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 …