Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  She cared about Paul’s Famous Deli.

  They were located in a big building, a tall, decrepit old skyscraper on Ninth Avenue and Fiftieth. Next to them were a pizza joint and a fabric merchant which sold buttons and sequins and lengths of dingy netting; above them were offices. But somebody had sold the entire building to Rothstein Realty.

  Rothstein were a big, giant, mega-bucks real estate company. They bought and sold in the tens of millions of dollars. They had plans for the building, and those plans did not include the local salami merchant.

  Already Paul’s neighbors had taken the handout offered by Rothstein and given up their rent-controlled leases. But Paul Fiorello had refused. What would he do with a lousy fifty thousand bucks? He knew nothing but the Deli, and where would he find another cheap lease? If the store moved more than five blocks away, it would lose all the regulars, and it would be competing with the smarter, bigger, cheaper delis, the ones with rows of shiny waxed fruit racked up on stands outside the store. Fifty Gs would only last them for one year. And then it would be welfare time.

  “You don’t have to move, Dad.”

  Rose recalled talking fiercely to her dad about it as he sat in the kitchen, reading the latest letter from Rothstein. It was full of veiled menace. Nothing they could sue over, but which could be read between the lines.

  “They can’t force you out. You got ten more years on that lease.”

  “They can do stuff, baby.”

  “What, send the heavies around?” Rose glared fiercely at her father’s slumping shoulders and graying hair. “If they try any of that shit I’ll go to the police. And the press.”

  “Don’t use language like that in this house,” Paul Fiorello growled.

  “Sorry.” She rubbed her father’s aching shoulders.

  “It’s not about leg-breakers. All they need to do is mess with the water, the electricity…”

  “You pay for that, how can they shut it off?”

  “Accidents. Interruptions. There are ways. Not to mention the construction noise next door. They’ve already started to gut the other two stores, and they start drilling the floors during lunchtime … crowd’s thinner already.”

  “They can’t do that to you.”

  “They can and they will, kid.” Paul sighed. “Only question is, can I ride them out? If I could persuade Mr. Rothstein that he could, you know, build around me. Maybe his fancy lawyers and architects would need a good sandwich at lunchtime? I could write him a letter.”

  He looked hopefully at his daughter, the straight-A student, the one who wrote all the letters in this house.

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll give it a try,” Rose had said.

  They had crafted the letter together and sent it off. It was a masterpiece. Firm, but amiable, respectful, and accommodating. Rose walked it down to the mail herself and sent it return-receipt.

  The receipt came back. Nothing else did.

  That had been two weeks ago.

  Today she was going to eat more spoiled cold cuts. More stuff that would have to be thrown out when they couldn’t get through it, which was exactly like tossing a handful of twenties into the fire. Rose was sick to death of cold cuts, but the whole family ate them like champs, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  “When is Dad coming home?” she asked, as Daniella sliced the focaccia and put ham and chicken and ricotta on it.

  “He’s gonna be late. He has to try and get access to the mains, get the police to make him turn the electricity back on. Otherwise it’s two days’ worth of food chucked right out.” Daniella swallowed hard, and Rose saw the tears glittering in her mother’s eyes, tears she would not let herself shed in front of her baby.

  God, how she hated Rothstein Realty.

  How she hated them!

  Two

  Poppy Allen sat in her room and stared longingly at her posters.

  Uhh. Jon Bon Jovi. Joe Elliott. Def Leppard were just so hot. And Metallica, too. Lars was a real cutie. She liked the hard stuff and the soft stuff about the same; all her favorite bands featured gorgeous guys with long hair, black leather, studs, and plenty of rebel attitude … in short, the kind of babes her mom and dad would never let her date.

  But Poppy had ways around that.

  There was a knock on her door.

  “Come in,” Poppy said.

  Her mom, Marcia Allen, appeared in the doorway, bedecked for another gala night on the town. Poppy’s parents, Jerry and Marcia, were social butterflies, which was good because so was Poppy. Unbeknownst to them.

  Marcia was a lawyer’s wife, a rich lawyer’s wife, and didn’t she look the part, in a shoulder-padded red suit from Karl Lagerfeld and a string of pearls as big as marbles.

