Staying at Daisy's (20 page)

A family of tourists strolling around the hotel grounds caught Daisy’s eye as she glanced up from her computer screen. The sight of the children eating ice lollies bought from the village shop recalled last night’s dream with a jolt.

Good grief, until this moment she hadn’t even known she’d dreamt it, but now it came catapulting back to her, clear as day. She and Dev Tyzack had been sitting together on the front steps of the hotel, talking about… well, something or other, possibly rugby. And he’d been eating an ice cream—not a glamorous one, just the swirly synthetic whipped-up kind you got from an ice-cream van. It didn’t even have a flake in it.

But it was a hot day, and she’d longed for some of the ice cream. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. The next moment, Dev stopped what he was saying and offered it to her.

‘Want some?’

Oh, she did, she did. Overjoyed, she leaned towards him, steadying herself with her hand on his knee. She licked the ice cream and Dev smiled slightly before taking it back. He licked it too, which seemed wonderfully intimate. Seconds earlier, her mouth had been on the ice cream; now his mouth was there at the exact same spot. Almost like kissing by proxy.

And then he’d resumed his conversation, every now and again pausing to offer her another lick. They’d shared the whole ice cream, even the cone.

That was it. That had been the sum total of the dream. Feeling hot, Daisy reached for the tumbler of water on her desk and hastily glugged it down. Damn, the effects dreams could have on you. And how embarrassing; a psychiatrist would have a field day interpreting this one.

The phone rang and she grabbed it, glad of the diversion. God, and Josh had been lying asleep next to her the whole time! Sharing a bed with one man and inadvertently dreaming of another was almost like being unfaithful, and why on earth would she want to dream about Dev Tyzack anyway? She was perfectly happy with Josh.

Oops, still not concentrating. Realizing she’d forgotten to speak, Daisy hurriedly cleared her throat and, to make herself sound more efficient, said, ‘Good morning, Colworth Manor Hotel, Daisy MacLean speaking.’

‘You’re behind the times. It’s good afternoon,’ a male voice observed, and for a horrible moment Daisy thought it was Dev Tyzack.

Then, even horribler, she realized it
was
him. Oh God, out of her dreams and into her phone. This simply wasn’t fair.

‘Sorry. Working too hard to notice the time.’ Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was one o’clock. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well, I’ve got this ice cream here, melting faster than I can eat it. I wondered if you’d like to come and help me out.’

Dev didn’t actually say this,
obviously
. It was her imagination working on feverish overtime without any help whatsoever from the sensible part of her brain. Wherever that might be.

‘Just ringing with an update on the figures for the conference. It’s gone up by eight. That won’t be a problem, will it?’

They
won’t be a problem, thought Daisy. You’re the problem.

‘That’s absolutely fine.’ Smiling her best professional smile into the phone, she scribbled it down on a pad. ‘Eight more guests. Will they all be staying for lunch?’

‘Unless they walk out on me during the morning session. Yes, they’ll all want lunch.’

‘I’ll organize that. Anything else?’ Flick-flick, went the fountain pen between Daisy’s agitated fingers as she waggled it to and fro like a cigar. Flick-flick—oof, royal blue ink all over her shirt cuff
and
in her eye.

‘No, that’s it. I’ll see you on Friday.’

‘Friday?’ Scrabbling in her trouser pocket for a tissue, Daisy mopped her eye.

‘The conference,’ said Dev.

‘Oh yes… yes, of course.’ God, he must think her a moron.

‘One other thing. How did the meeting go last week?’ He paused. ‘With your husband.’

‘Oh, that.’ Despite the ink, Daisy smiled; so it wasn’t only women who were incurably nosy. ‘He’s not my husband.’

‘Well, ex. You looked pretty startled when you heard he’d turned up, so I guessed you weren’t still together.’

‘We were never married. Josh’s an ex-boyfriend from college, we haven’t seen each other for years.’ Ouch, her eye was beginning to smart. ‘He just said it as a joke.’

‘A joke. Right.’ Dev sounded as if he was about to say something else. Then, with a curt, ‘OK, see you on Friday,’ he hung up.

Daisy dabbed the scrunched-up tissue in the dregs of her water glass and pressed it to her stinging eye. Black mascara and blue ink ran down her cheek. The door swung open and Brenda, her secretary, said, ‘OK if I take my lunch break now and—oh my word, whatever’s happened?’ Shocked, she took a couple of steps into the office. ‘Daisy love, is something wrong?’

