Windfallen

by Moyes, Jojo

  Daisy had hardly heard any of this, let alone understood it, as she’d been staring at Jones. He had spoken to her only twice, once to greet her and once to say goodbye. On neither occasion did he meet her eye.

  On the fifth day before the opening, Camille walked to her parents’ house at a time when she knew her mother would be out and found her father thumbing through holiday brochures. She had gone nervously, tentatively, afraid that after she left her mother that day, Lottie might have repeated to him the awful thing Camille had said to her about their marriage, but her father had been unusually chipper. He was thinking of going to Kota Kinabalu, he said, reading out the travel-guide description of the area to her. No, he had no idea where it was, other than in the East. He just liked the sound of it. Liked the thought of coming home and saying, “I’ve just been to Kota Kinabalu.” “That’d shut them up at the golf club, eh?” he said. “Bit more exciting than Romney Marsh.” Camille, a little taken aback, had asked tentatively whether her mother was planning on going, too. “Still working on her, love,” he’d said. “You know your mother.”

  On an impulse then she had hugged him hard, fighting back tears, so that he’d patted her hair and asked her what that was all about. “Nothing,” she’d said. “I just love you, Pops.”

  “The sooner this hotel opens, the better,” he’d replied. “Seems to me like everyone’s getting worked up over nothing these days.”

  On the fourth day before the opening, Stephen Meeker arrived on Arcadia’s broad white doorstep, fanning himself under a straw hat, and announced he’d taken the liberty of speaking to a friend of his from Cork Street who was extremely interested in their mural. He was wondering whether this friend might come along to the opening, and perhaps bring another friend from the Daily Telegraph who specialized in stories about fine art. Daisy had said yes and invited him in to see it privately before the big day. Stephen had stared at it for some time, at his younger self and at Julian. He remarked that it looked quite, quite different from how he remembered it. Then he placed a bony hand on Daisy’s arm as he left and instructed her never to do the things she felt she ought. “Do what you really want,” he said. “That way you won’t have any regrets. Because by the time you get to my age, my God, you’re weighed down by the bloody things.”

  Three days before the opening, Carol had arrived with Jones, to run through the list of celebrity guests, check the status of the kitchen and car parking and facilities for the musicians, and exclaim on the brilliance of just about everything, in a manner that left Daisy scrambling to complete her instructions. Jones had told her he was pleased in a manner that left her unsure if he really was, had lined up the new bar and kitchen staff and given them a brief and halfhearted speech, interviewed three cleaners, and left so swiftly that Carol had commented that he was a miserable bugger, bless him. Julia had rung shortly afterward, to say that she and Don would be coming to the party, and did Daisy want her to bring her something to wear? She didn’t imagine there was much to choose from in that little town. In Essex, Daisy thought, hearing the italicized subtext. But no, she said. She could sort herself out, thanks.

  “Is he coming back for it? The opening?” Julia asked before ringing off.

  “He hasn’t gone anywhere,” said Daisy, exasperated.

  “Yet,” said Julia.

  Two days before the opening, the local newspaper ran a story about the mural, with a snatched photograph that Daisy suspected owed something to one of the builders. Lottie, who had been tense and snappy all week, had blamed Sylvia Rowan and it had taken some persuading not to go down there and confront the other woman herself. “What does it matter?” said Daisy, sitting her down on the terrace with a cup of tea and trying to sound calmer than she felt. “It’s only the local rag.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Lottie crossly. “I just don’t like it being broadcast everywhere. I don’t like the painting being looked at by everyone. People knowing it was me.” Daisy had decided not to say anything about the man from the Daily Telegraph.

  In Merham itself, according to local intelligence, the Temperance Society, along with the Landladies Association and the remaining members of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church, was preparing to picket the opening of the hotel, egged on by several reporters and a cameraman from the regional television news. Daisy had tried to ring Jones’s office to warn him, but his secretary had passed her on to Carol. “Oh, don’t worry about them,” Carol said dismissively. “We’ll invite them in for a drink and a photograph, bless them. Always works, disarming them with a bit of charm. Failing that, we’ll shove them behind a privet.”

  When Daisy had walked into town with Ellie later that afternoon, a group of elderly women had stopped their conversation and stared at her as she passed, as if she were carrying something unpleasant on her shoes. When she had walked into the newsagents, the owner had come out from behind the counter to shake her by the hand. “Good on you,” he said, glancing around, as if they might be overheard. “Business breeds business. That’s what these people don’t understand. Once you’re up and running, they’ll forget about it. They’ve just spent so many years opposing everything, they don’t know how to do anything else.”

  The day before the opening, after the builders and kitchen staff had gone, after Jones had left with Carol in her ridiculous sports car and Daisy had taken Ellie up for her bath, Lottie had stayed on. Then, when the house was silent, she’d taken a tour of every single room. A more sentimental person might have said she was saying goodbye. Lottie told herself she was simply checking that all things were as they should be. Daisy had her hands full with the baby and the opening and that useless man of hers, after all, and Jones didn’t seem to know whether he was coming or going, so someone had to keep an eye on things. She said it twice, as if that would make it more convincing.

