Staying at Daisy's (11 page)

‘It’s pretty small. I did warn you,’ said Daisy from the doorway. As the bishop no doubt once said to the actress.

Barney turned and flashed her a dazzling smile. The room was basic but clean, with the walls painted white and a cobalt-blue carpet covering the floor. There was a single bed, a low chest of drawers, a table and two chairs, and a narrow wardrobe. He loved every inch of this attic room, with its eccentrically sloping ceiling and diamond-leaded windows.

‘It’s perfect,’ he told Daisy. ‘I can’t believe I’m really here.’

He had phoned her on Friday, having thought of nothing else all week. When he’d announced, ‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ Daisy had said, ‘Somehow I didn’t think you would.’ Sounding as if she were smiling, she’d added, ‘So, when can you start?’

And now, three days later, here he was. Thanks to the amount of annual leave owing to him, he had been able to hand in his resignation and leave that same afternoon. Half the people in his office had thought he was mad, while the rest were deeply envious. Escaping the Civil Service was something they dreamed of doing but could never actually bring themselves to go through with. Gerald, one of the middle-aged clerical officers who still lived at home with his mother
and
wore sweater vests she knitted for him, had got quite carried away, exclaiming that Barney was like Steve McQueen in
Papillon
, escaping from that terrible prison on the island—‘Only you have more teeth,’ Gerald had concluded reassuringly.

Gerald being Gerald, it was hard to tell if this was an attempt at a joke.

‘Thanks,’ Barney had said, guessing that it wasn’t.

‘You take care of yourself now. We’ll miss you.’

Gerald had gone a bit misty-eyed at this point. Barney had wondered if he was gay. Lying through his teeth (glad he had enough to lie through), he’d said, ‘I’m going to miss all of you too.’

‘Or that other film with Steve McQueen in it,’ persisted Gerald, who didn’t get out much. ‘
The Great Escape—
remember that one? Where all the prisoners-of-war crawled out through the underground tunnel?’ He was getting over-excited now, waving his stubby arms to indicate that this gloomy office block was their very own prison.

‘Yes,’ Barney had patiently reminded him, ‘but most of them ended up getting shot.’

Daisy glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack and settle in. You can meet everyone later this afternoon.’

Barney’s suitcases were stacked up against the bed; he could hardly wait to get started.

‘Thanks for everything,’ he said happily. ‘You won’t regret this. I’m going to be the best hotel porter you’ve ever had.’

It didn’t take Barney long to empty his cases and turn the attic room into something resembling home. Not that it
was
anything like his old home, but at least it now had his own things in it, lots of posters up on the walls, and photos of his family on the chest of drawers. He’d brought some books with him too, and his precious CD collection. The radio/CD player just fitted on the deep window seat next to his bed. He hadn’t brought his portable TV with him, but Daisy had said there was a television in the communal sitting room.

Barney wandered over to the window and gazed out at the view. His room overlooked the back of the hotel, which meant the scenery was less spectacular, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t mind. A collection of outbuildings, the staff car park, and a wooded hill were still better than he was used to. And he was here, in Colworth, where you could hear the distant sounds of a buzz-saw cutting down trees, and birds singing, and the occasional burst of laughter drifting up from the kitchens below.

What more could anyone want?

Well, a deodorant, actually. He’d accidentally left his can of Arrid Extra-Dry on the bathroom shelf at home.

Oh, and maybe some Rowntree’s fruit gums.

***

The sun came out from behind a cloud as Barney headed down the drive. Even the weather, he decided, was on his side. There were quite a few tourists about, taking photographs and clustering around the windows of the two gift shops in the High Street. The Hollybush Inn had just opened its doors and the smell of freshly ground coffee spilled out. It occurred to Barney that this time last week—
exactly
one week ago—he had set foot in the village for the first time and been completely knocked out by it. And now he lived here.

How perfect was that?

Then again, it would be even more perfect if the door of the village shop-cum-post office happened to swing open just as he reached it, bringing him face to face with a pretty girl having trouble with the wheel of her son’s pushchair…

But that didn’t happen. Feeling a bit ridiculous for having even thought it might, Barney pushed open the door and saw that the shop was empty of customers. Where did he think he was, anyway—Brigadoon?

The good news was that they did sell deodorant here. And fruit gums. And batteries.

‘Hi,’ he said cheerfully, dumping his purchases on the counter and beaming at the man behind it. ‘I’ve just moved into the village—well, the hotel really. I’m going to be working there. My name’s Barney, Barney Usher.’

