tara shrugged and slumped back down on the sofa. ‘Oh well, it made sense to me.’

‘Dev Tyzack.’ Maggie was visibly impressed. ‘He is rather gorgeous.’

Tara curled her lip. ‘Shame he doesn’t have a personality to match.’ She looked at Daisy. ‘So did you have to apologize to him?’

‘I did. But I made sure he knew I didn’t mean a word of it.’

‘And he was OK about that?’ Tara raised her eyebrows. ‘I mean, was he nice?’

Daisy thought for a moment.

‘How can I put this?’ she said finally. ‘Uh…
no
.’

***

An hour later Daisy headed back to the hotel. The wedding party was winding up; already two taxis had passed her as she made her way along the High Street. The rain had eased off once more but the road was still wet and the temperature was dropping fast. Lucky old honeymooners, heading off for their three weeks in balmy St Lucia. Then again, Daisy thought, if marrying Dominic Cross-Calvert was the price you had to pay, she’d rather stay here freezing her doo-dahs off in Gloucestershire.

Except… was she being too hard on Dominic? What had he done really, other than find himself unexpectedly faced with an ex-girlfriend and, in the heat of the moment, get a bit carried away?

Then lie about it, of course, when he was caught out. Lie until he was blue in the face and swear he’d been the innocent party. Again, being brutally honest here, was there really anything so astonishing about that? About to marry Annabel, he’d simply panicked. And, who knew, maybe he wasn’t marrying her for her bank balance, maybe it was her irresistible personality he’d fallen in love with after all.

‘Yeeeuurrgh,’ Daisy spluttered as a third taxi shot past, careering through a huge puddle and sending a great wave of muddy, ice-cold water over her. Great, just what she needed; the cream wool coat Hector had bought her for Christmas was now a filthy, wet brown-stained cream wool coat. Furthermore, the soaking had been so comprehensive that even her face and hair were splashed with mud. What a brilliant end to a truly brilliant day.

Except it wasn’t the end. As she was wiping her eyes and face with her equally wet hands, Daisy found herself caught in the glare of yet another set of headlights. As the car reached her at the hotel’s gates, it slowed to a halt. The driver’s window of the sporty black Mercedes slid open to reveal Dev Tyzack grinning up at her. Next to him in the passenger seat sat Jeannie, looking as if all her birthdays had come at once.

‘What?’ Daisy was curt, hideously aware of the muddy water trickling down her cheeks.

‘You know, when I was little I always wanted to be the Milk Tray man in those TV ads for chocolate.’ Dev acted as though they were continuing a conversation that had been interrupted only moments earlier. ‘I had this fantasy about rappelling from tall buildings, swimming through crocodile-infested waters, and swinging across ravines to give the lady what she wanted more than anything else.’

Go on then, Daisy was hugely tempted to retort, better get a move on, because we all know what the lady in your passenger seat wants right now.

Aloud, she said, ‘Really? How completely fascinating.’

‘The bad news is, I’m all out of chocolates,’ said Dev Tyzack.

‘Gosh. Tragic.’

‘Dev.’ Next to him, Jeannie sniggered with delight. ‘Come on, close the window now. I’m
coooold
.’

‘Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.’ Still grinning, Dev passed a box of Kleenex through the open window.

Then, with a wink, he roared off.

‘This lot always amazes me,’ murmured Rocky as Daisy joined him behind the bar to help out. ‘I always thought writers were quiet, mousy types who wore tweed and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I just can’t believe they make so much noise and drink so much. I’m telling you, these booky people know how to put it away.’

‘They’re probably excited to have been let out for the day.’ Unlike Rocky, Daisy didn’t bother lowering her voice. There wasn’t a lot of point. The writers’ group who met at the hotel for lunch and gossip every three months were networking madly and shrieking with delight at seeing each other again. Being allowed to talk to real-life humans instead of having to write about pretend ones was—along with the pre-lunch gin and tonics—clearly going to their heads. ‘Don’t forget I’ve got an hour off at lunchtime,’ Daisy reminded him as she emptied bottles of Schweppes into a row of glasses.

