Outrageous Fortune

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘I dunno.’ Coco came over and sat beside her at the rackety dressing table all the girls used. She ran her fingers through her snow-white hair and picked up a hairbrush.

  ‘You must be feeling flush right now if you can turn down five hundred quid,’ observed Blanche.

  ‘No, I ain’t flush or anything. I need the money actually. I just don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Come on, love. Bit of champagne? Free coke – well, I know you don’t touch it, but I do – and some loving in a nice warm bed? What’s the big deal?’ Blanche turned her head to look Coco in the eye. ‘You and me are a good partnership too. Don’t you think?’

  It was another reason why Coco wasn’t sure if she should. Lots of the girls in the dancing world were gay or bisexual and Coco didn’t know if Blanche was or not, but she had the uneasy feeling that the other woman was fond of her and getting fonder. It wouldn’t be right to lead her on. I don’t mind girls, but I’m not gay. I don’t want a girlfriend. Blanche had tried to kiss her one night when the shift was over, stroking Coco’s lips with the tip of her tongue and running a hand lightly over her breast, and Coco had pulled away with a smile and a quick joke to diffuse any awkwardness.

  ‘Not tonight,’ she said at last. ‘I got stuff to do in the flat. Maybe another time.’

  ‘You’re crazy, turning down a gig like this,’ Blanche said, shaking her head. She peered into the mirror again, twisting out a lipstick. ‘I guess I could ask Kandy if she’d be interested but it won’t be the same. That bloke liked you lots, I could tell.’

  Just then Roberto came in and struck a pose, hands on hips and smiling. ‘Girls!’ he declared dramatically. ‘I’ve got a very exciting opportunity for you ladies. One that doesn’t involve you two doing any girl-on-girl either!’ He stood between them and put an arm around each girl’s shoulders. ‘I tell you – you are going to love me for this. Seriously – you will owe me big time. So … Wanna hear what it is?’

  22

  THE RECEPTIONIST LOOKED up at the girl standing at the desk. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ Her accent held a strong Bristol twang.

  ‘I’m Daphne Fraser,’ said the girl. She had black hair cut in a short bob, her brown eyes blinked nervously behind a pair of dark-framed glasses, and she was dressed smartly in a dark pencil skirt and a ruffled top. ‘I’m here to see Mr Armstrong.’

  The receptionist sighed and picked up the phone to call him. Daphne Fraser looked about: the lobby of the small hotel was neat enough but its touches of grandeur – the grandfather clock, brass chandeliers and an oil painting – had an air of shabbiness.

  Replacing the handset, the receptionist said, ‘He’s ready for you now. He’s in the office. Go down the corridor, first on your left.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Daphne followed the directions and knocked on the door labelled ‘General Manager’. A voice behind it called her to come in, so she opened it, revealing a messy office scattered with paperwork and files and dominated by a large wooden desk. Behind it, a man of about thirty-five was striding about, a phone receiver clamped to his ear. He wore baggy cord trousers and a thick cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and as he moved he was gradually wrapping himself in the telephone cord. He looked over at her and mouthed, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Daphne Fraser, Mr Armstrong. You’re expecting me?’

  ‘Oh, am I?’ Armstrong looked at her, his light brown eyes startled. ‘Oh, yes, just wait a moment, please. No, not you,’ he said into the phone. ‘I wasn’t talking to you. Sit down, please. No, not you!’ he said to the person on the end of the phone. He looked at Daphne. ‘You. Sit down.’ In the phone he said, ‘All right, you’ll get your payment by the end of the week. I’ll see to it personally. Yes. Well, we all make mistakes. We’re only human, aren’t we?’ He laughed expansively and then stopped suddenly, his expression serious. ‘No, of course it’s unacceptable. Yes. By tomorrow. Absolutely. Apologies again. Goodbye.’ Armstrong put the phone down and sighed heavily. Then he looked over at Daphne as though seeing her for the first time. He frowned. He had brown hair the same colour as his eyes, in soft short curls all round a large bald crown, and looked simultaneously boyish and middle-aged.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but who are you again?’

