Summer at the Lakeside Cabin

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.

I might even push the boat out and order champagne!

The following night, I called at the hairdresser’s on the way home from work and treated myself to a sleek blow-dry. Then later, with a tummy full of excited butterflies, I dressed in my favourite little black shift dress, which looked more expensive than it was, teaming it with patent heels and chunky pearls.

I scrutinised myself in the mirror. It was maybe a bit over-the-top for a weekday dinner but I didn’t care. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and I was going to enjoy it! After losing Mum, I was due a break. Hopefully this would be the start of a whole new adventure.

Perhaps, one day, I might even dare to dream of handing in my notice at Plunge Happy Monthly …

I’d arranged to meet Toby at the restaurant at eight-thirty but I was there a little early, just in case. The waiter came over and, after a second’s hesitation, I ordered champagne. It arrived in an ice bucket and I smiled and said I’d wait for my dinner date to arrive. It was important Toby was here when the cork was popped! I wanted him to feel he was in it with me; that he was an important part of my success.

By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t arrived, but I wasn’t worried. He’d have got held up; it happened all the time. There was no point phoning. He was probably already on his way.

I ordered a soft drink and read the email from the magazine for the hundredth time.

At nine-twenty, fed up with the sympathetic looks I was getting from other diners, I dialled Toby’s number.

I braced myself for multiple apologies but he actually sounded quite calm.

‘Daisy? I just got home to an empty flat. Where are you? Did we run out of milk or something?’

Crushing dismay punched me in the gut. No wonder Toby was ‘late’. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Daisy?’ I could almost hear the cogs in his head ticking over. Realisation dawning. ‘Oh God, we were meeting for dinner, weren’t we? Listen, stay there. I’ll be along now.’

I finally found my voice. ‘No, it’s too late now, Toby. I’ve hogged the table for long enough and I’ve lost my appetite. I’m coming home.’ I couldn’t keep the hurt from my tone and, as he rushed to apologise some more, I hung up.

I drove home with a horrible sick feeling inside. I realised I was probably over-reacting, but the forgotten dinner just illustrated what I’d long suspected – I was far more interested in Toby’s life than he was in mine. He’d known ever since we met that I longed to be a writer, and although I realised he viewed my ‘scribbling’ – which was how he termed it – as just a nice hobby and never likely to lead anywhere, I’d nonetheless thought he’d understand how thrilled I was about my magazine success.

But apparently it was so insignificant to him that it had totally slipped his mind!

My throat hurt.

I wanted a partner who supported me to the hilt in whatever I wanted to do in life. Someone who cherished my hopes and dreams almost as much as I did myself. The way Mum did.

Was I kidding myself imagining Toby could ever be that person?

When I got home, he greeted me at the door, full of more apologies, blaming the falling markets for wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He’d laid the table and ordered Thai food, my favourite, and there was a big bunch of hastily acquired roses in the centre of the table. But I was nowhere near ready to forgive.

I ignored him, threw my coat over a chair, yanked the fridge open and pulled out an open bottle of white wine. ‘You probably aren’t even interested in reading my story, are you?’ I glared at him, all the hurt tumbling out, then glugged half a glass of wine down in one go.

‘Of course I am.’

I laughed bitterly. ‘Well, you’re hardly going to say no now!’

I was being petty, I knew, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted more from a relationship than this …

‘Hey, listen. Of course I’m interested.’ Gently he removed the glass from my hand and took me in his arms. I stood there, rigid, desperate not to respond.

‘The thing is, though, I’d much rather read your story when it’s printed in the magazine and your name is right there on the page in big letters! How proud will I feel then?’

I twisted away from him. ‘That’s easy to say.’

‘It’s easy to say because it’s true.’ He sighed. ‘Look, you know I’m no good at English. The only thing I ever read is books about finance. And take-away menus.’

‘That’s true.’

‘But when that magazine comes through the door, believe me, I’ll be the first to read your prize-winning story.’ Smiling, he put a finger to my chin and gently turned my face to his. ‘You’re brilliant, Daisy Cooper.’

When he kissed me, I relented and kissed him back, relief flooding through me.

The thought of us splitting up terrified me. It was too soon after Mum to cope with something else so emotionally devastating.

I might have had misgivings about Toby and I being right for each other, but the fact was, Toby and his family – especially Rosalind – had been totally there for me when Mum died. I wasn’t sure I could bear the thought of doing without them now.

The doorbell rang, announcing our take-away. Toby bounded to the door, calling, ‘Let’s do something special for my birthday in July? I’ll book a week off work and you can have me all to yourself!’

Grudgingly, I agreed. Perhaps a holiday was what we needed.

I’d book a surprise romantic trip and then we’d see …

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s a month later and I’m sitting on the floor of Toby’s bedroom, sorting through the latest load of boxes I’ve brought over from Rachel’s garage.

I always thought moving in with a man for the first time would be a mark of how responsible and grown-up I’d become. It would be a conscious, level-headed decision to move the relationship to the next stage.

