Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  ON THE WEDNESDAY, HOWEVER, ELLIE’S RUN OF UNUSUALLY amenable behavior came to an abrupt end. She woke at a quarter to five and refused to be put back to sleep, so that by nine, Daisy was already cross-eyed with exhaustion and at a loss as to how to keep her fractious infant happy. It rained, dark, load-bearing clouds scudding across the sky, leaving the two of them confined to the house, the shrubs outside bowing under the weight of the wind. Below them the sea churned, murky gray and restless, a forbidding vista designed to quell any romantic illusions about the British coastline. And Mrs. Bernard picked this day not to turn up, so that Daisy found herself pacing the floor endlessly, jiggling her child up and down against her chest as she tried to clear a space in her treacly mind for reclaimed-wood floors and polished-steel door handles. “C’mon, Ellie, please, darling,” she murmured ineffectually, and the child wailed louder and harder, as if Daisy’s request were an affront in itself.

  Jones arrived at a quarter to eleven, exactly two and a half minutes after Daisy had finally managed to put Ellie down to sleep and thirty seconds after she’d lit her first cigarette of the day, gazing around her at the debris-strewn room, replete with half-empty coffee cups and the remains of last night’s microwave meal, wondering which part she had the energy to attack first. He slammed the door behind him, of course, which meant that Ellie, upstairs, immediately rent the air with a scream of outrage and Daisy found herself gazing venomously at her new boss, while he in turn gazed incredulously around him at his less-than-minimalist drawing room.

  “Jones,” he said, looking up at the ceiling, from where Ellie’s muffled screams could be heard. “I take it you forgot I was coming.”

  He was less old than she had imagined, perhaps approaching middle age instead of exiting the other side, and crosser-looking, two dark brows knitting above a once broken nose. He was also tall and slightly overweight, giving him the unfinessed look of a rugby forward, but this was offset by a pair of sage wool trousers and an expensive soft-gray shirt, the muted wardrobe of the properly rich.

  Daisy tried to blot out the noise of her child. She thrust forth a hand, fighting the urge to berate him for his noisy inconsideration. “Daisy. But you know that. She . . . she’s a bit challenging this morning. She’s not usually like this. Can I get you a coffee?”

  He gazed at the coffee cups on the floor, around him at the room. “No. Thank you. It stinks of smoke in here.”

  “I was just about to open some windows.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t smoke in here. If at all possible. You’ve remembered why I’m here?”

  Daisy looked blank. Cast around desperately for some piece of stored knowledge. It was like trying to see through cotton wool.

  “The planning officer. She’s due this morning. To look at the bathroom plans. And the conversion of the garage? For the staff flats?”

  Daisy had a dim recollection of a letter that mentioned something similar. She had stuffed it in a carrier bag, along with all her other filing. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  He wasn’t fooled. “Perhaps you’d like me to fetch my copy of the plans from the car? So that we at least look prepared?”

  Upstairs Ellie was reaching new crescendos. “I am prepared. I know it looks a little chaotic, but I just haven’t had a chance to straighten things up this morning.”

  Daisy had stopped breast-feeding almost three weeks before, but the sound of Ellie’s prolonged crying was, she realized with some horror, beginning to make her leak. “I’ll get my folder,” she said hurriedly. “It’s just upstairs.”

  “I suppose I’d better try to straighten this lot up. We at least want her to think we’re professional, don’t we?”

  She forced a smile and ran past him up the stairs to Ellie, muttering several expletives as she went. Once in their shared bedroom, she calmed her puce-faced child and then rummaged through her tote bag, trying to find something a little more professional-looking. Or something that at least was not made of sweatshirt material and blotted with baby sick. She found a black polo neck and long skirt and wriggled her way into them, stuffing her brassiere with tissue paper to prevent any more embarrassing emissions. Then, having scraped her hair back into a ponytail (at least her sister had made her get her roots done), she walked downstairs, a pacified Ellie on her hip and the folder of bathroom plans under her other arm.

  “What are these?” He was holding up a sheaf of her new designs.

