Summer under the Stars: A romantic comedy that will have you laughing out loud this summer.

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘Right.’ He nods. Then his mobile shrills out and he snatches it up with a triumphant smile. ‘Hallelujah! We have a signal!’ Answering it, he gets up from the table and starts wandering over the grass, in the direction of the lake, as he talks.

  I slump back in my seat, a lump in my throat. I’d expected more of a reaction than that. But Toby seems more interested in work than the fact that my life could be about to change forever.

  I watch him, deep in discussion with Callum from the office, feeling suddenly quite tearful at the nonchalant way he received my potentially life-changing news.

  Ten minutes later, he walks back over the grass towards me, his face alive with enthusiasm. ‘I think we might have cracked it. But it’ll mean me working all day today.’

  ‘Really?’ I can’t help the disappointment showing in my face.

  He pulls the chair across to sit beside me. ‘After today, I promise I’m all yours.’ He pats my knee and gives me a wistful smile as if he hates the thought of leaving me. But I can tell he can’t wait to get in his car and head for Guildford and proper civilisation.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can amuse myself today. Clemmy invited me over for a coffee, actually. You get yourself away and save the world!’

  I can’t help the snippiness in my voice.

  But my ironic barb sails right over his head.

  He leaps up with a smile, having clearly forgotten all about my desire to seek out my birth parents. ‘But remember, tomorrow, you’re all mine,’ he says, wagging his finger at me.

  ‘Is that a threat?’ I mumble.

  But he’s far too excited about leaving to notice my fed-up expression.

  He holds up both thumbs and disappears into the tent, returning almost immediately with his briefcase and car keys.

  ‘See you later! Be good!’

  Our attention is caught by next door’s tent flap opening. Chantelle’s blonde head appears, her hair all wild, no doubt after a night of passion. She gives Toby a coy little wave as he passes, and he trips over his own feet and almost goes sprawling.

  ‘Toby?’ I call, catching him up. There’s no point spoiling the holiday by being huffy. ‘Phone me to let me know when you’re coming back and I’ll have dinner ready.’ Then I murmur in his ear, ‘You seem to be a big hit with Chantelle. I bet she wishes I’d disappear so she could have you all to herself. I think you’re definitely in there!’

  Toby, who’s looking a bit flushed from almost falling head first, gives a bark of laughter. ‘Ha! What? No. Definitely not my type.’

  ‘I know.’ I giggle. ‘I was only having you on.’

  ‘Right, well, I’m off.’ He glances back at Chantelle and shakes his head in disgust. She seems to be doing some keep-fit exercises, thrusting her arms back and forward vigorously.

  ‘I must, I must, I must improve my bust,’ I chant.

  Toby frowns. ‘Why? Your bust is fine as it is.’

  ‘No, it’s just something Mum used to say when she was doing that exercise.’ I smile sadly at the memory.

  ‘Ah. Well, anyway, she looks bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Methinks thou doth protest too much.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll see you later.’

  I kiss him and wander back towards our tent. Seconds later, the car roars off, splitting the silence and giving the cows in a nearby field the fright of their lives.

  *

  I finish my breakfast, including the croissant with delicious strawberry jam that Toby discarded because of a possible bug infestation.

  It tastes perfectly fine to me. A few strawberry seeds, that’s all.

  The earlier clouds have vanished, leaving a beautiful clear blue sky, so after I’ve cleared up, I head off for a walk myself, round the lakeside track, passing the hotel where we had dinner. The manager is outside, clearing a couple of glasses that were left on a wall the night before.

  ‘Lovely meal last night!’ I call, and she comes over.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Off for a walk?’

  ‘Yes. You’re very lucky having all this on your doorstep.’

  She smiles. ‘I suppose I am. Not that I get much leisure time. Owning a hotel is rather more than a full-time job, especially when you’re also the manager.’

  ‘Oh wow, you actually own this place? How amazing.’

  She nods. ‘I’m wedded to the job but I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

  ‘You must really love it.’