  “You look great, Mom,” Poppy lied dutifully. “What is it tonight?”

  “Opera. Rigoletto.”

  “You hate opera.”

  “I know, but the Goldfarbs had some extra tickets.” Marcia shrugged. “Daddy says it should be a fun night out.”

  “How late will you be back?”

  “Late,” Marcia said reassuringly, and Poppy pouted to show she was disappointed. “Don’t worry, we’ve set the burglar alarm. I don’t want any TV after eleven.”

  “No ma’am,” Poppy said. “I’ve done all my homework for tonight. I was actually wondering if I could go out for a little while.”

  Marcia frowned. “While we’re not here?”

  She had to be careful of her little Poppy. The girl was blooming before her parents’ eyes—she had dyed blond hair, she was slim, with natural curves which meant there was no need for that sweet-sixteenth trip to the plastic surgeon all her friends were buying their daughters. And then, of course, there was that stunning face and those wild, wolf-like eyes. Poppy certainly hadn’t got her looks from Jerry or Marcia, people said, and Marcia smiled brightly and told them maybe it was her grandma. Of whom, conveniently, she didn’t have any pictures.

  Poppy was adopted, and Marcia and Jerry saw no reason to tell her so, nor to tell anybody else. Marcia was very keen her little girl should marry a nice Jewish boy, and she was sure his mother would have the same standards, so why rock the boat?

  The trouble with her sexy teenager was that all men were attracted to her. That was Marcia’s concern.

  “Well, it’s with someone you know. Brian Pascal was gonna take me out for a burger and fries. But not if it’s not OK,” Poppy said sweetly.

  Her mother crumpled. “Brian’s a good boy…”

  Poppy just waited her out. Mom was always trying to throw her together with Brian Pascal. His parents were a dentist and an orthodontist, they had tons of money, and his sister was in Hollywood, which was what Marcia wanted for Poppy. She was always on her to take acting lessons.

  Poppy had no intention of being a soap-opera star or whatever. As the World Turns was not her destiny.

  No way. She was going into heavy metal.

  “I thought I’d wear this, if you say I can go, Mom,” Poppy said, jumping off her bed and running to her closet. She showed her mother a frilly blue number with a long skirt and puffy sleeves that made her look about twelve. Her mom loved it, and Poppy never wore it. “I just know he’ll flip when he sees me in this.”

  “Well … OK.” Marcia gave in. “As long as you’re back by ten.”

  “Cross my heart,” Poppy lied brightly. “I guess I’d better get changed now, huh?”

  “Is Brian coming over to pick you up?” demanded Marcia, suddenly suspicious.

  “Oh yeah,” Poppy said. Damn. “I just have to call him and let him know you said it’s OK.”

  Jerry Allen’s head appeared with his wife’s. “What’s going on?”

  “Poppy wants to go out with Brian.”

  “As long as you’re back by nine,” Jerry said, disappearing.

  Poppy pouted. “Mom—”

  “Ten,” her mother hissed, “but don’t tell Daddy.”

  She waited in the doorway. “Aren’t you going to call Brian? I want to speak
to him.”

  Poppy’s heart went into her mouth. She dialed her friend’s number. Brian was never going to be interested in Poppy, blue horror of a dress or not. He was strictly a player for the other team, but neither set of parents knew that, and she and Brian covered for each other on occasion. Poppy mentally crossed all her fingers and toes and hoped Brian would get it, this time. Dark Angel, the hottest band on the Strip, were playing tonight and no way did she want to miss them.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pascal, can I speak to Brian? It’s Poppy Allen. Hey, baby,” she added after a pause, “my mom said you can pick me up tonight whenever.”

  “Dark Angel?” Brian asked.

  “You got it,” said Poppy brightly, “and Mom wants to speak to you…”

  “I was going to have a quiet night in. I don’t feel like driving.”

  “Thanks,” Poppy said, injecting an urgent note of pleading into her voice. “Here’s Mom, OK?”

  She passed the receiver to her mother. “Brian? Now you’ll get my little Poppy back by ten? Yes, I’m sorry I’m not going to be here too, but I think we’re leaving now. Yes, I know I can trust you with my little angel…”

  Poppy winced. She loved her mom, but Marcia had obviously had a cool bypass at birth.

