Chasing Daisy

it’s me, Holly. I just want to know if you got home safely. Give me a call . . .’
    ‘Hi, Daisy, it’s me, Holly. I’m just wondering how you are? Give me a call . . .’
    ‘Hi, Daisy, it’s me, Holly. I know you’re probably really busy settling back into New York City life, but I’d really love to just have a chat and see how you are. I miss you. Call me back . . .’
    ‘Hi again Daisy, it’s me, Holly. Are you there? I hope I’ve got the right number for you. No, I definitely do because I called you on this when you were still here. Oh, I’m rambling. Just give me a call when you can.’
    ‘Daisy? It’s Holly. Are you checking your phone? Please call me.’
    ‘Hi, it’s just me again, wondering where you are and what you’re up to . . .’
    And so on. Guilt prickles inside me as I listen to her voice. I should have called sooner. I’ll make up for it now. Cazzo , what time is it in the UK? Ten o’clock. Too late? No . . .
    Ring, ring, ring . . .
    Damn, it probably is too late.
    Ring, ring, ring . . .
    Should I hang up?
    Ring, ring, ring . . .
    I’ve probably woken her up now, anyway. If I hang up now she’ll be really annoyed.
    Ring . . .
    Does this phone have voicemail, or what?’
    ‘Hello?’ Bummer. She sounds sleepy.
    ‘Holly? Sorry, have I woken you up?’
    ‘Daisy? Daisy!’ She instantly perks up. ‘You called! At last! Did you get my messages?’
    ‘Only just now, I’m afraid.’
    ‘I’ve called you about twenty times!’
    ‘Nine, actually.’
    ‘Not counting the times I hung up . . .’
    ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
    ‘What have you been doing? How’s it all going?’
    ‘You know . . . It’s alright.’
    ‘No, I don’t know. Tell me everything. What have you been up to? How are you feeling?’
    ‘Um, just keeping myself busy, catching up with old friends, that sort of thing. And shopping. Lots of shopping.’
    ‘Wicked! Ooh, you’ve got Banana Republic on practically every corner there, haven’t you? I’m so jealous.’
    ‘Mmm, yeah.’ Although I haven’t been in. It’s all designer, designer, designer, but I keep that to myself. ‘What about you? How’s it going?’
    ‘Good, good . . .’
    Still shagging Simon? No, I don’t ask that question.
    ‘Hey, what do you want me to do with your bags?’ she asks. ‘You never left me your address, but should I send them on now?’
    ‘Actually, Holly, have you got enough room for them in your loft for the moment?’
    ‘Sure, yes, of course.’
    ‘In fact, you could even just give everything away to charity.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she scoffs. ‘I can’t give all your things away!’
    I don’t tell her that I have more than enough ‘things’ here.
    ‘So what’s been happening?’ I ask.
    ‘Well, we’re off to Germany this weekend and Pierre, the test driver, has taken over Will’s drive—’
    ‘I don’t want to hear about that,’ I bluntly interject, feeling light-headed.
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Sorry. I just . . . can’t.’
    ‘Alright,’ she says sympathetically.
    ‘How are Pete and Dan?’ I ask.
    ‘They’re, you know, okay,’ she replies. ‘And Luis is—’
    ‘I don’t want to hear about Luis, either.’ My tone is hard.
    ‘Oh, right. Sure.’
    Silence.
    ‘Did I wake you up?’ I change the subject.
    ‘Um . . . No, I was just dozing, you know.’
    ‘Is there anyone else with you?’
    ‘Hey?’ She sounds startled. ‘No, no, I’m here on my own, just little old me.’
    Right. So Simon is there, then.
    ‘Well, I guess I’d better let you get back to it.’
    ‘Okay. Well, it was lovely to hear your voice. I’ve missed you so much.’
    I feel warm inside. ‘I miss you, too.’ But once I’ve hung up, I just feel cold again.
    July turns into August and New York becomes stifling hot. I stay inside the air-conditioned apartment as much as boredom allows, and the rest of the time I go shopping or out to the movies. Yesterday I spent all afternoon at the Guggenheim Museum, just sitting in front of the paintings and trying to lose myself in the abstract colours.
    Holly calls me a few more times – I usually miss her phone calls and rarely call her back, but I will speak to her soon. I’m still upset she won’t confide in me the way I confided in her.
    Well, I didn’t tell her everything. And she still knows nothing about my life in America or Johnny, but that’s not the point. Is it? No, it’s definitely not the same thing. Anyway . . .
    One day in early August, I’m flicking