Christopher, who had had a ferocious argument this morning with his boyfriend Colin and wasn’t in the mood for social chitchat, glanced up from the magazine he’d been reading and said with heavy irony, ‘New to the village, eh? We’ll have to throw you a party.’

‘Really?’ The boy looked delighted.

Christopher gazed at him in disbelief. ‘
No.
’

Emerging from the shop with his carrier bag, Barney wondered whether to call in at the Hollybush Inn for a coffee or a Coke. Maybe the staff there would be a bit friendlier. He paused on the narrow pavement, looking right and left…

And that was when he saw her.

Barney felt as if he’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. It was definitely the same girl, making her way across the bridge with her little boy balanced on one hip. As he watched them, Barney saw her stop and lean over the parapet, pointing something out to her son. Freddie was peering down at something in the water below, laughing and clapping his hands.

Barney headed towards them, thinking that maybe this was Brigadoon after all.

Freddie spotted him first, letting out a high-pitched shriek of delight as he recognized the person whose head he had doused with Ribena the previous week.

‘You,’ Barney pretended to scold him, ‘should be wearing your gloves.’ He held up the red and white knitted mittens, dangling by their strings from the sleeves of the boy’s jacket, then turned and smiled at his mother. ‘Hello. Fancy bumping into you again.’ He hoped he wasn’t blushing; it wasn’t the most dazzling chat-up line.

‘Hi.’ She looked delighted to see him. ‘How did it go last week?’

She’d assumed he was visiting the hotel in order to apply for a job there, Barney realized. His smile broadened.

‘Brilliant. I moved in this morning. Start work tomorrow. Nothing grand, just a porter’s job, but I’m really excited. The people there seem really nice. I was just in the shop,’ he held up his carrier bag, ‘stocking up on a few bits and pieces. Fancy a fruit gum?’

He didn’t launch into the story of how he had come to be visiting the village in the first place; in Barney’s experience, telling girls about his kidney transplant was another less-than-successful chat-up line. They tended to be hopelessly squeamish.

‘I’d love a fruit gum, but only if it’s a red one. We were watching the ducks.’ The girl gestured towards the river.

‘I don’t even know your name,’ said Barney.

‘Melanie. Mel.’

‘I’m Barney.’

‘I know you’re Barney.’ Her eyes danced. ‘You told me that last week.’

‘Oh.’ This time he was definitely blushing. ‘Thought you might have forgotten.’

‘I hadn’t.’

‘So, where d’you live?’ As he spoke, Barney waved an arm in the direction of the row of cottages behind her, set slightly back from the road. ‘One of these?’

Mel shook her head. ‘Oh no, I don’t live in the village. I’m just here… visiting someone. That’s my car over there, the green one.’ Brushing her dark hair out of her eyes, she pointed to a small Fiat. ‘It’s not much, but it gets us from A to B. Actually, we should be making a move now.’

Her eyes were grey, but warm grey, Barney decided. And full of fun. They were beautiful eyes.

‘So where
do
you live?’ he repeated.

‘Bristol. A place called Kingswood, but you wouldn’t know it.’ Turning, Mel shifted Freddie’s position on her hip and began to head towards the little Fiat.

She was going! Leaving! Sheer panic propelled the next question out of Barney’s mouth.

‘With your husband?’

‘No,’ said Mel. ‘I don’t have a husband.’ She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers, which were as bare as he remembered. All she wore was the big swirly silver ring on her thumb.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘I don’t have one of those either. It’s just Freddie and me.’ For a moment she hesitated, then said flatly, ‘Freddie’s father left before he was born.’

Yesss!

‘Look, you can say no if you don’t want to,’ Barney blurted out, ‘but I’d really like to see you again. Could we go out for a drink sometime? Or a meal… or maybe the cinema? Whatever you like, really. Your choice.’

They had crossed the road by this time. Mel fumbled in her jacket pocket for her car keys.

‘I don’t see why not. That sounds really nice. I’d like to, only…’

Why was she hesitating? Barney’s sky-high hopes began to crumble. Freddie sneezed, in his messy, baby way.

‘Bless you,’ Barney said absently. ‘Only what?’

‘Well, babysitting might be a problem.’ Mel looked awkward. ‘I mean, moneywise, things are a bit…’

‘But that’s not a problem! We can stay in! I’ll bring round a video and a takeaway… I’d enjoy that just as much.’ Oh, the
relief
.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely!’ Barney nodded vigorously. ‘In fact I’d prefer it.’

Mel’s face softened as she unlocked the passenger door and fastened Freddie into his baby seat. Straightening up again, she said, ‘How about you? Are you married?’

