Fiona Gibson - The Great Escape - The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from the summer bestseller

‘Well, are you gonna phone Dad?’ she demands.

‘Okay. I’ll do that.’ Bristling with irritation now, Hannah calls Ryan’s mobile, which goes to voicemail. He’s not at home either, and she doesn’t bother leaving a message, because how pathetic would her voice sound, drifting out of the answerphone, wittering about earrings?

‘Claire’s Accessories,’ Daisy announces. ‘That’s where everybody has it done.’ Hannah smiles tensely. Then a brainwave hits her. Of course: Sadie will know what to do. Capable Sadie, who’s managing to live in that teeny village in the middle of nowhere without going mad, while raising not one but two babies and going to lunch parties. Hannah feels guilty now, being so distracted when her friend had called earlier. And if Sadie can’t offer a snippet of sage advice, then who can?

Damn, she’s not picking up either. Probably at another lunch party by now. ‘Phone Mum,’ Daisy barks. ‘Mum’ll say it’s okay.’

‘Fine, but I have to get something to eat first, okay?’ Boldly, without any debate, she takes Daisy by the hand and whisks her into Prêt à Manger.

Here, none of the sandwiches is deemed acceptable. A plain bread roll is chosen, even though it’s really offered to accompany soup (Daisy wrinkles her nose at Hannah’s suggestion of soup, as if she’s trying to trick her into consuming vomit).

‘Dad said I could have my ears done for the wedding,’ Daisy mumbles, picking a crumb off her lip.

Hannah has an overwhelming urge to tip a large glass of chardonnay down her throat. ‘Well, we’ll see,’ she murmurs.

‘You’ve got your ears done,’ Daisy ventures as they leave.

‘Yes, Daisy, but I’m thirty-five! And I was sixteen when I had it done and you’re only ten. There’s a big difference.’

‘If you don’t let me have it done,’ Daisy growls as they head outside, ‘I’m not coming to your wedding.’

Hannah stares at her. ‘You really mean that? You wouldn’t come to your own dad’s wedding because of ears ?’

Daisy shrugs. ‘No.’

‘But he’d be so upset! Can you imagine how he’d feel if you weren’t there?’

Daisy juts out her chin. ‘I want to wear earrings at the wedding.’

‘What about clip-ons?’ Hannah suggests desperately. ‘There were loads of nice clip-ons in New Look. Come on, we’ll go back and choose you a pair …’ The thought of braving that store twice in one day is beyond horrific. But Hannah is prepared to spend the whole damn night in New Look if it’ll settle the earring issue.

‘I don’t want clip-ons.’

Don’t wear bloody clip-ons then! Hannah wants to yell. ‘Okay,’ she snaps, yanking her phone from her pocket, ‘I’ll call your mum and you can talk it over with her.’ A vein pulses urgently in her neck as she scrolls through her contacts.

‘Hello? Hannah?’ Petra’s voice is needle-sharp.

‘Hi, Petra, are you busy right now?’

‘Yes, just a bit, haha,’ Petra says, meaning, when am I not rushed off my feet ? Hannah wonders if she’s interrupted a performance, whether Petra’s gripping her bow in one hand, mobile in the other, bony knees thrust apart with her cello between them. This image makes her feel a tiny bit better.

‘It’s just—’

‘Is this urgent, Hannah, or can we talk later?’

Hannah glances down at Daisy who’s picking out a bit of bread from between her teeth. ‘It is urgent actually. I’m out shopping with Daisy and she’s decided she wants to get her ears pierced.’

Silence. No, not quite silence. Hannah can detect the faint whirring of Petra’s incredibly overworked brain. ‘Petra? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Hannah. I’m just … digesting it.’ Hannah pictures a conductor drumming his fingers impatiently on a little podium thing.

