But Daisy is serving a young American couple and doesn’t hear me.
“What did you tell her?” I ask again when the couple leave the bar. I haven’t seen them before, but Owen often gets a lot of tourists. It’s such a picturesque place, with the thatched roof and the big red phone box and the climbing rose, it’s no wonder it’s popular with Anglophiles. Bet it looks great on the ’Gram.
“That I’d work on it,” Daisy replies.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“You’re so lucky you’re pretty. It means we all want you to become a permanent resident here. All of us, even Roger.”
I look over at Roger and Ange, who obviously sense Daisy and me talking about them and lift their heads. There’s no way they heard his name over Bryn’s warbling.
Roger gurns at me, and mouths, “What?” Then gives me the universal gesture for wanker. He looks away, but a second later glances back with a smile.
“It means . . .” Daisy continues, pulling my attention to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad happier. You did that. And we like you. You’re alright . . . or whatever.”
I’m smiling too. I know tonight I’ll panic, overanalyse each word separately and as individual sentences, and then the larger vibes and feelings and facial expressions—damn my photographic memory.
But they want me to stay here, in a town where I thought I wasn’t wanted, to play for a team whose fans treat me like a panto villain.
And right now I’m not panicking. Not even in the slightest.
In fact, I’m feeling something else . . . something akin to . . . belonging, being liked, community.
I’m a six-foot-five, fifteen-stone rugby player. I’m not gonna cry. Not gonna cry.
I screw my face up and focus my attention on the optics behind Daisy’s head.
“Hey, how was your date last week?” I ask a few moments later, startling Daisy.
She pinches her smile between her lips and gives herself a minute before answering. “It was . . . great. Really fucking great, actually.” She looks up at the ceiling, still smothering her grin, maybe lost in memories, and I think for once in my life, I might be empathising with someone.
“We didn’t hook up in the end. We just watched movies and . . . chatted all night. Literally until about six in the morning.”
“What’s her name?” I understand how much Daisy wants an excuse to keep talking about her. I’ve been there. Mathias Jones comes in two modes only: assumes everyone hates him and hardly says a word, or will not shut up about his special interest. Will talk over the top of you. Will not realise you’re looking for the exit.
“Sarasi. She’s—well, her mum is—Sri Lankan.” Daisy is practically giddy.
Is this what I look like when someone brings Owen into the conversation?
“Tell me more. What movies did you watch? What did you chat about? What does she do? Is she at uni?”
So Daisy chats for the better part of fifteen minutes between serving people their drinks, and I try to listen, but I find my attention often straying back to Owen. Behind me he’s chatting to the Cents lads. I watch him in the mirrors behind the spirits. Neither Harry nor Lando are anywhere to be seen.
Fair play to them.
“I just . . . I really like her. I want to see her again, but I don’t want to get my hopes up too much. You probably think I’m just a butthead kid?” Daisy says.
“Not at all.” She has no idea I feel exactly the same. Although with me it’s a case of not getting too attached rather than getting my hopes up.
Daisy keeps chatting. “It’s just that . . . I fall in love so easily. I’m just like Dad in that respect. All the Bosleys are the same. Family curse.” She’s laughing.
I remember to force a smile and a “ha!” and distract my hands and brain by downing the rest of my cider.
And carefully, very,verycarefully, I pack away those words. Wrap them up like fine china during a house move. I’ll unwrap them later and examine them for damage. Because holy fucking shit.
“I have a thought!” The words burst from me, and Daisy near enough shits her pants. “We don’t need to organise this fair behind your dad’s back.” I didn’t like that idea. Couldn’t quite get on board with the notion of keeping secrets from Owen.
“Huh?” She’s lost. I don’t blame her. I’m surprised she doesn’t have whiplash from my rapid change of topic.
