by Adele Parks
‘Hey, Daryll, do you have a light?’ Another guy interrupted their conversation, but Simon didn’t mind. There, he had it! Daryll. All he had to do was hold on to it.
‘No mate, sorry,’ said Daryll with a shrug. The interruption was brief. Daryll turned back to Simon. The tequila bottle was almost empty. ‘Shit, did we drink all of that?’
‘It only had about a third in when you pilfered it,’ said Simon. He paid close attention to such things.
‘Thank God for that. Shall I get us something else? You stay put.’
Simon nodded, pleased. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to bump into Daisy or any of the others. Daryll was a decent guy, very interesting. Simon knew he would come back with more drink. It wasn’t just some bullshit excuse to get away. He could just sit tight. ‘Maybe some red?’ he suggested.
‘Good plan. I’ll see what I can find.’
Yes, Simon was going to have a good time. He could tell. It was really good luck that he’d bumped into this Daryll bloke.
17
Chapter 17, Daisy
‘Daisy!’ I hear his voice break through the throng of party chatter and music, insistent and demanding. I freeze. ‘Daisy, come over here! Come and say hi.’
Simon is sat on the stairs with Daryll Lainbridge. The sight of him slows my blood. My knees wobble. Inappropriately, I almost laugh when I note that legs giving way, no longer willing or able to hold up my body, is a real thing; I had always thought it was just an expression. What is Simon doing talking to him of all people? I put my hand on the wall. Steady myself. It’s important I get a grip. Stay upright. Carry on as normal. More important now than ever.
I went to university with Daryll Lainbridge. Back then, I had a vague, hopeless crush on him. Why wouldn’t I? He was handsome, intelligent, wealthy and confident, I was eighteen and romantic. We all agreed he looked like Sebastian Flyte from Brideshead Revisited, at least the Anthony Andrews, 1980s TV version of Sebastian Flyte. Whilst he didn’t carry a teddy bear, he did wear three-piece suits and an air of arrogance that I ought to have recognised as pretentious, but I found ridiculously attractive. I was desperate to be his Charles Ryder. I wanted to be caught up in his elegant, refined world. In the absence of a better tactic, I tried to ingratiate myself by loaning him my lecture notes and revision cards, which were excellent: neat, informative, comprehensive. Despite this, he struggled to recall my name. When we were undergraduates, he used to call me Curly, an accurate but impersonal get out. He was undoubtedly out of my league, and anyway – naturally – he was mad about Lucy. Well, everyone was. He only had eyes for her, but in a sort of complex A Midsummer Night’s Dream parody, she didn’t notice him, she was in love with my sister’s boyfriend. Everyone was looking the wrong way.
Lucy certainly didn’t bother staying in touch with Daryll Lainbridge after we graduated, none of us did. He was reintroduced into our social circle after a hiatus of about ten years, when Connie bumped him at Portobello market one Saturday. By then he’d stopped wearing the three-piece suits and I finally recognised them for what they were: not a show of confidence but a desperate bid for attention, a pretention. Much to my mortification, on his reintroduction to our group I realised Daryll had been aware of undergraduate me; he might not have known my name, but he knew me as someone who had always fancied him. He made much of it, even though I had married Simon by then and things had moved on. It was awkward. For a while he did this terrible thing of trying to flirt with me but at the same time making it clear that he was doing me a favour by doing so, a sort of pity flirt. Connie said that I was being too sensitive. That she didn’t think he treated me any differently to anyone else. She’d never heard of a pity flirt. She told me to enjoy the attention, if there was indeed any there, because married life could be boring. Connie knows less than she thinks she does.
I’d heard that Daryll has been living overseas for the past few years, Hong Kong, I think, and I was glad. Not far enough. But Connie’s friends are the sort that pop backwards and forwards across oceans and continents in club class; there was always a chance he would be here. I’d feared it, hoped against hope that he wouldn’t be, but here he is. And, my worst nightmare, he’s talking to Simon. I think of all the things that might be said and I pray none of them are. They both look drunk. Is their level of inebriation a calamity waiting to happen or a reprieve? Simon rarely manages to pursue a proper conversation when he’s drunk, he hasn’t got the necessary attention. On the other hand, he occasionally becomes belligerent, quarrelsome. I shudder. Sometimes, and this doesn’t make me proud, I wish I could just peel him off, like skin off a satsuma. That I could slip away from the responsibility of him. And Daryll? What is he up to? Why has he made a friend of Simon? Fear shimmies throughout my body. It’s hard to breathe.