  “Just some new ideas I had. I was going to talk to you—”

  “I thought we’d agreed. On each room. On the costings.”

  “I know that. It’s just that when I got here, the space was so incredible . . . I got inspired. It made me think of other things—”

  “Stick to the plans, okay? We’re already tight on timings as it is. I can’t afford to start going off at tangents.” He threw the papers down on the old sofa. Something about the way her drawings fluttered out onto the floor made Daisy bristle.

  “I wasn’t thinking of charging you any extra,” she said pointedly. “I only thought you’d want the best designs for the space.”

  “I was under the impression I had ordered the best designs for the space.”

  Daisy fought to hold his impenetrable stare, determined that, having buckled under everything else, she would not be driven over by this man. He didn’t think she was up to it; it was apparent in his very demeanor, the way he kept sighing when he walked around the room, the way he interrupted her, the way he looked her up and down as if she were something unpleasant that had just walked into the room.

  She thought, briefly, of Weybridge. And then Ellie sneezed, grunted audibly, and sent the poisonous contents of her bowels shooting into her clean stretchie.

  HE LEFT, PARTIALLY PACIFIED, AFTER LUNCH, THE PLANS having been approved by the local planning officer, who, Daisy decided, had been so distracted by and enamored of the now sanitary and beguiling Ellie, that she would have conditionally approved a three-lane motorway stretching from the utility room to the garden. “You know, it’s lovely to see this house being used after all these years,” she said as they finished their tour. “And a lovely change for me to see something a bit ambitious. Usually I just get double garages and conservatories. No, I think it’ll be wonderful, and, provided you stay within your plans, I can’t see any problems with the parish council.”

  “I’ve been told some of the locals aren’t too keen on the house’s being redeveloped.” Daisy was aware of a sharp look from Jones as she said it.

  But the planning officer just shrugged. “Between you and me, they’re very backward-looking in this town. And it’s been to their cost. The other little resorts have allowed the odd pub or restaurant to grow along their coastline, and now they’re thriving all year round. Poor old Merham’s been so concerned with keeping everything as it was that I think it’s lost sight of what it is.” She gestured out the window, up along the coast. “I mean, it’s getting a bit run-down. There’s nothing for the young people. Personally, I think it’ll be a shot in the arm if we can get a few new visitors. But don’t quote me on that.”

  She gave Ellie’s cheek another fond tickle. And then she was gone, with a promise to be in touch.

  “Well, I think that went rather well.” Daisy, walking back down the hallway, was determined that she should get some credit.

  “Like she said, the town needs the business.”

  “Still, I’m glad she approved the plans.”

  “If you did your job right, there was no reason she shouldn’t. Now, I’ve got to head back to London. I’ve got a meeting at five. When are the workmen due to start?”

  There was even something intimidating about the size of him. Daisy felt herself shrink back slightly as he walked past her toward the door.

  “The plumbers are in on Tuesday. Then the builders start moving that kitchen wall two days later.”

  “Good. Keep in touch. I’ll be up again next week. In the meantime you need to sort out some child care. I can’t have y
ou faffing around with a baby when you’re meant to be working. Oh”—he glanced downward—“and you’ve got toilet paper hanging out of the bottom of your sweater.”

  He didn’t say good-bye. But he did close the door quietly as he went.

  THERE WAS ALWAYS A BED FOR HER IN WEYBRIDGE. SHE was not to forget that, her sister had told her on the phone. Some three times now. It was always there for her. She plainly thought Daisy was mad for having dragged her baby daughter to some drafty old wreck on the seaside, when she could be living in centrally heated splendor in the best room of Julia’s barn, with the added bonus of a bit of family baby-sitting thrown in. But she had to deal with things in her own way. Julia did at least understand that. “Just so you know I’m always there to pick up the pieces.”

  “I’m not in pieces anymore. I’m fine.” Daisy sounded more convincing than she felt.

  “Are you counting calories?”

  “No. Nor am I exercising. Or blow-drying my hair. I’m too busy.”

  “Busy is good. It’s good to keep your mind active. And the Scarlet Pimpernel? Heard from him yet?”

