“Even fiancée would be good.”
“But make sure she’s suitable. She has to be suitable, Henry. Nobody with a past.”
LeClerc paused and nodded.
“I hear you.”
But it was no good. He had to meet her again. To talk to her, to see her. It was an obsession. Once he physically saw Poppy, she’d stop being this young goddess, and he could get on with his life again.
“I have to go, gentlemen,” he said.
He would find out a little more about Poppy Allen. Maybe go see her, have one more round.
Just to get her out of his system.
Forty-Two
Six months had changed Daisy’s life. Her book was a success. Royalties were pouring in, and Artemis wanted to extend her contract. Ted Elliott renegotiated the advance. Daisy was now earning six figures instead of five.
She decided to do something special with her money.
*
“I’ve got a present for you,” Daisy said. “Get in.”
“Darling,” her mother said, “this is so silly, you don’t need to buy us anymore presents.”
“Just humor me,” Daisy pleaded.
“All right,” her father said, sighing.
Daisy had made them both wear blindfolds. Her parents got awkwardly into the back of Daisy’s new car. It was a gleaming racing-green Bentley, drove as smooth as silk and handled like thistledown.
The Lemon Grove had been a runaway bestseller. Daisy was up to nearly a million sales in paperback. Suddenly, she had a fleet of advisers around her: a specialist accountant, a stockbroker, a money manager. She had bought a loft-style modern flat, the penthouse of a new development in Camden; she had a wardrobe full of Joseph and Prada and Armani; she had membership of all the hot clubs in London—the Groucho, Soho House, you name it.
And Daisy loved it. Her whirlwind of promotion, book-signings, and sales conferences had hardly stopped long enough for her to start work on the sequel. Money and success were transforming her life, and it was very sweet.
This morning, though, would be the sweetest moment of all.
Daisy hit the accelerator and drove like Nigel Mansell through the leafy Sussex roads, the narrow, twisting lanes overhung with trees so that light made dappled shadows under the emerald leaves, glowing in the sun. She felt giddy with pleasure. If there was one thing she had wanted to do for her parents this was it.
“How much longer, Daisy?” her father demanded.
She turned the steering wheel and crunched onto the familiar gravel path to the left.
“We’re here. Now no touching the blindfold until I get you out of the car.”
Daisy got out, opened the car door, and helped her parents out, standing them in the drive facing the house. Then she walked behind them and pulled off the blindfolds.
“Ta-da,” Daisy announced.
They were standing in front of their old house. Two brand-new Mercedes were neatly parked in the garage by the gnarled apple tree; red for her father, silver for her mother.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Markham said unsteadily. But her father did. “Oh, Daisy,” he murmured, and stumbled against the car.
“I had to pay them an extra ten thou to get out,” Daisy said, “and they painted the den orange so you’ll have to take care of that, but it’s all yours. Actually, it’s in a family trust, so you couldn’t give it away to the bank even if you wanted to.”
Her mother burst into tears.
That, Daisy thought when she got home, had been one of the high points of her life. The toys, the fame, it was all very well, but it was also ephemeral. Doing something nice for her mother and father had meant something.
So why was she suddenly feeling so down?
Her flat was immaculate; the maid came on Wednesdays. Daisy had chosen a color scheme in oyster-white. She kicked off her shoes and padded across the soft, springy carpet to the cream couch, curling up on it in front of one of her floor-to-ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the London skyline. The last moments of sunset were fading from the sky; dying streaks of orange against a deep-blue background. The serenity of twilight was rather sad, Daisy thought. Her apartment had soundproofing; there was no drone of traffic to disturb her, nothing but the neon street lights and the orange and yellow of the cars on the road below, a constant river of artificial light. A low silver bowl was crammed with the heads of ivory roses, and the air inside her apartment was fragrant with the blossoms.
Daisy’s usual routine was to open a bottle of chilled white wine, pour herself a glass, and switch on the Macintosh to do some writing. She was almost done with her chapter plan for The Orange Blossom, her next book, but tonight, she wasn’t interested.
