Staying at Daisy's (9 page)

Maggie’s trysts with Hector MacLean were the highlight of her week. For over eighteen months now, their secret meetings had been what she looked forward to with frantic, almost teenage anticipation—fluttery stomach, feeling sick with excitement, the works. And, thanks to mobile phones and text messaging, nobody else was any the wiser.

Which suited them both, down to the ground.

Hector, of course, had no idea how much he really meant to her, and Maggie worked hard to make sure he never would find out. As far as he was concerned, theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement. He enjoyed meeting her for pleasurable, uncomplicated sex without the hassle of an emotional relationship. And in return he paid her, enabling her to enjoy a better lifestyle than she would otherwise have been able to afford.

Maggie had agonized endlessly, in the early months, over the money. She would have much preferred not to accept it. But any mention of this had brought a categorical response from Hector. If she refused to accept payment, their arrangement would have to end. It wasn’t fair on her, he explained; he couldn’t expect any woman to sleep with him when there was no relationship between them. And a relationship—with anyone—was the last thing he needed. Since his beloved wife’s death, Hector had become one of Gloucestershire’s most sought-after singles. He had been chased and propositioned by startlingly shameless women, both married and single themselves.

It had all happened quite out of the blue, one summer’s night at a party in the grounds of the hotel.

‘I don’t need the hassle,’ Hector had confided to Maggie. ‘I don’t want a new woman in my life and, God help me, I can’t imagine anything more horrible than getting into the dating scene again. The only thing I miss is sex.’

There had been a fair amount of alcohol consumed. If Maggie hadn’t been tipsy she would never have said what she did. But with several glasses of excellent wine inside her, it had been incredibly easy to rest a hand lightly on his arm and murmur, ‘You need someone trustworthy and discreet.’

Then she had paused significantly, and their eyes had met. Well, why not? Hector was a lovely man. She’d always liked him.

Hector had remained motionless for several seconds.

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

Touched by the uncertainty in his voice, she had nodded and smiled.

And that was how it had begun. They had slipped away from the party, unnoticed. Falling into bed with Hector had been a revelation.

Afterwards, he had insisted on giving her the money. By this time already half in love with him, Maggie had been forced to agree that it made a certain kind of sense. And now, all these months later, it made more sense than ever. If she were to put her foot down and refuse any more of Hector’s money, she knew he would stop seeing her, because he was a
gentleman
, for crying out loud.

A gentleman with
principles
.

She knew what she should do, of course. Find herself another man. Except she didn’t want anyone else. Only Hector.

So this had been Maggie’s dilemma. Which should she choose? Delicious, illicit sex with a man who meant the world to her
and
paid her for it? Or no sex and no money?

Let’s face it, there really was no contest.

***

‘Bloody hell, who’s that?’ sighed Hector. They had only just reached Maggie’s bedroom when the doorbell began to ring downstairs.

‘I don’t know. I’m not expecting anyone.’ The only person Maggie had been expecting was Hector. They stood and stared at each other, willing whoever it was on the doorstep to give in gracefully, slope off, and leave them to it.

Brrrrinnnggg.

‘God, I hate this kind of thing,’ Maggie whispered. ‘It’s like being in a Brian Rix farce. Do I just pretend I’m not here, or bundle you into the wardrobe, or what?’

Hector grinned. ‘Not wildly keen on the wardrobe idea.’

‘OK. Just wait here.’ Maggie slid out of the bedroom and crossed the landing avoiding the creaky floorboards. Crouching down as she entered Tara’s messy bedroom, she approached the window sniper-style.

Bugger,
bugger
. Maggie gripped the windowsill in frustration when she saw the distinctive red and white van parked outside the cottage.

This was so unfair. When she’d rung Carver’s Superstore in Bristol to complain about her washing machine breaking down, they had hemmed and hawed and finally arranged to send out a repair man on Monday afternoon. They weren’t able to specify a time, naturally, but it would definitely be between two and six o’clock.

Maggie checked her watch. Eleven fifty-three. How bloody, bloody typical.

Well, sod it. He was too early and it simply wasn’t convenient. In fact it was outrageously inconvenient, and she jolly well wasn’t going to let him in.

