‘I’m really very sorry to put you in this position, Mrs Thornton-Green.’ One of the husbands turned to Elaine, pulling at his shirt collar in discomfort. He was apologizing, thought Daisy. This whole situation is so ridiculously British, it’s not quite real.
‘Yes.’ The other irate husband turned to Elaine, his mouth a thin line. ‘It’s most distressing for everyone.’
‘Not at all.’ Elaine raised both hands, dismissing them. ‘I think it’s clear that the person here who owes the apology here is my –’
She stopped herself, Daisy noted. Leo remained half-crouched in position behind the chair, completely still.
‘Is Mr Thornton-Green.’
The two husbands nodded, lulled into a sense of calm by Elaine’s assurance. She probably reminded them of Mummy, thought Daisy, smothering a smile behind her hand. God, it was like being caught up in an episode of Downton Abbey.
Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Leo began sidling out from behind the chair.
‘What can I say?’ He spoke quickly and smoothly. ‘I am, of course, extremely apologetic. I will, naturally, be handing my resignation to the governors with immediate effect.’
Elaine’s face remained completely impassive as everyone in the room turned to her, recognizing that she held the balance of power.
‘Unfortunately,’ she began, her voice crisp and controlled but dripping with ice, ‘Mr Thornton-Green has a rather skewed concept of parent–teacher relations.’
‘You’re not bloody joking,’ said one of the husbands.
‘Even more unfortunately, this is not the first time – and for that I must take some of the blame.’
Daisy recoiled. Elaine knew?
‘When he took up the post here at Brockville, it was following a successful period as head of an exclusive prep school in Dubai. A period which came to a rather sudden end after my husband was found in bed with the wife of a prominent businessman.’
Daisy’s eyes widened. All this time, she’d been trying to find a way to tactfully raise her suspicions that Leo was a slimy git – and Elaine already knew what he was capable of. She felt a bit sick at the thought. She’d stormed off the very same day she’d discovered Jamie’s infidelity. How on earth could Elaine have carried on living with Leo, knowing what he’d done? The whole perfect lifestyle thing, which had always made her a bit uneasy – it was built on a crumbling foundation of lies and deceit. Why on earth would Elaine stay?
‘I accepted my husband’s apology, and we moved back to the UK. Luckily for us, we were able to pull some strings, and we ended up here in Steeple St John.’
‘Not exactly lucky for us,’ said Husband Number Two, shaking his head angrily. Daisy noticed his hands were still balled into fists. She watched as Leo followed her gaze and shrank back slightly in discomfort.
‘Well, I’m sorry, Leo,’ Elaine used his name for the first time, but it was with such icy contempt that it sounded like an insult, ‘but I’m not hiding behind your lies this time. You’re on your own.’
‘I’d get out of here pretty sharpish if I were you, mate,’ said Husband Number One, his well-modulated accent slipping for the first time. His eyebrows flashed upwards for a brief moment, a gesture which gave the subtlest hint of violence – enough that Leo shot out from behind the chair, not even stopping to grab his leather briefcase, which sat open on the desk, and hurtled out of the room.
Daisy, Elaine and the two husbands stood in silence, listening to the rapid-fire clattering of Leo’s leather-soled shoes along the corridor. There was a rumble as the heavy wooden doors swung open, and then silence.
‘Right. Well, I’m sure you both have things to be getting on with,’ said Elaine, briskly.
‘I’m sure you’re as keen as we are,’ said the previously menacing husband, his accent now tuned back to neutral Home Counties, ‘to keep this under wraps. Can I rely on Brockville to do everything it can to minimize the – disruption?’
The other husband adjusted his tie, clearing his throat awkwardly. ‘Yes, yes, indeed – that would really be most helpful. My wife and I have agreed to put this unfortunate – incident – behind us, and . . .’
Elaine cut in, sharply. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ You don’t sound it, thought Daisy. ‘As the soon-to-be-ex-wife of the soon-to-be-ex-head, I’m afraid I have no influence over Brockville whatsoever. You’ll have to take it up with the Board of Governors.’
She picked up her Mulberry handbag from the chair and hooked it over her shoulder before continuing crisply, ‘I suggest you start with the school secretary. She’s been standing outside the door listening to the whole conversation. Should make it nice and straightforward.’
