‘I like that Ian wants to keep things interesting,’ said Anna, bringing me back to the present.
‘How did it go last night in the room of sin after I’d left?’
Anna laughed. ‘He tried something rather ambitious for a man who’s due to have knee surgery next week. He got himself into an awkward position, cricked his neck, his back locked so he couldn’t move, so it was abandon bed, find the Deep Heat in the medicine box, then a cup of tea, that healer of all ills.’
‘Fifty Shades of Earl Grey, the hot alternative for the over-fifties. Probably not what he had in mind.’
‘Exactly, and the only penetration was that of the ointment for sore muscles.’
I cracked up laughing. ‘Sexy. God, we’re like a pair of teenagers.’
‘And why shouldn’t we be?’ said Anna. ‘I might be fifty but I still feel like a nineteen-year-old inside sometimes. Just because we are middle-aged, why do people assume that we’ve suddenly become boring old farts and stopped having fun?’
‘Possibly because of the back injuries? But Mum used to say the same thing even in her eighties – that she still felt young inside and, just because her body had grown old, why should she stop having a laugh sometimes? “It doesn’t all have to be doom, death and dentures,” she used to say.’
‘She was a wise old bird, your mother. I agree. Let’s say no to dribbling and dementia.’
We were both quiet for a moment. ‘I’m sorry about walking in on you last night. I hope I didn’t ruin things.’
‘You didn’t. It was funny. Ian and I laugh a lot. And I wish you could have seen your face! Don’t worry. Ian’ll recover. And you know, Dee, I am sure there’s someone out there for you too, and it might just be this Daniel. He sounds interesting.’
I grimaced. ‘Well, no hurry. I’ll see him again in December. I tried to grill him about what was coming next on Mum’s list, but he wouldn’t give any of it away, apart from to say that some of it would be fun.’
‘Some?’ Anna raised an eyebrow.
‘In the meantime, I have more pressing things on my mind like, where am I going to live?’
‘How’s that going?’
‘Three viewings booked in over the next few weeks already. The estate agent said things are a bit slow, but the people he’s sending round are all very keen. Michael will be very happy about that.’
‘Talking of which, he was in the pub on Saturday night when you were in London. He and Ian got talking at the bar so, of course, I had to go over and meet him. Actually he seems like a nice man. He asked about you. Seemed interested.’
‘Only in how soon I can vacate his house.’
‘No. When he realized I knew you, he asked about your paintings. He said his mother had one of them.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He didn’t talk about the house at all. Ian found out a bit about him. Divorced apparently. His wife left him for her tennis coach.’
‘And your point is?’
She shrugged. ‘Michael. Daniel. Men are a bit like buses. You wait for ages then two come along at once. Options, my dear.’
‘Anna, stop it. Not that I am remotely interested, but I am pretty sure I am not Michael’s type.’
‘Who knows what his type is? I’m just saying keep your options open. I know. I have a plan. Have an affair with Michael. Marry him. Arrange for him to have an accident on the stairs one night – they are steep in your house – then … problem solved. The house is yours.’
‘I really do think you ought to write a novel with your overactive imagination.’
‘I could, couldn’t I? We’ve had Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Gone Girl, Girl on a Train. I could write about you, the quiet girl who no one suspected. I could call it Girl in a Thermal Vest.’
I bristled. I was wearing a thermal vest. How did she know? ‘Sorry, but I don’t think I will be having an affair with Michael – or arranging his murder.’
‘Sometimes you can be really boring, you know that? So tell me more about your weekend. You’ve had counselling, a colonic and a meditation session. What’s next on the Eat Pray Love tour?’
‘More like the Weep, Wail, Whine tour. I thought I was going mad in the meditation. I think I may be seriously disturbed.’
‘I could have told you that. It’s why I love you,’ said Anna. ‘Spending time with you makes me feel sane.’
‘Cheek. You can talk, with your murder plans, you mad old witch.’
‘Talking of witches, how did you get on with Fleur and Rose?’