‘One till two. I know.’ Clattering ice cubes into a tumbler, Rocky said hesitantly, ‘Are you… um… looking forward to it?’

Oh God, was that a crass thing to say? He didn’t have a clue. It was one of those weird situations not mentioned in the etiquette books. Not that he’d ever read an etiquette book, but he’d bet a year’s wages it wasn’t covered.

And now Daisy was looking at him as if he’d just asked permission to change into a tutu and pirouette the length of the bar.

‘I don’t know if I’m actually looking forward to it.’ She pulled a face. ‘Depends what this chap’s like, I suppose. He’s the one who was so keen to do this. I just don’t want him to be, well, disappointed.’

‘Kind of like a blind date,’ said Rocky, and immediately wished he hadn’t. How did he manage to come out with this stuff?

But Daisy was grinning.

‘You know what you are, don’t you? A hopeless case. Me meeting this chap at one o’clock is absolutely nothing like a blind date. From now on, Rocky, it’s probably better if you stick to doing what you do best. Serving drinks.’

‘I know.’ Rocky was humble, mentally apologizing for all he was worth. ‘Sorry.’

‘Anyway, apart from that, do I look all right?’

Enough of the apologies. He flicked a practiced eye over Daisy as she did a brief twirl next to him.

‘You look awful, a complete mess.’

***

Barney Usher was early. Far too early. The train from Manchester had reached Bristol Parkway bang on time, at eleven o’clock. He had jumped into a taxi and arrived in the village of Colworth at eleven twenty-three precisely.

Which meant he still had an hour and a half to kill. For Barney it felt like waking up at five thirty on Christmas morning, knowing that your parents had warned you on pain of death not to wake them before seven.

The fact that he was also feeling slightly sick had been partly due to the fact that for the last twenty-odd minutes he had been enclosed in a cab with his own aftershave. In his nervous state, he had slapped on far too much Kouros. It was a relief to climb out of the taxi and breathe in lungfuls of much-needed fresh air.

The taxi driver shot him a knowing smirk as Barney, shivering with a mixture of cold and anticipation, paid his fare and added a generous tip.

‘Meeting a young lady, are we?’

Barney, who had been waiting for more than a year for this day to arrive, replied emphatically, ‘Oh yes.’

But now that he was here at last, he could relax. The village was like no village he had ever seen before, and he couldn’t wait to explore every inch of it.

The meandering main street was bordered by dinky Cotswold stone cottages. A river ran through the center of the village and hills reared up on either side. To Barney, a born-and-bred city boy, everything looked unbelievably picturesque, like something out of a Disney film. It was hard to believe that real people actually lived here. But they did, they truly did. A real person was at this very moment emerging from her cottage a little way up the street, pushing one of those old people’s shopping bags on wheels and heading for the village store.

Barney wondered why shopping bags on wheels were always tartan.

Well, why?

But at the same time he marveled at how relaxed the old person was. Any pensioner hailing from his own neck of the woods in a rough part of Manchester would be scuttling down the road by now, in fear of being mugged and battered senseless by some psychopath or mad drug addict. This one, by contrast, was actually stopping to stroke a fat tortoiseshell cat on her neighbor’s stone wall.

It was a complete eye-opener. Barney could hardly believe it.

Imagine stopping to stroke a cat! It genuinely hadn’t occurred to this old dear that she might be on the verge of being set upon by thugs.

He took his time exploring the village, enjoying himself every inch of the way. There were three knickknacky, souvenir-type shops. A village store doubling as a post office. One church. One pub. And an astonishing number of tourists, seeing as it was still only eleven thirty on a Friday morning in a small Cotswold village miles from the nearest town.

Plus, of course, there was the hotel.

Barney had done his homework; he knew that Colworth was famous for being one of the most beautiful villages in England. But he was still knocked out by just how fantastic it managed to be on an icy-cold morning in late January.

Aware of just how over-the-top he had gone with his aftershave, he was glad of the opportunity to walk around the village dispersing some of it into the cold, crisp air. He wanted to make a good impression, after all. Not send Daisy Standish heaving and vomiting into the nearest flower bed.