  ‘D … Daphne Fraser.’ She had ventured into the office and was loitering by a chair, not sure if she should sit or not.

  Armstrong went to sit down and realised that he was tangled up in the telephone cord. ‘Oh … crikey Moses! What’s going on here?’ He started to turn back and forth, trying to unreel himself from the cord. Daphne had to stifle a giggle as he finally freed himself and sat down. She sat down herself, perching carefully on the edge of the seat.

  ‘Right!’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get on with the interview. Right.’ He scrabbled under a pile of paper, found a sheet and scrutinised it. ‘Here’s your CV.’ Daphne’s fingers tightened around the straps of her handbag but he seemed perfectly happy with what he read there. ‘Yes … yes … Well, it all looks jolly good.’ He looked up at her, his face friendly. ‘To be honest, you’re rather over-qualified for this job, with your advanced diploma. You do realise this is starting right at the bottom, don’t you? You’ll be chambermaiding. It’s not well paid.’ He looked solemn. ‘To be honest, that’s why most of our employees are immigrants, though we do get the odd student. The hours are long and the money’s terrible. Why do you want to work here, out of interest?’

  ‘I’m passionate about the hospitality business, that’s why I did my diploma in it. I’m happy to start at the bottom to get my foot in the door.’

  Armstrong looked down again at her CV, frowning. ‘Yes, but you’ve studied all aspects of international hotel management from finance and cashiering to staff management. It’s not what I usually require from the chambermaids!’ He snuffled with laughter for a moment. ‘You could probably go in at a higher level in a much grander hotel. Why do you want to come to the Excalibur?’

  Daphne smiled. ‘To be honest, it’s because I want to work near my mother. She’s not well. It’s all about location really.’

  ‘All right. Well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I expect you’ll be off in five minutes when you find something better, but in the meantime, it’ll be an advantage to have someone whose first language is English.’ Then he added hastily, ‘Not that I’m being racist, you understand. Most of the girls are incredibly hard workers. I just find the language barrier a bit tiresome sometimes. The other two I’ve seen today were particularly bad. Now … salary … It’s minimum wage.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Not much I can do about it, it’s head office, you see. You know we’re owned by a much bigger group …’

  ‘Are you?’ She gazed at him innocently.

  ‘Yes.’ He assumed an exaggerated expression of pain, then smiled. ‘Capitalist bastards further up the chain. Keep us on a tight leash. But you do get some benefits – health care, pension contributions, holiday and sick pay …’ He leaned forward and examined her a bit more closely, squinting a little. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he lifted his head the better to stare down his nose through scrunched eyes. ‘I left my glasses at home today. Well, here are the terms and conditions –’ he passed another sheet of paper across the desk towards her ‘– and the job’s yours if you want it.’

  Daphne blinked in surprise. ‘Oh! So quickly? Well, that’s great.’

  ‘I always need good help, to be honest. In fact, if you could possibly start today, that would be great.’

  Daphne thought for an instant and then smiled. ‘Why not?’

  Armstrong looked delighted. ‘Super. I’ll find you a uniform and you can get stuck right in. I’ll need you to fill out this form with your bank details and National Insurance number, and then we’re off.’

  Daphne Fraser put down her handbag. ‘Let’s get started.’

  An hour later, dressed in a black dress and apron, Daphne was scrubbing out a first-floor bathroom. The guests had been late ch
ecking out and they’d left a hell of a mess. In the bathroom, every towel was sopping wet, a couple covered in unidentifiable brown substances; the floor was flooded with water, and the lavatory was such a foul mess that she had to hold back a retch more than once as she tackled it.

  She caught a glimpse of the large mirror over the counter top and looked startled to see herself. Then she stopped to gaze at her reflection and laughed softly. She removed her glasses and blinked her eyes as though they were feeling dry and uncomfortable. Then she ran her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Well, well, Daisy,’ she said to her reflection. ‘I don’t think even your father would recognise you now.’ She glanced down at the cleaning cloth she was clutching in one hand. Her cheeks were pink from the exertion of scrubbing out the lavatory. ‘And he wouldn’t believe it even if he did.’