  Marcia hung up, satisfied.

  “Be a good girl, Poppy,” she admonished. Poppy smiled her patented non-threatening Shirley Temple smile and agreed that she would be.

  Which was another lie. But at this stage, who was counting?

  *

  Poppy covered her tracks professionally. She actually changed into the blue horror and came downstairs to hang out with her parents until they left. The second their Ferrari pulled out past the wrought-iron gates that hissed back electronically, she raced upstairs, pulled it off, undid her long, dyed-blond hair from its neat little-girl braids, and slipped into a black miniskirt, a low-cut top, and high-heeled boots.

  Mmh! She looked just about good enough to eat right now.

  Brian called to tell her he couldn’t make it. Never mind; she had her own ride. He’d served his purpose. Poppy slipped downstairs and unhooked the keys to her mother’s Porsche 911 from their spot above the sub-zero refrigerator. Their housekeeper, Conchita, lived in Daddy’s guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills. She could park there and then walk down to Sunset.

  Poppy caught a glimpse of her lithe, sexy reflection in the full-length mirrors by the door and blew it a kiss. The poor little rich girl who had to play nice was about to be let loose on L.A. She just hoped they were ready for her!

  Three

  “Daisy!”

  Daisy stopped staring out of the window and jumped out of her skin. Her plump cheeks bore a red imprint from where her fingers had been pressed against them. The Surrey countryside was so gorgeous, all rolling hills dotted with woods and grazing cows and fat white sheep. Like something out of one of her favorite Jilly Cooper novels.

  Her heart sank.

  “Yes, Miss Crawford?”

  “Can you give us the benefit of your opinion on this matter?”

  Miss Crawford was staring at Daisy as though she was something unpleasant she had just scraped off the bottom of one of her stout brown brogues. Daisy heard Victoria Campbell snigger.

  “Um, about this?” Daisy temporized desperately.

  Miss Crawford’s mono-brow rose.

  “Yes, about this. ‘The Merchant’s Tale.’ One of the most gripping, funny stories in the entire cycle, which some critics take to be a proto-feminist piece only slightly less important than ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale.’ Perhaps you feel you have nothing in common with Chaucer, Miss Markham?”

  Daisy glanced down at her page. “The slakke skin about his nekke shaketh…”

  “He spells like me,” she joked feebly.

  “Very funny. But with your stellar academic record, you can afford to ignore our lessons, can’t you?”

  Daisy flushed at the sarcasm. She hated Miss Crawford and Victoria and most of the bloody girls here. Just because she didn’t do very well at school. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already know she was thick.

  Tears prickled in the back of her throat, and Daisy forced herself to see a mental picture of Mummy opening her last report, which was full of Cs and Ds, and saying it didn’t matter a bit, because Daisy had tried her best.

  “Miss Markham. This is one of your only O level classes. Maybe you should have been streamed in the CSE class after all.”

  “No I shouldn’t,” Daisy said.

  Where did that come from? She was terrified of Miss Crawford. But it had popped out, defiant, mutinous.

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’m good at writing and I like books,” Daisy stammered.

  “Good at writing!” The scorn dripped from her teacher’s narrow, red-painted mouth. “You’re no Chaucer. That’s a detention tonight and one demerit to Sackville House.”

  Victoria was a Sackville prefect. She stopped giggling and scowled at Daisy.

  “I could ask you to read the next ten lines, Daisy, but why put the class through it?” Miss Crawford sighed theatrically. “Miss Garnett, can you continue?”

  “Yes, Miss Crawford.”

  Arabella Garnett tossed her sleek mane of auburn hair over her slender shoulders and began to read, pronouncing each word perfectly.

  Daisy sat there mercifully dry-eyed. She had been going to cry, but luckily Miss Crawford and Victoria had been their usual hateful selves, and that gave her the resolve to keep the tears back. They could wait until she got upstairs at break.

