by Liz Fielding
‘I was shaking with nerves.’
‘Shaking? No! You were so beautiful. So perfect. And then you looked right at me and blew a kiss. Silly, you didn’t know I was there…’
‘I was thinking of you.’
She looked up. ‘Were you?’
And Ivo…
No. She wouldn’t, mustn’t think of him. She’d never forgive herself for what she’d done to him, but he was a man. Strong. He’d be hurting, she knew that, but he’d survive without her.
Daisy would not.
‘I thought you might be watching,’ she said, pushing the thoughts away, concentrating on the girl in front of her. The future. ‘I hoped, if you were, that you’d know it was just for you.’
‘I should have trusted you. I thought…’
‘I know what you thought. I let you down, wasn’t there when you really needed me, but that will never happen again. Whatever happens, whatever you do, I will love you, be there for you.’ Then, ‘Tomorrow we’ll see about getting a headstone for your Dad, hmm?’
For a minute they held each other, clinging on to each other amidst the wreckage of their lives, and Belle knew that a crisis had passed. Not the last crisis, but perhaps the biggest.
Ivo stayed at home to watch Belle’s last morning. Every minute of it: the news, the papers, a celebrity interview, a fifty-year-old cab driver who’d written a book, a woman with cancer who was campaigning for some new treatment, the weather.
All the usual ingredients, Belle the glue that held it all together with her warmth, her charm, a little touch of steel that he’d somehow overlooked. Or maybe that was new. Something she’d found in the Himalayas. Something that made him love her all the more. He just hoped her wretched sister understood how lucky she was.
Today, her last day, the editors had put together a montage of her ‘best bits’ to end the programme. Her famous ‘telethon’ moment of discovery. Her first day on the set, making a hash of the weather. An interview that had gone hilariously wrong. Belle, eyes wide with excitement, at the wheel of a double-decker bus on the skid pad.
There was a shot of her interviewing the Director of the United Nations too. One of her with a much loved actor a few weeks before he died. That report to camera from the Himalayas with blood trickling down her face.
He’d expected it to end there with the credits rolling over that image, but instead the camera focused on her again.
Belle had a rare stillness, a presence in front of the camera, but today there was something new, something more. A maturity that had nothing to do with her grown-up haircut, more casual clothes. She had, he realised, finally learned to believe in herself and, despite everything, he found himself smiling. Urging her on to new heights, new challenges…
‘I’ve been part of this programme one way and another for nine years,’ she began, ‘and, despite what you’ve just seen, the one thing I’ve learned is that it’s not about me, but about you, the people who take time to tune in each busy morning, whether for a few minutes or an hour. It’s about you, your lives, your news.’ The camera went in close. ‘Today, as you all know, is my last day on this sofa so I’m going to beg your indulgence and use these last few minutes to talk about myself.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, not just about me. I’m going to tell you the story of two little girls…’
He stood and watched as she told the world the story of her life. Of the horrors, but of the love too. And of a sister who she’d lost and had now found.
As she finished, she turned to smile at someone and the camera pulled back to reveal Daisy sitting beside her, sharing her sofa. Skinny as she was, lacking her sister’s curves, she looked, at first glance, amazingly like Belle the day she’d smiled uncertainly up into a handheld camera. No doubt the studio make-up had emphasised the similarities and yet there was something…
For a moment there was complete silence and then the entire crew walked into the shot, applauding Belle, hugging them both.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her, even when the door opened and Manda joined him. ‘I’ve been watching next door. She’s pretty amazing, your Belle, isn’t she?’
‘Not mine.’
Only for a few unforgettable moments yesterday afternoon, when the truth had set them free. When they’d used words that had been locked away.
Until the day he died he’d remember that moment when, poised above him, she’d kissed him, said, ‘I love you…’ before taking him to a place he’d only dreamed of. Not his…
‘But yes, she is amazing,’ he managed, through a throat aching so much that he could scarcely swallow.