Except if she told him this, there was always the possibility that the repairman might take umbrage, come over all temperamental, and storm off in a big stroppy huff. Far simpler to quietly retreat from the window and pretend to be out.

‘Shit!’ bawled Maggie, her inconspicuous withdrawal scuppered by the object on the floor behind her. The upturned post of Tara’s earring buried itself in her bare foot. Lurching to one side—the pain was
acute—
Maggie grabbed the bookcase next to her and promptly tipped it over. Tara’s selection of blockbusters—even gaudier than her earrings—crashed to the floor. She couldn’t have made more noise if she’d set off a volley of fireworks.

Gasping with the pain and pulling the earring out of her foot, Maggie hobbled back over to the window.

So much for silent withdrawal.

Oh, what a surprise, and there was the repairman standing back on the pavement in order to be able to peer up at her. Possibly the tallest, skinniest repairman Maggie had ever seen.

Now he was waving enthusiastically and pointing to the identity tag pinned to his chest. As if the red and white Carver’s van wasn’t giveaway enough.

Maggie sighed and opened the window.

‘Mrs Donovan? Phew, that’s a relief! For a minute there I thought you were out. Gerald Porter.’ He tapped his identity tag with pride. ‘I’ve come to take a look at your washing machine.’

‘You’re too early,’ Maggie called down. ‘They told me you’d be here this afternoon, between two and six.’

‘No, no, you’re booked in for a morning appointment.’ Gerald consulted his clipboard. ‘Between eight and twelve.’

Maggie clutched the edges of the windowsill. ‘The girl said between two and six. She definitely said that.’

‘Did she? I can’t see how. Still, never mind. I’m here now,’ Gerald announced cheerfully. ‘And you’re here now. So why don’t I just come in?’

He looked like Popeye without the muscles.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not convenient,’ said Maggie. ‘In fact it’s very…’ she searched for the perfect word, ‘inconvenient.’ I mean, for heaven’s sake, can’t a woman be allowed to entertain her lover in peace?

OK,
client
.

‘Oh. Right. Well, never mind.’ Gerald shrugged, clearly disappointed. He turned and headed back to the van.

Delighted by her victory, Maggie gaily called out, ‘Thanks very much. See you this afternoon then!’

Frowning, Gerald craned his giraffe-like neck around. ‘What?’

‘This afternoon. Between two and six.’ Maggie gave him an encouraging nod. It would probably be two o’clock, thinking about it. He could have his lunch break now and fix her washing machine in… ooh, an hour if he liked.

‘Oh no, Mrs Donovan, you don’t understand. I haven’t got you booked in for this afternoon. You’ll need to ring Carver’s and fix up another appointment.’

What?

‘OK, could you come back tomorrow morning?’ Maggie thought of all the washing piled up in the cupboard downstairs. The machine had been playing up for over a fortnight now. She’d been banking on getting it fixed today.

‘Sorry, Mrs Donovan, you have to phone Carver’s. They’ll arrange everything…’

In their own inefficient fashion, Maggie thought crossly.

‘…but I have to warn you, shouldn’t think you’d get another appointment before next week.’

‘Oh, come on, you’re not serious. I can’t wait that long!’

‘Nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.’ Gerald shrugged his gangly shoulders. ‘Unless you let me take a look at your machine now.’

God.

Behind her, Maggie heard Hector quietly clearing his throat.

‘Maybe I should leave.’

‘No!’ She turned and shook her head, then had an idea and leaned back out of the window. ‘Look, if you do come in, how long will it take to fix it?’

Gerald brightened considerably. ‘Well, if it’s something simple, five minutes.’

‘Go downstairs and let him in,’ whispered Hector from the doorway. ‘I’ll wait up here.’

***

The operative word, needless to say, had been
if
.
If
it was something simple. But it wasn’t, of course. It was, apparently, something very complicated indeed.

Maggie, hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen, checking and rechecking her watch, silently urged him to hurry up and work
faster
. But Gerald was one of those slow, methodical types who took a genuine interest in their work and prided themselves on their thoroughness. Worse still, he kept trying to explain what he thought the problem might be and pausing to point out particularly riveting electrical components.

Stop it, stop it, just shut up and get
on
with the job, Maggie longed to yell, I don’t
want
to know how a washing machine works, you moron!

