Cassie wraps her bathrobe around her slender figure and disappears in the direction of the bar, returning a short time later with two large plastic cups of iced water. ‘Here you go,’ she says, sitting down next to her. ‘You can have both, if you like. I feel better than you look.’
‘Thanks,’ Rose replies, taking the cup Cassie’s extended arm holds out to her. She has a swig before adding: ‘One’s fine. Please, you have the other.’
The intensity of her moment of panic has passed. Her head is clear again. Outside the heat and enclosed space of the barrel sauna, she’s no longer gripped by the suspicion of Cassie being a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She seems too nice, for a start, concerned about Rose being dehydrated. Plus, it’s not as though Cassie approached her. They bumped into each other by chance. And Rose was the one who started their conversation. She was being paranoid. It was surely a result of the alcohol followed by the intense warmth. It caused her to have a funny turn, that’s all, fuelling silly suspicions based on nothing.
Why on earth would a journalist appear out of nowhere now, wanting to dig up dirt on her dad so many years after he stopped being well known? And even if there was a good reason, such as if he was about to bring out a new book, it would be utterly unethical for any journalist to approach his daughter in this way without first properly announcing themselves and their intentions. What newspaper or magazine editor would sign off on such practices in modern, privacy-sensitive times? Perhaps if it was to unearth a terrorist or a dangerous undercover spy – something in the public interest – but not to find out what a former literary darling has been up to since eschewing publicity to enjoy a quiet life in the countryside.
As for her feelings of guilt over her maid of honour, they haven’t gone away, although they have at least eased. Cara did insist on her staying.
Finishing her lovely, refreshing drink, Rose realises Cassie is staring at her expectantly, like she’s awaiting an answer. ‘Sorry?’ she says. ‘Did you, um …’
‘I asked if you were all right now, that’s all.’
‘Right. Sorry. I was away with the fairies for a minute. I’m okay now, I think. Thanks for the water.’
‘You’re welcome. What happened in there?’ She nods back towards the barrel sauna, which a group of three laughing woman are now entering. ‘Did the heat get to you?’
Rose exhales. ‘Think so.’
‘How about something less intense next?’
‘That sounds like a good idea. Any suggestions?’
‘I’m glad you asked.’ Cassie takes a quick sip of her water and tilts the cup in Rose’s direction like she’s making a toast. ‘When I was getting these drinks, I asked Greg, the bartender who served us earlier, if there was anything a bit cooler that might be a good next stop on our tranquillity tour.’
Rose holds her head in her hands. ‘How embarrassing. I must be the only person in the world who has a meltdown on a spa day. It’s supposed to be relaxing!’
She immediately regrets using the word meltdown and hopes Cassie doesn’t read too much into that. It’s too late, though; she can already tell the cat is out of the bag from the older woman’s sudden jagged frown.
‘Is that what happened?’ Cassie says. ‘I thought you overheated. What was actually going on? Was it the wedding? Did something about that make you panic?’
‘I, er, don’t really want to get into it, if that’s okay. It’s passed now. Where did, er, Greg, recommend we go next?’
‘If we continue along this path, it leads to another entrance inside. There we can apparently find a chillout room with gentle, ambient sounds and heated, tiled spa loungers.’
‘A tiled lounger? How does that work? Doesn’t sound very comfortable to me.’
‘They’re very relaxing. I’ve used them before in Ireland, assuming these are much the same. They’re hard, but rather than being flat, they’re ergonomically shaped to be a nice, natural fit with your body. In combination with the heat, they’re very comfortable. I’ve fallen asleep on them in the past.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘If you don’t like them, we can move on again.’
‘Fair enough.’
As they’re making their way along the path, Rose has a sudden urge to blurt out her earlier fear about Cassie being a journalist. She resists initially, but once they’re in the chillout room, where the tiled loungers are indeed very comfortable, the thought returns and won’t go away.
They don’t chat a lot to start with, as there are a couple of others in the room with them – a mother and daughter, by the looks of things – who say very little, seemingly enjoying the peace and quiet. The other women get up and leave after five or ten minutes, though, which Rose takes as a green light to restart her conversation with Cassie. She’s keen to keep talking – not so much to finish telling her story, but rather so they can get on to that of her mysterious companion. The longer she knows nothing about her, the more she’s intrigued. Why is that? Why does she even care? Who knew she was so nosy? It’s human nature, she tells herself, that’s all. People naturally want what they don’t or can’t have.
But that’s not quite it. There’s something enigmatic about Cassie, like there’s more to her than meets the eye. Rose senses a depth of soul in the shadow of the image she presents to the world.
Rose doesn’t doubt for an instant that she has something to learn – to gain – from hearing Cassie’s story. But first, before she continues her own narrative, she has to get that lingering doubt, that fear, off her chest.
‘This is going to sound weird,’ Rose says. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘You just did,’ Cassie replies with a warm-hearted wink. ‘No, I’m joking. Ask away.’
‘You won’t be offended, will you?’
‘Impossible to say for sure, but I do have quite thick skin.’
