by Paige Toon
‘Hello, Mother,’ I say as I put my bags down on the plush, cream-carpeted floor.
She drops the intercom receiver so it swings on its flimsy cord and bashes against the wall. ‘Daisy!’ she cries in shock.
My mother is a well-dressed woman in her late forties. Her clothes are tailor-made, created for her personally by the world’s best designers, and her dark hair has been highlighted blonde and is neatly coiffed. I take after my mother and her side of the family – although you’d hardly know she’s Italian when looking at her. Her once-olive skin tones appear lightened from avoiding the sun and wearing too much face powder. She doesn’t look any older than when I left her three years ago. I’ll put that down to the Botox.
‘You’d better pick that up.’ I nod to the receiver. ‘Barney is probably still on the other end of the line.’
She hastily does as I say, before turning back to me, not knowing if she should hug me, kiss me, or even, God forbid, shake my hand. I save her the trouble of deciding, calmly walking to her and planting a quick peck on her cheek.
‘You’re back,’ she says to me. ‘Are you back?’ she asks again, not sure what’s going on.
‘For now,’ I reply.
‘Come in, come in.’ I leave my suitcase where it is as she ushers me through to the sitting room. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over Central Park, green with summer’s leaf-laden trees. I take a deep breath. I’d forgotten how beautiful this view was. In fact, I don’t think I ever properly appreciated it before.
‘We didn’t know. Did you call? Martina will have to make up your room. Martina!’ my mother shouts.
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ I quickly tell her. ‘Don’t make a fuss. I can sleep in one of the guest rooms for now.’
‘No, you cannot!’ she snaps. ‘Your room is your room. MARTINA!’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ A maid I haven’t seen before hurries into the room wearing a light-grey dress and a white pinny.
‘Daisy is back. Daisy is back!’ My mother sounds slightly unhinged, but that’s always been her way. ‘Make up her room immediately!’
I look apologetic as Martina nods her assent and scuttles away again.
My mother turns back to me. ‘Tea? Would you like some tea?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, beginning to walk towards the kitchen. She looks startled.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the kitchen. To make a cup of tea.’
She looks at me as though I’m mad. ‘Candida will do it,’ she says, confused.
‘Is that the cook?’ I ask. The last cook I knew was called Gita.
‘Yes. She’s excellent,’ my mother replies. Her Italian accent is only slight these days. I don’t know how she rid herself of it or if it was even intentional, but many people would assume she’s American.
I slump down on one of the armchairs and immediately sink into its depths as my mother hurries out of the room. I take another deep breath and stare out at the view as I hear the high-pitched tones of my mother’s voice directing the cook.
My memory takes me away from the present for a short while as I remember working with Rosa, Johnny Jefferson’s cuddly Mexican cook. How I adored her. She taught me how to cook. In fact, it was she who inspired me to go into catering in the first place. I still dream of running my own company one day. I’ve dreamed of lots of things recently, and most will never come true . . .
I shake my head quickly to free my mind of my memories. I can’t think of Will now.
‘She’ll be through with the tea in a minute.’ My mother stands in front of me.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ I suggest, and she perches on the edge of one sofa while anxiously fidgeting with her hands.
Neither of us says anything for a while and I enjoy the silence. I’m surprised when she speaks first. ‘It’s been a long time, Daisy.’
‘I know.’
‘I spoke to your grandmother. She told me what happened with the racing driver.’
The racing driver . . .
‘Why didn’t you call?’ Her expression is pained.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but my apology sounds cold and unsatisfactory. ‘I just didn’t think you’d miss me.’
‘Of course I missed you!’
‘You would have been the only one.’
She says nothing. She has nothing else to say about that.
Candida brings through the tea and leaves again.
‘Where is my father?’ I ask suddenly. I want to call him Stellan, because that’s his name. ‘Father’ sounds wrong, and ‘Dad’ is almost laughable.
