The Daughter's Choice

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘Oh, how wonderful,’ Cassie replies. ‘Congratulations! And what a lovely gesture by your father. Is he here with you?’

  ‘No, no. This isn’t really his kind of thing. I came with my maid of honour. We were together at lunch and then, unfortunately, she got called away.’

  Rose is surprised to find herself feeling emotional, even shedding a few tears. ‘Sorry,’ she says, fanning them away. ‘I don’t know why I’m reacting like this now. I thought I was fine about it, but—’

  ‘You poor thing,’ Cassie says, reaching across the bubbling water and squeezing her hand. ‘Of course you’re upset. It’s totally understandable, with your best friend getting whisked away like that at the start of your special time together. And considering you’re about to get married. Everyone knows how emotional and stressful that can be.’

  She pauses briefly, looking upwards like she’s considering something. Rose almost breaks the silence, but her new acquaintance continues, with a twinkle in her eye and an infectious, dimple-framed smile: ‘It sounds to me, Rose, like you need a wing-woman. If you don’t mind being accompanied by someone clumsy, mature, but chatty and young at heart, I’d be delighted to keep you company on this tranquillity tour. No pressure. It’s entirely up to you if you’d rather go on alone, but the offer’s there. What do you think?’

  ‘That sounds like a lovely idea,’ Rose replies, speaking slowly and steadily in a bid to hide the lump in her throat that this near stranger’s kindness has elicited. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s my absolute pleasure.’

  The door leading back to the indoor section of the spa swings open and two men and two women emerge, heading for the hot tub.

  ‘I think this might be our cue to move on,’ Cassie says in a low voice.

  Rose agrees and so, before the others get in, they both climb out. They continue following the outside signs to the next stop on the tour, walking around the corner along a paved path that leads to a lively terraced area. Seeing it for the first time, Rose is impressed.

  There’s a well-stocked, log-fronted bar next to a seating area with a mix of tables and chairs, alongside some hammocks and recliners. It’s surprisingly quiet, with only a few places occupied by fellow guests. To one side of the terrace is a glass-fronted Himalayan salt sauna. Opposite that is a quirky, rustic barrel sauna: literally a large wooden barrel resting on its side, on a pair of legs to keep it elevated off the ground. This looks full. As for the salt sauna, which should technically be their next stop, there is definitely space for her and Cassie. However, unfortunately, that would mean joining and having to listen to that oversharing couple again, who are currently on display through the glass, each sprawled across a separate bench, treating the place like they own it.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Rose?’ Cassie says, her eyes first darting towards the salt sauna and then to the bar. ‘How about we have a brief pause in our journey and a drink – my treat? I don’t know about you, but I could murder a G&T right now, even if it is early. I promise I’ll do my utmost not to spill it – especially not on you.’

  Rose giggles, enjoying her new companion’s self-deprecating humour. She’s very easy company. It occurs to her that not all twenty-somethings would be as comfortable making conversation with someone twice their age and unfamiliar. But having grown up as an only child, raised by a single father, it’s second nature to Rose. She was happy chatting away to adults back when she was a toddler and, over the years, that hasn’t changed. There are folk who think they can only get along well with those of their own generation, but that’s nonsense, as far as she’s concerned. People are people, just at different stages of their lives.

  Rose is glad she’s wired this way – and knows it’s largely thanks to her dad. She often refers to Cara as her best friend, and yet the truth is she thinks of her father in the same breath. Is that weird? It might seem so to some people, but not to her. She even calls him Dave sometimes, mainly for a bit of cheeky fun and occasionally to be annoying, knowing it winds him up.

  They’ve always had a special kind of father–daughter relationship. It no doubt stems from the two of them living alone together for so long and, perhaps, him being younger than the average parent of a child her age. But that sells her dad short. He’s key to this, because of the way he brought her up … not only as a wonderfully supportive parent, but equally as a mentor, playmate and confidante. He has that rare ability to be both incredibly fun to spend time with, while also being the first person you’d turn to in a crisis.

