Page 5 of Wanting Daisy Dead

Lauren

‘So ... you hate my book?’ I ask, after the waiter has cleared the crystal detritus from my broken glass. I have to get this meeting back on track.

Finty looks down at the remnants of her foam and slowly pushes away the plate before resting her tiny chin on those tiny, perfectly manicured hands. ‘I ... don’t hate it ... I like it.’ She’s shaking her head in micro-movements; her body is betraying her. She hates it.

The ribbon of rejection slips painfully through my veins.

Did she just look at her watch?

I suddenly realise I’m on a fool’s errand. I’ve spent a fortune on new clothes for this meeting, and planned my script for weeks, but it looks like she has no intention of trying to sell my book. This is a pity lunch. She just didn’t tell me.

‘Look ...’ She pauses, seeming to be working out what to say. ‘I was thinking ... What about writing a non-fiction book ...’

‘I can’t write non-fiction,’ I say, though it turns out I can’t write fiction either.

‘Hear me out. The public appetite for Daisy Harrington’s tragic story is still strong. This year she’ll be forty years old, just like you!’

‘Yes, don’t remind me.’ I think of the invite Richard read to me over the phone and the dread in my stomach returns with a vengeance.

My vision blurs, I can barely see Finty just inches away from me; she’s morphing into Daisy, but a swirly, sinister Daisy, the one that screeched and fought and bit like a dog.

‘Are you okay, Lauren? You’re shaking.’ Finty is staring at me.

I look down at my hand, resting on the stem of my fresh glass. She’s right.

A waiter appears holding two plates, which distracts her, thank God.

We both chose the lamb, which sits next to half a chargrilled baby gem lettuce, next to a circle of fondant potato.

Decorated with delicate purple viola sprigs, it’s pretty, but looks more like an ornament than something one would eat.

‘What was she like?’ Finty asks, picking up her knife and fork. They look huge in her tiny hands.

I shrug, feeling uncomfortable. I must be careful and not say anything that could be misconstrued.

‘Daisy was like anyone else – she had her flaws. I remember one of our housemates, I think it was Maddie, saying, “Daisy’s like the girl with the curl. When she’s good she’s very good, and when she’s bad – she’s horrid.”’

Finty smiles and raises both eyebrows. ‘How intriguing. Would you agree with that?’

‘Yes, I would.’ I ignore my food and continue to play with the stem of my wine glass. ‘I remember thinking it was a perfect analysis. Maddie wasn’t as close to her as I was. I suppose she saw her more objectively.’

‘She sounds astute.’

‘Maddie? Hardly – she’s lovely, but astute is the last thing I’d describe her as. In fact, she was a bit slow. You had to explain everything to her. We’d all be laughing at a joke, and one of us would have to explain it to Maddie before she’d laugh.’

Finty giggles at this, and covers her mouth.

Then she leans forward, and while still chewing she says, ‘I’m fascinated by all this – the way you talk about them, you could write it.

If not for me, think of Daisy?’ she adds, turning her mouth down on both sides.

It looks so ludicrous I want to laugh. But instead I just shake my head and down more wine.

‘Your first book was magical, so you obviously have the talent – we just need to channel it. Why not use your gift to write this, the true story – the true crime .’ Finty puts her arms on the table.

‘You are one of the few people who can tell that story!’

‘No.’ I run my fingers along the linen napkin, which means I don’t have to meet her eyes.

‘You could offer an interesting perspective. You were there.’

‘I wasn’t !’ I snap defensively.

‘I mean, you lived with her. You were her best friend.’ She’s studying me, watching my eyes. Does Finty know ?

‘But isn’t non-fiction something journalists write?’ I ask, into the silence.

‘Not necessarily, Lauren. Think of it as an autobiography. Write your story as you saw it through your own eyes. Who was she? What made her tick? There’s still such an appetite for this girl, and you knew the real Daisy.’

I shake my head, and take another large glug of wine. It’s cold on my throat, weakening my defences. When I drink wine I think I can do anything, and we do need the money.

‘I also think there would be film and TV interest.’

She has me there ... and I guess I could write it as a true crime, the way she’s suggesting.

Three cups of coffee and an amaretto later, we’re edging into the cocktail hour, still talking, and my initial horror at the idea is changing. The money would be amazing, but, more than that, I could be a writer again, only this time it’d be the truth!

