Camille came up at lunchtime and, after a quick chat with her mother, asked Lottie discreetly if she “was doing okay.” “Stop by at ours for a head massage or something this evening if you like. Mum will mind Ellie. They’re great for stress.” If it had been anyone else, Daisy would have told her curtly to get lost. Having grown up with a Londoner’s natural sense of anonymity, she hated the goldfish-bowl element of village life, the way that Daniel’s reappearance apparently entitled everyone to an opinion. But Camille seemed uninterested in gossip; perhaps she heard so many sensational tales in her everyday work that she had become inured to its pleasurable possibilities. She just, Daisy thought wonderingly, wanted to make her feel better. Or perhaps she just wanted company. “Don’t forget—stop by,” said Camille as she left with Rollo. “To be honest, when Katie’s out with her friends, I could do with someone to talk to. Hal seems to prefer his painted ladies to me these days.” She said it jokingly, but her expression was wistful.
Hal was the only other one apparently uninterested in Daisy’s romantic situation. Probably, she thought, because he was now deeply engrossed in the mural, which was almost three-quarters revealed. He was absorbed, monosyllabic. He no longer even took a lunch break, accepting his sandwiches from his wife almost abruptly, and certainly with none of the romantic flourishes of the previous weeks. Half the time he forgot to eat them.
Jones didn’t call.
She didn’t ring him. She had realized pretty quickly that she wouldn’t have known what to say.
D
ANIEL STAYED ON
. T
HAT SECOND EVENING THEY DIDN’T
talk; it was as if the fact that they had both thought of little else all day meant that by the time they had the house to themselves, they were exhausted, their arguments already run through countless times in their heads. They ate, listened to the radio, went to their separate beds.
The third evening Ellie had cried almost incessantly, victim apparently of some internal grumble or emerging tooth. Daisy had walked her around the upper floor of the house, conscious that here, unlike in their flat in Primrose Hill, Ellie’s screams, which always tautened some invisible cord running through her to breaking point, did not prompt a simultaneous anxiety that she was disturbing everyone: her neighbors, upstairs and downstairs, people out in the street, Daniel. She had become accustomed to the space and the isolation. In Arcadia, she told her daughter fondly, no one can hear you scream.
She walked the corridors, Ellie’s sobs diminishing with the various changes of room, trying not to think too hard about Daniel’s response, downstairs. This, after all, was what had driven him away before: the noise, the chaos, the unpredictability of it all. She half expected him to be gone when she finally crept back down the stairs.
But Daniel had been reading the paper. “Is she all right?” he asked, relaxing when Daisy nodded. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t like to interfere.”
“She just works herself into a bit of a state,” she said, reaching for her glass of wine and sitting down heavily opposite him. “She needs to blow herself out a bit before she can fall asleep again.”
“I’ve missed so much. I feel like I’m so far behind you in terms of knowing what she wants.”
“It’s not nuclear science,” said Daisy.
“Might as well be,” he said. “But I’ll learn, Daise.”
She’d gone to bed shortly afterward. As she left the room, she’d had to fight the unexpected urge to kiss him on the cheek.
“J
ULIA
?”
“Hello, darling. How are tricks? How’s my lovely babycakes?”
“Daniel’s back.”
There was a short silence.
“Julia?”
“I see. When did this little miracle take place, then?”
“Two days ago. He just turned up on the doorstep.”
“And you let him in?”
“I was hardly going to tell him to catch the train home. It was nearly ten o’clock at night.”
Her sister’s grunt told Daisy quite what she would have done. “I hope you didn’t—”
“There are eight suites here, Julia.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Hold on.” Daisy heard a hand placed over the receiver, followed by a muffled cry. “Don? Can you turn the potatoes down for me, darling? I’m on the telephone.”
“Listen, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know, I guess—”
“Back for good?”
“What? Daniel? I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”
“Of course not. How silly to expect him to tell you what his plans are.”
“It’s not like that, Ju. We . . . we haven’t really talked about it yet. We haven’t really talked about anything.”
“That’s convenient for him.”
“It’s not necessarily up to him.”
“When are you going to stop defending him, Daisy?”
