Page 75 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Sounds like she was a lot of fun.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry she died. You must really miss her.’

‘I do. But I’m very lucky to have had her in my life. I have lots of happy memories of her, so in a way she is still with me.’

My words took me by surprise. For once, the first emotion I’d had was not of anger that she’d gone, but gratitude that she’d lived. The thought filled me with joy.

‘And you have her gap-year itinerary too,’ she added.

‘You know about that?’ I said, surprised.

‘I follow Harry on Instagram. All my friends do; he’s adorable. He really loved Brontë. We all hope he can find someone else one day … Oh, sorry!’ She cringed. ‘That sounds bad. I hope I haven’t upset you.’

I smiled, feeling the familiar ache in my throat when I thought about what he and I had both lost. ‘Don’t apologise. I hope he does too. He’s only twenty-three, too young to give up on love.’ So why did you? nagged a voice inside my head.

The banana bread mixture was too big for one bowl, so we made it in two batches. Once the batter was ready, we scraped it into loaf tins and put them in the oven and I set a timer for fifty minutes.

‘The pickers eat outside Ruby’s Bar under the porch,’ Daisy told me as we stacked the dishwasher. ‘The plates and stuff are already over there.’

‘Thanks for helping. I can manage from here if you’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Can I ask you something? I’ll understand if you say no.’ She stumbled over her words. ‘But would it be okay to see the book Brontë made, the gap-year one?’

For a moment I hesitated. Brontë’s messages to herself, her drawings and anecdotes, were so precious to me that I was loath to share them with someone I didn’t really know. Plus, of course, I’d begun my own journalling in it too. I wouldn’t want anyone else reading that. But then I thought that if Brontë were standing here now instead of me, she’d be flattered and fetch the book straight away.

‘Sure. Come over to the cottage. We’ll do it now.’

We left the kitchen and headed to Creek Cottage.

‘So tell me about last night,’ I prompted. ‘How were the puppies?’

‘Adorable. I took some photos.’

She wiped her hands on her shorts and got her phone out to show me, swiping through the images. Brontë used to wipe her hands on her clothes too. You could always tell when she’d been painting by the state of the pockets on the back of her jeans. She had loads of paintings in her room and I made a mental note to look for some when I got home. I would get them framed and hang them, so I could see them every day. They deserved to be admired, not shut away.

‘The puppies were so tiny and their eyes were still closed.’ Daisy grinned. ‘Like Max was the first time we saw him. More like a guinea pig than a dog. Mum wanted one of the others, but Max had the prettiest little face.’

‘What about your dad?’ I asked. ‘Which one did he want?’

‘He wasn’t there. Me and Mum were choosing a puppy for Dad’s birthday as a surprise. He and Max are best friends now. Inseparable.’

‘Tom seemed nice,’ I said. ‘Is that your boyfriend?’

Daisy blushed. ‘He is nice but we’re friends. Not even that, really. It’s his sister who’s my friend. She was in the car when Tom came to pick me up.’

‘So why didn’t she come in instead of him?’

She shoved her phone away, looking sheepish. ‘Because Tom’s obviously too old for me and I wanted Dad to say something.’

‘And he didn’t,’ I said.

‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘He says he trusts me. But sometimes I want a dad who cares about what I’m doing.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ I said. ‘I only met him yesterday, but I already know how much he loves you.’

She looked sceptical. ‘He’s too busy. Especially now that the winery manager and my mum have left.’

‘You must be the only teenager on the planet who wishes their dad was stricter,’ I said, to get a smile out of her.

It worked and she giggled. ‘True. Maybe I should make the most of it. Go a bit wild.’