Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  For once in her life, Daisy had just about everything she wanted. She was filled with a wild, heady optimism. Oxford was gorgeous, her flat was gorgeous, and all she had to do now was go to a few boring lectures on Titian and Rembrandt!

  I can’t wait for Isobel to see this, Daisy thought.

  Then she remembered. Isobel hadn’t made it through the rigorous Oxonian entrance procedure. She’d been “desummonsed,” a horrible way of telling candidates “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” She hadn’t even made it to interview stage, and Daisy for once had had to comfort her friend, letting Isobel cry all over her shoulder and passing wads of Andrex tissue over to her.

  “Wait a year and reapply,” Daisy had urged, but Isobel wouldn’t hear of it. She took a place at Edinburgh and promised she’d stay in touch.

  Deep down they both knew that it was unlikely. University was where people made the friends that stayed with them for life. But they hugged and cried as though it were a certainty.

  Daisy anticipated starting out with a few acquaintances. There were six others on her particular History of Art course, though she’d only seen them a couple of times. And, of course, there was Edward Powers.

  Daisy walked into her neat little kitchenette and put the kettle on. She got out the Tetley and her packet of milk-chocolate Hob-Nobs and made a small pot of tea, considering Edward and what to do about him. He was so nice, and she enjoyed his company so much. But he seemed to be so into her, and she wasn’t interested. Was it cruel to be friends with him? Leading him on?

  Oh come on, now, she told herself. Edward’s rich and sort-of titled and this is Oxford. There are hundreds of gorgeous, intelligent girls just in his own college. He’d soon forget all about her. He could do so much better. And meanwhile, he was the only person that she knew at Oxford University.

  Edward could be a window into that whole glittering life. Besides, she liked him. So why not?

  Daisy ate three Hob-Nobs and started on a fourth before deciding that perhaps she’d better not. She was meant to lose some weight. At St. Mary’s it had been too hard, but here it should be easier. She could control her own diet. What did the skinny girls eat? Fruit.

  Blergh, fruit. Daisy had never seen the point of apples and oranges when God made Buttons, Flakes, and Hob-Nobs. But …

  She looked down at her soft thighs, spreading out under her ample 501s. There were plenty of amazing-looking men here, and she still wanted to meet somebody. A new Marks & Spencer had opened in Cornmarket. She could buy some peaches there, maybe. And then walk round to Merton and see Edward.

  *

  Daisy picked up some healthy, taste-free options for supper—diet sandwiches and masses of fruit; vegetables was going a bit too far—then walked back down the High Street toward Queen’s. There was a turning off to the left that took you down an ancient, cobbled road toward Merton. It ended in a little square by a back gate to Christ Church and the unimpressive frontage of Oriel College. To her left was Merton, apparently the only college in Oxford that served edible food. It was small and well-regarded. A bit like Edward, Daisy thought.

  She went nervously inside the college gates. There was a sign directing tourists to pay an entrance fee. But nobody stopped her. She looked like any other undergraduate, Daisy realized.

  Inside the porter’s lodge were pigeonholes with names stenciled above them. She found Edward’s in a second. Daisy didn’t quite dare approach the frock-coated porter in the bowler hat to ask where Edward’s rooms were. She dug a biro pen out of her handbag and scribbled a note to Edward on the back of a scrap of paper.

  “Hey.”

  Daisy jumped out of her skin. There was a tall American boy standing right behind her. He was gorgeous, with black hair, dark eyes, a tan, and muscles. A rower, Daisy thought instantly.

  “Sending a note to Powers? I’ll give it to him, if you like. I’m his roommate.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He was so good-looking that it came out as a high-pitched squeal, like a dying mouse. Daisy loathed herself, but giggled nervously. “I’m a friend of his from school. Daisy Markham.”

  He shook her hand warmly and gave her a little bow.

  “Brad Evans,” he said.

  Fifteen

  “And of course artists’ relationships with their patrons were complex. Take Lorenzo de Medici…”

  Dr. Marsh droned on in his annoyingly monotonous voice and Daisy found herself drifting off. Marsh’s lectures reminded her of particularly boring sermons at St. Mary’s. Back then, she used to stare at the stained-glass windows. Now, she gazed at the beautiful pictures of Renaissance masters in her book.

