It Could Have Been Her(70)

Daisy beams when she sees me at the kitchen sink when she gets home from school that afternoon. “You’re back,” she says, and gives me a celebratory fist bump.

“I am,” I say, “and I’m making lasagna.”

“Oh my God,” she says dramatically. “Thank God.”

“How’s school?”

“Good,” she says, plucking grapes from the fresh bunch I’ve put in a bowl for her. “You know. OK.”

“What happened about that girl who was giving you a hard time. Tamara?”

“Tamika. Yeah. She’s still being a bitch, but it’s fine. I’ve got it under control. And there’s a boy…”

I see an uncharacteristic bloom of heat pass through her pale complexion and a small smile pulls at her mouth.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Jackson.”

“And Jackson is how old?”

“Same age as me.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell your mum.”

“As if! And anyway, it’s not like anything’s happening. We’re just chatting. He’s nice, that’s all.” She stands and watches me drying a measuring jug with a tea towel. “How was Blaise?” she says, biting her lip slightly.

I turn and smile at her. “She was amazing. It was amazing. We had the best, best night. But your mum, she deleted her number from my phone, so I haven’t been able to message her.”

Daisy pulls her phone out of her pocket and looks at me over the top of it. “Blaise Tucker?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Drummond. She has her mother’s surname.”

“Blaise with an S?”

I nod.

She taps her phone.

A moment later she turns it toward me. “Is that her?”

It is. It’s my girl, smiling and laughing all over the world, those big white teeth of hers, that sweet open face. I nod again. “That’s her.”

Daisy passes me her phone and says, “Send her a message.”

I take the phone from her and type in a message:

Sweetheart, it’s Dad. I’ve lost all the contacts on my phone. Can you send me your number on here? This is Daisy’s account, who I live with. Thanks, love. Would be great to have your brother’s phone number too. And your mum. Love you, Dad.

I press send and then go back to Blaise’s account. Her last post is a series of ten photos, each taken in a different part of London, and there’s me and her in the final shot, our arms around each other, smiling up into the phone camera in our booth at the Standard. I look so happy, so relaxed. I turn it to show Daisy. “Look,” I say, “that’s us the night we got together.”

Daisy stares at the image thoughtfully. “She’s really pretty. You look really happy.”

“Yup. Right on both counts.”

“I’m really sorry,” she says, taking her phone back from me. “About what happened. I feel like it was my fault, for telling you to go.”

“No,” I say. “No, it was not your fault. It was the right thing to do. I’m glad I went. And the only person to blame for what happened to me is your mum. OK?”

Daisy nods, fiddling with her fingernails in her lap. Then suddenly she looks up at me and says, “Promise me you won’t leave us, Stuart. Please. I know it’s a nightmare here. I know Mum is fucking mad and Grandma is a total bitch. I know how shit it all is, but please, please don’t leave. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I look Daisy directly in the eye and I smile. “I will stay here until you’re eighteen, OK? I’ll stay here until you’re ready to fly.”

Five and a half years, I think to myself. In five and a half years, I’ll only be forty-six. I’ll still have gas in the tank. I’ll still have money in the bank, a twinkle in my eye. I could start again. Maybe even somewhere new. Amsterdam? Edinburgh? Maybe even settle in Australia to be closer to Blaise? If there’s one thing my years in this tainted house have taught me, it’s the beauty of everything, of every single thing. Having your wings clipped makes you see the world differently, shows you the extraordinariness of normal lives.

Daisy nods. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”





chapter fifty-seven


Jane smiles at Helen Yaxley, who is halfway through hosing down her dogs outside her house.

“Jane,” Helen says, pointing the hose toward the gravel and then turning it off at the wall. “Lovely to see you. How are you?”

“Oh, fab. Yes. All good. Just, you know, still pottering around trying to find your ex-guest Rose White. Who it turns out is actually called Daisy Black.”

“Gosh, is she really? Sounds like you’ve been doing sterling work.”

“Funnily enough, turns out she might have been down here to meet her uncle. He works as a—ha! Quite funny actually—but he works as a clown at the circus. I mean, someone has to be a clown, I suppose, and anyway, not only has Daisy disappeared but so has her clown uncle. And God, I could go on, Helen. I really could. But for now, Reggie and I”—she indicates the German pointer in the passenger seat of her car—“we’re heading over to the grounds where the circus was on the bank holiday and we’re going to have a sniff around. See what we can find. And I wondered—and I know this sounds weird—but could I possibly grab something of Daisy’s from her suitcase? Something she’d worn? Assuming you still have her things?”