Hidden Cottage (31 page)
‘I know, Mum. And thanks. For everything.’
‘For what?’
‘For trying to make things right all the time. It can’t be easy. Not with the way Dad can be. And . . . and I don’t think I’ve always been the easiest of daughters for you.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Nice try, Mum, but I know it’s been tough for you. Too often you’ve been caught in the middle.’
Why, thought Mia, when five minutes later she rang off, was it only now, when Daisy was moving to the other side of the world, that they seemed to be creating the kind of mother and daughter relationship she had always hoped to have with her youngest child? Parting with Daisy was going to be such a wrench.
She then phoned Eliza to see how she was. Adamant that she had things to do in London, and promising that she would take it easy, Eliza had caught the train back with Simon on Friday to spend the weekend there. ‘I’ll be with you again on Monday evening,’ she’d said. ‘It’ll be business as usual then. It has to be.’ While it had been good to hear Eliza sounding more positive, Mia was still anxious about her.
With no answer from Eliza’s mobile, Mia left a message and wondered what to do next. After seeing Daisy, Jeff was going straight on to the airport to fly back to Brussels, so the rest of the day was her own.
She contemplated going over to the barn to prepare the VAT paperwork for her accountant, but she couldn’t face it. Next she contemplated tackling the weeds in the garden, but the sky was overcast and it didn’t induce any desire in her to garden. There was a pile of ironing that needed tackling, but again she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm.
Admit it, she told herself, everything else is a distraction from the one thing you really want to do, which is to go and see Owen.
It was true. It was that look he’d given her during dinner at Muriel’s. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the last thing she’d thought of before falling asleep and the first thought she had woken to this morning. She had wanted to believe she had imagined it, but she knew she hadn’t. It had been real.
Just as real as the shameful jealousy she’d felt of Georgina. Not only at the table, but when Owen had walked her home. Was he the kind of man to take advantage of a woman who’d drunk too much and stay the night?
She shuddered at the thought, torn between wanting to hate Owen if he had, but wanting to believe he was better than that.
But what if he’d looked at Georgina in a new light during dinner? She had looked so pretty last night. Surely she couldn’t blame Owen for being attracted to her?
Oh, but she could when the truth was she wanted him for herself. There, she’d said it. No more pretending. Some genuine honesty from her for a change. And the acknowledgement that she couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t spend the day torturing herself with thoughts of Owen and Georgina. Jealousy was the least productive emotion a person could feel, and despising herself for succumbing to it, Mia knew she had to resolve matters. If not for her sake, then for her friend. If Owen had any intention of getting involved with Georgina, he had to be told that he had no right looking at Mia the way he had last night.
No, she told herself. No self-righteous indignation to justify what she was about to do. She mustn’t kid herself that she was doing this for Georgina’s sake. She had to be honest and admit that she was attracted to Owen and couldn’t bear the thought of him with another woman.
Twenty minutes later, filled with resolve, she set off for The Hidden Cottage, opting to eschew the main road and take the footpath as she had with Owen on Monday. The sensible thing would have been to ring him, but the conversation she had in mind needed to be done face to face.
Feather-light rain was just beginning to fall when she turned into the footpath. It was the first rain they’d had in over a week and she considered going back for an umbrella, but decided against it.
When she emerged from the bluebell wood and slipped through the gap in the hedgerow, the rain was coming down in earnest. She started towards the house, crossing the wet lawn and with her foot on the first step up to the veranda, she heard music – piano music – through the French doors that were ajar. She pictured Owen sitting at the piano, deep in concentration, his hands moving over the keys. It was an image that not only reminded her of the intense expression on his face in the candlelight last night, but made her feel she was eavesdropping on a private, almost intimate moment. It had the immediate effect of calming her, of making her take a deep breath.
She took the remaining wooden steps up to the veranda as silently as she could. Out of the rain now, she inched yet closer to the French doors. But then beneath her the wooden floor gave a loud creak. The music stopped abruptly. ‘Putin, is that you?’
She stepped in front of the doorway. ‘No, it’s not Putin,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
‘
Mia!