‘At work,’ my mother replies.
I nod. Of course he is. It’s Sunday. Where else would he be? At home with his family?
My father is a billionaire. He made his money by being a ruthless bastard, buying up failing companies and selling them off piece by piece. You know that job that Richard Gere did in Pretty Woman? That’s my dad. Except, unlike Julia Roberts, my mother wasn’t the making of him.
I don’t know if they’ve ever been happy, but she’s stood by his side, for richer or poorer.
What the hell am I saying? For richer, richer, richer . . .
I grew up with what most people would assume was everything I ever wanted. Except all I ever wanted was a warm and happy family, and that was so far from being in my life that I went to bed each night feeling cold, despite the expensive goose-down duvets and underfloor heating. For all my father’s money, he rarely took us on family holidays and we never travelled to Italy to see my grandparents. I saw them every few years when they came to England or the States, but the most contact I had was through letters and the occasional phone call. Then, when I was eleven, I went to stay with them in the mountains and for the first time I knew what it was like to live in a happy household.
I hated my parents even more after that trip. But try as I might, I couldn’t escape them. I always felt my father despised me, so I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let me attend college as far away as possible – on the other side of the country or even abroad. I was forced to study law in New York and, with no money of my own, I felt I had no choice but to comply. Of course, I did have a choice, but deep down I think I just wanted to please him, just wanted him to love me.
I graduated with honours, and as a reward of sorts, my father opened a bank account in my name and transferred 10 million dollars into it. I don’t know why, but that was the catalyst to me leaving. I packed my bags and went to Los Angeles, and perhaps it was my father’s name that did it, or even my lawyer credentials, but I scored a job through an agency and ended up working for Johnny Jefferson. You know the rest.
As for my father’s money, I’ve never spent a cent of it.
I tell my mother I need to rest and walk via the elevator entrance on the off chance my suitcase will still be there. Of course, it’s not. In fact, when I reach my bedroom, my drawers are already full of my bag’s contents, neatly folded, with the items of my cosmetics case precisely placed on the shelves in the bathroom.
I used to love it when our servants unpacked my bags, but now I can’t stand it. I’m too used to a life without ‘help’, and I don’t like the idea of anyone – paid or unpaid – going through my things. But there’s nothing I can do about it. This is the way it is. This is my life for the moment. I came back, so I’m just going to have to get used to it.
I go to the bed, a giant super-kingsize one with an enormous cushioned bedhead pressed up against the far wall. I lie down on it and curl up on my side, staring out of the opposite window with its view of New York City’s skyscrapers.
I must have dozed off, because when I awake the city is glittering with lights. I groan and put my hand to my head. I have a storming headache. I stagger into the bathroom, in search of ibuprofen. I down a couple of tablets and drink straight from the faucet, before remembering the crystal glasses resting on the sink on a solid silver tray. Oh, well. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look a state: haggard, tired, bags unde
r my eyes the size of suitcases. I turn and switch the bathroom light off, then head out of the bedroom.
The lights on in the rest of the apartment are overpowering. Halogens spike down at me with every step. In a far-off corner, I can hear the sound of knives and forks scraping on plates. I look at my watch. It’s nine o’clock. My father is probably only now eating dinner.
I reach the dining room and push open the door. My mother and father are eating in silence, as is their way, with each of them at either end of a fourteen-seater dining table. You’ve seen this scene in movies countless times, but who would have ever believed it actually happens?
My father’s eyes flicker as he glances up and sees me at the door. But they fall hard again as my mother looks on nervously.
‘Daisy. Come in. Have a seat,’ my father says.
My mother stands up.
‘Sit down, Christine.’ My mother’s name is actually Cristina I found out when I was eleven, but my father always calls her the British equivalent.
‘I was just going to ask Candida to prepare something for Daisy’s dinner.’
‘I’m not hungr—’ I start, but my father interrupts.