  She shrugs. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. It keeps me busy at any rate. I’m Sylvia, by the way.’ She gives me one of her quick smiles. ‘Anyway, must get on. Enjoy your day.’

  Walking on, I wonder what it’s like to have a passion for your work, like Sylvia clearly does. I feel the very opposite of passion for my job, something that used to bother Mum. She wanted me to be doing something I enjoyed instead of writing about plumbing all the time. Maybe she really did have an instinct that I could succeed as a writer if I put my mind to it.

  The familiar feeling of panic bubbles in my chest.

  I miss her so much …

  Taking a deep breath, I force myself to think of something else. The book I’m writing. After my walk, I’ll go back to the tent and I’ll finally finish the last chapter. I’ve been procrastinating for far too long. It might be rubbish but that doesn’t matter. I just need to finish it!

  I’ve always wanted to be a writer – for as long as I can remember. English/Creative writing was my favourite lesson at school and, at home, I read voraciously, often reading after ‘lights out’ with a torch under the duvet.

  When I left school, I went to college in Edinburgh and trained to be a journalist. I had ambitions to be a roving reporter, travelling the globe, filing copy from far-flung capital cities. But it didn’t quite work out that way.

  Emerging keen and optimistic at the end of my course, I tried for a few reporting jobs but was always pipped to the post by candidates who already had experience. It was all very dispiriting. I had a brief stint as a reporter for a local newspaper that subsequently shut down. So then I started applying for anything and everything and eventually landed a job designing page layouts and writing supposedly eye-grabbing headings on trade magazine Plunge Happy Monthly.

  I’d hoped it might be a good starting point and that, eventually, it would lead to something at least a little more glamorous. But so far, apart from starting to write articles for the same magazine, it hasn’t worked out like that.

  In between trying to come up with riveting headings for stories that would frankly send an insomniac to sleep, I started thinking about the book I would write and dreaming up characters.

  My main protagonist was a girl called Hattie Walker, who was good-hearted and funny; the sort of person you’d want as a friend. Hattie was a little accident-prone and if there was a scrape to be landed in, she would somehow manage it – with amusing consequences. If it made me laugh, I stored it up, writing it down on a scrap of paper and shoving it in my bag to weave into my tale later. There was a darker side to the story, too. Hattie’s sister had run away from home and Hattie was trying to find her.

  Letting my imagination go wild like this kept me sane while I was writing copy about sprockets and open-end wrenches.

  I walk on briskly, pulling my cardigan tightly around me, thinking about the ending to my book. It’s too hot for the cardigan, really, but I’m so used to wearing it now, it’s like an old friend and I feel bare without it. It belonged to Mum.

  I remember when she bought it. She said it was a ‘waterfall cardigan’ and she joked that she was well up with the latest trends.

  A few nights after she died, I was at home and Rachel was out with Adam, and all the grief that I’d been holding back, determined to stay strong for Mum, came pouring out. I sobbed as if I’d never be able to stop then I went to bed but couldn’t stop shivering. Spotting Mum’s cardigan on top of the box of her belongings I’d brought home from the hospital, I pulled it on, snuggling it tightly around me.


  Soothed by the scent of Mum’s perfume still lingering there, I finally drifted off to sleep.

  I’ve worn the cardigan every day since.

  It’s been washed many times and is starting to look a little faded and shapeless but I won’t be parted from it. Toby hates it. He once sneaked it into a bag destined for the charity shop but, luckily, I rescued it in time. I think he was quite shocked by my reaction and he won’t be trying that again!

  Deep in thought, I find myself walking for longer than I intended round the lake. It’s such a lovely spot. Only very occasionally does a car drive past along the narrow tarmac road, but I stick mostly to the grass verge nonetheless. Up ahead is the woodland area that’s our view from the glamping site, on the opposite bank of the lake. The band of trees hugs the shoreline and eventually peters out into an open grassy area beyond. I’d like to walk right around the lake some time, if there’s a path through the trees that will allow me to make that complete circle.