’ Owen rose from the piano and came to her, throwing wide the doors.
Seeing the obvious delight on his face at the sight of her, she felt a thrill of pleasure run through her. ‘What was that you were playing?’ she asked. ‘It was lovely.’
‘It’s called “How Peaceful”,’ he replied, ‘or sometimes it’s known as “How Beautiful”. Rachmaninov dedicated it to his wife Natalya at a particularly happy time in his life.’
Then for the longest moment he simply stared at her, and all she could do was stare back at him, unable to tear her gaze away from the compelling expression in his eyes. Caught, just as she had been last night.
‘You’re soaked,’ he said at last.
She looked down at her clothes, which she realized were indeed quite wet. ‘So I am. How clever of you to notice.’
A small smile parted his lips. ‘Sharp as a pin, me. Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but why are you here?’
She steeled herself. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Then you’d better come inside.’
Inches apart, the air potent with anticipation between them, she hesitated. She knew that jealousy had driven her here and if she stepped over that threshold she really would do
the unthinkable
. But it was too late to turn back. The overwhelming compulsion to touch him, to hold him and kiss him was too great.
When she didn’t respond, he put a hand to her cheek and touched it lightly. ‘Mia,’ he said, ‘I promised you before that I wasn’t playing a game with you. Nothing’s changed.’
Oh, but it has, she thought.
I’ve
changed.
There was a look of great purpose in his face now, as though he had made an important decision. The pressure of his hand resting against her cheek increased and it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms. With the merest of movements, she turned her head until her lips brushed against the palm of his hand. She heard his sharp intake of breath and then in one fluid movement he drew her to him and kissed her.
The combination of rain, poor visibility and roadworks meant Jeff had no choice but to crawl along at a snail’s pace on the M1. Which gave him plenty of time to prepare what he wanted to say to Daisy, as well as reflect on last night.
Normally he enjoyed an evening with Muriel and Georgina; he liked to spar and flirt in equal measures with the two of them, but Owen-bloody-Fletcher’s presence had stymied the atmosphere of the evening. The man was that slippery he could cause his very own oil slick. Every opportunity he got, he managed to make himself the centre of attention. For the life of him, Jeff didn’t comprehend why Muriel and Georgina, and Mia for that matter, couldn’t see the man for what he was, a whopping great fake, a smarmy smooth operator who would probably end up causing Georgina to make an embarrassing fool of herself over him.
Mia had been in a singularly odd mood the entire evening and things hadn’t improved at home when they were in bed. Fair enough, he’d been a bit drunk, but not so drunk as to be incapable, which was what Mia accused him of when he’d tried to kiss her.
Luck was finally on his side when he managed to park his Merc on the street two doors down from Daisy’s flat. He suddenly felt nervous. He had to get this right. He absolutely must not let his temper get the better of him. He was here to build bridges. He was here to show Daisy that he loved her, that nothing was more important to him than her happiness. When he’d texted her yesterday afternoon to ask if he could come and see her this morning, he’d dreaded her saying no, or worse still, hearing nothing from her at all.
He hastened along the pavement in the rain and buzzed the intercom. A disembodied voice – that of his future son-in-law – instructed him to come on up.
Disappointed that Scott was here, he took the stairs with grim determination. He would have preferred to have this conversation without Scott around, but clearly that was not to be.
He was waiting for Jeff on the landing. ‘Daisy’s just gone out to the shop to get some bread for lunch,’ he said.
‘What? No Sunday roast?’ Jeff quipped, taking in the ripped jeans, the bare feet, the sleeveless T-shirt, the unshaven chin and the general air of a man who simply wasn’t good enough. Who was this nonentity to presume he was good enough to look at Daisy, much less marry her?
‘We thought soup and sandwiches would be OK,’ Scott said, ushering Jeff inside the flat and closing the door. ‘The thing is, we’re out for dinner tonight and we didn’t want—’
‘You’re packing up,’ Jeff interrupted, looking round at the packing boxes in the small space. The main pieces of furniture were still in evidence, such as a shabby old sofa and an armchair, a set of shelves, a television and a coffee table, but the rest of the room had been emptied of its contents – the shelves were stripped, as were the walls
. This is really happening
, he thought.
