Summer under the Stars

by Catherine Ferguson

  I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Then another and another.

  ‘Right. I’m going.’

  Jake nods. ‘Good luck. I’ll be waiting here.’

  A wave of gratitude washes over me and I smile at him. ‘Thank you for this.’

  ‘Hey, no problem. If your birth mother really does live here, this is her lucky day.’

  I groan. ‘Let’s hope she thinks so.’

  I get out of the car and walk through the garden gate on legs that feel like they might give way at any moment. How am I even going to introduce myself with my tongue welded with fear to the roof of my mouth?

  I ring the bell and stand there, holding the pink handbag behind my back, waiting for someone to answer the door. And at the same time, desperately hoping no one comes.

  Through the bevelled pane of glass, a figure appears, walking towards the door. The shape is definitely female. There’s a whining noise in my ears and I feel a little faint.

  What shall I say? What shall I say?

  Hi there, I really hope you don’t mind me coming here but is this your handbag by any chance? And if it is, do you think I might be your long-lost daughter?

  Oh God, no, I can’t say that. The woman might think I’m a deranged bunny-boiler-stalker-type person.

  Breathe, breathe.

  The door opens and the woman Clemmy and I saw the other day is standing there. She glares at me and looks pointedly at her watch.

  ‘Hi there,’ I begin, aiming for warm and friendly, and definitely not strange weirdo. ‘I really want to apologise for just turning up—’

  ‘Late?’ she snaps. ‘Yes, you most certainly are!’ She brandishes her watch at me. ‘I honestly don’t know why I persist in using this agency – it would probably be less hassle to do my cleaning myself! Still, now that you’re here, you might as well get on with it.’ Her frown deepens. ‘Where’s your uniform? I thought at least you cleaning minions could be relied upon to dress appropriately. Jeans and a flimsy top are hardly suitable. Still, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’

  I stare at her in dismay.

  She thinks I’m the cleaner!

  I shake my head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong. I’m not here to clean. I—’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not here to clean?’ she barks. ‘You have to. Do you know who I am?’

  I wince.

  ‘I’m Arabella of Arabella Exclusive Designs.’

  When I look slightly bemused, she shrieks, ‘The women’s clothing emporium on the high street?’ From her glare, she might as well have added, you blithering idiot! I feel a brief pang of sympathy for any cleaner sent to Maple Tree House.

  ‘The thing is, I’m holding a very important event tonight – a meeting of top VIPs in the world of high-end couture – but I can’t possibly have people round with the place looking like this!’

  She pulls the door open further to let me observe the chaos within.

  But all I can see is a neat and tidy hallway, with not a single speck intruding on the smooth perfection of the mushroom-coloured carpet.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I’m not from the cleaning agency,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Perhaps you should give them a ring?’

  She sighs and folds her arms, looking thoroughly disgruntled.

  I try to imagine things from her point of view. There’s nothing worse than having people round for dinner when you feel your house is a tip. Even when it isn’t.

  Children’s voices beyond the gate float over and we both glance across. A group of kids in high spirits are kicking a ball along the street. There’s a thud and a cheer as the ball whacks against Arabella’s fence.

  ‘That had better not land in my garden,’ she calls in an imperious tone, ‘because you won’t be getting it back.’

  I can well believe it. And so can the kids, clearly.

  There’s an instant silence beyond the fence.

  Arabella shakes her head. ‘Little brats. I mean, I don’t mind children but I definitely couldn’t eat a whole one!’ She laughs at her own joke – a series of strange high-pitched snorts – and there’s an immediate response from one of the ‘little brats’ beyond the fence. His impression of her laugh is really rather good. I have to fight to look solemn.

  ‘This is a lovely house. Have you lived here long?’ I ask, my heart beating fast.

  ‘Oh, most of my life. I grew up here, and then when Mummy and Daddy wanted to downsize, I was doing well enough to buy it from them.’ She leans closer, taps the side of her nose and murmurs, ‘Cash,’ in a confidential manner.

