Oh, she needed a drink. That might make the dul ache feel better. She’d just have one glass. But then one turned into two and somehow, the last bottle of wine was empty.
Shit. Just one more glass and she’d forget Alex, forget Louise, forget the beautiful baby … warm velvety skin snuggled up against Daisy in the bed. She drifted into a waking dream of herself as a mother: her, Alex and the baby, a girl - she was sure her first child would be a girl.
They were al lying in a big bed, not the bed in her apartment, but a family bed with fat pil ows, cuddly baby toys and soft throws, and Alex looking adoringly at his wife and daughter.
The dream was perfect because Daisy final y had her own child - that’s al she wanted. Was there something wrong with that? Was there something wrong with her that she couldn’t have that? Because it was her fault, she knew now.
Alex had been able to get Louise pregnant. So Daisy was the barren one, not him. Had she done a terrible thing in the past and was paying for it now with her infertility, her inability to hold on to any living thing, child or man?
Books and magazines told you you hadn’t done something wrong not to deserve children, but she felt they were lying.
She remembered the anonymous woman in the IVF diary she’d been given on that awful day in the Avalon Clinic. Is it my fault? I can’t tel T because he says it’s not, but I wonder.
Is this punishment for not being a good enough daughter, sister, friend, wife? Infertility seems like a disease you bring on yourself. Sex with the wrong person, messed up tubes, not being whole. You feel you are to blame, no matter what anybody says.
Daisy’s shimmering dream of motherhood faded. The IVF
diary represented the end of her happiness. The day she’d started to read it had been the day Alex had said he wanted a trial separation. How naive had she been not to see what he real y wanted. She hated herself for being so gul ible and ful of hope that day. Two dreams gone in a flash. She’d lost Alex and she was unable to have the baby she yearned for.
Pure despair washed over her and Daisy sobbed until her face was raw, the top of her pyjamas was wet, and her nose ran.
She must have dozed off briefly on the couch for when she woke up, half an hour had passed and evening had come.
The sinking sun of a beautiful summer’s evening shone in through the mul ioned front window and in the distance, Daisy could hear the gentle lowing of cows making their stately procession to their milking parlour.
She stil felt mildly drunk but she wanted another drink, something to blot it al out. And yet she couldn’t drive to the shop to stock up. Buried inside her, a fragment of self-preservation remained. She never drove when she’d been drinking. She hadn’t sunk that low, and besides, the shop wasn’t far away: half a mile there along the winding lane and half a mile back. The exercise might help her sleep later and save her from the sweat soaked wakenings in the middle of the night.
Daisy didn’t bother scrubbing away the ravages of her tears, just pul ed on a wide-brimmed hat of her mother’s and some sunglasses before setting out. She walked along the Janeway, stil with that alcohol buzz inside her. Her mind raced, thinking, thinking. Just what she didn’t want to do.
Supper - think about what she’d have for supper. Perhaps one of the shop’s homecooked apple pies, with cream, and a large glass of red wine to wash it al down and take her away from it al .
She reached the crossroads, so set upon not thinking, that she walked straight out of the lane onto the busy main road.
A car whisking past had to swerve with a great squeal of breaks to avoid her.
‘Ohmigod!’ gasped Daisy. Her hands flew to her chest.
The car screeched to a stop outside the shop, leaving black brake marks behind on the road. Shock rooted Daisy to one place and she stared dumbly at the car, unable to cry because she had no more tears left. The driver, a tal , dark-haired woman in blue jeans and a filmy rose-coloured shirt, got out and ran over to Daisy.
‘Are you hurt?’ she said.
‘No. Yes. No,’ gulped Daisy. ‘I was walking to the shop, I didn’t mean …’
‘Shal I drive you home then?’ the woman asked gently. ‘Or do you need to see a doctor?’
‘Home,’ Daisy nodded. ‘It’s a short walk.’
‘You shouldn’t walk. You had a near miss.’
‘I have to get shopping,’ Daisy said suddenly. She needed food and, more importantly, wine.
‘I’l go with you and drive you home,’ the woman said firmly.
‘Is there anyone at home with you?’
Daisy shook her head.
‘It’s Daisy, isn’t it?’ the woman said, staring intently at her.
For the first time, Daisy real y looked at the woman. She did look familiar.
‘I’m Leah Meyer, from Cloud’s Hil ,’ the woman added. ‘I met you when you came to the spa a couple of months ago.
