No, I didn’t think that. Not at all. He’s just being nice. ‘Er, I was thinking,’ I will concentrate on work, that will solve the problem. ‘After the Tim thing, I mean it was awkward anyway, but it’ll be worse, and, well …’
‘Well?’
‘Do you think I should ask James if I can be more involved in features? You know do more stuff like I did for Carrie?’
He smiles. A gentle smile that shines from his eyes, that parts his lips. ‘Is that you, what you want? Not just because of Tim.’
‘It is. I just didn’t think I was ready.’ I think I’m leaning in towards him, and I’m practically whispering, even though I’m definite about the words I want to say.
‘You’ve always been ready, Daisy.’
‘I’m good enough, I could do it, I’m sure I could.’ God, we are so close I’m practically speaking the words into his mouth.
‘You are, I never ever said you weren’t, I’ve never doubted you.’
‘But I did.’ I’ve never quite felt good enough since that day I realised I’d failed my exams. My life. Let everybody down. I’ve never felt confident enough to commit to anything, because then I might have failed again. But sometimes you have to pull your big girls pants up and risk it, haven’t you? Because nobody else will do it for you.
‘Then you’ve been a silly girl.’ He traces his finger over my lips. Stilling them, stopping me from speaking, from breathing. ‘You’ve always been good enough, Daisy. More than good enough.’ And then I feel the tug of his fingers in my hair, the touch against my scalp, holding me steady. His gaze never falters. He doesn’t say anything. There’s no question in his eyes. He just does it.
Ollie Cartwright kisses me.
This time I don’t hit him over the head with anything.
Chapter 22
3 p.m., 18 January
‘Bloody hell, it’s packed!’ I don’t know why I’m surprised, because Uncle T was an exceptionally nice man, but the church is full to the rafters. I’ve certainly never seen it this chaotic, and I’m sure the vicar hasn’t either. I mean, okay, I know this isn’t Westminster Abbey, but it’s quite a good-sized church.
Ollie squeezes my hand. ‘Okay?’
‘Good.’ Apart from the embarrassment. ‘Why do I have to sit right at the front?’
‘Because we’re family.’
‘Why didn’t we get here early?’ It hadn’t seemed important before, I’d thought the crowd would have been the size we normally see at Uncle Terence’s Christmas Eve parties.
‘Because we’re family.’
If I had been on my own, I’d have tip-toed down the aisle and hardly been noticed, I wouldn’t have been following the coffin, been walking next to a very tall dark handsome man, or been expected to go to the very, very front.
Strictly speaking, I am not actually family. But Ollie and I did agree to come together, and Uncle T apparently decided where everybody should sit.
He’d decided everything.
In detail.
Which is why the mourners are dressed in what can only be described as diverse styles. A few must be bloody freezing because they look like they’re heading to Ladies Day at Ascot; one is in a ball gown, there are a good number in jazzy waistcoats (nobody did it better than you Uncle T), and some actually look like they’re attending a funeral.
I don’t. Today I am being me. Sasha might think I have taken her advice too far, but I think I am doing what Uncle Terence would have wanted me to.
Vera had sent a note out with the funeral arrangements, which, in true Terence style he had arranged in advance.
‘Dress like nobody is watching and you will be unique and gorgeous. Dance like everybody is watching and you will always have an invite to parties. Drink only the best and there will never be a bad morning after. Follow your heart and love like you’d want to be loved, and your life will have been lived. And then, dear boy, die a good death. Nobody likes a messy one.’
Words that my grandfather said before he dropped like a stone. He would have been proud of himself.
I failed at only one, because sometimes life can be a contradictory bastard. Just like my brother, who I still managed to love. But I trust you will honour the sentiments today. Humour this old, romantic fool.
There was also a note to say we should ‘dress for life, not a funeral. Donate to charity if you will, but still send flowers as they are joyous.’ Ollie had said he thought the flower bit was a Terence joke, as he’d suffered from hay fever and so did most of the family.
The top of the coffin is teeming with them, they are literally falling off. A florist wouldn’t have had a better send off. Most of the immediate family were sneezing and struggling for breath, their eyes streaming, before they even got in the church. I have never seen hay fever in January before. Hopefully nobody has asthma and will drop dead in the aisle.