‘A slight thawing with Fleur but Rose was as uptight as ever. Then they both took off with no goodbyes.’
‘Ah, but that was a good thing. It meant you got to spend some time with Daniel.’
‘I am not interested in him beyond his role in this programme of Mum’s. End of.’
‘OK. Message received. What’s his surname so I can google him?’
‘End of, Anna.’
‘Killjoy.’
When she’d gone, I felt sad. I looked at Misty who was sitting on the windowsill. ‘Will I ever have sex again? What do you think, puss? Any hope?’
Her body started to convulse and, seconds later, she threw up a fur ball.
13
Dee
Thursday 15 October, morning
I woke feeling full of energy and better than I had in weeks, despite the fact that the estate agents were bringing potential buyers around. I called Anna to ask if I could go around to her house while they were looking at mine.
‘Call you back in a sec,’ she said. ‘Someone’s at the door.’
The phone rang a minute later. Anna calling back, I thought as I picked up. ‘Allo,’ I said in a fake French accent. ‘Dee McDonald, femme fatale and murderer here.’ At the other end, I heard either a suppressed laugh or a cough. It didn’t sound like Anna. ‘Anna, Anna, is that you?’
‘Er … no. Michael Harris here.’
‘No! Shit. I mean, not shit that it’s you, though … Oh hell. Never mind. I thought it was Anna. Private joke.’ Get yourself together Dee, I told myself. I took a deep breath. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I just wanted to touch base. You know there’s a viewing this morning?’
‘I do.’
‘And … I wondered if maybe I could buy you a drink. Talk things over. I’m aware of how disruptive this must be for you.’ And how’s a drink supposed to help? I thought. ‘Are you busy today?’
‘I …’
‘I could pick you up at one?’
‘I …’ I was so surprised at his invite that I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. ‘One?’
‘Great. I’ll see you then.’
‘I …’
Too late. He’d hung up.
*
Michael drove us out to the Whitsand Bay Hotel out near Portwrinkle. It was a perfect autumn afternoon, with the sun sparkling on the water along the coast, and I felt rather glamorous sitting back in the leather interior as we drove along the winding cliff road. The hotel was one of Mum’s favourite locations when she was in the area. With its grey castellated walls, it had the look of an old Scottish castle. At the back of the hotel were terraced lawns leading down to a small beach, and the view of the coastline was one of the best in the area.
Michael parked the car and we found a table at the back. I could get to like this, I thought, when Michael went in to get drinks. With John, it was always me who went for the drinks, idiot that I was. I thought I was acting for equal rights and he’d like me for not being the kind of woman who expected a man to do everything for her but, as the years went on, it became clear that he expected me to do everything for him. Not thinking about him, I told myself. I am going to enjoy the moment.
‘You smell like my father,’ I said when Michael reappeared and placed a gin and tonic in front of me.
He looked bemused. ‘Is that a good or bad thing?’
‘Oh. Good. Chanel?’
Michael nodded. ‘Is your father still alive?’
<
br /> I shook my head. ‘He died when I was six.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. And I was sorry to hear about your mother. Were you close?’
‘Very. This was one of her favourite spots,’ I pointed at my glass, ‘and one of her favourite drinks. We shared many sitting just here over the years.’ I blinked away sudden tears. ‘And you? Were you close to your mother?’
Michael looked out to sea. ‘Less so in latter years. I wish I’d got down this way more often.’
I nodded. ‘I wish I’d got up to London more often. Mum used to come down here a lot when she was younger, but not so much in her later years. She loved travelling and loved this part of the world.’
The silence that followed felt awkward. Grief is such a private thing and I hardly knew Michael. Clearly he felt the same because he changed the subject. ‘So what’s Dee short for?’ he asked. ‘Deirdre. Desdemona?’
‘Daisy.’
‘Daisy? So why Dee?’
‘School friends called me Dee and it stuck, plus I guess it was a way of trying to establish myself as an individual, not one of the flower girls. See, my mother’s name was Iris, my sisters are Fleur and Rose. I was Daisy. By calling myself Dee, it was a way of separating myself, being independent.’