“I’m not. I’m really not. I guess I just want to see what . . . to see what it’s like us all being around each other. Whether it even works anymore. Then we’ll have the serious discussions.”
“And has he offered you any money?”
“What?”
“Well, for his keep. Because he doesn’t have anywhere to live, now, does he?”
“He’s not—”
“He’s living in a luxury hotel. In a suite. Rent free.”
“Oh Julia, give him some credit . . .”
“No, Daisy. I’m not prepared to give him any credit whatsoever. Why should I give him any credit after what he’s put you through? You and his own child? He’s a waste of skin as far as I’m concerned.”
Daisy snorted, unable to help herself.
“Don’t just let him walk in and take over again, Daisy. You’ve been doing fine without him, remember? You’ve got to keep that thought in your head. You came out the other side.”
Did I? Daisy thought afterward. She’d been less helpless, certainly. She’d managed to mold Ellie into a routine of hers, rather than the other way around. She’d rediscovered something of herself, something better, she occasionally thought, than Old Daisy. In renovating Arcadia, she had achieved something momentous and unexpected—by herself. But she’d been lonely. She was not really a girl to whom living alone came naturally.
“You’ve changed,” Daniel said. He’d said it quite unexpectedly, watching her at work. How? she’d asked, warily. As far as Daniel had been concerned, all her changes had so far been for the worse. “You’re not as fragile as you were. Not as vulnerable. You seem better able to cope with everything.”
Daisy had glanced outside, to where Lottie was blowing on a foil windmill, making Ellie shriek with delight.
“I’m a mother,” she said.
O
N THE FOURTH DAY
C
AROL THE
PR
WOMAN ARRIVED,
exclaiming about the beauty of the house, taking Polaroid photographs of every room, setting Daisy’s teeth on edge and sending Lottie’s eyebrows into orbit. “Jones told me about your idea. Very good idea.
Very
good,” she said conspiratorially. “It’ll make a great feature for one of the glossies. I have
Interiors
in mind. Or maybe
Homes & Gardens
, bless you.” Daisy’s irritation that Jones had confided in this woman had been mollified by the idea that her talents might be recognized in print.
“Until then, however, we must keep
schtum
.” She pulled a finger across her lip theatrically. “Novelty is everything, after all.” She thought she might break a personal rule, she said, and hold a theme party: a 1950s day out at the seaside. They could be
wonderfully vulgar
and have donkeys and ices and silly postcards. She hadn’t seemed to hear Daisy when she pointed out that it wasn’t a 1950s house.
“Is Jones coming up again? Before the opening?” Daisy said tentatively as she saw Carol back into her lowslung car, privately marveling at any fifty-something woman who still fancied herself in a Japanese two-seater.
“He was going to try to get up this afternoon, to meet us,” Carol said, punching her mobile phone for messages. “But you know what he’s like, bless him.” She rolled her eyes skyward, a gesture Daisy was starting to recognize as familiar among Jones’s female colleagues.
“So
lovely to meet you, Daisy. And I’m
so
thrilled that we’re going to be working together. It’s going to be
such
a wonderful party.”
“Yes,” Daisy said. “See you soon, then.”
Other people had begun to invade. There was a solemn young photographer, who said he did all Jones’s brochures and drove the builders mad banning them from rooms and using their power cables for his arc lights. There was the chef, from Jones’s London club, who came to check out the kitchens and ate three packets of peanuts for his lunch. There was a random planning officer, who turned up unannounced and left without seemingly checking a thing. And there was Mr. Bernard, who also turned up unexpectedly that evening, to see if Hal wanted to come for a drink. He had knocked on the front door and waited, even though it was open and everyone else walked in and out without breaking stride.
“Lottie’s not here, Mr. Bernard,” Daisy said when she eventually spotted him. “She’s taken Ellie into town. Do you want to come in?”
“I know that, dear. And I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said. “I just wondered if my son-in-law was around.”
“He’s out back,” she said. “Come on through.”
“If I’m not disturbing anyone. That’s very kind.”
He looked a little uncomfortable even walking through the house, his gaze largely fixed in front of him, as if he didn’t want to appear to be nosy. “Going well, is it?” was all he would say, and he nodded, pleased, when Daisy affirmed that it was.