Daisy really is leaving me
. The thought pained him to such an extent, he felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He clenched his fists and turned to face the person who was responsible for causing this pain. ‘My wife tells me that you’ve booked your flights.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
The man’s casual manner incensed Jeff. ‘And you didn’t think it appropriate that you should ask my permission to marry my daughter?’ he said. ‘Or to ask if I minded you dragging her off to some God-awful place in Australia?’
‘I’m not
dragging
your daughter anywhere, Jeff.’
This was too much. ‘
Jeff?
’ he repeated. ‘Since when did I say you could call me Jeff?’
The other man rolled his eyes and pushed his hands into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘OK,’ he said with a shrug, ‘so that’s the way you’re playing it, is it? Fair enough. I can play it that way as well. But be very clear on this point,
Mr Channing
: I love your daughter. All I want to do is spend the rest of my life with her, taking the best care I can of her. And while we’re speaking so bluntly, I’d say the best thing Daisy could do is to get as far away from you as she possibly can, because you’re bad news for her. You’ve done nothing all her life but screw her up. And from what she tells me, you’ve done a bang-up job of trying to screw up your other kids as well.’
Jeff stared at him in disbelief. ‘Finished?’ he asked, his voice gruff with scarcely controlled fury.
‘Yeah, I’d say I’m about done.’
His fists even more tightly closed, and fighting hard to stop himself from ramming one into this bastard’s smug face, Jeff heard a key turning in the door behind them.
Daisy took one look at her father and Scott and knew straight away that something was wrong. Oh God, she thought when Scott looked at her, but didn’t quite meet her eye. What now? And why had she thought it would be a good idea for the two of them to have some time on their own together? She should have sent Scott to fetch the bread. She should have spoken to her father on her own.
‘What’s been going on?’ she asked, clutching the loaf of bread to her chest while closing the door behind her and wishing she were the other side of it.
‘We’ve been sharing a few pleasantries,’ Scott said.
Dad snorted. ‘More like you were shooting your bloody great mouth off.’ He stepped towards Daisy. ‘Daisy, I don’t think you have any idea the kind of man he really is. He’s accused me of things that beggar belief. And if he’s been filling your head with this rubbish, then you shouldn’t have anything more to do with him. He’s . . . he’s brainwashing you. He’s manipulating you, turning you against me. Can’t you see that?’
Her heart sank and she felt a wave of familiar impotency. ‘Dad, I don’t know who you’re talking about, but it’s not Scott. Scott would never make me do anything I didn’t want to, truly he wouldn’t. Why can’t you see that? Everyone else does.’
‘You mean everyone else has been taken in by him!’
‘Stop it, Dad! Just stop it. Please. You said in your text that you wanted to come and apologize, but you haven’t, have you? You’re only here to try and make me change my mind. You just can’t help yourself, can you? You have to keep controlling me.’
‘Daisy, believe me, I came in good faith to say I was sorry. And I am truly sorry for what I said, but please hear me out. You and I, we’ve always had a special bond. Think about it. Haven’t I always been there for you? Every milestone in your life, I was there for it. Your first steps, your first day at nursery and then school. I never missed a play or a concert you were in. OK, once or twice I was late, but I was there, Daisy. And why? Because I loved you. Because you meant more to me than anything else in the world.’
Daisy looked at her father and felt herself being swallowed up by a huge crushing wave of defeat. And sadness. She knew that her father loved her, knew too that in his own way he had always wanted the best for her. That had he been able to give her the stars and the moon, as he’d told her so often as a child, he would have done so.
The crushing wave began to close in on her and she felt the strength to fight her father drain out of her. But then she looked at Scott and remembered what he’d said at breakfast. She had to do this. She simply had to do it or her life would always be the same; she would always be a child. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘you loved me too much. You tried to make me into something I could never be. You’re doing it now. You have to let me go. You have to trust that I can make my own decisions.’