‘Of course, no desperate rush. You must be sure it’s what you really want to do. There’s the bell now. Thanks, it was good to see you again and a scrummy lunch!’
Daisy saw her out to the taxi. Simon was parking his silver BMW, climbing out, and she couldn’t help glancing over to him, aware of Susannah following her gaze. With the narrow cul-de-sac, the taxi doing the usual three-point turn, Susannah would see him coming across from his car. She’d be able to form an impression, take in his looks – which weren’t all that prepossessing, Daisy knew. Simon wasn’t tall, he had a bullet-shaped head and broad thickset shoulders, but he was all solid sex appeal.
He’d see Susannah as well, of course, and almost certainly recognise her. He never missed a trick, especially where anyone who could be remotely helpful to him was concerned.
He filled the doorway, coming in. He lifted Daisy’s chin, kissed her hard, breaking off abruptly to stare at her with sharp, inquisitive eyes. ‘Why didn’t you say it was Susannah Forbes?’ He loosened his tie, glowering suspiciously. ‘You went on long enough about her after that dinner you went to at the Wilsons’. You asked her to lunch to touch her heartstrings, did you? She’s certainly worth a packet. God, to think of all that Barfield money she walked off with. Surprising she agreed to come really, but I suppose, hard as it is to believe,’ he kissed Daisy’s lips and gave an affectionate grin, ‘she could just be a softie like you and easily conned. Probably not much going on up top, either.’
‘I don’t see why you would say that.’
‘Well, she was a model, after all. Bit of luck for you, wasn’t it, meeting her. How do you know Ginny and Maynard Wilson, by the way? I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘Through Adrienne, my stepmother,’ Daisy muttered. She hated the way Simon could sound so nosy and acquisitive, drooling unattractively over other people’s money. And anyway, didn’t he have more pressing things on his mind? Hadn’t he come to see her? Also, she’d wanted to keep Susannah private – well away from his prying while she agonised about what to do. Simon was like Ginny Wilson, maximising connections, milking them in any way he could. It was silly to have mentioned Adrienne, as well. Simon would be reminded that her stepmother’s father was a château-owning French count, and he would store that piece of information away.
Daisy touched his mouth with her fingers and brought her lips close, smelling his male breath, latching onto his strangely transparent blue eyes. ‘A little less talking,’ she suggested, reaching down with her other hand, ‘feels like it might be a good idea.’
His lovemaking had the power to quash every doubt and thought in her head. Simon could ignite her, set her off like a rocket, high up to some other place. She had to gather herself in the chaos of duvet and tangled sheet before being able to turn to him, weak with the exhilaration and knowledge that he was hers, if only for a brief afternoon. He was there in her small brass bed, commandeering every inch of it with his strong, hairy limbs spread wide, there with her, making her feel wanted and whole again, not browbeaten and bitter, a used, rejected and now ex-wife.
He linked hands under his head, elbows wide, and stared up at the uneven ceiling. ‘I’ve got to go, Green Eyes,’ he said, turning to meet her gaze. ‘Sorry it’s a rush, but I’ve lots on today – one or two potential deals.’
‘Are you opening another shop or something?’ She tried to hide her acute disappointment, wishing she knew more, how tightly chained he was to his wife’s financial ankles, always vainly hoping he’d break free.
‘No, not that,’ Simon said. ‘It’s a bad time for the high street. Sarah’s really quite depressed. Sorry, Angel, must love you and leave you – much as I’d like to stay. I’ll text, work something out soon.’
Daisy felt in a wretched cold place after the heat of her elation. If he could worry about that bitch, Sarah, being depressed, he could at least show a bit of concern for how she, Daisy, might feel. She suspected Simon of talking up his business meetings, even using them as excuses for a quick getaway at times. She felt incidental, taken for granted. Was she just a quick poke on a busy day, slotted in between these phantom deals?
‘I’d hoped you’d stay on a bit,’ she mumbled, swinging her legs off the bed and standing naked in front of him. ‘I’d made brownies for tea.’
