Clemmy frowns thoughtfully. ‘Someone very young, then.’ She looks at me warily. ‘I could just drive you past the house. We wouldn’t have to stop.’
I nod and try to swallow but my throat is so dry it’s almost impossible.
Clemmy smiles reassuringly and looks back along the road before turning the car around and setting off in the opposite direction. A little way along, she takes the turn-off and we drive into what looks like a private lane that hasn’t been resurfaced for a while. As we bump over potholes, I scan the houses, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
My birth mum might be behind any one of these doors.
My nausea ramps up to the point where I think I might actually be sick.
‘Take some deep breaths,’ says Clemmy.
So I do and the panic subsides a little. I tell myself she probably doesn’t even live here any more. It was thirty-two years ago, after all …
There’s a small turning circle at the end of the cul-de-sac and we head for this while peering at the house names. From how Clemmy described it – a rather grand Georgian detached house – I’m guessing it’s the one straight ahead of us, and as we approach, the plaque by the front door confirms this. Set a little back from the road in an acre or so of gardens, Maple Tree House is built of honey-coloured stone with a red tiled roof.
Clemmy pulls the car wheels half onto the pavement a few yards away from the front door and we both stare at the house.
There’s a car in the drive, so there’s probably someone at home.
‘What do you think?’ asks Clemmy. ‘I’ll come to the door with you if you like.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. I’m not ready yet. I need more time.’
At that moment the front door opens and a woman of about fifty appears, dark hair swinging around her shoulders. She’s dressed in jeans and a stylish tan leather jacket with matching ankle boots.
I stare at her, my heart in my mouth. And a single thought flashes through my head: I look just like her!
But next second, a bolt of panic rips through me and I slither down in my seat so I can’t be spotted. It’s ridiculous, really, because she wouldn’t know me anyway, even if she did catch sight of me …
Clemmy looks at me from on high as I crouch down as low as I can get, almost sitting on the floor.
‘What’s she doing?’ I murmur, trying desperately to peer out without making myself visible.
Clemmy glances across. ‘She’s getting into her Mini Clubman. Brand new.’
‘Don’t look!’ I hiss.
‘Don’t worry. She’s not looking this way. And anyway, she doesn’t know me from Adam.’
Me neither, I think to myself sadly.
The impression I got from that brief glimpse of her is of a successful woman in her prime. A woman who’s happy with life.
A woman who won’t necessarily welcome an intrusion from a long-lost daughter who reminds her of a sad past she might very likely want left buried.
‘Can we go now?’ I swallow on the painful lump in my throat. After all the build-up, the anticlimax of not actually speaking to this woman feels devastating.
But I just can’t do it …
*
We drive over to the supermarket, which is a huge out-of-town store a couple of miles the other side of Appley Green.
I’m silent on the journey, watching the scenery, lost in thought.
After my heart-stopping experience earlier outside Maple Tree House – totally freezing at the idea of meeting my birth mother at last – I’m determined to just forget about it and focus instead on the holiday.
Perhaps the time isn’t right to look for her after all.
I’m dimly aware that I’m just making excuses, because the thought of introducing myself makes me so anxious I can barely breathe.
But whatever. I’m determined to put it behind me for now. This mini break is supposed to be Toby’s birthday treat, not a hunt for my long-lost family! I’ll cook a lavish meal for Toby when he returns this evening.
The supermarket stocks pretty much everything – including Toby’s favourite, mussels in white wine, which I immediately drop into my trolley. Then I pick up some prime cuts of steak, recommended by Clemmy, and lots of lovely fresh vegetables, with a chocolate roulade for dessert. If Toby has to work, I can always try to ensure he has a lovely relaxing evening.
And if he doesn’t approve of the yummy-looking roulade, that means there’ll be more for me!
‘Are you excited for October?’ I ask Clemmy on the drive back.
We’ve stopped at some traffic lights and she turns and gives me a wistful smile. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I am.’ She shrugs as the car moves off. ‘I’m marrying the man of my dreams. Why wouldn’t I be excited?’