  She wondered if he’d ever thought about her since that day over two years before when she had left the house. It was still vivid in her imagination and she could relive it almost moment by moment if she chose to – though she rarely did. Today, though, she felt impelled to recall what had happened, now that she had taken the first, vital step towards the place she was determined to reach.

  After that final confrontation, she had walked out of Daddy’s study in a state of stunned bewilderment. Did he really mean that she was banished? Where on earth would she go? What would she do? The first thoughts that flew into her mind were ridiculous: Will I still be able to go travelling with Lucy? What’s going to happen with my university place? Will I still be going to the States? What about my shoe business?

  Then it began to sink in. Everything had changed. Anything certain in her world had just been whipped away from her. She didn’t even know who she was.

  Daisy had begun to walk up the stairs towards her room in a state of frozen shock, not really aware of where she was going or what she intended to do when she got there. Then she’d heard the study door shutting, footsteps crossing the hall and a voice.

  ‘Daisy?’

  She’d turned, still moving like someone in a trance, and seen Margaret at the bottom of the stairs. Her father’s assistant was staring up at her with blank, emotionless eyes. If she felt anything for the girl whose life had just imploded, she did not show it in her face. She simply said, ‘You’d better come and join me in my office. We need to discuss a few things.’

  Margaret’s basement office was like her: muted, impersonal and absolutely tidy. There was nothing out of place, and every diary, notebook and folder was in black or grey leather. A sleek black computer took pride of place on the glass desk. A black Cartier pen lay perfectly in the centre of an ebony lacquered rectangular dish.

  Margaret went to sit in the black leather chair behind her desk, gesturing to Daisy to have a seat. She sank down, gazing at Margaret with imploring eyes. As the older woman took out a large notebook, opened it and picked up her pen, Daisy said, ‘Margaret … he didn’t really mean what he said, did he? He’s going to calm down, get over this … I mean – it’s not my fault!’

  Margaret lifted one perfectly arched brow. ‘I’m very much afraid he did mean it. Every word. You see, the test cannot be mistaken. You are not a Dangerfield. No one knows whose child you are, but it’s absolutely certain that you are not Mr Dangerfield’s.’

  The words hit her like punches. ‘But … he’s the only father I’ve ever known! He’s loved me all my life. Can he really just switch that off? Surely there’s more to being a father than just DNA.’ Daisy’s voice shook. She felt another torrent of tears threatening, brought on by the overwhelming sense of hurt and rejection sweeping over her. It was taking all her strength to keep it at bay.

  ‘Not as far as Mr Dangerfield is concerned. He feels that your mother perpetrated a fraud on him. Obviously you appear to be unaware of this con trick, but I’m afraid that your f— Mr Dangerfield feels that you are implicated. However, whether or not you are a victim of this fraud, the fact remains that you are not related to Mr Dangerfield and he no longer has any reason or desire to support you. You have profited for many years from your association with this family. I’m afraid that has now come to an end.’

  Daisy gasped. How could she describe the situation in this cold, horrible language? Didn’t she have any human emotion? Perhaps Daisy had imagined the look of pity she had thought she’d glimpsed in Margaret’s eyes earlier in the study. How could anyone describe a child growing up with a man she loved as her father as ‘profiting by association’? It was ridiculous! Cruel. Inhuman.

  Rage began to swirl inside Daisy, along with the shock and the grief. She let it grow – it helped to keep the sadness under control. Fuck you, she thought, the fury building. Fuck you all. ‘All right,’ she said in as cool a voice as she could muster. ‘You’d better explain the situation then.’

  Margaret had explained the situation very clearly indeed. Daisy had no right to any part of the Dangerfield fortune. That included living in the family properties, eating their food, or being funded by Dangerfield money. A lawyer, Margaret said, might advise Daisy differently, but that lawyer would be wrong, and would simply be hoping to make money from a long, complex court case that she would certainly lose. No one wanted that. No one wanted the scandal.