She wanted to cry. Why? Why was that? Everything in her life was perfect. This was ridiculous.
Daisy picked up her copy of Hello! magazine and started to flick through it. Nothing like a series of mindless puff pieces to distract her.
And then there they were, on page two. Not featured, of course, Edward would never have allowed that; just pictured as guests at the wedding of some young earl and the lucky American model about to become his countess.
“Mr. and Mrs. Edward Powers,” said the caption. Edward, resplendent in a morning suit; had he even put on a little weight, Daisy wondered? But it was Edwina she couldn’t take her eyes off.
Daisy had, thank God, been in America when Edward had got married. She had sent him a gift and a card, a lovely set of Pratesi sheets. He’d written to thank her and to invite her up to his house in the country, but Daisy hadn’t seen Edward since the day she left Oxford.
More importantly, she still had never seen Edwina, until now. What do you know? Daisy thought dispassionately. The woman’s not horsey at all. She’s stunning.
Edwina Powers had long blond hair, an aristocratic nose, blue eyes, and no curves to speak of. She was the epitome of cold, patrician beauty, miles away from Daisy’s hot peasant curves. She kind of looked like Gwyneth Paltrow. With the equally skinny Edward, they made an ideal couple.
Daisy breathed in. Her heart had sped up violently. She felt dizzy, almost like a panic attack. She dropped the magazine onto the carpet, and felt a hot tear trickle down her cheek.
Oh God, oh God. She was still in love with him.
*
She woke early after a sleepless night and stumbled into her bathroom. It was large, like the bathroom in a good hotel, with a snowy marble floor, heated towel rails, a jacuzzi, and plenty of Diptych scented candles ranged around the tub, but that wasn’t going to help her achieve serenity this morning.
Daisy needed to see him. Edward. With a wedding ring on. After all, if you were away from someone for a good length of time you started to idealize them. Edward Powers was just on some kind of mental pedestal.
Daisy climbed into her stand-alone shower, lined with blue enamel tiles splashed with gold daisies, a whimsical notion of her designer’s. More importantly, the shower had three heads that pummeled and massaged her back. Jets of hot water blasted away her sluggishness, and she washed her hair carefully with John Frieda and soaped herself down with L’Occitane lavender bath and shower gel. After she had swathed herself in fluffy white towels, blasted her hair dry, and pulled on some of her best clothes, she felt a little better, but not much.
For one thing, there were dark circles under her eyes that no amount of Touche Eclat could wipe out; her eyes were bloodshot, and her skin felt dry with stress. But no matter. She still had to see Edward.
Daisy dug out her Wayfarers and put them on. Yeah, much better. She was wearing a long, figure-hugging Katherine Hamnett skirt in dark blue velvet and a white silk shirt, and she teamed it with a strand of platinum-blue Akoya pearls she’d picked up in Manhattan, light, sheer makeup, and a spritz of Amarige on her wrists.
She was beautiful. More beautiful than Edwina? Probably not. Certainly not so bloody well-bred. Daisy inventoried her outrageous curves: her butt was firm and tight, but it still stuck out there,
no question … and her breasts, well, at least she was no longer trying to hide them. She had a trim enough waist, her thighs were strong but not stocky, and her arms were toned. Daisy considered her hair and skin critically. Olive-ish, with rich, dark locks … And those wolf-blue eyes, hidden away behind the glasses …
I wonder, she thought suddenly, who my real parents were?
But she didn’t dwell on it. Her real parents lived in Sussex. Still, she bet her birth mother had had good genes …
Daisy went to the phone and dialed Edward’s home number. It was disconcerting that she still knew it by heart.
A woman answered.
“Hello?”
Daisy’s heart hammered. Edwina. Speaking to her, she struggled to sound calm.
“Hello, is that Edwina?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”
“Hi, Edwina, this is Daisy Markham,” Daisy said, smoothly enough. “I was a friend of Edward’s at Oxford.”
