Outrageous Fortune

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Yeah.’ Coco shrugged. Who cared what the old bastard needed? It wasn’t her problem.

  Miss Anderson stood up and began to pace about the room as she talked. ‘Mr Dangerfield has two children, a son and a daughter. Years ago, he fell out badly with both of them because of their unreasonable behaviour. There has been little, if any, contact since, although he has made it his business to be aware of what they are doing. His daughter, Sarah, is following a blameless enough path. She has married – and broken her father’s heart by not inviting him to the wedding – and now lives in the country as a wife and mother. His son Will, however, is a different matter altogether. Will is a devious character. He has made sure that his movements are not so easy to follow. But we know where he lives and what he does – and, much like his father, he has shown marked talent in the arena of business. He has founded his own company and appears to be enjoying some success. But word has come to us that Will has certain plans. He has written letters to family lawyers that have caused us concern, and my employer feels it is important that we learn more about his motives and way of thinking.’ Miss Anderson stopped her pacing by the large window that looked over the garden in the square outside and stared out for a few moments.

  Coco watched her and then said slowly, ‘So it’s not him, is it? It’s not the old bloke. You want me to get to know his son.’

  Miss Anderson turned back to her. ‘Yes. You’re quick. That’s a good sign, I suppose. I’ll speak frankly, Miss Hughes. I don’t approve of this arrangement. I think we could hire a professional to undertake this job. But my employer has decided on you, and so you it must be, no matter how difficult that makes matters. I warn you that once you meet Mr Dangerfield, you will not be able to back out of this arrangement, so think carefully before you consent to see him.’

  Oh, speak English, can’t you? Coco thought irritably. ‘Yeah, all right. I get it. You’d better tell me what you have in mind then, hadn’t you?’

  She listened as Miss Anderson began to outline the whole, extraordinary scheme.

  Thirty minutes later, she was upstairs being shown into a grand study, plush with damask curtains, walnut lowboys, bronze busts, oil paintings and brass fittings. Her eye was caught by three stuffed fox heads over the fireplace, their sharp white teeth bared and their glass eyes staring at her. They were creepy, all right, but she didn’t look at them for long. Behind a giant Victorian desk sat the old man Coco had seen at the party, his artificially black hair glinting in the lamplight. He looked different from how she remembered him, slimmer and with fewer wrinkles. The pouches that had surrounded his eyes had disappeared and the skin around them was unusually tight-looking and several shades lighter than the rest of his walnut-coloured face, creating a panda-like effect. His forehead was smooth and shiny, reflecting the lamplight with its tautness. He stood up as she came in, a welcoming smile on his face and a look of relief in his eyes. Miss Anderson urged her forward and then lingered at the door, watching.

  ‘My dear,’ he said warmly, coming out from behind his desk. His suit was baggy on him, as though he had only recently lost weight. He reached out a hand covered in thick ropey blue veins, and Coco took it. He shook hands with her vigorously. ‘Yes! You’re the one. The very girl. That magical, talented, beautiful girl. What an honour.’

  Maybe he’s not so bad after all, Coco thought, smiling back at him. ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Has Margaret explained what we require from you? Are you happy to do this job for me? It is very important, you know.’ He looked at her seriously but kindly, as a parent might at a child.

  ‘Yeah, she’s told me all about it.’

  ‘Do you think you can do it?’ he asked anxiously.

  For that money, I’d climb Mount Bloody Everest in the fuckin’ buff. ‘Yeah. Sure. No problem.’ She smiled at him, giving him the full treatment. ‘You bet. Honestly, it’ll be straightforward. Easy as pie.’

  He thumped the desk, frightening her for a moment until she saw that he was smiling gleefully. ‘I knew it! I knew you were the girl! You’ve been on my mind ever since that night … the night of my wonderful party. Something told me you were going to reappear in my life and play an important part. And you and I share the same birthday too – I was struck by the coincidence. Excellent! Wonderful. Let’s celebrate. Margaret – tell Finola to bring in a bottle of champagne, the best vintage we’ve got. We need to toast the future and everything that this splendid girl is going to do for us.’

