‘Thanks.’ Daisy shot a look at Jo as she took the key. ‘Do you – there’s two of us staying, I’m not sure we’ll be coming and going at the same time . . .’
‘One room, one key.’ The tone was final. He sat back on his chair, sizing them up. ‘Don’t forget to take note of the rules. There’s a full list in the bedroom. Hot water’s on tap, but we recommend guests don’t take longer than ten minutes each in the bathroom.’ He gave Daisy a warning stare.
‘Oh, um, right. Thanks.’ Daisy stepped back, landing on Jo’s toe.
‘Oh. My. God.’
They stood in the doorway of their room, gazing in horror. Two tiny beds, dressed in slippery, diamond-stitched turquoise polyester, were crammed into what would under any other circumstances have been a pretty poky single bedroom.
‘I tell you what, Jo,’ said Daisy, easing herself gingerly onto the bed closest to the wall. She moved a huge, overstuffed bolster pillow out of the way to peer through the window. The gorgeous seaside view she’d been visualizing on the journey was, in fact, the side wall of the building next door. ‘You can bring the camera crews out now, if you like. This is a set-up, right?’
Jo squeezed herself into the wafer-thin gap between the beds and sat down. ‘I forgot to tell You’ve Been Framed we were coming.’ She started laughing. ‘I hope this isn’t an omen. Oh God, it’s an omen, isn’t it?’
‘Positive thinking, counsellor-lady. It’s going to be fine. And if it isn’t fine, at least we’ve had a luxury spa break in beautiful Southbeach.’
With the room too small for both of them to move about in, and realizing that Jo needed some time to get herself ready for the evening and to gather her thoughts, Daisy left her behind in the B&B and headed out to explore Southbeach for a couple of hours.
The little seaside town had been overtaken by the literary world. Cafe tables spilled out across the pavement, with arty-looking types gesticulating over espressos and cake. Daisy squeezed into a tiny space with a wobbly table, and picked up a menu. The cafe was on a narrow lane which led down to the seafront. In the distance she could see colourful beach huts running parallel to the shore, with children dashing around on the sand in front of them.
‘A latte and a big slice of coffee and walnut, please.’ She smiled up at the woman taking her order, handing back the menu helpfully.
The waitress nodded briefly. She looked exhausted, eyes shadowed, strands of hair hanging loose from what had once been a neat bun.
This weekend, the arts section of Daisy’s paper had informed her, was one of the busiest in the year-long calendar of events that had made Southbeach a success. Where other English seaside resorts had become boarded-up ghost towns, Southbeach was now busy all year round, art shops and expensive seafood restaurants thriving despite the never-ending recession.
Drinking coffee, she leafed through the festival programme that lay on the table – most events were sold out, including, Daisy noticed, a session on poetry by Tom Fox, which took place at 4 p.m. She felt a surge of nerves on Jo’s behalf. The session was followed by a joint reading – she recognized some of the other names from yesterday’s newspaper article – and then the presentation of the awards, including the Phoenix Poetry Award, followed by a celebration dinner.
And at some point, in amongst all that, Jo was going to seek out her long-lost lover, her ex-friend, the unknowing father of her child, and find the courage to say hello.
By the time she’d eaten her cake and finished the last of her coffee a couple of women, arms full of books, were hovering hopefully near her table. Taking the hint, she stood up. They swooped in, faster than the seagulls which circled overhead, and had the menu in their hands before Daisy had even edged her way out and down onto the lane that led towards the seafront.
‘Ready?’
Daisy looked up. She’d washed and changed in her regulation ten minutes, and was waiting in the giraffe-patterned hall when Jo came downstairs, having had a last-minute wobble about what to wear.
‘D’you think this is okay?’ Jo stood awkwardly, holding herself for inspection.
She was wearing a knee-length dress in peacock blue, which brought out the colour of her eyes. Her pale blonde hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She’d finished the outfit with a pair of strappy gold Roman sandals.
‘Perfect.’ Daisy gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous. Very together.’
‘Not too dressed up?’
Daisy, who’d wandered the streets, people-watching, for a couple of sunny hours, shook her head. ‘Nope, just right.’