‘You look pretty, darling!’ Mum and Dad are already sitting in the pew. ‘I didn’t think you still had that cowboy hat.’
What she means by this is, she thought she’d thrown it out. She had. I had rescued it and kept it in the top of my wardrobe. It had progressed to living in the top of many wardrobes, though Ollie hadn’t spotted it in his until I’d clambered on a chair to get it last night. On impulse. But Uncle T had mentioned it, so I was bloody well going to wear it.
‘I am expressing my true self.’ I’d said to him. We had both been a little bit tipsy, preparing for the nasty day ahead. ‘My inner cowgirl.’ This had caused him to choke on his beer, splutter and turn a funny colour I thumped his back helpfully.
‘You didn’t tell me that last night!’ He’d said, when he finally recovered enough to speak.
We have progressed over the last few weeks from gentle snogging, to full on hot action. This is totally incredible, but also totally scary. It is everything I ever dreamed it might be – and more. A year or so ago, scary might have put me off, but right now the passion and feeling of anticipation I get every time I see him is worth the occasional twinge of fear that 1. I am not good enough for him (as Frankie the floozie and tiresome Tim kept telling me), and 2. We will never get a happy ever after because of what really sent my life off the rails.
‘I think you better put it on and give me a demonstration.’ I looked at him, blankly probably. ‘Ride ‘em cowboy?’ He lifted an eyebrow, and I got all hot and bothered. Partly with embarrassment, partly with lust. Ollie had put his glass down, pulled me in close to his body and wrapped his arms round my waist.
‘Is it too much?’ I wriggle free. ‘For a funeral?’
‘Well I wouldn’t wear the spurs or the leather chaps, might give the vicar a heart attack. Now stop talking, and come here, woman.’
So I had done as I was told.
‘And your hair is all natural.’ Mum bounces it about with her hands, what is it with mothers and their need to tidy hair? ‘I thought you’d lost your curls!’
‘I iron them out, Mum.’
I’m not quite sure what to do with the hat, so I put it on top of Stanley, who clambered up onto my knee the moment I sat down.
‘Room for a little one?’ Somebody edges past my mother and plonks herself between us.
She is dressed warmly in a big donkey jacket, hat with ear flaps, boots and trousers. She takes the hat off.
‘Carrie!’ I give her a quick hug, really pleased to see her sat in the front pew.
‘Don’t worry, Terence sent strict instructions that I should sit next to you!’
Stanley, who has been asleep under my hat, suddenly recognises Carrie and leaps on her, offering French kisses and wriggling delight. Lashing my face with his whip-like tail. Which is good. It gives me a chance to wipe the dampness from my eyes and pretend that it was the dog’s fault anyway. And not the fact that Terence had instinctively known who should be at my side today.
Then a thought suddenly occurs. What if he’s arranged for Frankie to be on my other side? Panic courses through me, my palms are sweaty. But she wouldn’t come, w
ould she? She would. Nothing stops Frankie.
‘Are you okay?’ Ollie nudges me, pretty hard.
‘He’s not invited Frankie has he?’ My throat is dry. I can’t. Not today. I need Ollie, not Frankie.
He squeezes my knee. ‘It’s okay, she’s not on the list. I checked.’
‘How did he know?’
Ollie smiles, and gives a little shrug, then kisses me on the tip of my nose. ‘Terence knew everything. Though she could always have seen the notice in the paper and turn up anyway.’
There’s a nudge on my other side. ‘What happened?’ Carrie, half-buried under dog, hisses in my ear. She tips her head not at all discretely in Ollie’s direction and nudges me viciously in the ribs. The violence is because I’ve ignored the gentler nudge, and she believes in being direct. She says that dogs appreciate things being black and white. I don’t. I’ll be black and blue if she carries on.
‘Nothing!’
‘You said you snogged!’ I had reported to her the other day that we had indeed shared quite a long, passionate kiss, ‘Well?’
‘Shh. It’s a funeral.’
‘You dirty mare!’ She grins, gives me a quick hug, then let’s Stanley settle on her knee. Ollie’s hand creeps back, and gently takes mine, under the hat, as the vicar clears his throat.
