I realise he’s still talking to his colleague.
Sighing, I slink out of the room and leave him to it.
I told Clemmy we’d be there by three and she said she’d have a picnic basket with afternoon tea waiting for us. But my vision of lounging on a rug in the sunshine with Toby, enjoying home-baked scones with jam and cream and Earl Grey tea, looks like it might not happen after all.
At last, at just after four, we hit the road in Toby’s Fiesta.
It’s not exactly the relaxing journey down I’d envisaged as Toby is constantly on the car Bluetooth, talking to the office. But I don’t mind too much. It means I can indulge in a spot of daydreaming, staring out of the passenger window, enjoying the scenery and looking forward to arriving at what will be our lovely home for the next seven days.
I’d thought about asking Toby if we should invite Rosalind along and maybe some of the boys if they wanted to come. But I sensed Toby would probably want it to be just us.
We go round to Rosalind’s every week for Sunday lunch and it’s pretty chaotic, with kids running around and everyone talking over each other. Toby hates it, but to me, it’s a sort of celebration. It reminds me of Christmas.
Every Christmas Eve, Mum used to invite the neighbours and her friends from the call centre where she worked for a bit of a party. It was the one time in the year we had folk round and Mum really pushed the boat out. The house was bursting with people and laughter, Christmas music and big aluminium platters of festive food.
Even as a little kid, I looked forward to that party on Christmas Eve more than the big day itself. I’d love a big family one day …
I glance across at Toby with affection and catch his eye. His stern brow smoothes out and he smiles at me, before returning to the vexing world of market slumps.
Eventually, he winds up the conversation then turns and beams at me. ‘After a day like today, this is just what I need. Some no-holds-barred pampering in a luxurious setting.’ He sighs and rolls his shoulders in anticipation of the relaxation ahead.
I stare at him in alarm.
Why didn’t I at least think to bring a bottle of supermarket champagne?
I clear my throat. ‘Listen, Toby, I … er … there’s something you need to know. This place we’re going to—’
He shakes his head firmly. ‘Stop right there! You said you wanted it to be a surprise, and I’m absolutely fine with that.’ He smiles across at me and my heart flips. He looks so handsome with his fair hair flopping over his forehead.
‘Yes, but—’
‘No buts, Daisy. Just tell me where to go when we get to – Appley Green, is it?’ He grins. ‘And for goodness’ sake, stop looking so worried. I’m sure I’ll love it, wherever it is. In fact, I know I will – as long as you’re there with me.’
He pats my knee and I relax slightly. Perhaps he won’t be disappointed after all. Spotting a signpost, a little thrill of anticipation – mixed with a degree of trepidation – zips through me as it hits me that we’re travelling nearer my place of birth with every mile. I lived down there for the first four years of my life. Would anything spark a memory?
I’m not even thinking about Maple Tree House, though.
I’ve tried to imagine myself knocking on the front door. But I can’t for the life of me think what I’d say if someone actually answered it.
Did you used to know my adoptive mum, Maureen Cooper?
Is this your handbag?
Do you know anyone round here who had a baby thirty-two years ago and gave her up for adoption?
I break out into a sweaty panic every time I think about it.
So I’ve decided the best thing to do is to just enjoy the holiday with Toby and put searching for my birth mum out of my mind.
I can obviously check out the area and maybe even visit the village of Appley Green and have a look around.
But as for walking up to the front door of Maple Tree House?
Absolutely no way …
My heart is hammering as we draw near our destination – for two reasons.
With signs for ‘Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping’ popping up here and there, I’m wondering when the penny will drop and Toby will guess that’s where we’re going.
And I can’t stop peering at all the dwellings we’re passing, wondering if any of them are Maple Tree House. I’m trying not to look because we’re here for Toby’s birthday treat and I’m feeling a little guilty that I have an ulterior motive for choosing the glamping site for our holiday.
I haven’t told Toby about finding the handbag with the Appley Green address inside it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rachel. I’m hugging it to myself for now, processing it all in my own head before I tell anyone else about it.
I had no idea how I’d feel when I actually got here.
I think I vaguely imagined that I’d go to Appley Green and have a look around, marvelling that it was here I began life. I even pictured locating Maple Tree House and knocking on the front door, although I’d ruled that out. Beyond that, I hadn’t really thought.
But now that I’m here, everything is suddenly scarily real. There’s a drive in me to find my birth mum that wasn’t there before. Did I really imagine that just visiting Appley Green would satisfy my curiosity and I’d be able to return to Manchester content simply to have seen the place where I was born?
But alongside the desire to discover where I came from is a deep, gnawing guilt. I can’t help feeling that in contemplating searching for my birth mum, I’m betraying the woman who, to all intents and purposes, was my mum. How would she have felt if she’d known I was thinking of following my curiosity to its natural end?
Driving through Appley Green itself is the weirdest feeling. My head feels as if it’s floating away from my body and there’s a buzzing in my ears as if I might be about to faint. I stare at the faces of the women walking along the high street, looking especially at the middle-aged women, going about their normal business on an ordinary Sunday morning in Appley Green.
Any one of these women could be my birth mother!
I want to tell Toby. But something is stopping me.
I think I’m worried that, if I tell anyone, it will all become overwhelmingly real and then there’ll be no going back. I’ll have to go with it and search for the truth.
But that’s where my biggest fear of all lies.
Because what if I search for the truth and it’s not the fairy tale I want? What if my birth mother had me adopted simply because she didn’t want me?
What if I turn up on her doorstep and she rejects me all over again?
‘Daisy?’ Toby sounds tense. ‘Earth to Daisy.’
I swing round. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘You need to direct me. I spotted a sign for a Michelin-starred manor house hotel back there if that’s any help?’ He looks at me hopefully and my heart sinks.
‘Try next left.’ I point at a looming sign announcing ‘Glamping’ in bold letters.
Toby looks at the sign and chuckles. ‘You and your little jokes.’ He shakes his head at me as if he’s the patient adult and I’m the naughty, wayward child. ‘So?’ He glances over expectantly, as if at any moment I’m going to