I don’t know what to do to stop them talking. I quickly realise there isn’t anything I can rationally do. I swiftly walk in the opposite direction to their pleas and demands that I join them. I just want to get away from both of them, as far away as possible. I’d like to walk right out of the party, down the street, just keep going. I don’t. I stay, even though I know by now that sometimes running is the answer.
With determination, I bury myself in the comfort of strangers. People who are happy to talk about what they do with their days: what restaurants they’ve recently visited or whether their shoes are pinching their toes. Most people appreciate a good listener and I’m not required to say much, which is a relief because I’m not sure I’m up to speaking coherently even about something as straightforward as menus. I feel dazed, not exactly with it. Dizzy. I’d like to say that the dizziness is the feathery and unburdened sort, but it isn’t. It’s the anxious, slightly queasy sort.
Some women have carved out a space on the wooden floor of the kitchen-diner, plugged in an iPhone and thrown themselves into dancing. I can’t pluck up the courage to join them, but seeing others let themselves go on a makeshift dancefloor brings me a sense of happiness. I stand near the action, tapping my toe, hoping the beat can soothe me but knowing it will take more than that. I suppose I want to be persuaded on to the floor, beckoned. Rose is dancing like a dervish. She’s flushed and happy. Clearly, tonight, her agenda is to dance until she aches. That’s all she has to think about. I wish I could dance until I was sweaty and that the tunes could somehow transport me, protect me.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. My entire body shivers. Quivers. ‘Not dancing?’ It’s not really a question as it’s obvious that I’m not dancing. I shake my head at Daryll Lainbridge and look over his shoulder for Simon. ‘I lost your husband, I’m afraid. Very careless of me.’
He grins, and I find myself making a noise that approximates a chortle. I have no idea why. I suppose it’s a polite compulsion to humour him, appear amused by him, even though I’m not. I’m the opposite. I have to tread carefully. I should just excuse myself, walk away. That would still be polite enough. It wouldn’t draw unnecessary attention. But I don’t. I feel trapped by his size and his smile. I’m too hot. He’s too close. I could join Rose on the dancefloor but there’s always the risk he’ll follow me. I don’t want to have to dance with him.
‘It’s been ages, Curly,’ he says with a grin. I can feel his breath against my neck. Warm. Fuggy with tequila. What will people think when they see him leaning close to me, whispering in my ear?
‘Please call me Daisy,’ I comment.
‘But everyone calls you Daisy.’ I want to point out that they do so because it’s my name, but I don’t because he adds, ‘I’ve always liked to give my friends nicknames, you know that.’ I don’t consider myself one of his friends anymore. Far from it, but I stay silent. ‘It was good to catch up with Simon. He filled me in on all your news.’
‘Right.’ I mutter. There’s a knot in my stomach.
‘I understand you’re a mum now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the one?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A girl?’
I nod, a small tight movement. Thinking about Millie helps. I feel braver, more determined. ‘Will you excuse me? I promised Connie’s youngest daughter I’d pop upstairs and say hello. The older two are staying up but the little one has been packed off to bed and she’s feeling a bit resentful.’ Before he can object, I turn and quickly head upstairs.
I knock on Sophie’s bedroom door. It opens a cautious couple of centimetres, when Sophie sees it’s me she flings the door wide, ‘Aunty Daisy, come in, come in, come in!’ She hurls herself at my body and wraps her arms around me, like a clam. I’m known as Aunty Daisy, not just to Sebastian and Henry, but to Connie’s children as well. They gave me the title Aunty Daisy when it looked like no one would ever call me Mummy. It was a compensation and a kindness. Sophie hugs me with uninhibited enthusiasm and obvious joy. I kiss the top of her head and relax into her affection. No sooner do I step into her room, when she demands, ‘Where is Millie? Why didn’t you bring her?’