  Margaret set out Daisy’s position: she was to leave Dangerfield property, and everything she owned would revert to the family. She could take some of her personal possessions – some clothes, books and things she might need – but anything of value must be returned. ‘Your car, of course, and any large items of significant worth must remain here.’

  Daisy’s credit cards were to be stopped immediately.

  Money! Daisy was suddenly terrified. How on earth will I cope? She’d never had to think about money. She didn’t even have a bank account. She’d only ever needed her Coutts platinum credit card – it bought her anything she wanted, and delivered notes from machines in the wall whenever she required cash.

  Margaret was staring at her as though able to read her mind. ‘That of course leads me to money,’ she said smoothly. ‘There are certain conditions that we require you to fulfil. There will be a document for you to sign, and the estate will make you a one-off payment to give you a start in your new life. A goodwill gesture.’ She looked sternly at Daisy over her glasses. ‘There is absolutely no legal requirement for us to make this payment. You will acknowledge as much when you sign the contract.’

  ‘What if I don’t sign it?’ demanded Daisy defiantly.

  ‘Oh, I think you will.’ Margaret’s lips curved into a tight, joyless smile. ‘It would be remarkably foolish to do anything else.’ She leaned towards Daisy, fixing her with a stern look. ‘I say this entirely for your own good. You have nothing to gain from fighting Mr Dangerfield, and a very great deal to lose. I strongly advise that you accept the payment and its terms.’ She took some sheets of paper from inside a black folder and pushed them across the desk towards Daisy. ‘Here is the contract for you to read. You will see that the sum is generous, considering. It will be enough for you to make a fresh start.’

  Daisy looked down at the typed pages. So this little plan had been in motion for a while, if the contract that would cut her off forever from her life had already been prepared. She gave a bitter laugh. ‘And what will Daddy say has happened to me?’

  ‘You are going away to study and on an extended holiday.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘People will soon learn not to ask questions but at some point it will be understood that there has been a break between you and Mr Dangerfield. An irreparable break.’

  ‘I suppose that with Daddy’s track record, that will be pretty believable,’ Daisy said. She gathered up the contract and stood up. ‘I’ll take this away to read.’

  ‘You have until tomorrow morning to leave. Mr Dangerfield was unhappy about your staying under his roof for another night, but I persuaded him it was only fair.’

  ‘Tell him he doesn’t have to worry,’ Daisy shot back. ‘I’m not about to stay where I’m not wanted. I’ll call you
when I’ve read this.’ She turned to leave and then looked back over her shoulder. ‘I take it that I won’t really be studying. My place at Brown University—’

  ‘Is cancelled,’ Margaret finished for her. ‘The authorities have been informed that funding for your place has been withdrawn. You’re welcome to reapply under your own auspices.’ She smiled her small, mean-looking smile again.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Daisy. Then she marched to the door and let herself out without a backward look.

  In the safety of her room, she was attacked by a fit of trembling. Her legs gave way and she collapsed into a chair, hunched over and shook violently. It was thirty minutes before she could gain control of herself, but she managed it by an effort of will. You don’t have much time, she told herself. You’ve got to make a plan.

  She had never felt so alone.

  Spreading the contract out on the table, she began to read, forcing herself to concentrate. The terms were fairly straightforward. She was to cut off all communication with the Dangerfield family forthwith. She would be permitted her birth certificate and passport, and a bank account had been opened in her name, on the understanding that she would change her surname within one year. There was no need to advise the Dangerfield lawyers of what her new identity was. By signing and accepting the terms, she would agree never to disclose publicly what had gone on, or to reveal any details of the Dangerfield fortune or lifestyle. If she did so, the sum of money she was to receive would instantly be repayable. She could leave with agreed chattels and personal possessions but no single item over a value of one thousand pounds.

  In return, £50,000 would be deposited in the bank account for her use.

  Fifty thousand! She bit her lip. Her dress allowance was £15,000 a month. How long would she be able to live on £50,000? How much did things cost in the real world?

  There was a knock on the door. At her call, the door opened and a footman came in carrying two empty suitcases. They were plain navy blue leather.

  Not the usual Louis Vuitton trunks then, she noted.