Daisy crept into Red Deer Close like a really bad spy on a not-so-secret mission. She was aware she could only look more suspicious if she was sporting a fake moustache and a false nose. Her only hope was that neither Freddie nor Carl would be at home, and if they were, neither of them would look out of the window.
Her other hope was that the rest of her possessions hadn’t been left out for the bin men to take.
She puffed out her cheeks when she realised that Freddie’s BMW was absent and so was the blue Ford. Of course, Freddie’s car hadn’t been on the drive on CITA (Caught-In-The Act) Day, either, but when she managed to think clearly, she’d realised he must have left it somewhere so as not to risk Mandy next door making a comment about Freddie being home, and dropping him in it. Daisy guessed her ex must have been sneaking about for weeks, before finally getting caught.
Gripping her keys so hard they dug into the palm of her hand, she parked on the drive and got out, looking around for witnesses. Technically, she was aware she shouldn’t be entering the house without asking Freddie’s permission first, and if one of the neighbours spotted her she might be challenged if they knew she no longer lived there.
She shoved the key in the lock, turned it, and was relieved when the door swung open. She’d half expected him to have changed the locks.
‘Hello?’ she called.
Silence. No Freddie. No Carl.
Just a pile of boxes stacked neatly in the narrow hall.
She opened the nearest. It appeared Freddie had erased every little sign of Daisy ever inhabiting his house – he’d even rounded up the box of tampons which had been on a shelf in the bathroom cabinet.
She wondered just how soon after she’d left, that Carl had moved in, as she eyed the boxes sadly. At least it saved her the bother of finding all her stuff and packing it into the plastic bags she’d brought with her.
Defiantly, she did a quick tour of the house anyway.
The downstairs was immaculate: no used mugs on the little side-table next to the sofa; no crumbs on the kitchen worktop next to the toaster and no dirty dishes in the sink. It seemed to her that even the windows sparkled, and she guessed Carl had cleaned them.
Upstairs was much the same. Even the toilet seat and lid were demurely down. She opened the cabinet door. Nothing of hers was in there, though she did do a double-take at the selection of cosmetics on display. Carl owned more than Daisy did, and they were all expensive brands – no supermarket specials for Carl!
In the bedroom, the wardrobe was divided into clothes she recognised (Freddie’s) and those she didn’t (Carl’s).
Daisy had taken an instant dislike to him, but she found it difficult to say whether it was the circumstances under which she’d met him (Daisy suspected she would instantly hate anyone she caught in bed with her boyfriend – though technically the pair of them had been standing upright in the spare room), or whether it was Carl’s brashness which was responsible for Daisy’s aversion to him. Daisy had ongoing issues with the way Carl had been so in-her-face, as if the whole situation had been one of Daisy’s making.
That was the real beef Daisy had with him – Carl was the “other woman”. He’d knowingly hooked up with a man who was already taken, and whether Carl was male or female made no difference (or mostly, no difference) to Daisy. Cheating was cheating.
And the same went for Freddie.
After cramming the boxes into her car (she honestly hadn’t realised she had so much stuff) Daisy walked slowly back into the house she had once lived in, went into the living room and took a long, slow look around.
It didn’t feel like her home anymore. She didn’t know why, because everything looked the same, yet there was an unidentifiable subtle difference in the ambience of the house, as if it knew she had left, and she was no longer welcome.
With tears welling in her eyes, Daisy closed the front door gently, and posted the house key back through the letter box.
She knew she’d never need it again.