Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  ‘I decided to leave them to it,’ Jan said, beaming. ‘Warren and Elmer love their naughty boys’ talks and I thought we could have a nice little gossip.’

  ‘Of course, come and have a drink,’ Daisy said, feeling put-pon, intensely fed-up and resistant, and in the wrong pair of shoes, playing host. ‘But I’m not up in what’s going on,’ she forced a smile, ‘not at all.’

  Listening to Jan’s aimless witters she thought feverishly about how to cut short the visit and chipped in at the first chance. ‘Um, I’m frightfully sorry, Jan, but I really need to speak to my sons, give them some instructions, and it’s midnight back home, you see. Forgive me, but I should do it now. It’s been lovely to chat, sweet of you to call.’

  Jan seemed immune to the possibility of a brush-off. ‘I must just tell you,’ she murmured, hushed and confiding, rising reluctantly from her chair, ‘that I had a call from Willa this morning. Very curious she was – news does get around!’

  It was all she’d come about. Daisy couldn’t wait to get her out of the door. Tears were close, but she was too angry to cry. If even Willa could know that quickly . . . Warren had been bragging, embellishing, he’d made sure that the world and particularly his ex-wife knew his game. Daisy’s pleas and sensitivities had stood for nothing. Where was the love in that? It seemed the final straw, cementing her decision. But hadn’t she really known it in her heart all along? Known the very moment Warren popped the question – a rushed, ill-thought-through proposal, if ever there was one, awkward, lacking that quality of hardly needing to be said – that she wouldn’t feel able to accept him? Daisy sighed. She’d had a few wobbles, but could never have gone through with it. She wasn’t cut out for riches, could never be the third Mrs Warren Lindsay whose financial future was assured.

  She texted Susannah. Decision made! Haven’t, as yet, told Warren – that’s the tricky bit – and still have to do those last few chase-up calls you wanted before heading home. It was spelling it out, telling Susannah before doing the deed with Warren, but Daisy needed to: she needed Susannah to shore her up. It would be so easy to weaken and backtrack, decide to bag Warren while the going was good, but it would be another mistake, one she’d regret – more than careless, a disaster.

  Would Susannah call? It was her first day home and eleven at night; she’d have gone to bed early, she’d had a tiring overnight flight. And even if she did call, would it be before Warren was back? He’d be keenly curious if he heard her on the phone, not shy to put his ear to the door. Daisy’s heart was thudding like a dog’s thumping tail, her fists so tightly clenched that her nails – newly and expensively manicured at Warren’s insistence that morning while he read a newspaper in the coffee shop – were digging painfully into her palms.

  She rose from the edge of the bed, leaving her mobile on the bedside table for watched-pot reasons, and went to the window. Her room looked out over the garden and she couldn’t see Warren returning, walking round from next door; it was quite a little constitutional for him, considering the length of the Harveys’ drive.

  Her mobile shrilled. Daisy spun round and slipped on an Aubusson rug, nearly going crashing as she grabbed the phone. ‘Well done,’ Susannah said. ‘I had great faith, knew you’d get it right. Stay on a few days, finish those last chores and take your time; let Warren down gradually, preparing him all the while – that’s my advice for what it’s worth. But you’ll play all that side of it by instinct, I’m sure.’

  ‘What can I say! You’re wonderful, Susannah, I can’t thank you enough – even calling when it’s so late for you. Nothing’s been harder, though. Just as I’ve felt a lead weight lifting off my heart, just as I’ve thought of Warren on his Zimmer frame, crotchety and popping pills, some temptation or other rears its head and I slide backwards. I needed so badly to be told it was right. I can’t believe you’ve called and we’re talking! But why aren’t you asleep anyway? You must be wiped out.’

  ‘I slept this afternoon; I gave into it. The jetlag business gets harder as you get older. It’s good to be home, even to April weather.’

  ‘Can I come and see you when I’m back? Could you put up with a visit? Or have you had more than enough of me, given the trouble I’ve caused?’

  ‘Love you to come. But there’s another thing you need to think about, Daisy. That decision you’ve just taken was good, but it’s not all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Daisy drew in her breath. Susannah’s tone had been admonishing, like a mother advising a plump teenager against another sausage – not with a sort of hopeful, cheerful lilt to it like the promise of a productive talk over future careers.

