Staying at Daisy's (2 page)

Fifteen minutes down the motorway was all it took to reach Frenchay Hospital on the outskirts of Bristol. For the first time in years Daisy drove without music blasting from the stereo to sing along to. Nor, when she parked the car in the tree-lined avenue next to the wards, did she reach automatically into her bag to redo her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

It was three forty-five. The sky was darkening from ash-grey to charcoal and lights were flickering on in the various buildings that made up the hospital. Daisy followed a sign pointing the way to the intensive care unit. Staff and visitors were walking around as if nothing had happened. A small girl let out a shriek of outrage as she dropped her bag of candy on the path outside the hospital shop.

How
could
Steven have been seeing someone else?

The doctor was incredibly kind. He explained the functions of the various types of machinery that surrounded Steven’s bed. This was the ventilator, which was taking care of his breathing. This smaller one was the EKG machine, monitoring his heartbeat. That clip on his finger was a pulse oximeter, the intravenous line enabled them to administer the various medications he needed, and the drip was supplying him with fluids.

The intensive care unit was ultra-bright. Everything was white apart from the staff uniforms, which were pale blue. Feeling ludicrously out of place in her red velvet shirt, black leather skirt, and black patent high heels, Daisy tried hard to concentrate on what the doctor was telling her. She felt it was vital to understand everything he said, as if this were an A level she absolutely mustn’t fail.

Except it appeared to be an A level in a language she’d never learned. She was able to hear the words but they were making no sense. Apart from the bit about Steven’s condition being critical.

The doctor’s beeper went off.

‘Here, why don’t you sit down.’ Pulling a molded plastic chair up to the bed, the doctor steered her towards it. ‘Hold his hand. Talk to him. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll be back later, OK?’

He shot off to deal with the next crisis, leaving Daisy alone with Steven. Well, not really alone. Fifteen feet away, a couple of nurses were keeping a discreet eye on her.

She sat down on the unforgiving plastic chair and held Steven’s hand, as instructed.

He was looking ridiculously healthy. A narrow white sheet covered his groin, otherwise he was naked. Tanned and muscular and obviously a fit chap, proud of his physique and deservedly so. All those hours in the gym had paid off. This was the body of a man in peak condition. He didn’t look injured at all.

Daisy blinked, pulled herself together. What was it she was meant to be doing now? Oh yes, talking to him.

But what was she supposed to say? Not ‘You lying cheating fucking
bastard
,’ that was for sure. Oh no, that definitely wasn’t the kind of thing the doctor would have had in mind.

After twenty minutes Daisy rose to leave.

‘You go and wait in the relatives’ room,’ urged the kindly nurse who was checking Steven’s blood pressure, ‘and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’

Daisy wondered why people always said that. It might be a truly horrible cup of tea but they’d still call it
nice
.

‘It’s OK, I’m fine. Just going outside for a bit, for some fresh air.’

‘Right, love, you do that. Is there anyone else you’d like us to contact?’

‘No thanks.’ Smiling briefly, to make up for her uncharitable thought about the tea, Daisy indicated her bag. ‘I’ve got my phone with me. I’ll go and do that now.’

In the echoey sloping corridor outside the entrance to the ward, she had to leap out of the way as a porter whizzed past with a boy in a wheelchair. A girl in jeans and a navy Puffa jacket was studying the notice board intently. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, accentuating her pallor. Daisy hesitated, struck by the fact that the girl had glanced at her then abruptly, almost guiltily, turned away.

Taking her phone out of her bag, Daisy punched out a series of numbers and said, ‘Hi, it’s me. I’m leaving the hospital now. I’ll be home by five.’

Less than a minute after pushing through the doors marked EXIT, Daisy slid back into the corridor. The girl in the Puffa was no longer loitering by the notice board.

Peering through the glass porthole of the outer entrance to the intensive care unit, Daisy saw her standing by the second door, the one that led into the ward itself.

She was being spoken to by the kindly nurse and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Feeling absurdly jealous, Daisy realized that the nurse was being just as nice to Puffa girl as she’d been to her, only instead of offering a nice cup of tea she was handing her a tissue.

There was a bandage, Daisy now saw, round the Puffa girl’s left wrist.

