Staying at Daisy's

by Jill Mansell

  Josh choked on his Garabaldi. ‘What sex life?’

  ‘Exactly my point!’ Daisy spread her hands in despair. ‘It’s been bothering me all day. You’re staying in my flat, Tara’s living down the road with Maggie… it strikes me you have a bit of a privacy problem.’

  ‘God, Daisy, do we have to talk about this?’ He gave her a pained look; for the first time since she’d known him, Josh was embarrassed. ‘It’s not your concern.’

  ‘Well, I know that, but I’m just asking.’ Relaxed though she was about her two best friends getting together, Daisy knew that Josh wouldn’t dream of bringing Tara back to his room here. With the best will in the world, it would be too awkward. For all three of them.

  ‘You mean you’re nosy,’ said Josh.

  ‘I prefer curious.’ Daisy helped herself to another biscuit.

  ‘OK.’ He sighed, because she clearly wasn’t going to give up without a fight. ‘You don’t have to worry because it isn’t a problem. Tara doesn’t want to sleep with me anyway.’

  This time it was Daisy’s turn to splutter and spray crumbs across the coffee table.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. No sex. Not for a while at least,’ Josh added. Hopefully.

  ‘But why?’ Daisy was appalled. Tara had never done anything like this before.

  ‘When I started giving her driving lessons, we talked. For hours,’ said Josh. ‘About anything and everything. I heard all about her disastrous love life and how she’d slept with too many men for all the wrong reasons. She was able to tell me about it because we were just friends then,’ he explained. ‘Now, of course, she’s mortified and determined to prove she’s not some tarty trollop who’ll jump into bed with just any old bloke.’

  Daisy snorted with laughter; she couldn’t help it. ‘This is great. Good for Tara.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Ruefully, Josh rubbed his stubbly chin. ‘In theory it’s all very well. Commendable, in fact. But it’s bloody frustrating when “any old bloke” turns out to be you.’

  ***

  Tuesday was warm and sunny, another beautiful spring day. Inside her cottage, Maggie diligently sewed zips into a pile of completed cushion covers and did her best to ignore the sense of excitement bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

  It was idiotic, but she couldn’t help it. She felt like a woman previously jilted half a dozen times at the altar, convinced that this time her bridegroom was actually going to show.

  Except instead of a bridegroom, she was waiting for her washing machine repair man. Which was almost more thrilling. For not only had Dino—that was his name—promised faithfully to be here by two o’clock, he’d assured her that he’d have with him exactly the right replacement part to fix her machine.

  He’d sounded so confident that Maggie had forgotten to be skeptical. Her long ordeal was finally over, she was convinced of it. As from today she would be able to effortlessly wash and tumble-dry once more.

  In the distance, the church clock chimed twice and Maggie experienced a qualm of doubt. The next moment she heard the blissful squeak of brakes outside and leapt to her feet, scattering pins and cotton reels in her eagerness to check that—yes, hallelujah, it was Dino, he was here!

  Crikey, not bad either. They’d actually sent a half-decent one for a change. Not that it made a bit of difference. The important thing was whether he could fit replacement parts.

  ‘You must be Maggie,’ Dino cheerfully announced when she flung open the door to greet him.

  Oh dear, she’d spent so long ranting and raving on the phone to his company that they were already on first-name terms. The entire workforce probably referred to her behind her back as Mad Maggie.

  ‘Come in. I’m so glad to see you.’ Maggie vowed to show him she was a nice person really, not always a screeching harridan. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ He grinned at her. ‘Black, no sugar.’

  No sugar? How completely extraordinary. Maggie had always assumed that every repairman had to take three sugars at the very least.

  Terrified that he might be an imposter, she said, ‘Have you brought the part?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you I would?’ In the kitchen, Dino opened his case and held up the polythene bag containing the precious part. Light-brown eyes twinkling, he pretended to tut-tut at her. ‘Oh ye of little faith.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of me,’ protested Maggie. ‘I’ve been disappointed before.’