  ‘Gosh,’ I respond obligingly, since it’s clear she expects me to be impressed. ‘So … did you have to bargain with your brothers and sisters to get the house?’

  She shoots me a sharp look. ‘I don’t have any siblings. Thank God. What is it they say? You can pick your friends but you can’t choose your family? No, I was far too deliciously spoilt as a kid to have ever wanted to share Mummy and Daddy with some pesky brothers and sisters.’

  My heart sinks. It must be Arabella, then. She’s the only daughter of Maple Tree House. But could she really be my mother?

  My feelings about this are mixed, to say the least.

  There’s no denying we look alike. We both have straight dark hair and hazel eyes, and there’s something about the mouth that seems familiar, although I could be imagining that.

  If she’s the owner of the handbag Mum kept all these years, she could well be my birth mother.

  So why am I feeling this sinking sense of anticlimax? And keeping the handbag clutched firmly behind my back, the pink plastic making my hands sweaty?

  I suppose that what I feared all along is actually coming to pass. I was worried that, after all my imaginings, I was bound to be disappointed by the reality.

  But whatever my feelings about Arabella, I need to know one way or another if she’s my real mum. And this is my one opportunity to find out.

  Arabella’s mobile starts ringing. She answers it and is immediately into an intense conversation about artichokes, presumably with her caterers for tonight. Forgetting all about me, she closes the door without even bothering to find out why I’d rung her bell in the first place.

  I stand there for a few seconds longer, feeling strangely numb.

  Then I turn and walk quickly back to the car.

  Jake leans across to open the passenger door and I slip inside gratefully.

  ‘Bad?’ he asks, seeing my face.

  I blow out a long breath and shake my head. ‘I wish I hadn’t come here.’

  ‘Is it her? Is she the owner of the bag?’

  I shrug helplessly. ‘I don’t know. She shut the door in my face before I could figure out a way to ask. But she’s an only child and she was definitely living here in her teens, so I guess it must be her.’

  ‘You can always go back,’ he says at last. ‘If you want to.’

  I nod. ‘I just need to work out how I feel, having met her.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  We drive back in silence. Toby won’t be back for a few hours yet and, to be truthful, I’m glad. It will give me some time alone to think about this weird day. And Arabella.

  But when Jake pulls up at the glamping site, I see to my surprise that Toby’s car is there.

  ‘He’s back,’ says Jake, looking over at me with a strangely tense expression. I suppose he guesses I’d have liked to be alone for a bit to think.

  ‘Yes!’ I try to look pleased.

  ‘So … do you think you’ll be going on any more woodland walks any time soon?’ asks Jake. He’s switched off the engine, which surprises me because I assumed he’d drive straight off once he’d dropped me off.

  ‘I … yes, probably.’ Suddenly I’m covered in confusion. Is he inviting me to pop by again? ‘I mean, obviously it depends on what Toby’s doing …’

  ‘Of course.’ He shifts in his seat and starts the engine. ‘Right, well, if you need any more support in your quest, just let me know
. I’m happy to be the getaway driver.’

  We smile ruefully at each other, and it hits me that, actually, given the choice, I’d rather go back to the woods with Jake now, than go in and see Toby. It might be pretty basic at Jake’s camp – and that’s a bit of an understatement – but I can relax there and just be myself.

  I feel as if Jake has found out more in the past few days about the real me – all my dearest hopes and dreams – than Toby has in the entire three months we’ve been together.

  I feel a twinge of guilt. It’s not Toby’s fault if his work puts such pressure on him and limits our time together.

  It’s been lovely talking to Jake about everything – especially the writing – and just knowing he was waiting for me in the car definitely helped give me the strength I needed to knock on Arabella’s door. But he’s obviously still grieving over his lovely Laura. That much was clear from our conversation earlier.

  Laura’s death has totally devastated Jake. He’s not likely to be looking for a replacement any time soon.

  Also, I need to get back to Toby.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A sigh escapes me as I get out of the car. ‘Thank you for today.’

  Jake raises a hand in response. ‘I meant it about wanting to read your book.’