Leaning against the outer door so that it opened just a fraction, Daisy heard the nurse saying in a warm, soothing voice, ‘I’m so sorry, love, but you can’t go in. It’s relatives only.’

The girl was distraught. If she hadn’t been crying, she’d be pretty, Daisy automatically noted. Then again—and maybe it was inappropriate under the circumstances, but she still couldn’t help thinking it—the girl might be pretty, but not as pretty as
her
.

Daisy eased the pressure on the door, allowing it to close once more. Now she really did need some fresh air. It was also about time she actually rang Hector, rather than just pretending to ring Hector. He’d be wondering where she’d got to by now.

***

Steven’s condition deteriorated during the night. By eleven o’clock the next morning, dry-mouthed and light-headed from lack of sleep, Daisy found herself being led from the unit and ushered into the bad news office. You could tell it was the bad news office; it contained comfortable chairs.

The consultant, who was in his fifties and wearing a crumpled checked shirt under his immaculate white coat, said, ‘Mrs Standish, I’m sorry. We’ve carried out the second set of tests and they confirm what we feared. Your husband sustained an extremely severe head injury. There are no signs of brain function.’

Oh God.

Oh God
.

‘Right.’ Daisy nodded and gazed out of the window. It was raining hard outside. ‘So, basically, he’s already dead.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

There was a box of tissues on the desk in front of her. For the tears, of course. Daisy, embarrassed by her inability to cry, said, ‘Well, thank you for everything you’ve done.’

The consultant cleared his throat. ‘There is one other thing I’d like to discuss with you, as Steven’s next of kin. The opportunity to allow others the chance of life.’ He rested his long fingers on a form and slid it across the desk towards her. ‘I don’t know if you and your husband ever discussed the issue of organ donation, but in our experience it can be of great comfort to the family in years to come, knowing that—’

‘You want to use Steven’s organs for transplant?’ Astonished, Daisy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What, even though he has cancer? Wouldn’t that be risky for whoever got them?’

The consultant frowned. ‘Cancer? I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘His cancer. I assumed it was all in there.’ Daisy nodded at the hospital notes, lying open on the desk. ‘He said he’d seen one of the doctors here… well, I thought it was this hospital. Unless he went private.’

The consultant’s frown deepened. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes.’

Daisy waited alone in the bad news room and watched the rain rattling against the windows. Since she couldn’t begin to gather her thoughts, she concentrated instead on counting the raindrops as they slid down the glass.

The consultant duly returned several minutes later.

‘I’ve spoken to Steven’s doctor. She hasn’t seen your husband for over two years, and he couldn’t be referred to a hospital—any hospital—without a doctor referral. I think we can safely assume there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here,’ he concluded gently. ‘Your husband doesn’t have cancer.’

***

Daisy found the nurse she was looking for, stacking away metal kidney dishes in the sluice room.

‘The consultant’s told me about Steven,’ Daisy announced, and the kindly nurse put down the dishes at once.

‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. Would you like me to make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘No thanks.’

‘And you’re being so brave.’

Privately, Daisy thought it more likely that the nurses on the unit thought she was downright weird.

‘I wanted to ask you about the girl who was here yesterday afternoon. The one who was in the car with Steven when he had the accident.’

The nurse flushed slightly. Which confirmed it.

‘The thing is,’ Daisy went on, ‘I heard you telling her she couldn’t see him, because she wasn’t a relative. But under the circumstances… well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? You could let her in for a few minutes while I stay out of the way.’

The nurse, her fair skin the color of strawberry Angel Delight, said, ‘She isn’t here, love. I told her to go home.’

Daisy gave her a long look. ‘But I bet she gave you her phone number.’

From the expression on the nurse’s face, it was clear that the girl had. Well, it was only natural.

‘Ring her up,’ said Daisy. ‘I don’t know who she is, and I don’t want to meet her. But if she’s Steven’s girlfriend, at least she deserves the chance to say goodbye.’

One Year Later

‘Daisy, can you be around this afternoon? The Cross-Dressers are arriving at four to discuss the menus for the wedding reception.’

Tara Donovan, who worked as a chambermaid at the hotel, suppressed a smile. Her own parents were dead now, but her father had been the quiet, pipe-and-slippers type. It must be fun to have someone like Hector as a dad.