Daisy shook her head and tried to laugh, but her eye was now streaming for England. Grimacing like Quasimodo, she flapped her free hand to indicate that she was fine, really she was, not crying at all.

‘It’s just my eye, I got ink in it,’ Daisy explained, because Brenda wasn’t looking convinced, but her nose had by this time begun to run in sympathy and it came out as ‘I god ig iddit.’ Brenda, who was the emotional mother-hen type, looked as if she was about to burst into tears too.

‘Really, I promise you, I’b OK,’ Daisy snuffled insistently. ‘I’b dot
crying
.’

When the phone shrilled again she knew at once that it was Dev, ringing back to say whatever it was he’d been about to say earlier.

It was definitely, definitely Dev. And she couldn’t speak to him with Brenda in the room.

‘Lunch break, yep, off you go.’ Sniffing, Daisy flapped her hands energetically in the direction of the door as the phone continued to ring.

Brenda obediently went.

Right. OK. Dev.

Deep breath,
huge
tube-cleaning sniff, followed by another deep breath.

‘Good afternoon, Colworth Manor Hotel, Daisy MacLean speaking.’ She cooed the words into the phone, cleverly going through the usual spiel to show Dev she didn’t know it was him.

‘Crikey, you don’t half sound posh when you do that,’ jeered Tara. ‘Now look, you have to help me out here—actually, no, you have to help yourself out. Josh and I are at the Mall. He came over all romantic and decided to buy you some sexy underwear—which is a really nice idea, of course, in
theory—
but we’re here in La Senza and Josh is determined to buy this complete monstrosity of a bra and knicker set
with
matching garter belt. I mean, trust me, it is
hideous
,’ Tara bellowed into the phone. ‘Shiny red satin, gallons of purple lace—even I wouldn’t wear something this tacky—ouch, what was
that
for?’

Daisy heard signs of a frenzied tussle.

‘OK, sorry, sorry.’ Tara lowered her voice. ‘The manageress was right behind me. Josh thinks I was being a bit loud. Look, all I’m saying is this purple and red stuff isn’t really you, and there are heaps of other far nicer things here that you’d much prefer. I’ve been doing my best to explain to Josh but he won’t take a blind bit of notice, he’s convinced he knows best.’

‘Put him on,’ said Daisy.

‘God, your friend’s bossy,’ Josh grumbled. ‘I just wanted to get you something nice. If I buy it, you’ll wear it, won’t you?’ he pleaded, willing Daisy to be on his side.

Daisy had no intention of being on his side. She was just glad Tara had had the sense to ring her. Josh had bought her presents before.

‘Sweetheart, this is really kind of you. Are you holding the bra and knickers?’

‘Yes.’ Josh spoke with pride. ‘And the garter belt.’

‘OK. Now hang them back on the rail. And walk away from them. Choose something else that’s just one color all over, preferably not red, and don’t waste your money on a garter belt,’ said Daisy, ‘because I’ve never worn a garter belt in my life.’ She could practically hear the shock waves reverberating down the line.

‘But—’

‘Remember that lingerie set you bought me for my birthday that time?’

‘Of course I do. The yellow and orange satin one with the turquoise lace,’ Josh recalled with confidence. ‘You loved it! You wore it all the time.’

‘I didn’t love it,’ Daisy gently explained. ‘I just pretended to, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I wore it once and lived in fear of being run over by a bus. Sweetheart, it was a horrible lingerie set. Let’s be honest here, choosing underwear isn’t your forte. Why don’t you let Tara help you pick something out?’ Tara’s sartorial taste might veer towards the dodgy, but compared with Josh she was
Vogue
on legs.

‘You lied to me.’ Josh sounded shocked.

‘I told you, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’

‘What about hurting them now?’

‘You’re a big boy now. Old enough to cope.’

‘I’m not,’ said Josh. ‘Actually, I’m starting to cry. Tara, do you have a tissue? Daisy’s being horrid, she’s making me cry.’

‘I’m saving you from a lifetime of disastrous present buying.’ Daisy grinned, picturing the scene in La Senza.

‘And I’m going to find you something really cheap as a punishment. Big old granny knickers, that’s what you’re getting,’ said Josh. ‘What size do you take anyway, eighteen or twenty?’

