The Near Daphne Experience

by Alison Reynolds

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Meet Daphne Buckley, a psychiatrist in search of a great love. He hasn't turned up yet. But surely he will. He could be any one of the respondents to her old-fashioned ‘looking for love' classifieds. He could be one of the men her overbearing mother tries to set her up with, or even someone she already knows. It doesn't matter. Daphne is determined and brainy and prepared to bend all the rules. With old schoolfriend Celeste by her side and her mother's grooming tips for unkempt leg hair, love is likely just around the corner. Whether Daphne deserves it is another question. And with a psychopathic killer lurking, how far she'll go to get it is the biggest question of all.
The Near Daphne Experience is a riotous romp about the unedifying search for love, and the most original book you'll read this year.

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 362

Sample

Email

From: Celeste Smythe

To: Dr D Buckley

Dear Daff,

Thank you for looking after the children last weekend. I really appreciate it. Mum and Dad said that Digby is quite capable of looking after his own kids and why isn’t he the one helping his mother move cities. They don’t or won’t understand how busy Digby is on an important case. It’s something to do with the Tampa and those poor refugees not being allowed to land. I’m feeling so proud of him.

But it is really bad we didn’t get over to Adelaide to see Judy more. She is lovely, although I did spend a lot of time walking backwards so she didn’t see the JUICY logo emblazoned across the arse of my pink velour tracksuit. Please remind me never to go shopping with my mothers’ group again. And then I backed her Jag into a pole when I was picking up takeaway pizza (can you believe she had never tried it before?), but she was so nice and said there was already a little dent in that exact same place that had always bothered her. The car’s getting shipped to Melbourne once it’s fixed and so we ended up flying home.

It was a bit tricky when she realised that I was wearing ugg boots on the plane. Judy already worries that I’m a bit of a bogan, but they were the only shoes I took and they’re so comfortable. Judy ended up fishing out a pair of size 7 navy heels from her case and I crammed my size 8 feet into them and tottered off. I didn’t dare slip them off until I was home.

Then the next day I had one of those squirmy experiences in the backyard with the electrician’s apprentice, Trent. I don’t know if you noticed the new security lights, but he was sent to fix up a bracket. I thanked him and he stood far too close to me when he had the entire lawn and said, ‘I’m happy to help you with anything, Celeste.’ I stepped back straightaway and pretended to hear Tom wake up and dashed inside and upstairs. Maybe he was being helpful and I’m fooling myself. I’m hardly Samantha from Sex and the City. Life is tricky.

How is Wendell Bradley Acham III? That is the coolest name. I hope he didn’t miss you too much. I know you would much rather have been with him than Digby, but the kids are fun. They were so excited that you stayed and Em couldn’t wait to show me her plastic bone necklace she made in the workshop crèche. Rather you than me going with Digby to a reincarnation workshop. I hope you weren’t just being nice saying that it’s always interesting to learn about other philosophies.

It’s because Digby’s clever that he wants to explore so many things. Judy says he’s been like that since he was small. He would have been such a sweet, always-thinking little boy.

Thank you again!

Lots and lots of love,

Celeste xxx

P.S. I’m using our new whizz-bang computer. We had to upgrade so Emily could use Encarta for school. Expect emails from now on!

Letter from Mariana Buckley

Daffers, darling,

Daddy and I were so pleased to hear from you. Perhaps next time we won’t have to wait in anticipation quite so long. This is not meant as a criticism, merely a comment (so don’t get huffy!).

I tried to ring last night to say how excited we were to catch a glimpse of you on the news as you left the court. If only Daddy and I had known you were involved in that terrible murder case, we would have snaffled front-row seats. Personally, I blame the mother – there must have been signs that he was a lunatic. She obviously doesn’t share the same close relationship with her child that I do with you.

We’re so proud of you. Now, don’t roll your eyes at me. It must be emotionally draining to work at an asylum. (Sorry, Daffers, I know you don’t call them asylums now, but all the ideologically sound guff in the world can’t disguise they’re nuthouses.) What do you find to converse about with these murderers?