‘I was so sure she’d hurt you. I thought…’ He put out a hand to stop her, but she shook her head, refusing to be silenced. ‘I thought all she wanted was your money, but it wasn’t like that, was it?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘It wasn’t anything like that.’
‘Don’t let her go, Ivo.’
‘Her sister needs her more than I do right now.’
‘Maybe she does, but Belle will need you too. We all need someone, a rock to cling to when things are bad.’ She leaned against him. ‘Or, in your case, a damn great cliff face.’ Then, when he didn’t respond, ‘Her sister will move on, Ivo. Make a life of her own.’
‘Eventually.’ It didn’t matter. Next week, next year, next life, he’d be there, if Belle should need him. Always be there.
Somehow he doubted that she would.
‘What’s she going to do, do you know?’ Then, ‘What can she do? The sister.’
‘Daisy? I’ve no idea.’ He turned to her, remembering his promise. ‘Actually, I did tell Belle that you might give her a job.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Her standard response when he dumped some tedious job in her lap. He managed a grin, but she shook her head. ‘No, I mean it, Ivo. Really. Thank you. For believing in me. Taking care of me. Saving me…’ And suddenly his spiky, sharp little sister was the one struggling with words. ‘I’ll talk to her. Find out what she’d like to do.’
‘She’s fragile,’ he warned.
‘I won’t break her; in fact she might find it easier to talk to me than Belle.’ She glanced back towards the television set, where Belle, holding flowers that someone had thrust into her arms, was smiling into the camera as the credits rolled. ‘What about Belle? What’s she going to do?’
‘I’ve no idea. She did have an idea for a documentary on adoption and I suggested she form her own production company.’
‘That’s not really her thing, is it?’ Then, ‘I can’t see her heading up a media company. But maybe there is something she could do.’
‘Leave it, Manda,’ he warned.
‘I hear what you say, Ivo, but are you saying “leave it” because you don’t want me involved? Or are you warning me off because you can rely on me to do the exact opposite of what you say?’
‘You’ve grown out of that nonsense.’
‘Have I?’
‘Don’t be clever.’
‘I just can’t help it.’ Then, ‘I’ll have a little chat with Daisy first, I think. But not just yet. I’ll wait a week or two. Give them time to get bored playing happy families.’ Then, ‘Don’t mess things up by sending her flowers or supportive little emails, will you?’
‘If you’re playing reverse psychology, you’ve picked the wrong man,’ he said.
No flowers. No emails.
Just emptiness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BELLE began, quite irrationally, to hate the doorbell. Not because of who it might be-network people, her agent, who didn’t seem to understand the word ‘no’-but because of who it wasn’t.
Just how stupid could one woman be?
First she’d left Ivo and then, when he’d bared his soul, admitted that he’d been prepared to compromise his own desperate decision, overcome his own fears to give her what she wanted, she’d sent him away. Rejected him, put her sister first. Made it clear that he came second.
No man was going to stand for that, come back for
more. Especially not a man like Ivo Grenville.
She picked up the entry phone. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Miranda, Belle. Can I come up?’
She buzzed her in. His sister was no substitute, but she’d breathed the same air, talked to him, could tell her how he was…
‘Great sofa,’ Manda said, sweeping into the room in a dramatic swirl of the season’s most cutting-edge style, a whisper of some rare scent, picking out the one thing that she hadn’t chosen. ‘Very eye-catching.’
Oh, right. She was being sarcastic.
‘Ivo said your flat had a certain appeal.’
‘Really?’ What else had he said…?
‘I have to confess, I thought his view was coloured by lust but actually he’s right. Of course what you really need is to completely restore the house, turn it back into a family home. Maybe convert the lower ground floor into a garden flat for Daisy. So much more suitable for a pram,’ she said.
‘What can I do for you, Miranda?’ Belle enquired sharply, refusing to be drawn into whatever game she thought she was playing.