  Having taken Cassie up on her kind offer of a drink, Rose grabs a spare table with two seats and watches her approach the bar. Her dad told her as a child that you could learn a lot about a person by watching how they interacted with serving staff in hotels, restaurants and so on. The idea stuck in her mind and so, ever since, particularly when meeting new people, this is something that Rose likes to observe to help get a sense of their true character.

  From what she recalls of seeing Cassie spill red wine all over that poor waiter at lunch, she was very apologetic, which bodes well. Confirming this, she watches her laugh and joke with the young bartender in a shirt and waistcoat who takes her order, thanking him sincerely when he offers to bring the drinks over to them and even instructing him to round up the bill to include a tip for himself.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ he says.

  ‘Not at all,’ she replies. ‘You’re grafting while we lounge around, spoiling ourselves. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘The drinks will be over in a minute,’ Cassie says as she sits down at the table, facing Rose. ‘Are you warm enough in just your swimsuit, by the way? Sorry, I didn’t think. Here’s me wrapped up in my robe and—’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. I left my robe and towel in the locker. I can always go and grab them if I get cold, but I doubt I’ll need to. The sun might not be out, but it’s still warm. Anyway, I’ve told you what I’m doing here, Cassie. How about you? What brings you to Lancashire’s lovely Ribble Valley?’

  ‘I’m from the North West originally, as it happens. I grew up around Blackpool; Preston way for a bit. Later, I lived in Manchester for a little while.’

  ‘Really?’ Rose replies. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed from your accent.’

  Cassie chuckles. ‘I’ve not been back for ages. Where do I sound like I’m from?’

  Rose pauses briefly to weigh up this question, before answering: ‘Nowhere in particular. Not that I can put my finger on. You sound kind of neutral, if that makes sense. How would you say the word for the green stuff that grows in people’s gardens and needs mowing?’

  ‘Grass,’ Cassie replies, pronouncing the word like Rose would, with a short vowel, as in the word cat.

  ‘And the large container you, um, fill with water to soak and wash yourself in?’

  Cassie laughs. ‘This is starting to remind me of a TV quiz show. Bath?’ She says this in the same way, also with a short vowel.

  Rose nods her head in reply, smiling back at her. ‘Sorry, was that weird? I’m just doing my best to gauge your accent. If I’m honest, I thought you were probably from somewhere down south to start with, but as we’ve just determined, you speak with northern vowels. There’s a hint of something else too, which I can’t put my finger on. I want to say New Zealand or maybe Irish, but, sorry, I’m stumped.’

  The two G&Ts arrive, courtesy of the friendly bartender. ‘Enjoy,’ he says, placing the balloon glasses on the table. They’re covered in condensation from all the ice inside and, aided by a swirl of grapefruit running through the middle of the glass, look utterly mouth-watering.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Cassie nods enthusiastically. ‘Thank you so much, Greg. You’re a star.’

  ‘Wow,’ Rose says to him. ‘This looks fantastic. It’s not going to blow my head off, is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he replies. ‘It’s not as much as it looks. There’s plenty of ice and tonic in there to keep you refreshed. Have a taste, though. If it
is too strong for you, I can certainly change it. No problem at all.’

  Rose leans forward and has a sip. ‘Oh, no. That’s lovely. Just perfect. Thank you. And thank you too, Cassie.’

  ‘Cheers!’ the women say to each other after Greg has returned to the bar.

  ‘Tranquillity in a glass,’ Cassie adds with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Anyway, my accent. What you said actually makes a lot of sense, as I’ve lived all over the place – all around the world. I had a real passion for travelling when I was younger and I suppose my accent did its best to keep up. Nowadays I’m settled just outside of Dublin; before that, I did spend a little time in New Zealand – probably not long enough to have picked up an accent, though. Still, that was some impressive guesswork on your part. You have a good ear, Rose.’