  He grinned at Coco, who returned another shining smile. Roberto was right. This is a real stroke of luck. A few weeks of doing whatever, and then I’ll be a free agent, and doshed up too. Perfect.

  40

  DAISY WAS DETERMINED that Christmas at Nant-y-Pren was going to be the best ever. She had spent the last few Christmases by herself, trying not to think about how alone in the world she was. She’d coped by ignoring it as much as she could, treating it like a normal day, resolutely walking past carol singers and shutting out decorations and lights. Perhaps that was why, this time, she went a bit overboard, wanting to make the perfect Christmas. She’d taken all the arrangements in hand, from ordering the huge tree for the hallway of Christophe’s house, to arranging for hampers of luxurious food. It was a little taste of the old days as she made sure there was foie gras, champagne, Belgian chocolates, cheeses and charcoal biscuits, the finest Christmas cake, a pudding, melting mince pies, and a whole side of smoked salmon. That was on top of the turkey she’d ordered, though she asked Christophe if he would be able to cook a Christmas meal.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why, can’t you?’

  ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’ she said jokily.

  ‘Well …’ He frowned. ‘Now you come to mention it, I suppose you don’t cook very much.’

  ‘No. I can’t,’ she said lightly. ‘Nothing complicated anyway.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother teach you? Didn’t you learn anything at school?’

  ‘No. Now can we drop it, please?’

  So they agreed that Christophe would cook all the food if Daisy arranged the delivery of whatever was needed. She consulted all the festive features in newspapers and magazines to make sure that nothing was forgotten. She also spent some happy hours browsing shops and websites for gifts for Christophe, ordering him cashmere gloves and walking socks, a pair of extremely expensive binoculars that she knew he would love, a pile of books, music, and gold cufflinks engraved with his initials. It was a little extravagant, she knew that, but she couldn’t resist. And besides, for once she was using her own money. Her promotion at Craven Dalziel, which she fully intended to accept when she visited John Montgomery in the new year, would surely mean another pay rise, and she was living well within her means now. It was a source of enormous pride that all the money she was spending she had earned, not a handout or an allowance but the proper reward for her efforts.

  The excitement began when she arrived on Christmas Eve, the car stuffed with goodies including a box of tree decorations she’d bought that afternoon. It was pitch black by the time she reached the house, but Christophe had the fires lit, the radio piping out carols from King’s College, and wine mulling on the range. It was like something from a dream, she thought, as they festooned the huge pine tree with baubles and glittering fairy lights, stopping every now and then to sip hot spiced wine or to nibble a mince pie. Then the presents went under the tree – lots more for Christophe than he had for her, but Daisy didn’t mind. She’d wrapped a few little treats for herself anyway: some Trevellyan Moroccan rose bath oil and a gorgeous printed silk scarf she’d ordered online from Noble’s department store in London.

  ‘I’m so excited!’ she cried, eyes shining as she stood back and looked at the wonderful tree. She clapped her hands with delight.

  ‘I can tell.’ He came over and hugged her. ‘You’re like a little girl. It’s really sweet.’

  ‘Not such a little girl,’ she said, kissing him. ‘I’m just happy. I love Christmas when it’s done properly.’

&nb
sp; ‘How about sharing a little Christmas present right now, huh?’ he murmured, kissing her neck gently.

  ‘Mmm … I’d love it …’ she said huskily.

  He led her through to the sitting room, toasty warm from the fire and with two red stockings hanging up beneath a merry garland of holly on the mantelpiece, and made slow and delicious love to her on the soft rug by the hearth.

  The next day Daisy woke early, feeling excited, and switched on the light. ‘Merry Christmas, darling!’ She reached down for the stocking she’d brought up and filled the night before. ‘Here’s your stocking!’

  ‘What time is it?’ groaned Christophe, opening one bleary brown eye. ‘I shouldn’t have had Father Christmas’s whisky last night.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that,’ she said, shoving him lightly, ‘you’ll spoil the magic. Here – now, where’s mine?’