Barney laughed. ‘Do I
look
married?’

‘You never can tell.’

‘Well, I’m not, I promise. Now, give me your phone number.’ Luckily he had a pen in his jacket pocket. Uncapping it with a flourish, he said, ‘I don’t know yet which shifts I’ll be working, but I’ll give you a ring as soon as I find out.’

Mel told him the number and he wrote it on the back of his hand.

‘So,’ she smiled up at him from the driver’s seat, ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

‘You’ll definitely hear from me,’ Barney promised. He waggled his fingers at Freddie, strapped in next to her like an astronaut. ‘Bye then.’

The driver’s door was still open. Mel raised her eyebrows and said playfully, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Barney hesitated. What hadn’t he done that he should have done? Crikey, don’t say she was waiting for him to give her a kiss? At the risk of sounding like the village idiot, he said, ‘What?’

‘I’m still waiting,’ Mel told him, ‘for my fruit gum.’

The phone was ringing as Tara let herself into the cottage. For once, her spirits didn’t automatically rise. Having bumped into Maggie outside the shop, she had been told to expect a call from the washing machine repair man to let them know when he would be round with the all-important spare part.

Not bothering to rush, she shrugged off her coat first and kicked her shoes under the coffee table.

‘Hello?’

‘Tara?’ said a male voice. ‘Is that you?’

She froze, recognizing the voice immediately.

‘Tara? Hello, are you there?’

Tara hung up.

Why? Why was he phoning her? More to the point, how
dare
he phone her. What the bloody hell did he think he was playing at?

Except it was too late to ask now, because she’d hung up.

Ten minutes later, despising herself for being such a weed, Tara dialed 1471.

The last call, a computerized voice sneeringly informed her, had come from a network that didn’t transmit numbers.

Which was irritating but probably just as well.

By this time thoroughly rattled, Tara opened a can of tomato soup and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. While she waited for the soup to heat up, she ate seven chocolate biscuits and conducted an imaginary conversation in her head, the one she
would
have had on the phone if only she hadn’t slammed it down. In this conversation, she was sarcastic, bitingly witty, and thrillingly fluent as she told him just what she thought of him.

Fantasy conversations were great, you never got into a muddle or came off worst. You were able to have the last word, and it was always a dazzling one. You invariably emerged triumphant, leaving your opponent in emotional tatters.

The phone shrilled again just as Tara was tasting her first mouthful of soup. The mug jerked in her hand and scalding hot Heinz tomato slopped down the front of her uniform.

Don’t be so stupid, it’s only going to be the washing machine repair man. No need to race out of the kitchen to answer it, for heaven’s sake. A casual saunter will do fine.

‘H-hello?’ Oh God, why did there have to be that telltale catch in her voice? Why couldn’t she be as cool and composed as she always was in her fantasy dialogues?

‘Tara, it’s me. Don’t hang up again. Just give me a couple of minutes,
please
.’

Put the phone down, put the phone down, instructed Tara’s conscience, like a kindly but firm therapist.

Tara, her mouth as dry as cornstarch, said, ‘Why?’

Stop this
. Her conscience promptly snatched up a megaphone and began bawling through it.
Stop this now
.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Dominic said urgently. ‘Please, Tara, I know you probably hate me, but I don’t hate you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… I can’t sleep at night, I can hardly think straight… it must have been fate that brought us back together.’

‘Hardly fate.’ Somehow Tara managed to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. ‘More like my nonexistent acting skills. If I’d made it in Hollywood by now, I wouldn’t have been working down here as a chambermaid at the hotel you happened to be getting married in.’

She was waffling, because waffling was what she did best when in a state of shock. When in doubt, prattle on like an idiot and don’t let the other person get another word in edgeways, that was Tara’s motto.

It was also a handy way of drowning out the voice of your furious megaphone-wielding conscience.

‘I have to see you again,’ Dominic said simply. He wasn’t the waffly type. ‘Please, Tara, I can’t do this on the phone. At least give me the chance to explain.’

‘Dominic, you’re married.’

‘I know, I know. But I’m not asking you to have sex with me. I just want to talk.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing this evening?’

This evening? Tara felt the little hairs on the back of her neck go doinnggg. Aloud, she said, ‘Are you serious?’

‘Never more so.’

‘But… but where are you?’

‘At home.’

‘In
Berkshire
?’ She shook her head in disbelief.

‘It’s hardly Tibet,’ Dominic countered with amusement. ‘Only sixty or so miles, door to door. Just say the word and I can be there in less than an hour.’

