She considered this.
“You can write,” Edward suggested.
“Oh.” Daisy shook her head. “I tried that, it didn’t work.”
“You failed to win one competition.” Edward was firm. “You should try again. You told Richard Weston you would. If his kind of trash made him a millionaire, why shouldn’t you do the same?”
Daisy shook her head. “It’s a pipe dream. Do you know how many people want to be writers?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Mother belongs to a writing circle. But, you see,” Edward leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “she’s no good. Most of them can’t write at all.”
“And what makes you think I can?”
“The girls liked your stuff, you told me. Anyway, the point is not whether you can or can’t. The point is that you should at least try. At some point, Richard Weston was an unpublished author. Jilly Cooper, too.”
“Hmm.” Daisy smiled at Edward, incredibly grateful. She almost felt excited about it. “I suppose I could rework my old idea…”
“I wouldn’t do that. Start with something fresh. You’ll be better the second time around.”
His words chimed with Brad’s, reminding her of this morning. The mood was shattered. Daisy put her bone-china cup down. “I think I should get going.”
“Wait a second.” Edward pulled open a drawer in his walnut coffee-table and handed her the keys. “Eighty-nine Walton Street, Flat Two. That’s the front door, the other one opens the flat.”
“I don’t have two hundred right now,” Daisy admitted. It brought a pink spot of embarrassment to her cheeks.
“That’s fine. Any time before the end of the month.” Edward stood and walked her to the door. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
Daisy wanted to thank him profusely, to pour her heart out, but she knew if she did she would start to cry.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“See you soon, I trust,” Edward said.
*
She didn’t go home. She went straight round to Walton Street and let herself in.
Brad would have called it a perfect “space.” It was spacious, with lead-paneled windows, antique furniture in dark oak, and red fabric on the walls. It was unbelievably sumptuous, a little weekend retreat for Edward’s family. Far better than the flat she was giving up.
The very beauty of the place made Daisy wretched. She was imposing on her friend. But what choice did she have?
Writing. That was a joke. But she was going to try it. Rackham had computers with word processing software … Edward was right; she’d been coasting, she had to try something. Meanwhile, in the real world, she could look for a part-time job. That might help her afford a commercial rental, and get out of Edward’s hair.
She decided she would think about that. She would think about getting on her feet, helping her parents.
Anything but Brad.
*
Daisy sat at the mahogany dining table in Edward’s flat and breathed out.
There it was, laid out neatly before the lead-paneled window with its view of Walton Street and the driving rain that was lashing it. Her submission. One chapter, a synopsis, and a bunch of letters. She had printed up thirteen of them, addressed to agents whose names she had found after combing through a large yellow-covered reference book. Daisy had craftily changed a couple of sentences at the start of each letter to reflect the person to whom she was writing. She loved so-and-so’s work, whom they represented. Or she knew of the agency’s reputation for romance. Your basic sucking up. Apart from that, she had kept the letters very short.
This went against what she read in the thin, overpriced magazines they published for aspiring authors. You were supposed to do a tap-dance in your “query letter.” Something boastful and snappy, something that would grab the overworked agent’s attention. “Don’t give him a reason to say no,” they advised.
The problem was that when Daisy read those sample letters they made her cringe. Her cheeks would pink in purely empathetic embarrassment. “Dear Sir, What if Queen Katherine Parr had kept a diary? Now you can read what it was like to have been married to Henry VIII—and survived. My novel The Merry Widow is a gripping tale of romance and treachery in the sixteenth century…”
Ugh. Ugh. Daisy didn’t have a “high concept,” and she wasn’t about to start writing stupid letters. She put in her age, the genre, and the fact that she’d had no experience apart from a mention in the Company competition. Then she asked the agents to read her material and get back to her if they were interested in seeing more of it.
Of course, it was all hopeless, and she didn’t see why she should embarrass herself.
Daisy picked up her twenty-six envelopes and started to address thirteen of them to herself. She could make the ten-thirty post, then she was due at work by eleven. It was a four-hour shift at Frederico’s today. She was dreading it, as always. But at least she was starting to get some real money.
Her life had changed. She’d only been living at Walton Street a month, and her papers had started to get A’s. Edward might have been right about History of Art, but now she was doing it, she needed to get a First. She was working constantly; either writing essays, or doing lunch and evening shifts at the Italian restaurant that had given her a job. Minimum wage, of course, but students and townies were pretty cool with the tips. Daisy had a great smile.
And she was starting to get really pretty.
Even she herself had begun to notice it. The irony was that after Brad, she’d been so down, so depressed, that she had stopped watching what she ate. But Edward Powers had lit a fire under her. Daisy wanted to help her parents. So she worked, she waitressed, and she wrote. Between all three activities she’d had no time to stuff herself.
The distracted diet. It worked wonders. That, and the depression.
She saw Brad around. He kept calling, asking to hook up again, but making it clear that he wasn’t interested in having her as a girlfriend.
Daisy had cracked, gone out with him one more time. He’d plied her with drink, but it wasn’t necessary. She intended going to bed with him anyway, just to stop that first time from being a one-night stand.
It didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Hey, man, check you out.” Brad had run an approving hand over her tighter, smaller butt and thinner thighs. “You dropped even more weight. A ton.”
“I don’t think it was quite that much,” Daisy said dryly.
The irony went right over his head.
“Hey, you’re really hot. I could do this every night,” he murmured, surrounding her with his strong arms.
She couldn’t quite suppress the ray of hope. “So am I your girlfriend now?”
“Sure, hon. You’re my girlfriend,” Brad said expansively, “but it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. I mean, we’re young. Right?”
“Right,” Daisy muttered.
Since that night she had avoided him completely.
She finished stuffing the envelopes and got up. Her navy coat was worn-out, she really needed a new one. But she was saving her money for more important things than that. Daisy quickly twisted her hair, which was down past her shoulders now, up against the nape of her neck. She didn’t bother with makeup, apart from a quick slick of rose-tinted chapstick. Her skin needed nothing; it was soft and dewy as a child’s. Anyway, she thought the other girls at Frederico’s made themselves look like clowns, with too-thick foundation settling into the fine lines around their eyes and mouths, and chalky-blue eye shadow that did nothing for them.
Daisy walked down the stairs and out into the street. It was freezing. She held her umbrella against the wind, hoping it would not turn inside out. She half ran down Cornmarket toward the Post Office, her nose and the tips of her ears turning red against the cold. She hated weather like this, it made her fingertips turn white. The thought came into her mind that her natural parents couldn’t be British, she just wasn’t equipped
to handle all this foul sleet and icy wind …
The Post Office felt ridiculously warm, just because it wasn’t exposed to the elements. Daisy walked up to the counter and paid for her packages to be sent first-class. As she shivered, she had a tiny thrill of accomplishment. At least she’d tried.
She bundled up in preparation for another blast of cold air—
“Hey.”
Daisy glanced up. It was Brad, walking into the Post Office. She instantly registered that he was embarrassed to see her. A second later, she realized why.
There was a girl standing next to him—tall and lanky, very skinny, with a tan, and a cascade of platinum-blond hair. She was wearing a pair of expensive-looking leather trousers, matching jacket, and a Burberry scarf. Her eyebrows were plucked and her nails manicured. Obviously American.
Daisy’s heart started to thud. Maybe it was a sister, or something. Come to visit for Thanksgiving.
Then her eye was drawn downward to the stack of pretty little envelopes in the girl’s hand, creamy, stiff paper, with little silver bells stuck on them.
She knew the situation before he said anything.
“Daisy, hi. Honey, this is my friend Daisy Markham.” Brad was gabbling, tripping on his words. “Edward’s friend. Daisy, this is Elise Mariano, my fiancée.”
“Hey,” the girl said, with a disinterested stare.
“We’re just mailing some invitations. Elise has picked Merton’s chapel, so that’s where the ceremony is…”
“I just luurve those old windows,” Elise said.
“You should come,” Brad mumbled.
“I’d love to,” Daisy said brightly, her eyes glittering with tears she was determined not to shed, “but I just remembered I’m busy that day. Nice to meet you, Elise.”
As she barged past her out into St. Aldate’s, Daisy heard the American girl say, “But I never said what the date was…”
Daisy raced up toward Cornmarket, sobbing. Oh, God. She really had been nothing to him. He was sowing his wild oats. One last fling before he married the blond, perfect American cow with the handbag perfectly matched to her shoes. And now she was off to be a waitress. She thanked God she had never told anybody about this job. Not Brad, not even Edward.
She rested at the corner of the street and fished a tissue out of her bag, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. No way she wanted to let that bastard Frederico know she’d been crying. He was a surly jerk who always tried to cheat his waiting staff of their tips and make them work overtime without pay. The only reason she’d been able to land a job here was because he had such high turnover. Nobody wanted to work for him. He’d accepted Daisy, without any experience, because he had to.
The clock said it was bang on eleven. Daisy rushed miserably up to the restaurant’s side door and let herself into the kitchen.
“She finally arrives,” Frederico said. “I think you are going to be late again and I will dock your pay again.”
“Right on time,” Daisy said firmly. A quick glance out front told her they were already busy; older couples taking advantage of the early-bird specials and the happy half-hour (her boss would never stretch to an hour).
“So get you uniform on. You working the front section today. Hurry up.”
Daisy felt another sob rise up in her throat, but choked it back. She needed this job. At least the work would give her something to do.
“Right away, Frederico,” she said obediently.
Twenty-Two
She was woken by the doorbell ringing.
It had an old-fashioned chime rather than an electric buzz, but it was still insistent. Daisy’s eyes flicked open. She was sleeping in the gorgeous oak four-poster in the main bedroom; linen sheets and dark woods, with the scent of lavender and potpourri in the air. The William Morris curtains were slightly drawn back from the lead-paned windows. Enough for her to see that bright light was streaming into the room, catching motes of dust which shimmered like miniature galaxies.
Sod it. How late was it?
Daisy squinted at the grandmother clock across the room. Half past twelve?
Ding-dong, said the bell again.
Shit. Shit. She jumped out of bed, the cobwebs swept away.
“Coming, coming,” she said. Daisy grabbed her old toweling robe and raced downstairs, yanking the door open.