Wait a moment. Your father’s leaving for golf and wants a lift.

Back again. I can write freely now he’s gone. Thank God for Saturday golf. Between you and me, I don’t know how much hitting of that little white ball he actually does; it’s more hitting the Scotch bottle on the 19th hole. But when he comes home a bit tiddly and happy, it’s a pleasure being around him. And at bedtime, rather than making an exhibition of himself, he plonks himself in the spare room and snores his head off – especially with all the spring pollen in the air now. Sometimes I need to shut the doors between our rooms to keep out the noise. And the fumes some mornings … It’s as much as I can do not to turn from his goodbye kiss. But if it keeps him content …

That’s the thing to be learnt about men. It’s better to let them go and not interfere unless things get out of hand. A clever woman can manage a man and make him do what she wants. Do you remember years ago when your father was adamant that he didn’t want to go to the Maldives? It didn’t take me long to change his mind. I could tell you how, Daffers, but I must keep some of my secrets.

I was surprised to hear that you’ve had 23 previous lives. You have been busy. Who on earth did you see to tell you that? Don’t worry, I realise that you’re too sensible to believe in that rubbish and I’m guessing it was a sort of work in-service seminar? Honestly, crystals can be very pretty and I love curries as much as anybody, but I do wonder if your facility is dabbling too much in alternative therapies. Sitting all your inmates around in a drumming circle is hardly going to stop their murderous tendencies with all that noise and excitement. Was that an idea of your American former boss?

And I find it personally offensive that this regression karma therapist – who has never even met me! – told you I’ve been your mother 18 times because we’ve never got it right. You seem to have enough things to blame me for within this present lifetime without reverting to previous lives. Play fair! Anyway, Daffers, if I know one thing, it is that my only child has never wanted for anything. Ponies, skiing, even meditation to help with your exam nerves, although I did wonder at the time if that was a mistake, filling your mind with all that crystal and incense at such an impressionable age. Thank God your innate sense reasserted itself and you pursued a more scientific path.

I can’t pretend to understand why you’ve chosen to work in that country nuthouse, hidden away in the Western District. I could understand if it was close to Daylesford – the spa country is so lovely, isn’t it? One can almost imagine one is in England. Or Red Hill, at a pinch. But in the middle of nowhere. No nice restaurants. Nothing to do. I suppose you feel a sense of loyalty from doing part of your training there, which is admirable, but there would be many more opportunities for you in the city and I don’t only mean professionally. People rave about the fresh country air, but it’s very overrated; it just makes you eat more and put on more weight. And there would be nothing stopping you from doing those sweaty hikes you enjoy so much on weekend trips out of Melbourne.

Well, you know how Daddy and I always attend the annual medical alumni and parents cocktail party? (Darling, you can be sure I will never mention your 23 past lives there, but I have often wondered how you can have healing crystals in the house AND believe in clinical trials. Do you hide your rose quartz deep in your pants pocket?) Anyway, we so enjoy the cocktail party and everybody remembers you with a bit of nudging, even though you graduated years ago now. At the last one Professor Denning confided to me that he thought you were crazy (and you call me politically incorrect, Daffers) to stay up there in Hamilton. He said it was time for you to move on now there’s no hope of promotion. How is the new head working out? I hope Professor Fulbright is friendlier than that American – he was so elusive the two times you allowed us a day trip up there. Did you tell me he had left?

Have you been brooding a bit? Now, if you had some nice man you wouldn’t have time for this reincarnation rubbish. Daffers, I’ve actually met a rather nice man for you. Now listen, don’t ‘oh, Mum’ me. His name is Nigel Parisher – Gail Parisher’s son. I happened to hear he was staying with her so I popped into Gail’s for a recipe at breakfast time and there he was. He’s up your way quite often pursuing his hobby, which is something or other to do with barbed wire fences, so I gave him your number. I barely said a word about you, I swear.

