Next day, I poke my head out of the tent to the perfect summer’s morning. The sun is shining in a clear, forget-me-not blue sky and it’s obvious the forecasters have got it right.
It’s going to be a blisteringly hot day.
Toby phones and says he’ll be back around seven p.m., and I find myself feeling quite pleased at the prospect of another day on my own. I plan to settle down and read the Stephen King book Jake let me borrow.
It’s such an absorbing and entertaining read, and I’m learning so much and picking up so many tips, that it’s midday before I realise it.
Inspired by what I’ve been reading, I decide to take another look at my manuscript. I’ve thought of a new twist that I think will raise the story to a whole new level and I’m eager to start writing.
Clemmy pops her head in around two o’clock and our chat turns to the fruitless trip to Maple Tree House the day before yesterday.
‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ Clemmy says, sitting cross-legged on the grass outside the tent, and reaching for the glass of chilled lemonade I’ve brought out. ‘I keep wondering if I should have tried harder to persuade you to speak to that woman when you had the chance.’ Her rosy cheeks are glowing and she looks genuinely anguished.
I sit down beside her, so we’re both staring out over the lake, and take a sip of my own drink. ‘I doubt you could have convinced me. I felt too frozen with fear.’
‘How do you feel now?’
I shrug. ‘My head is all over the place, to be honest.’
Clemmy gives a rueful smile. ‘I’m too impulsive. If I was in your situation, I’d probably have gone straight up to her and introduced myself and made a total hash of the whole thing, so I really admire your restraint. But …’ She shrugs helplessly. ‘I just can’t imagine how you must be feeling, knowing she might be the owner of the pink handbag. And she might be your birth mother. And yet not actually knowing.’
‘The not knowing is killing me,’ I admit softly.
‘I could drive you back there if you want,’ she offers. ‘I’ve got some time later on, if …’ She gazes at me expectantly.
I think of pulling up in Clemmy’s car outside that house again – and instantly, an entire flock of birds are flapping in my chest, making me feel panicky and breathless.
I shake my head. ‘Thanks, Clemmy. But not today. Can I take a rain check on that offer, though?’
‘Of course. Any time. Just say the word. I take it Toby is working again?’
I nod, trying to look cheerful about it. ‘Crisis at work. He didn’t want to go but I think he felt obliged to. The pressures …’
Clemmy nods understandingly, while I stand there wondering why on earth I’m always trying to make people see Toby in a better light. It was a complete lie about him not wanting to go to work today.
A rogue thought slips into my head. Does Toby deserve me sticking up for him? Aren’t I always thinking of what will make him happy? Whereas he knows how much becoming a published author would mean to me and yet he hasn’t even bothered to ask me how the book is going while he’s off working when we’re supposed to be on holiday. It’s fairly clear that, despite me doing well in the short story competition, he thinks my writing is just a little hobby and that I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of succeeding.
How would I cope if we ended up going our separate ways? There’d be no more evenings eating Chinese take-out, followed by a cuddle on the sofa watching The West Wing. No more lovely, cosy Sunday lunches round at his old family home. No more meeting Rosalind in town, laughing and chatting over coffee about everything under the sun. Just like I used to do with Mum.
Our parting would leave a gaping hole in my life, that’s for sure. A big lump rises in my throat at the very thought.
I’d miss Rosalind so much … and Toby, of course.
‘I need to get back,’ says Clemmy, standing up. ‘Poppy wants to chat about the stall for the summer fayre on Saturday.’
‘Sounds good. Where’s it being held?’
‘In a big field next to the Starlight Hotel. You’ll still be here on Saturday. You and Toby should both come along.’
I smile ruefully. ‘I can’t speak for Toby. I have a feeling he might be working. But I’ll definitely be there.’
‘Great!’ She peers at my book. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’
I show her the cover and, to my annoyance, find myself blushing. ‘It’s a book about writing. It’s a brilliant read.’ I’m about to tell her about Jake but something stops me.
To cover up my sudden awkwardness, I busy myself taking our empty glasses back into the tent. Clemmy calls that she’ll probably see me later and goes off, back to Lakeside View.
I sit on the bed, smoothing the cover of Jake’s book, thinking about its owner. It’s a well-thumbed copy, obviously much-loved. Perhaps I should return it to Jake now before he has a chance to start missing it.
Men can be very particular about their possessions.
Toby, for instance, is a bit funny about the Financial Times. Woe betide anyone who removes his copy from his bedside table to the magazine rack. I’m obviously talking about me here. I did that once and I think he thought I’d thrown it out. His face went so pale, I honestly thought he was about to keel over with shock.