  She had walked into and around each room, remembering them all as they had been, her memory prompted by the group photographs now framed and on the walls, which occasionally she allowed herself to view. The faces, frozen in time, now looked back at her with the glassy smiles of strangers, hardly real people anymore, she told herself. Just so much interior decoration, there to add an air of authenticity to some rich man’s seaside playground.

  She left the drawing room until last, her footsteps echoing on the relaid floor, seating herself in the same position from which, nearly half a century previously, she had first laid her eyes on Adeline, poised and feline on the sofa. The house, stark, white, and grand, no longer felt like Arcadia, its rooms no longer silent witnesses to her secrets. Its wax polishes and freshly cut flowers stifled the old scents of salt and possibility. Its gleaming kitchen units, pristine upholstery, and pale, perfect walls had somehow missed the point, had smothered the spirit of the place.

  Still, who am I to say anything? Lottie thought, looking around her. There was always too much pain here anyway. Too many secrets. Its future belongs with other people now. She stared around the room, her gaze landing on the photograph of Celia in her flame-red skirt, from where she now tastefully echoed the matching shade of the upholstery. She remembered too-knowing eyes meeting hers mischievously from the chair opposite, slender feet always placed as if for flight. My history, like the photographs, thought Lottie. Just so much interior decoration.

  Several minutes later Daisy emerged from the bathroom with a towel-wrapped Ellie and headed for the kitchen to warm her milk. She stopped halfway down the stairs, glanced into the drawing room, and paused. Then she turned slowly and walked back up again, shushing Ellie’s protest.

  The old woman had sat below her staring into space, lost deep in some internal reverie. She looked diminished, somehow, frail, and very alone.

  THE EVENING BEFORE THE OPENING, JONES COVERED THE precarious towers of paper on his desk, closed the door of his office against the raucous laughter of the Red Rooms bars, drank down the dregs of a cup of coffee—swearing as he realized too late that it was cold—and finally fished out and rang the work number
of his ex-wife. Alex had sounded surprised to hear from him, assuming, perhaps, as he had, that once she had married, the intimate nature of their friendship would have to change.

  He let her talk about their honeymoon, she tactfully restricting it to the beauty of their island setting, her sunburn, the unimaginable color of the sea. She gave him her new numbers, knowing full well that he was unlikely to ever ring her new home. Then, eventually, she asked him if he was all right.

  “Yeah, fine. . . . No, no, I’m not.”

  Alex paused.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “It’s a bit . . . complicated.”

  She waited.

  “I don’t know if you’re the best person to discuss it with.”

  There was a caution in her “Oh?”

  “Ah, you know me, Alex. Never been much good at expressing myself.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “Oh . . . look . . . forget it.”

  “No, come on, Jones. Now that you’ve started.”

  He sighed. “I just . . . I think I’ve become attached to someone. Who was single but now isn’t.”

  There was silence on the other end of the telephone.

  “I never said anything. When I should have done. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “She was single?”

  “Well, yes. And no. I think I’ve realized what I feel about her, but I don’t feel I can make a move now. It’s too late.”

  “Too late.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Do you think it is? Do you think it’s fair to say something? In the circumstances?”

  Another lengthy silence.

  “Alex?”

  “Jones . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.”

  “No, no. It’s good that we talk about these things. But . . . I’m married now.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I don’t think your having feelings for me is . . . well, appropriate. You know how Nigel feels about—”

  “What?”

  “I’m flattered. Honestly. But—”

  “No, no, Alex. I’m not talking about you. Oh, Christ, what have I said?”

  This time the silence was long—and embarrassed.

  “Ah. I’m sorry. I’m not expressing myself very well. As usual.”

  Her laughter was speedy and deliberately light. “Oh, don’t worry, Jones. I’m completely relieved. I just got the wrong end of the stick.” She spoke like a primary-school teacher, firmly and brightly. “So who’s this latest girl, then?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. She’s not like the others.”

  “In what way? Blond, for a change? From somewhere exotic? Over the age of twenty?”

  “No. Someone I’ve been working with. She’s a designer.”

  “Makes a change from the waitresses, I suppose.”

  “And I think she likes me.”

  “You think? You’ve not slept with her?”

  “It’s just that the father of her kid has come back on the scene.”

  A brief pause. “Her kid?”

  “Yeah, she’s got a baby.”

  “She’s got a baby? You’re in love with someone with a baby?”

  “I didn’t say I was in love. And you don’t have to sound like that.”

  “After everything you said to me about kids? How do you expect me to sound, Jones?”

  Jones leaned back on his chair and closed his eyes.

  “I don’t believe this.” The voice at the other end was sharp, exasperated.

  “Alex. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You haven’t upset me. I’m married now. I’m far beyond your upsetting me. So far beyond that.”

