Always and Forever. Cathy Kelly
can you watch and sew? No,’ he added, ‘don’t tell me. It’s like how do you get to Carnegie Hall – practise.’
‘Like rowing,’ Daisy added, looking at his muscles, still very obvious despite the big porridgy sweater he was wearing.
‘I’m out of shape,’ Alex said ruefully. ‘Need to get back in for the season.’
‘And you practise a lot?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I don’t know anything about rowing.’
‘Good. I hate rowing groupies. They discuss rowing with you like a pro but they’ve never put a foot in a scull in their life.’
And he rattled on, telling her about the hours of rowing and gym work, before weaving the conversation back to her and the sort of work it took to get into design college.
Daisy’s shyness evaporated. Naturally, Alex wasn’t interested in her in any romantic sense – nobody ever was – but he seemed to like talking to her, so that gave her an unaccustomed courage.
He wasn’t just being kind talking to the shy, chubby girl because he really fancied one of her friends, kooky Fay, or elegant Jules, who had that Grace Kelly thing going. He was one of those beautiful people who liked talking to everyone. Daisy had decided that some students in college had a scale they worked whereby they wouldn’t deign to talk to anyone below a certain rank. Daisy, no good at fashion design and pretty-ish but too big, was below the bar. The cool women ignored her and the cool men didn’t see her. But life’s gods, like Alex, were above rules and could bestow favour on any lesser mortal. Daisy was fairly sure that as soon as Fay and Jules drifted in Alex’s direction, he’d stop talking to her and turn that charming gaze away. But for now, he was hers: the aquiline nose above the sculpted mouth, the faint tan that spoke of some sort of exotic Christmas holiday outside Ireland, the lazy smile of the man who knows he doesn’t have to try too hard.
Saturday afternoon crept into Saturday evening and hunger hit. The pub did great traditional Irish potato crepes called boxty, so huge plates of boxty and more drink were ordered. The crowd swelled from the original three girls and four rowers to a big clatter of students. They took up a whole section of the Shaman’s, laughing and joking and swapping stories on how unprepared they were for the new term. Still Alex sat beside Daisy.
Warmed up by the two hot whiskys Alex had bought her when she finished her half-pint, she told him that she loved clothes but had come to the painful conclusion that she wasn’t much good at designing, something she’d only told Jules and Fay up to now.
‘It’s desperate,’ she confided. ‘When I think of how hard it was to get on the course, and now I’m here I can see that it’s a mistake.’ She could picture her mother’s face when she heard. Her mother had pushed for Daisy to do a secretarial course in Carrickwell so she’d always have a steady income. In one of the few battles she’d attempted with her mother, Daisy had said no. She’d been the best in her class at school at art and had dreamed of design college since she knew such a thing existed. There weren’t many of Daisy’s dreams within reach – being beautiful, thin, adored by her mother – she couldn’t let this vaguely achievable one escape.
‘Really, Denise, you disappoint me,’ her mother had said in deeply betrayed tones. Her mother tended to call her Denise, rarely Daisy. It was her father who’d called her ‘my little Daisy’, the nickname that had somehow stuck. ‘After all we’ve been through surely you’d see the need for a sensible job, not a rackety one like your father had. I thought I’d taught you that at least. But do what you want. Don’t think about what I want.’
Nan Farrell, as thin as the long cigarettes she chain-smoked, took out her cigarette case and flicked it open. It was silver and engraved, the one good thing she had left from her previous life as part of the Carrickwell élite. That life had ended when she’d got pregnant with Daisy – as she never ceased to remind her daughter – and had hit the real world with an almighty bang, married to a man who loved to enjoy himself and wasn’t interested in either roots or hard work.
‘It’s not as if my opinion has ever mattered to you.’
If only, Daisy thought. Her mother’s opinion was like the pyramids in relation to Cairo – huge, unyielding and no matter where you stood, you could still feel their presence, even if you couldn’t see them.
The memory of the row and the glacier that still existed between herself and her mother took away the happy glow Daisy had been experiencing from talking to Alex. Forgetting for an instant that Alex was a gorgeous man and that she should have been puce with embarrassment just to be talking to him, Daisy leaned her head on her hands on the scratched pub table in the Shaman’s. ‘How can you have messed up your whole career when you’re twenty?’ she mumbled.
‘All the best people do,’ Alex said, patting her arm. He let his fingers roam to the back of her neck where he touched her gently, stroking the soft caramel curls that had escaped from her ponytail. It felt gorgeous, so sexy. Daisy gulped and sat up, forcing Alex to move his hand. She could have stayed there for ever but a man’s attentions, the sort of thing that regularly happened to the likes of Jules and Fay, were not what she was equipped to deal with.
He didn’t appear to notice her jitteriness.
‘At least you know what you wanted to do. I didn’t, still don’t,’ he said. ‘A business degree was the obvious choice for me but it doesn’t light my fire. It’s not on kids’ top-ten lists of brilliant jobs, is it? What do you want to be when you grow up, son? Oh, Dad, I want to sit behind a desk and toil through spreadsheets for ever.’
He told her that he often felt like giving up college if it weren’t for the fact that his course guaranteed a good job at the end of it all. Money was important to him. Daisy got the impression, never voiced, that there hadn’t been much spare cash in the Kenny household. She could empathise with that. There hadn’t been much money in her house either. She and her mother lived in a small terraced house in the centre of Carrickwell, not physically far from the big house where her mother had grown up, but miles away socially. Daisy had been raised not to discuss money.
Nobody was to know that the gas heater was to be used sparingly, or that Sunday’s meat could be made to last until Wednesday if enough imagination was involved.
‘We’ve got our pride,’ Nan insisted.
Despite this, Daisy didn’t believe that money made you happy. Her mother had come from money and there was no proof anywhere that she’d ever had a happy family life, although she was probably more miserable without it than she had been with it.
Love, Daisy felt, was what mattered in life. Not money.
When Alex went to the bar in the Shaman’s to get her a drink, Daisy watched him and knew she must look like a spaniel trailing sad eyes after a departing master. Being aware of how others saw her was Daisy’s biggest failing. She couldn’t walk into a room without wondering if people thought she looked like a whale in whatever she was wearing, and when she spoke during classes, she measured her words as carefully as she measured silk when she was cutting a pattern. Today, though, she wasn’t measuring her words or angling her thighs on the seat so that she looked thinner. That was the effect Alex had upon her.
And so they began to go out. They appeared an unlikely couple: the handsome, popular Alex, who could have hooked up with any girl he wanted, and Daisy, who was sweet and pretty certainly, but why didn’t she do something about her weight?
Other people didn’t see that gentle loving Daisy gave Alex security. Steady, warm, like hot tea in front of a fire, Daisy made the dynamic Alex Kenny feel as if he’d come home.
Daisy tried the Tiffany necklace on. Silver suited her. Gold could make redheads look brassy, she knew. Her mother, who had genuine blonde hair, had warned her so often enough.
‘It’s beautiful,’ breathed Daisy, turning to hug Alex again.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said woodenly, sitting down wearily on the end of