Daisy gave her father a ‘behave yourself ’ look. His loud voice and stupendous lack of tact were going to get him into big trouble one day.

‘Fine, but you have to stop calling them that.’

‘Darling, I know, but they deserve it. These people are starting to get on my nerves,’ Hector declared. ‘Why can’t they just decide on a menu and stick with the bloody thing? For the life of me I can’t imagine why anyone would want to invite a vegan to a wedding in the first place.’

This time Tara and Daisy exchanged glances, and Daisy heaved a sigh. Discretion wasn’t Hector’s forte. Luckily there were no guests currently within earshot. Reaching across the reception desk for her pile of unopened mail, Daisy said, ‘Dad, I’ll deal with them. We’ll charge double for vegans. And they aren’t the Cross-Dressers or the Cross-Pollinators
or
the Hot Cross Buns, OK? They’re the Cross-Calverts and you’re jolly well going to be nice to them.’

Tara, who was vacuuming the staircase, promptly dropped her nozzle.

‘
Who?
’ Her heart thumping, she switched off the machine and anchored it with her foot before it could tumble down the stairs and kill someone. Maybe she’d misheard. ‘What did you say their name was?’

‘Mr and Mrs Cross-Your-Heart-Bra,’ Hector replied gravely. ‘And she needs a good-sized one, I can tell you. Sturdy straps, reinforced elastic, all that palaver.’ Hector wasn’t much of a one for political correctness either.

‘My father, the dinosaur.’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘Funny how he’s never remarried.’

Tara tried again. ‘Did you say Cross-Calvert?’

‘That’s right.’ Daisy was nodding absently, her attention on the letter she had just opened.

‘Dominic Cross-Calvert?’ This time she heard her voice as if the words hadn’t come from her own mouth.

‘Dominic, that’s it, that’s the fellow.’ Intrigued, Hector straightened up. ‘Know him, do you?’

‘I do.’ Idiotically, Tara realized that she sounded as if she were making her wedding vows. That was what you said, wasn’t it, when you promised to cherish your husband for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did you part? Or was it ‘I will’? Never having made that particular pledge, she wasn’t actually sure. Men thought she was pretty and a great laugh, and they were especially fond of her oversized chest, but none of them had ever offered to marry her.

‘Ha! Look at your face,’ Hector exclaimed. ‘He’s one of your exes, isn’t he? Some long-lost soul from your sordid past. Come on then, you can tell us. Who dumped who?’

As loftily as she could manage, Tara announced, ‘I do not have a sordid past.’ Which was, obviously, a big lie. Worse still, Hector knew it.

‘Which means he dumped you.’ Hector was triumphant. ‘My darling, I’m riveted. Right, that’s it, put that silly vacuum cleaner away and come and tell us all about it.’

She wavered. ‘I’m supposed to finish the stairs.’

This was both the good and the bad thing about Hector. His irreverent approach to owning and running a hotel meant he was wonderful to work for. On the other hand, the job still had to be done. On the
other
other hand, she
was
longing to find out more about Dominic.

Hector gestured dismissively at the staircase. ‘Bugger the cleaning, let’s have a drink! Daisy, are you coming to hear this?’

Daisy was engrossed in the contents of her letter. She wasn’t listening. Honestly, and she called herself a friend.

Tara said, ‘When’s he getting married?’

‘Two weeks’ time. January the tenth. Ninety-six guests, three wheat allergies, two lactose intolerants, seventeen vegetarians, and,’ Hector’s lip curled in disgust, ‘a vegan.’

‘And this girl he’s… um, marrying?’ Tara did her level best to sound casual.

Hector, not fooled for a moment, spoilt it all by throwing back his head and roaring with laughter. ‘Her name’s Annabel. Big girl, like I said. You and Daisy together could squeeze into her wedding dress.’

Tara was well enough acquainted with Hector’s tendency towards exaggeration to guess that this meant Annabel was probably a curvy size fourteen. A
voluptuous
size fourteen.

‘Yes, but is she pretty?’ Not that she could imagine for a moment Dominic marrying someone who wasn’t.

Hector clapped an arm round Tara’s shoulders as he led her through to the bar. ‘My darling, she’s not a patch on you.’

