Chasing Daisy

space. My hopes, my dreams have vanished. I feel lost and alone. I have nothing.

 
Chapter 20
     
    What am I doing, here?
    Forgetting . . . Forgetting . . . Forgetting . . .
    I’ve been back in New York for two weeks and I’m sitting on the windowsill again, watching the joggers. I have a sudden urge to go down to Central Park and join them, but no, I can’t be bothered.
    I had an ‘interesting’ conversation with my father last night at dinner. We were halfway through our main course when he came out with a question that has clearly been on his mind for some time.
    ‘What are you going to do with yourself, now?’
    ‘Are you actually asking me?’
    He gave me a hard stare but didn’t answer, so I looked away before replying.
    ‘I was thinking about going to catering school.’
    He actually laughed. A cold, brittle laugh. ‘All that money I spent on law school and you want to become a meagre cook?’
    ‘It’s a difficult job! There’s nothing meagre about it.’
    ‘You will do no such thing. I’ve spoken to Martin. There’s a job in his law firm. I expect you to take it.’
    He continued to chew on his beef while I sat there in silence, my blood beginning to boil.
    ‘No.’ My tone was firm, resolute.
    His knife and fork froze in mid-air as he turned his grey eyes to look at me. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I said, no.’ But my voice was wavering.
    ‘You have the summer,’ he coolly replied, ignoring my refusal. ‘Have your fun, go to parties, see your friends, but after that I expect you to settle down and start this job.’
    I bit my tongue. It’s now the middle of July. By September, who knows where I’ll be? I can’t even think further than the weekend at the moment.
    ‘And get your hair cut,’ he continued. ‘Stacey will make you an appointment for the morning.’ Stacey is one of my father’s assistants.
    I closed my eyes in defeat. Years ago I would have argued. Weeks ago I would have laughed. Now I let his comments slide over me. I just want to be numb for a while.
    A few seconds later I opened my eyes again and continued to eat.
    I still haven’t listened to my mobile phone messages. I know I have some because I saw the reminder on the screen before my phone ran out of battery. Since then, it’s been sitting on my bedside table, staring at me every time I go to sleep or wake up. And that’s not just in the morning and at night; I’ve been napping in the daytime, too. Anything to pass the time.
    Maybe my father’s right. Maybe I should get a job. Not with Martin, I’m not that desperate, but somewhere. Maybe even at a coffee shop?
    I actually smile to myself and shake my head at this thought. As if he’d allow me to do that.
    ‘Ahem.’
    I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway of the sitting room.
    ‘Oh, that looks nice,’ she says, nodding in my direction.
    ‘What looks nice?’ I ask.
    ‘Your hair,’ she replies.
    This morning I went to the hairdresser, as agreed. I had the tiniest trim and am now wearing my hair up where it will probably stay for the rest of the summer. My father will never know the difference.
    ‘Oh, right. Thanks,’ I add generously.
    ‘Did you have a nice time last night?’ she asks.
    ‘Yeah, it was fine.’
    After dinner, I went to see a movie with Lisa. I may not particularly like those girls, but my need for distraction outweighs my moral responsibility to tell them to piss off.
    How I miss Holly . . .
    Right, that’s it. I’m calling her. I’ve been thinking about her on and off for the last couple of weeks, but I haven’t felt like speaking to her until now.
    I get up so suddenly from the windowsill that my mother looks startled.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘To my bedroom.’
    ‘Not for another sleep?’
    ‘Why?’ I snap. ‘What’s your problem with that?’
    She doesn’t answer, so I storm out of the room in a huff and even go as far as slamming my bedroom door like a petulant child. I may be twenty-six, but I sure as hell don’t feel like it, right now.
    I snatch up my phone from the bedside table and commence my search for the lead to charge it up. Where the hell have the servants put it? I find it eventually, in the top drawer inside my wardrobe, neatly folded and secured with a piece of string. I tug it off and find an American adaptor, then plug it in, turn the phone on, and wait for the LCD display to light up. There we go. Voicemail . . .
    ‘ You have nine new messages . . . ’
    Play.
    ‘Hi, Daisy,