  ‘No more disappointment. I’m here now. OK, let’s get started.’ With a commendable lack of grunting he slid the washing machine out from under the worktop and immediately got busy with his screwdriver. Reassured, Maggie put the kettle on and reached for the cups. It was ten past two. By two thirty she could be joyfully bundling armfuls of washing into the machine, pressing the button and watching her clothes sloshing around.

  As a special treat she left Dino a Penguin biscuit to have with his tea.

  At two twenty, he appeared in the living-room doorway. With an expression on his face reminiscent of the one doctors on TV use when they’re about to tell you it’s malignant.

  ‘Bit of a hitch.’ Dino wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Maggie, still sewing zips into cushions, slowly looked up at him. ‘What kind of hitch?’

  ‘The part we thought was causing the problem… well, it wasn’t.’

  This was not what Maggie wanted to hear. She felt her jaw tighten. ‘And?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. We need to order another part.’

  He was clearly mortified. Maggie didn’t care. ‘And how long will that take?’ It was a rhetorical question; she already knew the answer. ‘Another two weeks?’

  ‘Maybe ten days. I’d mark it urgent. Look, I know you’re disappointed—’

  ‘Disappointed?’ Maggie heard her voice unwittingly go soprano. ‘Disappointed doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. You promised you’d have it fixed this afternoon!’

  ‘I know I did, but all I had to go on was what the last engineer told me. He thought he’d located the fault, but he hadn’t.’

  ‘Right. Well, in that case, we’ll just have to sort it out some other way.’ Rising to her feet, Maggie wiped her sweating hands on her jeans before snatching up the phone. ‘So what you’re going to do is ring your boss this minute and tell him I’ve had enough. I want a new machine, one that actually works. He can arrange to put one into a van and have it delivered here this afternoon. Then you can plumb it in for me before taking away the broken one. Does that sound reasonable to you?’

  Dino shrugged. ‘Sounds reasonable to me, but I don’t know if they’ll go along with it. You see, it’s not company policy to—’

  ‘Just do it,’ Maggie interrupted, shoving the phone into his hand.

  And to give Dino his due, he gave it his best shot. She stood in front of him and watched him doing his utmost to persuade someone called Mr Ellison that after all she’d been through, it was surely the least they could do for her.

  It soon became apparent, however, that Mr Ellison had no intention of fostering customer relations and was determined not to give in.

  Something snapped inside Maggie. For a split second she wondered if steam was actually gushing from her ears. About to wrench the phone from Dino and give Mr Ellison a coruscating piece of her mind, she recalled how effective it had been in the past—basically, not effective at all—and marched to the front door instead.

  A desperate situation called for desperate measures. Without even pausing to consider whether what she was doing was wise—or if it would even work—Maggie locked the door from the inside. Having dropped the key into her bra, she moved to the windows and locked them too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Dino, covering the phone.

  ‘Just keep talking,’ Maggie ordered. ‘Tell him I’ll speak to him in a
minute.’

  She locked the kitchen door and secured the window in there as well. By this time her bra was jangling with keys.

  ‘Right,’ Maggie announced, snatching the phone from Dino and deliberately not meeting his eye. ‘Mr Ellison? Hello, how are you, this is Maggie Donovan here. I just wondered if you had my replacement washing machine loaded into the van yet? No? Oh dear, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, just to let you know, I have your repairman here and he’s not leaving until my new washing machine arrives. Yes, absolutely serious. I’m holding him as a hostage, Mr Ellison. He can’t escape, I’ve made quite sure of that. I’m sorry? You’re asking me to be reasonable?’ Sorrowfully, Maggie shook her head. ‘Mr Ellison, I’ve spent the last two months being reasonable and it really hasn’t got me very far. Yes, fine, you go ahead and call the police. I’m just about to phone the news desk at BBC Bristol. Tell you what, why don’t we have a wager and see which of them gets here first?’

  Chapter 55

  Clink-clank went the keys in Maggie’s bra as she replaced the phone on the coffee table.

  ‘Imagine that. He hung up on me.’ When she looked over at Dino, he was smiling.