You work in the designer store in town, don’t you? I nearly didn’t see you because of that lethal bend. It’s a miracle I didn’t hit you.’
Daisy looked back at the crossroads and the sharp bend before it. She thought of herself lurching unthinking out into the road and how if Leah had been going faster, she’d now be lying on the asphalt unconscious.
‘I’m sorry,’ Daisy muttered, as her legs trembled. ‘I have to sit down.’
Beside them was a tiny old-fashioned petrol station that boasted just one solitary pump that sold diesel. There was a wooden bench outside the sales booth and Daisy sank down onto it. ‘Wait here,’ commanded Leah. ‘I’l get my car and drive you home.’
She was back in moments and helped Daisy into the car.
‘Down the lane,’ Daisy said, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘It’s the second cottage half a mile down.’
‘What a lovely place,’ Leah said in admiration as they stopped outside. ‘My mother’s,’ Daisy explained, reaching into al her pockets to find the door key. ‘I’m staying here for a few days while she’s away.’
‘Show me the kitchen, and I’l make you tea,’ Leah said, once they were inside.
The rest of the cottage was tidy enough: Daisy had confined herself to cuddling up on the couch in the tiny living room, and each night she tidied up any glasses or plates that had been left on the coffee table.
But the kitchen told a different story. Under the cracked Belfast sink was where Nan Farrel kept things to be recycled, and out of habit, Daisy had put her wine bottles and carafes there, ready to be taken away when she left.
There was a shameful number of bottles lined up, she realised, seeing the place with Leah’s eyes.
‘I’ve been meaning to get to the bottle bank, so the place is a mess.’ Daisy gestured vaguely. She was about to make her excuse of a party but thought better of it. ‘You’re staying here on your own?’
Daisy nodded.
‘You’ve had a shock,’ Leah said decisively. ‘It’s probably not a good idea for you to be here on your own tonight. I’l take you to Cloud’s Hil for the night.’
‘I couldn’t …’ began Daisy.
‘Hey,’ Leah held her hands up. ‘I’m being neighbourly and you’d be doing me a favour if you went along with it.’ ‘Wel
…’
‘Great. I’l pack a bag for you.’ With the speed of the mistral, Leah swept upstairs, col ected up some things for Daisy, put: them in a holdal she found on the floor, and came down again. ‘You should check if there’s anything else you want,’ she said! cheerful y, ‘and I’l be waiting for you in the car.’ In her old bedroom, Daisy couldn’t see anything else she] wanted. Leah appeared to have packed everything up.
She might as wel go with Leah. Why not?
The scent of roses woke Daisy up at dawn the fol owing morning and, opening her eyes, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven in a blue petal boat. Above her were folds of duck-egg-blue muslin draped in a canopy. Pale blue pil ows with tiny flowers scattered on the fabric and scal oped edges cushioned her, while a quilted coverlet of cream damask studded with cerulean embroidery knots covered her. Even the room itself was subtle blue, with wal s painted the colour of the sky on a summer morning.
Lifting her head, she could see the source of the rose smel : a bouquet of velvety crimson blooms in a beaten copper bowl beside the bed. Daisy had no real idea where she was, but she felt safe. She sank back into the bed and slept again. For the first time in a week, her sleep was deep and good. When she awoke the second time, it was half-nine and she was ravenous.
Her clothes were stil neatly folded in the bag where Leah had packed them. Daisy showered, washed her hair until it squeaked, then dressed quickly and left the room.
There were steps in the hal beside her bedroom door, so she went down them and found herself in a white corridor, stark as a monastery, with stone floors and no curtains on the long narrow windows. The servants’ part of the old Delaney house, she guessed.
At the end of the corridor was a big kitchen with the same stone floor and white wal s. It appeared to be the staff kitchen and there was a woman sitting at the scrubbed refectory table eating breakfast. She was a fresh-faced girl in the Cloud’s Hil olive-green uniform and she seemed pleased to see Daisy. ‘Hi Daisy, I’m Jane. Get yourself some coffee. I’l tel Leah you’re up.’
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Daisy, feeling slightly disconcerted that this stranger knew who she was.
She was on her second cup of coffee, had eaten some fruit and toast and was talking with Jane when Leah arrived.
‘Did you sleep wel ?’ asked Leah, pouring some hot water into a mug.
‘Yes, thank you. Very wel . It’s a lovely room.’
‘The China Blue room is beautiful,’ Leah agreed. She opened a drawer, took out a teabag and dunked it into the mug, instantly fil ing the air with the smel of raspberries.
