desk. Computers wereeverywhere, these days. How had the world managed to function without them?
‘We have a room overlooking the beach, or one at the back of the hotel,’ he said eventually. ‘They’re both the same price.’ His eyes flickered to a velvet-covered pegboard, the same colour as his tie, which hung to one side. On it were displayed the prices for single rooms, twin rooms, double rooms, family rooms and for breakfast. Daisy took the information in for a moment, suspecting that the man was already wondering, based on her age and her clothes, whether she had enough money to pay for the room.
‘Is there any difference between them?’ she asked.
‘The one at the back of the hotel gets less traffic noise, especially in the mornings, but it doesn’t have quite the same view,’ he said, smiling again.
‘Then I’ll take the room at the front.’
He nodded. ‘May I take a credit card?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a credit card.’ Forestalling his surprised reaction, she quickly added, ‘I don’t like them. I’ve never needed one, and I don’t see why I should start now.’
He was momentarily nonplussed. ‘We normally require some form of … surety,’ he said eventually.
‘Could I pay for two days in advance?’
He thought for a moment. ‘That will be fine,’ he said. ‘If you could fill out this form for us …’ He reached down under the counter and retrieved a clipboard with several pre-printed forms attached toit. Sliding it around so that she could see it properly, he added, ‘Just put down your name and address – I’ll do the rest.’
A pen was attached to the top of the clipboard by a length of chain. Taking it gingerly, Daisy placed the tip of the pen against the paper and started to write her name.
And realised with horror that she couldn’t remember what it was.
Who was this woman, standing in the hotel foyer? Daisy Wilson? Violet Chambers? Jane Winterbottom? Alice Connell? How did she sign her name: simply, ornately or in copperplate handwriting? Her mind whirled with the flotsam and jetsam of too many abandoned lives. She was paralysed with indecision. Her hand trembled, making small patterns on the form.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry – it’s been a long day.’
Work backwards. Where had she driven from? What did the house look like? What did the street look like?
Who was she?
‘Daisy Wilson,’ she said firmly, grasping onto the nearest, the most recent memory as it floated past. ‘My name is Daisy Wilson.’ Quickly she filled out her name and, with some misgivings, Daisy’s address. It was a trail, of sorts, but it couldn’t be helped. After all, she was going to be playing Daisy for a while yet.
‘Thank you,’ he said as she slid the form back and delved into her handbag for her purse. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting you in room 241. The bar is to your left, the dining room is to your right. Will you be requiring dinner tonight?’
She thought for a moment. It had been a long drive, and she didn’t particularly want to wander out looking for a civilised restaurant. ‘Yes, that would be lovely. About half an hour?’
‘I’ll make sure a table is available,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’
Daisy took her suitcase up to her room. It contained a bed, a desk and chair and a small armchair, all arranged in the smallest possible space without actually looking cramped.
Another hotel. Another town. Another identity.
A wave of … something … rose up unexpectedly and crashed around her. It wasn’t quite grief, or sadness, or regret, or anything in particular. It was more as if a low-key version of each of those emotions had been blended together to form something new, something with no name: a general feeling of sad disconnection from the world. For a moment she was lost and drifting. For a moment.
‘Focus,’ she murmured. ‘Focus.’
She washed quickly and, taking a
‘We have a room overlooking the beach, or one at the back of the hotel,’ he said eventually. ‘They’re both the same price.’ His eyes flickered to a velvet-covered pegboard, the same colour as his tie, which hung to one side. On it were displayed the prices for single rooms, twin rooms, double rooms, family rooms and for breakfast. Daisy took the information in for a moment, suspecting that the man was already wondering, based on her age and her clothes, whether she had enough money to pay for the room.
‘Is there any difference between them?’ she asked.
‘The one at the back of the hotel gets less traffic noise, especially in the mornings, but it doesn’t have quite the same view,’ he said, smiling again.
‘Then I’ll take the room at the front.’
He nodded. ‘May I take a credit card?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a credit card.’ Forestalling his surprised reaction, she quickly added, ‘I don’t like them. I’ve never needed one, and I don’t see why I should start now.’
He was momentarily nonplussed. ‘We normally require some form of … surety,’ he said eventually.
‘Could I pay for two days in advance?’
He thought for a moment. ‘That will be fine,’ he said. ‘If you could fill out this form for us …’ He reached down under the counter and retrieved a clipboard with several pre-printed forms attached toit. Sliding it around so that she could see it properly, he added, ‘Just put down your name and address – I’ll do the rest.’
A pen was attached to the top of the clipboard by a length of chain. Taking it gingerly, Daisy placed the tip of the pen against the paper and started to write her name.
And realised with horror that she couldn’t remember what it was.
Who was this woman, standing in the hotel foyer? Daisy Wilson? Violet Chambers? Jane Winterbottom? Alice Connell? How did she sign her name: simply, ornately or in copperplate handwriting? Her mind whirled with the flotsam and jetsam of too many abandoned lives. She was paralysed with indecision. Her hand trembled, making small patterns on the form.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry – it’s been a long day.’
Work backwards. Where had she driven from? What did the house look like? What did the street look like?
Who was she?
‘Daisy Wilson,’ she said firmly, grasping onto the nearest, the most recent memory as it floated past. ‘My name is Daisy Wilson.’ Quickly she filled out her name and, with some misgivings, Daisy’s address. It was a trail, of sorts, but it couldn’t be helped. After all, she was going to be playing Daisy for a while yet.
‘Thank you,’ he said as she slid the form back and delved into her handbag for her purse. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of putting you in room 241. The bar is to your left, the dining room is to your right. Will you be requiring dinner tonight?’
She thought for a moment. It had been a long drive, and she didn’t particularly want to wander out looking for a civilised restaurant. ‘Yes, that would be lovely. About half an hour?’
‘I’ll make sure a table is available,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’
Daisy took her suitcase up to her room. It contained a bed, a desk and chair and a small armchair, all arranged in the smallest possible space without actually looking cramped.
Another hotel. Another town. Another identity.
A wave of … something … rose up unexpectedly and crashed around her. It wasn’t quite grief, or sadness, or regret, or anything in particular. It was more as if a low-key version of each of those emotions had been blended together to form something new, something with no name: a general feeling of sad disconnection from the world. For a moment she was lost and drifting. For a moment.
‘Focus,’ she murmured. ‘Focus.’
She washed quickly and, taking a
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