‘A rich older woman’s handbag,’ says Viv.
‘That’s the bitter truth of it, I’m afraid. When you met, were you by any chance wearing your Tiffany necklace?’
Jules thinks that Martin Glover should be appraised of this additional information, since Dev is unlikely to have disclosed the aspirations he may be harbouring. Mr Glover – who, Viv seems to believe, is of the opinion that he is performing a public service, even if it’s only a niche one – would probably like to know about these.
‘I can tell this has come as a body blow and you’re feeling suitably chastened, Viv, so I shall lay off haranguing you about anything else pertaining.’
Having said this, Julia proceeds to go on about it at some length. The fact that no one had any inkling of Viv’s whereabouts. The fact that she had put herself at some dodgy man’s mercy in an empty house. Really and truly, for a woman your age (sorry) this kind of malarkey is just not on.
‘And then there’s the whole business, let’s not err on the side of refinement, of your bum-sucking behaviour. In real life you’re no pushover. Where did this spring from? Was it that you were grateful for having him served up on a plate, so gorgeous and sexy and so much younger, and you didn’t want to hurt his feelings? Did you feel beholden to a man of colour, out of misplaced guilt? These are pertinent questions, you know.’
The cross-examination is unnecessary. Viv already finds these questions troubling. ‘I have to say, Viv,’ Jules adds, ‘when I saw you after you’d just met him, you looked like you were incubating a vibrator.’
Viv says she wouldn’t recognise one if she tripped over it.
‘Well, it’s not too late to give one a try. It might save you a whole load of money and grief, going forward.’ Julia has never been averse to telling it like it is.
12
DAISY COMES TO DINNER
Tonight Daisy will turn up nearly an hour late, which is customary and surprises no one. But Julia has had to show up on time all her working life or risk the sky falling in. She arrives on the knocker, a polite five minutes after the hour. She is, she says, constitutionally unable to be late. Tonight, had she been constitutionally able, she might have wished to delay her arrival. Almost before she has been divested of her coat, and barely before she has taken a grip on her cocktail, Viv has pounced.
Yes, Viv is right, Daisy will have some news to impart, but Jules feels honour bound not to impart it in advance. And yes, it does have to do with where Daisy is going to live. In answer to a rapid follow-up query, Jules assumes an expression that Viv rates as shifty.
Yes, it also concerns the baby question, that’s true, and yes, it does look as if Daisy may have reached some decisions in these areas. Yes, they are constructive decisions. Well, at least, Jules concedes after the briefest of pauses, they are constructive up to a point. It depends where you’re coming from, she says.
Hasn’t Daisy made these decisions rather fast? Viv asks, with a nervous glance at her husband. Isn’t there a danger of rushing into things? Geoff weighs in here, saying reasonably that as they don’t yet know what the decisions are, since Jules is refusing to tell them, it is pointless to concern oneself about their nature and provenance. They might even, he says, be thoroughly sensible and unobjectionable decisions. His tone would have sounded unconvincing to the most objective of listeners, and his words fall on deaf ears.
Think how she rushed into those other unfortunate liaisons. Viv is pursuing a train of thought of her own and picturing Jasper, Mohammed and Bruce (a cousin of Julia’s) among others. And Marco too, of course; let’s not forget him. The cause of all the present angst.
‘Let’s look on the bright side,’ says Geoff. ‘It’s been hardly more than a couple of weeks since the break-up. Far too soon for anyone else to be on the scene.’
Daisy’s parents snatch surreptitious looks, independently, at their friend. Julia may be good at keeping her mouth shut when she deems it morally incumbent, but hers is an expressive face. Even when she is calmly sipping one of Geoff’s cocktails, her wide eyes, violet-tinged and uncannily reminiscent (people have said) of Elizabeth Taylor’s, are a giveaway.
She turns to Viv. ‘I’m not saying anything about it. I told you that.’
‘Is it someone we know?’ Viv experiences a surge of apprehension. ‘Just say yes or no. You don’t even need to say anything. You can nod, or shake your head.’
‘Or stand on it,’ says Geoff.