  As I approach the wooded area, I spy what seems to be a path disappearing into the cool shade of the trees. It looks very inviting in the heat of the midday sun.

  But I decide to explore the woods another day. Right now, I’m hungry so I’ll have to get back. I should have brought a packed lunch with me. If Toby had been here, he would have thought of that. He’s so much more organised than me.

  Back at the tent, I make some lunch and take it outside, along with my laptop. Then, with Mum’s voice in my ear urging me on and Sylvia as my example of a successful, motivated woman, I finally start tapping away at the last chapter of my book.

  I think of Toby, working away in Guildford. I packed my laptop thinking that I might get a little writing done if I happened to have a spare few minutes. My mouth twists into a rueful smile. I should have known it wouldn’t be long before Toby was hankering to get back to his own laptop!

  But I’m not as disappointed as I thought I’d be. Inspiration for my book is flowing freely. I felt terminally stuck before but now the words are tumbling out, one after the other. It’s almost as if the book is writing itself. I can hardly believe it when, halfway through the afternoon, I finally write the very last sentence.

  With a happy sigh, I sit back and stare at the words on the page. I made it! I actually did it! I’ve written a whole book. It’s taken a long time but that doesn’t matter. Whether it’s good or not almost doesn’t matter either. It’s such a big achievement in itself.

  Mum would have been over the moon. She’d have bought a bottle of prosecco to celebrate and made me read the last chapter out loud to her, and she’d have sighed happily over the ending and perhaps even welled up a little.

  My throat hurts thinking about how much Mum loved me and cheered me on. Her dying has left a gaping hole in my life that I struggle every day to fill, never quite succeeding.

  Of course I have Toby now and his family.

  But it’s not the same. It never could be.

  Family is so precious. It’s only when it’s gone that you realise just how much you depended on that unconditional love and took it for granted. Mum would have done anything for me. And I would have done anything for her. That’s just the way we were …

  Tears are seriously threatening now. I jump up and run into the tent, looking for something to occupy my mind, hating Toby for not being here when I need him. Just a friendly face would be nice …

  ‘Daisy?’

  Clemmy!

  I rush outside and her face creases with worry when she sees me.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I must look terrible … desperate. She puts her arm round me, leads me gently back into the tent and makes me sit down on the sofa.

  ‘Where’s Toby? Has something happened?’ she asks, and the genuine concern on her face threatens to destabilise me altogether. ‘Or is it just … things?’

  We exchange a look of understanding. And then I find myself pouring everything out to Clemmy. About Mum dying and feeling all alone in the world. And about finding the pink handbag and thinking maybe it was time to go searching for my birth parents. But not feeling quite brave enough …

  Clemmy listens without interruption, squeezing my hand every now and again to help me through the more difficult bits of my story.

  When I fall silent, she opens her eyes wide and shakes her head. ‘Oh, Daisy. Poor you. What you’ve been through. I just can’t imagine.’ She pauses. ‘Your mum was such a wonderful person. Auntie Joan loved her to bits.’

  I nod, quickly dashing away tears and smiling. ‘I know she did.’ Then I frown. ‘I’m just so torn between wanting to look for my birth parents, but feeling that if I start searching for them, I’ll be betraying Mum.’

  Clemmy shakes her head. ‘I understand, but you mustn’t think like that. Your mum was such a lovely person; she’d have wanted you to be happy, wouldn’t she?’

  I nod. ‘It still doesn’t sit right, though. I realise I’ve been pushing thoughts of searching from my mind for ages, simply because I didn’t want to hurt her or make her feel second best. And even though she’s gone now, I still can’t shake the feeling of guilt I get when I think of going in search of my birth mother.’

  Clemmy frowns. ‘Would you like to find Maple Tree House? I could drive you there.’

  My heart lurches. ‘Really?’

  She nods. ‘I came over to see if you needed a lift to the supermarket. That’s where I’m heading now. We could combine it with a trip to Acomb Drive in Appley Green?’

