for my mother for many years, so you have until the end of the month to give me your decision,
Regards,
Michael Harris
At least he was proposing to give me more time. Maybe a miracle would happen. I texted him back: I will be in touch after this weekend. A If I was right about the kind of man he was, the smiley would annoy him. Good, I thought.
Friday 9 October
I had an easy train journey, read a book and arrived at the hotel early Friday evening. It looked lovely. An old manor house set in acres of parkland.
Inside was a wide reception hall with oak floors, wood-panelled walls, tasteful antiques and the scent of lavender beeswax polish in the air. I was shown to the first floor by a well-spoken young woman with a ponytail called Felicity, who was eager to let me know all about the facilities of the hotel. When I saw the beautiful room with heavy drapes and king-size bed with velvet and brocade cushions, and the enormous bunch of country garden flowers, I felt myself tearing up at the idea of Mum having arranged such a treat for us. I hadn’t had a spa weekend in years, and was really looking forward to whatever treatments Mum had planned.
‘Have my sisters arrived?’ I asked. ‘Rose Edwards and Fleur Parker?’
‘Ms Edwards has arrived. I believe she’s having supper in her room,’ said Felicity. ‘And Ms Parker called this afternoon to say that she would be checking in later and didn’t require dinner.’
Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, I thought after Felicity had left me alone. I was glad to have some time to enjoy where I was. I ran a bath in the marble bathroom, poured in all the Molton Brown white sandalwood products from the shelves, then lay in it for half an hour, inhaling the woody scent and feeling utterly spoilt. After my bath, I put on the enormous fluffy white courtesy robe, ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a half-bottle of Sancerre. Bliss, I thought as I sank back into the plump cushions on the bed. All I need now is a handsome hunk with a thing about older women to share it all with. Maybe not. I’d feel self-conscious after so long. Maybe a long-sighted hunk? And can I really be bothered? It’s been a long time, years, since I’ve had a lover. I’m not sure I remember what goes where any more. I flicked on the telly. A romantic comedy was starting. Before Sunset.
If a man was with me, I thought, the channel would be changed and football put on. The duvet would be nicked in the night; I’d be kept awake by his snoring. No thanks. Sometimes it’s good to be single. I can watch what I want, sleep spread-eagled across the bed with no one to consider and no one to try and please.
Fleur
Friday 9 October, 11 a.m.
I called Rose’s house to suggest we drive down to the hotel together. I thought it would be a good chance to re-establish contact, find out how she’s doing. No one home. Left a message. Am packed and ready and looking forward to the weekend. Perhaps we could all have supper together this evening, break the ice, start things on a positive note.
1 p.m.: Texted Rose’s mobile. No answer.
5 p.m.: Tried Rose’s landline again. Still no one home. Might as well set off.
6 p.m.: Rose replied to my text. She’s already at the hotel. The mean cow. It clearly didn’t even occur to her that we could drive together. That’s how much she wants my company. So much for a cosy pre-programme supper – no way that’s going to happen now. Let it go, Fleur, let it go. Oh well, I don’t have to be there until the morning so I’ll get there in my own time when I’m good and ready and I’ll go straight to my room. Bugger the pair of them.
Dee
Saturday 10 October
Rose and Fleur were already in the lobby, seated at a low table, when I came down in the morning. Rose was dressed in her preppy casual look – jeans, a white shirt and pearls; Fleur, in pale pink cashmere and white jeans, looked as feminine as ever. I was in grey leggings and a loose T-shirt. We were at a spa, after all, and here to relax: who cared what we looked like? Not me. I’d had a good night’s sleep, a delicious room-service breakfast of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and soda bread, and felt in a positive mood, looking forward to whatever Mum had planned for us. Maybe an aromatherapy massage? A facial? Reflexology?
‘I’ve already googled him,’ said Fleur, looking at her phone.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Daniel Scott,’ she replied and held up her phone screen for Rose and me. It showed a man with silver grey hair and smiling eyes, possibly in his fifties.
The photo looked like a professional PR shot but the man in it looked interesting. Damn, I thought. And I look like a bag lady. I was just wondering whether to run upstairs and change when the real-life Daniel appeared. He clocked immediately that Fleur had his face on her phone.
‘Been checking me out?’ His eyes twinkled. So did Fleur’s. Not mine, though, when he glanced at me. I felt myself sag inside. I felt sixteen again. Sixteen and I’d met a boy I liked, then along would come my younger sister and I’d become invisible. Game over. A memory from that time came to mind. I’d had a crush on a boy called Jimmy Nash and had gone to a local sport’s club with Fleur to watch him play football. The pitch was full of boys; as soon as they spotted Fleur, I’d watched with dismay as a ripple of male nostrils, Jim’s included, rose and fell like a Mexican wave in recognition of the scent of fresh and beautiful bait. My sister. She always had that effect on men.
‘Of course,’ said Fleur. ‘We want to know what we’re in for.’ She flicked a lock of hair and gave him a cheeky smile.
‘Good for you,’ said Daniel as he pulled up a chair to sit with us. ‘Always best to do your research.’
‘Exactly,’ said Fleur. When he turned away, she looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. She wanted us to be teens checking out the talent again, but I didn’t feel like playing along. Decades on, it would still be game over.
Rose looked less impressed. ‘I agree too. Who are you and what qualifies you for this job?’
Daniel appeared unfazed by her hostile tone. ‘Why don’t we go into the library area, then I can answer all your questions,’ he replied, then turned to me. ‘And you must be Daisy.’
‘Dee. Only my mother called me Daisy.’ I smiled at him. I wanted him to know that – unlike Rose – I was friendly; a friendly, saggy bag lady.
He led us into a snug room at the back of the hotel. It smelt of a peat fire, had old leather gentlemen’s armchairs and walls lined with books, the kind of place you could curl up and spend hours reading. Rose, Fleur and I sat around a coffee table in front of the fireplace.
Daniel closed the double doors and came to sit with us. ‘We shan’t be disturbed in here. So. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Daniel Scott and—’
‘How do you – or rather did you – know our mother?’ asked Rose.
‘Rose, I take it,’ said Daniel, then looked at Fleur, ‘and you must be Fleur.’
Fleur nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry, how rude of us,’ she gave Rose an accusing look. ‘Rose, Daisy … Dee, and Fleur. Daughters of Iris.’
‘She