Tara’s conscience had by this time given up. It was sitting on a low wall, drumming its heels, and smoking a cigarette. Meanwhile, all the disappointments of the last couple of weeks were replaying themselves on fast forward through Tara’s brain. Nonstop rejection, basically, hammering home the fact that she was worthless, physically unattractive, and about as much fun to be with as a cup of cold sick.

And now here was Dominic, not only begging to see her, but prepared to make a round trip of over one hundred and twenty miles in order to do so.

When you’d been at such a low ebb confidence-wise, this was seriously flattering stuff. Tara knew it was feeble, but she was grateful to him. And as Dominic had pointed out, it wasn’t as if he was asking her to have sex with him. All he wanted was a chat.

‘How did you get hold of this number?’ God, she hoped he hadn’t rung the hotel.

‘You said you were living in the village with your aunt. I phoned directory inquiries.’

‘OK.’ Tara took a deep breath. ‘Seven o’clock. I’ll meet you outside the pub.’

‘It’s freezing,’ said Dominic. ‘You’ll be cold. Why don’t I pick you up from your place?’

Ridiculously, a lump sprang into Tara’s throat. He was worried about her getting cold! But she didn’t fancy being lectured to by Maggie. If her aunt knew who she was seeing, she wouldn’t approve.

‘Thanks, but outside the Hollybush will be fine.’

***

He was there, bang on time, waiting for her. Feeling like a spy, Tara glanced around, double-checking the coast was clear before sliding into the car.

Ten minutes later they settled themselves at a table in the corner of a quiet pub in Lower Hinton, several miles from Colworth. Dominic, who was very tanned, wore a thick, navy roll-neck sweater and Armani jeans. The hairs on his brown forearms had been bleached by the Caribbean sun.

‘How was the honeymoon?’ Terrified of being overheard, Tara hissed the words out like a spy.

‘OK, I suppose. Well, not really OK,’ Dominic admitted. He spread his hands and shook his head. ‘In fact it was a disaster.’

‘Why?’

He looked directly at her. ‘Can’t you guess? I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I found myself
dreaming
about you. Tara, I know I messed up the other week, I panicked when Annabel’s sister caught us together in that summerhouse, and it was wrong of me to let you take the blame. But it all happened so fast,’ he went on urgently, ‘and I was worried sick about Annabel. Imagine how she’d have felt if I’d told her the wedding was off. Can you understand that? I had to go through with it, for her sake. Otherwise who knows what she might have done?’

‘You told me you loved her,’ said Tara.

Dominic ran his fingers through his fair hair. There was pain in his eyes and genuine regret.

‘Maybe I do. In a way. Annabel’s a lovely girl. She’s done nothing wrong. But, you know, I think I feel protective towards her more than anything else. Like a big brother taking care of his younger sister.’

‘His very wealthy younger sister,’ Tara pointedly reminded him.

‘Do you think that’s why I married her? You couldn’t be more wrong.’ Dominic shook his head sadly. ‘I married Annabel despite her money, rather than because of it. We’ve always got on well. I genuinely thought we could be happy together. But my feelings for Annabel don’t even begin to compare with the way I feel about you.’

Golly. He was serious. It was scary, but at the same time Tara found herself experiencing a small glow of pride. Beneath the table, her knees were trembling like whippets.

‘But I’m nothing. Just a chambermaid with a—’

‘Wrong, wrong,’ Dominic interrupted. ‘You’re
you
. We always were fantastic together, weren’t we? Like I said, the one thing I couldn’t handle was your acting obsession; it just killed me to see what you were doing to yourself. And that’s the only reason I ended it,’ he said seriously. ‘But now I find out you’re not doing that any more… I swear to God, it’s just knocked me for six. You can’t imagine how it’s made me feel. If only I’d
known
.’

‘But you didn’t know,’ argued Tara, feeling a bit light-headed. ‘And it’s too late now, you’re
married
.’ She was starting to sound like a stuck record, but how many other ways were there of saying it?

‘As if I needed reminding.’ Dominic’s expression was wry. ‘Oh yes, I’m definitely married.’ He paused. ‘To the wrong girl.’

***

They arrived back in Colworth at ten thirty. Dominic pulled up outside the Hollybush but kept the engine running. Annabel had driven over to spend the evening with her mother, Tara had learned, and would be home around midnight.

‘I want to kiss you,’ said Dominic, ‘but I know I mustn’t.’

The lights from the pub were shining into the car. Tara could see his infinitely regretful half-smile. For a mad moment—a mere nanosecond—she wished he hadn’t said it. If he’d just gone ahead and kissed her—nothing raunchy, just a chaste peck on the cheek—she could have pretended to be taken by surprise.

