by Paige Toon
So I accept these invitations and ten days after arriving don my new designer gear and go downstairs where one of our drivers is waiting diligently with the limo. It’s shiny and new inside and the leather still smells like leather. I see that someone has put a bottle of champagne on ice for me, and I hesitate for a moment before opening it. I’ll only have one glass – the rest will go to waste – but there’s plenty more where that came from.
‘DAISY!’ As soon as my high-heeled Jimmy Choo is on the pavement, I hear my name being screamed. I turn to see Donna, one of my old friends, standing on the sidewalk having only just exited her own limo. More screams follow as two other friends spy us both.
I’ve known Donna, Lisa and Cindy most of my life. Their fathers work in banking, law and banking respectively and have known my own father for years. Their mothers do nothing except shop, eat and exercise, much like my own. The girls and I went to school together, holidayed in the Hamptons together, and as we got older, partied together. Cindy’s dad spent 1½ million dollars on her eighteenth birthday party. Which was pretty amazing until Donna’s daddy trumped it with a cool 2 million on hers. My father spent even more on mine. He’s a competitive son of a bitch.
I suddenly see Nonna with her pots and pans, trying to catch the water coming through the walls. Why haven’t my parents seen her right? How much money would it take? It’s less than a drop in the ocean to them.
‘Daisy! It’s so good to see you!’
I turn my attention to my friends. ‘Hello!’
‘Wow, what are you wearing? And is that the latest Dolce bag?’ They don’t wait for me to answer before moving onto their next question. ‘Where have you been? Come on, come on, let’s go in!’
The queue to the club is already snaking around the building, but I follow the girls to the front. The doormen unclip the red rope and stand back to let us pass. Cindy, Donna and Lisa barely acknowledge them, but I smile and say thank you, and immediately wish I hadn’t because I don’t get anything other than a scowl in return.
Buff men in black-tie suits offer us cocktails on silver trays as we reach the bottom of the plush red-carpeted stairs. The latest new bar to see and be seen in stretches out in front of us. Everything is silver and white. The tables are mirrored cubes, the chairs are glossy white, the floor is polished chrome, and white velvet drapes hang from the walls. I feel like I’m standing inside an icicle and I shiver even though it’s the middle of summer.
Donna manages to sweet-talk two men in their fifties into giving up their seats in a silver leatherette booth and the four of us slide in and make ourselves comfortable. Only I don’t feel comfortable. Not like I used to. Everything is different, now. The deep ache inside that has been bothering me recently is throbbing away now. I reach for my cocktail and take a large gulp, before motioning for one of the suited waiters to bring me another. The girls collapse into giggles.
‘That’s the Daisy we know!’ Lisa squeals.
I ignore her and take another large mouthful and as alcohol infuses my body, I start to relax.
‘So tell us what you’ve been up to?’ Cindy says.
‘I want to hear about Johnny Jefferson!’ Lisa interrupts.
‘Is he really as hot as he looks?’ Donna chips in.
I don’t want to talk about Johnny, but it’s preferable to talking about . . . you know. So I divulge trivial details that the girls could just read about in magazines without going into any depth. It seems to satisfy them.
‘What’s been going on here?’ I ask eventually.
‘Oh my God, did you hear about Portia Levistone?’ Donna’s eyes are wide with the anticipation of telling me a story about one of our old school friends.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she says again, glancing at Lisa and Cindy.
I go along with it. ‘Tell me,’ I urge, although I couldn’t really care less what Portia has been getting up to.
‘You know how she married that banker?’
‘I didn’t, but . . .’
‘Ew! He’s, like, totally disgusting. Fat and old, but really, really rich. And you know how Portia’s daddy lost all his money on the stock market?’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes! Daisy, you’ve been living in a bubble for three years!’
Er, no, I just haven’t given a damn about any of this stuff . . .
‘Never mind,’ Donna continues. ‘Portia’s daddy introduced her to this old guy, like really old – forty or something like that – and they got married!’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Yes! But that’s not it. She’s PREGNANT! They’ve only been married, like, a couple of months or something.’
Lisa turns her nose up. ‘I can’t believe she had sex with him!’
Loud chorus of ‘EWs’ all around.
Jesus, they still sound like they’re sixteen.
‘Maybe it’s not his?’ Cindy looks at the others, wide-eyed.
‘Oh my God, maybe it’s not!’ Donna screeches. ‘She was totally into that bartender at her hen party!’
This is how rumours start, I think to myself indifferently. And then a thought slams into me.
What if I’m pregnant?
‘So tell me about Fifi,’ Cindy turns to Lisa. ‘Did you manage to get that diamond-encrusted coat in her size?’
I stare ahead in shock. Will and I didn’t use contraception . . .
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ Lisa replies sadly. ‘They’re going to order it in for me.’
My hand instinctively goes to my stomach.
‘Fifi is Lisa’s new chihuahua,’ Donna explains to me, but I’m already on my feet. ‘Where are you going?’ she asks, taken aback by my sudden movement.
‘I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home.’
‘Oh.’ One, two, three put-out faces around the table. I don’t wait for them to say anything else before hurrying out of the venue.