‘It is. Isn’t it?’ Viv gives her friend a beseeching look, while ransacking her mind for names and faces. ‘Just nod if it—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Geoff sighs, putting his hand over hers and then taking it away again. ‘We haven’t got long to wait before the full horror is revealed.’ At which Jules gives an enigmatic smile.
Viv is riffling through her mental filing cabinet for names and faces, trying to call to mind the participants and approximate circumstances of each break-up. They hadn’t all been what you’d call full-on entanglements, or even full-on dissolutions; some had flared and faded away like a firework. There one day and gone the next. Mohammed, she was inclined to think, whom she had rather liked (although there were tricky cultural differences) fell into that category. And also an upper-class twit called Florian. Surely Daisy wouldn’t have re-ignited …
‘Is it one of her old flames?’
Jules makes an involuntary and almost infinitesimal movement. It is spotted by Viv and construed, somewhat misleadingly it will turn out, as a negative.
‘So, it’s not a former boyfr—’
Jules interrupts. ‘Look Viv, may we talk about something else, please? I’m being self-protective here, in a caring and, yes, moral way. Let’s discuss theatre, films or books. What are you reading? Or if you don’t feel up to that, what would we do about Islamic Fundamentalism, if we were in power?’
She sees that her friend is about to open her mouth again. ‘All right, I’ll tell you this much: it’s not an old boyfriend, okay? Not exactly. And that’s my last word on the subject. Daisy will be here any minute.’
‘And for all we know she’ll have changed her mind twice since you spoke to her anyway,’ Geoff says sensibly.
But Viv heard two of Julia’s words, and they may as well have been up there in lights. Only a vague couple of words but they are ringing bells inside her head. Alarm bells. Loud ones. Not exactly.
‘It’s someone she’s known for a long time, isn’t it?’ says Viv slowly, trying to come to grips with the germ of an idea. Jules puts her hands over her ears. ‘But not been involved with.’ Viv looks at Geoff. They are both thinking of the same person, and not at all sure what this might imply. Neither of them wants to think about the subject, or to take it any further, at this moment.
They talk about politicians, and then about films, but in a desultory way. By the time Daisy does arrive not too long afterwards, and first-course plates have been laid down (dips from the Greek deli) a flimsy wisp of tension is hanging over the table. In her mind, Daisy’s mother has several pieces of a potential scenario waiting, like a patchwork quilt, to be assembled. None is ideal, and none (sadly) involves early student romances she had favoured. All are puzzling. But some are worse, and some more puzzling, than others.
Aware that a mother’s scrutiny can be a source of irritation in itself, and an inflammatory one at that, she is endeavouring not to gaze at Daisy. Her daughter’s clothes are always dramatic and independent of fashion. Tonight she’s wearing a long plaid skirt with a high-necked, ruffled blouse and a dark velvet waistcoat. She looks stylish – like someone in an Edwardian romcom, her mother thinks with a loving concern that is painful – and lovely as usual, although also rather tired and pale.
The main course is salmon baked with a Middle-Eastern crust. This is a recent discovery, passed on by a foodie friend who saw it on a cooking show. The crust is a fragrant mix of spices bound with olive oil. Viv is pleased with it.
After an appreciative interval in which the constituents of t
he crust (an unthreatening topic) are dissected and discussed, Viv murmurs, ‘So, darling. Any news on anything? Have you thought about where you might relocate?’
She knows Geoff disapproves of this opening gambit. Geoff is of the opinion that it’s always advisable to let Daisy take things at her own pace. Her pace can be glacial, however, and Viv doesn’t think she can stand much more suspense. She prefers to take the direct approach, even though experience has told her that, in common with helpful suggestions about life in general, it may be counterproductive.
Geoff pours more wine as Daisy exchanges a glance with her godmother. A complicit glance containing some abeyant humour. This is likely to be a curly conversation because there are delicate issues involved. Not that Daisy has ever let her parents’ approval, or otherwise, change her behaviour, or even influence it overmuch, as they would be the first to acknowledge.
If there is anyone whose opinion can carry some, and on occasion some real, weight with Daisy, it is Jules. Daisy takes notice of what she thinks, and her parents know it. Julia’s relationship with her goddaughter has been an unexpected pleasure; one of those rare gifts, as she has said to Viv, that goes on giving. And it has not been competitive, not the two-edged sword that it might have been.
