Page 11 of The Only Way Is Up

‘They did,’ Daisy nodded. ‘At least until schools stopped teaching kids to cook.’

That was a long-standing source of bitterness for Stella, along with the fact that Daisy hadn’t used her fame and influence to engineer a Mary Berry-style comeback for her own mother. Stella had been notably silent after the engagement announcement and The Incident, which meant she was either furiously blanking her daughter, or more likely had done a deal to talk to a newspaper instead. Daisy had dropped her a message out of courtesy to let her know her new address but hadn’t received a reply. The silence was blissful, but ominous.

‘So, what else has been going on?’ Justin was eyeing up the last macaroon like it might melt before his eyes. Daisy slid over the box before he started drooling. ‘Met any of the locals yet?’

‘Lots. People keep popping round with food. The path to this cottage is paved with jars of marmalade and fruit crumbles.’

‘You need beefy security, like one of those Kardashians,’ mumbled Justin through macaroon crumbs. ‘Sorry I haven’t been around to fight them off, I’ve been teaching bloody awful kids about bees and pigs . . . Who have you met so far?’

Daisy ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Couple of teachers, a nice woman who runs the pub. The vicar, who seemed rather disappointed to learn that I’m a heathen. Also Archie’s cleaner, who came to ask if the cottage needed deep cleaning. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks – what does she think I’m doing? Oh, and another woman. Posh, sensible shoes. Melanie? Melody?—’

‘Ah, Melanie Forbes-Glover,’ Justin finished. ‘She’s married to Gerald Forbes-Glover. He lost his job as an MP after getting an illicit blowjob in the Palace of Westminster.’

‘Oh shit!’ Daisy’s eyes popped. ‘I remember! That poor woman. Why would you stick by a man like that?’

‘They have a son at the school,’ said Justin. ‘Will. He’s a great kid, super smart. Presumably Melanie has nowhere else to go. We call her Lemony. Because she’s so bitter.’

‘Who’s we?’ said Daisy, raising her eyebrows.

‘Me and Marcus. He’s our local tennis coach.’

‘Ah,’ smiled Daisy. ‘He put a card through my letter box, welcoming me to the village and offering me a free tennis lesson.’

Justin shrugged. ‘He’s a good coach, but he fancies himself as a ladies’ man. Also his mum is your cleaner and the biggest gossip in the village, so he’ll find out all your filthy habits.’

Daisy laughed. ‘I’ve yet to meet a cleaner who isn’t a massive gossip, or a tennis player who doesn’t fancy himself as a ladies’ man.’

‘Right.’ Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘Talking of which, where is the handsome fiancé?’

That was actually a very good question.

‘He’s busy in London, but hopefully visiting soon,’ she replied, trying to sound convincing. She knew he was meeting his manager Benny for dinner in London tonight, some place in Soho that Christian couldn’t remember the name of. Daisy made a point of calling him every day but it always seemed to go to voicemail. He called her back eventually, but his mood was unpredictable and Daisy found it emotionally draining. There was no progress on the Wimbledon contract and the whole thing was stressing him out. She wondered if getting started with wedding plans might give them something else to talk about.

Justin looked sceptical. ‘Sure he is. Tell you what, I’m just about to put a chicken in the oven, so come round in a couple of hours and help me eat it. You might want to bring your own salt. You can meet Mr Clark.’

‘Who’s Mr Clark?’ asked Daisy.

‘The school headmaster,’ Justin muttered, wiping the crumbs from his mouth and scattering them down his jumper. ‘Tom. He’s a nice guy. You’ll like him.’

Daisy headed to Justin’s clutching a bunch of cream roses, bought in a panic dash to Waitrose in Evesham when she realised any dinner offerings of food or wine would be inappropriate for her host’s dietary limitations, even though he probably wouldn’t complain. The spotty youth on the checkout had given her a knowing look and been rewarded for his impure thoughts with a beaming smile from Daisy. She wasn’t going to apologise for The Incident or let total strangers shame her. Her manager Katie had told her never to flinch because that gave power to shitty opinions. This kind of Katie wisdom was one of the many reasons why Daisy loved her.

Justin accepted the flowers with a hug and bustled off to the kitchen to find a milk bottle to put them in, leaving Daisy to warm her cold hands by the crackling wood burner in the lounge. The layout of Beech Cottage was identical to Willow Cottage, other than this place needed a really good scrub. Chemical cleaners were a no-no in Justin’s current world, which left him experimenting with herb-scented water, fresh beeswax and general neglect.

She jumped at the knock at the door, which immediately opened with a booming ‘Hello!’, presumably from the mysterious headmaster. Daisy instantly felt nervous, like she was about to get a dressing-down for some minor infraction of school rules. She may have spent her childhood at stage school, but she still knew what a bollocking from an angry teacher felt like.

As Tom Clark strode into the room trailing a dripping brown dog, Daisy had two simultaneous thoughts: first that a telling-off from this headmaster might be well worth misbehaving for, and second that this was definitely the man who had given her a drenching with his car on her first day in Shipton Combe. Now she could see him properly, his dark hair and blue eyes reminded her of James McAvoy, which was never a bad thing. In fact, he was really quite dishy, which made it all the more disappointing that he was evidently a Toyota-driving arsehole. To make things worse, he looked at her first with shock, and then with pure loathing, so the feeling was clearly mutual.

Daisy held out her hand and smiled. ‘Hello, you must be Tom. I’m Daisy.’

Tom nodded and took her hand for the briefest possible second, immediately looking away. ‘I didn’t know Justin had another guest. Is he in the kitchen?’

He hurried off without waiting for her answer, leaving Daisy with the dog and a slightly sick feeling in her stomach. Was he one of those stuffed-shirt morality campaigners who had cancelled Daisy entirely, or had he been hoping for an evening with Justin alone? For the first time it occurred to her that they might be a couple, and she felt bad about cramping their style. Presumably Justin’s restricted diet didn’t prevent him going down on the locals.

Justin returned from the kitchen, carrying three grubby glasses and a ceramic flagon stuffed with an old champagne cork. ‘Come on, you two. It’s time to try my homemade mead.’

By the time Justin served baked apples with honey and goat’s milk ice cream, Daisy was comprehensively pissed, and also one hundred per cent sure that, despite Justin’s assurances, Tom Clark was not a nice guy and she didn’t like him one bit. He might be ridiculously handsome, but it was obvious he hated her guts, for no reason she could fathom other than he was clearly an uptight, judgemental bastard who thought her somehow unworthy of his attention.

‘Tell Daisy about that time my goat escaped and trampled through sports day,’ said Justin, valiantly trying to keep the conversation going.