Dear Mum,
Please, please, please don’t be angry with me for this…
Grace frowned. She knew it! Daisy had borrowed her favourite David Bowie T-shirt last week, and she’d warned her daughter not to get any thoughts about ‘accidentally’ packing it in her rucksack. Little rascal. A smile turned up one corner of her mouth and she carried on reading.
…but I’ve got you a little going-away present. I know how much you sacrificed to bring me up on your own, and now it’s time for you to have some fun.
Grace stopped reading. A burning sensation tickled her nose and the backs of her eyes. She took another sip of hot water, shuddered and pulled herself together.
No one could have asked for a better daughter. And, somehow, Grace felt that God had blessed her with Daisy to make up for Rob being snatched away from her after such a short time together. Killed by a landmine on active duty in Iraq at the age of twenty-three. Where was the justice in that? He hadn’t even lived to see Daisy take her first steps or hear her say ‘Dadda’.
Grace sucked in a breath, overcome by the sudden urge to cry, but she shook her head, refusing to give in. She had Daisy. She had to focus on Daisy. Because Daisy had been the reason the sun had kept rising and setting for the last eighteen years.
She looked round the kitchen. Although she knew it was stupid to think so, it was easy to imagine the sun just wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance today.
Come on, Grace! Stop wallowing!
She looked again at the letter in her hands. Daisy didn’t have to thank her for everything she’d done. It had been her job and her joy. Being a widow at twenty-two had been hard, yes, but every time she looked into those beautiful brown eyes she’d known a big piece of Rob had lived on.
But I know you, Mum. I know you’ll talk about moving on or getting a hobby, or finally buying your own coffee shop so you can boss everyone else around instead of being bossed…I also know you’ll do absolutely nothing about it. So I’ve taken the liberty of giving you a little nudge and I make no apologies for what I’ve done. You need this, Mum. Don’t you dare try and wriggle out of it!
Grace’s colourful language as she read the rest of the letter shattered the greyness of the predawn kitchen once and for all.
‘She did what?’
She stared in disbelief at the pink sheets clutched in her hands. ‘You did what?’ she yelled in the direction of Daisy’s bedroom, even though her daughter had had the good sense to put a few hundred miles and a large body of water between them before she’d dropped the bombshell. Very good thinking. Because, right at this moment, Daisy would have been lucky to see another sunrise if she’d been within strangling distance.
Grace stared at the letter once again, then threw it down on the kitchen table. Despite what Daisy said, there had to be some way to get out of this.
Noah padded across the cream rug in his study, absent-mindedly rubbing his damp spiky hair with a towel. Even though he had already had his morning run it was still dark outside. And quiet. But he didn’t mind quiet. This was his favourite time of day. The time where ideas could brew and grow and take shape.
He turned his computer on. While he’d been running he’d worked out how to make the villain of his current novel even more dastardly. His editor would be pleased. The latest in his series of psychological spy thrillers was doing so well, the publishers were pushing to have the next one in as soon as possible.
He carefully folded the towel and hung it over the back of a chair before sitting at his desk and checking his emails. His inbox rapidly filled but, instead of clicking on the top message, he took a little detour, clicking an email link and arriving at a web page he was very careful not to visit when his PA was around. He logged into the site and opened up a page he had marked as a ‘favourite’ last Monday.
Grace hit the switch in Daisy’s room and blinked and squinted in the harsh yellow light. Maybe purple hadn’t been the way to go with the colour scheme. It was giving her a headache.
Daisy’s baby-pink laptop was on the desk and Grace picked it up and sat on the bed, one foot hooked underneath the other thigh, and settled the machine in the triangle of her legs. The ancient laptop chugged and whirred when she pressed the power button. While she waited for it to boot up, Grace inspected her fingernails and resisted the temptation to pick off some of the electric blue polish. Finally, she opened the web browser and typed in the address Daisy had printed carefully in the PS of her letter.
Blinddatebrides.com! What had her daughter been thinking? The thought of going on a date, blind or otherwise, was bad enough—but marriage? Been there, done that, worn the black veil…
A companionable coffee or dinner would be okay. She could probably live through that. While the page loaded, Grace’s mind wandered. Blind-date brides? How did that work? You turned up at the restaurant and…what?
Random images stampeded through her mind—wedding dresses made out of co-ordinating tablecloth linen…gold rings as napkin holders…waiters who were really undercover ministers, waiting to pounce at any hint of an ‘I do’…
Goose pimples broke out on her legs and worked their way up her body until the fine hairs on her arms raised. She shook her head. Okay, Daisy had undeniably inherited her impulsive genes, but even she wouldn’t subject her own mother to that kind of humiliation. Not unless she was present and in the possession of a video camera.
She winced as she typed in the username Daisy had invented to create an account. Frankly, it just added insult to injury. Englishcrumpet? Classy. Hadn’t Daisy seen enough old Carry On… films to know that crumpet would attract all the wrong sorts of guys? The sort who always seemed slightly sweaty and tried to peer down your cleavage when they thought you weren’t looking. Grace practically had to force her fingers to punch it out on the keyboard.
She logged on to the site and headed straight for the customer service section, bypassing minimalist cartoons of hearts, confetti and kissing stick figures. There had to be a number she could call and yell at someone about identity theft and being made to go on dates you really didn’t want to go on. It all looked deceptively easy. She clicked on a friendly-looking button that said ‘Contact us’.
Great. ‘Customer service teams are available to help you from nine a.m. to six p. m., Monday to Friday,’ she read aloud. ‘What good is that at—’ she checked the display on Daisy’s alarm clock ‘—six twenty-five on a Saturday morning? Most normal people go on dates at the weekend! Fat lot of good you are!’ she said to the smiley-face cartoon on the web page, obviously designed to calm and reassure distressed customers. All it made Grace want to do was frisbee the stupid laptop across the room.
Then she spotted another button: ‘Email us’.
She stopped scowling and rubbed her finger across the mouse pad to click on the link. Email would work. Not as direct as yelling, but she could use lots of capitals instead. A new window popped up: ‘Thank you for spending time letting us know how we can make Blinddatebrides.com better. A customer service representative will respond to your message within twenty-four hours…’
But the date was in less than fourteen hours! Grace was sorely tempted to revisit the whole ‘frisbee’ idea.
It was far too early in the day to start reading any kind of small print they might have stashed away in the deep recesses of this website. She needed