  ‘Simon,’ Susannah said. ‘Give him up, he’s a no-good shit. If ever there was a moment, this is it. He’ll hold you back, use you and drag you down. It’s time, Daisy. You need to leave space for that Mr Right to walk into your life. It’s the only way.’

  Daisy was staying silent too long, she knew – and Warren was back, she could hear Martha greeting him, doing the unwitting kindness of alerting her to his return. From Susannah’s reaction, Daisy felt, her judgement could be on the mend, however patchy it had been over Elmer and his elusive acumen. But was it?

  ‘I’ll have to sleep on the Simon situation,’ she said lightly, ‘if I’m not going to funk it. One decision a day!’

  Did she have the guts to walk away from Simon, she thought, as she ended the call. He’d make it impossibly hard. Also, it wasn’t a decision she could take long distance: she had to see if she could still say no when he appeared on her doorstep, when she was put to the test. It was easy to say fine now, but really, however much long, hard thinking she did, only time would tell.

  Chapter 25

  ‘It’s good to hear you, Susannah – and that British ringtone! I thought Mr Warren had kidnapped you forever.’

  ‘Are you out somewhere, Charles? Is this a bad time? Sorry to call on the mobile, but the landline wasn’t answering and no voicemail. Quite contrary of you, that.’

  ‘People like you can reach me and it saves a long list of tedious calls.’

  ‘People like me? Do you have a stable of lady friends?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put you in that category. I was thinking more of family, I’m a bit bogged down with mine right now, in Herefordshire, helping out Rose, my eldest, and here for a week or so yet, I fear. She knew I’d finished the book and she’s got problems. I had to come.’

  ‘Isn’t Rose the one who farms? Not serious problems, I hope?’

  ‘Not desperately. Her mother-in-law, who’s a boozer, has had a bad fall, and Rose’s father-in-law is half-blind, so she’s helping with the driving and meals. Only problem, the in-laws live in Scotland and I’ve been hauled in to help out here on the farm while Rose is away; I feed the hens, cats, dogs – who snarl at my Ollie very inhospitably – and mind my sixteen-year-old granddaughter too, who’s hanging loose in the holidays while her father’s out rounding up sheep. When did you get back? I wasn’t expecting you till mid-August – if at all.’

  ‘Come on, Charles! You knew I was doing up a house for the client, not myself. Warren Lindsay’s fine, very friendly, but it was a summer commission, nothing more. And anyway, Daisy was younger.’ It helped, knowing her decision, and that was all the honesty Charles was going to get.

  ‘I got in this morning,’ I said, ‘but slept all afternoon, which is why I’m badgering you now, saying hello at midnight. The job went well. Daisy’s fun and works hard; she’s stayed on a few days to wind things up’ – in more ways than one, I thought – ‘but will be home in a week. I’m going to suggest setting up together; she can do all the sloggy stuff and I can put my feet up now and then.’

  ‘You don’t need to work. But you’re being very big-hearted towards Daisy. I’m impressed.’

  Little did he know quite how good to her I was being, but all my wrathful frustration was directed at myself.

  ‘If you’re going to carry on, though,’ Charles continued, ‘it’s definitely no bad thing to hav
e her along. I might get more of a look-in too, and I’d like that.’

  ‘Working, which I enjoy, and seeing you aren’t mutually exclusive. And anyway, you’re up there communing with your house, you can’t push it all onto me. When do you leave Rose’s? When do we meet? Will you detour to London on your way back up North?’

  ‘East, Norfolk is east. Soon, I hope. She’s trying to sort something out for the in-laws. Still, what’s another week or two after all these fallow Warren months? I’m in waiting mode. Patiently hanging fire while you fraternized with your Lord of the Long Island.’

  ‘You were finishing a book! You do try it on. Glad you have, by the way – congrats! It’s been a long time coming. So if I’m not going to see you for a while I may take off to my house in the South of France. August’s not the best, but it’s a haven of quiet once I’m there, even so close to Mougins. Cypresses, pines, olives, you’d like it. You have dog-walkers in your life, don’t you? You go away; you go to China. Perhaps you’ll make it as far as France one of these days. I wouldn’t mind getting more of a look-in either.’

