Summer at the Lakeside Cabin

She looked straight at me for a moment, her eyes shining with love.

And then she was gone.

*

A month later, when I got the call saying I was one of three runners-up in the short story competition, I could hardly believe it.

I’d won a thousand pounds. But better than that by far, my story was actually going to be published in a future edition of the magazine!

When I imagined all the people – perfect strangers – who would read the words I’d written, it gave me such a jolt of disbelief and happiness.

My triumph was tinged with pain, though.

The one person who would have joined wholeheartedly in my silly dance of delight around the house was no longer here to share my joy.

I swallowed hard, steering my mind away from the memories.

Rachel would whoop with glee when she heard, though. And Toby would be amazed. He might finally see that I was serious in my ambitions to be an author! I couldn’t wait to tell him …

It seemed such a momentous thing to have happened in my life that I decided a celebration was definitely in order. So I booked a table at our favourite restaurant and phoned Toby at work to break the news.

‘I heard from the magazine. I was a runner-up,’ I squeaked, as soon as I got through. ‘So I’ve booked a table for dinner tonight. My treat!’

‘Dinner tonight?’ He sounded uncertain and my heart sank.

‘Yes. But I made the booking for later …’ I could hear the hum of voices in the background.

‘Could we do it tomorrow night instead?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, it’s just I doubt I’ll get away till after nine tonight.’

A sharp dose of reality pierced my high spirits but I forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine. Tomorrow night it is.’

‘Great. Look forward to it. Hey, well done you, though. I can’t believe you won it. Wasn’t there a big cash prize?’

‘Well, no, I was a runner-up. The prize is – erm – a thousand pounds.’

‘Ah, right. Still, that’s a very nice result for a few hours’ scribbling, though. You never know, this could turn out to be a nice little earner. How much do they pay for magazine stories?’

‘I’m not sure. But really, I’m more excited about the fact that people in the publishing industry seem to think I have some talent …’

‘Well, I’ve always known that, Daisy.’

‘You have?’ My heart gave a joyful little lift. Perhaps he’d read some of my stuff, after all. I was writing the first draft of my book with pen and paper, and I sometimes left my notebook lying out so Toby could peek if he was curious.

‘Of course. Your creative talents are legendary, my love. No one whips up a chocolate fudge cake better than you.’

Chocolate fudge cake?

‘A thousand pounds, eh? Dinner is definitely on you tomorrow night!’

I was about to tell him the most exciting bit – that my story was going to appear in the magazine. But before I got a chance, he said, ‘Sorry, love, got to dash. See you later.’

I hung up, feeling strangely sad. The conversation hadn’t gone at all the way I’d thought it would. Toby had missed the point; he seemed far more delighted about the prize money than anything else.

Then I told myself not to be so silly. Being runner-up, out of thousands of entries, felt epic to me. It was bound to after all the hours I’d spent daydreaming of becoming a published author. But I couldn’t expect Toby to understand the thrill I felt when I read that email telling me I was a winner …

Also, being so busy at work, he probably wasn’t totally focused on what I was telling him. I was sure that, by the following night, he’d have begun to realise what it meant to me, and we could have a lovely time celebrating.

I might even push the boat out and order champagne!

The following night, I called at the hairdresser’s on the way home from work and treated myself to a sleek blow-dry. Then later, with a tummy full of excited butterflies, I dressed in my favourite little black shift dress, which looked more expensive than it was, teaming it with patent heels and chunky pearls.

I scrutinised myself in the mirror. It was maybe a bit over-the-top for a weekday dinner but I didn’t care. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me and I was going to enjoy it! After losing Mum, I was due a break. Hopefully this would be the start of a whole new adventure.

Perhaps, one day, I might even dare to dream of handing in my notice at Plunge Happy Monthly …

I’d arranged to meet Toby at the restaurant at eight-thirty but I was there a little early, just in case. The waiter came over and, after a second’s hesitation, I ordered champagne. It arrived in an ice bucket and I smiled and said I’d wait for my dinner date to arrive. It was important Toby was here when the cork was popped! I wanted him to feel he was in it with me; that he was an important part of my success.

By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t arrived, but I wasn’t worried. He’d have got held up; it happened all the time. There was no point phoning. He was probably already on his way.

I ordered a soft drink and read the email from the magazine for the hundredth time.

At nine-twenty, fed up with the sympathetic looks I was getting from other diners, I dialled Toby’s number.

I braced myself for multiple apologies but he actually sounded quite calm.

‘Daisy? I just got home to an empty flat. Where are you? Did we run out of milk or something?’

Crushing dismay punched me in the gut. No wonder Toby was ‘late’. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Daisy?’ I could almost hear the cogs in his head ticking over. Realisation dawning. ‘Oh God, we were meeting for dinner, weren’t we? Listen, stay there. I’ll be along now.’

I finally found my voice. ‘No, it’s too late now, Toby. I’ve hogged the table for long enough and I’ve lost my appetite. I’m coming home.’ I couldn’t keep the hurt from my tone and, as he rushed to apologise some more, I hung up.

I drove home with a horrible sick feeling inside. I realised I was probably over-reacting, but the forgotten dinner just illustrated what I’d long suspected – I was far more interested in Toby’s life than he was in mine. He’d known ever since we met that I longed to be a writer, and although I realised he viewed my ‘scribbling’ – which was how he termed it – as just a nice hobby and never likely to lead anywhere, I’d nonetheless thought he’d understand how thrilled I was about my magazine success.

But apparently it was so insignificant to him that it had totally slipped his mind!

My throat hurt.

I wanted a partner who supported me to the hilt in whatever I wanted to do in life. Someone who cherished my hopes and dreams almost as much as I did myself. The way Mum did.

Was I kidding myself imagining Toby could ever be that person?

When I got home, he greeted me at the door, full of more apologies, blaming the falling markets for wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He’d laid the table and ordered Thai food, my favourite, and there was a big bunch of hastily acquired roses in the centre of the table. But I was nowhere near ready to forgive.

I ignored him, threw my coat over a chair, yanked the fridge open and pulled out an open bottle of white wine. ‘You probably aren’t even interested in reading my story, are you?’ I glared at him, all the hurt tumbling out, then glugged half a glass of wine down in one go.

‘Of course I am.’