Still, the potential to cut both ways has always been there. And might, Jules is thinking, be here right now. She has no idea how Viv or Geoff (perhaps particularly Geoff) is going to receive this.
‘I’ve moved in with Adrian,’ Daisy remarks negligently. Her parents look up from their plates. Adrian is the name that had sprung independently and unprompted into both minds. Adrian: lazy, louche, funny, irresponsible. Good-looking, not gainfully employed. Drug-dabbling, profligate, gay. The name that ticks all boxes.
‘Ah, Adrian,’ Viv murmurs. And waits, but nothing is forthcoming. ‘Well, he’s been a very good friend. Remind me, where does he live again?’
‘Where he’s always lived, in Flood Street, Mum. Chelsea. Remember?’
‘Does he have a spare room?’
‘Yes, of course he has a spare room. His parents have got zillions. He’s got spare rooms coming out of his ears. I’ll have my own studio. He’s been rattling around in there for months not knowing what to do with himself.’ Daisy spears some sprouting broccoli. ‘This is really good, Mum.’
‘He hasn’t always lived alone, has he?’ Viv asks, tentatively.
‘No, of course not, he shared the house with Henry. Remember Heggers? His twin? We had a brief thing at uni. He was my first real boyfriend, actually, or second. A very brief thing. You probably don’t remember him, he’s the straight one of the family. A real pain in the butt. He got married in June, so he moved out to his own place.’
‘Yes, I do remember him. Surprisingly well, since it was – how long ago? Getting on for twenty years?’ She bites her tongue. ‘Heggers. Yes, cherubic with blond curly hair. I thought he was terribly sweet.’
Ouch. He was a pain in the butt. Second bite of the tongue. ‘Isn’t that funny, Geoff, I had no idea Heggers was Adrian’s brother. They’re clearly not identical twins. Must be fraternal. Did you know he was related to Adrian?’
‘I don’t even recall the bastard,’ says Geoff. ‘So, who is Adrian’s editor?’ Geoff knows, along with Viv, that Adrian is reputed to have been writing a novel ever since his brief appearance at uni (Leeds). ‘Or is he still a wannabe dilettante?’ He aims a weak, forgive-me grin at his daughter.
Daisy has never indicated that she harbours any illusions about Adrian’s industry or his singleness of purpose. ‘Oh, he’s still finding himself,’ she says. ‘You know how it is with the idle rich, Dad. Even though there may not be anything to find.’
‘Words out of my mouth. So, he’s still living off his parents. Well, that’s not surprising. He’s only nearly forty, isn’t he?’ Under the table, Viv gives Geoff a warning kick. She knows Daisy is perfectly cognisant of the fact that her father has no time for Adrian, and is moderately amused by this. But it’s better that he doesn’t overdo it.
‘Of course, what he really, really wants to be is a poet,’ Daisy murmurs indulgently, knowing this is a line guaranteed to wind her father up. ‘He had a poem published once. Or claims to, I’m not sure anyone ever saw it.’
‘Don’t you have to have been born in the nineteenth century to be a poet? Or aged nineteen?’ This gets a dutiful dad’s joke laugh, though one with a cautious underlay. Geoff goes on, ‘Does he do anything in the daytime, apart from wake up?’
Daisy appears to consider. ‘Therapy. He does analysis. And he’s a dedicated flâneur. That takes up a lot of time. If there’s any left over he works on the novel. He’s nearly finished it, you know. For the past five years.’
A lull descends on the table, a clink of knives and forks. Viv is relieved that her husband has had the residual good sense to retreat. Along with him, she knows this subject is not yet exhausted. There is more to come.
Julia feels she should be helping out. She steps in. ‘Of course, if you’re going to be a poet and flâneur – and nothing wrong with that if you can afford it,’ – or your parents can, adds Geoff – ‘if you are going to be one of these, and why not make it both while you’re about it, then Chelsea’s not a bad stamping ground.’ She glances at Viv and Geoff. ‘Although it was so much more boho forty years ago, wasn’t it? Never affordable for the likes of us.’
Daisy has always had a sense of theatre. ‘Anyway, whatever. We’re going to try for a baby. I thought I probably should tell you, so it didn’t come as a life-threatening anaphylactic shock or something. That’s if I’m not barren, and if anything actually happens.’
