He was about to go through the swing doors but he turned.
‘I think you dropped this.’
He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. Then recognition flared as he saw what I held.
‘Hey, thanks.’ He looked genuinely delighted to be reunited with his book. ‘It was really nice of you to come after me.’
‘No problem. It was on my way,’ I lied with a casual shrug. ‘The book looks – erm – interesting.’
His eyes widened. ‘You think so? Most people glaze over at stuff like this.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s always nice to learn about something new.’ Especially if your teacher is handsome and intelligent to boot!
He nodded. ‘Listen, I’ve got to dash into a meeting but if you’d like to know more, we could meet later for a drink?’ He held up the book.
‘That would be lovely.’ I smiled knowingly. It was as good an excuse as any to get to know each other.
‘Toby Carter,’ he said, and we shook hands.
‘Daisy Cooper.’
When I walked into the pub later, he was already there. Mergers & Acquisitions was on the table in front of him, along with several other thick tomes with mysterious titles.
I quickly realised he’d taken me quite literally when I said I liked learning new things, and his guided tour through the financial implications of mergers and acquisitions was somewhat of a surprise. I didn’t mind, though. It meant I had a legitimate reason to stare into those gorgeous blue eyes!
‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’ he said at one point.
‘No, no,’ I rushed to reassure him.
‘I tend to think everyone must be as fascinated as me by this stuff,’ he said with a sheepish look that made me really warm to him. ‘My brothers say I’m a nerd.’
I smiled and asked how many brothers he had.
His reply left me temporarily speechless. ‘You have seven brothers?’ I gasped at last.
He nodded. ‘I’m the oldest. Mum and Dad kept trying, hoping for a girl, but it never happened.’
‘That’s amazing. I mean, it’s almost a whole football team! Gosh, you’ll never have to worry about being lonely, will you?’
He smiled rather wearily. Clearly I wasn’t the first person to look gobsmacked by the copious amount of male siblings.
‘Do you still live at home?’ I asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to have such a big family. I couldn’t help thinking it sounded perfect.
‘No, thank God. I’ve just moved into my own place. We lost Dad last year and Mum’s not so great at the old discipline thing, so the younger kids were becoming far too loud and unruly. It was a relief to get my own space, to be honest.’
‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ I said, wondering how I’d cope if anything ever happened to Mum. ‘But you’re lucky to be part of such a lovely big family. I’m an only one. And if I’ve got brothers and sisters, I don’t actually know about it because I’m adopted!’ I smiled broadly to let him know I was perfectly comfortable with this.
‘Oh.’ His eyes widened. ‘Have you – have you ever tried to find your real mum and dad?’
I shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the mum and dad I’ve always known are my real parents. And I’d hate to upset Mum by going looking for my biological mother, so I never have.’
He looked a bit surprised by my revelations. I was fairly taken aback myself, to be honest. I didn’t make a habit of talking about my adoption to relative strangers.
I’ve known I was adopted ever since I was small.
Mum and Dad grew up in Surrey and, after they married and found out they couldn’t have children, they decided to adopt and I arrived. Then, when I was four, we left our home in Surrey and moved north to Manchester, where I’ve lived ever since.
I’ve never been able to establish exactly why we left Surrey. I always felt I never got a proper answer from Mum when I asked her. She talked vaguely about there being better job opportunities for Dad, but he worked for the same sort of engineering company up north as he did when we lived in Surrey, and her explanation didn’t quite ring true. So I just stopped asking.
Whatever the reason, Mum and I have always been happy in Manchester …
There was a slightly awkward pause and I cast around for a change of subject. ‘You’ve got lovely eyes.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ Toby smiled and leaned closer across the table. ‘Listen, Daisy, do you fancy grabbing something to eat?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to prepare for a presentation tomorrow but I could give you … um … fifty minutes?’
I nodded. ‘Great.’
It wasn’t the most romantic proposition I’d ever received but I was intrigued.
Toby Carter was clearly passionate about his work and I’d always found that sexy in a man.
We started dating, seeing each other once or twice a week. Toby often had to work late, so he’d phone me when he was finishing up and I’d hop on a bus into town and we’d go for something to eat in the pub round the corner from Toby’s work. He’d tell me about the people he worked with and the places he’d been to on company business, like New York and Paris and Geneva. And I’d stare into his gorgeous blue eyes, loving the fact that I was spending time with a real grown-up man – not some overgrown teenager like Mason.
Mason had been undeniably sexy; a fabulous kisser with twinkly eyes and great one-liners. But he was strangely resistant to changing his underwear, and his idea of the perfect night was to loll around on the sofa in his favourite baggy sweatpants, drinking cans and eating pies from tins. His flat was a tip. It always looked as if it had just been ransacked by intruders, and during our very brief relationship, I’d avoided staying over because that would have meant venturing into the scary wilds of his bathroom.
Mason ambled through doors ahead of you, but Toby held them open. And his bathroom, when he took me back to his flat for the first time, was spotlessly clean.
I wasn’t sure if it would be a long-term relationship. We got on well and the sex was good but he seemed strangely averse to me meeting his family.