  I long to say yes. But my instinct is to hesitate.

  My feelings on the subject are so complex, they’re hard to pin down. I’m excited but I’m also very apprehensive. I have a burning curiosity to know who my real parents are but, at the same time, I wish I hadn’t been adopted because then life would be simple.

  Over-riding all these feelings is gut-curdling fear.

  The fear of what I will find if I knock on the door of Maple Tree House. The fear of rejection.

  ‘We don’t have to go today,’ says Clemmy.

  ‘I do need to go shopping.’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, let’s go to the supermarket and you can decide if you want to go to Appley Green afterwards. Okay?’

  I swallow hard. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  She smiles. ‘No problem. It’ll be nice to have your company.’

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Clemmy’s little run-around, staring at the lake as we drive by but not really seeing it, because all I can think about is Maple Tree House. I just need to say the word and we’ll be there. It’s so real now, it scares me to death. And yet at the same time, I can’t help the hopeful imaginings crowding into my head.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Clemmy peers across at me, startling me from the fantasy I’ve been having pretty much every day since I found the pink bag. It’s the dream where I finally locate the woman who gave birth to me and we’re reunited in a burst of joyous relief, made all the sweeter when she confides that giving me up for adoption is the biggest regret of her life.

  I force a grin. ‘Oh, you know.’ And Clemmy nods.

  I’m so torn.

  I desperately want to find the owner of the handbag. She might be able to answer all my questions. Who wouldn’t want to find their biological mother after thirty-two years of not even knowing her name?

  But at the same time, I’m terrified.

  I know for a fact that real life doesn’t work out like it does in dreams or in the movies. The perfect scenario can only ever be a fantasy. Because perfection doesn’t exist. And how would I cope if the very worst turned out to be true – that she’d died before I had a chance to meet her or (almost worse) she were to take one look at me and reject me on the spot? Could I get over something like that, especially after all the hundreds of times I’ve imagined a happy ending?

  ‘It’s … complicated,’ I whisper. And then because Clemmy is looking at me with such empathy, tears well up. It’s so ironic. If I’m honest, the only reason I’m
in this quandary at all is because I’ve lost Mum. But the silly thing is that if Mum were still here, supporting me, I know I’d have the courage to knock on that door …

  We’re driving into Appley Green now. It’s on the way to the supermarket. We pass a pretty church and Clemmy slows down. ‘This is the turn-off for Acomb Drive.’ She points at a road up ahead on our right. ‘Shall I?’ She checks her mirror for traffic and slows to a stop, indicating at the turn-off.

  My heart is hammering so fast, I feel sick.

  I just can’t do it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I shake my head and Clemmy switches off the indicator. A car behind us blares its horn and she drives on, staring crossly in the rear-view mirror. ‘All right, mate. I’m going.’

  She pulls into a bus stop a little way ahead and switches off the engine.

  ‘You could have gone anywhere for your holiday with Toby. Why did you choose here?’ she asks softly.

  I smile ruefully. ‘Because I wanted to find the owner of the bag.’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, there you are.’

  ‘I know but I’m scared. Sometimes I think it would be best to forget the biology bit and just remember Mum as my real mum – because she was, when you think about it. And she was the best mum I could have ever had.’

  Clemmy nods, her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Of course she was. And she always will be your mum. But … I don’t know … if there’s even a small part of you that needs to discover the truth about your birth, I honestly don’t think you’ll be able to rest until you’ve got to the bottom of the mystery.’

  ‘Have you seen Maple Tree House?’

  She nods. ‘It’s quite grand. Georgian style, I think, with lovely gardens.’

  I’m silent, absorbing this fresh information.

  ‘Is there a name on the envelope?’ asks Clemmy.

  ‘No. That’s why all this is so hit-and-miss.’

  She nods. ‘I guess it all happened such a long time ago.’

  ‘Thirty-two years. What are the chances she’ll still be living in the house she lived in when she was a girl?’