This makes me think about the magazine I placed on his bedside table when we arrived. As far as I’m aware, he still hasn’t read my story. He’s said nothing about it if he has …
It’s just after four and Toby won’t be back for at least another couple of hours. Just time to go for a walk around the lake and into the forest …
There’s a buzz in my veins as I set off. I think it’s the thought of being able to talk books again with Jake that’s putting a spring in my step, because I really enjoyed that last night.
Toby glazes over almost immediately if I start talking about books. They’re just not his thing. And I can understand that. I get a bit glazed myself when he gives me his regular résumé of the week’s peaks and troughs in the stock market, when we’re reading in bed on a Sunday morning.
It never used to bother me that Toby didn’t take much interest in my writing. I told myself he probably played it down because he wanted to protect me from getting hurt by the rejections that would surely follow if I actually submitted the manuscript.
But now it’s starting to bug me.
I’m not sure I’m prepared to give Toby the benefit of the doubt any more. I should face facts. He doesn’t ask about my writing because he’s simply not interested. But he should be, shouldn’t he? If you love someone, surely you want to know everything about them …
Pushing these uneasy thoughts about Toby from my mind, I walk on, my cardigan slung over my shoulder.
Finding Jake’s camp again turns out to be easier than I thought it would be. It seems a much shorter distance this time – but that’s probably because I’m not absolutely exhausted today, it’s not late and pitch black, and I also know now that I shouldn’t deviate from the main path.
I’m feeling unusually hot and sweaty by the time I get there, so I lurk behind a tree and whip my can of antiperspirant out of my backpack. Pulling out the neck of my T-shirt, I give a good long refreshing spray, the cold sensation making me gasp. Then I tackle the slightly awkward task of aiming the nozzle under each arm beneath the T-shirt.
‘Daisy?’
I freeze at the sound of Jake’s voice behind me.
Not wanting to be caught looking dodgy, with my hand plunged down my top, I let go of the can and trap it with my elbow before it has a chance to clatter to the ground. Then I spin round.
He’s looking at me with a faintly puzzled expression, presumably wondering what on earth I was up to, fumbling with myself behind a tree.
‘Jake. Hi!’ I paste on a beaming smile. ‘You just caught me studying the – erm – flora and fauna.’
He looks surprised.
‘Yes, there’s so much to discover in a forest, don’t you think?’ I bluster on. ‘The trunk of this tree, for instance. It’s just so incredibly … erm …’
‘Brown?’ he says, looking bemused.
‘Yes! Brown. The colours in nature.’ I shake my head. ‘Amazing. I’ve brought your book back,’ I add hurriedly, just in case he thinks I’m a stalker.
‘That was quick! But thanks. I’ve just put water on to boil. Would you like some tea?’ he offers.
‘Yes – I couldn’t put it down! And I’d love some, thanks.’
Following him across the clearing to his camp, I swiftly rescue the antiperspirant can and pop it back into my bag.
‘Have a seat.’ He indicates the solitary camp stool.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll just sit down here,’ I say, lowering myself onto a grassy patch and admiring the campfire.
‘Watch the snakes, though,’ says Jake. ‘Nothing worse than feeling one slithering up your trouser leg.’
‘Snakes?’ I stiffen and bring my knees up. ‘Where?’
He grins. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it. No snakes as far as I can see. I think you’re safe.’
My shoulders slump and I breathe again.
‘And even if there is the odd snake or rat, the fire will no doubt ward them off,’ he adds.
I shoot him a highly sceptical look. ‘It’s a lovely fire.’
‘Made the manly way, without matches.’ He twists his lips in a wry grin.
‘Really? Did you forget matches?’
‘I just grabbed the tent and a few things nearby and left.’ A dark shadow crosses his face. ‘Sometimes you just need to get away.’
I nod, studying his profile as he stares away into the trees, looking lost in some private torment.
I clear my throat and he snaps back to the present. ‘Which is why I’m experimenting with a different sort of tea today.’ He shrugs at my bemused expression. ‘I forgot to bring teabags.’
‘Ah. So what …?’
‘Ants,’ he says with a perfectly serious expression. ‘You’ve got to be prepared to eat all manner of things when you’re out in the wild.’
I stare at him in horror, then I realise his mouth is snaking up slightly at the corner. I shake my head. ‘Good try.’