  There were a couple of good things you could say about St. Mary’s, Withambury. It was nestled in a picture-perfect setting in the Surrey countryside, and Daisy liked going for walks outside the school grounds. Now she was a fourth year, she was allowed to. She also liked the fact that finally she had got her own miniature cubicle. It had space for a bed, a sink with a mirror, and a cork board for sticking pictures up on. Sharing a room with Isobel Soames hadn’t been that bad, because Isobel was quite nice, not a bully like those prefect bitches and the snobby girls in the Oxbridge Preparation set who thought you should curtsy to them just because they were clever. But still, she hadn’t enjoyed it. Isobel was pretty, very pretty—honey-blond hair, pale green eyes, small perky breasts, and a cute dusting of freckles.

  And Daisy wasn’t.

  It was tough, getting changed in front of Isobel. Daisy used to keep a towel around her ample thighs and try to struggle into her cream school shirt as quickly as possible, so her dimpled bottom and pudgy upper arms were hidden. And it was worse because her friend tried to be so nice about it.

  “You’ve got such a pretty face, Daisy.” She’d be almost pleading. “If you just lost a bit of weight.”

  “I know,” Daisy would say, and then she would change the subject.

  Like she hadn’t tried. Daisy longed to be slim and beautiful and toss her long, gleaming hair over her shoulders in what the girls all called “The St. Mary’s Flick.” But she had her hair cut in a bob, because long hair made her face look even fatter, and when she tried to stop eating, she just couldn’t. Her diets were secret; Victoria and Mercedes and Camilla would all be so mean if they found out. Daisy tried eating fruit and skipping pudding and sometimes she even lasted a week. But she got so hungry she could cry, and then one day it would be fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies for tea, and she’d crack—and a week later, she’d weigh more than she’d started out at.

  Nothing worked. Diets only made her fatter. PE lessons were a nightmare; she couldn’t run, she couldn’t shoot netball—she could hit a rounders ball, but she couldn’t get to the bag in time. Besides, the bitchier girls always used to give her wobbly bottom and chunky thighs contemptuous glances which made Daisy feel about three inches high. Next year things would be even worse. Fifth form girls got to take PE lessons in the health club at the local town. This was meant to be a big treat; for Daisy, it simply meant random townies would get a good look at her cellulite and her embarrassingly
large boobs that barely fitted into a D-cup.

  Daisy had given up on her body. She ate what she liked, and she ate for comfort. When she failed her mock CSE in maths, she ate a whole bag of fun-sized Marathons. (Why did they call minuscule, unsatisfying morsels fun-sized? Fun-sized was a full bar with 20 percent extra free.) Getting her own cubicle had been an immense relief. She sat next to Isobel at lunchtime, but mostly she kept to herself. After all, on her own, she could do her favorite thing short of driving out of St. Mary’s gates at the end of term: reading.

  Daisy loved books. Not Chaucer and Dickens and Evelyn Waugh, or whatever other boring set text they had to do in O level English; she loved Jeffrey Archer and Judith Krantz, Jilly Cooper and Shirley Conran. Her copy of Lace was falling apart at the seams. In her books, the women were all slender and beautiful, the men were dashing rakes or determined power-players. Daisy was scared of flying, but with her trashy novels she could move seamlessly from the sun-drenched French Riviera to the snowy romance of the Russian steppes. She yearned to be ravished by Rupert Campbell-Black, to work her way up to a vast empire like Abel Rosnovski; she wanted to be beautiful-yet-feisty like Maxime and Pagan, to shop at Scruples, and generally to be anything other than Daisy Markham at St. Mary’s, Withambury.

  Daisy had the best collection of trashy novels in school, and gradually her classmates wised up to it. Soon after she’d set them all out on the shelves in her little cubicle, Lucy Gresham had sauntered in.

  “Hey, Daisy.”

  “Hey, Lucy,” Daisy said, pretending she hadn’t heard Lucy hiss “fat cow” under her breath when she’d sneaked an extra cream cake at tea that day.

  Lucy stood there, doing The Flick with her long, expensively highlighted blond hair. Everyone knew Lucy went to London on the train every exeat weekend and had her hair done at Vidal Sassoon. Her parents were very rich. Daisy’s parents were struggling to keep up their middle-class lifestyle, even though she was an only child, and she was at St. Mary’s on a bursary, because her mother had been Head Girl there thirty years ago.