  Luckily she was also sitting by the window. The lawns outside Rackham’s lecture hall led down to the river Isis, and boasted an enormous weeping willow right by the riverbank. Daisy loved that tree, loved to go and sit under its shade and imagine herself picnicking there with Brad Evans.

  Ooh. He was too gorgeous. Thick muscles, broad shoulders like an American football player, dark eyelashes, and a sexy Southern accent. Daisy knew he was out of her league, of course. But he seemed to enjoy her company, at least.

  She could see her silhouette reflected in the windows. Yes … There was definitely a little more definition to her chin. Eating fruit and Shapers sandwiches sucked, but it seemed to be worth it.

  Losing weight was all about motivation.

  Now she had some.

  “Thank you, class, see you on Wednesday.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” they chorused.

  Daisy packed up her book and notepad and hurried out of Rackham’s rather suburban grounds, making a right on St. Aldate’s, heading up toward Christ Church. She cut through the college to Merton. It was the shortest way, and it was so incredibly beautiful. Walking through Peckwater Quad always gave her a buzz; the stately beauty of the library made Daisy feel as though she were in a Jane Austen novel, and that Mr. Darcy would drive a coach and eight horses past her any second.

  Merton was not quite as attractive, but it was still beautiful. She didn’t particularly envy Brad and Edward their room, though. Daisy liked privacy. She didn’t have to share her own place. And even if it was modern, it had a view, and you didn’t have to use a communal bathroom.

  There was the sound of classical music drifting out of their room. Daisy rapped on the door. Obviously Edward was in. Brad preferred country and western.

  “Come in,” Edward called. “Ah, Miss Markham. Good morning.”

  “Hi, Edward.”

  Brad wasn’t around. Daisy suppressed her stab of disappointment. What the hell, she liked Edward. Maybe Brad would be coming later. Edward had asked to take her to a speaker meeting at the Union, and Daisy hadn’t been crass enough to ask if Brad would be coming too.

  “You look as lovely as ever,” Edward said, his eyes drinking her in.

  Edward was wearing a well-cut dark suit and expensive-looking shoes that picked out his black eyes. He always wore the same thing anyway.

  Daisy twirled, feeling a bit uncomfortable, but smiling at her friend. She was wearing a navy dress with a heavy silk lining and a forgiving A-line skirt. Navy was just as slimming as black, but kinder to her skin tones. She had kept her makeup light and neutral, and she was trying to grow her hair. It was at that awkward stage right now, but she had twisted it up in a French pleat. The dress had little chiffon sleeves that covered her plump dimpled upper arms. Since she’d met Brad, she’d become so much more aware of her figure. She’d thrown out every pair of shorts she owned, all her trousers that weren’t jeans, every skirt that was made of thin material.

  Fat girls—Daisy was harsh with herself, why not? Everybody else was—should only wear lined skirts and dresses. She had learned how to take five pounds off her figure by dressing better. Dark colors, monochromes, coverage of telltale bits like the arms, push-up bras for the huge boobs that were her one asset. And, yes, waists. If she gave in to the temptation to disappear in a huge piece of fabric it just made her look bigger. She needed
well-fitting stuff that came down around her ankles. With blusher she could shade away—or at least minimize—the pouch under her chin, she could paint on cheekbones.

  The other fat girls Daisy saw around the place went one of two ways: they either gave up completely, and wore shorts that showed their cellulite, had dirty hair and glasses, or they pretended they didn’t care and wore god-awful “funny” outfits—sweaters with 3-D animals embroidered on them.

  Why did people expect fat girls to be funny? Daisy swallowed hard. Her eyes had started to glitter. No tears right now. She wasn’t into feeling sorry for herself.

  “You’re so elegant,” Edward said. He sounded completely sincere. “I feel quite underdressed.”

  “Who are you dragging me out to see?” Daisy asked.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Daisy hit him.

  “Oh, very well. It’s Richard Weston.”