‘Nothing. It’s your sister I’ve come to see. I understand she’s in the market for a job.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but, turning to Daisy, said, ‘I saw you on television last month. You’ve got your sister’s smile.’ Before Daisy had time to demonstrate it, she continued, ‘I have no doubt that the rest of you will catch up in time. Motherhood can do wonders, I understand.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Manda Grenville, Ivo’s sister.’
‘Ivan the Terrible and Cruella de Ville,’ Daisy replied, ignoring it. ‘A neat match.’
Manda’s eyes widened slightly and then, even as Belle held her breath, she threw back her head and laughed. ‘The buxom Belle but with an edge. Brilliant. We’re going to get along just fine.’
Infuriating though it was, it seemed that they did, perhaps recognising something in one another. And Belle had to admit that the job offer was good news. She hadn’t expected Ivo to remember. She should have given him more credit; he might be hurt, but he wouldn’t take his feelings out on Daisy.
She had tried to talk to her sister about the future; she was quick, clever, could easily get a place at college. She’d refused to even discuss it with her.
‘Is there any hope of a cup of coffee, Belle?’ Miranda asked.
About to remind her that if she wanted coffee she knew where the nearest deli was, she held her tongue, glad to have her as an ally on her sister’s behalf, even if she’d never been a friend to her.
‘Of course. Daisy? Can I get you anything?’
‘Is there any of that honey and camomile tea left?’
She boiled the kettle, took the coffee from the fridge and spooned some into the cafetière; wrinkling up her nose at the smell, she decided to join Daisy in a cup of herb tea.
Daisy and Manda were, unlikely as that seemed, deep in conversation when she carried through the tray. She turned down the heating, then opened the French windows.
‘Good grief, Bella, do you want us to freeze in here?’
‘It’s so stuffy in here,’ she said. Then, realising that they were both staring at her, ‘Maybe I’m coming down with something.’
‘It must be something going around,’ Manda said pointedly. ‘Ivo has matching symptoms.’
‘He’s not well?’
‘Nothing that a decent night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. Why don’t you go and have a lie down?’
‘I’m fine, really,’ she began. Then, as Manda poured out the coffee and the smell reached her, she realised that was not the case and had to make a run for the bathroom, only just making it before she threw up.
She refused to let Daisy or Manda make a fuss, waving them away. ‘It’s just some bug. I’ll lie down for a minute.’
Manda was still there when she emerged an hour later, slightly fuzzy from a nap and starving hungry.
‘Is that pizza…?’
‘We sent out for it. Daisy’s choice.’
‘Bliss. Did she leave any anchovies?’
‘What is it with the pair of you and anchovies?’ Manda demanded as Belle, spotting one that had been overlooked, picked it off and ate it.
‘Belle!’ Daisy protested. ‘You hate anchovies.’
‘I just fancied something salty.’ She licked the tip of her thumb. ‘What?’
They shook their heads as one and Manda quickly said, ‘I’m glad you’re back with us. Daisy and I are all sorted. All we need now is you.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s this kids’ charity thing I’ve got involved with. It seems to have been provoked by the huge response to your coverage of the charity bike ride. There’s been a bit of a popular outcry and politicians are feeling bruised by the criticism. Things need to be done. The question is what things.’
‘You’d like me to give you a list?’
‘I was hoping for rather more than that, to be honest. A picture being, as we both know, worth a thousand words, what I need is someone to take a camera crew and show the world just how bad things are. An ambassador for the street kids, if you like. With your credentials, you appear to be the obvious choice.’
Daisy’s face was glowing with excitement. ‘Manda wants me to go with her on a pre-filming recce. As her assistant.’
‘You’re pregnant, Daisy.’
‘Well, duh! This is the twenty-first century; I don’t have to stay at home in purdah. It’ll be during the middle three months.’ Her voice was pleading. ‘We’re going to South America, the Far East…’
‘I’ll take care of her, Belle.’