The sun had unexpectedly come out as Maggie was making her way around Bath. In an effort to brighten her mood, having first got the boring cushion-making essentials out of the way, she toured the shops looking for something to catch her eye—a new sweater, maybe, a framed print, or even a piece of jewelry. Nothing expensive, just cheap and cheerful. Well, it was worth a try, wasn’t it? Retail therapy always seemed to work for Tara.

And, against all the odds, it seemed to be doing the trick. By three o’clock Maggie had actually bought quite a lot. An olive-green silk shirt and a brass candelabra in Oxfam—six pounds altogether, which was a
bargain—
a Victorian hatbox from a junk shop in Walcot Street, a new pair of jeans from Gap because her old ones had disintegrated to the point of indecency, and a bag of paperbacks from the second-hand bookshop behind the Octagon.

In fact, what with the cushion pads, she was carrying a fair few bags. Glancing at her reflection in a shop window, Maggie was struck by her uncanny resemblance to a packhorse. As the temperature outside had risen, she had removed both her grey fleece and navy jersey and tied them round her hips. Now, in just a black long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, she was still hot. Her bangs were sticking to her forehead and her cheeks were pink. Definitely time to head back to the car before her arms dropped off.

Turning the corner, she spotted a Burger King ahead. When her stomach emitted a furious growl, Maggie realized for the first time how hungry she was. Crikey, starving in fact. And she hadn’t had a burger for months.

Oh, the blissful miracle of fast food. Within two minutes Maggie found herself wandering along Milsom Street biting greedily into a flame-grilled double Rodeo Burger with bacon and barbecue sauce and melted cheese. OK, maybe it wasn’t haute cuisine, but when you were in the mood, a good Rodeo Burger was hard to beat.

The Tante Elise was up ahead, one of Bath’s smartest restaurants, with its navy and cream frontage and sweet little bay trees in glossy dark blue pots flanking the entrance. Far too posh and restrained to have its name emblazoned above the restaurant, a small oval brass plaque on the door was all this establishment needed to announce to its discerning clientele that this was, indeed, the Tante Elise.

Maggie wondered how the customers inside would react if she loitered on the pavement peering at them through the darkened glass with her mouth full of Rodeo Burger. They’d be horrified, probably, and a waiter would be sent out to shoo her away.

Never mind, her arms were aching too much to hang around a minute longer than necessary. Pausing to adjust her grip on the carrier bag of paperbacks, Maggie estimated that she was less than five hundred meters from the car park in James Street. Three or four minutes of brisk walking and the muscle-wrenching torture would be over.

The door opened as she drew level with the restaurant, and Hector emerged. With Paula Penhaligon.

For a moment Maggie couldn’t breathe. Hector hadn’t spotted her yet but any second now he would turn around. And there was nowhere to hide, no way she could escape.

Paula Penhaligon was wearing a cream wool dress with a bronze pashmina artistically draped around her shoulders. Bronze high-heeled shoes. Shimmery russet hair. Expensive watch, expensive jewelry, expensive… everything. Hector was looking urbane in a dark suit. Maggie briefly considered backing into the road and crouching behind a parked car, but knowing her luck she’d only be hit by a lorry.

‘Maggie! Good heavens, this is a surprise,’ Hector exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

Maggie wondered what he thought she was doing here. Turning up for a spot of lunch at Tante Elise, perhaps? Or, oh God, did he think she was
stalking
him?

She stood there, rooted to the spot, desperately struggling to chew and swallow the mouthful of Rodeo Burger that was refusing to go down. What must she look like, with her Oxfam bags, her Tesco carrier bulging with second-hand paperbacks, and all the other bags she’d accumulated during the last couple of hours?

‘I’ve been… umph, shopping.’ Mercifully, she managed to swallow the wodge of burger in her mouth. The rest of it, protruding from its wrapper, was still in her left hand.

‘Shopping?
Marvelous
,’ Hector declared, with a little too much enthusiasm. ‘Migraine all gone?’

Was he feeling guilty? Maggie wondered if it would even occur to him to do so. Lying to your wife or girlfriend, standing them up and then getting caught with another woman, was the kind of thing that might provoke guilt. But canceling an appointment with the friendly neighborhood hooker was hardly in the same league. She simply wasn’t that important.

Aloud she mumbled, ‘Migraine’s gone.’

‘This is Maggie, she lives in the village.’ Hector turned to Paula Penhaligon. ‘Her niece is one of the chambermaids at the hotel.’