  “No.” She’d given up ringing his mother. It had become embarrassing.

  “Well, I know you didn’t want it. But I have found out the numbers for the Child Support Agency, when you’re ready.”

  “Julia . . .”

  “If he wanted to play big-boys’ games, he should have been prepared for big-boys’ consequences. Look, I’m not forcing them on you. I’m just telling you I’ve got them here. When you’re ready. Just like the barn. It’s all here, waiting for you.”

  Daisy pushed Ellie along the coastal path in her allterrain buggy, puffing on her fourth cigarette of the morning. Julia didn’t think she was going to make it, she realized. Her sister thought she would make some headway into the Arcadia project and then admit that it was all too much, give up, and come home. Daisy couldn’t blame her, considering the state Julia had found her in. And for the last few days, Weybridge had, admittedly, started to look strangely attractive. The plumbers had failed to turn up on Tuesday, as promised, having had to go to a series of apparent emergencies. The builders had started knocking through the kitchen wall, but the supporting steel beam had not been delivered on time, so they had stopped at a car-size hole, “just to be on the safe side.” They were currently sitting outside on the terrace enjoying the spring sunshine and making bets on the Cheltenham Gold Cup. When she’d asked whether there wasn’t anything else they could be getting on with, they’d blustered on about safety regulations and supporting beams. And grinned, so that she set her jaw against tears and tried not to think about how different things might have been had Daniel been there to deal with them. Finally, having spent most of her morning on the phone arguing with suppliers of various kinds, she’d ventured out to get some air. And picked up some more tea. Considering she was supposedly in charge of the project, she’d heard the phrase “white with two sugars” several more times than she was strictly comfortable with.

  It was a shame, really. Because if it hadn’t been for the stresses of Arcadia, she would have felt almost cheerful this morning. The surroundings seemed to be conspiring to make her feel better, the sea and sky a series of textbook blues, the spring daffodils bobbing merrily along the borders, a soft breeze hinting of the summer months ahead. Ellie squealed and crowed at the gulls that swooped before them hoping for some scrap of zwieback to be hurled from the pram. Her cheeks, in the fresh air, had developed the glow of blushing apples (“Windchapped,” Mrs. Bernard had said disapprovingly). The town also looked more cheerful, largely due to the presence of a scattering of market stalls in the little square, their striped tarpaulins and overspilling trays of goods bringing a much-needed hint of life and color.

  “Hey, Ellie,” she said. “Mummy could splurge and have a baked jacket potato tonight.” She’d given up on microwave meals and now ate wedges of bread and butter or finished off Ellie’s baby jars. Quite often she was too exhausted to do even that and fell asleep where she sat on the one sofa, waking at five with a stomach clawing from hunger.

  She paused awhile at the fruit-and-veg stall, loading up with carrots to mash for Ellie and fruit for herself. You didn’t have to cook fruit.

  It was as she collected her change that she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Are you the girl at the actress’s house?”

  “Sorry?” Daisy turned from her organic reverie to find a middle-aged woman, sporting the kind of quilted green jacket favored by horse owners and a burgundy felt hat pulled low over her head. Less conventionally, on her lower legs, she wore dark red leg warmers and a pair of stout walking shoes. She was also, like her rather fleabitten Alsatian, standing slightly too close.

  “Are you the girl at Arcadia House? The one who’s ripping it all to bits?”

  Her tone was aggressive enough to draw the attention of several passersby. They turned, curious, their intended purchases still in their hands.

  “I’m not ‘ripping it to bits,’ as you say, no. But, yes, I am the designer who’s working on Arcadia House.”

  “And is it true you’re going to put a public bar in? To attract all sorts of London types?”

  “There is going to be a bar, yes. I can’t say who the clientele are likely to be, because I’m only in charge of the decor.”

  The woman’s face was getting steadily more pink. Her voice carried in the manner of someone who liked having her opinions heard. Her dog, apparently unnoticed, was meanwhile edging its nose uncomfortably close to Daisy’s crotch. She made a tiny move as if to shoo it away, but it just looked steadily at her from blank yellow eyes and moved its nose slowly nearer.