Promise Mummy you’ll go out this weekend, somewhere with people who don’t have murderous tendencies. Do be pleasant. Remember: smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.

Daddy will be staggering in from golf soon. I know he will want to send his love. He’s always been so proud of his little girl. We both are. I can just picture the gorgeous children you would have and you’re not getting any younger, fewer eggs and all that. There must be some nice doctors where you work. Don’t get cross. Any loving mother wants their child to be happy.

Love, Mummy

P.S. Daffers, I did wonder why you chose to go to Florida rather than visit us during your last holiday. I thought that was where white-shoed Americans go to die.

P.P.S. I didn’t mean anything by sending you a ladies personal shaver. I could tell by that momentary glimpse of you on TV that you haven’t even unwrapped it. But I ask you, Daff, are sleeveless tops wise when attending a court appearance, especially when you lifted your arms in their au naturel state when you left the court? Is it a feminist statement? And bare legs do look unprofessional. Pant suits are very accepted in the workplace now and so easy to wear. Just a thought.

P.P.P.S. Thank you for agreeing for us to keep communicating by letter rather than me trying to master the email on Daddy’s home computer. Apart from anything, I cannot stand that appalling screech when it’s trying to connect with the phone. I so appreciated that informative article about how writing by hand is an excellent cognitive exercise for baby boomers. I’m sure my brain will be sharper than ever.

P.P.P.P.S. Is Professor Fulbright married? Professor Denning thought he may be divorced.

Email

From: Celeste Smythe

To: Dr D Buckley

Daffy,

That’s fantastic you’re taking charge of your own destiny. You were much too good for Wendell Bradley Acham III, stupid wanker. I know it was his name, but he didn’t need to use the whole thing – seriously, using a numeral like he’s Henry VIII. And I hate the word polyamorous. It’s such a psychiatrist bullshitty thing to say instead of ‘I’ve been sleeping around’ or ‘I can’t make up my mind’. It’s lucky you found out he ‘needs to have many experiences to fulfil all the facets of his being’ before you made a firm commitment like moving in together or marriage. At least you got a holiday in Florida out of it.

Are you sure he didn’t have any polyamorous relationships in Hamilton? Even if he’s telling the truth, I bet it was to avoid detection rather than spare your feelings. He wouldn’t want people finding out that the respectable head of Peaceful Glades was a sleaze. Will you move back to Melbourne now that he’s pissed off? There’s no reason to stay.

Please don’t think he left because of anything you did. Nobody would guess you’re 35. You look the same as you did at school, minus the hockey stick. God, what a miserable sport – all those vicious bitches trying to whack my ankles and Miss Stebble yelling at me to dive for the ball. No way was I risking brain damage. Remember her bristly black moustache and how furry all those hooray hockey girls were? I never understood why you loved it so much.

One sports day, I was watching the match with your mother (did you know she took whiskey-laced coffee in that thermos of hers?) and she diagnosed an excess of male hormones out on the field. Sporting prowess wasn’t everything, she told me, and I felt so much better about hanging around the sidelines, a sports reject. She was so kind.

Actually, I bumped into her yesterday in the city and she kept telling me how wonderful you are. We had a light lunch, both preceded and followed by coffee martinis, then shared a tiddly taxi ride home. I don’t know why you complain you’ll never be good enough for her – according to her the sun shines out of your arse.

It was so warm in the taxi I nearly drifted off except she kept nudging me with her sharp little elbow. She leaned in close before she got out and whispered, ‘Do you know that Digby used to be rather keen on my daughter?’ Did I miss something? Don’t worry, I know it was the vodka talking. (I nearly fell over on the front steps a few moments later.) You would never betray me. Though Digby carries on so much some days you would be welcome to him. You should hear him expounding on the failure of state education, although maybe you’re luckier if you don’t – barristers do love the sound of their own voices.

My big news is that Emily’s booked into Selwyn Girls Grammar. I know I said I’d never send a daughter of mine there, even though I know I was lucky to win a schol. . .