‘I’m decorating.’ The ceiling, one wall and the French windows so far-she’d needed to get the curtains back up-but all her own work. ‘It’ll look better when the new curtains and carpet arrive.’
‘Are they beige and white too?’
‘Please! The walls, when they’re finished, will be Velvet Latte, the paintwork Silk Frost,’ Belle said, hoping to raise a smile. Light, uncluttered after three years living in the Grenville family museum. ‘It’s minimalist.’
Like her marriage. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good choice of look.
‘It’s boring. And no one has carpets now. It’s all hardwood floors.’
‘Not exactly neighbour friendly when you’re in the top floor apartment.’
‘I suppose.’ Then, ‘Your furniture is junk.’
‘I’m going shopping for a new sofa this afternoon.’ She’d picked out something ultra-modern in brown suede but she’d suddenly gone right off it. ‘Do you want to come with me? Clearly I could do with some help.’
Daisy shrugged her skinny shoulders without taking her hands out of her pockets. ‘Like I care what sofa you buy. You said you’d help me look for my dad.’
‘We can do both. If that’s really what you want.’
‘You knew your father,’ Daisy said, picking up the negativity of the question in her voice, turning on her. ‘I never…’ She broke off. Then, ‘I never had anyone.’
‘Mum loved you, Daisy.’
‘She died.’
Belle swallowed down the words that leapt to her lips. Blaming Daisy’s father for what had happened to them wouldn’t help. They’d all abandoned her, one way or another.
‘What about the people who adopted you? Didn’t they love you?’
‘They lied to me! I waited and waited and they said you’d come but you didn’t. I wanted you, Bella, and you weren’t there!’
Bella.
Daisy, only Daisy, unable to manage ‘Belinda’ had ever called her that.
‘Where did you go?’ she demanded and Belle, jolted out of memory, shook her head. ‘Nowhere. A care home. Nowhere…’ She shook her head. There was nothing to be gained from telling Daisy that her new family had only wanted her. That everyone had said it would be easier for her to settle down without disturbing memories of her previous life. She had known they were wrong, but no one would listen to her. And she’d been hurt and angry and grieving too.
She knew what Daisy was feeling now because she’d lived it.
‘What happened to you, Daisy? Why are you living like this?’
‘Like what?’ Then, abruptly, ‘I thought you were going to make breakfast.’
‘I am. Do you want to come through to the kitchen while I cook?’
If she’d ever imagined this was going to be a joyful reunion, then last night had crushed that hope beyond recovery, but this was more difficult than anything she could have imagined.
Simone, Claire, she thought, I really hope, wherever you are, it’s going better for you.
She took a pack of bacon from the fridge, turned just as Daisy swept something into her pocket. What? There was nothing on the counter top but a couple of mugs, the empty carton of coffee.
The muffin…
She bit down hard to keep the pain in, began to lay strips of bacon on the grill. ‘Do you want to take off your coat?’ Daisy’s only response was to wrap it around her more tightly and Belle didn’t press it, but it took her a moment to compose herself. ‘I’ll find your father, Daisy.’
She just hoped the reality wouldn’t hurt her sister too badly.
‘Whatever. Can I use your bathroom?’
‘Of course. Use the
CHAPTER EIGHT
IVO, uneasy, drove round the block, parked out of sight of Belle’s apartment, bought a paper and walked into the small cafe on the far side of the street, ordered coffee and settled down to wait.
Belle had taken the unilateral decision that her past and their future were incompatible. That finding Daisy meant she had to lose him. That once the truth about her past became common knowledge-and the press, once they got a sniff of a story, would be digging around for every grubby detail-he wouldn’t want to know.
That she felt that way shamed him.
Maybe she had wanted the security he could offer, but she’d wanted more than that. A real marriage. A family.
She wasn’t the one lacking the courage to confront what that meant. He was the one who’d been incapable of embracing life with all its messiness.
He didn’t blame her for leaving him-there wasn’t a day in his life when he hadn’t wished he could leave himself. On the contrary, he was grateful to her. He felt like a man who’d had his head yanked out of the sand. And Belle, still touchingly vulnerable, unsure, beneath the surface skim of professional polish, had broken out of her own shell. She was still vulnerable, still believed that her success was a fluke, the result of good PR, but she was making an effort to stand on her own feet, to do things for herself. Had been prepared to tell him that she no longer needed him as a prop.
In doing that, she’d kicked the legs out from under him. As they untangled themselves he had to make sure their feet were pointing in the same direction and somehow, he knew, Daisy was the key.
Daisy was gone for so long that Belle was afraid that she’d slipped out, disappeared again. Had to force herself to stay in the kitchen, watching the grill, sensing it was a trust thing. That she was being tested.
Her reward came when Daisy finally sauntered back in to the kitchen, smelling sweetly of vanilla-scented shower gel, her damp hair minus the purple streaks.
‘Does he live here?’ she asked, sliding back onto the stool, her look daring her to say one word about using the shower.
‘Ivo?’
‘
‘It’s a diminutive of Ivan. He was named for his Russian great-grandfather.’
‘Lucky him. We don’t even have a father between us.’ Then, ‘He said he was your husband, but there’s no men’s stuff in the bathroom.’
‘He did? When?’
He’d said he’d seen Daisy outside the flat, but he hadn’t said he’d spoken to her.
‘He got all protective when I got too close to your car.’
‘Oh.’ She found herself smiling. Then, catching Daisy’s ‘yuck’ look, said, ‘He is. But we’re separated.’
‘Not that separated. He was here at the weekend helping you decorate. And he hadn’t shaved this morning so I’m guessing he stayed all night.’
‘Yes…’ She could still feel the warmth of his kiss. Hear his soft, ‘Call me…’ ‘Your fault. It was the early hours before we got back here last night,’ she said, ‘so he slept on the sofa.’
He’d got it so wrong! Thinking that Daisy was her daughter. But he hadn’t been judgemental. Far from it. He’d said a child of hers would be his responsibility too. He’d hung in there, been there for her, even when she had been horrible to him. Would have gone out to continue looking if she hadn’t stopped him. Then, when she’d fallen asleep on him, he’d stayed with her, holding her. All night. It must have been the first time they’d just slept together. Without getting naked.
Just like a real husband and wife.
She poured mugs of coffee, leaving the sugar and milk for Daisy to help herself.
‘What about you?’ she asked, pushing away the desire to do it again. Very soon. ‘Are you living with your baby’s father?’
‘No.’