Checking his watch for the hundredth time, Barney decided to pay a visit to the post office-cum-general store. He would buy a packet of chewing gum and maybe some postcards of the village to take back and show his mum.

As he approached the shop, the door clanged open and a girl maneuvered a pushchair with some difficulty out onto the pavement. Barney watched her struggle to get the wheels straight, but something was stopping them turning.

‘Sorry, I’m in your way,’ the girl panted, kicking the brake to make sure it was off. ‘Damn, the wheels are locked, I don’t know what’s going on here.’

She was young and pretty, with wide grey eyes and dark brown shoulder-length hair, cut in a bob. The baby, by contrast, was very blond with dazzling blue eyes that exactly matched his all-in-one snowsuit. Entertained by all the frantic to-ing and fro-ing and jiggling about, he waved his carton of Ribena and shrieked with delight.

‘It’s OK, I can see what’s happened.’ Crouching down, Barney followed the plaited length of wool from the baby’s discarded mittens and found it wound tightly round the nearside front wheel. ‘The wheel’s being garroted. Keep it still…’

The plaited string was muddy and oily. Carefully he began to disentangle it. As he bent his head lower to see what he was doing, Barney felt something cold drip onto the back of his neck.

‘Oh God, Freddie, stop it! Give me that,’ the girl exclaimed, and the baby let out a squeal of outrage. Above Barney’s head a swift battle ensued as the baby fought with his mother for custody of the Ribena carton. Barney flinched as a fountain of cold liquid sprayed his left cheek.

‘There, all done.’ Triumphantly he sat back on his heels and held up the freed length of mangled mitten string. The baby, making a grab for it, dropped the carton, watched the remains of his blackcurrant drink seep out into the gutter, and promptly began to howl.

‘You twit,’ the girl exclaimed, adding hurriedly to Barney, ‘Not you, I didn’t mean you! Oh no, and now you’re covered in Ribena, this is
so
embarrassing.’

She rummaged in the bag dangling from the handles of the pushchair and produced a packet of baby wipes. Barney rubbed one of the wipes over his face and the back of his neck. The baby, his screams doubling in volume, drummed his heels against the pushchair’s footrest, pointing in dismay at his upended Ribena carton.

‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Once Freddie gets started, there’s no stopping him,’ the girl apologized profusely. ‘All you did was help me out and now look at the state of you. I feel
terrible
.’

‘I’m fine, really,’ Barney assured her. ‘It doesn’t matter a bit. And he’s only upset because he’s lost his drink. Let me buy him another one and he’ll soon cheer up.’ He waggled his fingers at Freddie as he spoke. He liked children. When he crossed his eyes and pulled a face, Freddie was so entranced he actually stopped crying.

The next moment, remembering his motivation, he started again. Barney laughed.

‘God, you are so nice,’ the girl marveled. ‘I mean it. You’re a seriously nice person.’

‘I’ve got three nephews and four nieces,’ said Barney. ‘I’ve had plenty of practice with children. Now wait here, don’t go away.’

Two minutes later he emerged from the shop with two cartons of Ribena, a Milky Bar, a box of Black Magic, several postcards of Colworth, and three packets of Wrigleys Extra.

‘Oh, come on.’ The girl held up her hands in protest when she saw the Black Magic. ‘I definitely can’t let you buy me a box of chocolates.’

‘Actually, I didn’t get them for you,’ said Barney, and grinned when she flushed pink.

‘Sorry. Just ignore me, I’m an idiot.’

‘There you go. Don’t drink it all at once.’ Barney stuck the plastic straw through the top of the Ribena carton and placed it carefully between Freddie’s chubby hands. This earned him a gurgle of delight followed by a hefty burp.

‘He says thank you,’ the dark-haired girl solemnly explained.

‘I know. His hands are cold.’

‘Tell me about it.’ She rolled her eyes in good-natured despair. ‘He won’t keep his mittens on for two minutes.’