With that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the school, with a speechless Daisy scuttling along in her wake.
*
‘Brockville School was established in 1910 . . .’ Daisy was reading from one of the newly printed stack of promotional leaflets stacked on the bar in the Grey Mare, Leo’s satisfied face beaming out from the back page. ‘Distinguished alumni include former Cabinet Ministers, leaders of trade and industry, and several well-respected journalists.’
‘Who hopefully won’t be sniffing around looking for a bit of scandal,’ said Jo, with feeling. She slid a gin and tonic across the pub table to Daisy. They’d returned to the Old Rectory, Daisy’s beaten-up Vauxhall beetling along behind Elaine’s glossy Audi. Elaine, her ice-cool veneer still impenetrable, had made it evident that she was absolutely fine, thanks, and yes, perhaps she’d give them a call later, and of course, yes, if there was anything they could do, she’d be in touch. And with that, just as Leo’s car crunched into the drive, she had politely but very firmly shunted them out of the house. Leo had remained in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, face immobile.
The pub had been a no-brainer. Jo and Daisy had set off in that direction without a moment’s discussion. Slightly relieved to be making their escape, they’d crunched down the path and out onto the street, both silent, neither looking the other in the eye until they were safely out of earshot.
‘Bloody hell,’ Daisy had exclaimed.
*
And so the week rushed by: Daisy packing her things for a weekend away, Thomas promising to look after Polly and make sure she got a nightly stroll round the park as he wandered down to say goodnight to his beloved Violet. Daisy tried texting Elaine, asking if she fancied dinner at the pub, but she left a breezy voicemail in return saying no, thanks, and that she was ‘fine’. Jo tried, too, calling round one afternoon between clients, but Elaine gently shooed her away, claiming she had a conference call. Comparing notes on the phone, they both agreed that whatever was going on, Elaine was determined not to let her guard down for a second.
As the weekend approached, Jo became increasingly quiet as the reality of facing up to her past drew closer. Daisy dealt with a visit from the estate agent, first to measure up and take details, and then – sick-making reality – to take photographs of Orchard Villa and the gardens. She spent the week cleaning, tidying and making the gardens look as beautiful as possible. Hopefully someone would fall in love with them enough to carry on the work she and Thomas had begun. It was out of Daisy’s hands, really, so all she could do was bury her head in the potting soil and cross her fingers that some of Thomas’s Zen philosophy about things changing for the better would actually come good.
Chapter Seventeen
Jo picked Daisy up at six on Saturday morning with a scowling, yawning Martha slumped in the back seat. Despite the early hour, Daisy noticed she’d still managed to trowel on at least three layers of eyeliner. She glowered out of the window, muttering darkly at her mother.
‘I don’t know why you couldn’t have just dropped me round at Elaine’s house last night. I could have had an extra night in that lush spare bed, and I wouldn’t have had to be up in the middle of the bloody night.’
‘Don’t swear, darling.’ Jo indicated right, turning the car into Cavendish Lane. ‘Elaine’s got enough o
n her plate at the moment without any extra stress.’
Martha raised a single, sardonic eyebrow. She’d recently learned this skill and it was proving very useful. Jo, who’d told Daisy the other day that her daughter was pushing her to the edge of sanity, gritted her teeth.
‘Oh yeah. Mister Thornton-Green and his extracurricular activities.’ Martha gave a one-sided smile.
‘Martha,’ hissed Jo. ‘If you dare upset Elaine this weekend, I will personally make sure you never access wifi under my roof again.’
Daisy hid a smile. Martha without wifi would shrivel and die. It was her lifeblood.
‘As if,’ Martha tutted. ‘I actually like Elaine – even if she is a bit up her own arse.’
Jo inhaled, the long, slow, deep breath of a mother with a teenager. Her nostrils flared, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Having seen the way Elaine had dealt with the wronged husbands earlier that week, Daisy suspected she’d be more than capable of handling one sarky fourteen-year-old. Especially as she, too, was in charge of the wifi connection.
Martha hopped out, opening the gate to the driveway of the Old Rectory. The car crunched to a halt, parking in the space behind Elaine’s car which had previously been reserved for Leo’s Audi estate.