‘Okay.’ Jo pulled a face. ‘Let’s go.’
‘And I said to Jamie, it’s an absolute disgrace these reality TV stars are getting six-figure book deals when people like Melissa have been dropped . . .’
Daisy raised her eyebrows at Jo. They were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the White Sands pub, drinks in hand, trying hard not to eavesdrop. Vaguely familiar faces were everywhere, a camera crew in one corner filming vox pop interviews with –
‘Isn’t that Melvyn Bragg?’
Daisy tried not to stare too obviously. ‘God, yes, I think it is.’
‘Shit, shit –’ Jo pulled her back towards the bar through a sea of people, apologizing wildly.
‘What is it?’ said Daisy, who’d almost sloshed her gin and tonic down the back of a small woman who was clearly Very Important, as she’d been surrounded the whole time by a group of admirers who’d hung on her every word. Daisy edged in closer to the wall so she could hear her friend over the increasingly loud roar of conversation and laughter.
‘It’s him. Over there. Being interviewed.’ Jo took a huge mouthful of her drink. ‘I saw him, but I don’t think he saw me – I moved pretty quickly.’
Daisy stood on tiptoe, forgetting to be discreet this time, and peered across the crowd. Sitting on a battered red Chesterfield sofa, arm stretched casually along the back, dark curls flopping over one eye, was Tom Fox. He looked across at her. Their eyes met briefly, and he pulled a help me face.
‘Bloody hell.’ She ducked back out of view.
She wasn’t going to point out to Jo that Martha’s father was the kind of scruffy, arty-looking gorgeous that made both women and men swoon. She took another, more surreptitious look. He was laughing as a production assistant clipped a microphone to his lapel, and then leaning forward to chat to the interviewer.
‘It’s fine.’ She gave Jo a reassuring smile. ‘You look gorgeous.’
‘I’m not here on the pull, Daisy,’ said Jo, grimly.
‘No, no. Of course not. But it doesn’t hurt, does it?’ Daisy reached across, pulling a tiny loose thread which had tangled itself in Jo’s gemstone pendant.
Jo didn’t answer, hiding her face behind her glass. In an hour and a half Tom’s poetry reading would be over, and then she’d have to bite the bullet and confront him.
The bar emptied out slightly as the clock reached the hour, and people scattered to the myriad venues around the little town where authors, publishers and poets were giving talks.
‘There’s a couple of seats there by the window, look –’ Daisy headed for them, having learned to move fast. Within seconds she’d made it and was sitting down.
‘Daisy,’ Jo perched on the arm of the chair, her pale face crumpled with anxiety, ‘I think I might go for a bit of a walk by the sea first, try and calm myself.’
‘Good idea.’ Jo needed space to think and gather her thoughts. ‘I’ll wait here – guard these seats with my life. Why don’t you leave me the key for the B&B, just in case?’
‘I’ll text you and let you know what’s happening, okay?’
‘There’s no rush. I’ll be here, waiting.’
She blew Jo a kiss, watching as she slipped through the front door of the little pub and headed down to the sea, making her way between the beach huts and disappearing out of sight.
You okay, stranger? How’s the seaside?
Daisy pulled her phone out from her b
ag, seeing Miranda’s text.
She typed a quick reply.
Gorgeous. Feeling a bit sick on Jo’s behalf. X
She’d told Miranda the whole saga on the phone the other night, knowing her sister was discreet enough for it to go no further, but keen to get another perspective on the situation. As much as they’d fought as teenagers, they’d always turned to each other for support and advice.
She’s doing the right thing. Looking forward to seeing you soon. Miss you xx
Daisy curled up on the chair. She’d popped into the bookshop earlier and found a signed copy of Monty Don’s latest book. With a drink beside her, worries about the future left miles away in Steeple St John, and the sight of the waves crashing gently outside, she sat back. There was nothing she could do now but wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Lost in Monty Don’s descriptions of France, a glass of Norfolk cider in hand, Daisy didn’t notice Jo until she was almost at the table.
She looked up expectantly.