‘You wanted to separate yourself?’
‘Yes. No. Oh I don’t know. It’s complicated. You know. Families.’ I laughed, aware I was making no sense. ‘Do you get on with your brother?’
Michael grimaced. ‘We’re very different. How about you and your sisters?’
‘Not so much any more. We did once but … people drift apart and you don’t hear so much from them. They move on to a different phase that doesn’t include you and that’s the way it is and you have to let them go and accept a different kind of relationship – fond but not so close.’
Michael nodded. ‘Sad but true. I know all about the shifting sands of life.’ He looked wistful and I got the sense that he’d been lonely of late.
‘Unless you have a cat or dog. They don’t drift away as long as there’s food on offer, especially dogs.’
Michael laughed. ‘I never drift away when there’s food on offer … Just saying.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Actually, I was thinking about getting a dog. You’re right. They do make good companions.’ He studied me for a few moments ‘Your name, Daisy, it’s nice.’
I shrugged. ‘Exactly. Nice. Daisies are ordinary. Roses are beautiful, delicate. Fleur sounds so feminine, French, chic. My sisters are extraordinary, as was my mother, but Daisy? It’s not special at all. I think I’d have liked Desdemona better. Maybe I’d have turned out more exotic.’
‘You wanted to be exotic?’
‘When I was younger, a teenager. What teen doesn’t want to be different? Arrogant of me, do you think?’
‘I didn’t say that, and I would never describe you as ordinary.’
Silence again. Had he just paid me a compliment? Or did he mean, I wasn’t ordinary, I was odd. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
Michael looked out at the coast to our left. ‘What’s the church in the distance?’ He pointed to a tiny dot that could be seen on top of a hill far away.
‘That’s Rame Head. The church is a ruin; nothing left except the shell now. Imagine how it must have been in the old days, though, with villagers walking for miles over the fields then up the hill. A sacred place with just sky and sea around it, never changed through all the centuries. It’s another of my favourite spots in the area. You can see out to sea in both directions, for miles. Better than here even.’
‘Maybe you could show me on the way back?’
‘It’s a bit of a hike up there.’
Michael laughed. ‘Are you saying I couldn’t do it?’
‘No. No, course not,’ I said.
‘I don’t mind a hike,’ he said and patted his stomach. ‘Do me good.’
It seemed churlish to refuse so, after we’d finished our drinks, we drove back along the coast to the car park at the foot of the hill at Rame. Michael strode out confidently across the field, then climbed the many narrow wooden steps carved into the hill to the top. I chased after him and we were both puffing by the time we reached the top.
‘I see what you mean about it being a hike,’ he said as he took in the panoramic view of sea and sky. ‘But worth it.’
We had a quick look inside the church, but there was nothing to see but damp bricks and the remains of a fire and a few empty beer cans where someone had probably had a late-night picnic. We went back out and round to the front where there was a concrete terrace. It was the best place to take in the stunning view of coast stretching away on both sides. I sat a short distance away from him and this time the silence wasn’t awkward. There was something about the place that was calming and, by the time we got up, fifteen minutes or so later, I felt more comfortable with him.
‘I love this area,’ I said as we headed off down the hill again, Michael going first.
‘I can see why,’ he called back without turning around. ‘Cornwall does seem to have its own magic.’
‘That’s why I don’t want to leave.’ It was out before I could stop myself and I heard Michael sigh.
‘I know, and I’m sorry, but selling the house doesn’t necessarily mean you have to leave Cornwall.’
‘Doesn’t it? Then where am I going to go?’
Michael gestured hopelessly as he continued his way down the steps. ‘There are other houses.’
‘Rents are high and most are short-term lets now for holidaymakers.’
‘I believe what makes a house a home is who lives there, what they put into a place. You’ve made that house what it is. You could do it again.’
I resisted a sudden urge to push him down the hill. ‘So where’s your home then?’