She also itched to flick him with a whip, like a jockey approaching the last fence at the Grand National, just to see if it would speed him up a bit.

Twenty minutes crawled by. Then thirty. Gerald was still on his knees exclaiming with pleasure over an integrated circuit board when Maggie heard a footstep on the stairs.

Sidling out of the kitchen and closing the door firmly behind her, she met Hector in the hall.

‘Bloody man’s still got the machine in bits. He looks as if he’s settling in for the afternoon.’

‘And I have an appointment in Bath at two o’clock. I’m going to slip away.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’ He smiled and gave her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. ‘We’ll arrange something for another day.’

Hector was taking it well but he must have been disappointed. Nearly as disappointed as me, thought Maggie, who had been looking forward to their assignation all week.

Luckily, sneaking Hector out wasn’t a problem; Gerald was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t even see him cross the kitchen and exit via the back door before vanishing down the path into the woods behind the cottage.

So that was that.

‘Oh, you’re back.’ Emerging from his own little washing machine dreamworld, Gerald raised his long neck and said happily, ‘This is fascinating, you know. Completely fascinating. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee?’

The other trick Maggie had fallen for was to believe—idiotically—that the washing machine repairman might actually repair her washing machine. When what Gerald had in fact told her was that he had come out to ‘take a look’ at it.

Oh yes, and he’d certainly done that. By three o’clock he had taken the machine to bits, put it together again, and pushed it neatly back into its slot between the oven and the fridge.

‘What I’m going to do, Mrs Donovan, is place an order for a new circuit board and see if that does the trick.’

Maggie couldn’t believe it. Three whole hours, five cups of coffee, a chicken sandwich, six chocolate biscuits, and he
still
hadn’t even mended the bloody thing.

‘How long before the circuit board gets here?’

‘Oooh, let me see now. Five or six days?’

‘But—’

‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. These things happen. Now, Mrs Donovan, if you’d just sign this form for me, I’ll be out of your hair.’

It was a bloody wonder she had any hair left, Maggie thought sourly as she signed on the dotted line.

Forty-eight hours and
still
none of them had rung. Smarting from this multiple rejection, Tara was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else. Which was irritating, because she’d never regarded herself as one of those sad needy girls who couldn’t think of anything but boys.

It wasn’t as if she even wanted a boyfriend, for heaven’s sake. She was just desperate to dump one. And in order to dump a boyfriend you had to have one in the first place. Had the total nerd tried ringing the joke number she’d given him? If she’d told him her real number, even hearing his reedy voice would have been better than nothing at all.

Cross with herself for being pathetic, Tara threw herself across the sofa and reached for the
Daily Mail
. Flicking through the pages, her attention was caught by a piece about a girl tipped to win a medal at the next Olympics. Modern pentathlon, fancy that, all manner of running and riding and swimming and goodness knows what else. Tara marveled at the girl’s dedication. She trained, evidently, for six or seven hours a day, six days a week.

Modern pentathlon is my life, the attractive brunette had explained to the journalist interviewing her. Winning is my number one priority. I don’t have time for a relationship, but that’s not what’s important to me right now. I’d rather have a gold medal than a boyfriend, any day!

Golly. And she was really pretty too. Tara was both impressed and envious; imagine having that kind of attitude. Maybe she should take up some form of sport and get so involved in it that boys, quite simply, no longer fitted into the equation. Perhaps she could give marathon running a go? Or golf, or tennis, or—

The phone rang.

In a flash, Tara was off the sofa, scattering sheets of newspaper in all directions and trampling them underfoot.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Tara? This is Jerry. From the other night, remember?’

Yay, result!

‘Oh yes, of course I remember. How are you doing?’

‘Great, great. Listen, so how about this drink then? Fancy coming out with me tomorrow night?’

Tara’s heart began to thud. Oh yes, this was it, this was the moment she’d been waiting for. He’d asked her out and now she could turn him down. It would make her feel so much better, boost her morale, allow her to prove to herself that she
could
say no…

The trouble was, it was nice of him to ring her, and it must mean he liked her. Which was flattering in itself. Plus, Tara realized, he sounded really nice on the phone, all sort of cheerful and friendly and actually quite sexy now she came to think of it. The others may have let her down, but Jerry hadn’t. He was inviting her out for a drink and a chance for them to get to know each other better.