  ‘Are you serious about this?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re kidnapping me?’

  ‘Yes. Well, taking you hostage.’ Maggie pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s just that my wife’s nine months pregnant,’ said Dino. ‘She was due to give birth yesterday. What if she goes into labor?’

  Horrified, Maggie squawked, ‘Are you serious?’

  Damn, damn, damn.

  ‘No.’ He broke into a grin. ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ She clutched her chest in relief. ‘For a minute there I believed you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. No babies on the way.’ He paused, his dark head tilted to one side. ‘I do have a squash court booked for this evening, but I suppose I could cancel it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Maggie wavered. ‘I mean, you really don’t mind?’

  ‘Being held hostage? Not at all.’ Cheerfully, Dino said, ‘Fine by me.’

  She was lost for words. It hadn’t occurred to her for a moment that he’d actually be happy to go along with her mad plan.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ Maggie managed finally.

  ‘No problem. I think you deserve a new washing machine. So, how about another cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I’ll just—’

  ‘Whoa, calm down.’ Dino put out his arm to stop her bustling past him. ‘Why don’t I make it? And you can phone the BBC.’

  ***

  It had evidently been a slow news day. The BBC news desk, very, very interested in her story, promised to send a reporter out to Colworth within the hour. Emboldened by such enthusiasm on their part, Maggie followed up the call with another to the Bristol Evening Post. She drank the tea Dino had made and peered out of the window for a while, listening out for police sirens and wondering whether anyone would actually turn up.

  ‘Maybe you should do your hair,’ Dino helpfully suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s looking a bit…’ His messed-up gestures indicated that it could do with a brush. In her agitation, Maggie had been pushing her hands through her hair like Ken Dodd. ‘If they bring TV cameras, you’ll want to look your best.’

  This made sense. She went upstairs, restored order to her fine blonde hair, and inexpertly slicked on a bit of lipstick. Returning to the living room, she found her hostage stretched on the sofa flicking through the TV channels.

  ‘Nothing much on,’ Dino reported. ‘Not until Countdown at four thirty.’ He glanced up at Maggie, who was looking preoccupied. ‘Problem?’

  ‘I’m just wondering how long this is likely to last. You’ll be hungry soon and I don’t have much in the house.’ He was taking this incredibly well, and Maggie felt the least she could do was provide a decent meal.

  ‘Don’t fuss. Let’s have a look.’ Switching off the TV, Dino headed through to the kitchen. The next thing she knew, he was exploring the contents of the larder, handing her a bag of flour and a carton of eggs.

  ‘Pasta,’ he announced with authority.

  ‘Oh… um, I think I’ve got half a packet of spaghetti…’

  ‘I’m talking about fresh pasta. Haven’t you ever made it?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Maggie was stung; surely only Jamie Oliver and people in glossy magazines actually made their own pasta?

  ‘It’s easy. I’ll show you. Got a rolling pin?’ As he spoke, Dino was already pushing up his sleeves and washing his hands at the sink.

  Maggie began to chuckle.

  ‘What?’ said Dino.

  ‘If nothing else comes of this afternoon, at least I’ll have learned to make pasta.’

  They chatted easily while they worked. Dino Marinelli was thirty-seven and amicably divorced. He lived in a flat in north Bristol and kept himself fit by playing squash and running marathons. His Italian father had taught him to cook from an early age and he had inherited a pretty good singing voice from his English mother. Enthralled, Maggie learned that Dino had sung in various bands around Bristol until a few years ago. He had even appeared on Stars in Their Eyes as a Frank Sinatra sound-alike.

  ‘But that’s brilliant! Did you win?’

  He rolled his eyes in disgust. ‘Nah, got beaten by Bonnie Langford. Now, we want a gutsy sauce to go with this. D’you like olives?’

  ‘I do like olives,’ said Maggie, ‘but I don’t have any.’

  ‘Didn’t I pass a shop further up the High Street?’ Dino shook flour onto the rolled-out sheet of pasta and deftly flipped it over. ‘I’ll pop up and get some.’