  I smile as I lean back in. ‘Okay. But you’d better be kind.’ Then I shake my head. ‘Actually, no. I don’t mean that. I want to know the truth about my writing. Be as horrible as you like.’

  He gives me a full-on smile and my stomach flips over. ‘Okay. I’ll be really mean and nasty. I promise.’

  I pull a funny nervous face and, with a wave, he drives off.

  I watch the car until it disappears behind the trees, then I straighten up, paste on a smile and walk over to our tent, aware that my heart feels strangely heavy.

  Toby pops his head out of the door before I get there. ‘I’ve brought dinner,’ he says, beaming.

  ‘Have you? How lovely and thoughtful of you,’ I say, taken completely by surprise. Toby flushes a little and shrugs it off.

  As I’m stepping inside, there’s a big crash from the next tent. It sounds like someone’s dropped a pile of plates from a height. I exchange a horrified glance with Toby, just as the man, Dane, charges out of the tent, turning the air blue with a string of expletives. We pop our heads out just in time to see Dane striding over to his car, with Chantelle running after him, begging him to stop.

  Dane totally ignores her, gets into his car and drives off with a screech of his wheels on the tarmac. Poor Chantelle stares after the car, then turns and walks slowly back to the tent. Luckily she hasn’t spotted us spying on them.

  ‘Oh dear, she’s crying.’ My heart goes out to her. Dane seems a bit of a bully. ‘I’m going over there to make sure she’s all right.’ I pause at the entrance. ‘Do you think I should invite her over for dinner?’

  ‘Really? Are you having a laugh, Daisy? They’re probably the sort of couple who exist purely on burgers and chips.’ He pulls open the fridge door and brandishes a packet. ‘I doubt the lovely Chantelle will be a huge fan of beef kofta with Mediterranean vegetables.’

  ‘Toby!’ I gasp. ‘Don’t be such a snob.’

  He shrugs, looking a bit red in the face. ‘Invite her if you want. I don’t care.’

  I stare at him, puzzled. ‘She’ll probably say no.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’ Avoiding my gaze, he walks through to the bathroom and flicks the lock.

  Poor Chantelle is distraught and already halfway down a bottle of red by the time I go over. Apparently Dane has left for good. She seems pleased at the invitation, though, and takes me up on it straight away.

  I wait while she changes and she emerges in a short floral dress and a pair of vertiginous heels that aren’t hugely suitable for stumbling across the grass to the next tent. I glance at her outfit warily, knowing it’s bound to irritate Toby. He’ll turn his nose up at that low-cut neckline for a start! I just hope he’s polite to her.

  I’ve never seen this intolerant side to Toby’s character before and I can’t say I like it.

  ‘Oh, what’s happened to your arm?’ Chantelle asks as soon as we walk in.

  ‘Bee sting,’ says Toby.

  Chantelle looks horrified. ‘Oh, poor you! I hate bees! And wasps. And flies. And moths. And spiders.’ She gives an exaggerated shiver of disgust.

  ‘They are pretty disgusting,’ Toby agrees. ‘Especially the way they invade our space. I mean, what other living thing does that?’

  She nods as I usher her into a seat. ‘Precisely. Even bears keep their distance normally. And you’d never see a squirrel just wandering in and getting into bed with you. But insects – they get everywhere!’

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Chantelle?’ I offer. ‘Wine?’

  ‘Yes, it’s their total lack of boundaries that disturbs me,’ says Toby. ‘You’re right about squirrels. They’d never dream of invading your house but bloody flies just barge in and take over the place.’

  I pour Chantelle some wine and leave them to it while I go through to the kitchen to make dinner.

  When I return and we sit down to eat, they’re discussing the countryside as if it’s an alien land to be avoided at all costs. But I’m happy that at least they seem to have found some common ground. The only thing I find a little disconcerting is the extent to which Toby is appreciating Chantelle’s low-cut dress. The more wine he drinks, the more he’s talking to her cleavage instead of her actual face, which seems quite disrespectful to me.

  ‘Toby, will you stop staring at her boobs?’ I hiss, when she goes to the loo.