Crikey, you never knew, he could be The One. Jerry might turn out to be the boy she had been waiting for all her life. If she rejected him now, for the sake of some feeble, fleeting morale boost, she could be condemning herself to a lifetime of lonely jam-making spinsterhood.

‘Hello?’ said Jerry. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here! And I’d love to come out with you tomorrow night,’ Tara exclaimed joyfully. ‘That sounds great. Oh, but I don’t drive, so you’ll have to pick me up.’

‘No problem.’ Jerry sounded unperturbed. ‘OK, I’ve got a pen here. Give me your address.’

There was silence after Tara had finished telling him. Finally, he said, ‘Colworth? God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you lived that far out.’

The local dialing code covered a wide area, ranging from just outside Bristol to… well, Colworth, Tara remembered. But it couldn’t make that much of a difference to him, surely?

‘It’s nothing,’ she hurriedly assured Jerry. ‘Twenty minutes on the motorway. You’ll be here in no time at all!’

‘Look, I’m not sure… oh
hell
.’ Tara heard him sigh. ‘This is awkward… maybe we should just leave it. Colworth’s bloody miles away.’

‘So what you’re saying is, I’m outside your radius.’ Tara’s voice grew unsteady. She couldn’t believe it. This was so hurtful. Didn’t he know what he could be missing out on here? Hadn’t he heard of destiny?

‘Sorry. Never mind, maybe I’ll see you around in Clifton or something, OK? Bye!’

And that was it. The phone went dead in Tara’s hand. Jerry had hung up, scarpered, made his speedy getaway. They weren’t going to end up living together happily ever after, after all.

Tara hoped he had a minuscule willy.

And that very soon it would turn blue, shrivel up, and drop off.

***

Why am I here? Why? What am I doing here? Oh, this is mad, thought Daisy as the car sped through the back streets of Bristol, I still don’t even know where we’re
going
.

She sneaked a sideways glance at Dev Tyzack’s hands on the steering wheel, the sleeves of his pale grey sweater pushed up slightly to reveal strong brown forearms and a Breitling watch. He seemed to know where they were going, anyway, although she suspected he was the kind of man who always would know. Dev Tyzack simply wasn’t the faffing-about indecisive type.

Well, she jolly well wasn’t going to ask him again. She was also extremely glad she hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. Black jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt had been a deliberate decision, to prove to Dev that she didn’t want to be taken anywhere glitzy for lunch. When he had turned up in jeans himself, she had been doubly glad.

Besides, she probably wouldn’t even bother with lunch. Once they’d done whatever it was they were here to do, she would tell him that she had other things lined up, and ask to be taken home.

God knows where they were headed anyway. This wasn’t the most salubrious area of Bristol. St Philips, Daisy read, peering at a road sign. Brilliant. She just hoped Dev Tyzack hadn’t volunteered her for a spot of canal dredging on her day off.

***

‘I don’t know, what is it with you and water?’ Sounding resigned, Dev passed her a handkerchief. ‘Every time I see you, your face is wet.’

But he said it kindly, not in a sarcastic way, and when Daisy had finished trumpeting into the handkerchief like an elephant he gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.

So much for keeping aloof, thought Daisy, wiping her eyes and struggling to control the great shuddery sobs that were making it almost impossible to speak. This wasn’t at all how she’d been expecting the day to turn out.

‘Is this why you b-brought me here? To see me m-making an idiot of myself?’ She scrubbed at her tear-stained cheeks, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

‘Of course not. I didn’t know you were going to get emotional, did I?’

Get emotional? Blub like a big baby, more like.

‘This is what I call a dirty trick,’ Daisy muttered.

‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’ The corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. ‘Think about it. You run a hotel, you shout at your guests, you climb trees like a—’

‘I do
not
shout at my guests!’

‘You shouted at me,’ Dev reminded her. ‘Pretty comprehensively, as I recall. And let me tell you, I was scared.’

‘Oh, very funny.’

‘Anyway, you get my drift. I thought you’d be perfect for a job like this.’