  ‘You can’t go to the shop to buy olives!’ For heaven’s sake, was he stupid? ‘You’re supposed to be a hostage.’

  Dino broke into a grin. ‘Sorry. Forgot.’

  Maggie was beginning to wonder if everyone else had forgotten too. It was three o’clock and so far nobody at all had turned up. At this rate her siege was in danger of turning into an embarrassing damp squib.

  The next moment she almost jumped out of her skin as the doorbell rang.

  ‘Oh!’ Help.

  ‘Here we go.’ Dino gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Could be Dermot Murnaghan, reporting for News at Ten. Or the SAS come to rescue me—don’t let them throw smoke bombs through the letter box. By the way, you’ve got flour on your nose,’ he called after Maggie as she went to see who it really was.

  A police car was parked outside the cottage. The muscles in Maggie’s neck relaxed when she saw that it was only Barry Foster, their local policeman. She wasn’t frightened of Barry—in fact, he was probably far more scared of her.

  Fishing in her bra, she unlocked the window and opened it a few inches.

  ‘Hello there, Maggie. We’ve had a call from a Mr Ellison at Carver’s Electricals in Bristol. Now then, what’s all this about?’

  The voice was bluff but he was clearly ill-at-ease. Last year, Barry’s wife Yvonne had commissioned her to make two white satin pillowcases with the words ‘Snugglebum’ and ‘Wiggly Wabbit’ embroidered across them in pink, as a Valentine’s surprise for her husband. Heroically, Maggie had kept this information to herself, but Barry had had trouble looking her in the eye ever since. Now that he was being forced to do so, his cheeks glowed with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Ellison gave you the gist of it.’ Maggie remained calm. ‘The repairman doesn’t leave until I get a new washing machine.’

  ‘Maggie, you can’t do this.’

  ‘I am doing it.’

  ‘But it won’t work. You’ll end up making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘Oh well, we all make fools of ourselves at some stage, don’t we?’ Not quite under her breath Maggie murmured, ‘Snugglebum.’

  Barne
y’s neck turned brick-red. ‘I’m not Snugglebum.’

  So now she knew. She’d always wondered. Barry’s pet name was Wiggly Wabbit and Snugglebum was Yvonne.

  ‘Sorry. I won’t say it again.’ Maggie felt mean. ‘But the repairman stays here.’

  Barry frowned. ‘Have you got him tied up?’

  ‘No, I’m being perfectly nice to him. He’s fine.’

  ‘Could I just have a word with him, Maggie?’

  ‘Actually, he’s busy right now.’

  ‘Please.’

  Over her shoulder, Maggie called, ‘Dino? The policeman would like to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m cutting the pappardelle.’

  ‘He says please.’

  Dino joined her at the window, floury-handed and clutching a knife.

  ‘Look, sir, couldn’t we just put a stop to this?’ said Barry.

  ‘She’s got all the keys.’ Gravely, Dino added, ‘In her bra.’

  ‘You could climb out through this window,’ Barry pleaded.

  ‘This window?’ Dino cast a horrified glance at the narrow frame, less than twelve inches wide. ‘Who d’you think I am, Kylie Minogue?’

  ‘Here comes the BBC,’ said Maggie, adrenaline beginning to swoosh through her veins as she spotted the distinctive van trundling down the High Street towards them with two more cars in its wake.

  ‘Phone,’ prompted Dino, because the telephone was trilling behind them.

  ‘Maggie Donovan?’ said the voice at the other end when she picked up the receiver. ‘Hi, this is Tammie Houston, I’m calling from Radio 5 Live…’

  ***

  Pam, who was devoted to gossip, intercepted Daisy as she emerged from a meeting at four o’clock.

  ‘Have you heard about what’s going on in the High Street? Some of the guests have just told me there are reporters and TV vans outside one of the cottages. And the police are there.’

  Any mention of police brought the memory of Steven’s accident flooding back. Daisy shivered. ‘Did they say what it was about?’

  Tara, coming off duty and sauntering through reception with her denim jacket slung over one shoulder, said jauntily, ‘What’s what about?’