  ‘Thanks. Whereabouts outside Dublin is it that you live? I know the area a little, because Dad and I went on holiday there a few years back, when I was sixteen. We stayed in a couple of places; my favourite was a lovely seaside resort to the north-east of the city. Now what was it called? Mal something, I think. It had a castle.’

  ‘Malahide?’ Cassie replies, open-mouthed.

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘What, is that where you live?’

  ‘Not in Malahide itself. It’s very popular and property there’s expensive. We’re really nearby, though, just across the estuary in a place called Donabate. We’re in and around Malahide all the time.’

  ‘How funny. Maybe our paths have crossed before, then. Do you think your accent changes depending on where you live?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Cassie replies with a satellite delay, eyes suddenly distant. It’s like her mind has darted elsewhere but then, with a quick shake of her head, her focus returns.

  Rose repeats the question.

  ‘Oh, right. I think it does a little, in my case. Not deliberately. It just happens. Perhaps I’m a natural born mimic.’

  ‘Can you do impressions of people?’

  Cassie shrugs. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever really tried. You don’t have a strong accent either, Rose. I can tell you’re northern, but that’s about it.’ She winks. ‘You are from a posh part of Lancashire, though. Have you always lived here or—’

  ‘Pretty much. Other than the three years when I was at university in Sheffield.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘English and philosophy.’

  Cassie raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow. You must be very academic.’

  Rose pulls a face. ‘It was a great course. I had a brilliant time. But I have wondered since whether I should have done something more geared towards a particular job. My dad encouraged me to choose something I found “enjoyable and intellectually stimulating”.’ She makes air quotes with her fingers as she says these last four words. ‘It was lovely of him to take that view. Very liberating. However, I must admit that I’ve found myself a bit lost, career-wise, since graduating last summer.

  ‘I shouldn’t say this, but I occasionally envy my friend Cara still having another year left of her degree. She’s on a four-year history course in Edinburgh, which she started twelve months after I went to Sheffield. It’s currently her summer holidays.’

  Cassie nods, a frown etched into her forehead. ‘So what are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘Does being a wedding planner count when it’s your own marriage?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I did have a job in a call centre for a while, although I found it soul-destroying. It suits some people, but it wasn’t for me. Especially when what was supposed to be a temp role started to slip into permanent territory. The instant career progression and management prospects were discussed, I knew it was time to leave. Next, who knows? I’m not thinking further than a week today.’

  ‘Fair enough. I wouldn’t worry, anyway. You have your whole life ahead of you, Rose. Once you’ve decided what it is that you’d like to do, I don’t doubt you’ll make it happen. I can tell that you’d come across well in an interview, based on our conversation so far.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s nice of you to say.’ It dawns on Rose that she’s been busy talking about herself again when, a minute ago, she was trying to find out something more about Cassie. How did that happen?

  ‘You didn’t say what it is that brings you here,’ she says, taking a sip from her icy drink and throwing an expectant look in her companion’s direction.

  ‘No,’ Cassie replies after taking a slug of her own drink. ‘It’s a little complicated, to be honest. I have a suggestion, though. Since we’re going to be spending a little time together as we make our way along this tranquillity tour, how about we share our stories?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not with you. Stories?’

  ‘Our life stories. How we got to where we are now. As I said, mine’s a bit complicated – I need to build up to it – but if you were to start …’

  ‘Hmm, that sounds daunting. How do I know you’ll hold up your side of the bargain? This could be a cunning plan to get me to do all the talking.’

  Rose speaks with a half-smile, but she looks Cassie in the eye as she does so, hoping to drive her point home. She’s not sure why, but she really does want to know more about this woman. It’s probably because she’s not been very forthcoming so far; the air of mystery has piqued Rose’s interest. And yet there’s something else. Nothing she can put her finger on. Just a faint gut feeling that Cassie’s story is one she’ll want to hear, as though it could prove somehow useful. Rose is a believer in fate and everything in life having a purpose. Maybe she was supposed to meet this woman here today. Perhaps she’s meant to learn something from her that will prove beneficial in her own life, moving forward. Who knows?