‘CANDIDA!’ he barks. The cook comes running. ‘Get something for Daisy.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She hurries off again. I pull up a chair. There is no halfway point between my mother and father, so I choose a chair three away from him and four away from her. I don’t know why I’d opt to be closer to my father, but I guess I’m still drawn to him in that way.
‘You need a hair cut,’ my father says.
I’m not wearing it up – it’s falling halfway down my back. I don’t reply.
My father is in his late fifties with silver grey hair and grey eyes. You rarely see him out of a suit.
‘And you need to go shopping,’ my father adds, glancing at my favourite green jumper – the one that Will first fell for me in. No, no, no, don’t think about that . . .
I gather myself together. ‘I have enough clothes, thank you,’ I reply tautly.
‘Except that you don’t,’ he says, slicing through a piece of carrot and balancing it on his fork.
‘How would you know how many clothes I have?’ That’s the rebellious teenager in me, rearing its head.
‘The servants informed me.’ He puts the piece of carrot in his mouth and chews it, while calmly and coldly meeting my eyes.
I avert my gaze. Of course they did.
Candida comes through with my meal. ‘Thank you very much,’ I tell her warmly, as she places it on the table in front of me. She hurries away again, not acknowledging my gratitude. I bravely look back at my father. ‘I still have a wardrobe full of clothes that I left here.’ My tone is petulant.
‘You can’t wear those.’
‘Why not? They’re only three years old.’
‘Exactly. What would people think?’
I stifle a sigh. There’s no point. He always gets his own way and it’s just a waste of energy to argue with him. In fact, the only time he hasn’t got his own way was probably when I moved to LA. That must’ve been quite a shock . . .
‘Do you have any funds left in your bank account?’
I assume he’s referring to the 10 million. He probably thinks I’ve come home to top it up. I don’t say this, just nod.
‘Leave it there. Speak to Martin. He’ll sort you out.’
Martin is my father’s lawyer and on-hand man. He’s practically a member of the family. Except that I can’t stand him since he started making eyes at me at the age of thirteen. Fat, bald, disgusting. I shudder as I recall how he was the first person to comment on the fact that I had breasts.
‘I might have to ask daddy to give you money for a bra and some little panties . . .’
The sound of my father putting his knife and fork down on his plate brings me back to the present. He stands up.
‘Will you not have dessert?’ my mother asks anxiously.
‘No,’ is my father’s blunt reply. He looks down at me. I pause chewing my fillet steak. ‘I have an early start.’
‘Okay,’ I say with my mouth full.
‘Good night.’ He stalks out of the room.
No questions about what I’ve been doing, what I’ve been up to, how I am . . . But he probably knows all this already. Knowing my father, he could have had his lackeys checking up on me ever since I left New York.
My mother and I finish the rest of our meal in silence and afterwards I tell her I’m going outside for some fresh air. She wants one of the family’s minders to accompany me, but I leave before she has time to do anything about it. I know she’s most concerned about what my father would say if he knew she’d let me out alone.
I grab my lightweight cream-coloured jacket from French Connection and non-designer handbag and walk into the elevator, pushing my penthouse apartment key into the slot so the elevator goes straight down to the lobby without stopping at other floors, even if other people are waiting. Barney hurries to open the door for me, wildly looking around for my minder, but not seeing one.
‘I’m going out alone, thanks Barney,’ I tell him, not waiting for his reply before walking quickly out onto Fifth Avenue and setting off in the direction of the city.