I glance at her profile. She doesn’t look like a woman planning what’s meant to be the best day of her life. But maybe it’s just the stress …
‘More importantly, are you all right?’ she asks, not taking her eyes off the road.
I swallow. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s peachy. Absolutely hunky-dory in fact.’ We exchange an ironic smile but, to my huge relief, she doesn’t pursue the subject of what happened back there outside Maple Tree House.
I’m not sure I’d be able to answer her, even if she asked me.
Back at the tent, I turn my thoughts determinedly from Maple Tree House and settle down to read over the last chapter of my book again.
It’s good, I realise. Perhaps the time is right to think about sending it off to a publisher?
I’m not really expecting to hear from Toby until early evening, when he’s on his way back. But to my surprise, he returns just after five, bearing a big bunch of flowers.
‘For me? Thank you.’ I kiss him. He smells of the Guildford office. ‘Now I just need something to put them in. Have you seen any big jugs anywhere?’
Toby snorts. ‘Try next door.’
‘Toby!’ I laugh, glancing over at the next-door tent.
‘They’re not in, are they?’ He glares across.
‘No, they went out earlier. Chantelle was in skyscraper heels and a little sequinned dress, so I don’t think they were planning a hike in the countryside.’
Toby looks disgruntled for a moment. ‘Very nice. They’re probably off out for a lovely meal. Back to civilisation.’ He grins as if it’s a joke but I know it’s not.
He disappears into the tent and I follow him in.
‘We could go for a wander?’ I suggest. ‘Just down to the lake and along a bit, if you like? It’s getting cooler now.’
‘Okay. I’ll just get changed.’
‘Great.’
I put the flowers in a bucket, deciding that I’ll ask Clemmy when I see her if she has a vase I can borrow. Then we wander down to the lake and have a really lovely walk. Toby’s had a productive day and he seems much more relaxed about the whole crisis-at-work thing. It’s early evening and the air is very still with the odd midge flying about. But even this doesn’t seem to bother Toby tonight.
When we get back, I decide to barbecue the steak, so Toby sets it up while I make a salad, prepare the steaks and simmer the mussels in white wine on the little hob.
The meal turns out to be lovely and I’m hoping for a romantic end to the evening. But unfortunately, we left the tent flap open a little and we return later to find we’ve been invaded by some unwelcome visitors. They’re mostly midges as far as I can see, although Toby seems to think we have an army of rampant mosquitoes invading our temporary homestead, which is a whole other level of nasty apparently.
The upshot is we’re up half the night trying to eliminate every single one. Toby swears he won’t be able to sleep if there’s even one insect left flying around. This really tests my patience. And frankly, after the third time he’s shaken me awake because he’s heard another buzzing in his ear, I want to yell at him to pull the duvet over his head and go to sleep, which is what I’m trying hard to do.
But I know t
hat unless I help him whack the poor things into next week, I’ll not get any peace. So, at four in the morning, we’re rushing around our lovely tent, armed with a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times each, with Toby shouting, ‘It’s there! On that wall! Get it, Daisy! Damn, you missed it … over there!’
But the crowning glory happens just before dawn.
I awake to find Toby standing in the middle of the room, rolling up a magazine, a feverishly determined look in his eyes.
‘Right. I’m going to get that bastard!’
A big bluebottle is flying around manically, buzzing with alarm at Toby thrashing his rolled-up magazine in the air as if he’s practising sword-fencing.
Leaping onto the bed in pursuit of the fly, which has landed on the wall behind us, Toby almost crashes on top of me. I roll out of the way and he reaches up and splats the bluebottle onto the wall.
‘Ha! Gotcha!’ He subsides back onto the bed with a triumphant smile.
It’s only then that I realise what he’s been using as a fly swat. It’s the magazine with my story in it. I’d left it open at the right page so he’d read it – and over the title, there’s a giant blood spatter, courtesy of Mr Bluebottle.