  ‘You have my word,’ Cassie says. ‘Brownie’s honour! And please don’t pull the age before beauty card on me.’ She grabs Rose’s hand, squeezing it as she gazes at her. ‘I’d really love to hear your story, Rose. Go on. What do you say?’

  Rose wrinkles her nose as she briefly considers the proposal. ‘Fine, if I must. What would you like to know? Where shall I start?’

  ‘At the beginning, of course. As far back as you can remember. Tell me everything you can.’

  ‘I don’t know about everything – there are only so many hours in the day – but I can certainly try to give you the highlights, if you really want to know.’

  ‘Absolutely. Fire away, my dear. I’m all ears.’

  PART TWO – ROSE’S STORY

  CHAPTER 5

  I don’t remember the very beginning. Who does? From what I’ve heard, memories that adults claim to have from before the age of three tend to fall into one of two categories: received memories, passed on from others, often parents; and traumatic events that etch themselves with a permanent marker on young minds.

  In terms of the latter, I do recall an injury I suffered when I was around two and a half. My dad was showering and I was waiting for him in his bedroom. On the wall opposite his bed was a small oil painting of a black horse in the middle of an otherwise empty field. It’s still there now. Anyway, for some reason it caught my eye that day and I decided I wanted to touch it, to feel the texture under my fingers.

  Discovering it was out of my reach, I climbed on to a nearby wooden chair covered in a pile of my dad’s clothes. I stood up on it, reaching over to the painting, only for the chair to tip over, taking me with it. Suddenly my mind was flooded with pain and there was blood everywhere.

  I’d smacked my chin at speed, while falling, on the sharp corner of a chest of drawers. My howling soon had my poor father out of the shower, dripping wet, eyes wide with panic. Next he was pressing a clump of tissues on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding, before instructing me – a terrified, sobbing mess – to do the same as he drove us to the nearby GP surgery. A temporary patch later, we continued to A&E, where they stitched me up with what Dad called my ‘cat whiskers’. If you look closely, there’s still a small white scar on my chin today. It looks a little like a bird or an
aeroplane.

  Some of this memory is probably received rather than actually remembered, as Dad and I have spoken about it many times over the years. That moment of injury, though – my first true experience of real pain – that part of the memory is all mine.

  Despite the trauma, I think it’s a fitting first recollection of my childhood, because it demonstrates something that was true throughout: Dad was always there for me. He still is today. I couldn’t wish for a better father. And the fact he brought me up as a single parent, despite only being twenty-two when I was born … There aren’t many fathers who can say that. I’m twenty-two now, for goodness’ sake. I’d definitely like to have kids one day, maybe even soon. But would I be ready to go it alone right now? I’m not sure. It would be a challenge. I might technically be an adult, but I still feel much the same as when I was a teenager.

  You’re no doubt wondering what happened to my mother. Sadly, she died when I was only a few weeks old, after she had a brain haemorrhage. Consequently, I have no memory of her whatsoever, other than what my dad has told me over the years, which isn’t a huge amount. That’s not really his fault, though. He does his best, but he finds it hard to talk about her without getting upset. Nana – my father’s mother – is not much help either, as I don’t think she knew her very well, and my mother was an orphan, so there’s no family on her side who could tell me more. My parents weren’t together for long before they had me and it seems they spent much of that time alone, just the two of them, a pair of lovebirds.

  Reading between the lines, it appears to have been a whirlwind romance cut short by tragedy. I was probably a mistake, although Dad’s never said as much.

  I’ve never even seen a photograph of my mum. There aren’t any I’m aware of, as weird as that might sound. I remember yelling at Dad about it once during a teenage strop when, for whatever reason, I felt like the world was conspiring against me and nothing was fair.