It’s Sunday night, but New York never sleeps and the sound of cars honking their horns from far away resounds through the air. I don’t know where I’m going, but I head towards Times Square, craving the need for lights and sounds and anything that will take me away from where I’ve been. The shops here are still open and the pavements are crowded with pedestrians. I clutch my handbag tightly to my side and push my way through the throng, enjoying the feeling of anonymity amongst the tourists. It’s eleven o’clock, but I don’t feel the least bit tired after my nap earlier, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. I wander aimlessly through a couple of shops, before finally heading away from the noise and the giant neon displays towards a quieter back street. I come across one of my favourite nightclub haunts of years gone past and feel surprisingly nostalgic as I spy the queue of people waiting. Back in the day I would have gone straight to the front, doormen falling over themselves to let me pass through with my well-dressed friends. I wonder what those friends are doing now? I haven’t kept in touch with any of them. I finally came to the conclusion that they were shallow princesses, but at the time it didn’t occur to me to mind.
Eventually exhausted, I head back to the apartment. It’s one o’clock and I’m surprised to see the lights still blaring in the living room. I pop my head around the door to find my mother waiting alone on one of the sofas. She leaps up when she sees me.
‘You still up?’ I say stupidly. Clearly, she is.
‘Yes. I wanted to . . . Wanted to . . .’
I nod my head in frustration, willing her to go on.
‘You got back safely,’ she says eventually.
‘Yes. I’m off to bed,’ I tell her, barely waiting for her to reply before I head off back down the corridor to the other side of the apartment where my bedroom is.
I did love my mother, once. I’m sure I did. When I was little – very little – before I lost all respect for her for staying with my father. Now she’s just this meek little mouse who stutters and worries. I don’t know why he hasn’t left her, come to think about it.
My father has already gone to work by the time I wake up at seven o’clock the next morning. I barely slept, despite not going to bed until after two a.m. I read a book for a while and then tossed and turned, trying to clear my mind of things.
Martin, my father’s lawyer, comes to find me later that morning. I’m sitting on one of the windowsills in the sitting room, looking down at the park. I’ve been watching the joggers go round and around, round and around . . .
‘Well, look who it is . . .’
The sound of his voice sends a chill spiralling down my spine. I turn to look at him. ‘Hello,’ I say coldly. I make no attempt to get up.
‘Ooh, haven’t you grown up.’ He looks me up
and down, smarmily. When I don’t reply, he continues. ‘Your father said you needed some funds to go shopping. Anywhere nice?’
‘The usual.’
‘Right, yes, okay.’
He takes a few steps towards me and hands over an expensive red leather Hermes purse – whatever happened to a simple envelope? A quick look inside tells me I have a wad of 100 dollar notes and a single credit card.
‘Do you have anything smaller?’ I ask, pulling out one of the hundred dollar bills.
Martin looks at me warily, before his face breaks into a slimy smile. ‘Oh, you’re joking.’
‘I’m not actually.’
He laughs again and turns away. ‘Well, you have fun. Perhaps you could give me a little fashion show later.’
I hold my tongue and quash the urge to kick him where it hurts as he walks out of the room, snickering to himself.
I look down at the purse and feel empty. But there’s nothing much else I can get my head into. I may as well go shopping.
Prada, Chanel, Dolce and Gabbana, Donna Karen . . . I used to love going to these shops with my friends and spending vast amounts of my father’s money.
Arnold, one of my family’s minders, keeps guard outside on the pavement as I rifle through the racks, horribly aware of the eagle-eyed sales assistants watching my every move. I pick some clothes out and don’t even bother to try them on – one of the servants will return them for me if they don’t look right.
I pause at the racks for a moment as I think this, and just feel sad. I can’t believe how quickly I’m slipping back into this life; this life I despise. But it takes me away from my memories. The thought of Holly, fun, bubbly, lovely Holly, is enough to make my eyes well up. I tell myself that she lied to me about Simon and my heart hardens. I go back to rifling through the racks.
News travels quickly here and soon my old friends and acquaintances begin to call. I receive invite-after-invite to attend various glittering parties and bar openings and I decide on the spot to accept them all. I don’t want to go out – it’s the last thing I want to do – but I figure if I sink back into this lifestyle it might make the pain go away. I’m not thinking of Will. Hardly ever. And it’s just as well because I can’t remember what he looks like.