Then finally – three months into the relationship – his mum invited us for tea and I realised why Toby had been hesitant about taking me to his old family home.
‘The place is a bloody shambles with kids everywhere arguing over nothing,’ he groaned in the car, before we went in. ‘Honestly, Daisy, it was such a relief to get my own place and move out. Are you sure you don’t just want to grab a pizza? Mum won’t mind. She’s very easy-going.’
‘But I’ve been looking forward to meeting them,’ I said, smiling encouragingly. ‘And I’m sure it’s not half as chaotic as you make out.’
Actually, it was. And then some.
But I loved it.
I’d never been to a house like it. There were people all over the place: in the kitchen, chatting over tea and biscuits, and in the living room, apparently watching a horror movie. Toby was the oldest and his brothers ranged in age from twenty-one-year-old Tom – who was apparently there with his girlfriend, Becky – right down to eight-year-old Josh. Two boys of about ten, who I assumed were the twins Toby had told me about, charged down the hallway, shouting, ‘Can we go out, Mum? Just to the park?’
‘Yes, but don’t be long,’ called their mum from the kitchen.
Toby groaned as they fled past us. ‘Daniel and Harry. Sorry about that.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s absolutely fine.’
It was only ever Mum and me at home. I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a big family.
I smiled at the pairs of trainers, wellies and shoes lined up along the wall of the hallway. It looked as if a shoe shop was having a stocktake. There was something quite cheering about it.
‘Let’s see if we can find you a seat.’
As we walked into the kitchen, the young people gathered around the table looked up curiously, and a plump woman with masses of curly auburn hair heaved herself out of a rocking chair and bustled over to us. H
er radiant smile lit her face, all the way up to her friendly blue eyes. They were the exact same shade as Toby’s.
‘This is my mum. Rosalind,’ said Toby. ‘Mum, this is my new friend, Daisy Cooper.’
I smiled shyly at her and held out my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs – um – Rosalind.’
‘Likewise, Daisy Cooper.’ She gave a throaty chuckle and, ignoring my hand, pulled me into a big warm hug.
CHAPTER THREE
Mum was always the biggest champion of my writing. My most adoring (and my only) fan.
She kept pressing me to finish writing my book but I always considered it pie in the sky, the idea that I could make it as an author. It just didn’t happen to ordinary mortals. Publishing was such a competitive industry. You had to be super-talented to be in with a chance. I couldn’t imagine something so miraculous as a book deal ever happening to me, so why would I waste my time trying, when the inevitable result would be crushing disappointment?
But one day, about six months after we received the devastating news of her cancer, I arrived at the house and she waved a magazine at me with an excited little smile.
‘A short story competition,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think you should enter.’
I started to shake my head but she got quite stroppy, which was unusual for her. She was normally so easy-going about everything.
‘You need to stop prevaricating and just do it, Daisy! If I had my time over again, there’s lots of things I’d do. I’d train to be an optician for a start!’
‘Really?’ I stared at her in astonishment. Why hadn’t I known this?
‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the way eyes work and it seems like a good, steady job. But what I’m saying is: stop pussyfooting around and do what you love! For me! Because life is much too short!’
We stared at each other through a blur of tears. And then, silently, I took the magazine, folded it up and put it in my bag.
I went home and stayed up late into the night, turning over ideas in my head. And then by morning, I had my plot. The advice was always: Write what you know! So I decided I’d make my lead female character a high-flying magazine editor, like Rachel. Unlike Rachel, however, my heroine had sworn off love after one disappointment too many (I knew enough about that to write all too convincingly) – until the new and charismatic head of marketing arrived and made her rethink everything …
It took me a week to write it.
During that time Mum suffered a chest infection that hit her really badly and she ended up in hospital. I was frantic with worry, but it helped me cope, having the short story competition to focus on and being able to tell Mum about my progress.
Once the story was written, I spent two weeks rewriting and agonising over whether it was good enough to send, during which time Mum was allowed home but then readmitted to hospital a few days later. The infection had apparently returned with a vengeance.
I told myself she was strong and would triumph over this latest setback. But the night after she was readmitted, I finally stopped prevaricating, closed my eyes and hit ‘send’. My story flew off into the unknown and I sat back, feeling exhausted. There was nothing more I could do. If the story was bad, it didn’t really matter. At least Mum would know that I’d tried …
A few days later, the house phone rang early one evening and Rachel knocked on my bedroom door, saying it was for me.
My heart leaped into my mouth and, for one wild moment, I dreamed it was the magazine phoning to say I’d made the shortlist.
But it wasn’t the magazine.
It was the hospital.
Mum, who was already very weak, had now succumbed to pneumonia. She was slipping in and out of consciousness and I was quietly advised that time was running out.
I drove to the hospital in a state of shock.
How could this have happened? The doctor had said she thought Mum had months to live. Possibly even a year. And we’d been planning all sorts of lovely things to do together that didn’t involve too much strength on Mum’s part. So to suddenly find she might not even have days …?
Joan! What about Joan?
My heart was in my throat.
