by Lulu Taylor
‘Nah.’ She shook her head, her fear of the older boy subsiding as she realised he wasn’t interested in being aggressive to her.
‘Hey, I’m sorry about what that boy of mine said to you the other day, you know? ’Bout your pussy. He shouldn’ta said nuffink like that to you, I told him. Some of the kids round here, don’t matter if their balls have dropped or not, they still want to pretend they can fuck someone.’ He lit his cigarette slowly, observing her for a while before he said, ‘You’re at St Stephen’s, innit? I seen you in the playground. Them girls were giving you trouble.’
Chanelle shrugged and looked away. School was no picnic, it was true. She was picked on, perhaps because she was small and pale and scrawny, or because the others sensed her loneliness and the anger that ran through her like molten lava in the core of a volcano, waiting to be spewed forth when the eruption came. The playground had become a place of torture for her as she waited for whatever new torments the gangs of girls had devised for her. More than once, she’d been hustled round the back of the toilet block and kicked, pinched and spat on while they hissed insults until she couldn’t help tears of pain and fury running down her face. They liked that.
‘Why do you let ’em do it?’ the boy asked, shaking his head. ‘Them lot are bitches but they ain’t tough.’
‘Not tough towards you maybe,’ retorted Chanelle, flushing red that he might have witnessed her ordeal. ‘But most of ’em are bigger than me.’
The boy laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’s right. Listen, next time they give you grief, you come to me, ahright? I’ll make sure they don’t trouble you no more. Whass your name?’
‘Chanelle.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Yeah. Naice. I’m Jamal. You come to me any time, and I’ll help you, yeah?’
She smiled at him. He didn’t frighten her any more. ‘Yeah. OK. Thanks, Jamal.’
‘No worries.’ He ground out his cigarette and stood up. ‘I better get back. You coming? I’ll walk you, if you like.’
‘Yeah. My mum’ll probably be awake by now.’ She remembered the turkey joint waiting on the side for her to put it in the oven.
She got up and the two of them walked slowly out of the playground together.
After they’d shared the Christmas dinner that Chanelle had cooked, eating it while wearing flimsy paper crowns from the cheap crackers, Michelle announced that they were going out.
‘We’re going to Gus’s,’ she said loudly while Bill sat back replete in his chair and lit a fag.
Chanelle brightened. ‘Are we?’ She didn’t go to Gus’s very often but she always liked it when she did. Chanelle didn’t know how her mother had come to have a friend like him, he wasn’t like anyone else they knew, but he’d always been there, a friendly presence in the background of their lives. He had a house round the back of the estate, not a modern one but an old Victorian place, battered and ramshackle and full of unusual things: a piano, glass cases with stuffed animals and birds in them, old skulls, and strange sculptures of bone and wax. There were books and pictures everywhere, piled on tables and on the floor, along with heaps of yellowing newspapers and dusty magazines. Gus had painted all the walls with murals of country landscapes from some hot place where there were vineyards, castles and soft green hills melting into hazy blue skies. It wasn’t exactly homely but it was interesting.
It was already almost dark when they walked around to Gus’s, a sharp cold wind ruffling their hair and pinching their noses and ears. The house was lit up and a late-afternoon party was going on, plonky jazz playing on the ancient stereo, people all over the house, puffing on cigarettes and clutching glasses of wine or whisky.
‘Ah, Michelle, come in!’ Gus cried, when he saw them pushing their way through the crowd in the hall. ‘Welcome, welcome! Merry Christmas!’
Chanelle was glad to be in the warmth and light. She followed her mother and Bill down the hallway into the kitchen at the back, where Gus was standing at the stove, stirring a saucepan of mulled wine, an aroma of oranges and cinnamon wafting up from the pot. He sported a gold paper crown that perfectly encircled his bald spot. He was old – Chanelle didn’t know how old, but old. He had white hair and bushy white eyebrows with stray wiry black hairs sticking up from them. His dark brown eyes were almost lost in pouchy, wrinkly skin. His nose had swollen and turned red from years of drinking and he’d let the white stubble grow over his chin and cheeks so that today he looked like a tipsy Father Christmas. He was wearing an ancient yellow jumper that had clearly once been very good quality, and a pair of stained old jeans. ‘And here is the lovely Chanelle.’ His eyes looked almost black as he leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly pat. ‘How are you, my dear?’
He didn’t speak like anyone else she knew, except maybe for a couple of teachers at school, his accent all rounded and his words clear. ‘All right,’ she mumbled, suddenly shy.