  “I just wanted some advice, and you’re the one person I know—”

  “No, Jones, you wanted someone to make you feel better about the fact that you’re in love for the first time, and with the wrong person. Well, I’m not that person anymore. It’s not fair to ask me. Okay? Now I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting.”

  ON THE DAY OF THE OPENING, DAISY WOKE AT AN HOUR more normally associated with sleep and lay in her hotel bed watching the dawn gradually filter through the handsewn linen curtains. At seven she got out of bed, walked into her bathroom, and cried for approximately ten minutes, taking care not to wake her baby by burying her sobs in an Egyptian cotton hand towel. Then she splashed cold water on her face, put on her dressing gown, picked up the baby monitor, and padded next door to Daniel’s room.

  The room was dark and silent. He was asleep, a musty-smelling mound under the hotel duvet.

  “Dan?” she whispered. “Daniel?”

  He woke with a start, turning to face her, his eyes half closed. He pushed himself partially upright and, perhaps from old habit, flipped the duvet back to invite her in. The unconsciousness of the gesture made Daisy’s throat constrict.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He rubbed at his eyes. “Now?”

  “There isn’t going to be another time. I have to pack up tomorrow. We have to pack up.”

  He gazed into the middle distance for a minute. “Can I get a coffee first?” he said, his voice thick with sleep.

  She nodded, looking away almost shyly as he climbed out of bed and into a pair of boxer shorts, the sight and smells of him as familiar and strange as a part of one’s own body seen from an unfamiliar angle.

  He made her a coffee, too, passing it to her as she seated herself on the sofa, his hair sticking up and out like a small boy’s. Daisy watched him, her stomach churning, her words like bile in her mouth.

  At last he sat. Looked at her.

  “It’s not going to work, Dan,” she said.

  At some point she remembered his putting his arms around her and her thinking how bizarre it was that he should be comforting her when she was telling him she no longer loved him. He had kissed the top of her head, too, the scent of him, the feel of him still perversely consoling.

  “I’m sorry,” she said into his chest.

  “This is about me kissing that girl, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “It is. I knew I shouldn’t have told you. I should have just left it behind. I was trying to be honest.”

  “It’s not the girl. Really.”

  “I still love you, Daise.”

  Daisy looked up. “I know. I still love you. But I’m not in love with you.”

  “It’s too soon to make this decision.”

  “No, Dan, it’s not. I think I made it even before you came back. Look, I’ve tried. I’ve really tried to persuade myself that it’s all still there. That it’s worth rescuing. Because of Ellie. But it’s not there. It’s just not there.”

  He let go of her hands then and pulled back, recognizing some unfamiliar steel in her voice, something irreversible.

  “We’ve been together so long. We’ve got a child together. You can’t just throw all that away.” His voice was almost pleading.

  Daisy shook her head. “It’s not throwing it all away. But we can’t go back to what we were. I’m different. I’m a different person—”

  “But I love that person.”

  “I don’t want it anymore, Daniel.” Daisy’s voice was firmer now. “I don’t want to go back to how we were, to how I was. I’ve done things. I’ve done things I never thought I could. I’m stronger. I need someone . . .”

  “Stronger?”

  “Someone I can rely on.” She paused. Sighed. “Someone who I know isn’t going to disappear when it all gets rough again. That’s if I need anyone at all.”

  Daniel threw his head into his hands. “Daisy, I’ve said I’m sorry. It was one mistake. One mistake in eight years together. And I’m doing everything I can to make it right.”

  “I know you are. But I can’t help how I feel. And I’d be looking at you all the time trying to second-guess you, trying to work out whether you were going to go again.”

  “That
’s not fair.”

  “But it’s how I feel. Look . . . maybe if Ellie hadn’t come along, this would have happened anyway. Maybe we would have become different people anyway. I don’t know. I just think it’s time for both of us to let go.”

  There was a lengthy silence. Outside, the sound of car doors slamming and brisk footsteps downstairs heralded the beginnings of the working day. The baby monitor let out a low moan, the acoustic warning of Ellie’s awakening.

  “I’m not leaving her again.” Daniel looked at her, and his voice held a faint note of challenge.

  “I’m not expecting you to.”

  “I’ll want access. I want to be her dad.”

  She closed her eyes. The prospect of a lifetime spent handing her precious child over at weekends had haunted her, the mere thought of it already enough to move her to tears. It had been the one thing that had nearly saved him from this conversation.

  “I know you do, Dan. We’ll set something up.”

  THE MORNING WAS HOT, THE AIR CARRYING THAT KIND of stillness that is almost a threat, muffling the sound of the kitchen staff as they began their preparatory work and the cleaners as they waxed and vacuumed the downstairs rooms. Daisy ran back and forth under the whirring fans, tweaking furniture arrangements, supervising the polishing of taps and handles, her limp shirt and shorts heralding a heat that would become fiercer as the day went on. She continued working her way through the last-minute changes, trying to sublimate her mind to work, trying not to think at all.