‘That’s my story you’ve ruined,’ I point out testily.
He looks down. ‘Oh, shit. Sorry. Shall I chuck it out?’
‘No!’ I glare at him, horrified he should even think of it.
He shrugs, as if to say, What have I done now?
With a loud exhalation, I turn my back on him and pull the duvet over me, not even wanting to look at him.
After Toby’s efforts, we’re now in a bug-free zone.
As for me, I’m fervently wishing it were a Toby-free zone.
Would sleep deprivation count as a mitigating circumstance if I accidentally committed a murder?
CHAPTER TWELVE
What seems like five minutes after I finally fall asleep, an unusual sound wakes me up with a start.
‘What the …?’ I struggle to a sitting position, reaching for my mobile, as Toby sleeps on beside me. With a sigh, I realise that the reason it feels as if I’ve only been asleep five minutes is because it’s actually true.
The rooster crows again and I want to cry and throw things because I’m so exhausted after my night of insect warfare. Toby’s gentle snoring just adds insult to injury and, even though blissful silence descends after about twenty minutes of almost constant crowing, I still can’t get back to sleep. Mainly because I’m now thinking about Maple Tree House and wishing fervently that I’d had the courage to get out of the car when we were there yesterday …
It’s stuffy in the tent but the minute I decide to get dressed, make some coffee and go and sit outside, I hear the patter of rain. Before long, it’s coming down heavily, the noise astonishingly loud against the canvas. Amazingly, Toby sleeps through the brief thunderstorm, only waking when I finally get up to boil the kettle soon after eight.
‘Coffee?’ I ask as he peers outside at the rain-drenched morning.
‘Great. Then I’ll have a shower and, to be honest, the weather’s so revolting, I might as well get some work done.’
‘Today?’ I stare at him, annoyed. ‘But I thought you promised you were all mine today.’
‘No. You said that.’ He grins and I can tell he’s feeling cheerful because the weather is on his side. ‘But honestly, what can we do in the countryside when it’s raining like this? Absolutely bugger all.’
Sighing, I’m about to say that we could always do something else like go to the cinema, which hardly needs a fine day. Whether it’s because I’m sleep-deprived or because I’m getting fed up pandering to Toby, I’m not sure, but I suddenly realise I don’t especially want to be with Toby today.
I only wish I’d brought my car because then I’d be free to go wherever I liked.
‘Actually, I think it’s a good idea,’ I say to Toby and he looks at me in astonishment.
‘Really? You don’t mind?’
I shake my head. ‘You go and do something useful. I’ll be fine here, working on my book. I might pop in and see Clemmy later when it stops raining.’
‘If it stops. Because it looks to me as if it’s set for the day,’ says Toby cheerfully, heading for the shower. He’s obviously cock-a-hoop now that I’ve handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card.
After he’s driven off, I make the bed, propping up all the pillows to make myself a cosy nest, and flop back against them with my laptop, a coffee and one of yesterday’s pastries within easy reach on the bedside table. I want to edit what I wrote yesterday.
By lunchtime, the rain clouds have passed over and the sun has come out. And I’m feeling really groggy by this time from lack of sleep. If I stay here, I’m just going to drift off and waste the day. So I decide now would be a good time to venture on that walk through the woods I discovered the day before. Some fresh air will perk me up.
Packing a sandwich, an apple, some crisps and a large bottle of water into my backpack, along with my pink waterproof jacket, just in case, I set off, zipping up the tent and walking along the lakeside road.
The wet tarmac is sizzling in the heat from the late morning sun. Everything is drying really quickly after the downpour. It must be twenty-five degrees today, at least. I walk past the hotel where there are already holidaymakers in the garden, sipping iced drinks. I spy Sylvia through the window, talking to one of her staff in the restaurant. Thinking of how hard she must work to make the hotel a success makes me feel glad that, for once, I’ve stepped off the treadmill and am able to let my mind roam free. Did Sylvia always want to own a hotel? What would I do if I could be anything I liked? Anything at all?