  “I am Sylvia Rowan. I own the Riviera. And I feel obliged to tell you, we don’t want another hotel around here. Especially not one that’s going to attract all sorts of undesirables.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Because it’s not that kind of town. You wouldn’t know, but we’ve worked jolly hard to keep this town special.”

  “It may be special, but I hardly think you’re ring-fencing the Vatican.”

  There were at least four other faces drawing closer now, waiting for the next chapter in the exchange. Daisy felt vulnerable with her daughter in front of her, and it made her unusually aggressive in return.

  “Anything we’re doing at the hotel we’re doing with planning permission. And any bar will no doubt have the approval of the appropriate licensing authorities. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?”

  Sylvia Rowan planted herself firmly in front of Ellie’s pram, so that Daisy would have to either steer around her into the growing crowd of onlookers or run her over. The dog stood eyeing her crotch with something that could have been either enthusiasm or malevolence. It was hard to tell.

  “I have lived in this town all my life, and we have all fought hard to maintain certain standards here,” Sylvia Rowan brayed, pointing her wallet toward Daisy’s chest. “This includes stopping endless bars and cafés from cluttering up the seafront, unlike so many other seaside towns. That way it is still a pleasant place for its residents to live and a desirable place for visitors to come and stay.”

  “And nothing to do with the fact that your hotel runs one of the bars.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. I have lived here all my life.”

  “Which is why you probably can’t see how run-down it’s got.”

  “Look, Miss . . . whoever you are. We don’t want lowlife here. And we don’t want to be swamped with Soho’s drunken overflow. It’s not that kind of town.”

  “And Arcadia House is not going to be that kind of hotel. For your information, the clientele are going to be very upmarket, the kinds of people happy to pay two or three hundred pounds a night for a room. And those kinds of people expect taste, decorum, and a lot of bloody peace and quiet. So why don’t you just get your facts straight and leave me alone to do my job.”

  Daisy wheeled her pram
around, ignoring the potatoes that toppled out of the top of her shopping bag, and began to walk briskly back across the market square, blinking furiously. She turned, shouting on the wind, “And you should train your dog better! It is incredibly rude.”

  “You can tell your boss, young lady. You haven’t heard the last of this!” Sylvia Rowan’s voice carried across the square. “We are the people of England . . . and we have not spoken yet.”

  “Oh, bog off, you horrible old bag,” Daisy muttered, and then, safely out of sight of onlookers, stopped her pram, lit her fifth cigarette of the day, and inhaled deeply. And burst into tears.

  TWELVE

  Daisy Parsons had grown up the kind of young woman about whom older people murmur approvingly, “Lovely girl.” And she was lovely; she was a sweet child, with the ringleted blond locks of a Miss Pears model, a ready smile, and a desire to please. She was educated privately, liked by everyone at her school, and worked industriously to pass exams in architecture, art, and design, in which, her tutors said, she had “a good eye.” Into her teens, apart from a brief, unsuccessful experiment with vegetable hair dye, she had done nothing to frighten her parents or leave them sleepless and frantic in the early hours of the morning. Her boyfriends had been few, selective, and generally nice. She had let them go regretfully, usually with some apologetic tears, so that nearly all looked back on her without rancor and most usually as “the one that got away.”

  And then Daniel had come: tall, dark, handsome Daniel with his respectable parents (both accountants), Protestant work ethic, and exacting style. The kind of man that made other girls immediately dissatisfied with their own. Daniel had come to protect her just at a time when she was starting to weary of having to look after herself, and both had adapted to their respective roles within the relationship with the contented shimmying of a chicken settling down to roost. Daniel was the driving force in the business, the strong, forthright one. The protector. This freed Daisy up to become her perfect version of herself: beautiful, sweet, sexy, confident in his adoration. A lovely girl. Both saw the perfect vision of themselves reflected in the other’s eyes, and liked it. They rarely argued; there was little need. Besides, neither of them liked the emotional messiness of argument, unless they knew it to be the snappings of foreplay.