‘Millie’s your daughter, I take it?’ chips in Daryll. I jump, startled that he’s right behind me. I hadn’t realised he’d followed me upstairs. He walks into the little girl’s bedroom and sits on her desk chair. It’s pink and he’s far too big for it. He looks incongruous, like a giant in a fairy glen; unwanted. I move as far away from him as the small room will allow and stand with my back to the window. Normally, I’d fling myself on the bed, stretch out amongst a thousand cuddly toys, but his presence restrains me.
Sophie declares, ‘Yes, that’s right. Millie is her daughter and she’s my little friend!’ She says every word at a volume that would be appropriate if we were in the next room. She’s clearly high on the atmosphere and the e-numbers from the party food. It’s amusing that Sophie always calls Millie, her ‘little friend’. Millie is a year younger than Sophie, but she’s taller.
‘Millie is at India’s house,’ I reply. Sophie scowls. They’re so close that Sophie tends towards being a bit bossy and possessive with Millie. Whilst she accepts that Millie has to have neighbourhood and school friends, she doesn’t relish the fact. She always feels that she has the greatest claim. ‘And you have Jamila here to keep you company,’ I remind Sophie, gently. ‘Hi, Jamila.’ Jamila, a friend of Sophie’s who I have met many times, is sat on the floor, bent over several semi-clad plastic dolls; her attention is focused on selecting outfits.
She throws out a small wave in my general direction, doesn’t look up but does ask, ‘How’s the party?’
‘Oh yes,’ squeals Sophie. ‘Is there dancing yet? Has anyone got drunk?’ She starts to roll her eyes and stagger about the room, doing quite a good impression of a drunk.
‘Oh gross. I hate it when adults get drunk and silly,’ comments Jamila sharply.
‘Oh no, it’s funny,’ insists Sophie. ‘Who are you?’ Sophie demands of Daryll. ‘Are you a friend of my mummy’s or my daddy’s?’ Sophie has a remarkable amount of confidence and readily engages with adults. Her conversation always seems way more sophisticated than Millie’s. I put it down to her being the youngest of three. I’m grateful she’s talking to Daryll, it means I don’t have to.
‘Both,’ replies Daryll with a smile. ‘But I’ve known your mummy the longest. We met at university.’
‘Oh, with Aunty Daisy and Lucy?’
‘That’s right.’
Sophie studies him. ‘I don’t think I know you.’
‘I’ve been living in Hong Kong for a long time,’ he explains. ‘I’m here in England for a short time and then I’m going to live in New York next.’
‘Why do you move around so much?’ Sophie asks.
‘Because of my job.’ He is a trader or a banker. I’m not exactly sure what he is. Something impressive.
‘Doesn’t your wife mind, always having to pack up boxes and move house?’
‘I don’t have a wife.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
Daryll looks at me, with something that could be mistaken for longing or sadness, ‘It’s a long story,’ he murmurs. I look at my feet. My face is flushed. I don’t want the girls to notice.
‘Daddy is looking for you, Aunty Daisy,’ comments Sophie.
Luke. The thought of him usually calms me. But right now, the thought of seeing him just fills me with shame. We haven’t seen or really even spoken to one another since he helped me hose down Simon and put him to bed. It’s awkward. I don’t imagine Luke would be tactless enough to bring it up at a party, but what if he did want to talk about it? I think I’d die of embarrassment. I like Luke. I always have. Everyone does. Connie says it’s a blight that all her friends are a tiny bit in love with him. He is a wonderful man. Fair, a good judge of right and wrong, and very practical when it comes to problem solving. He is a rare sort of person, who is so completely OK with himself that he can absorb anyone else’s abnormalities; secrets sink into him but don’t change him, he digests them but doesn’t become damaged. Way back when, before I met Simon, Luke was the person I’d often turn to for advice on all matters romantic. I liked the insight he offered into the male mind. Connie always used to scoff at that, she insisted that male minds didn’t require much dissecting because they’re one track. When Simon and I were trying for a baby, I often used to pop by his office for a cup of coffee, a chat; just if things were getting a bit much.
All that said, Luke isn’t the person I can turn to at the moment.