‘Can we go?’ Jo was even paler than usual, her smooth blonde curtain of hair now wind-tangled and messy. She glanced towards the door.
‘Of course.’ Daisy put her drink down on the table, shoved her book back into her bag, and stood up. ‘Where are we going?’
It wasn’t until they were halfway to the B&B that Jo answered. Daisy had marched beside her in silent solidarity, realizing she needed to give her friend time to process whatever had happened.
‘Oh God, Daisy, I am so sorry.’
She began to cry. Daisy stopped, spinning round in the street, and reached out, hugging Jo tightly. A crowd of festival-goers wove their way around them as they stood in the street, Jo’s shoulders heaving with sobs.
‘Sorry,’ Jo repeated. She stepped back, wiping her eyes.
‘You’ve nothing to apologize for.’ Daisy rooted around in her bag for a tissue. She found a crumpled, dusty one lurking in the front pocket and handed it to Jo, who blew her nose loudly.
‘I just – I couldn’t do it.’ Jo looked at her through eyes smudged with mascara. ‘There was a question and answer session, and a girl asked him a question about poetry. She must’ve been about fifteen and he was so lovely to her, and I just . . .’ She stopped for a moment, scrunching her eyes tightly shut for a moment, as if to block out the image. ‘I just realized how vulnerable Martha is, and what a huge thing I’m doing. What if I screw it up?’
Daisy shook her head. ‘I don’t think you will, Jo, honestly.’
‘Maybe not.’ Jo looked up again, gratefully. ‘But I need to have my head together, and right now I’m all over the place.’ She indicated the mascara streaks and the soggy tissue.
She had a point. Daisy pulled out a fresh tissue from her bag, handing it over silently.
‘You can’t protect Martha – or Tom – from this forever, though.’
‘No,’ Jo conceded. ‘But I can help cushion the blow a bit, and I’ve got to be the adult in all this. And it just hit me whilst I was sitting there that confronting Tom in a place like this wasn’t exactly the most sensible way of behaving.’
‘Fair enough.’ Jo had a good point. There was no way of knowing how Tom might respond, let alone how Martha was going to react. ‘If you want to get out of here, that’s fine.’ Daisy gave Jo’s arm another squeeze. ‘I mean, I know we’ve got a luxury room booked . . .’
Jo managed a damp smile at this.
‘I’d really appreciate that. Seriously, if I never see another bloody writer, it’ll be too soon.’
They gathered their things from the polyester prison, handing over the key to the B&B owner, who continued to maintain an air of complete disinterest. Signing the payment sheet, they headed out to the car, loading up the boot. Jo climbed into the driver’s seat, and Daisy was just sidling along to manoeuvre her way in when she realized her bag was lighter than it should be.
‘Shit – I’ve left my new book sitting in reception.’
She side-stepped back out past the car and down the little path that led to the front door. As she walked into the hall, she couldn’t see her book. Bugger. She’d definitely left it sitting on top of the reception desk. She scanned the hall, leaning over the desk. There was their booking slip, with Jo’s name and details – but no sign of her book.
She caught sight of a reflection in the mirror behind the desk. In the wall behind her was a tiny alcove, filled with books – including, she realized, spinning around, her brand new signed copy! Bloody hell, they’d snaffled it – and Mr Charm, the owner, was probably going to put up a fight if she tried to get it back.
‘I’m sure I can find you a sewing kit,’ came the familiar voice of the B&B owner, who had clearly been rationing his charm. He sounded positively eager to please.
Realizing she had a split second, she reached across, whipping the book off the shelf and hiding it behind her back, just as he rounded the corner of the staircase and came into view, followed two steps later by –
‘I wouldn’t normally bother, but I think if I’ve got a prize to collect, I’d better look half-decent,’ said Tom Fox, in his deep Manchester accent. ‘Oh – hello,’ he said to Daisy, raising a hand automatically in greeting. He cocked his head with a frown before continuing, his tone cautious.
‘This is going to sound a bit odd, but –’
But before he could continue, Daisy, who realized afterwards that she’d yet again engaged her favourite run-away mode when presented with an unexpected situation, shot backwards out of the front door with an apologetic ‘Hi – sorry, must – just – bye!’