I set off down the street, deciding to walk rather than call the driver.
Pregnant? Pregnant? What would I do? Of course, I would keep it. What if it was a boy? What if he looked like Will?
A lump forms in my throat and tears prick at my eyes as I run across the street in my three-inch heels. I’m not used to wearing them and my feet are already starting to ache, but that’s good. Physical pain helps deflect from the emotional kind.
Would I tell Laura? Would Laura want to know that Will had a son? What about his parents? Would they accept me? They would have to. I would be the mother of their only grandson . . .
Or perhaps it’s a girl. A little girl who takes after me. But she could have her daddy’s eyes . . .
Tears start to stream down my face and I brush them away, quickly. My soles are burning. I should have called the limo. It was probably only waiting around the corner.
I want to speak to Holly, but no, I’m not ready.
Oh God, I want to be pregnant. Please let me be pregnant. When did I last have my period? It was ages ago. I start to cry properly as I stumble down the sidewalk. Passers-by glance at me warily, but no one asks me if I’m okay and I don’t want them to. And then up ahead, I see a limo parked on the side of the street. Is it mine? I reach it and realise with a wave of relief that it is, banging on the window at the driver who leaps out of the car in shock.
‘Take me home!’ I wail.
‘Miss Rogers! Did you call me? I’m so sorry.’
I shake my head at him wildly and climb into the car. He knows better than to ask any more questions.
There’s a fresh bottle of champagne chilling on ice. I can’t believe I drank so much tonight! What if I’ve harmed the baby?
Oh, please God, let me be pregnant!
No one knows about you . . . Laura is the one he left behind . . .
I thought Holly’s words would haunt me forever, but they’d all know about me if I were the mother of Will’s only child. I would-n’t have to hide. I wouldn’t have to grieve in silence . . .
I want his b
aby, so much!
I could go to a pharmacy . . . Get a pregnancy test . . .
No. No. I don’t want to do that.
What if I’m not?
Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it.
I wipe away my tears as we pull up in front of my apartment block. Barney comes to hold open the door and I step out, calmly thanking him. He looks concerned when he sees my red and no-doubt puffy eyes, but I walk past him with my head held high.
Most of the lights are off in the apartment and I go straight to my bedroom. In the bathroom I lift up my top and stare at my stomach. Flat as a pancake. But I wouldn’t be showing, yet. I must eat healthily tomorrow. Make up for all the booze I’ve had tonight.
Would I have the baby here? Or would I go back to England? I could go to Italy! Nonna would look after us both!
Italy . . . That was where he said he first fell for me . . .
Sobs ricochet through me as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I miss him so much. It’s been over two weeks, but I want him back. He can’t be gone forever!
He was trying to block Luis from overtaking him, and ran wide, crashing into a wall and spinning through the air before landing the wrong side up on a gravel pit. He broke his neck, they said. It was quick, painless. But he must’ve known he was about to have an accident.
I wonder if he knew he was going to die . . .
No, no, NO! He was mine! But his life was snatched away on the very day he became so. We could have spent our lives together. I was on the verge of being happy – the happiest I have ever been. How can I cope with the pain of his loss, now?
I love him!
How dare she love him, too! How dare she!
I run and throw myself on the bed and cry, hard, into my pillows. It should have been me. It should have been me at the front of the church. It should have been me on the front of the papers staring out at me at Heathrow. I should have been reading about me as I knelt on the floor of the newsagent’s at the airport, my fingers turning black from the newspaper print.
But it was her. It’s all about her.
Italy. Italy. That’s where I’ll go. Nonna, me and the baby. He’ll like living in the mountains. I’ll bring him up bilingually . . .
Two days later, I get my period. I sit on the toilet in shock, unable to cry, unable to do anything except sit there and stare into space. My hopes, my dreams have vanished. I feel lost and alone. I have nothing.
Chapter 20
What am I doing, here?
Forgetting . . . Forgetting . . . Forgetting . . .
I’ve been back in New York for two weeks and I’m sitting on the windowsill again, watching the joggers. I have a sudden urge to go down to Central Park and join them, but no, I can’t be bothered.
I had an ‘interesting’ conversation with my father last night at dinner. We were halfway through our main course when he came out with a question that has clearly been on his mind for some time.
‘What are you going to do with yourself, now?’
‘Are you actually asking me?’
He gave me a hard stare but didn’t answer, so I looked away before replying.
‘I was thinking about going to catering school.’
He actually laughed. A cold, brittle laugh. ‘All that money I spent on law school and you want to become a meagre cook?’
‘It’s a difficult job! There’s nothing meagre about it.’
‘You will do no such thing. I’ve spoken to Martin. There’s a job in his law firm. I expect you to take it.’
He continued to chew on his beef while I sat there in silence, my blood beginning to boil.
‘No.’ My tone was firm, resolute.
His knife and fork froze in mid-air as he turned his grey eyes to look at me. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, no.’ But my voice was wavering.
‘You have the summer,’ he coolly replied, ignoring my refusal. ‘Have your fun, go to parties, see your friends, but after that I expect you to settle down and start this job.’