Paula’s smile was perfunctory; she was clearly more interested in unfastening her neat leather clutch bag and locating her sunglasses. Christian Dior, Maggie noted with a stab of envy. What else?

‘We’ve just had lunch here,’ Hector carried on, determined to appear friendly.

Oh really? I thought you’d probably popped in to use their loo.

Maggie kept this retort to herself. She was feeling scruffy and on the defensive. Why couldn’t she have elegant hair like Paula Penhaligon, and gorgeous clothes and dinky size-three feet in wafer-thin high heels?

‘Nice food?’ Lame, but what else could she say?

‘Pretty good, pretty good.’ Hector was rubbing his hands together as if he was cold.

Paula Penhaligon said swiftly, ‘Right then, shall we make a move?’

Hector pulled a mock dubious face at Maggie. ‘We’re going shopping.’

Maggie considered recommending the Oxfam shop. She gave herself a mental shake. ‘And I must get back to the car. Enjoy yourselves.’

Paula, her left hand resting on Hector’s sleeve, flashed her a be-nice-to-the-bag-lady smile. ‘Oh, we will.’

Don’t
smile
at me like that, Maggie longed to bellow, I can look better than this if I want to—in fact you should have seen me last night, all dressed up to see Hector! I didn’t have a mouth crammed with Rodeo Burger then, you know!

Frustrated, she humped the straining Tesco carrier bag up into the crook of her arm to stop the handles cutting into her fingers.

The heavy bag, stretched beyond endurance, promptly split, sending an avalanche of paperbacks crashing to the ground.

Hector was there in a flash, helping her retrieve them. Paula Penhaligon, keeping well back, glanced briefly at the scattered books then, pityingly, at Maggie.

‘They’re not mine. I bought them for my next-door neighbor.’ Maggie was scarlet with shame even though it was the truth. ‘Elsie’s eighty-three, she doesn’t get out much. She’s mad about these kind of books. I bought this one for me,’ she added in slight desperation, waving a battered John Grisham. ‘Legal thrillers, that’s what I like.’

Together, she and Hector bundled the paperbacks into the Oxfam bag along with the olive-green shirt and candelabra. Hector and Paula then headed off, arm in arm, in the direction of the exclusive shops. Maggie, making her way back to the car park, wondered why she’d even bothered to try and explain to them that she really didn’t sit at home devouring every novel Barbara Cartland had ever written, dreaming hopelessly of sardonic flashing-eyed heroes and spirited young virgins.

Had Barbara ever written one called
The Hotel Owner And His Whore
?

No, thought not.

***

Solemnly, Josh handed over the gift-wrapped parcel with silver helium balloons bobbing above it.

‘They’re beautiful. Just what I wanted.’ Having torn open the wrapping paper and lifted out the beige thermal pants, Daisy declared, ‘This is so romantic. And extra large too.’ She kissed him. ‘You are thoughtful.’

‘To match your extra large bottom,’ said Josh, giving her neat backside an affectionate pat. ‘Speaking of which, I’m starving. Any doughnuts left?’

‘He’s bought you a real present as well,’ Tara assured Daisy while Josh was out of earshot in the kitchen. ‘I chose it. A dark-blue silk camisole top and knickers. You’ll love them.’

‘I love these.’ Grinning, Daisy waggled the thermal pants at her. ‘It’s such a Josh thing to do. Steven would never have dreamt of buying me something like this, just as a joke.’

She meant it, Tara realized. Josh was good for Daisy. He’d made her laugh again, put the sparkle back into her eyes.

‘You make a great couple,’ she said honestly. ‘I know I had my doubts at first, but I can really see it now. He’s brilliant.’ God knows she didn’t want to see her best friend disappear off to Florida, but if anyone deserved a happy ending, it was Daisy.

‘He’s exactly,
exactly
what I need.’ Daisy looked smug. ‘And it looks like Dad’s found someone he’s interested in too.’ She nodded through the window as Hector’s car pulled up outside with Paula Penhaligon in the passenger seat. Then she swung back round to face Tara. ‘Now all we have to do is get you sorted. George Clooney? Johnny Depp? Name your man and leave it to me. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.’

Inwardly Tara flinched. Daisy was her best friend in the world and she hated not being able to tell her everything.

‘Either. I’m not fussy.’ Tara feigned a yawn.

The only man she wanted to name was Dominic, and not even Daisy could sort that out.

What’s more, she would hit the roof.