  ‘You’ll see a fair bit of me soon; I’m working on it. Two weeks? I’ll come to the flat?’

  ‘Sounds good. And Charles . . . have you missed me?’

  That wasn’t cool, said with too much feeling, showing the vulnerability I was fighting, which wasn’t part of the deal. We kept it to light banter, Charles and I, it was how we’d lasted so long. All through his wife, who’d led him a dance before popping off, my run of husbands; we’d had some sex in the in-between times. it was a very solid friendship.

  ‘Daily,’ Charles said cheerfully. ‘I’ve missed you daily.’

  ‘It’s late, I’m keeping you up,’ I said briskly, keen to sound back on top. ‘I’m sure the cock crows inconsiderately early down on the farm. Remember the Austrian Ambassador, years ago, when we were trying to leave a party? “You Englishmen are all the same, early to bed and up with zee cock!”’

  ‘And you should try to get some sleep after that flight,’ Charles said. ‘Talk soon.’

  I was stupidly close to tears. I’d felt in need of a fond, supportive reunion; it had been a morale-bashing last few days. And two whole weeks – would the mood be as good then as in the first flush of a homecoming? Charles didn’t need a clinging oldie, he wanted someone to laugh with, someone positive, a strong-willed entertaining friend.

  He saw me in that light now. He’d wanted me to move in with him. He’d pressed the delights of a freezing house in Norfolk – possibly knowing it wasn’t for me. True, I could have insulated it and put in a fancy new boiler, but in a way the charm of a house like that was that it hadn’t been hacked about with predictable interior designer zeal.

  England’s east coast was crumbling, falling into the sea, being pushed westward. I didn’t want to face the tail end of howling gales whistling over from the Siberian Steppes every time I put my nose out of the door. I wasn’t hardy, I wanted convenience stores, my snooty little cat and the London theatre.

  I let out a dribble of a tear, couldn’t help it, sniffed and climbed into bed. I was aching all over, desperately tired yet restless and awake.

  Hadn’t I used Charles over the years? I’d always taken him for granted. Charles would cheer me up, Charles would fill in the gaps. I’d been flitting around the sophisticated hotspots, soaking up any appreciation going, obsessed with my career all over again. He understood me, though, and had always seemed to put up with my selfishness and flaws. He hadn’t teased me when I’d owned up about Daisy, which a lesser man couldn’t have resisted doing. But Charles had that quality. He seldom let his own feelings show, which made it harder to be sensitive to them. The signs of touchy jealousy he’d shown over my summer flirt with Warren were rare.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what I was so upset about. After all, I’d see Charles before long. Stephanie, my saint of a secretary, had fattened up Posh, my skinny little puss, filled the flat with flowers and kept all the paperwork in order. Everything was hunky-dory and tickety-boo. I had my children and grandchildren to see, a pile of invitations from September onwards, and the prospect of an unwinding week in my own home in the South of France.

  Bella was coming with Rory and the girls, my twelve and fifteen-year-old granddaughters, for the second half of the month. It was ideal, a few days on my own and a little time with the family. Strange to think that Bella was nine years older than Daisy – strange, and rather daunting. Not a thought for the wrong end of the day.

  At Nice airport I queued with the August holidaymakers to pick up the hire car. Arriving there never failed to stir potent and moving thoughts of my parents. It was fifty years since the first time, coming with them to the South of France, my father recovering from a heart attack, Matt chasing. I treasured the memory of the happiness those few days gave my parents and queued for the car with a large lump in my throat.

  An argument had broken out at the counter, a red-faced father shouting his head off. He’d paid in England, they needn’t think they could try that on . . . He elbowed his sighing wife out of the way like a rude man at a theatre bar, while the grumbles behind him grew louder. ‘For God’s sake, it’s only the insurance,’ someone yelled. ‘Just get on with it!’

  We hadn’t queued fifty years ago. I’d driven straight off, very cautiously, to St Paul de Vence.