‘What happened to you guys was unique. Awful, yes,’ Finty adds so she doesn’t sound too thrilled about a nineteen-year-old girl having her head hammered in, ‘but it’s remained in the collective consciousness for twenty years.

Daisy is the every-daughter, the girl going away to college with her life before her, slain by her lover on a lonely beach. ’

‘You’re already writing the blurb, I see.’

She smiles. ‘Guilty as charged! This story will write itself. People still can’t get enough of Daisy Harrington. She’s like Princess Diana ...’

I look at Finty doubtfully.

‘Okay, no, I’m getting carried away, but still – she’s someone everyone loved, even though they’d never met her.

She had youth and beauty, and there’s real scope for a mixed readership too.

Young girls, parents of older teens waving their kids off at uni .

.. The story is their worst nightmare, but so relatable.

And globally – I can see a lot of foreign rights sales, Lauren. ’ She sounds like a fortune teller.

I feel a frisson of excitement, not to mention relief at the prospect of money coming in again. I’m keen to tell Daisy’s story, and it might be the wine, but perhaps it’s time to tell all our stories. Obviously my story will be edited, by me. I have to erase what I did.

I try to convince myself that this will be how I make it up to Daisy. I don’t believe it, but this way I can justify making more money from my best friend’s murder. Just.

‘Hard to imagine if you weren’t there, but we were right in the middle of it.

We were so caught up, we couldn’t escape each other, or the story, and for me that’s continued,’ I say, almost writing the story as I speak.

‘We were told to stay away from the press, and it wasn’t safe to be around the uni because people saw us as suspects.

We couldn’t go home because the police wanted to speak to us all, and we were so young and scared. ’

‘Scared?’ Finty says, licking her lips.

‘Yeah, we were scared of ending up like Daisy. No one knew why she’d been killed – was it someone she knew, or just a random attack, or a serial killer on campus?

We were also scared of being accused of being involved.

We all lived together, and sometimes things got heated.

There might have been an incident or a quote from any of us that was innocent, but seemed incriminating.

We were also scared of each other. Had one of us killed her?

I remember being convinced that Alex Jones had something to do with her murder, and I avoided him like the plague. ’

‘Of everyone, what made you think Alex ...?’

‘I can’t remember exactly why now; it was more of a feeling.

Alex always knew where she was, like he kept tabs on her.

He’d go out in the middle of the night just to walk her home from a nightclub.

The friendship – if that’s what it was – seemed odd.

He’d do anything for her, and she let him. It seemed a bit creepy to me.’

‘What an interesting dynamic, and I suppose until David Montgomery was actually arrested it could have been any one of you.’

‘Yeah, and of course it wasn’t. But, stuck together for days in that house, scared and guilty and sad – we trauma-bonded.’

‘It must have been such a febrile atmosphere, very raw,’ Finty says, feeding me the lines.

‘Yes, and though I haven’t kept in touch with any of them, apart from one, I feel like we’re all attached by an invisible thread. All connected because of Daisy. We all at some point had a friendship or relationship of some sorts, and we loved her ... and hated her.’

‘She was an enigma really, wasn’t she?’

‘In death we all become enigmas. And when you’re young, beautiful and dead ...’

‘Hang on.’ Finty is tapping something into her phone. ‘That’s the title right there – Young, Beautiful and Dead !’

‘A bit much?’ I query.

‘Not at all,’ she says, and I hear that lovely Irish lilt returning to her voice. Finty’s back. We’re both warming to the theme, and I’m excited at the prospect of holding this book in my hand. Then I remind myself through an alcoholic haze that I have to write it first.

‘What if you can sell the idea, but I can’t write the book?’

She shrugs. ‘We’ll cross that bridge ...’ She gazes discreetly around the restaurant. ‘What was the worst part for you? Obviously her death ... How did you feel? Set the scene for me ...’ She focuses back on me, resting her chin on her hands as she waits expectantly for my story.

‘She’d been missing for a week when they found her, and by then everyone felt they knew her.

People who’d never even met her declared their love for Daisy, and left flowers and soft toys by the oak tree outside our place.

They sobbed at her funeral, wore black, made daisy chains out of plastic daisies.

It was like they wanted to own a piece of her, a slice of grief that they wore like a fancy scarf,’ I add sadly.

‘Write that down,’ she urges. Her pale-blue eyes are wide, thick black lashes like spiders.

I do as she says, making a note on my phone.