Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson
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Название: Summer at the Lakeside Cabin
Автор: Catherine Ferguson
Издательство: HarperCollins
isbn: 9780008302504
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Mason had been undeniably sexy; a fabulous kisser with twinkly eyes and great one-liners. But he was strangely resistant to changing his underwear, and his idea of the perfect night was to loll around on the sofa in his favourite baggy sweatpants, drinking cans and eating pies from tins. His flat was a tip. It always looked as if it had just been ransacked by intruders, and during our very brief relationship, I’d avoided staying over because that would have meant venturing into the scary wilds of his bathroom.
Mason ambled through doors ahead of you, but Toby held them open. And his bathroom, when he took me back to his flat for the first time, was spotlessly clean.
I wasn’t sure if it would be a long-term relationship. We got on well and the sex was good but he seemed strangely averse to me meeting his family.
Then finally – three months into the relationship – his mum invited us for tea and I realised why Toby had been hesitant about taking me to his old family home.
‘The place is a bloody shambles with kids everywhere arguing over nothing,’ he groaned in the car, before we went in. ‘Honestly, Daisy, it was such a relief to get my own place and move out. Are you sure you don’t just want to grab a pizza? Mum won’t mind. She’s very easy-going.’
‘But I’ve been looking forward to meeting them,’ I said, smiling encouragingly. ‘And I’m sure it’s not half as chaotic as you make out.’
Actually, it was. And then some.
But I loved it.
I’d never been to a house like it. There were people all over the place: in the kitchen, chatting over tea and biscuits, and in the living room, apparently watching a horror movie. Toby was the oldest and his brothers ranged in age from twenty-one-year-old Tom – who was apparently there with his girlfriend, Becky – right down to eight-year-old Josh. Two boys of about ten, who I assumed were the twins Toby had told me about, charged down the hallway, shouting, ‘Can we go out, Mum? Just to the park?’
‘Yes, but don’t be long,’ called their mum from the kitchen.
Toby groaned as they fled past us. ‘Daniel and Harry. Sorry about that.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s absolutely fine.’
It was only ever Mum and me at home. I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a big family.
I smiled at the pairs of trainers, wellies and shoes lined up along the wall of the hallway. It looked as if a shoe shop was having a stocktake. There was something quite cheering about it.
‘Let’s see if we can find you a seat.’
As we walked into the kitchen, the young people gathered around the table looked up curiously, and a plump woman with masses of curly auburn hair heaved herself out of a rocking chair and bustled over to us. Her radiant smile lit her face, all the way up to her friendly blue eyes. They were the exact same shade as Toby’s.
‘This is my mum. Rosalind,’ said Toby. ‘Mum, this is my new friend, Daisy Cooper.’
I smiled shyly at her and held out my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs – um – Rosalind.’
‘Likewise, Daisy Cooper.’ She gave a throaty chuckle and, ignoring my hand, pulled me into a big warm hug.
Mum was always the biggest champion of my writing. My most adoring (and my only) fan.
She kept pressing me to finish writing my book but I always considered it pie in the sky, the idea that I could make it as an author. It just didn’t happen to ordinary mortals. Publishing was such a competitive industry. You had to be super-talented to be in with a chance. I couldn’t imagine something so miraculous as a book deal ever happening to me, so why would I waste my time trying, when the inevitable result would be crushing disappointment?
But one day, about six months after we received the devastating news of her cancer, I arrived at the house and she waved a magazine at me with an excited little smile.
‘A short story competition,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think you should enter.’
I started to shake my head but she got quite stroppy, which was unusual for her. She was normally so easy-going about everything.
‘You need to stop prevaricating and just do it, Daisy! If I had my time over again, there’s lots of things I’d do. I’d train to be an optician for a start!’
‘Really?’ I stared at her in astonishment. Why hadn’t I known this?
‘Yes.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by the way eyes work and it seems like a good, steady job. But what I’m saying is: stop pussyfooting around and do what you love! For me! Because life is much too short!’
We stared at each other through a blur of tears. And then, silently, I took the magazine, folded it up and put it in my bag.
I went home and stayed up late into the night, turning over ideas in my head. And then by morning, I had my plot. The advice was always: Write what you know! So I decided I’d make my lead female character a high-flying magazine editor, like Rachel. Unlike Rachel, however, my heroine had sworn off love after one disappointment too many (I knew enough about that to write all too convincingly) – until the new and charismatic head of marketing arrived and made her rethink everything …
It took me a week to write it.
During that time Mum suffered a chest infection that hit her really badly and she ended up in hospital. I was frantic with worry, but it helped me cope, having the short story competition to focus on and being able to tell Mum about my progress.
Once the story was written, I spent two weeks rewriting and agonising over whether it was good enough to send, during which time Mum was allowed home but then readmitted to hospital a few days later. The infection had apparently returned with a vengeance.
I told myself she was strong and would triumph over this latest setback. But the night after she was readmitted, I finally stopped prevaricating, closed my eyes and hit ‘send’. My story flew off into the unknown and I sat back, feeling exhausted. There was nothing more I could do. If the story was bad, it didn’t really matter. At least Mum would know that I’d tried …
A few days later, the house phone rang early one evening and Rachel knocked on my bedroom door, saying it was for me.
My heart leaped into my mouth and, for one wild moment, I dreamed it was the magazine phoning to say I’d made the shortlist.
But it wasn’t the magazine.
It was the hospital.
Mum, who was already very weak, had now succumbed to pneumonia. She was slipping in and out of consciousness and I was quietly advised that time was running out.
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