‘I like the Rose Pink room best,’ said Jane.
‘Cleo’s in there,’ Leah said. ‘You’l like Cleo,’ she added confidently. ‘Come with me to my office for a chat.’
Leah’s office was near the reception area, a smal room fil ed with personality. Paintings, photographs and books lined the wal s, while the smal table between the two armchairs had yet more photos on it, along with a fragile white orchid. The desk was perfectly clear apart from an old-fashioned black phone. Leah sat down on one of the chairs and Daisy sank onto the other, cradling her coffee.
‘Were you trying to kil yourself?’ asked Leah, slender fingers dunking the raspberry teabag by its string.
‘What?’ asked Daisy in genuine confusion.
‘Yesterday. Were you trying to kil yourself or was it an accident?’ ‘An accident,’ Daisy gasped. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’ ‘Because of how much you’d obviously had to drink.’
Outraged, Daisy rushed in to argue with this suggestion. ‘I just had some wine.’
‘Rather a lot of wine,’ Leah said gently. ‘I saw the bottles.
You’ve only been staying there a week. And unless your mother entertains a lot, you’ve gone through a lot of alcohol.
A couple of bottles a day?’
It sounded so shameful that Daisy flushed. ‘I was depressed and I wanted a pick-me-up.’
‘Alcohol isn’t a pick-me-up,’ Leah stated. ‘It’s a depressant, and anyone who considers two bottles a day a reasonable amount, obviously has a problem with alcohol abuse.’ I don’t have a problem, Daisy wanted to say, but she was shocked into silence, because the way Leah explained it, it al sounded so plausible.
‘Where I come from, people don’t drink like that,’ Leah said. ‘In LA, if someone has a cocktail at lunch, the rest of the table give them the AA service number. Here, wel …
it’s one of the issues I have with Europe. You do drink and smoke to excess.’ ‘You mean like fat?’ asked Daisy.
‘That’s an American issue,’ Leah said. ‘We eat too much, you drink too much and live dangerously. Neither is good.’ ‘I know lots of women who drink as much as me,’ Daisy insisted.
‘And that makes it right?’
Daisy felt put upon and angry suddenly. How dare this strange woman interrogate her about her drinking? Daisy had just suffered an appal ing loss and this woman hadn’t a clue how that felt.
‘Who died and left you in charge?’ she demanded with hostility.
Leah’s serene face didn’t change. ‘Nobody,’ she said. ‘I’m running a holistic centre here. It’d be pretty dumb if I didn’t know the facts about what you can put and not put into your body. It’s like a machine: if you care about it, you cherish it.
If you don’t care about it, you put the worst gas in and aren’t surprised when the engine fal s out.’
‘I don’t like my body,’ Daisy blurted out and then stopped.
‘That’s obvious. But even if you want to give up on your own body and your own life,’ Leah paused, ‘you don’t have to destroy anyone else’s in the process. I drive pretty slow but what if someone had been rushing at that bend and they’d hit you?’ Daisy flushed red again. ‘I know, I keep thinking about that,’ she said.
‘They could have been kil ed - not just you.’
Daisy wished Leah would stop. ‘My partner left me,’ she said, leaning forward and holding her face in her hands. ‘He left me for another woman and she’s pregnant. Now do you understand?’ She told Leah everything: about the years before Alex, how he’d rescued her, how she’d adored him, the hope of having a child, the fertility treatment and his leaving her. Given al that, Daisy felt she was perfectly entitled to do whatever she wanted - get drunk or throw herself off a bridge.
‘So you’l make Alex sorry for hurting you by getting sclerosis of the liver or being hit by a car?’ asked Leah. ‘No
…’ It did sound stupid put that way. ‘I wanted to feel less sad, that’s al .’
‘And punish him by hurting yourself?’
‘Give me a break!’
‘That’s what you were doing.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Daisy said defensively. ‘People need to let off steam when they’re hurt, that’s al .’
‘Letting off steam like that doesn’t work,’ Leah said. ‘How do you know bloody everything, then? Are you the expert on emotional pain?’ demanded Daisy, angry with herself for being so hopeless, and angry with Leah for knowing exactly which buttons to press. She’d just spil ed her heart out and now it was being thrown back in her face.
Leah didn’t answer at first. She drank some of her raspberry tea, sitting back in her armchair. Time stretched into two minutes, then maybe three, with no sound but for the noise of the phones on reception and someone saying,