Time was going so slowly, and even though she had loads to do, sorting through piles of dusty, old invoices and putting them in date order ready for filing, it didn’t keep her brain occupied enough to prevent her from worrying about Noah. She found herself checking her phone every five minutes.
When it finally did ring, Daisy almost jumped out of her skin.
And it wasn’t Noah, either.
She answered it cautiously, seeing a London number on her screen. She wasn’t supposed to take calls in work, but she’d never been able to resist answering her phone, except when it was her mother calling, and especially not now, when it might be Noah.
‘Am I speaking to Daisy Jones?’ an unfamiliar female voice asked, and Daisy was gripped with a sudden dread. The last time she’d been asked that question over the phone, it had been a nurse calling to tell her that Freddie had been admitted to hospital. What if something had happened to Noah – a car crash, a fight with Ian?
‘Yes, I’m Daisy,’ she gulped.
‘I have a call for you from Mr Carstairs. Please hold, while I transfer you.’
‘Who?’ Daisy asked, but the line had gone silent.
‘Miss Jones? Emmett Carstairs.’
‘Oh, hi.’ She still had no idea who this man was.
‘I liked your idea very much. I’d like to meet with you to discuss it.’
Oh, Emmett Carstairs, from Rosebush. ‘Great,’ Daisy croaked, leaning against the wall for support.
‘I’m in Birmingham this evening. Are you available tomorrow?’
‘Yes, no.’ Damn it, she was working, and though she was tempted to throw a sickie, her conscience wouldn’t let her. She hadn’t been in this job long, and Ken had been nothing but nice (in his own gruff way) to her, so far.
‘That’s not a problem,’ Mr Carstairs said when she explained the situation. ‘You’re based in Worcester, aren’t you?’
Daisy nodded, realised he couldn’t see her and forced out a, ‘Yes.’ It sounded squeaky, and she cleared her throat.
‘Yes,’ she repeated, now sounding like someone who’d been smoking forty fags a day for the past twenty years.
‘I’ll take a detour on the way up from London and meet you somewhere. Wait a minute.’ He must have placed a hand on the receiver because all she could hear were muffled voices.
‘My secretary tells me there’s a decent pub in Norton, just off Junction 7 on the M5, called The Cripple Creek. Do you know it?’
She didn’t but she wasn’t going to say so. ‘I do,’ she replied.
‘Say six-thirty?’
‘I’ll be there,’ she promised, her head swimming, and so she found herself sitting at a table later that evening, clutching a glass of white wine in her hand, and feeling vaguely sick.
Mr Carstairs was late, and the later he was the more anxious Daisy became. She was already fraught with nerves because Noah still hadn’t contacted her, and was worrying herself silly about it, and she was sure she was about to throw up.
She’d chosen a table not too far from the door and sat facing it, so when a man in his late forties, slightly balding and with a paunch approached the table, she was about to tell him she was waiting for someone, when she spied his briefcase. If he’d been wearing a suit, she might have twigged earlier, but he wore an open-neck shirt and jeans and didn’t look like her idea of what a CEO should look like.
‘Daisy Jones?’ he enquired.
Daisy rose and breathed out a sigh of relief as she took his outstretched hand, and shook it.
‘Let’s order first,’ he suggested. ‘I could eat a scabby cat. Sorry I’m late, but the traffic was diabolical.’
Diabolical, was it? Maybe it was diabolical all the way to London and beyond. Maybe Noah and Connor had stopped off for something to eat and they hadn’t got there yet. Maybe—
Mr Carstairs stuck a menu under her nose and Daisy picked the first thing she saw, not really caring what she ate.
‘Tell me about this idea of yours,’ he said after the waitress had taken their order. ‘I’ve read your email, but I want to hear it from you.’
Zoe’s email and Zoe’s idea, Daisy mused, but she took a deep breath and began.
