I clear my throat. “Do the Cavendishes know?”
“Of course. Daisy, you won’t believe it—they gave me and Richard early retirement with a fat payout. Out of the blue.” Mum’s practically vibrating through the phone.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Seriously?”
Wow.
This is a . . .verystrange feeling.
Happiness for Mum, naturally—of courseI’m happy for her. She deserves it. But beneath that, something cold slithers in, curling itself around my ribs.
The Cavendishes have cut me off.
My roots, severed with a generous severance package. My last thread to Edward, sliced and paid for in crisp notes.
“Yes!” She pauses, her excitement softening just slightly. “It was Edward’s doing, of course. Mrs. C is a bit tight with money despite all those pearls.”
I try to laugh. It comes out wrong.
Edward cut me off himself. Not even his mother.
And even when cutting me out of his life, he does it neatly—a surgical cut instead of a messy tear.
“That’s great, Mum,” I say, as a stupid tear escapes, probably carving a canyon straight through my heavy foundation. Michelle’s going to kill me.
I am genuinely happy for Mum and Richard—their sun-drenched Spanish future with affordable wine and perpetual vitamin D.
But the message is loud and clear: the Cavendishes aredonewith me.
“Daisy?” Mum’s voice softens. “Are you all right, love? You can visit anytime. Marbella’s not that far.”
I swipe at my cheek, my fraudulent happiness dialed up to maximum. “Mum, I’m so happy for you!” I trill, voice bright, eyes actively drowning in despair.
A pause. Then: “Is it Edward? I wish you’d justtell mewhat happened.”
“It was a fling, Mum.”
“Daisy, for fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be on set!” Simon’s voice shatters my pity party.
I jump about two feet in the air, my frayed nerves screaming in protest.
Simon glares at me, foot tapping impatiently, arms crossed over his chest.
“Gotta go, Mum—you probably heard that.” I end the call.
“Snappy snappy.” Simon claps his hands.
“Jesus, Simon,” Lizzie snaps, shooting him a glare. “Give her a second.”
Thank you, Lizzie. My one true ally in this cruel, mustard-stained world.
“She’s had plenty of seconds. What she hasn’t had is a shred of enthusiasm for the past week, and we’re live in five!” He jabs a finger at me. “Unless you want me to replace you with a plastic mannequin, which, by the way, would be more lifelike than whatever this is, get your shit together.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe we could swap places. It can wave a rake around pretending to be okay, and I can lie lifeless in the props cupboard. At least mannequins don’t have the ability to feel horrible. Or cry.
“I’m fine,” I declare, channeling theatrical pep as I shove the mangled sandwich back at Lizzie.
The clock sneers at me with its glowing red eyes. 10:00 p.m.