  He shoots me a bemused look. ‘But I’m not.’

  I sigh. ‘You might not be aware of it, but you’ve just basically conducted an entire conversation about the evils of cows with her breasts. It’s embarrassing, Toby. And she’s definitely noticed.’

  He’s looking at me as if I’m a chicken fillet short of an E-cup. ‘Honestly, Daisy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I happen to think she’s got ridiculously large mammaries. Not my thing at all.’ He frowns. ‘I think you spend far too much time in your imagination. But then, I suppose that’s part of trying to be a writer. Making up stuff.’

  ‘I’m not making up stuff,’ I whisper angrily. ‘I saw you with my own eyes. My real eyes, not my made-up ones!’

  Out of nowhere, I’m on the verge of tears. I lurch from the table on the pretence of fetching something from the kitchen.

  Toby being in denial about the boob-gazing doesn’t particularly bother me. It’s quite amusing, really. But his remark about how I’m ‘trying to be a writer’ really hurts. It shows, in a nutshell, exactly how seriously Toby views my dearest ambition in life. He still hasn’t bothered to read my story, despite nearly destroying the magazine using it as a fly swat.

  I think of Jake, wondering what he’s doing right now. Boiling water on his campfire to make more nettle tea maybe? I smile at the thought. I doubt that will be happening again after the last lot. Instead, I picture Jake lying on the grass, staring up at the stars in the night sky and dreaming up ideas for his next book.

  A pang of real longing hits and the thought runs through my head: I want to be there, lying on the grass beside him.

  I stand stock still for a moment. Then I wander into the bedroom and subside onto the springy mattress. I’ve been telling myself that it’s our meeting of minds that’s the real draw for me with Jake. But perhaps it’s more than that. A whole lot more …

  ‘Daisy?’ calls Toby. ‘Can you grab the cream from the fridge? I’m ready to serve up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Toby pops his head in. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ I stand up, pasting on a smile.

  He sighs. ‘Look, Dais, I’m really sorry we haven’t spent much time together since we’ve been here.’ He pushes me gently back down on the bed, takes my face in his hands and kisses me ever so softly. ‘And I’m sorry you thought I was distracted by the boob show. But y
ou must admit they’re hard to ignore.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ I concede, his sheepishly apologetic expression thawing my heart a little.

  ‘Look, how about we get rid of Chantelle after dessert and have an early night?’

  There’s such a hopeful light in his eyes, I find myself nodding. ‘That would be lovely.’

  I’ve been feeling really irritated by Toby’s attitude so far this holiday – but on reflection it’s not really fair of me to criticise him. Not when I’ve been spending time in the woods with another man!

  It’s been an emotional few days and my head is all over the place.

  My encounter with Arabella was so dispiriting, I’ve started to have second thoughts about finding my birth mum. If it turned out to be her – and I can’t see any other possibility just now – I’m not sure Arabella would actually want to know me. Not after her caustic remarks about children. She seems a fairly self-centred sort of person and, if I’m honest, I didn’t warm to her at all. I desperately wanted to, but I just didn’t.

  Perhaps if I got to know her properly, I’d feel differently.

  And if she found out I was her long-lost daughter, who knows what a difference that might make to her life? She might have buried the sadness of her baby being adopted deep inside her and grown a hard shell as a result – and that buried grief might well have made her into the rather cold, brittle sort of person she is today.

  But this is all just speculation; the product of my imagination. Maybe Toby is right and I live in my head far too much. The truth is, I know nothing about Arabella and, the sad thing is, I’m not even sure I want to now.

  After we’ve eaten dessert and Chantelle has had two more glasses of wine and is almost falling asleep in her chair, Toby murmurs to me that maybe he should walk her back over to her tent.

  I flash him a grateful look. By the looks of her, she wouldn’t make it over there by herself. And while he’s making sure she gets back safely, I’ll carry the plates into the kitchen, leave the dishes for the morning and be in bed waiting when Toby returns. It’s a long time since he’s suggested an early night. Hopefully a romantic night will help revive our flagging relationship …