‘You’re right, of course. No insects were harmed in the making of this beverage. It’s nettle tea.’ He reaches for the solitary tin cup, pours in some steaming liquid from the pan and offers it to me.
I take the cup and peer doubtfully into its murky depths. ‘It’s meant to be good for you, isn’t it? Nettle tea.’
‘I believe so. Never tried it myself.’
I laugh. ‘Oh, charming, so I’m your guinea pig!’
He shrugs. ‘Well, if you’re not brave enough …’
My hackles automatically rise. I take a determined sip and almost burn my tongue off, although I try not to let it show. The ‘tea’ has a strong, earthy flavour, like spinach. I make an involuntary revolted face and Jake laughs loudly. It’s a lovely rich sound, echoing through the trees, and it seems to reverberate deliciously through my whole body.
‘Not as good as English breakfast, then?’ he asks.
I shake my head, mesmerised by the way his smile transforms his face.
Dark shadows underscore his eyes and the hint of weariness is still there, but this is the first time I’ve seen Jake’s face relax into a genuine and full-on smile.
I’m burning with curiosity to know what’s eating away at him. What has happened to make him want to escape civilisation in such a rush and take refuge in the woods? What sadness is he running from?
‘How did you make the fire without matches?’ I ask. ‘Did you call Bear Grylls?’
‘Just some useless information I’ve retained from somewhere.’ He shrugs. ‘I used the friction method with a couple of sticks.’
I nod. ‘So … are you escaping from life? No, hang on, you’re here to get first-hand experience of survival in the wild for your next book!’ I say, hoping he doesn’t think I’m fishing. Which of course I am.
He shakes his head. ‘The book I’m writing just now is set in Manhattan. Not much need for survival techniques there.’
‘When will it be published?’
‘Not till next summer.’
‘But your next book’s coming out soon?’
He nods. ‘October.’
‘Ooh, exciting!’
We lapse into silence, staring into the fire. He’s lost in thought again, somewhere distant that etches pain on his face. I’m just starting to wonder if he’s even remembered I’m still here, when he turns.
‘You were right with your first guess,’ he says.
I frown. ‘Escaping from life?’
He nods. ‘I suppose I’m in mourning.’ He frowns, thinking about this. ‘Funny, I never thought of it like that. I just knew I needed to get away from everything.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Was it … someone close?’
He gives a jagged sigh. ‘Yes.’ I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he’s having to force himself to hold it together. ‘Laura. She was … well, she was very special.’
The way he says the name, Laura, drawing out the syllables, squeezes my heart.
‘She was an actor. An incredibly talented stage actor, in fact. Well known for her Shakespearean work. But she … she died.’
‘That’s awful,’ I whisper. ‘How?’
Jake is staring into the fire, his face suddenly gaunt and grey. ‘She drove too fast round a bend and ploughed into a tree.’ There’s a tense silence as I absorb the shock of this. Then, wearily, he adds, ‘I blame myself.’
I gulp. ‘Why? Were you there?’
He doesn’t answer for a moment and I begin to wonder if he’s even heard my question. Then he turns, as if he’s just registered my question.
‘No, Laura was alone in the car. But we’d just had a row and she drove off at speed in a bit of a state.’ He shrugs. ‘I keep thinking that if we hadn’t had words, she might still be here.’
I frown, trying to understand. ‘But you can’t blame yourself just because you had an argument.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘What … what did you argue about?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing, really. That’s the sad thing. A well-known journalist wrote some really scathing things about my latest book in his newspaper column and, as a result, it totally bombed. I’d just had the abysmal sales figures through so I was in a foul mood, and Laura started saying that I shouldn’t just blame the bad review for the slump in sales. She said if I’d made more of an effort with the publicity side of being an author and worked at growing my fan base, maybe it would be a different story. She was right, of course, but I was in no mood to hear the truth.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve always hated the whole thing of having to be active on social media and give interviews. Laura used to keep my website up-to-date, mainly because she was so much better than me at that sort of thing.’
‘You still shouldn’t blame yourself for … what happened to Laura.’
‘Maybe not. But I just can’t stand the fact that the last time I saw her we argued.’ He gives a heavy sigh. ‘Sorry. I’m not great company at the moment. That’s why I came here. I bloody deserve myself.’ He spits these last words out angrily.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I whisper, feeling his pain. It’s clear he loved Laura very much. How awful to be left with such great regrets …
He forces a smile. ‘Thanks. Yeah, it hasn’t been the best of years. And if the next book doesn’t sell more than a handful of copies, I can kiss my writing career goodbye.’