He laughed and sprang up – not, as she hoped, to take her in his arms and smother her with loving last kisses and smiles, but to dress briskly, buttoning his shirt with practised fingers, yanking on his trousers with a couple of jerks. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he said, in an automatic, preoccupied way, ‘as irresistible as your brownies. But I can’t stay, babe, I really have to get a shift-on now.’
He could have said it with more warmth and fervour, hugged her and made her feel he meant what he said; he’d hardly looked up from his ruddy shirt-buttoning.
‘I’m going away,’ Daisy said abruptly, ‘a trip to America. I’ll be gone quite a while.’
Simon finished tying his tie. Grabbing his jacket, he kissed her lightly on the nose and lips. ‘Not for long, I hope. I won’t let you! Fill me in later,’ he said, making for the door. ‘I’ll call. And we will have a bit more time together soon, promise. I’ll find a way. Must rush – sorry about the brownies.’
Chapter 3
‘I’m so thrilled and grateful to be coming,’ Daisy said, with the sort of determined zeal that masked a degree of uncertainty, as though she had yet to completely persuade herself as well as me. ‘If, of course, that is, you still seriously want me along. I’ll work my socks off, I promise, but can you, I mean, be a little patient if I need things explained?’
‘No chance. I’ll be as ratty as a frayed wife, rant and expect instant miracles. You’ll need to keep your cool and work it out for yourself – but you’ll do fine.’
Daisy stared at me with a mixture of relief and horror on her face. ‘And I’m worried about not looking the part, letting the side down. I’m sure design assistants in New York are always the ultimate in manicured chic.’
‘You’ll leave them all standing. But you can have an advance when we’re there, if you like, and do a bit of shopping.’ I felt sympathetic and would have loved to buy her something new to wear, but it seemed best to keep things on a business footing.
We were in my office, having a coffee break, surrounded by swatches, samples and wallpaper books, bouncing ideas and feeling our way. I’d asked Warren Lindsay to email a spread of photographs, which Daisy had gawped at in wonder. She’d asked all the right questions, though, and I was impressed. Who’d have thought a Wilsons’ dinner party with all its formality could have led to such serendipity?
Warren had responded with Daisy-like zeal; the photographs gave a very full picture. The house was a little way from the ocean, just off Gin Lane, the perimeter road, he’d said, and it looked pure Beverly Hills, with pillared grandeur, white-painted stucco and a wide sweeping drive. The interior shots showed a grand hall, formal reception rooms, fussily decorated bedrooms. A balustraded outdoor walkway linked the house to a clapboard extension, the pool house, which had a wall of sliding glass and an excessively large sunbathing area. The swimming pool itself was the size of Wembley Stadium.
Double doors from the main house opened onto a traditional part-covered American deck with a couple of steps down to the garden and pool. The deck was the place to be, although conventionally decorated with floral prints on the sunchairs and bench seating along the house wall.
‘Those fabrics are grim,’ Daisy said. ‘I’d have practical navy bench seating, plenty of big ticking cushions, and paint the floorboards a nice flat beach-house grey. And a casually-placed easel with a colourful painting would look good, I think.’
We shared ideas. Stephanie, my PA, who was freckly with thin ginger hair turning to white, took notes. She produced printouts with annotations, and organised lunch – thick fish chowder from a local bistro and a tarte aux pommes. Stephie loved to mother. She loved cats too, and Posh, resenting her divided attentions, sniffed the arom
a of chowder with her nose out of joint. She rejected the prawn Daisy offered her with disdain.
‘Can cats be anorexic?’ Daisy asked. ‘She’s very thin.’
‘Posh likes Felix pouches and fillet steak,’ Stephie said firmly. ‘I’ll try to fatten her up while you’re away.’
When Stephanie clocked off I opened a bottle of Chablis and encouraged Daisy to stay. I’d disliked her lover on sight and worried about him, not only for the type of selfish, boorish man I thought him to be, but for the problems he could cause me with this trip. I needed to rely on Daisy. She had talent and we had the makings of being quite a good team, but hearing her talk about her ex-husband I could see history repeating itself. She’d run to Simon if he snapped his fingers, bend under pressure, and I didn’t want that. I could almost smell her making just the sort of mistakes I’d made in the past. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one that was waking my own, sleeping ghosts.