Elaine opened the door, already dressed despite the early hour. A waft of something delicious hit Daisy’s nostrils. Surely she’d not been baking at half past six in the morning? And she was fully made up, too, hair blow-dried neatly into its customary bouncy waves, a subtly patterned dove-grey top over cropped, narrow-legged trousers. Daisy, who’d been up for an hour making herself look respectable, looked down at her already creased skirt with dismay.
‘Martha, darling, come in. I had a feeling you might fancy a few hours more in bed, so if you pop upstairs – don’t worry about the bags, I’ll bring them up in a moment – I’ve turned the bed down for you.’
Shooting her mother an eloquent look, Martha hurtled upstairs two at a time, mobile phone in hand. She would get her lie-in after all.
‘Bye, sweetheart,’ called Jo fruitlessly, as she disappeared out of sight. ‘Love you.’
‘Yep,’ called Martha’s distant voice as she disappeared into the bedroom, the door thudding shut.
‘King Lear was right, y’know.’ Jo shook her head, laughing despite herself. ‘That’s probably the last you’ll see of her until I get back.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure I can tempt her down with something. I’ve got salted caramel fudge cooling in the kitchen, and I’ve just put a batch of white chocolate and cranberry cookies in the oven.’ It was the first time they’d set eyes on Elaine since the incident at Brockville, and she seemed determined to maintain her veneer of calm.
‘You going to be okay?’ Jo put a hand on Elaine’s arm.
‘Me?’ Elaine smiled brightly. ‘Absolutely fine. Don’t worry about me. Now, you two have a safe trip. Text me when you get there, okay? And Jo?’ Elaine pulled her into an embrace, hugging her tightly for a moment. When she stepped back, Daisy watched as Elaine took an almost imperceptible breath, composing herself, thrown by the intimacy. ‘You’re doing a good thing. No matter how terrifying it might seem.’
Jo’s smile was faint. Nerves were hitting now, as they moved closer and closer to the inevitable. ‘I know.’
‘I’ll look after her, don’t worry.’ Elaine held the door open, motioning them out with her arm. ‘Go. Drive safely.’
Main Street was deserted as they made their way out of the village, driving past the pub, up past the lane that led to Orchard Villa, and through the trees towards the dual carriageway that led them north. Forestry Commission signs flashed by as they passed the huge woodland on their right before cresting the hill and heading down, down, out of the safety of Steeple St John for their long drive to the seaside.
They sat for a while in silence, both lost in thought, not even putting on the radio. Daisy stared out of the window at the rolling countryside. She watched patchwork cows spilling back out of milking parlours and into the fields, realizing again just how early it was. The M25 was quiet for once, their only companions the huge, rumbling lorries headed for Felixstowe, their metal cargo crates painted brightly with every European language.
‘So,’ Daisy began cautiously. ‘Tom?’
Jo shook her head. ‘I haven’t a clue. I have no idea how this is going to go – what I’m supposed to say. Christ, he might not even remember me.’
‘I doubt that, somehow.’ Daisy looked sideways at Jo. She had both hands on the steering wheel, focusing intently on the road ahead. Her brows were lowered in concentration.
‘He will remember me. I know that.’ She gave a half-nod. ‘Trouble is, it’s all the stuff that comes afterwards.’
‘I’m sorry, Jo. I don’t want to drag this all up.’
‘I’m the one that’s dragging you up here to hold my hand.’ Jo flashed Daisy a quick, grateful smile before returning her focus to the long, straight road ahead. ‘Thing is, there’s never a good time to do something like this. I have to keep talking myself through the worst-case scenarios. It helps.’
‘So what are they?’ Daisy turned in her seat, interested.
‘Say he doesn’t recognize me – okay, that’s awkward, but a bit of prompting and he will. Say he recognizes me and tells me to fuck off—’
Daisy laughed. ‘Come on, it’s been what – fifteen years? If he did that, he’s a bit of an arse.’
‘Yeah, but he’s still the arse who donated half his genes to make my daughter, so I kind of owe it to him to let him know.’