‘Thanks, that’s fantastic. You mean you thought I was the kind of cold heartless bitch who drowns kittens and steals money from blind orphans in my spare time.’ Daisy shook her head. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a girl.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. It just didn’t occur to me that you’d react like this.’ Dev indicated his own face. ‘See? I’m not crying, am I?’

Hmm, maybe not. Maybe not actually crying, but Daisy was pretty sure she’d spotted a telltale glistening in his dark eyes at one point. He hadn’t been as completely unaffected as he liked to make out.

She blinked hard and took a deep breath, mentally bracing herself.

‘Right, I’ve stopped. I’m OK now. Shall we go back in?’

‘Sure?’ Dev flashed her an unexpectedly warm smile. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

‘Come on.’ Daisy shoved his damp hankie up her sleeve, squared her shoulders, and turned to face the scuffed, blue painted door. ‘Let’s do it. I’ll be fine.’

***

There were rows of sectioned-off cages along each side of the concrete corridor. Each cage contained a dog.

So many dogs, of all shapes and sizes. Some were recognizable breeds, others weren’t. Some lay on the floor, watchful and silent, but most leapt up as their cages were approached. Some barked loudly, others whimpered with delight in their eagerness to socialize. Their tails wagged, their paws scrabbled eagerly against the bars, their eyes were bright…

Daisy’s own eyes promptly filled up once more. Well, how could anyone not cry? How could any human being fail to be moved by their innocent little faces?

Oh God, here I go again.

‘Right, let’s be sensible about this,’ Dev Tyzack announced. A little brusquely, Daisy felt. ‘I brought you here as the voice of reason. You’re going to help me choose the right dog for me. I’m after something that’s a decent size for a start, maybe a Labrador or a setter. I want a dog that’s well trained and intelligent. Nothing yappy or delinquent, and definitely not—Daisy, are you listening to me? How about this Great Dane over here, I’ve always liked Great Danes… Daisy, where are you going?’

‘This one,’ Daisy called from the far end of the corridor. ‘This is the one you have to have.’

‘What? Which one?’ He joined her, stared into the cage and gave a snort of amusement. ‘Oh, please. You have to be joking.’

‘This is the one.’ Daisy sank to her knees in front of the cage and pressed the palms of her hands against the wire.

‘Not a chance,’ Dev said flatly. ‘Daisy, get up, come and have a look at the Great Dane.’

‘No. I won’t.’ Daisy shook her head, breaking into a smile as the dog joyfully licked her hands. This was it, she was in love. Her mind was irretrievably made up.

‘Daisy, this isn’t why I asked you to come along. You haven’t been listening to me at all, have you?’

‘Sshh, you’ll frighten her. Oh,
look
, isn’t she just the most adorable thing you ever saw?’ Daisy’s eyes shone with happiness as she patted the concrete floor beside her. ‘Dev, come on, come down here and say hello.’

Dev didn’t say hello. He was seriously regretting bringing Daisy along to the rescue center now. The dog in front of him was small, for a start. It was also a mongrel of the ugly/quirky variety, terrier-sized, and female. Everything, in fact, that he didn’t want. The little creature was frantically licking Daisy’s face—probably because it was nice and salty—and wriggling her daft stumpy tail so ecstatically it looked as if it was about to whirl right off.

Daisy withdrew her face from the bars and grinned at the dog, who appeared to be grinning back.

‘This is Dev.’ Daisy solemnly introduced them. ‘OK, I know he’s looking a bit scary right now, but he’ll get better, I promise. And guess what?’ she whispered confidentially into the animal’s whiskery, pricked-up, asymmetric ears. ‘He’s going to be your new daddy!’

Dev watched the two of them down on the floor, separated by the metal grille fronting the cage but otherwise irredeemably bonded. It seemed that both their minds were made up.

Dev felt as though he’d advertised in the personal columns to meet a willowy Jerry Hall look-alike and had somehow ended up with Mick Jagger instead.

And then he saw it. The final straw. The slim card fastened to the top of the cage.

‘Oh no, I’m sorry, there is absolutely
no way
I could own an animal called—’

‘Don’t be such a wet blanket! She’s beautiful,’ Daisy declared. ‘Dev, you know you can’t fight this anymore, she’s the perfect dog for you. So just stop making feeble excuses and come and say hello to Clarissa.’