***

‘Walking in a winter wonderland,’ went the song in Daisy’s head as she made her way down the hotel’s drive. It had been playing on the radio when she’d woken up this morning and had stuck in her mind ever since, which was no hardship because it was a song she loved, so Christmassy and jaunty it couldn’t fail to lift the spirits. If there could have been real snow to go with it, that would have made it better still, but you couldn’t have everything. And frost was beautiful too, Daisy thought loyally. Particularly when the sun was out, as it was now, and everything sparkled like one of those glittery snowstorm things you picked up and shook.

Even without snow, the hotel was looking gorgeous. Having reached the end of the drive, Daisy hopped over the honey-colored Cotswold stone wall to her right and took the short cut through to the churchyard. There was nobody else about as she headed for Steven’s grave.

Mervyn Tucker, whose wife was buried next to Steven, had left behind the aluminum bucket he used to water the plants on her plot. Borrowing it, Daisy sat down and pulled the envelope from the depths of her dark blue velvet coat. It wasn’t the most comfortable of buckets, but she preferred to sit. It seemed friendlier somehow.

‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve got some news for you.’ As she spoke, it occurred to Daisy that anyone watching her now would think she’d gone mad. Perched on an upended tin bucket reading a letter to a pile of earth. Still, what did it matter? She was alone in the churchyard. Nobody could see or hear her. And this was a letter Steven should know about.

Blowing on her fingers to defrost them, her breath visible in the icy air, Daisy unfolded the first of the two sheets of paper contained in the envelope.

‘Right, well. This letter arrived today, from someone called Barney. You gave him one of your kidneys and the operation was a complete success. Imagine that! He’s twenty-five years old and you saved his life. Here, I’ll read it to you. It starts with “Dear Friend,” because he doesn’t know my name. He had to give this letter to his transplant coordinator and she’s forwarded it to me—they have to do it this way, apparently, for security reasons. Anyway, he says: “Dear Friend, I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to make the decision you did at such a terrible time. But I so wanted to thank you for giving me a new life. Any words I choose will be inadequate—thank you has to be the understatement of the year. What else can I say? You are a wonderful person—I’m sure your husband was too—and I just hope that reading this letter will help in some small way as you begin to come to terms with your bereavement. You truly deserve to be happy again. I will always be grateful to you. If you feel able to write back, via my coordinator, I would love to hear from you. If not, I will of course understand. Thank you again, and my very best wishes, Barney.”’

Silence.

Having finished reading aloud, Daisy brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and rested her hand on Steven’s white marble gravestone.

‘There, that’s it. Isn’t that a fantastic letter? One year ago today, you died and gave Barney his life back. You finally did something decent. And he sounds so sweet, don’t you think? I’ll definitely have to write back and thank him. I wonder how long it took him to think of what to say—oh, and he’s got nice handwriting too. Black ink on good quality cream paper, and no spelling mistakes. I’m so glad he didn’t do it on a word processor, that wouldn’t have been the same at all, I never—’

Daisy abruptly broke off, sensing movement at the periphery of her vision. Someone in a bright red jacket was standing by the lychgate, over to her left. Realizing that she’d been spotted, but keen nevertheless not to be thought of as a complete nutcase, Daisy stayed where she was and kept quiet.

The raised metal rim round the base of the bucket was starting to dig into her bottom. She resisted the urge to wriggle in case she toppled off it.

Finally, because the person beside the lychgate wasn’t moving, Daisy turned her head and gazed directly at them. When she realized who it was, she nearly toppled off her bucket anyway.

Then again, it was the anniversary of Steven’s death. Maybe she shouldn’t be that surprised.

Recovering rapidly, Daisy called out, ‘It’s OK, you can come over.’

Puffa jacket—only this time she wasn’t wearing a Puffa—hesitated, then began to thread her way between the gravestones. The frosted grass crunched beneath her flat leather boots. She wore a scarlet fleece, white jeans, a bright green woolly scarf, and blue knitted gloves. In her arms she carried a small cellophane-wrapped bunch of white roses.

