Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson
hall, a look of alarm on her face, holding her hands aloft as if about to conduct an orchestra. ‘Daisy? What’s happened? Are you okay?’
I carry on scrabbling through the pile of mail, even though I’ve been through it three times already.
‘I can’t find the tickets,’ I wail, trying to ignore the horrible panicky feeling rising inside.
‘Oh.’ Absently blowing on her newly varnished nails, she contemplates me with the slightly worried frown I’ve grown used to lately. ‘I put them in the kitchen drawer when I was clearing up. I … um … wasn’t sure you’d be going. What with … everything that’s happened.’
My eyes flash with impatience. ‘Of course I’m going. It’s Mum’s special day and this is her birthday treat. You know she loves musicals. Especially this one.’
Rachel nods, murmuring, ‘Oklahoma!’
‘Precisely, and I need to get a move on,’ I call, haring through to the kitchen and pulling open the messy drawer where all the miscellaneous items live. ‘Or else I’m going to be late. The performance starts at two.’ Finding the tickets, I sigh with relief.
‘Are you getting the bus in?’ Rachel is hovering in the doorway. ‘Shall I come with you?’
I turn away from her to close the drawer, suppressing a sigh and flicking my eyes to the ceiling. ‘There’s really no need, Rachel. But thanks for offering.’
I love Rachel to bits. But I wish she wouldn’t fuss so much. I’m absolutely fine, and I’ve told her that over and over again, but she obviously thinks I’m lying.
Rachel and I have been friends ever since we worked as reporters on the same local newspaper when I was fresh out of journalism school.
Our career paths have diverged a little since then. We’re both thirty-two. But while Rachel has worked her way up to be chief sub-editor at a well-known glossy magazine, saving enough to own this house, I spend my days writing about flappers and float valves. This sounds more boring than it is. Actually, scratch that. It’s exactly as tedious as it sounds. But it pays the rent.
Writing for a plumbing trade publication called Plunge Happy Monthly is not my dream job if I’m honest. But on the plus side, anything I don’t know about spigots and galvanised steel piping really isn’t worth knowing about.
Another advantage is that I don’t have the unsociable early mornings and late nights that Rachel has in her senior position, so therefore I’ve got more free time to focus on writing my book. That’s the theory, anyway.
I’ve been working on my book – a quirky romance, with an accident-prone heroine called Hattie – for the last five years, on and off. Mum keeps saying I’m too talented a writer not to finish it and I keep promising I’ll get it done but it never seems to happen. I suppose I’m worried that when I’ve finally finished it, everyone will laugh and think it’s terrible, and say things like, Who on earth does Daisy Cooper think she is? Imagining she can write a book people would actually want to read?
I’ve made a decision, though, that now is the right time.
I will stop critiquing the chapters I’ve already written and making little changes to the opening, and instead, I will push on till the end. Mum will be so proud of me.
Riding the bus into town, I sway from side to side, my thoughts drifting to the last time I went to see one of the old-style musicals with Mum. It was her birthday that time, too, and the musical in question was West Side Story.
Even I was excited about that one. I’d grown up singing the songs from West Side Story because the soundtrack was on in the house all the time. We used to do the housework on a Saturday morning, singing along to ‘America’ because it has such energy. And I clearly remember whirling around the living room, clutching cushions like dance partners and trilling ‘I Feel Pretty’ at the tops of our voices. We collapsed, hot and laughing hysterically, on the sofa and Mum drew me in for a hug and declared that when I wrote my best-selling book one day, it would be even more fabulous than her favourite musical. I wanted to be a writer even then, when I was about ten. It’s funny the things you remember.
It was just Mum and me at home because my dad died when I was four, soon after we moved up north from Surrey, and our only relatives – Dad’s sister and her family – live in Canada. Mum’s oldest friend, Joan, lives down in Surrey – they met at primary school down there – and she goes down to visit Joan, but not very often. It’s not surprising, I suppose, that Mum and I have always been really close. I’d say that, as well as being the most brilliant mum I could ever have, she’s also my best friend. We talk about absolutely everything and she’s always so supportive, even when she doesn’t entirely agree with my decisions.
As well as owning the soundtrack to West Side Story, we also had the film version on video when I was a kid – it’s probably still there in a box somewhere – and we watched it together so many times that, even now, I’d probably be word-perfect if you asked me to write down the lyrics. Beautiful actress Natalie Wood played the lead role. She died in a mysterious boating accident several years before I was even born and I remember being haunted by the sad tale of her losing her life at such a relatively young age. She was just forty-three.
My eyes mist over, taking me by surprise. Life is so horribly fragile. It can be over in a split second.
But I swallow on the silly lump in my throat, telling myself this is going to be a happy day.
When I reach the theatre, it appears I was wrong about the happy bit.
A huge sign hangs above the doors.
Performance cancelled due to illness.
My heart plummets into my shoes. This can’t be true, surely. Not today of all days. Maybe the sign is still up there from yesterday and they’ve forgotten to take it down …
In the theatre, I walk up to the desk and stand in a queue with other disappointed musical lovers to find out what’s going on. When finally it’s my turn, I can’t help the snippiness in my tone, even though the very nice woman on duty explains that, sadly, the cast have been struck down with laryngitis.
I give a bitter laugh. ‘What, all of them?’
‘Well, no, the lead and her understudy.’
‘Well, that seems a bit odd. I mean, laryngitis isn’t infectious, is it? Not the kind you get from straining your voice.’
Confrontation is not my style as a rule, but agitation makes the words burst out.
The woman blanches slightly. Maybe I’m speaking too loudly. Or looking too desperate.
Lowering my voice, I lean a little closer. ‘Look, I know it’s not your fault it’s been cancelled. But this was meant to be a treat for my mum’s birthday. She’s sixty-one today and she’s been looking forward to it for ages.’ I’m starting to shake slightly and I can feel the tears welling up. ‘She circled the date on her calendar with a red marker pen, like she always does when she’s excited about something. It can’t possibly be cancelled.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The woman’s face softens with sadness. ‘I know it’s not quite the same but an extra day is being added to the show’s run. Can I put you both down for two seats on the thirty-first instead?’
She scans the entrance hall, presumably expecting to spot someone who looks like she might be my mum.
I swallow hard.
If I tell this nice woman the truth, her face will fall in shock and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.
‘Yes. Two seats on the thirty-first would be perfect.’
‘Lovely. Let me just organise that for you.’
I nod, blinking furiously as the tears threaten to spill over. I can’t bring myself to tell her that, actually, only one