  Those few days at the cottage on the hillside, the sunshine, luminous light, distant steeples and silver seas, had brought a quality of peace to what little was left of Dad’s life, images for him to hold onto and store away in his soul. He’d lived for a year and a half more, surviving another heart attack, and died at the age of fifty-two, six weeks after I’d married Max. He’d known Bella but not the grandsons to come, Josh and Al. He hadn’t known that I’d failed a second time, nor that I’d found true happiness in my third marriage, with Edward.

  My mother’s dignity at the time of Dad’s dying had moved me almost as much as his loss, seeing her sitting stiffly, looking into a private distance, managing to stave off a collapse. She’d had no one with her when he’d had a massive final attack – not the doctor, not me. I couldn’t have made it in time and my brother was abroad; she’d had to cope alone. When I arrived and held her hand, she’d said I looked golden, a light in the dark.

  We’d grieved, Mum and I, leaned on each other, and then our worlds gradually moved on. Mine had been full, a kaleidoscope of high excitements, troubled lows; hers had been one long struggle, scrimping, teaching, carving out a life with a few local friends. Being there for me.

  Now, she was no longer there to turn to, to call daily, to shop for and help with the indignities of old age – to be by her side, mumbling my love for her as she slipped away. It had been a year after Edward had died – more numbing pain, the loss of a mother I loved completely. It was the kind of pain that dulls, but never goes away – it becomes embedded too deep. Clive, my fourth husband, had been gentle elderly support in our short time together, before he too was another loss to grieve.

  I reached the head of the queue, collected my car and drove to the house where Michel, the ancient weathered gardener, and his tiny wrinkled wife, were on greeting parade. The garden was thriving in the dry heat: crinum lilies, lime-green fennel, tall spiky cardoons swaying lightly, whose deep blue-mauve thistle-heads, Michel assured me, were edible. A more delicate flavour than their cousin, the artichoke, he said, just pricklier; the French grew them in vegetable patches and wrapped the heads in brown paper.

  It was an eighteenth-century stone farmhouse that Clive had bought years previously. We’d had a happy month there, a sixth of our short marriage, before he’d died and left me all that he owned. I hoped, in another life, he’d forgive me for turning the interior upside down and putting in a feast of mod cons.

  Neighbours called. I drank with them and also alone, sipping chilled rosé on the terrace. The evenings were pink-gold: they seemed to have absorbed the daytime brilliance to slant out in concentrated, softer form, long pleats
of light across the garden. The heavy scent of pines and cypresses surrounded me in this scene of Mediterranean serenity, distant Alps and the sea.

  I thought backwards. Of Matt, wondering what had happened to him, whether he’d married, stayed married. Had his elderly Bostonian fan left him the cottage in St Paul de Vence? Was he there now, in his seventies, drinking and reminiscing? The Ferrones had soon lost touch with him. They were long gone, sadly, my mothering Manhattan Mom and kind Walter with his wobbly jowls.

  As was Sinatra and poor, defenceless Marilyn Monroe, worshipped by the world and lost to it before she was forty. Jack Kennedy and Bobby, Martin Luther King, all cruelly wiped out in their prime. They’d staked a claim on history at least, and taken steps along the rocky path to progress. We owed them much.

  Gil had died recently as well. I’d seen a feature on him in a New York newspaper supplement a year or two back that had paid homage with a spread of his work. I was in two of the photographs, one with Bella, soft-focus, heads touching. The blurb talked of the soft intimacy captured. I had that picture: it was fading fast, framed and hanging over a filing cabinet. Another lump in my throat, a grieving ache, long ago as it was.

  Joe had died over a decade ago now, in California. He’d had so many hang-ups, not least his constant need for kicks and the highlife, and his corrosive envy – especially of fellow actors like Peter O’Toole and Terence Stamp, who’d succeeded big-time in films. There was no greater boozer than Peter, yet he’d achieved stardom, while the drink had stunted Joe’s life and career. Still, he’d remarried and straddled his crises; he’d got by.

  After five days of perfect peace, Bella, Rory and the girls arrived. The house was soon jumping, with noise and giggles, loud CDs, cooking smells, wet towels and slippery footprints on tiled floors. We ate out sometimes and I suggested going early to La Colombe d’Or one evening, walking in the medieval village while it was still light.