‘Surely not.’ I gaze at him in horror. ‘Your next book will be a success, I’m certain of it.’ But the words sound hollow and rather naive.
‘I like your confidence. But when your book has been trashed by a well-respected reviewer, absolutely nothing is certain.’ He glowers into the flames. ‘I’d love to get my hands on that journalist. I doubt he’d even read the bloody book!’
We’re both silent for a while.
Then he turns with a wry smile. ‘Sorry. I suppose it’s the grief talking. As you can tell, journalists aren’t exactly my favourite people in the world. I’d lock them all up and throw away the key … if it were up to me.’
I swallow. ‘No, of course. I mean, yes, I don’t blame you … for – erm – thinking that.’
He frowns. ‘What is it you do, anyway?’
‘What do I do?’ Confused, I stare at him.
‘For a living? You said you write in your spare time, which suggests you’ve got another job?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Feeling a flush creeping into my cheeks, I swallow hard. ‘I’m – well, it’s funny you should ask.’
I’m a journalist.
I’m one of those bloody pariahs that you hate so much.
‘Well, it’s not funny at all, actually, because the fact is, I’m – erm …’
Oh God, I can’t tell him I’m a journalist! Not after the conversation we’ve just had about his book bombing!
I take a deep breath. ‘Actually I’m – um – I’m a financial analyst!’
‘Really?’ He looks surprised, as if this was the very last thing he was expecting to come out of my mouth.
He’s not the only one …
My whole body is hot with shame.
What the hell made me say that?
As Jake gets up to throw the rest of the nettle tea away, I surreptitiously pull out the neck of my T-shirt and blow a waft of cooling air down it.
‘So what do you analyse?’ he asks, sitting back down and looking fascinated.
My stomach drops. ‘Oh – erm – this and that, you know. The Footsie? The stock market? The Dow James? That sort of thing.’
He grins. ‘You mean the Dow Jones? Or is that some sort of private joke among you analysts?’
My face must now be the colour of cooked beetroot.
‘Haha! Yes! We analysts never stop larking around. Honestly, it’s just one big laugh-fest where I work.’ I shake my head fondly. ‘The Dow James. Hilarious!’
‘I always imagine it to be quite labour-intensive, the work of a financial analyst,’ he says. ‘The guys I know never even seem to have the time to take holidays.’
I nod with confidence, thinking of Toby. ‘That’s very true. We almost didn’t make it here.’ I give a casual shrug. ‘Big meetings with investors, high-level negotiations … sort of thing.’
He nods sagely and I congratulate myself. I almost sound as if I know what I’m talking about!
‘Toby must be very patient,’ says Jake.
‘Yes, I suppose he is, considering the workload his boss expects him to undertake.’
Jake looks surprised. ‘Toby’s an analyst as well?’
I stare at him. I’m such a rubbish liar, it totally slipped my mind we were supposed to be talking about me.
‘Oh. Yes.’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Toby’s an analyst. He’s a much better one than me. That’s – er – that’s how we met, in fact.’
‘Working for the same company?’
I nod, frantically searching my brain for a speedy exit before I do a Houdini and tie myself in complete knots.
Jake’s mouth curls up at the corner. ‘You’re not a financial analyst, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m not.’
His brow furrows a little. ‘So why …?’
I shrug, feeling really stupid for telling such a big fat lie. I feel like a naughty child.
‘I write for a trade publication. I didn’t want you to think I was one of those journalists you hate.’
‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘What’s it called, this trade publication?’
I cringe like I do when anyone asks this question. ‘What would you like it to be called?’
He laughs. ‘That bad?’
I nod. ‘Plunge Happy Monthly.’
‘Oh! That sounds … fantastic.’ He’s trying hard not to smile.
‘Go on. You can laugh. I’m used to it.’
His lips twitch. ‘Never. And, for the record, I could never hate you.’
His eyes meet mine and linger there, and a funny little shiver runs all the way up my spine. What’s happening to me?
Then I remember his grief over Laura and the moment passes.
I search for a safe topic. ‘I’ve just finished writing the first draft of a book!’
‘That’s great.’ Jake looks impressed.
‘It’s taken me five years, though, and there were times I thought I’d never finish it.’
He nods. ‘That often happens with the first one. What’s the book about?’
Flushing, I give him a brief summary of the plot.
‘Sounds good. What pushed you to finish it in the end?’
I swallow hard. ‘Well, I … I lost my mum earlier this year. She always believed in me. I suppose I’m doing it for her.’