‘I was wondering …’ Rose hesitates again, looking up at the white painted ceiling while taking a deep breath. Redirecting her gaze at Cassie, she comes out with it. ‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’
The bewildered look that flashes up on Cassie’s face in response is answer enough. Cassie would have to be one heck of an actor to fake that. She struggles to find the right words to respond, humming and hawing, apparently fighting to comprehend where on earth this question has come from. Eventually, she lets out a puff of air, shakes her head and, eyebrows raised, simply says: ‘No, I’m definitely not a journalist.’
‘Good,’ Rose says. ‘I didn’t think so, but I had to check.’
‘I see.’ Cassie’s green eyes, glowing an almost emerald colour, wander around the room, like they’re looking for clues, answers. When they land back on Rose, they narrow, scrutinising her face. ‘Would you like to talk about this some more or—’
‘No, I believe you. You’re not offended, are you?’
‘Not offended. A little taken aback, but I guess I can just about see where it came from. You must have inherited your father’s sense of imagination.’
Now it’s Rose’s turn to be taken aback. ‘Sorry? What do you mean? How can you—’
‘Whoa,’ Cassie says, levering herself upright on the lounger, palms held aloft in a surrender gesture. ‘I’m only referring to the fact he wrote a novel. Don’t take it the wrong way. It was meant as a joke. You said he was very creative with his furniture building too. I loved what you were telling me earlier about how the two of you would work alongside each other in his converted outhouse. It sounded wonderful – really special. Wouldn’t you say that some of his creativity has rubbed off on you? You certainly know how to tell a story.’
‘Do you think?’ Rose replies as Cassie eases herself back down.
‘Absolutely.’ Cassie throws her a wink. ‘So, you know, feel free to carry on.’
CHAPTER 9
I have fond memories of the times Dad and I spent together in his workshop, each busy with our own tasks. There would be long periods when not a word was uttered. It was nice to be so at ease with each o
ther that we could do so without any awkwardness. I remember feeling incredibly comfortable there, like I was wrapped in a snuggly blanket; happy and safe.
When I look back on the countless occasions we spent together there, I mainly remember two times of year: the depths of winter and the peak of summer. I either picture it as really cold – frost lining the windowpanes and various electric heaters glowing or blowing to keep us from freezing – or boiling hot, with an open door and windows working alongside rattling fans to keep us cool.
I had my own desk in one corner of the room. It wasn’t right in the corner; there was just enough space for me to sit behind it, my back to the wall, allowing me to watch whatever Dad was up to on the other side. I also had a desk in my bedroom, like most children of school age, but if Dad was busy in the workshop, I preferred to be there with him.
In my younger years, this was probably a lot to do with being scared of not having my father within sight or sound. He’d set up an intercom linking the workshop with several rooms around the house, but that wasn’t enough for a single child with a vivid imagination. The fact we lived in a sleepy rural spot with next to no crime was lost on me. My main fears were witches, goblins, ghosts or the bogeyman coming to get me.
When I was at my desk in Dad’s workshop, he’d warn me on the rare occasion he had to do something noisy; I had a bright orange pair of ear defenders on hand. He never painted or varnished in my presence, for fear of me inhaling noxious fumes.
On many of the occasions we were in there together, he was busy planning his creations, making drawings and calculations. At other moments, he was chiselling, sanding, shaping and putting things together by hand. That’s what I really used to love watching him do. It was wonderful to see how much care he took over every little detail of a project, like he was infusing a piece of his heart and soul into it with every movement.
‘What are you looking at, Dimples?’ he’d say to me with feigned affront if he caught me watching him. ‘I thought you had homework to do? You’re not spying on me, are you? Rose Bond, I should call you: licensed to stare. Except you’re not. What you most definitely are licensed to do is fetch your starving dad a banana, giving him a hug along the way. So, what are you waiting for? Get a wiggle on. And pick something from the fruit bowl for yourself. Growing girls need fuel.’
‘Can’t I have a biscuit instead?’
‘Not unless it comes with a fruit chaser.’
‘What’s a chaser?’
‘It’s a dad who hunts down his daughter when she doesn’t eat enough healthy stuff.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Really? Oh dear. I think you might be losing your marbles due to lack of fruit. Best grab two pieces for yourself, if not three.’
This was a typical kind of nonsense conversation Dad would have with me when he was feeling playful. There was the odd occasion when it would wind me up, particularly during my teenage years, but even then, more often than not, it would make me smile. Now, as a young adult myself, I know how important it is to be able to look at life in a light-hearted way whenever possible, especially when times are tough or things aren’t going to plan. In my experience, most people tend to be better at one or the other: being light-hearted or serious. Dad’s always been good at juggling both and, most importantly, knowing the right hat to wear – clown or counsellor – at the right moment.
Being a single father to an only child, a daughter no less, must require a lot of juggling. It’s not something I truly appreciated as a kid. It was only really when I went to university that I gained some perspective on our situation, realising how close we were compared to other people and their parents.
I remember a conversation we had in the car on the way home when he came to pick me up at the end of my first term. ‘How did you manage alone when I was a baby and you were just a young guy in his early twenties?’ I asked him. ‘Wasn’t that hard?’
‘What’s brought this question on?’ Dad asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
‘I don’t know. I was thinking about it the other day, that’s all. I’m only a few years younger than you were then.’