But there was nothing remotely level-headed about the speed with which this latest life-changing decision was made.

Not that I’m complaining!

The past few weeks since my short story triumph have passed in a mad whirl, mainly due to the fact that Rachel’s boyfriend, Adam, proposed to her right out of the blue. Rachel was ecstatic and, after we’d celebrated for the best part of a week, she told me she’d decided to sell her house and move in with Adam. So obviously I needed to find somewhere else to live.

It was the following Sunday, when we were over at Toby’s mum’s house for lunch, that everything crystallised into an obvious solution …

*

I was in the kitchen, helping Rosalind make cauliflower cheese to go with the roast.

I suppose I was feeling more emotional than usual at the thought of my flat-share with Rachel coming to an end.

Rosalind seemed to pick up on my feelings.

‘So how are you, my love?’ she asked, her tone filled with empathy. I knew she was thinking about how I must be missing Mum and, immediately, the pain of loss – which was never far away – came crashing in.

‘I’m fine. Absolutely perfect,’ I said, pasting on the bright smile I used when people started asking questions that brought on the panic. I could feel Rosalind’s kind eyes watching me as I stirred the bubbling cheese sauce on the hob.

‘Yes, but how are you really?’ Her voice was soft and loving, and my throat closed up. To my alarm, my hand started to tremble and I had to stir extra fast to stay in control, with the result that some of the hot sauce splashed onto my hand.

Rosalind gently took the pan from me and I ran my hand under the tap, grateful to turn away so she couldn’t see the tears of panic that had sprung up when she tried to probe deeper.

Why did people always want me to talk about Mum and what had happened?

Didn’t they realise that was the worst thing they could possibly make me do? I needed to get over this, otherwise I was in danger of losing my sanity, and in order to move on, I needed to concentrate on the present, not keep going over and over what I couldn’t change.

Why couldn’t they see that?

With an effort, I pulled myself together and turned. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, actually,’ I said. ‘Rachel’s selling the flat.’

‘Oh, Daisy, you poor thing. So you have to move out?’ Rosalind looked horrified.

‘Well, not immediately. She won’t even be putting it on the market until later in the year.’

‘But still … it’s a bit unsettling.’ Her look said: As if you haven’t already been through the mill enough …

I shrugged and started grating more cheese for the topping. ‘Something will turn up.’

‘Perhaps it already has.’

‘Sorry?’

Rosalind smiled, dimples appearing in her rosy cheeks as she stood up, flushed from checking the beef in the oven. ‘Toby was telling me only the other day how well things are going between you.’

‘He was?’ I looked at her in surprise. I didn’t think Toby confided in Rosalind about such personal stuff.

She shook her head and laughed. ‘Well, he was actually talking about the rising cost of living and how it was probably true that two could live just as cheaply as one. But when I cheekily asked if he was thinking of sharing his place, he didn’t deny it. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

‘Did I hear my name there?’ Toby walked in at that moment.

‘Daisy was telling me about her housing situation and I was just pointing out that a solution might be staring you both in the face, that’s all.’ She gave us a mischievous smile. ‘Keep an eye on the roast, will you? I’m just going to make sure those kids aren’t actually killing each other out there!’

When she’d gone, Toby and I looked at each other. We both laughed a bit awkwardly.

‘Mum wants you for a daughter. You do realise that,’ Toby said with a sheepish grin.

The idea of that squeezed my heart so that I had to look away and blink rapidly.

‘It does make sense,’ he added. ‘I mean, you moving into my flat.’

I swallowed hard. ‘Really? You’d like that?’ All sorts of feelings were tumbling around inside me. A while ago, I’d doubted that we were right for each other. But then Mum got ill and I was just so grateful for Toby’s support that I forgot all about my concerns that we were suited for the long haul. It just seemed important to get from one day to the next.

Could I really move in with Toby? It was such a huge commitment. Shouldn’t I at least take a week to decide?

But then I thought about how the times I spent here with Rosalind, Toby and the boys filled me with new hope for the future. I always came away from these lovely family Sunday lunches feeling happier than when I arrived and that had to mean something. It was that precious feeling of belonging. It was worth its weight in gold …

‘I’m game if you are,’ said Toby, and there was a vulnerability in his smile that took me by surprise and melted my heart. It wasn’t the most romantic of propositions but that didn’t matter. I was being given a chance to move on with my life. To start afresh and make brand-new memories with Toby.

I wanted that new start like I’d never wanted anything in my life before.

So I smiled shyly and took his hand. ‘I am game.’

We were kissing when Rosalind walked in.

‘Oh, please tell me you have good news?’ She beamed, crossing her hands over her heart. And when we nodded, she gave one of her throaty laughs, hurried over and drew us both into one of her big hugs. Toby, never one for displays of emotion, went a bit wooden, but the tears in Rosalind’s eyes were reflected in mine and I knew then that everything would be all right.