This is where I belong. This is where I want to be. We’ve lost ten years of our lives together and there is no way – no way – I’m going to lose any more.
Epilogue
‘Will you marry me?’
I think of you, then. As I do sometimes. But not with sadness or regret. You’re happy now and with someone who loves you with all her heart. You’re no longer my Richard. You’re Ally’s. Lucy told me you two had found each other again, and every part of me believes you’re meant to be together. I hope one day you’ll see clear enough to forgive me.
Ben and I sailed back to Adelaide together. It took two weeks and the weather was touch and go, but I never got seasick. He took the job at the conservation park and I signed up to do a photography course in the city. Jonathan was sad I never went for the editorial assistant position at Marbles, but he’s asked me to keep in touch. I hope one day to see my photographs in his magazine. I can but dream.
Two months ago, a junior position came up at the conservation park and the staff who were there ten years ago welcomed me back with open arms. It isn’t well-paid, but I couldn’t be happier, and I’m able to juggle my shifts around my course. It’s lovely to work with Michael again; I was always fond of him. He got a bit of a shock when he found out about Ben and me, but it was nothing compared to the good-humoured stick I got from Josh. They’ve both accepted it now. How could they not when we’re so happy together?
We live in Ben’s nan’s place and we’ve made it our own. I came home from work one day to find the picture that Ben took of me by the lily pond in a silver frame on the wall. He has an annoying little habit now of taking photos of me when I least expect it, and every so often I come home to find another picture on the wall. I protested at first, but he joked that it was his house and he’d do as he liked. I had the photo of him on the boat redeveloped and enlarged, and stuck that on the wall when he was out. Now I have to put up with his groans every time he walks past it. We’ve agreed to stick to joint photos from now on.
The garden needed some work when we first moved back here in the middle of winter and I’ve adored getting stuck in. I uncovered grape vines, an almond tree and an apricot tree. The latter made me smile because I remember Mum making apricot jam when we first came to Australia in her early attempts to impress Michael. I’ll borrow her recipe when the fruit ripens. It won’t be long now.
Tammy, Vickie and Jo are delighted to have me back on their turf, but I miss Mel and Nicola. Mel is still seeing Mr Horn, but Nicola is single. They’re both coming out here to visit next month and I’ve promised to hook Nicola up with one of Josh’s mates. I’m secretly thinking Shane might be a fun match. Josh is living with Tina now, but still no engagement. I’m sure their time will come.
Mum got married in a shotgun wedding to Antonio. I found out about it a week beforehand and had to fly back to Sydney at a moment’s notice. I still find the whole thing slightly bizarre, but I’ve never seen her so content.
As for me, I feel complete for the first time in my life.
‘Lily?’ Ben asks again. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes,’ I reply as I look into his deep-blue eyes, our faces lit by the full moon as we stare down at Piccadilly Valley from Mount Lofty. And for the first time I can answer this question: ‘With all my heart.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you, thank you, thank you to all my readers. Your overwhelmingly lovely Facebook messages and online reviews mean so much to me – please keep them coming!
Thank you to the whole team at Simon & Schuster for their limitless enthusiasm and professionalism, especially my amazing editor Suzanne Baboneau who I adore working with. And thank you always to the great Nigel Stoneman: I’m forever in your debt.
Huge gratitude to Donna Jensen from Cleland Conservation Park and Travis Messner from Monarto Conservation Park. I harassed them endlessly for information about Aussie wildlife and I don’t know what I would have done without them. Although Lily’s conservation park had to remain fictional, it was based on Cleland, which is one of my favourite places to visit in the Adelaide Hills.
A massive thank you to my brilliant second cousin Annika Beaty for all her help with the Hahndorf research. You’re right, those sour peach hearts are addictive! Thanks also to her dad – my cousin – Grant Beaty for answering all my questions about yachts/fishing/Sydney etc, and thank you to Paddy Beaty and Annie Lewis for allowing me to steal their father/husband away on New Year’s Eve while I pestered him for help with the above, even as the clock counted down to zero.