‘Even if he does turn out to be a dickhead?’ Daisy unwrapped a sweet, offering Jo the packet. She shook her head.
‘Even if. I can’t blame anyone else for this – I let it go on far too long, and now I need to repair the damage. Doesn’t matter how terrifying it is.’ Jo gave a wry half-smile. ‘And Martha wouldn’t be the first person to have a dickhead for a father, unfortunately. I’d be missing half my clients, if that was the case.’
‘But you’re not . . .’ Daisy winced, treading carefully, ‘planning on turning up with a photo and saying “surprise!”, are you?’
She and Elaine had talked about it over coffee, deciding that there was no way the measured, thoughtful Jo would do anything like that – but still, better to ask, just in case by some miracle Jo was planning to spring the news on Tom like some unhinged Jeremy Kyle show guest . . .
‘No.’ Jo’s expression said it all. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Didn’t think so.’ Daisy laughed. ‘Just, y’know, thought I’d better check.’
Jo shot her a sideways look, eyebrows sky-high.
They drove on, up through the Essex countryside, spotting pretty pink-washed houses in the distance, the ancient, evocative village names written large on road signs. Jo drove one-handed, dropping back into silence, distractedly chewing on the thumbnail of her free hand. Daisy’s stomach was churning with sympathetic nerves by the time they pulled off the busy A-road and started winding their way towards the seaside.
It was impossible not to feel that familiar childish surge of excitement as they crested a hill and the quality of light changed, with a sensation of the land shelving away. With another turn in the road, they could see flashes of the sea between tightly gathered terraces. Daisy wound down her window, delighting in the salt smell of the air. A gull whirled overhead, its voice dipping and falling in the wind. She was thrown back in time to a hundred happy days by the seaside as a child, the sweet vanilla scent of candyfloss and the sharp taste of vinegar on her tongue. Penny arcades flashed brightly, a kaleidoscope of colour and noise against a flat, blue-grey sea.
‘This is it.’ Jo eased the car to a halt outside their B&B, slotting it carefully into her designated spot between two much larger cars. Daisy, legs stiff from the journey, slid out through a narrow gap between door and white-painted wall. The road was lined with parked cars, stretching towards the centre of town in neat single file.
Southbeach
Literary Festival had grown over the last few years into a weekend-long event which flooded the little seaside town with some of the biggest names in the literary world. Reading online yesterday, Daisy had seen an article on ‘The Handsome New Stars of the Literary Scene’ with Tom Fox (‘gorgeously brooding Manc poet’) featured at no. 8. She hadn’t shared it with Jo.
With a sharp intake of breath, Jo slammed the boot closed. ‘Right. Let’s do this.’
The carpet in the hall of the B&B was a hideous giraffe-skin design. The walls, hung with flocked, swirling wallpaper, were hung with the spoils of a lifetime of trips abroad. Brightly coloured Spanish tiles jostled alongside silk hangings of the Buddha, serene in the lotus position, next to intricately painted, detailed Greek icons in ornate wooden frames.
‘This is lovely,’ said Daisy, politely. The owner didn’t acknowledge her remark, not looking up from the screen of his computer where he sat, barricaded, behind a reception desk plastered with printed signs which had been Sellotaped in place.
Guests should note that NO music should be played in the bedrooms after 9 p.m.
Would guests KINDLY remember that the bathrooms are for the use of rooms 3, 5 AND 7, and that a toilet brush HAS been provided.
Daisy grimaced at that one. If Jo hadn’t been so pale and stressed, she’d have nudged her, making her giggle. But her friend stood, unseeing, fingers drumming anxiously on the desktop. Poor Jo. Normally so calm and measured, she seemed to have actually shrunk in size as the enormity of what she was about to do became a reality. Daisy reached across, giving her a reassuring rub on the arm. Jo looked up at her with a tiny, grateful smile.
‘You’re in the smallest room, I’m afraid,’ said the owner, finally. He still didn’t raise his eyes from the screen. ‘Still, you’re lucky to have got in at all. If you hadn’t phoned the second I’d had a cancellation, you’d have had no luck. Can’t get a room this weekend for love nor money.’ He handed over one single room key, dangling from a six-inch-long strip of plastic.
Coming Up Roses Page 19