Joan was Mum’s best friend but she lived down in Surrey, my home until I was four, a long train journey away. Even if Joan got on a train now, she might not make it in time. But she’d made me promise I’d tell her immediately if Mum’s condition worsened …
Running from the car park to the hospital entrance, I made a breathless call. Joan seemed to understand the urgency immediately – probably from the stark fear in my voice – and she told me to be strong and that she’d see me and Mum soon.
‘Tell Maureen I’m on my way with a bag of sour apples,’ she said before she rang off.
I smiled to myself as I rode the lift to Mum’s floor. ‘Sour apples’ were Mum and Auntie Joan’s favourite sweets when they were schoolgirls together in Surrey. It was sure to give Mum a boost to hear that Joan was travelling up …
When I entered the ward, the curtains were pulled around Mum’s bed and a nurse was emerging. Her eyes softened when she saw me. I walked over to her, my heart banging uneasily.
‘We’ve made your mum comfortable,’ she murmured, touching my forearm. ‘She’s in no pain although she’s drifting in and out. Go in and let her hear your voice.’
I nodded, suddenly terrified of the responsibility. It had only ever really been Mum and me after Dad died. I was all she had. I had to do this right …
But how did you stay strong enough to say a final goodbye to the person who meant the whole world to you?
In the end, I couldn’t hold back the tears. But it felt peaceful and absolutely right that I was there, holding her hand, telling her that she was the most wonderful mum in the world and that I would always love her.
Her hand tightened a little on mine when I said that, so I knew she could hear me. I leaned closer and whispered, ‘I sent the short story off. If it turns out I’m the next Jane Austen, it will all be down to you.’
She opened her eyes and her lips moved, and I realised she was trying to tell me something, so I leaned closer.
Her voice was so faint, I couldn’t make out what she was whispering at first. But then I realised. ‘Wuthering Heights.’ She was murmuring the name of her all-time favourite book.
My eyes filled with tears and I nodded and kissed her hand. ‘I’ll bring the book in later and read it to you,’ I promised her.
She looked straight at me for a moment, her eyes shining with love.
And then she was gone.
*
A month later, when I got the call saying I was one of three runners-up in the short story competition, I could hardly believe it.
I’d won a thousand pounds. But better than that by far, my story was actually going to be published in a future edition of the magazine!
When I imagined all the people – perfect strangers – who would read the words I’d written, it gave me such a jolt of disbelief and happiness.
My triumph was tinged with pain, though.
The one person who would have joined wholeheartedly in my silly dance of delight around the house was no longer here to share my joy.
I swallowed hard, steering my mind away from the memories.
Rachel would whoop with glee when she heard, though. And Toby would be amazed. He might finally see that I was serious in my ambitions to be an author! I couldn’t wait to tell him …
It seemed such a momentous thing to have happened in my life that I decided a celebration was definitely in order. So I booked a table at our favourite restaurant and phoned Toby at work to break the news.
‘I heard from the magazine. I was a runner-up,’ I squeaked, as soon as I got through. ‘So I’ve booked a table for dinner tonight. My treat!’
‘Dinner tonight?’ He sounded uncertain and my heart sank.
‘Yes. But I made the booking for later …’ I could hear the hum of voices in the background
.
‘Could we do it tomorrow night instead?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, it’s just I doubt I’ll get away till after nine tonight.’
A sharp dose of reality pierced my high spirits but I forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine. Tomorrow night it is.’
‘Great. Look forward to it. Hey, well done you, though. I can’t believe you won it. Wasn’t there a big cash prize?’
‘Well, no, I was a runner-up. The prize is – erm – a thousand pounds.’
‘Ah, right. Still, that’s a very nice result for a few hours’ scribbling, though. You never know, this could turn out to be a nice little earner. How much do they pay for magazine stories?’
‘I’m not sure. But really, I’m more excited about the fact that people in the publishing industry seem to think I have some talent …’
‘Well, I’ve always known that, Daisy.’
‘You have?’ My heart gave a joyful little lift. Perhaps he’d read some of my stuff, after all. I was writing the first draft of my book with pen and paper, and I sometimes left my notebook lying out so Toby could peek if he was curious.
‘Of course. Your creative talents are legendary, my love. No one whips up a chocolate fudge cake better than you.’
Chocolate fudge cake?
‘A thousand pounds, eh? Dinner is definitely on you tomorrow night!’
I was about to tell him the most exciting bit – that my story was going to appear in the magazine. But before I got a chance, he said, ‘Sorry, love, got to dash. See you later.’
I hung up, feeling strangely sad. The conversation hadn’t gone at all the way I’d thought it would. Toby had missed the point; he seemed far more delighted about the prize money than anything else.
Then I told myself not to be so silly. Being runner-up, out of thousands of entries, felt epic to me. It was bound to after all the hours I’d spent daydreaming of becoming a published author. But I couldn’t expect Toby to understand the thrill I felt when I read that email telling me I was a winner …
Also, being so busy at work, he probably wasn’t totally focused on what I was telling him. I was sure that, by the following night, he’d have begun to realise what it meant to me, and we could have a lovely time celebrating.
Summer under the Stars Page 2