“Daisy Markham! Of course. The famous novelist, how exciting. Edward’s just in the garden, hang on a mo, I’ll get him for you…”
There was a pause. Daisy’s knuckles were white around the receiver. She thought she could yank it from its socket at any minute. Edwina hadn’t been a bitch, or nasty …
Daisy was almost faint with jealousy.
“Daisy!” Edward’s voice came on the line, warm with pleasure. “How good to hear from you.”
“It’s been a long time,” Daisy agreed. “I meant to get in touch, but I’ve been so busy.”
“Of course you have, tremendously exciting. You’ve done splendidly.”
“I thought perhaps we could meet up for a drink.”
“Love to. When?”
“Today?”
Edward called out, “Darling…” and she heard him cup the receiver. Then he came back on. “Wina can’t make today, how about tomorrow?”
“I’m leaving on a trip tomorrow,” Daisy lied. “How about just you, can I see you today? I’d love to catch up.”
There was a pause. She held her breath. Then he came back. “Three-thirty suit? At the club?”
“Fine.” Daisy was giddy with relief. “I know it, near Charing Cross. See you there.”
*
The Jugglers was just the sort of thing Daisy associated with Edward Powers. It was gentlemanly, discreet, tucked away, and very, very luxurious. The club was housed inside an old Georgian townhouse in the heart of Covent Garden, with a courtyard full of Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins, a guard at a gatehouse, and a splendid wrought-iron fence. There was a blue ceramic plaque outside the front entrance that said Disraeli had once lived in the house. When she stepped into reception, she saw that there was a stone floor and a wooden board on which were the names of members of the club who had died in the Second World War.
“Can I help you, madam?”
A uniformed receptionist smiled impersonally at her. Daisy smiled back. “I’m meeting a Mr. Edward Powers.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Powers. Of course, madam. He’s waiting for you in the Drawing Room. If you just walk down the corridor it’s the third room on the left.”
The Drawing Room was hung with red fabric wallpaper and lined with what looked like original Regency chairs, chaise-longues, and sofas. Hung around the walls were solemn oil portraits, all of men, and men in suits, with just one or two women, were sitting around at little tables, drinking, smoking cigars, and talking in a muted hush.
Daisy scanned the place. Yes, there he was. Tall as a long drink of water, as the Americans said, and in his usual three-piece suit. He was occupying an ancient burgundy leather armchair, comfortably broken in by hundreds of similar men, she had no doubt.
Edward saw her and shot to his feet. He came over, smiling broadly, and shook her hand warmly.
“Daisy, splendid to see you, splendid.”
“Hi, Edward,” Daisy said, kissing him on the cheek. Did he blush a bit? Behind the dark glasses she couldn’t tell.
“Come and sit down.” He led her back over to the burgundy chair and waited until she had settled in a skinny mahogany chair covered in nineteenth-century gold silk before taking a seat himself.
“Something to drink, madam?”
A waiter had materialized silently. “A cup of tea would be lovely. Lapsang, if you have it.”
“Of course, madam.”
“It’s so good to see you,” Edward said. His eyes flickered over her. “But you’ve lost too much weight, Daisy. Any skinnier and you’ll go down the plughole next time you have a bath.”
“You can talk,” Daisy said, and felt some of the tension drain out of her. It was just as though she’d last seen him yesterday. She was so relaxed, so comfortable with Edward. She felt that it was fate, and nothing should keep them apart, especially not some inconvenient little marriage …
“I’m upset you have to leave. I can’t wait for you to meet Wina. You’ll love her, she’s such a doll.”
“You call her Wina?” Daisy asked numbly.
Pet names! She couldn’t bear it.
“Edward and Edwina was a bit much.” Still is, Daisy thought. “But tell me, how is fame and fortune? Of course, I always knew it was a matter of time,” he added politely.
“Splendid,” Daisy said brightly. “I do enjoy it. I bought my parents their old house back.”
“But that’s wonderful,” Edward said, with genuine enthusiasm and warmth. “What an amazing thing to be able to do.”
The waiter arrived with her tea and poured it out into a bone-china cup. The whole scene was so civilized, so restrained. Daisy longed to take the delicate vessel and smash it against one of the gloomy portraits and shake Edward by his bony shoulders. Didn’t he see? Didn’t he see? This had to be a mistake, she was sure of it.