“Looks like you’re doing a lovely job. Not that I’d know much about it.”
“Thank you,” said Daisy. “I’m glad there are a few people who think so.”
“You don’t want to take any notice of Sylvia Rowan,” he confided as she brought him through to the terrace. “That family always had a bit of a thing about Lottie. It’s probably about her, all this unpleasantness, more than anything else. Grudges do tend to get held a long while out here.”
He patted her on the arm and walked off toward Hal, who was washing out his brushes. Daisy watched him go, remembering the evening when Lottie had told her about Camille’s birth. Joe, slightly stooped and wearing his tie and collar even in high summer, was a rather unlikely knight in shining armor. Several minutes later, as Daisy hung and rehung a selection of old photographs in the hall, he reappeared in the doorway.
“He’s a bit busy tonight. Another time perhaps,” he said. “Mustn’t hold up the schedule, after all.” He didn’t look disappointed; he looked as if his face had become accustomed to many years of disappointment and merely accepted it.
“He doesn’t have to work late, if you’ve got something planned,” said Daisy.
“Nothing planned. To be honest, Lottie wanted me to have a word with him.”
Daisy frowned.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about,” he said, walking toward his car, one hand raised by his head. “It’s just this winding up of his business. I think he’s taken it very hard. Just wanted to make sure he was all right, you know. Anyway, best be on my way. See you, Daisy.”
She nodded, waved him off down the drive.
S
HE
WENT TO
C
AMILLE’S IN THE END
. S
HE TOLD
D
ANIEL
she had an appointment, which was partially true, that he would have to baby-sit, which made Lottie blanch, and walked the short distance to Camille’s house, realizing as she strolled through Merham’s sunlit streets, weaving her way around exhausted parents and small children wobbling on unstable bicycles, that, apart from her trip to London, she had barely left the house and its grounds for weeks. Daniel had not looked as frightened as she’d thought he would; he’d looked rather pleased, as if being allowed to baby-sit his own child were a privilege, bestowed as one might a badge of honor for good behavior. She would give him till 9:00
P.M
. until she called; she fully expected him to be begging her to return by then.
Camille and Hal’s house was large and semidetached, with generous windows and a 1930s porch, through which Daisy could just make out the joyfully barking figure of Rollo. She heard, then saw Camille coming surprisingly swiftly down the hall.
“It’s Daisy,” she called, to spare Camille the indignity of having to ask.
“Perfect timing,” said Camille. “I’ve just opened a bottle of wine. Have you come for the full head?”
“Sorry?”
“The massage.” She closed the door carefully behind Daisy and began to make her way back up the hall, her left hand gently trailing the wall.
“Oh. If you like,” said Daisy, who’d really just come for the company.
It was a better-decorated house than she’d expected. Then, she wasn’t entirely sure, in retrospect, what she
had
expected. Not the lightness and airiness of the house. Not pictures on the wall perhaps. Definitely not the hundreds of framed photographs dotted around on surfaces, most in ornate antique silver frames. There was Hal and Camille on a Jet Ski, hiking somewhere mountainous, Katie on a pony, all three of them dressed up for some gathering. On the mantelpiece there was a large one of Hal and Camille on their wedding day. The way he was looking at her, that mixture of pride and tenderness on Hal’s youthful face, made Daisy’s heart clench.
“Lovely pictures,” she said, conscious of her silence.
“The little watercolor is of me. Mum did it, believe it or not, when I was a baby. Shame she doesn’t paint anymore. I think it would do her good to have a hobby.”
“It’s lovely. And the photographs.”
“Are you looking at our wedding pic?” Camille seemed to know from the direction of her voice where Daisy was. She moved fluidly toward the mantelpiece and carefully picked the picture up in its frame.
“That’s my favorite,” she said fondly. “It was a really good day.”
Daisy couldn’t help herself.
“How do you know?” she said. “What’s in the picture, I mean?”
Camille placed the picture back on the mantelpiece, checking that its base was well back from the edge.
“Katie mainly. She loves pictures. Tells me what’s in every one. I could probably talk you through most of our albums as well.” She paused, a half smile on her lips. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to. Come through to the kitchen. I’ve got my old treatment chair in there. Katie likes to sit in it.”