It’s tricky, he’s Simon’s friend as well as mine. I wouldn’t be asking him to take sides, but it might appear that way. I don’t want to put him in a difficult position. Again. Our last interaction was excruciating. After Simon was finally clean and tucked up in bed, I should have offered Luke a cup of tea or something, but I practically threw him out of the house. I simply wanted to slam the door on the entire episode. My thank you came across as cool, stiff.
Even so, as I ushered him out, he said kindly, ‘I’m just at the end of the phone, Daisy.’
‘Yes. I’ll let you know if I need anything, but we’ll be fine. Just fine.’
Sophie is now twirling on the spot. ‘My daddy has been going around and around the party asking if anyone’s seen you.’
‘Always in demand with the men,’ comments Daryll, inappropriately and inaccurately. I ignore him.
‘Daddy came up to my room because he thought you must be hiding,’ adds Sophie.
I blush and bluff, ‘Why would I do that?’
Sophie shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I said most likely you were with Simon, like usual. You look after him as he’s always drunk, isn’t he? It doesn’t mean he’s a bad man, that’s what Mummy said. Just lacking in…’ she pauses and screws her face up in concentration, clearly trying to recall some specific phrase. I’m aware of Daryll listening intently and I want to cut her off, but I’m caught in some sort of morbid fascination. I too need to know what Connie thinks Simon lacks. ‘Lacking self-control,’ exclaims Sophie with a grin, proud she’s recalled the phrase. ‘Right?’
She turns her sweet face to mine and waits for my confirmation. I can no longer kid myself. I’m certainly the subject of gossip and speculation amongst my friends, or at least Simon is. I feel embarrassment roar through me. It’s all too much.
Simon.
Daryll.
The room seems tight. Airless. The window is open a fraction. I struggle for a moment with the safety catch. I want to fling it wide. I need space and air. I need to get out of here.
Suddenly, Daryll stands up, he takes hold of my arm and pulls me through the bedroom door, out onto the landing. I weakly smile back at Sophie and Jamila, but can’t think what to say to them, Daryll marching me out of the room has only made an embarrassing situation worse. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing. Daryll pulls me into the next room. It’s Fran’s. The walls are covered in posters of The 1975. She has a crush on the little one with floppy hair. I’m not thinking clearly because for a moment I think there’s an orgy of bodies writhing on the bed, but no one is in here. It’s just a few jackets belonging to guests who don’t tr
ust the English summer to provide evening warmth. My head is swimming. I’m shaking.
‘Are you OK?’ Daryll asks as he closes the door behind us. The room feels miniscule. He sounds concerned but this isn’t any of his business. I rub my wrist which he grabbed when he led me out of Sophie’s room. He held me too tightly.
‘Of course I am,’ I snap, reaching for the door handle. He’s standing in front of it. Blocking it. I feel woozy. I can’t stay in here with him. I know what might happen.
‘Everyone is talking about Simon,’ he states flatly, sympathy shinning from his eyes. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want his sympathy.
‘Are they now?’
‘If there’s anything I can do.’ He smiles, holds his arms out in front of him, wide, welcoming. Almost – I think – offering me a hug. I step away from him, my thigh bangs into the corner of Fran’s desk.
‘There isn’t.’ I want this to be a firm statement, but my voice betrays me. It cracks.
Suddenly, the bedroom door is pushed open with some speed and force. Daryll is startled and stumbles forwards. His hands automatically splay out in front of him, landing awkwardly on my body as I break his fall.
‘Oh, there you are.’ Luke says. He is peering into the room. He looks stern, irritated. His eyes quickly take in the scene. Me, secreted upstairs in a small bedroom with Daryll. Daryll is what my mother would call a ladies’ man, what Rose would call a Casanova. What I call a bastard.
Daryll slowly pulls away from me, straightens up. I blush, although he wasn’t holding me, he’d just fallen on to me. But as bad as this looks, trying to explain would probably make things worse. For a moment, no one says anything at all. We listen to the noise of the party throbbing through the floor, up the stairs, through the open door. There’s loud music, bursts of laughter and a general hum of buoyant chatter. Good party sounds. But then there’s something else. Shouting. The music has been silenced. ‘You should probably come downstairs,’ says Luke. ‘It’s Simon.’