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ he asked. I think he was joking, having drummed the importance of safe sex into me from my early teens, although his face didn’t give anything away, so he may have been serious.
‘Dad!’ I replied. ‘Of course I’m not pregnant. Having a baby wouldn’t exactly be conducive to my studies, would it? I’m trying to compliment you. I think it’s impressive what you did. Nappies, feeding, teething, all that. Not many young blokes would be able to handle that alone. I can’t picture any of the guys I know at uni being able to manage in those circumstances.’
‘I was twenty-two when you were born, Rose, not a teenager. A few years count for a lot at that age.’
‘True, but it can’t have been easy. Plus you had the trauma of Mum’s death to contend with.’
‘Hmm,’ he replied.
‘Don’t play down what you did, Dad. It was amazing.’
‘I did what any father would do in the circumstances, love. I brought up my child to the best of my ability. Was it always easy? No, especially not at the start. I definitely couldn’t have managed without the help of your nana. It felt like she was around at the house or I was on the phone to her all the time to begin with. I was certainly no super dad. I often didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I went from one panic to another, but eventually I started to get the hang of it, thank goodness, and the phone calls to Nana became less frequent.’
‘For what it’s worth, Dad, I don’t remember any of that. From my perspective, you always knew exactly what you were doing. Sure, there were times, growing up, when I wished I had a mum. As a child, you want what others have – what seems to be normal – but it was only an occasional thing. A stab of envy, for instance, when Cara and her mum went to the hairdresser together or painted each other’s nails. The fact that the feeling was so infrequent, well, that was down to you, Dad. The crux of my rambling is that you’re an awesome parent and I really do appreciate you.’
Dad’s sea-blue eyes glistened as he slowly nodded, reaching over and squeezing my hand. ‘You couldn’t be more welcome, Dimples,’ he said with a catch in his voice. ‘I’ve missed you at home.’
‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather spend Christmas.’
‘Oh gosh, yes, it is Christmas soon, isn’t it?’ Dad said, slipping into a typical wind-up. ‘I’d better start thinking about a tree and presents before it’s too late.’
He spoiled me with gifts that festive period, as he does every year and, of course, the tree and decorations were already up when we arrived home.
Dad and I have always had traditions that we follow at specific times of the year. At Christmas, for instance, we always watch certain seasonal movies in a specific order, honed over the years. It’s Elf first, followed by Jingle All the Way, then Home Alone, Arthur Christmas, and finally, preferably on 25 December, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. We’ve seen all of these films so often, we usually spend most of the time while they’re on the TV eating, drinking and chatting. On Boxing Day, we have lasagne for lunch followed by a game of Scrabble. Similarly, weather permitting, we always try to climb nearby Pendle Hill at some point over the Easter weekend. And we have a two-part chocolate egg hunt around the house on Easter Sunday morning, first with Dad hiding and me seeking; then the other way around.
As for Halloween, we hosted a fancy-dress party at the house just about every year that I can remember up until I went to university. I really missed it that first term I was away, despite attending a Halloween disco with a group of my new friends. It was fun but not the same. Does that sound weird, that an eighteen-year-old would rather be at home with her dad, apple bobbing and ‘mummifying’ people by wrapping them in toilet roll, than out with her uni pals? The following year, when I was out of halls, living in a rented house with four close friends, I suggested we host a party and
incorporated many of the traditions I missed. That worked out much better.
Dad also likes to make a special effort to mark my birthday. As a girl, school day or not, it always began with breakfast and presents in bed, nice and early, so as not to waste any of the day. And I could expect a series of surprises right up until bedtime, which, as a one-off, if I had the energy, was allowed to be as late as midnight. These surprises could be anything, from extra presents in strange places – such as a ring in a box baked into my birthday cake one year – to unexpected visitors.
On one memorable occasion, Nana jumped out of my bedroom wardrobe as I was drinking a glass of milk from the breakfast tray Dad had carried upstairs for me. It was my first birthday since she’d moved to Spain and I wasn’t expecting to see her at all, never mind have her burst out of my closet. Consequently, I spat the drink all over my quilt as I nearly leapt out of my skin. Then I started sobbing, which definitely wasn’t the desired result. The pair of them looked horrified, obviously fearing the cunning plan they’d cooked up between them had proved a disaster. I was fine a few minutes later, though. The shock of it all had thrown me.
For my first birthday away from home, during my fresher year in Sheffield, Dad phoned me at seven o’clock in the morning.
‘Congratulations, Dimples!’ he said, having started the call by singing ‘Happy Birthday’ down the line. ‘Nineteen years old. Wow. My little girl is all grown-up. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I was just getting up.’
‘Good, good. What have you got planned for today? Something exciting with your friends, I assume.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, we’ll probably go out for a few drinks this evening,’ I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the disappointment in my voice. I hadn’t actually made any plans. Naively, I’d assumed he’d come to see me, having never spent a birthday apart from him before in my life.
‘Did you get my present?’ he asked.
‘No. Should I have?’
‘It didn’t arrive yesterday? But they told me … Damn, seriously?’
The Daughter's Choice Page 7