She ran to the car and squashed herself into the front seat. ‘He’s in there. Tom. In the grim B&B. He’s there.’
Jo shook her head, putting the car into reverse and driving out of the parking space with unexpected speed. She didn’t speak again until they’d made their way up through the narrow streets and out onto the road that led towards the dual carriageway.
‘I went into the hall where the poetry reading was taking place,’ Jo began slowly, letting it all out.
‘The woman on the door said the tickets were completely sold out, but she told me I could slip into one of the press seats down the front. The lights were down, and I thought I could just sneak in without him noticing. But then he saw me.’
Like Jo, Daisy carried on staring at the road ahead, not wanting to disturb her friend’s train of thought. ‘Go on.’
‘And then I think he caught my eye. Or I caught his.’
‘Nooo. I didn’t realize that bit.’ Daisy put a hand to her mouth.
‘I just – God. It’s been fifteen years. And he doesn’t look any different. And I still – I just – he –’
‘It’s not just telling him about Martha, is it?’
Jo shook her head.
‘It all came back. The way I felt. The whole unspoken thing we had for years. And the reality hit me – what if he’s a complete shit? We were best friends and we lost touch, and I expected to just turn up at his big moment and say “Hi, how’re things?” as if the last fifteen years hadn’t happened.’
Jo was silent for a moment as they pulled onto the dual carriageway, making her way through the steady stream of Saturday-night traffic, people-carriers loaded full of children heading home from the seaside. Talking of children, thought Daisy . . .
‘So what are you going to do about Martha?’
‘I know I need to tell him.’ Jo paused for a minute before continuing.
‘But I realized as soon as I walked in there and saw him up close, I need to get my head clear first. I need to stop worrying about what I did in the past, and start moving forward.’
They arrived in Steeple St John late that evening, driving towards the setting sun in contemplative silence. Neither chatted much. Jo, understandably, had a lot on her mind. Daisy, as they headed back to real life, had the grim prospect of three house viewings the following day, all of which she’d expected to avoid. The worry of what, exactly, she was supposed to do with her life on
ce the house was sold was back, niggling at her. She updated Elaine – checking first with Jo that she didn’t mind – on the whole saga, a long series of texts which took ages and left her feeling distinctly travel-sick.
And there’d been a text from George, telling her he was back from his trip to Dublin, asking if she’d meet him for a drink in the pub on Monday night. With no idea what the future held, Daisy had decided that at the very least, she could have some fun. She’d texted back an enthusiastic reply.
‘You sure you don’t want to head back to your place and get some sleep?’
They pulled up outside Elaine’s house, Daisy preparing to climb out of the car and open the arched metal gates that led into the drive.
‘Honestly, no. I don’t mind if Martha decides to stay over – but I just want to see her, and give her a hug, and – well, you know.’ Jo shrugged.
‘Course I do,’ said Daisy. She shut the car door, clanking open the gates.
Elaine opened the door before they’d even reached for the bell.
‘I’ve said to Martha there was a change of plan.’ She gestured inside. ‘She doesn’t seem particularly concerned.’
Jo raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s not a surprise.’
Elaine pulled the door back, welcoming them in. There was, as ever, a warm fug of something delicious coming from the kitchen.
‘We made more cookies,’ said Elaine, following Daisy’s gaze. ‘You two must be hungry.’
Daisy, who’d sailed on Jo’s wave of nerves, anticipation, and then the crashing aftermath of the evening, felt her stomach groan in agreement. She hadn’t eaten anything since the cake in the cafe that afternoon.
‘I am ravenous, now you mention it.’
‘Jo?’ Elaine put a hand on her arm.
Jo frowned for a second, as if she’d only just remembered food was something she did. ‘I could eat a horse. Or a gigantic pizza. Possibly both.’
The laughter broke the tension, and Elaine waved them into the kitchen. Sitting on the normally spotless countertop, smudges of flour on her face, her hair tied up in a ponytail – which made her look much younger – was Martha.
Coming Up Roses Page 20