I’d been lurching from one unsettled mood to another. Impatience with Charles for being elsewhere; I missed him, his wit and humour, and while he might be seventy-two he didn’t seem it. I could imagine all North Norfolk’s horsey, brogue-wearing widows and divorcées, women who’d revel in his cold old house, panting along in his wake.
My nerviness extended to Long Island, too. Warren Lindsay’s image of me was out of date. He’d interested me at Jimmy’s party and could well have his own reasons for seeking me out for this job. I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to make elderly advances, but – just in case – it seemed worth taking a bit of cosmetic action, anything that could be done in the time that wasn’t too radical. Eyeing Daisy’s smooth supple skin made me feel the frustrations of aging all the more. It would help to know I’d done what I could.
I sat back, glass in hand, and studied Daisy, who was looking distant and sad-eyed, worries obviously preying on her. She needed America, new excitements – but would she make the most of such an experience? It would be a brave new world where anything could happen, as I well remembered.
We were in my kitchen, Italian and streamlined with steel-grey units and granite worktops. It had a living area up one end where we were sitting: bookcases, armchairs, a flat-screen television, a small round dining table, a low coffee table too, sloppily piled with books and conveniently footrest high.
I reached for the wine bottle and topped up Daisy’s glass. ‘Have you told Simon yet how long you’ll be gone?’
‘I told him straightaway, that day you saw him, but he hardly took it in. I think he chose not to. I’ve seen him a couple of times since, and if I raise the subject he refuses to listen – quite deliberately, I’m sure.’ She gave a small half-smile, looking embarrassed and torn. Daisy had striking eyes, softness, warmth; she could look entrancing, but without her bubbly liveliness, was almost plain. She’d been full of bounce all day, throwing herself into the discussions and plans enthusiastically, yet now her whole body seemed frail and wilted. Simon was going to be trouble.
‘You won’t let me down last minute, I hope,’ I said.
Daisy seemed shocked that I could think it of her, which was encouraging. ‘No, of course not. I’d never do that. And I’m sure you must think I’m being extreme, since we’re not really away for that long. I just wish . . . I didn’t care so much. Simon is typically selfish and inconsiderate, but he sort of means everything to me. I even know it’s a physical thing and I’m not truly in love, but I still can’t help myself.’
I thought of men I’d known in the past just like Simon, and how I’d cared so much and been blindly naïve. I’d had enough practical experience to see the hurt he could do to Daisy; his callousness and failings had flowed out like a banner trailing a plane. Trying to warn her was bound to be counter-productive, but I felt a need to try.
‘Daisy, just suppose, for argument’s sake, you discovered that you weren’t the only girl Simon was seeing: could you walk away? I’m sure I’m doing him an injustice, but it’s a vulnerable time for you, the aftermath of a difficult divorce. You’ve had a bad experience and nothing does more to sap one’s morale. But that need to feel wanted makes us blind. I keep saying I’ve been there, but I have! Hang onto your pride, keep faith in yourself, and let Simon make the running. He’ll soon come chasing after you, all the way to New York. I’d have a bet with you on that.’
From Daisy’s face she clearly felt she had no pride to hang onto where Simon was concerned, his to take no matter how little he gave in return. I battled on. ‘And he doesn’t, as I understand it, look like he’d leave his wife. These are your best years, Daisy. Think of the future. You have a terrific eye, an exciting potential new career, so much to offer the right man.’
‘It’s hard to look at other men right now,’ she said. ‘I mostly feel like a half-alive mouse that the cat’s brought in, taunted and powerless. Simon has me under his thumb.’
‘When my first marriage broke up I was in just that sort of place. I’d been through a bitter publicised divorce, my private life laid bare. I felt unattractive and unwanted; married men tried it on. It was depressing how many of them thought I was fair game, and it did nothing for my sense of self. I’d felt belittled all through my marriage, completely unconfident. No one talked about self-worth all those decades ago; the concept hadn’t been invented. There was no propping-up support system, no armbands to keep you afloat. You just got on with it!’