‘Anyway, he can have these later.’ Barney slipped the Milky Bar and the second carton of juice into the bag containing Freddie’s nappies and baby wipes.

‘Oh God, you’ve got Ribena on your shirt! It’s all soaked into the collar.’ She looked appalled.

Barney couldn’t see the dampness but he could feel it. He said, ‘Maybe we could sponge it out somehow.’ It was his best white shirt; he had bought it specially for today, from Next. It crossed his mind that this pretty girl, who must live here in the village, might offer to take him home with her in order to help with the sponging. ‘I’m meeting someone up at the hotel,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘I really wanted to look my best.’

‘I know what we can do.’ Mind-reading, sadly, didn’t appear to be one of the girl’s great strengths. ‘The pub at the end of the street will be open by now. We’ll go there and sort your shirt out in one of the loos. I’ll scrub the collar with hot water and you can dry it under the hot-air thingy.’

Barney forced himself not to be disappointed. Of course she couldn’t invite a total stranger into her home; for all she knew, he was an axe-wielding maniac.

Or,
or
, she might be embarrassed because her house was a tip, with washing-up in the sink and crumbs inches deep on the living-room carpet.

Then again, she could be married. Just because practically all the girls he knew back home were single mothers didn’t mean there weren’t some around who still did things the traditional way.

Stomach lurching, Barney glanced at her left hand. No rings, apart from a big swirly silver one on her thumb. Not married, then. Although she could still have a live-in boyfriend who might not take kindly to her bringing home unknown men in order to scrub purple stains out of their shirts.

Barney hoped she didn’t.

The pub, the ludicrously picturesque Hollybush Inn, opened early in order to serve coffee and overpriced croissants to the tourist trade. Thankfully nobody else—no ladies, at least—were in need of the loo. Having stripped off his navy sweater and the brand new Next shirt, Barney watched the dark-haired girl rinse the collar under the hot tap, douse it with liquid soap from the squidgy machine, and scrub it for all she was worth. Freddie, in his pushchair, was delighted to discover that by waving his fat little fingers in the air he could make hot air whoosh noisily out of the machine on the wall.

Fifteen minutes later, the shirt was dry.

‘We’ve cost them a fortune in hot air,’ said Barney. ‘The least we can do is buy a couple of coffees.’

Freddie’s mother looked with regret at her watch. ‘I can’t. We have to go. Dentist’s appointment.’ She pulled a face, then straightened his shirt collar. ‘Still, at least you’re sorted. You’ll make your good impression.’

She was right. Of course she was. For a few minutes he’d forgotten why he was here.

‘Thanks,’ said Barney.

Freddie’s mother broke into a broad smile. ‘My pleasure.’

***

Tara, halfway through her shift, was polishing tiles on autopilot. Her body might be working away energetically but her mind was elsewhere, going fretfully over and over last night’s horrendous discovery.

It had been awful, it really had. One minute she’d been draped across the sofa happily watching some drippy girl in
EastEnders
whining, ‘But why’s it always
me
wot gets dumped? Woss
wrong
wiv me, eh?’ The answer to this one being that whining drippy girls with lank hair and as much personality as a parsnip deserved to be treated appallingly and surely couldn’t expect to keep a boyfriend for longer than it took to boil an egg. The next moment, a weird creeping sensation Tara wasn’t immediately able to place had made its insidious way up the back of her neck.

With a jolt of horror, she had realized finally that the sensation was one of… familiarity.

EastEnders
forgotten, Tara had begun mentally counting back on her fingers, running through her list of boyfriends in reverse order.

Oh no, surely not, she wasn’t that much of a loser, was she?

But it was looking that way. Still counting, Tara reached the ages of fifteen and sixteen, her earlier dating years.

There was Trevor, who’d had the most extraordinary up-and-down voice—God, he’d practically yodeled when he talked. Then Dave, who’d had funny ears but a cute smile. And Andy Buckingham, who, despite being the star of the school football team, had had skinny legs and a sprouty mole on his cheek. None of them had been what you’d call perfect, yet—