Page 17 of The Only Way Is Up

‘To see your mum, among other things. You should talk to her; she might have some ideas.’

Will blushed and looked a little ashamed. ‘Yeah. I will.’ He looked around, realising some of the other students were frozen in awe at the sight of him chatting to Daisy Crawford. ‘It’s such a headfuck you being here,’ he said. ‘Must be a nightmare for our headmaster.’

‘So I hear,’ said Daisy, deciding she quite liked the idea of Tom getting grief from the governors and parents about having yet another disgraced celebrity living in the school grounds, so soon after Justin and his tax evasion. Serves him right for being a prick.

Daisy gave Will a reassuring smile and walked away, joining the path that cut across the field between the back of the school and the lake. A movement above made her look up. It startled her to see Tom Clark watching her from a first-floor window, his face curiously blank. He held his hand up in acknowledgement, and Daisy instinctively twitched her hand to wave back, before thinking better of it and burying it in her pocket instead.

She dragged the now empty trolley across the field and around the side of the stables, when she noticed someone, a woman, sitting on Justin’s front step, holding a tankard of what looked like mead. Justin was unloading logs from a wheelbarrow, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he regaled the person with a story. Daisy caught the words ‘pigshit’ and ‘teacher’ as her brain finally computed what she was seeing.

As if on cue, the heavens opened and a murder of crows took flight from a nearby tree with a discordant rattle of caws and flapping wings. A suitable entrance, Daisy thought sourly, for her mother.

CHAPTER TEN

‘—Most daughters would be delighted that their mother had come to support them during a challenging time,’ Stella muttered. Daisy was sitting on her mother’s bed in the small room above the bar in the Shipton Arms, trying not to feel too oppressed by the overly busy wisteria wallpaper. Stella was hanging clothes in the wardrobe with a level of aggression that made Daisy fear for the collection of floral chiffon blouses.

Daisy took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, thinking mindful thoughts. ‘Yes, but it’s been weeks since the NTAs. So what are you doing here?’

‘After everything I’ve done for you. I paved the way for your success, smoothed the path. You have no idea of the sacrifices I’ve made. And what do I get in return? Obscurity, borderline poverty, total lack of appreciation—’

Here we go. Daisy had heard variations on this speech thousands of times. ‘Please don’t talk to me about lack of appreciation. I paid off your mortgage from the proceeds of that skin cream deal.’ She began ticking off a list on her fingers. ‘The villa in Portugal which you can use whenever you like. Clothes, gifts, tickets to shows, red carpet events. The fact that I’m here, even willing to LOOK YOU IN THE EYE . . . after you sold me out to the tabloids—’

‘That was a misunderstanding.’ Stella jiggled a cardigan onto a hanger, tossing her head to flick her salt-and-pepper hair out of her eyes. ‘What do they call it? Entrapment.’

‘What? Both times?’ Daisy said sarcastically.

‘All I’m asking for is your help, to get me back on TV. Prue Leith can’t do Bake Off forever—’

‘No.’

‘You’re selfish, just like your father,’ Stella announced bitterly. ‘He was gone before I even knew I was pregnant, and I had to spend the first part of my career pretending to be a tragic widow. Whatever the producers of Waste Not, Want Not said at the time, being a single mother finished my career.’

‘Are you blaming me now for being born?’ Eyes wide, Daisy held out her hands in disbelief.

‘No, of course not,’ snapped Stella. ‘But I put my needs aside despite everyone’s petty judgement and raised you to be a superstar. And what thanks do I get, either from you, or the people who made millions off you? None.’ She rammed the cardigan into the wardrobe, causing several other hangers to clatter to the floor.

‘Which takes me back to my original question,’ Daisy said, forcing herself to stay calm. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Because now you know what petty judgement feels like,’ said Stella quietly, her eyes filling with tears, although Daisy was hard pushed to see if they were real or manufactured.

Daisy jogged to the village tennis court in a state of high anxiety, hoping it would start raining again so she could hide in the cottage with the door locked. The call with Katie yesterday had helped her feel more in control of the situation, and the visits round the village had convinced her that this break could be relaxing, potentially productive, maybe even fun. But thanks to Stella, everything had gone to shit again.

It wasn’t that Daisy didn’t love her mother or appreciate the efforts Stella had put in to give her the best start in her career. Scraping together the funds for stage school, introducing her to her TV network, giving her a gentle push in the right direction. Daisy didn’t underestimate the value of Stella’s leg-up, but how long was she supposed to repay that debt? Everything that followed was down to Daisy’s hard graft and talent; there was no question that she had succeeded on her own merit. But, twenty-five years on, Stella fully expected Daisy to return the favour and revive her TV career.

Daisy refused to do it – and there was a very long list of reasons why, among them that Stella absolutely couldn’t be trusted. It was a hard thing to say about your own mother, but it was true; she’d aired her grievances in the tabloids too many times. Her mother liked a drink – not in a Mary Berry ‘ooh, I love a cheeky tipple’ kind of way, but in a ‘wine is a major food group’ way that had made her sloppy and obnoxious. Any attempts to talk to Stella about her drinking were batted away as nonsense; and even Ruby had intervened on occasion. Daisy worried about her mother’s physical health, her mental well-being and what she was capable of when she’d had a few. Stella’s arrival in Shipton Combe was nothing but bad news.

Daisy trudged slowly back through the school grounds in the gathering dark, past the lake and Tom’s dark office window, her racquet bag slung over her shoulder and her head full of chaotic thoughts. The free lesson from Marcus had been a write-off, and mentally drawing Christian’s face on a barrage of tennis balls hadn’t really helped at all. As for Marcus doing his best to charm her – there absolutely wasn’t room for another man like that in Daisy’s life. And talking of other men – she squinted – what was Tom Clark doing loitering outside Willow Cottage? Daisy started to beat a hasty retreat, but it was obvious he’d seen her.

‘I’m sorry to doorstep you.’ Tom’s voice wavered as he took a step forward. ‘I just need five minutes of your time. Please.’

Daisy noticed the dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept. He was still unfeasibly handsome, but he looked bleak and a little broken. She really didn’t have the energy to make him feel any worse so she nodded and unlocked the door, leaving it open as she started to head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She glanced at the clock – it was more or less five, so she grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses instead.

Gesturing Tom to one of the squashy sofas near the wood burner, Daisy poured them both glasses, then sat in awkward silence as they sipped their wine. Henry the lab was stretched out on the rug, toasting his belly, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. Finally, Tom cleared his throat, turning his empty glass round in his hands. ‘Look, I said I wanted to explain about dinner at Justin’s. I feel terrible about it. My behaviour was aw—’

Daisy’s phone rang loudly, the vibration rattling it across the coffee table. ‘Christian’ lit up the gloom. They both stared at it as it continued to jump around.

Tom stood up. ‘Sorry . . . Now clearly isn’t a good time.’

‘It’s fine, I’ll call him back,’ Daisy said quickly, but Tom was already pulling on his coat.