The answer to this question is easy and always has been.
I’d be a writer. How amazing would it be to earn a living doing something I really love? I’m aware of how difficult it would be to get published. But there’s something about today that feels inspiring. Maybe it’s the blue sky after the rain, or the sense of endless possibilities I’m feeling with hours ahead of me to do what I like.
Is my book good enough to start submitting to literary agents or even directly to publishers? Mum thought so but she was obviously biased.
I’ve never shown the book to anyone but her. Not even Toby has read it. He hasn’t really shown any curiosity about it, but then I suppose he’s always so busy with his own work. And of course it wouldn’t exactly be to his taste. When Toby reads, it’s usually big historical tomes about the Napoleonic Wars or something equally riveting. In any case, I’d be scared he’d think it was rubbish and then I’d have to face the fact that I’ve been living in dreamland all this time, thinking I might have some talent.
Growing warmer with the exercise, I take off my cardigan and tie it around my waist, so my limbs are bare in the pink camisole top and shorts. Leaving the road, I cross the grass to the edge of the lake. Removing my shoes and socks, I find a flattish rock to sit on and slide my feet into the cold water. It’s so clear I can see the green tendrils of some aquatic fern winding round my ankle.
I take out my apple and munch on it, staring out across the lake, trying to think about the heroine in my book, but unable to stop thoughts of Maple Tree House slipping into my head and taking over.
There’s nothing I can do today without access to a car. But maybe I could persuade Toby to drive along there later, when he gets back. It’s the least he can do, really, considering he promised to spend time with me and I’ve barely seen him!
A huge yawn escapes. I’m exhausted after getting so little sleep last night during our intense bug massacre. I could just do with curling up on this grassy bank and falling fast asleep. But the sun is beating down and I’d be burned to a frazzle.
I stare longingly at the woods on the opposite bank. They look shady and invitingly cool.
Drying my feet on the grass, I decide to walk barefoot by the lake instead of heading back to the road. It takes longer but I’m enjoying just being out on my own, doing what I l
ike, instead of having to worry about whether Toby is enjoying himself.
An hour later, after a slow meander around the lake, stopping every now and then for a swig of water, I’m finally nearing the woods. I take a last look at the hotel on the opposite bank and I pick out our tent along to the right. Then I take the path into the woods.
I quickly realise that there isn’t just one way through. The main path branches off at intervals in different directions, and when I arrive at an ancient horse chestnut tree that seems to be sitting at a fork in the way, I decide to take the least worn path. Toby would think I was silly for doing this. He would say we really ought to stick to the tried and trusted route; that we could land ourselves in danger if we deviate from the path.
But today, the thought of Toby’s caution in all things just really irritates me.
To hell with him and his longing to be back in civilisation! I want to make the most of this glorious countryside. So, I’ll take the road least travelled and see where it leads me …
It’s cool in the forest and the scents are earthy and intoxicating. The sudden rustles as I walk by tell me I’m definitely not the only creature exploring this woody wonderland today. The trees are magnificent – some of them are so enormous they could have been there for a century. The thought of this makes me feel a little dizzy, as I stare up into the branches of a towering, gnarly oak tree – spying slivers of blue sky above – thinking of the long-dead person who must have planted it.
Every so often, a shaft of sunlight pierces the leafy canopy overhead, spilling dappled sunshine onto the rich earth and twigs beneath my feet.
After an hour or so of walking, I find myself in a little clearing among the trees where the sun filters through, and I decide it would be the perfect place to stop and eat my sandwich.
I sit down on the soft bracken, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of an oak tree, and munch my ham sandwich, lazily waving away the odd flying bug that would have driven Toby crazy if he’d been here.
I smile to myself. There’s no way Toby would have sat down. The bugs would have ruined any attempt to relax, and he wouldn’t have wanted to get all manner of nasty earthy stuff on his expensive jeans. A fleeting feeling of dismay comes over me when I think of the future if Toby and I stay together.
Summer under the Stars Page 8