I bit my tongue. It’s now the middle of July. By September, who knows where I’ll be? I can’t even think further than the weekend at the moment.
‘And get your hair cut,’ he continued. ‘Stacey will make you an appointment for the morning.’ Stacey is one of my father’s assistants.
I closed my eyes in defeat. Years ago I would have argued. Weeks ago I would have laughed. Now I let his comments slide over me. I just want to be numb for a while.
A few seconds later I opened my eyes again and continued to eat.
I still haven’t listened to my mobile phone messages. I know I have some because I saw the reminder on the screen before my phone ran out of battery. Since then, it’s been sitting on my bedside table, staring at me every time I go to sleep or wake up. And that’s not just in the morning and at night; I’ve been napping in the daytime, too. Anything to pass the time.
Maybe my father’s right. Maybe I should get a job. Not with Martin, I’m not that desperate, but somewhere. Maybe even at a coffee shop?
I actually smile to myself and shake my head at this thought. As if he’d allow me to do that.
‘Ahem.’
I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway of the sitting room.
‘Oh, that looks nice,’ she says, nodding in my direction.
‘What looks nice?’ I ask.
‘Your hair,’ she replies.
This morning I went to the hairdresser, as agreed. I had the tiniest trim and am now wearing my hair up where it will probably stay for the rest of the summer. My father will never know the difference.
‘Oh, right. Thanks,’ I add generously.
‘Did you have a nice time last night?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, it was fine.’
After dinner, I went to see a movie with Lisa. I may not particularly like those girls, but my need for distraction outweighs my moral responsibility to tell them to piss off.
How I miss Holly . . .
Right, that’s it. I’m calling her. I’ve been thinking about her on and off for the last couple of weeks, but I haven’t felt like speaking to her until now.
I get up so suddenly from the windowsill that my mother looks startled.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To my bedroom.’
‘Not for another sleep?’
‘Why?’ I snap. ‘What’s your problem with that?’
She doesn’t answer, so I storm out of the room in a huff and even go as far as slamming my bedroom door like a petulant child. I may be twenty-six, but I sure as hell don’t feel like it, right now.
I snatch up my phone from the bedside table and commence my search for the lead to charge it up. Where the hell have the servants put it? I find it eventually, in the top drawer inside my wardrobe, neatly folded and secured with a piece of string. I tug it off and find an American adaptor, then plug it in, turn the phone on, and wait for the LCD display to light up. There we go. Voicemail . . .
‘You have nine new messages . . .’
Play.
‘Hi, Daisy, it’s me, Holly. I just want to know if you got home safely. Give me a call . . .’
‘Hi, Daisy, it’s me, Holly. I’m just wondering how you are? Give me a call . . .’
‘Hi, Daisy, it’s me, Holly. I know you’re probably really busy settling back into New York City life, but I’d really love to just have a chat and see how you are. I miss you. Call me back . . .’
‘Hi again Daisy, it’s me, Holly. Are you there? I hope I’ve got the right number for you. No, I definitely do because I called you on this when you were still here. Oh, I’m rambling. Just give me a call when you can.’
‘Daisy? It’s Holly. Are you checking your phone? Please call me.’
‘Hi, it’s just me again, wondering where you are and what you’re up to . . .’
And so on. Guilt prickles inside me as I listen to her voice. I should have called sooner. I’ll make up for it now. Cazzo, what time
is it in the UK? Ten o’clock. Too late? No . . .
Ring, ring, ring . . .
Damn, it probably is too late.
Ring, ring, ring . . .
Should I hang up?
Ring, ring, ring . . .
I’ve probably woken her up now, anyway. If I hang up now she’ll be really annoyed.
Ring . . .
Does this phone have voicemail, or what?’
‘Hello?’ Bummer. She sounds sleepy.
‘Holly? Sorry, have I woken you up?’
‘Daisy? Daisy!’ She instantly perks up. ‘You called! At last! Did you get my messages?’
‘Only just now, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve called you about twenty times!’
‘Nine, actually.’
‘Not counting the times I hung up . . .’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘What have you been doing? How’s it all going?’
‘You know . . . It’s alright.’
‘No, I don’t know. Tell me everything. What have you been up to? How are you feeling?’
‘Um, just keeping myself busy, catching up with old friends, that sort of thing. And shopping. Lots of shopping.’
‘Wicked! Ooh, you’ve got Banana Republic on practically every corner there, haven’t you? I’m so jealous.’
‘Mmm, yeah.’ Although I haven’t been in. It’s all designer, designer, designer, but I keep that to myself. ‘What about you? How’s it going?’
‘Good, good . . .’
Still shagging Simon? No, I don’t ask that question.
‘Hey, what do you want me to do with your bags?’ she asks. ‘You never left me your address, but should I send them on now?’
‘Actually, Holly, have you got enough room for them in your loft for the moment?’
‘Sure, yes, of course.’
‘In fact, you could even just give everything away to charity.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she scoffs. ‘I can’t give all your things away!’
I don’t tell her that I have more than enough ‘things’ here.