‘Will you?’ Then, because she had to ask, ‘Was this your idea?’
‘You think Ivo is behind it? I promise you, he expressively forbade me from asking for your help.’
‘Oh.’ Belle felt like a tyre with the air let out. It was like the doorbell, she thought. She understood that it couldn’t possibly be him, but she would keep hoping…
‘Please, Belle!’ Daisy begged. ‘Please say you’ll do it.’
She weighed up the options. Daisy, sulking and miserable under her feet day and night. Or with an exciting job, a future.
And not just Daisy. This was a new chance for her to do something important. Something that would make a difference.
‘I guess you’d better go to the Post Office and pick up a passport application form,’ she said.
‘You saw her? How is she?’
Ivo might have tried to discourage his sister from whatever scheme she was hatching, but he’d been pacing the library, waiting for her to come home.
‘Feeling a little under the weather, if you really want to know.’ Manda settled on the sofa and put her feet up. ‘Some tedious little bug, no doubt. It’s that time of year.’ Then, ‘You’re right about her flat, by the way. It’s charming. Shame about the sofa.’ She tilted her head to look at him. ‘Did you know that there’s one just like it for sale on the next floor?’
‘The sofa?’
‘Her flat.’
‘Not any more.’
She swivelled round. ‘You’ve bought it? When did you organise that?’
‘I put in an offer the Monday after Belle left me.’
‘Really? Does she know?’
‘Not yet.’ Then, ‘You might as well know that I’ve bought the other two flats as well. I now own the entire house except the top floor.’
She wrinkled her brow in a thoughtful frown. ‘All the flats were for sale at the same time?’
‘If you offer enough money, anything is for sale.’
‘And your plan is?’
‘Shot to pieces, if you really want to know.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Once I’ve whisked Daisy Dreadful off to South America the coast will be clear. You can move in downstairs and lay siege to the fair lady. Ply her with pizza. Just make sure to specify extra anchovies.’
‘She hates anchovies.’
‘Yes. Interesting.’ Then, ‘Whatever. Just think about it.’
‘What on
earth is going on downstairs?’ Belle demanded.
The noise was driving her mad. No. Everything was driving her mad. The fact that her perfect minimalist flat had been taken over by the Christmas fairy in the shape of Daisy. That everything capable of carrying a decoration had been lit, baubled and tinselled.
That the freezer was full to the brim with food that made her ill just to think of it.
That all she wanted to do was lie down in a darkened room until the whole thing was over.
‘The ground floor tenants are moving out today,’ Daisy said. ‘They’ve bought some swanky place in Bankside, apparently.’
‘That’s the whole place empty except for us? Does everyone else know something I don’t?’ Then, as Daisy placed a beautifully gift-wrapped package in front of her, ‘What’s this?’
‘An early Christmas present. Something I think you might find a use for.’
She eased herself up into a sitting position, told herself not to be such a Grinch-Daisy deserved this Christmas-and made herself smile. ‘That’s so sweet. Thank you.’ She kissed her sister, undid the blue bow, loosened the silver wrapping paper. Frowned in confusion as she looked at the box in her hand. Then thought for a moment that she was going to be sick again. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No, it’s a pregnancy test kit. The latest high-tech job. No little blue lines or crosses on this one. It actually says “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant”. How neat is that?’ Daisy said, totally pleased with herself.
Belle swallowed. Not neat at all.
‘I’m not pregnant,’ she said.
‘You’re sick all the time,’ Daisy said, shifting all her weight to one leg, sticking out her hip and ticking off her counter-arguments on her fingers, one by one. ‘The kitchen cupboard is stacked with cans of anchovies as if you’re afraid they’re about to go extinct. You go green if I mention coffee. And yesterday I caught you eating a pickled cucumber out of the jar. Two months ago that was me.’ Then, pulling a face, ‘Except for the pickle.’
‘I like pickled cucumbers.’