‘I know there are companies out there who already do personalised cards,’ she said, when she’d finished explaining the concept (and not very well, because she wasn’t totally sure how it would work herself, and she wasn’t convinced it was such a good business idea anyway). ‘But my plan is to take things to a whole new level of personalisation, by offering tailored verses and images, aimed at the individual the card is for, and no one else. It would mean more interaction with the customer, but the card would be considerably more meaningful.’
‘Hmm.’ He leaned back, allowing the waitress to place his meal in front of him.
Daisy didn’t so much as glance at hers. She desperately wanted to check her phone again, and she was far too uptight to eat.
‘Can I just say before we go any further, that I don’t want to relocate,’ Daisy said. Not only did she not want to, she couldn’t afford to – she’d read enough in the papers to know that London house prices were way out of her league. She’d be lucky if she could afford to live in a cardboard box under a flyover!
‘You’re getting ahead of yourself, Miss Jones,’ he said, tucking into his steak with gusto.
Daisy hadn’t picked up her fork yet, and she waited impatiently for his response.
‘Okay, here’s what I think. We already have a personalised card facility. I’d have to check some figures, but I’m pretty sure your idea won’t be cost effective. At present, the customers themselves do the majority of the work, choosing from a variety of styles, verses and images. The start-up costs were significant, but the running costs are minimal. What you are suggesting would make the card to cost ratio prohibitive to most of my customers.’
Daisy drooped a little, but not too much. Her heart wasn’t really in it.
‘Have you got any work you can show me?’ he asked.
‘Personalised stuff? I didn’t think to bring any.’ She hadn’t actually written any, was nearer the truth. ‘I didn’t think there was any point because you wouldn’t know the person the card is referring to.’ Phew, got out of that one!
‘What about your regular work?’
‘Um.’ Actually, she did have some with her, and she dragged a sheaf of paper out of her bag and handed it to Mr Carstairs.
He was silent while he read them, and Daisy risked a quick glance at her phone. Nothing.
‘They’re good,’ he said. ‘I could use you. Are you sure you won’t consider relocating?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Pity. If you change your mind, drop me an email. I don’t usually do any recruiting myself, but you intrigued me. Good luck with your business proposition,’ he said as they made their way to the exit.
‘Thanks.’ She shook his hand again, and made her escape. It had been worth a shot, she supposed, and if Rosebush had taken on all the difficult stuff and left her to construct the messages and verses, then it might have worked. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have a job, was it?
When she got home she flung herself on her little single bed and checked her phone for the umpteenth time, to make sure she hadn’t missed his call or that her phone hadn’t run out of juice.
He must be there by now. A four-hour drive, he’d said. Allowing for them not setting off until late-morning (teenagers were notorious for not being able to get out of bed before at least eleven o’clock), and even allowing for a couple of pit-stops along the way, they should have arrived hours ago.
Unless, she swallowed convulsively, thinking of her initial response to Mr Carstairs’ phone call earlier, they’d had an accident.
How would she know? No one would think to tell her. Itching to phone him to make sure he was okay, Daisy sat on her hands.
Not yet. Give him time. Connor was his priority right now. He’d said he’d call, so he would. She just had to be patient. Or maybe he’d dropped Connor off at Kate’s, and had done an about-turn and was on his way back at this very minute.
Her phone buzzed.
No call, but a text instead.
Arrived safely. Going to stay the night. Speak tomorrow.
She stared at the screen, willing it to say more. Talk about bare – brief, emotionless, saying nothing except the bald facts. No inkling of how the meeting with Kate went, or whether things had been sorted out with Ian. Or even, if Noah had to drag Connor into the car and tape him in his seat in order to take him back home.
And where was Noah sleeping? Kate’s house?
The green-eyed monster roared in Daisy’s head and jealousy so strong it hurt, swept through her.
‘She’s marrying Ian,’ Daisy muttered aloud. ‘She doesn’t want Noah.’
But what if he still wants her, the nasty, insistent little voice muttered back.