Daisy eyed me warily over her wine glass, as though she felt on trial, unsure where this was headed. I was a bit uncertain of that myself.
‘I can understand how bad you felt after a dreadful divorce,’ she said, ‘but you were a sought-after top model. How could you have had no confidence?’
‘I never believed a word of any of the compliments. But what I’m trying to say now is that, with the benefit of all this distance, I can see how easy it was to fall for the same sort of character as the one I’d just divorced. My defences were down, I’d been made to feel a sexless wimp; I craved any red-blooded male attention, the reassurance of feeling wanted, which led to easy mistakes.’
‘You had looks, a fantastic career, and still felt that insecure? Men have a lot to answer for! Was your first husband jealous-natured? Men can be, after all, even when in the thick of an affair of their own. Is it hard to talk about him? I’d love to hear a little of how things were.’
I looked at the soft vulnerable girl leaning forward in her chair, whose genuine interest in my own ancient troubles had brought back her glow. It was mid-May, the days drawing out; evening sun streaming in from the bright sitting room was burnishing Daisy’s light brown hair, tinting it pinkish-bronze. I wanted to be young again, making mistakes.
It was getting late and I was due to have supper with a friend, hoping for advice on cosmetic pick-me-ups, since she’d had everything done to her face at least twice. Yet I still felt in a mood to talk on a bit. The memories of Joe felt strangely recent – jogged by Daisy, probably – and still with the capacity to hurt. I hadn’t really thought much about my first husband since hearing he’d died, ten years ago now, in California where he’d been living, doing a little acting and getting by. Bella, our daughter, had kept in touch. He’d married again at a late stage and his new wife had been good for him. He’d been drinking less with her encouragement. She’d almost weaned him off alcohol completely, although cirrhosis of the liver had done for him in the end.
‘I should go really,’ I said, ‘and I can’t believe you really want to hear about Joe.’
‘I’m interested, if you don’t mind,’ Daisy said. ‘According to a theatrical friend of my father’s, Joe Bryant was a hot ticket, a class actor and a charmer, too. I remember Dad’s friend describing him in that slightly bitchy way of someone in the same business – feeling old jealousies and diluting the praise – as a great self-publicist, but still a good actor all the same. He had a huge following of women fans, didn’t he, which seem to have riled this friend of Dad’s. He could really do it for them on stage.’
‘And not only on the b
oards. He could have charmed the pants off Mary Whitehouse – probably did! She was a famous defender of all things prudish,’ I explained, seeing Daisy’s slight fog. ‘Joe could win over men, too; he thrived on making highflying friends – it was his motivation. And the great and the good loved having a glamorous, sharp-witted actor around; he had plenty of success. I was the shy, opinionless foil for his grandstanding and witticisms. He was a clever mimic as well, and we were asked to every party going. Joe’s address book read like the guest list for a Royal celebration.
‘His working-class background was seen as a plus in the sixties; very of the moment, yet it had been pretty bleak. He’d lived in a council flat on an estate near Tilbury Docks, very barren and windswept. I went there once or twice.’ My mind swung back. I remembered how saddened I’d felt for Joe’s mother on those occasions, for the estate could have featured in one of today’s grim reality TV series, with all the squalor and debris, rubbish whirling up the communal stairs. Joe’s was a two-parent family, but his father was either away or drunk, and his lonely mother slept around.
‘The amazing thing was the way he completely re-invented himself.’ I smiled at Daisy. ‘Perhaps it was his natural ability to act or he’d come back to earth as a chameleon, but he instinctively adapted. He used to call me his little bourgeois hausfrau, too dreadfully middle-class. He’d say it in front of his society chums – and that wasn’t from the point of view of his working-class background. He was imagining what they’d think of me, seeing me through their eyes.’
Conscious of exposing rather too much of a long-buried hurt, I said it was time I was off. We made a plan to meet and talk flights, dates, and I saw Daisy to the door. We were an unlikely couple, I felt – thirty years between us, but linked by our love of design and soft furnishings . . . and our very fallible taste in men.
Tell the Girl Page 4