‘How bloody fantastic to see you all here!’A familiar voice booms out, and I jump. Stanley barks in alarm, and Ollie clutches my hand so tightly I have to kick him on the ankle.
We both knew that Terence had prepared a video for the service, but it is still a shock to see him on a big screen larger than life, behind the coffin. His coffin.
The hum of conversation that started up when the vicar stopped talking halts abruptly, and there are a few gasps, a low moan, and a high-pitched squeal which makes Carrie and I turn in our seats.
I’m not quite sure who the squeal came from, but it was definitely from one row behind on the other side of the aisle.
Which is totally packed with women!
‘Who the hell are they?’ Hisses Carrie in my ear.
‘WAGs!’
I hadn’t noticed on the way in as I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off the coffin. I’d been on edge, waiting to grab any flowers that were lost along the way, but the aisle opposite is filled with Uncle Terence’s wives and girlfriends.
One of women glares at me. Which is fair enough, if she heard me calling her a WAG. It’s not very flattering, to be grouped along with all the other women your ex has loved.
They all look amazing though. Uncle T always had an eye for a beautiful woman, and these have beauty in all its forms. As in buxom, slender, joyous, kind, and flamboyant. Obviously, they don’t each have all of that. But the one thing they have in common is that they are all gorgeous in some way or other.
‘All of them?’ Carrie opens her eyes wide dramatically.
‘Bloody hell.’ Ollie has turned around to see what we are looking at, then turned abruptly back. ‘I didn’t realise there were so many! Is that Stella from the Bull’s Head?’
Carrie and I both turn round again. ‘Bugger!’ I’ve cricked my neck, which means it might not have been as discreet as intended. ‘He said he would have quite liked to have died in bed with her!’
‘Really?’ Ollie frowns. ‘Not Louisa?’
‘Louisa? Was that the young one he met at the book fair?’
Ollie nods. ‘The one in pink, don’t turn round again!’
We both turn around. Louisa is younger than me, petite, has a make-up free tear-strewn face and is dressed in jeans, a black leather jacket and a low-cut pink top. I want to go over and hug her.
‘Oh, Vera said he was very fond of Louisa.’ My mother pipes up. I’d forgotten she was there, she’d been quiet for more than five minutes. ‘He said she was too young to be a widow though, so he let her down gently.’
‘Shhh.’
‘Ouch!’ Something hits Ollie on the head, which is a bit unfair seeing as it was Mum talking. I lean forward a bit, so I can look past him. It is Ollie’s sister, Nancy, who is an opera singer so projects very well (she also throws very well). Which means everybody hears her shushing and looks her way. I wave. She waves back, but her smile looks sad.
‘Has somebody halted the vid?’ Carrie is nudging me again.
I shake my head and can’t help but smile. It’s typical Uncle T. He is beaming at us from the screen, pausing theatrically, knowing full well the effect he’s having. This could well be his finest moment.
Stanley realising our attention is elsewhere and Carrie’s not gripping him as tightly as she was, leaps off her knee. ‘Stan!’ We both stand up, but it’s too late. He’s bounded up to the coffin, he makes a giant leap and a rose bouquet shoots off to the side and is caught rather neatly by the vicar. Who is in the first X1 village cricket team.
Charles applauds.
Stanley skids, sending some freesia to the other end of the coffin, where they teeter for a moment before stopping. He sits down, eyeing up the screen. His head tilted on one side. He is gazing at Uncle T with something like adoration, then he very slowly lies down and lowers his chin to his paws and whimpers. The flowers in front of him are practically brushing his nose, the freesia drop with a small plop onto the floor.
The funeral director edges over as discreetly as he can, picks them up, then rearranges the top of the coffin again.
The church gradually falls silent.
Stanley sneezes.
Uncle Terence beams at us, then takes a deep breath. His timing always has been perfect. He looks larger than life in his fanciest turquoise and black waistcoat with gold and black bowtie. He guffaws and pats his chest – almost as though he’s seen the reaction.
Stanley whines. I stand up, thinking I should get him, but he rolls over showing his tummy and male-bits which isn’t a sight you should see in church, so I sit down again.
‘Leave him.’ Ollie whispers, squeezing my hand again.