His face is full of compassion. ‘I feel for you. I’ve gone through a similar thing. Losing someone is the pits.’
I nod sadly. And then for some reason I start telling him about how she was actually my adoptive mum, and that part of the reason for being down here this week was to find out more about my actual birth mother.
‘Something stopped me knocking on the door of Maple Tree House,’ I add sadly, after describing how Clemmy took me there in the car. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’ I shrug. ‘I’m thinking it might be best to just remember the loveliest mum I could ever possibly have had. And leave it at that.’
He nods slowly. ‘Maybe. I suppose you never know what you’re going to find.’
I sigh. ‘That’s the thing.’
‘You might want to try again.’
I swallow hard. ‘Can’t today. Toby’s away with the car.’
He looks puzzled. ‘All day?’
I nod with a sheepish smile. ‘He’s working from the Guildford office. Toby finds the countryside … challenging.’
‘Ah.’ Jake nods thoughtfully.
I shrug. ‘But never mind. It’s given me a chance to talk books with you!’
It seems so natural talking to Jake, even though part of me can’t quite believe I’m telling all this to a relative stranger. Jake is easy to talk to, though. Maybe it’s because we have a love of writing in common.
He listens attentively as I talk about Mum and how I found the handbag after she died. And the envelope with the scribbled address on it.
It feels so good to talk about it; to describe Mum’s best qualities to someone who seems genuinely interested, knowing that he’s seeing the person who meant the whole world to me through my eyes …
‘Does the heroine in your story find her lost sister in the end?’ Jake asks, when we get back onto the subject of writing.
‘Hattie? Yes, she does. Her sister, Jenny, has been living in a squat, too ashamed to go home but secretly longing for her family to come looking for her.’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘I suppose Hattie could have given up on finding her sister when it seemed impossible. No one would have blamed her.’
‘True, but that wouldn’t be a great story, would it? I wanted to write about a feisty, resourceful heroine who’s scared of what she’ll find but is nonetheless determined to do whatever it takes to uncover the truth about her beloved sister.’
‘I’d like to read it,’ says Jake.
‘Really?’ I shake my head, feeling pleased but shy all at once. ‘You don’t mean that.’
He frowns. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, you’re a successful writer. You must have loads of aspiring Stephen Kings asking you to give them your opinion of their work.’
He grins. ‘One or two, I suppose. But seriously, you’ve sold me the story with your description of your battling heroine and the high stakes she’s faced with. I’m intrigued.’
I can’t help the delighted smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
A real writer wants to read what I’ve written!
It’s quite a terrifying thought, to be honest, but maybe it’s time I left the safety of my writing cave and started putting the results of my efforts out there.
There’s always going to be the risk of rejection. Even J.K. Rowling must have at one stage felt she’d never make it as a writer. I heard that her first manuscript was turned down by no less than twelve different publishers before Bloomsbury spotted something they liked … And what was it Stephen King said in the book? When he started writing, the nail on his wall eventually couldn’t support the weight of rejection slips impaled upon it. So he replaced the nail with a spike and carried on writing …
‘So will you?’ Jake is smiling. ‘Let me read your book?’
Shyly, I nod.
‘You clearly know what makes a great story. The kind that draws in the reader and has them rooting for the main character right from the start. But one thing does puzzle me.’
‘What’s that?’ I stare at him, my heart sinking.
Oh God, here we go!
Jake has detected a flaw in my writing even before he’s read a single word!
‘No, it’s just that you’ve given your heroine, Hattie, an epic journey with a hugely satisfying ending. And yet in your own life, you’re thinking of giving up on your search at the first hurdle.’ He shrugs and his unspoken question hangs in the air between us.
A quiver of nausea snakes through me. He’s right, of course.
He looks genuinely interested in my answer but he’s taken the wind out of my sails. My mouth opens but I’m at a loss as to how to answer him.
‘You can tell me to shut up if you like,’ he murmurs softly, seeing my expression. ‘I know you’re more than capable of doing that.’ He twists his lips in gentle amusement. ‘It’s just that you seem to me to be every bit as feisty and resourceful as Hattie. Don’t you deserve the same chance you’ve given her to find what you’re looking for?’
‘But Hattie’s just a character in a book,’ I blurt out. ‘It’s pure make-believe. A fantasy. In real life, there’s absolutely no guarantee of a happy ending.’
‘True.’ He shrugs. ‘But you never know …’
I stare at him, tears pricking at my eyelids.
You never know …