  “No!”

  Her skin prickled with excitement. Now it felt less like a dutiful evening out. Richard Weston was Daisy’s favorite author. Bankrupt in a share scandal as a young father, he had written his first bestseller, The Kensington, out of sheer desperation—wanting to try something, anything, to get his family out of debt. He had received a slender advance, but the word of mouth on the slim paperback had been incredible. Weston had it; he knew plot, and he knew how to sweep the reader along in a frenzy of “and then what happened?”

  Daisy wanted to jump up and down.

  “Edward, you beauty.”

  He grinned. “I rather thought you’d enjoy that.”

  *

  The small, dank alleyway that led up to the wrought-iron gates of the Oxford Union was packed. Edward effortlessly managed to thread a path through the crowd of undergraduates, a few of them in white tie, most in jeans and sweaters.

  “Officers,” he whispered in Daisy’s ear. “They always have to wear penguin suits. I’m only a college rep, so I get away with this.”

  Daisy was ushered through the building’s doors, where a man stood checking membership cards.

  “Oh.” She blushed. “I don’t have one, I’m not actually at the University—”

  “Sorry, miss, members only. The event’s very oversubscribed—”

  “She’s with me, Paul.”

  “Oh.” The hefty man grunted and stepped aside. “Very good, Mr. Powers. Come in, Miss.”

  Daisy was impressed. Edward took her through the building and out into a little garden, thronging with students. A gravel path led up to another large gothic-looking building.

  “The Chamber. It’s meant to be an exact replica of the House of Commons, but it hasn’t seen a lick of paint for about twenty years.” Edward shrugged. “Doesn’t stop people coming to speak, though.”

  Daisy felt a pang of envy. “You’re so lucky, getting to see people like Richard Weston in the flesh.”

  “You have me.” Edward smiled at her gently. “You can come as my guest to anything you like.”

  He was so gentlemanly. Daisy suddenly felt very happy. She was lucky that Edward was such a good friend to her. Without him, she might have felt swamped here. As it was, the bullying and teasing of her miserable schooldays were already starting to fade into a bad memory, like something that had happened to somebody else.

  Maybe it was just that men were kinder than women.

  Edward showed her inside the dilapidated chamber with its wooden benches and ushered her to a spot near the front. The whole room was filling up fast.

  Daisy sat there breathless with excitement and squeezed Edward’s hand. Her eyes were sparkling. When the President, a young woman in a burgundy ballgown, and her officers, in white tie, entered the chamber, she could hardly breathe. Richard Weston followed them in, wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, with a sober tie and expensive-looking shoes. His watch was gold, and as he passed right by her, she thought it was a Rolex.

  Everything about him screamed money, far more than any designer suit could have done. He was a step up from Hugo Boss or Armani. She could tell that everything he wore was bespoke.

  Imagine writing books, the best job in the world, and getting paid a fortune for them!

  Daisy felt like she was a groupie at a Bon Jovi concert. Her heart was racing and there was a light mist of sweat on her palms. She loved Richard Weston’s stuff.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The librarian, a stocky-looking young Yorkshireman, stood to introduce his guest. “We are privileged to have as our guest tonight the bestselling author…”

  Daisy watched Weston’s face. His eyes twinkled and he was watching the room carefully. The way he was observing them reminded her of herself. He glanced over at her and caught her looking.

  Daisy blushed scarlet.

  Weston winked at her.

  “… Richard Weston!”

  Weston got to his feet and started to speak. He had an open, easygoing manner, but he was extremely charismatic. Daisy drank in every word.

  “I’m open to questions,” he said, when he was done.

  Sixty hands shot into the air. Daisy tentatively stuck hers up, too.

  “Yes?”

  Weston was looking right at her.

  “How do you feel about the critics sneering at popular culture, and do you find that your work is…”

  Daisy shut her mouth. An eager and spotty youth next to her had jumped in with his question. She’d thought Weston was looking at her, but of course she wasn’t about to be that lucky.