But he’d asked her permission now and, naturally, there was no way in the world she could say yes. For heaven’s sake, he was a married man. Freshly married at that. Only a complete trollop with no morals whatsoever would allow such wickedness to happen.

God, there was probably confetti still in his suitcase.

‘No, better not.’ Tara’s heart was thumping with adrenaline and secret delight. See? She
did
have morals! Dominic wanted to kiss her and she’d told him he couldn’t, which was exactly the right thing to say.

‘It’s been so great, seeing you tonight.’ Dominic’s voice softened. ‘I can’t remember when I last enjoyed myself so much.’

Tara realized with a jolt that she couldn’t either. He was right; it
had
been a great evening, talking and laughing and catching up on old times. Whilst doing nothing wrong, naturally.

‘Or have you absolutely hated every second?’ Dominic’s tone was playful.

Responding in a similar vein, Tara smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘I want you to say you’ll meet me again.’

Oh God.

‘Well—’

‘Please.’ Reaching across, Dominic touched her hand. His warm fingers closed around hers. ‘You don’t know how much it would mean to me.’

‘But you’re—’

‘Tara, will you stop going on about it? I
know
I’m married. But we can still be friends, can’t we? Old friends who meet up every now and again for a drink and a chat? Would that be so wrong?’

She exhaled slowly, no longer sure. Would it?

‘I don’t know,’ Tara admitted, hopelessly torn. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea.’

‘OK, fine, forget it.’

The unexpectedness of Dominic’s reply made her jump. He sounded sad and resigned but determined to go along with whatever she decided.

Tara promptly began to wish she hadn’t said it.

‘The thing is,’ she went on hesitantly, ‘other people might get the wrong idea.’

‘I know. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? All we want to do is talk. If you were a bloke or I was a girl, there’d be no problem at all, we could meet up for a drink and a chat as often as we liked. But just because I’m not a girl, you won’t see me again. Actually, that makes you sexist. I may have to take you to the Court of Human Rights.’

He was teasing her, doing his best to lighten the mood. Tara smiled, but he was right. It really wasn’t fair.

‘I’m going now. You have to get back.’

‘To my wife.’ Dominic grimaced. ‘God, married less than a month and already my heart sinks at the thought of it, seeing her and pretending everything’s fine.’ Sadly, he added, ‘Do you realize, you’re the only one who knows the truth? There’s nobody else I can tell.’

Tara’s heart went out to him. That was the trouble with men, they might be able to read maps and change tires, but they weren’t capable of sharing their deepest, innermost feelings with other men. It simply wasn’t in their genetic makeup. Sports they could discuss with a passion, but emotions were strictly a no-go area. Being able to gossip and confide in her friends, Tara realized, was one of the best things about being a girl. Along with mascara.

‘Look, you’ve got my number. If you’re ever desperate, you know where I am.’ Hurriedly, as if blurting out the words at a rate of knots didn’t count, she promptly flung open the passenger door and leapt out.

‘You’re fantastic. You know that, don’t you?’ Dominic shot her a grateful smile. ‘Really, the most amazing woman. You have no idea how much this evening’s meant to me.’

Pink-cheeked with the cold, but glowing oatmeal warm inside, Tara let herself into the cottage. Maggie was in the midst of a cushion-making binge, kneeling on the living-room floor surrounded by swathes of silk and velvet and the paper templates she used to cut out the relevant appliquéd shapes. It never failed to astound both of them that Maggie’s customized cushion covers, which she sold through one of the gift shops in the village, should prove to be such a hit with the tourists from overseas. Still, it would be churlish to mock their dodgy taste in home accessories.

‘What d’you think?’ Maggie held up one of the finished cushion covers, depicting two figures silhouetted on Colworth Bridge overlooking the river. Maggie, a whizz with the sewing machine, was a natural free stylist. Around the simply executed tableau were embroidered the words: Hank ’n’ EmmyLou, England, 2002.

‘Ain’t it just the
cutest thing
?’ mimicked Maggie, because making fun of the customers was sometimes impossible to resist. ‘Of course, in real life they’re much fatter. In fact I’m amazed the bridge didn’t collapse. Still, it’s what they wanted, so they’ll be happy.’ Patting the cushion cover with satisfaction, she looked up and said, ‘You’re looking pretty happy yourself. Where’ve you been?’

‘Oh, just out for a drink. With one of the lads I met in Bristol last week,’ Tara fibbed.