  He leaned over and passed her the stocking he’d filled for her, and they spent a happy half hour opening small gifts, then Christophe went back to sleep while Daisy happily munched on chocolate coins and read the book he’d given her. After she’d showered, she put on a smart black silk shirt dress belted at the waist, then opened the little jewellery box she’d brought with her and took out her brooch. She examined it for a moment, wondering whether to wear it. She always felt a connection with her mother when she did because it had been meant for her; that was why she had taken the risk of smuggling it out in her bra all those years ago. And it was her insurance. If all her money went, she would still have this as her bulwark against disaster. Although she hoped it would never come to that.

  It’s Christmas – I’ll wear it, she thought. Taking it out of the box, she pinned it on the breast of her dress, below the collar. It glittered there, its many diamonds shimmering in the filigree setting. She looked at her reflection. She’d let her severe bob grow out a little recently, though it was still dyed dark and the fringe still covered her forehead. She put her glasses on. They were so familiar now that she felt undressed without them, and even forgot that she didn’t need them. Sometimes, when she wasn’t wearing them, she felt as if her vision was blurred. Funny, the power of the mind, she thought.

  She went downstairs. When Christophe came down a little later, she was already preparing scrambled eggs for breakfast.

  He came to give her a kiss. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ His attention was grabbed by the brooch sparkling on her dress. ‘That really is very pretty. Are you sure it’s fake? It’s a jolly good one if it is.’

  ‘Yes. It was a present from my parents,’ she answered, kissing him back as she stirred. ‘They definitely couldn’t afford real diamonds.’

  Christophe frowned. ‘I thought you said you’d bought it in a junk shop?’

  ‘Well … yes … with my parents. They paid for it. Now – these eggs are nearly ready. Can you get some toast on?’ She turned back to the pot, cursing herself for not getting her story right. She’d let her guard down lately.

  Christophe set about slicing bread. ‘Do your parents mind your being away from them at Christmas?’ he asked.

  ‘No. And I’ll see them at New Year while you’re with your sister in France,’ she said lightly, taking the saucepan over to the table where the plates were waiting. ‘It’s fine. They don’t mind.’

  Christophe turned round, grinning. ‘So did you notice?’

  ‘Notice what?’ She looked about to see if anything had changed but nothing had as far as she could tell.

  ‘The flowers!’ He nodded at the table where there was a vase full of small, pink, star-shaped flowers with thick green leaves. She’d noticed a strong sweet smell in the room on first entering and realised now where it had come from.

  ‘Oh. Yes – they’re lovely. Very pretty.’

  ‘But don’t you recognise them?’

  She gazed blankly at the flowers. ‘No.’

  ‘They’re daphnes! I had a hell of a time getting hold of them. I had to ring every florist in the country. Honestly – don’t you recognise your own flower when you see it?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, yes, of course!’ Daisy felt a warm flush spreading over her cheeks. ‘Yes – they’re daphnes. Yes.’

  He shook his head, frowning and laughing gently, while she bent her head and wondered how she could change the subject.

  The faux-pas over the flowers was forgotten soon enough, and instead they dedicated themselves to a day of eating and indulgence. As soon as breakfast was over, Daisy insisted they open their presents, then she wanted to try out the new walking boots that Christophe had given her, along with a cosy cashmere scarf, some beautiful silver earrings and a stack of books. Sasha needed to go out anyway, so they wrapped up and went for a hike through the bitter wind while the turkey roasted in the oven, filling the house with a delicious aroma.

  They got back in time for Christophe to put the vegetables in to roast, then it was time for more champagne and lazing for Daisy in front of the fire while Christophe put the final touches to lunch. Then they sat down to eat.

  ‘Oh, that was amazing,’ she said with satisfaction as she tucked away the last scrap of Christmas pudding. ‘I don’t think I’ll eat anything for a week.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Christophe said wisely. He looked rather funny with his red paper hat on. He’d clearly forgotten about it, and it was falling down towards one eye. ‘You’ll be starving by suppertime. That’s the weird thing about Christmas. You get hungrier and hungrier, no matter how much you eat.’