Uncle Terence clears his throat. ‘Well, I say thank you all and I bloody hope you have all turned up or my last attempt at a party will be a flaming disaster, and I’ve put a lot of effort into it!’
There’s a ripple of amusement.
He looks so alive, that it brings home the fact that these really are the last words I’ll hear him speak. Suddenly, it’s not funny. Not funny at all. I miss him so much.
There’s a heavy weight lying across my chest, making it hard to breath, my throat is blocked, and my eyes are prickling, and the cold dampness tells me the tears are spilling over.
I’ll never see him alive again.
‘My dear brother Charles, I am sure you have noted my request and come dressed as yourself. Is there a noticeable difference between that and normal funeral attire? Bravo! I know I can rely on you to bring a suitable sombre air to proceedings.’
I glance sideways, over to Ollie’s dad. He’s in a very elegant silver-grey three-piece suit. He catches me looking, and winks. Which shocks me into looking away, then back again, and flushing. I’ve never seen him do that before, and it’s got a certain cheekiness that reminds me of Ollie.
‘You have always been the brown sauce to my tomato, the steady scholar to my flights of artistic temperament, the reliable family man to my fickle romantic heart.’ He turns slightly as though he can see us. ‘Vera, my beautiful sister-in-law, how I always wished you had been my bride. I trust you are wearing something stunning in emerald or turquoise to show off your eyes? As that is the image of you I have in my heart.’
I glance at Vera. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and she’s staring straight ahead. Fingering the necklace at her throat. Beneath her coat I spot a hint of emerald and I just know she’ll be as stunning as Terence imagined her to be as he took his last breath. Because I am positive he would have been thinking of her.
I wonder for a moment if she loved him a tiny bit as well?
I’d been right about Uncle T though, he was a true romantic, he loved to love, which is why he’d ke
pt marrying after he’d lost the one who meant everything to him. But he would never have waded in between his brother and Vera. Uncle Terence was a tragic hero.
‘Nancy, Will, and Oliver you have made an uncle very proud. Nancy if you are not in an opera gown now then I insist you wear it for my wake darling girl! William wear that barrister wig with pride, and Ollie, throw off your consultant’s coat and weight of responsibility, cast off that cloak of stuffiness,’ he’s starting to throw his arms about as though he’s starring in some Shakespearian tragedy, ‘and let sweet Daisy show you a trick or two about letting your heart rule your head!’
Somebody sniggers. It sounds like Frankie. If she is here, I am going to drown her in the font when Terence has finished talking.
Ollie and I have both bowed our heads and sneak a look at each other. This is the most embarrassing funeral I have ever been to. We had rather cast off our cloaks and abandoned all trace of stuffiness last night – and so had one of my cushions, which had exploded under the weight, scattering its innards everywhere and sending Stanley into one of his mad runabouts.
‘I didn’t realise they’d prescribed him hallucinogenic drugs!’ Ollie says drily, which makes me splutter.
‘He thinks you’ve been choosing girlfriends you know you won’t ever really love.’ I whisper back, my voice tailing-off as I wonder if I should have said that. As although I don’t think I am a girlfriend exactly (we haven’t been on actual dates), this could mean I’m putting myself in that category. Which isn’t a very nice thought.
Ollie raises an eyebrow.
‘To protect your hea—’
‘Now, darling Daisy!’ Interrupts Uncle Terence, and it’s my heart that needs protecting. It plunges down to my feet, which is where I’m now staring. I’m not family! Why talk about me?
‘I hope, my dear, that you have done as you are told for once.’ I think everybody is staring, I can feel it on the back of my neck, the hairs are prickling. Maybe I can just slide off the seat and hide on the floor? ‘And have turned up as yourself.’ I give a feeble thumbs up. ‘A skirt is never too short,’ I had been wondering how short is too short for a funeral, had agonised about whether jeans were just too informal, and then had finally plumped for my midi brown suede skirt which I have loved forever but don’t often wear. I have come true to myself, and it’s not as bad as it sounds. My boots are long brown leather ones, that are smart and not really cowboy boots at all, I have a long brown tapestry coat, and a cream blouse that is flecked with delicate flowers. And when I looked in the mirror I saw a smart version of cowgirl Daisy, and one which I rather liked.
Four Christmases and a Secret Page 24