The sound of cutlery on china ceases abruptly. In the hush, Viv can hear herself chewing, which she always finds disconcerting.
‘I tried the idea out for size on Jules first,’ Daisy resumes laconically, ‘and she didn’t keel over.’ Her phone pings. She takes it out and glances at it.
Jules is trying to maintain an appearance of normality, sawing into the skin of her salmon (good omega-3) rather over-industriously.
‘We’re going to try for a baby? Is there another half of the equation?’ Geoff is demanding, while directing a hostile look at Julia. ‘And if so, who? Or what?’ I think we should be told, he adds, in a last-ditch attempt at whimsy. Viv knows it also follows a last-hope question.
That hope is promptly demolished. ‘Who? Adrian and me, of course. Who else?’ Daisy’s face is wary.
‘Adrian? Really, darling?’ Instead of fielding a bolt from the blue, Viv might be canvassing Daisy’s views on reality TV. ‘Do you think that’s … But how would you …’
Her attempts to conceal her consternation are made easier (if only marginally) because the groundwork had been laid (not exactly ) and is now confirmed. She feels she should be participating in the conversation more, to support Daisy through this. It is a rocky road to tread, and has now turned into a regular minefield. ‘I mean, how would you, you know, go about it?’
‘How would we go about it, Mum?’ Daisy looks at Jules, and giggles. ‘In the usual way, of course. How do you think?’
Her parents respond, in kneejerk unison, ‘But Adrian’s gay.’
‘So? It doesn’t mean he can’t be a father. Or does it?’ This question is posed in a newly belligerent tone.
‘Well, no, it doesn’t, of course,’ Viv says immediately. ‘Not if he’s up to it.’ The double entendre was inadvertent, and gets a snort out of Daisy. ‘But …’ She grinds to a halt. There are so many ifs and buts around the issue she’s unsure where to start.
‘And if he’s up to being a father full stop,’ says Geoff grimly.
Jules puts down her knife. ‘I don’t think the idea is that he would be a traditional father, necessarily.’ She looks at Daisy for confirmation. ‘He’d be more the enabler, the one who helps it to happen. Which, as matters stand, could be convenient.’
‘The enabler who then drops out of the picture. Or takes a back seat,’ says Viv, hoping she ha
s stated this in such a casual way as to mask, or at least muffle, a confused wish. ‘Is that the general idea, Daisy? I mean, if it happened according to plan, what would you do then? Do you think you would continue to live there independently? Or are you not thinking that far ahead at this stage?’
‘Independently? How do you mean?’
‘Sharing the house but living separately is what she means.’ Geoff is visibly clenching his teeth.
‘Relax, Dad. We’re not planning to shack up together.’ Viv experiences a flood of partial liberation. ‘We’re not proposing to go all retro on you. It’s not going to be mum, dad and the kids and a formica-and-lino kitchen. Sorry to disappoint you guys.’
Viv is reminded of an old colouring book of Daisy’s, with pictures of jolly domestic scenes from different decades. It must have lodged in Daisy’s mind. The smiling fifties mother wearing a gingham apron and brandishing a dishcloth.
‘It’s not like this will be Adrian’s Damascene conversion. It’ll most likely be a one-off. Or like, you know – however many one-offs it takes.’ A grimace, followed by a grin. ‘He’s never going to switch over to shagging women on a permanent basis.’
Daisy gives her parents a challenging stare before adding, in a markedly lighter tone, ‘Unless, of course, the whole experience is a wild ecstatic epiphany. It might bring in its train transports of bliss beyond imagining. He’s had phases of being ambi, so he knows what to do. He was engaged to a woman once.’ She pauses for breath. ‘But he’s so unreasonable he won’t even consider sexual reorientation therapy, can you believe that?’
Daisy’s delivery is invariably rapid and emphatic. The words are coming at breakneck speed. ‘Look, he’s always wanted children. He wants to play an active role.’ Viv’s heart sinks. ‘Well, he thinks he might want to. In any case, this way he might get a child, I’ll have a great place to live and work, the baby, if any, will have a relationship with its father, and we could afford a nanny if we—’
The Age of Discretion Page 14