Thank you also to my other cousin David Beaty and his sons Tom and Morgan for their help with the learner driver stuff.
A big cheers to Peter Brown – AKA The Unc – and Gwennie Philips for Lily’s New Year’s Eve inspiration. Your parties are legendary!
And thanks to my oldest friends, Bridie Tonkin, Naomi Dean and Jane Hampton. I love that we’re still so close after all these years.
Thank you always to my mum, dad and brother, Jen, Vern and Kerrin Schuppan, for all their support and help with various things – especially Mum for driving me around the Adelaide Hills on memory lane trips. I had the best childhood growing up there and I still miss it.
Above all, thank you to my husband Greg and my children, Indy and Idha. Greg, because he’s the most loving, talented, generous, honest person I know and he continues to make my books better with his seriously spot-on advice; and Indy and Idha, well, just because.
Simon & Schuster and Pocket Books proudly present
Paige Toon’s sensational novel
Available now!
ISBN 978-1-84739-390-6
eBook ISBN 978-1-84739-952-6
Turn the page to read a sample chapter of Chasing Daisy . . .
Prologue
‘YOU SON OF A . . . Figlio di puttana!’ That jerk in a yellow Ferrari just cut me up! ‘Yeah, that’s right, you heard me, you testa di cazzo!’ I shout at him as he pulls into the petrol station opposite me. His window slides down.
‘What the hell are you saying to me, you crazy bitch?’
How dare he! He nearly squished my scooter and me to a pulp with his fancy car!
‘You nearly ran into me, you coglione!’
He gets out of his car, looking cross. ‘Cogli-what?’
‘Coglione! Dickhead!’ I shout at him from across the street.
‘Why don’t you speak in English?’ he shouts back.
‘Because we’re in BRAZIL, cretino!’
‘I’m Brazilian! And that’s no language I know!’ He throws his hands up in the air.
Well, okay, it’s Italian, if he’s going to be fussy about it. I always swear in Italian. But that’s beside the point.
Oh no, he’s coming over here.
‘You almost ran over me, you arsehole!’ I plaster my angry face back on.
‘That’s better,’ he says sarcastically. ‘At least I can understand what you’re saying to me, now.’
It’s then that I notice he’s quite good-looking. Olive skin, black hair, dark-brown eyes . . . Don’t get distracted, Daisy. Remember where you’re at. And where I’m at is mightily annoyed.
‘You almost killed me!’
‘I didn’t almost kill you,’ he scoffs. ‘Anyway, you didn’t put your indicator on. How was I supposed to know you wanted to go over there?’ He points to the petrol station.
‘I did SO have it on! Va fanculo!’
‘What?’
‘Va fanculo!’
‘Did you just tell me to fuck off?’ He looks incredulous.
‘Ah, so you do speak Italian?’
‘Hardly any, but I know what that means. Va se lixar!’
‘What?’
‘Piss off!’ he says, angrily, and starts to cross the road to get back to his car.
‘Piss off? Is that the best you can do?’
He casts a look over his shoulder that implies he thinks I’m seriously deranged and then opens the door to his Ferrari.
‘Hey!
You!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished!’
‘I have,’ he calls.
‘Get back here and give me an apology!’
‘An apology?’ He laughs. ‘You owe me an apology. You almost scratched my car.’ He gets into his Ferrari and slams the door. ‘Silly woman driver!’ he shouts through the still-open window.
‘How dare you! You, you, you, STRONSO!’ Translation: bastard. ‘I hope you run out of petrol and get car-jacked!’ I scream after him, cleverly realising he didn’t fill his Ferrari with juice. But he can’t hear me. He’s long gone.
Some people. Argh!
How dare he imply I can’t drive! I’m still angry. Not angry enough to forgo my hotdog, mind. I pull out of the lay-by and cross the road to the petrol station, ignoring the stares from onlookers who witnessed our altercation.