“It truly was,” she said. “But never mind about me. Books and publishing are very boring. Tell me all about you and Wina. You married very quickly, Edward, I was a bit surprised.”
“Well so was I, rather.” He shrugged. “But once you meet somebody who’s the right person, you want to get on with it. I daresay I’d have proposed to you had you given me the slightest encouragement.” He laughed cheerfully.
Daisy started to burn. Her cheeks reddened. “Well, don’t you think people can change? That you shouldn’t rush into things? I know I’ve changed, for one.”
He ignored her implication. Deliberately, or did he just not get it? “I don’t think you’ve changed a bit, old bean.”
“I have,” Daisy said mulishly.
“Yes, you’ve got far too thin. But Wina and I just clicked. She likes all the same things, we have similar backgrounds, ambitions, she’s a Catholic, and she’s a very pretty girl. What she’s doing with an old stick like me I have no idea. But we’re extremely happy. Newlyweds, I suppose,” he said, charmingly bashful.
“I see,” Daisy said, forcing a smile. “Well, that’s wonderful. What does Wina do?”
“Do? Keeps house for me. Gives the menu to the cook. You know. Ah. You mean work. Well, she doesn’t. We’re quite well-off, and I prefer having her around, so there’s no need for her to work.”
“I never thought of you as trying to keep women down,” Daisy said.
“Good God, nobody could keep Wina down.” The way he talked about her, Daisy thought, it was like he had a smile in his voice. “If she wanted to do something, I shouldn’t give a damn, but she doesn’t, and we don’t need the cash, so I suppose there’s no point.”
“I suppose not,” Daisy was forced to agree. There was a lump in her throat, but she forced it back with a scalding gulp of Lapsang.
Change the subject, change the subject, Daisy thought. “And do you see many people from Oxford?”
They talked about nothing for twenty minutes, until Daisy thought she could decently leave.
“Well, lovely to see you again,” Daisy said. She didn’t kiss him on the cheek this time, just shook his hand.
“And you. Where are you off to?”
She lo
oked blank, then remembered her excuse. “Oh, New York. I’m going to do some shopping.”
“Have fun. And you must come down to meet Wina soon. You’ll probably have to come down to the country, because she won’t be doing too much traveling.”
“Why’s that? Is she a country person?” Daisy made herself ask.
“Very much so,” Edward said. “Rather like me, in fact.”
*
Daisy was proud of herself. She managed to flag down a taxi and make it all the way back to North London, and into her own flat, before she burst into tears.
Edward was happily married. And he would never, never be hers.
But she wouldn’t accept it. No way. Hadn’t he said he might have proposed to her? Edward had been the one, at Oxford, who had loved her for herself, made her feel like she wasn’t just fat Daisy, that she was worth something. Edward had tried to steer her right when Brad got married; Edward had looked after her when she lost her flat; Edward was her protector and her ideal and her destiny …
Anything could happen, still! There had to be a way round it. This situation was all wrong!
She couldn’t face talking to her editor tomorrow, couldn’t face her parents, couldn’t face even being in the same country as Edward. The pain was too fresh. Well, she’d told him she was going away, hadn’t she? New York? Why the fuck not, Daisy thought. I do work, and I’m rich. Sod it.
She dialed up her travel agent. In ten minutes, she had booked herself on a first-class flight to JFK, leaving at eight the next morning.
Forty-Three
The plane banked and dipped toward Manhattan. Daisy looked out of her window; the city glittered in the warm afternoon sunlight. She had been sitting here for six hours, but it hadn’t been a bad flight, and, if anything, she felt energized. It was good to get out of London.
“May I take that for you, ma’am?” said the steward, giving her a warm all-American smile.
Daisy handed over her last crystal split of champagne. “Sure.” She didn’t drink much on flights, because it dried out her skin, but she liked to have a couple of glasses just before landing; a celebration.
“Meeting anybody special?” he asked.
Daisy thought about it. “Maybe,” she said.
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