  He answered patiently. A new forest of hands surged up. Daisy didn’t feel brave enough to try again. She sat and listened as the undergraduates asked Weston to deconstruct his work, to comment on royalty structures, to speak on the decline of the English novel, and, rudely, to condemn what he did as pure trash that sapped the minds of the British people.

  “Good God.” He laughed at that one. “Sometimes you want to drink Château Lafite, and sometimes you want a Diet Coke. I’m in the Diet Coke business.”

  The girl who had asked the question was slender and had a severely cut dark bob. She gave Weston a sneering look. Daisy was outraged. Snobby cow. If she hated Weston’s books so much, why had she come tonight?

  “We’d like to thank Mr. Weston very much for agreeing to address the Society,” said the President smoothly. “I’m afraid we’re out of time for questions this evening.”

  “I can take one last one, Madam President,” Weston said. “Young lady.”

  Daisy stared at her soft white hands.

  “In the blue dress,” Weston said.

  Daisy’s cheeks flamed. She looked up. “Me?”

  “Yes. You had a question, didn’t you?”

  “Um, yes.” Daisy felt extremely shy, but he was smiling at her. Her question seemed a bit stupid after all the complex ones the other students had asked, but she thought it was what everyone secretly wanted to know. “Are you very rich?”

  “Really,” said the President, disapprovingly.

  Edward chuckled softly.

  “Bloody good question,” Weston said. “Yes. As a matter of fact I’m phenomenally rich. I don’t work much, I do something I enjoy and that other people enjoy, and I’ve made so much money I never need to write anything else in my life. But I still do, because it’s so much fun.” He gave Daisy a wink. “You should try it.”

  “Thank you,” Daisy said. “Maybe I will.”

  The President stood and ushered her guest out, and the rank and file shuffled from the Chamber. Edward escorted Daisy through the crush of young bodies into the garden. It was dark now, and the stars were clearly visible even through the ugly orange glow of the street lamps. There was a mad run for the bar, but Daisy didn’t feel like drinking subsidized beer in a crowd of rowdy students.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes. Gosh, thanks.” Daisy hugged herself. “It was so exciting.”

  “He liked you, obviously. He wasn’t pleased when that undergraduate took your spot.”

  “I thought he was lookin
g at me. But I suppose I was a bit crass…”

  “Bloody hell, no. Everybody was wondering the same thing, but didn’t have the guts to say so. I think you amused him.”

  “I’d love to be Richard Weston,” Daisy sighed.

  Edward looked at her. “I’m very glad you’re not.”

  There it was again. That awful feeling. Daisy stammered, “Look, Edward—”

  “Forget it. Do you feel like eating?”

  “Uhm—”

  “Brad’s asked me to meet him at the Bird and Baby.”

  “Sure.” Daisy relaxed. “Why not?”

  *

  The Eagle and Child—known to students as everything from Bird and Baby to Fowl and Fetus—was a little walk uptown, and Edward shepherded Daisy through the crowded streets. Oxford had an incredible combination of beauty and electricity. After school, the sense of freedom was like a drug. Daisy wondered what it would be like to be here and actually be at the University. Like Edward and like Brad. There was a slight regret in the pit of her stomach. If she’d applied herself, she could have been there, too. She kind of knew it.

  Maybe I’ve been settling, Daisy thought. Unhappiness was a great excuse to settle.

  As she walked along, she could feel the first signs of her changing body. Her thighs, which usually chafed uncomfortably, weren’t quite so close together. She could feel a bit more definition in her face. Small changes, yeah. But something. Brad’s body was pure muscle, thick, but not fat. She’d gone down to the river once to watch him row. When the Merton eight came in first, Brad pulled his shirt off. Daisy had stood on the wet, cold bank of the Isis and felt something unfamiliar—the pull of real desire. Of course, she knew she wasn’t in his league; she was going to have to stop thinking about him.

  Easier said than done, though.

  Edward took her into the pub and Daisy tried not to look too eager. Where was he? Oh yeah, there, sitting by the fire and nursing a Budweiser, a weak American beer. But Daisy forgave him for that, because everyone knew Americans didn’t drink. Edward lifted a hand, spotting him, and went across the room.

  “Hello,” he said.