Stupid five-star hotel . . . It doesn’t do junk food, so I borrowed one of the team’s scooters and sneaked out.
I shouldn’t have to sneak out, but I work in hospitality and catering for a Formula 1 team, and we don’t do junk food either. I’m supposed to be setting an example, but I’m American, for Christ’s sake. How can I live without it?
Partly American, in any case. I was actually born in England. As for the rest of me, that’s hot-blooded Italian. That’s the side you just witnessed, there.
I arrive at the hotel fifteen minutes later and my friend and colleague Holly is waiting on the front steps. She hisses at me to hurry.
‘Sorry!’ I hiss back. ‘Had to run an urgent errand!’
‘Doesn’t matter!’ She beckons me towards her.
It’s then that I catch a glimpse of yellow in the car park. Yellow Ferrari. Oh, no.
‘Quick!’ she urges, as my heart sinks.
I knew I recognised him from somewhere. He’s a driver. A racing driver.
‘The rumours must be true,’ she says, gleefully pushing me into the lobby.
And at that moment, I see the Ferrari Fucker walking in the direction of the hotel bar with the team boss.
‘Luis Castro is signing with the team!’ Holly squeaks as I dive behind a potted palm tree.
Shit, damn, fuck, tits.
Not even Italian is going to cut it this time.
Chapter 1
‘Don’t you dare,’ Holly warns, as I suppress an unbearable urge to crawl under the nearest table.
We’re in Melbourne, Australia, for the start of the season, and Luis Castro has just walked into the hospitality area. I’m desperately hoping he will have forgotten all about me during the last five months, because until early November when we end up back in Brazil for his home-town race, we’ll be seeing a LOT of each other.
There’s no getting away from it – I’m going to have to face him sometime – but just not now. Please, not now.
‘Daisy!’ Frederick barks. ‘I need you to run an errand.’
My boss! My saviour! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
‘The look of relief on your face,’ Holly comments with wry amusement as I scuttle away in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’ Frederick asks in bewilderment as I duck under the arm he was resting against the doorframe.
‘Just in here!’ I reply brightly, waving my hands around to denote the kitchen, which is excellently out of Luis’s line of vision.
Frederick looks perplexed, but continues. ‘Catalina wants some popcorn. And I don’t have any goddamn popcorn. Go and get some from one of the stands.’ He hands me some money.
‘Yes, boss!’ I beam.
He gives me an odd look as I hurry out of the kitchen and back through the hospitality area with my head down.
Catalina is Simon’s wife. Simon Andrews is the big boss and he owns the team. But Frederick – Frederick Vogel – is my immediate boss. He’s the head chef.
Frederick is German, by the way. And Catalina is Spanish. Simon is English and Holly, while we’re at it, is Scottish. What a multi-national bunch we are.
The Australian Grand Prix takes place in Albert Park, and yesterday I spotted a popcorn stand being set up on the other side of the shimmering green lake. I grab one of the team scooters and start it up.
It’s Friday, two days before race day, but the track is still packed with spectators, here to watch the practice sessions. I drive carefully, breathing in the fresh, sunny air. It’s the end of March, and unlike Europe and America which are swinging into spring, Australia is well into autumn. We’ve been told to expect rain this weekend, but right now there’s barely a cloud in the sky. Melbourne’s city skyscrapers soar up in the distance ahead of me, and behind me, I picture the ocean sparkling cool and blue.
I can smell the popcorn stand before I see it, salt and butter wafting towards me on a light breeze. Mmm, junk food . . . I wonder if I could also squeeze some for myself in the scooter’s storage box? I consider it while the guy behind the counter scoops the fluffy, white kernels into a bag, but eventually decide it’s a no-go.
I pay for the popcorn and stuff Frederick’s change into my pocket, then unlock the box under my seat. Hmm, this popcorn is going to spill out – the bag’s full to the brim and I need to be able to fold the top over. I suppose I could ask for another bag to wrap over the top . . . Or . . . I could eat some! Yes, that’s the only logical conclusion.