Warily approaching Daisy, she said, ‘Look, sorry about this. I could go away and come back later, when—’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve pretty much finished here anyway. You can have my seat if you like.’ Easing her bottom off the bucket—ouch—Daisy stood up and gestured for the girl to take her place. Deeply curious, she smiled briefly and said, ‘I recognize you from the hospital. I’m Daisy.’

‘I know.’ The girl’s nose and cheeks were pink with cold, and she was looking uncomfortable. Ha, thought Daisy, wait until you try sitting on that bucket.

‘My name’s Mel,’ she said at last.

Daisy wondered whether they should be shaking hands, but hers were warming up nicely inside her coat pockets. Besides, the girl didn’t look as if she much wanted to.

‘OK, look, I suppose this could count as one of those tricky social situations, but it really doesn’t have to be.’ Now that the girl was here, Daisy was curious to know more about her. ‘I’m sure Steven told you our marriage was pretty much on the rocks. Well, pretty much doesn’t come into it, to be honest. Absolutely on the rocks, more like.’ She was doing her best to be friendly, but it didn’t seem to be having much effect.

‘I know that.’ Mel began unwrapping the stiff, crackling cellophane from the bunch of roses. ‘He wanted a divorce and you refused.’

Confused, Daisy stared at the girl’s bent head.

‘What?’

‘He wanted to leave you,’ Mel repeated. ‘But you wouldn’t let him go.’

‘Oh no, I’m sorry, but that is wrong. Wrong, wrong,
wrong
.’ Abruptly, Daisy discovered that Steven still possessed the ability to astound her. ‘I was desperate for a divorce! I told him it was all over between us the week before Christmas. That was when he told me he had cancer.’

‘
Cancer?
’
It was Mel’s turn to look stunned. ‘Oh God, I didn’t know he had cancer!’

‘Yes, well. He didn’t. He was lying. It was his way of blackmailing me into staying with him.’ Daisy forced herself to stay calm. ‘And do you know what? I fell for it. I thought I couldn’t abandon him to cope with something like that on his own.’ She paused, remembering the moment in the bad news office. ‘Except it wasn’t even true.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Mel was winter-white, her hands trembling. ‘He wouldn’t do that. You’re making it up.’

‘Trust me. If I was going to make up a story like that, I’d have come up with something more original,’ Daisy shot back. ‘It’s such a cliché! Remember
EastEnders
, Angie doing it to Dirty Den? You see, that was the thing about Steven. He was a con artist. He told me that his only chance of recovery was some new form of treatment in America. He said it cost twenty thousand pounds and asked me to lend him the money—which, basically, meant
give
him the money, because Steven didn’t have any left of his own. Who knows what he planned to do with it,’ Daisy concluded with a shrug. ‘Run off to America with you, probably. And come back six months later, miraculously cured.’

Was she being cruel, telling Mel this? More to the point, did Mel believe her now?

The creamy-white roses lay across the grave, unwrapped and untouched.

Mel said slowly, ‘I don’t know what to think anymore.’ There were tears in her grey eyes.

‘Oh please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Daisy blurted out. ‘But you have to know what Steven was really like. I hadn’t any idea he was having an affair, but our marriage was over anyway.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Mel said slowly, ‘is why he would lie to me. We loved each other. We wanted to be together more than anything. If you were happy to get a divorce, why would he want to stay with you?’

Daisy, who had long ago figured this one out, simply gestured over the churchyard wall. In the valley, with the river snaking around the perimeter of the landscaped gardens, the hotel nestled seductively, bathed in winter sunlight, and looking as if it had been liberally dusted with castor sugar. The twenty-foot high Norwegian spruce by the entrance was garlanded with silver lights. The Manor House itself, parts of which dated back to the fifteenth century, was like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. The other week a reviewer in one of the Sunday papers had hailed it as one of the most glorious hotels in Britain. He’d also mentioned that it was owned by one of the most flamboyant characters in the business and had gone on to describe Hector as Basil Fawlty with attitude, which would probably put off zillions of potential clients, but you couldn’t win them all.

‘Look at it,’ Daisy said simply. ‘This is why Steven wanted to stay with me. He enjoyed the lifestyle too much.’ She didn’t add that Steven had never been much of a one for slumming it. Or for working his fingers to the bone.

‘The trouble is,’ Mel frowned, ‘you can say anything you like about him now and he can’t answer back.’