  ‘Well, that was wonderful, darling, thank you so much. I’ll definitely wash up.’

  ‘I rather like this china, actually, so I’ll wash. But you can dry.’

  ‘Rotter.’ She tossed her napkin at him. ‘Now, how about coffee and some games?’

  ‘Games?’ Christophe raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Of course. It’s not Christmas without games. How about … something with words?’

  ‘I’ve got Boggle. Someone left it here once, I haven’t played it since.’

  ‘Yes, let’s play Boggle. We’ll need some paper. There’s a notebook in my bag, I’ll get it. Where’s the Boggle set?’

  ‘It’s in the dresser in the hall.’ Christophe stood up and started clearing the table. ‘You get it while I clear here and get the coffee on.’

  ‘OK.’ She jumped up and went out to the hall. It was much colder there than in the toasty dining room. The old dresser was almost black with age and sticky with layers of wax and dust. She kneeled down and opened one of the cupboard doors. It was full of boxes and odds and ends, and on the bottom shelf she saw a pile of old games: Monopoly, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, and a jumble of strange-looking pastimes she’d never heard of, their boxes faded and weak at the corners with age and use. She spent a happy few minutes shuffling through them all, then located the Boggle box, pulled it out and headed back for the dining room. Christophe wasn’t there, so she wandered back to the kitchen, clutching the box.

  ‘I’ve found it!’ she called as she went in. ‘Is the coffee ready? Shall we open those Belgian truffles? I think I could possibly squeeze one in, can you believe—’ She stopped abruptly as Christophe turned round and she saw the expression on his face for the first time. He was deathly white, his features suddenly haggard, and he was holding out a notebook towards her. Her black notebook.

  ‘Your book,’ he said, his voice sounding broken.

  ‘I didn’t mean that one!’ she cried, her own voice rising with panic. ‘I meant the work one, the one with the blank pages! Why did you get that one? Why? I said I would get it!’ She began to sound angry, when really she was plunged into horrible, stomach-churning fear.

  ‘And I can see why,’ he said in a low voice. He opened the book. ‘I guess you didn’t want me to see this.’

  ‘Why did you read it?’ yelled Daisy. She wanted to curse herself for not hiding it better. She usually moved it from her handbag and kept it hidden among her clothes, but she’d forgotten in the excitement of Christmas.


  There was a long and awful silence. Then Christophe said in a strange, strained voice, ‘Who are you exactly?’

  ‘You know who I am!’

  ‘No, I don’t. Are you Daphne Fraser? Do you have parents who live blamelessly in Hampshire? Because, according to this, you need to have a written reminder of their names and birthdays and every time we’ve ever talked about them! Look.’ He flicked through the pages and stopped randomly on some. ‘You’ve listed virtually every conversation we’ve ever had. You’ve marked it all down. Look … things to remember … new facts … friends from school – and a list of names. It goes on and on.’ He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘What is this, Daphne?’

  ‘I … I can’t tell you. But, please believe me, it has nothing to do with us!’

  ‘What? How can it have nothing to do with us? This has everything to do with us!’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Daisy said obstinately. ‘Just forget it!’

  He stared at her, shaking his head, bewilderment in his eyes. ‘There have been so many mysteries about you … the way you appeared from nowhere, with no family, no attachments. The girl with no past. And you don’t even recognise your own flower. Why haven’t you rung your parents today to say Happy Christmas to them? You know what – why don’t we do it now?’ He stalked over to the telephone and picked it up, holding the receiver out towards her. ‘Come on, call them. Put me on the line, I want to wish them season’s greetings too.’

  She stared at him in anguish. Why had he meddled? She was going to tell him everything at some point, when she was sure it was right. But she couldn’t do it now, not when he was so angry, standing there with his eyes flashing at her. ‘No. I can’t call them.’