‘Oh.’ Hannah bites her lip. She assumed Petra would deliver a brisk yes or no, not that she’d need time to mull it over. The silence seems to stretch for an eternity. Daisy squashes a smouldering cigarette butt with the toe of her patent boot. ‘Shall I call you back later?’ Hannah suggests.

‘No, there’s no need for that. We can talk now, even though I’m trying to do fifty things at once …’

‘Petra, look, if it’s not a good time …’

‘That’s not the issue,’ Petra barks. ‘It’s us, having this conversation about my daughter who you seem to think is perfectly old enough to have her body disfigured, her lobes punctured by some teenager wielding a needle …’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call it disfig—’

‘She’s ten!’ Petra exclaims. ‘Do you think it’s okay for a ten-year-old girl to have something irreversible done to her body, with needles?’

‘Er, they use a gun these days,’ Hannah says dully.

‘A gun? Good God!’ Petra really is bloody unhinged, Hannah decides. She knows Ryan was devastated when she left – he made no secret of that. If she’d been him, though, she’d have been popping champagne corks and dancing wildly on the scuffed bit of floor in the attic where her cello used to stand. Petra is now babbling on about infections and pus. Daisy has extinguished the cigarette and is kicking it towards a smear of pigeon droppings. ‘It’s fine, Petra,’ Hannah cuts in firmly. ‘Actually, I thought you wouldn’t be keen. I just called because Daisy asked me to, and as you’re not happy, we definitely won’t do it.’

‘Well, I hope not.’ Her voice softens slightly.

‘Of course we won’t. I’d never do anything like that without asking you or Ryan first. Anyway, as you’re obviously in the middle of something …’

‘Bye then,’ Petra says curtly.

What a monstrous mother, Hannah thinks, not even asking how Daisy is, or saying a quick hello to her. Despite the disastrous nature of their day, Hannah has a sudden urge to envelop her in a hug.

‘What did Mum say?’ Daisy asks quietly.

‘Um, she’s not keen, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean never. Maybe, when you’re a little bit older, you could ask her again.’

Daisy’s mouth sets in a scowl as, agreeing that they’ve run out of shopping steam, they march purposefully towards Oxford Circus tube station. Jesus, Hannah reflects, anyone would think the poor kid had asked for a facial tattoo.

Hannah can’t sleep. It’s unusually hot and stuffy for late April, and she tosses and turns, replaying her day in town. Unable to convey its true awfulness, she made light of it to Ryan and even threw in a few jokes about being trampled underfoot by herds of antelopes in New Look.

Ryan is sleeping soundly, but Hannah just can’t get comfortable. She’s replaying Daisy announcing, ‘Hannah bought me a plain bread roll for lunch!’ as they all sat around the dinner table, and Ryan throwing her a quizzical look, as if he imagined for a second that Hannah hadn’t given Daisy any choice. Slipping out of bed, she considers going downstairs to make a cup of tea, but is wary of being discovered by one of the kids as she sits bleakly in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She might look as if she’s losing it, which would cheer them up no end.

Instead, she heads up to the converted loft – formerly Petra’s music room – and now Hannah’s very own studio. Sitting down at her desk, she flicks on the wonky Anglepoise lamp she’s had since art college, then turns on her ageing computer and waits for it to whir into life. All around the room, canvases are stacked against the plain white walls. Cityscapes, mostly, exploding with colour. Although Hannah studied illustration at college, she still loves to paint. She runs her gaze along the row of canvases leaning against the wall. These were painted before she moved in with Ryan; he seemed entranced as she unpacked them and helped to peel off their protective bubble wrap layers. But there’s no evidence of recent painting activity. No tubes out of their wooden boxes, no brushes in jars or hardened worms of paint stuck to her palette. In fact, she’s only started one painting – a portrait of Daisy which she had to abandon because it felt wrong, the two of them up here with Daisy reminding her, in that prim little voice, ‘This used to be Mummy’s music room, you know. She kept her cello over there. That’s what made the scratches on the floor.’