He still didn’t turn around. ‘It was in Putney but I recently separated and got divorced. I’m in temporary accommodation, so I do understand about having to leave a familiar place, but I tell myself, home is where my books are, my things.’ I heard him sigh again.
‘Is this what you brought me out here to say? To remind me that I should be looking for another house?’
‘No. Not at all. You must really see me as the big bad wolf. No. I … I just wanted to clear the air. Acknowledge what’s happening. There’s no reason why we can’t be—’
‘What? Friends?’
‘Maybe. Why not?’
I stuck my tongue out at his back just at the moment he stopped and turned around.
‘Pth, pth,’ I spluttered. ‘Swallowed a fly.’
He raised an eyebrow and turned away again. I could see he hadn’t bought my fly routine and I cursed myself. He’d been making an effort to be nice and I’d rebuked him.
Neither of us spoke as we drove back to Kingsand. There had been a moment up at Rame when we were at ease with each other, and if I hadn’t acted like a petulant teenager, maybe we could have been friends. He was good company and I’d like to have found out more about him. If we’d become friends, he might have agreed to delay the sale of his house. Too late.
Curious how the word silence can cover such completely different atmospheres, I thought as I tried the swami’s technique. Breathe in, hold … ah fuck it.
Friday 16 October
A couple were due to come round with the estate agent and, despite Anna’s plans to put them off with voodoo spells and bad smells, my natural house pride had taken over and I had cleaned, polished and swept. The house looked immaculate.
I let them in and went up to the top floor out of the way, but where I could hear the couple commenting as they went around. ‘Bit dated,’ said the man. ‘And there’s no bidet,’ said the woman on reaching the bathroom.
Who has a bidet in this day and age? I thought as I remembered a time when I was about five and I’d visited a neighbour with my mother and my sisters. The house had a bidet. Not being any the wiser, I thought it was for little people and, being one myself, I’d used it
then pressed the handle. I couldn’t work out why it didn’t flush but instead shot water up my bottom. After the shock, I’d wrapped what I’d done carefully in loo paper and put it in the pedal bin next to the sink. Thinking I was being helpful, when I got back downstairs, I’d whispered a warning to Rose. She burst out laughing and told Mum and her friend. Oh how they hooted. Dee pooed in the bidet. How hilarious. When they’d finished sniggering, Mum told me to go back up the stairs, take the parcel of tissue out of the pedal bin and put it down the proper loo. Fleur was too young to understand what had gone on, but had caught the gist of what had happened. She called me Poo-Pee, a name that stuck for weeks. She only stopped when I threatened to cut the hair off all her dolls. That shut her up. Not one of them saw or cared how humiliated I was.
The house viewing only took ten minutes. The couple didn’t even bother to look on the top floor. Not the one for them. Good.
Saturday 17 October
I didn’t sleep well last night so I decided to go for a nap in the afternoon and to do it properly, in bed, no clothes, eye-mask to keep out the autumn sun that was shining through the curtains.
Bliss, I thought as I snuggled under the duvet. I was deep asleep when I was woken by the sound of someone in my room. I pulled off my mask to see a couple and two kids at the bottom of my bed staring at me.
‘Waargh,’ I cried. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Waargh!’ cried the little girl with them. ‘It’s a ghost bandit.’
‘A naked one,’ said the little boy. He looked very pleased about that.
Mr Bentley, the estate agent, appeared from the hall behind them. Of course, he has keys, I thought.
‘Oh dear. Didn’t you get my text message?’ he asked.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said as I pulled my duvet up to my neck.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He didn’t look sorry at all. He looked like he was about to have a sniggering fit, and so did the couple he was with.
‘Er … well, we’ll go then,’ said Mr Bentley. ‘Let you carry on sleeping.’
‘Thank you.’
The group trooped out, apart from the little boy, who looked about ten. He pointed at the curtains and then at my mask by the bed. ‘Are you a vampire?’ he asked.
The Kicking the Bucket List Page 10