I lean up against the scooter and delve in. The guy at the popcorn stand is watching me with amusement. What the hell are you staring at, buster? My glare wards off his gaze, but he’s still grinning. I stuff another handful into my mouth. It’s so warm and so . . . perfectly popped. I’ve probably eaten enough, now. Maybe just a little more . . . Right, that’s it. Stop, now. Now! Regretfully I close the bag and store it under my seat, then start up the scooter.
If there are this many people here now, it’s going to be packed on race day, I think to myself as I swerve around a group of slow-walking pedestrians. All of a sudden I spot two men wearing our team’s overalls up ahead, and just as I go to turn a corner in front of a set of grandstands, I realise they’re racing drivers, one of whom is Luis.
My back wheel catches some grit and slides out from under me as I take the corner. Suddenly the whole scooter is skidding and I can hear the grandstand half-full of spectators gasp in unison as I shoot across the gravel in front of them.
‘Whoa!’ Will Trust – the team’s other driver – jumps out of the way, but Luis stays put, frozen in a crouch as though expecting to catch me.
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ I hear an Australian woman cry as my bike comes to a stop right in front of him. ‘She almost ran over Luis Castro!’
She pronounces the name, ‘Lewis’, not ‘Lew-eesh’, as she’s supposed to. I may not like the jackass, but it still bugs me when people can’t say his name properly.
‘That’ll make a nice change from him running over me, then,’ I snap, getting to my feet.
I immediately realise my mistake. That woman’s mispronunciation error distracted me and I’ve idiotically just reminded him about our altercation. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention. I quickly brush myself off as I feel his eyes boring into me.
‘You,’ Luis says.
Darn.
‘You. The girl on the scooter.’
‘Er, not anymore,’ I say sarcastically, indicating the fallen vehicle. I bend down to try to stand it up.
‘Hang on, let me get it.’ Will Trust appears by my side and lifts up the scooter. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, clear blue eyes looking searchingly into mine.
I almost jump backwards. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I reply, blushing furiously. Actually, I’m not fine. My right hand is stinging like crazy from where I put it down on the gravel, and my knee feels horribly tender beneath the black pants of my black, white and gold team uniform.
‘Let me see that.’ Will takes my hand in his, pressing down on my fingers with his thumb to straighten my palm. He leans in and studies the graze and I feel jittery as I, in turn, study him. His light blond hair is falling just across his eye-line. I have a
strong compulsion to reach over and push it off his face . . .
‘It is you,’ Luis says again.
Is he still here? Bummer.
I look around to see that quite a crowd has gathered to watch me and revel in my embarrassment. At least they’re more interested in the drivers than me. Speaking of which . . .
‘The girl in Brazil. The petrol station,’ Luis continues.
Will lets me go and looks at us, questioningly. ‘You know each other?’
I flex my hand. The feel of him is still there.
‘Yeah, she almost crashed into my Ferrari in São Paulo last year,’ Luis says.
‘I almost crashed into YOUR Ferrari?’ I come back to my senses, outraged. ‘You nearly killed me!’
‘Ha!’ He laughs in my face. ‘You’re ridiculous. And you can’t drive. I said you were a silly woman driver at the time and now you’ve just proved me right.’
‘You, you, you . . .’ I glare at him, lost for words.
‘You’re not going to call me a coglione again, are you?’
‘No, but you are a testa di cazzo,’ I mutter under my breath. It means the same thing. Literally, ‘head of dick’. I smirk.
‘What did you say?’ Luis demands. ‘What did she say?’ he asks Will.
Will shrugs in amusement and bends down to dust off the scooter. I suddenly remember what I’ve done.
‘I haven’t scratched it, have I?’ I bend down beside him and scrutinise the bike.
‘It’s not too bad,’ Will says.
‘I hope Simon doesn’t fire me . . .’
‘Simon won’t notice. He’s got too much else on his mind.’
‘Simon notices everything,’ Luis helpfully interjects.