Edward stood there in a suit.
“Edward! Come in,” Daisy said, blushing.
He hesitated awkwardly. “I fear I’ve disturbed you—”
“No! Well, yes,” Daisy admitted. “But I overslept … I don’t know what happened, must have slept through the alarm. Come on in, I’ll be two seconds.” She ushered him into the small living room and ran back into her bedroom, tugging on some underwear and a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, shoving her feet into her shoes.
She felt faintly ashamed; Edward was so disciplined and well-dressed … he’d never be opening the door in a shitty, graying robe. She grabbed her bottle of scent and spritzed herself.
“Hey.”
Edward looked surprisingly ill at ease. He was never uncomfortable with her; Daisy thought of him as her one true friend here. Yeah, she had other people she hung out with, Rackham students she ate lunch with, girls from the restaurant she occasionally took to the pub. But Edward she cared about.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He smiled gingerly. “I wondered if you’d heard Brad’s news.”
She couldn’t suppress a smile. He was so delicate, treading carefully around her feelings. Nobody else had ever bothered to try and prevent her from feeling pain like this. No man, at least.
“Yes.” Daisy smiled crisply. “I’m happy for him.”
“Are you? I thought you had … feelings for him.”
“Brad? Not at all. I liked him,” Daisy said firmly. “That was about it.”
“Ah. Well. That’s good.” Edward twisted a bit. “I, um, I’ve met someone too.”
The room seemed to spin. Daisy gripped the armrests of her chair. What? Edward had found someone? Rake-thin Edward?
Her Edward?
“That’s a surprise,” she managed.
“She’s at St. Hilda’s.”
The all-girl college.
“How nice.” Daisy could not understand why her heart had started to race. She felt almost dizzy. “Tell me about her.”
“Oh, well.” Edward’s eyes lit up. He started to talk enthusiastically, like someone who could not believe his luck. “She’s a brick. I met her in the Union bar one night, she was coming to the speaker meeting for Sir Georg Solti. She loves opera…”
“Perfect for you,” Daisy muttered. She herself was more Madonna and Wham. But Edward went for the classical stuff.
“She’s called Edwina. Can you believe that?”
“It’s obviously fate,” Daisy agreed. “Edwina who?”
“Edwina Latham. She’s Monty Latham’s daughter,” Edward said.
The name rang the vaguest of bells. Oh God, yes. Some Tory front-bencher in the House of Lords. Daisy felt the pit of her stomach give way. She pictured Edwina, a horsey, upper-class girl who loved opera and was at Oxford proper and had a title. Jolly hockey sticks, and all that.
An ideal future Lady Powers.
Daisy should have been happy for Edward, but she wasn’t. She realized instantly that she was insanely jealous. How pathetic!
“How long have you been seeing her?”
“We had dinner a couple of times. Went to her parents’ place last weekend.”
“How nice,” Daisy said. “You must introduce me.”
“Oh, I shall. You’ll love her.”
It was so fourth-form, for her to think her friend shouldn’t have a girlfriend. After all, it wouldn’t stop him being friends with her. This Edwina would never be jealous, because Edward had asked Daisy out, and she’d always turned him down. She didn’t like rail-thin men, she liked muscles, and …
“Do you love her?” Daisy asked. Her own voice sound
ed tinny and far-away, as if it were coming up from the bottom of a cave.
“Bit early for that.” Edward looked all bashful again. “But, you know, she’s a peach, and we do seem to get on OK.”
A huge wave of nausea rocked through Daisy. This made what she’d gone through with Brad pale into total insignificance. Immediately, fatally, she understood her mistake.
She didn’t just like Edward. She loved him. She was in love with him.
And now he was in love with somebody else.
“Isn’t that wonderful,” Daisy said.
Please, she thought. Please go away.
“Oh, no.” She looked at the ornate gold mantelpiece clock. “Edward, you’re going to think me amazingly rude, but I’ve got a job, and I’m going to be late…”
“Not at all.” He stood up, and it was hard to tell which of them looked the more relieved. “How very enterprising of you to have found a job. What is it?”
She was beyond being ashamed. “Waitressing.”
He didn’t flinch. “Well done. Do you make decent money?”
“Yes,” Daisy lied. “Almost enough to get a place of my own. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“I hope never,” Edward said, with his old politeness. He gave her a slight bow. “Perhaps you can meet us later for a drink? I’ll be with Edwina at the Union tonight.”
“Sounds great. Eight suit you?”
“See you then,” Edward said. “I’ll let myself out.”
Daisy waited till he had gone, then raced to get ready. She had coped with too much in the past week to pretend to be strong. She burst into tears.
*
When she finished her shift, it was already 4 P.M. Daisy gathered up her tips; not much today. Eighteen quid and change. She pulled her coat on and shivered her way back to Walton Street. At least it would enable her to buy the ghastly Edwina a drink.
Daisy unlocked her door and walked into her living room. The answer machine was blinking; she’d check it later. She felt so exhausted, her weariness had seeped into her bones, along with the aching cold.
At half past four she had a lecture on the Rackham campus.
Devil You Know Page 18