‘Have you had a splendid Christmas, dear?’
‘Yeah.’ She smiled. It had been rubbish really, but there was no point in telling anyone that. They weren’t interested. Gus was distracted for a moment, directing Bill to the glasses and the whisky bottle, then turned back to her.
‘Now,’ he said in a warm tone. ‘Someone told me that you wanted something very special for Christmas.’
Chanelle frowned, puzzled, and shot a glance at her mother, who was grinning as she lit up a cigarette.
Gus went on. ‘Someone told me you would like some dancing lessons. Is that right?’
‘Yeah … yeah,’ Chanelle said, suddenly breathless. ‘That’s right …’
‘Well, well. The funny thing is, I had a visit from Father Christmas last night,’ Gus said, tapping his nose. He thinks I’m a stupid kid, Chanelle thought with a touch of scorn but she pretended to lap it up, grinning at him eagerly. ‘And he asked me to give you this …’ He picked up a brightly wrapped parcel and gave it to her.
She took it, excited, and opened it quickly. Inside lay a pair of pink satin ballet slippers, their shell-pink soft slippery ribbons tied around them. Next to them was a small card on which was written: IOU dancing lessons for one year.
Her eyes were suddenly wet and stinging, and her throat felt tight and painful. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you, Gus,’ she said in a choked voice, clutching the slippers to her chest. She was delighted but surprised. He’d never given her anything before, so why should he start now? ‘Thank you. I dunno what else to say.’
He patted her shoulder again. ‘You’re very welcome. A little present from your uncle Gus, that’s all.’
‘Happy now?’ asked Michelle, puffing out smoke as Chanelle nodded, still scarcely able to believe that her dearest dream had come true. ‘Hope that’s the last we’ll hear of you complaining for a bit now, anyhow!’
9
DAISY GIGGLED AS Lucy held up the magazine picture. They were in Lucy’s study, supposedly doing revision for their exams, but actually leafing through gossip mags, looking for anything about themselves and their friends.
‘“Are these Britain’s craziest heiresses?”’ queried Lucy in a silly booming voice, reading out the headline on one article.
‘Hmm,’ Daisy said, ‘we might be, I suppose!’ She balled up a piece of paper and threw it at the picture. It showed her and Lucy attending a charity ball the previous week. Daisy had worn a shimmering floor-length Rachel Gilbert gown, a scene-stealer in silver sequins, and she’d accessorised it by carrying an antique silver birdcage containing two miniature parakeets, their green and scarlet feathers providing a wonderful contrast to her metallic dress. Lucy had sported a tame white owl, which sat on her shoulder throughout the evening, blinking its amber eyes at the bemused partygoers. She’d returned it to its cage during the dancing.
Lucy continued reading. ‘“Fifteen-year-old beauties”—’ She raised her eyebrows at Daisy. ‘Ooh, beauties, get us! “Fifteen-year-old beauties Daisy Dangerfield and Lucy Critchlow-Browning had all eyes on them last night thanks to the eccentric add
itions to their costumes. The heiresses caused quite a stir at the charity event, which raised seventeen million pounds for needy children.”’
Daisy giggled again. ‘Nice that everyone noticed. Now we just have to plan what we’re going to do next time!’
Lucy sighed dramatically. ‘Darling – so difficult when we’ve set such a fantastic precedent.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something, don’t you worry.’
The door to Lucy’s study opened then and Keira Bond stood there, lounging in the doorway, blonde and statuesque. She was not exactly one of Daisy’s favourite people, and she felt the same way about Daisy.
‘What are you doing here?’ she drawled, giving Daisy a lazy, up and down look. ‘I thought the day girls had buggered off by now.’
‘I’ve got permission to stay on and revise,’ Daisy replied tartly, ‘not that it’s any of your business.’
Keira stared at her, lips tightening slightly. ‘Well, I’m glad I’ve found you actually because I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to say.’ She put a hand on one hip and fixed Daisy with a hostile look. ‘Stay away from Freddie Umbers.’
Daisy raised her eyebrows. Freddie was a deliciously handsome boy she’d been spending a bit of time with lately. Their paths had crossed at various smart parties and in Les Caves du Roy in St Tropez over the summer. He’d shown a marked interest in her, full on flirting whenever he saw her, and she didn’t object. In fact, she fancied him rotten and was sure that he was going to ask her out soon, as he’d asked for her mobile number and email only last week. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ she returned.
‘Freddie’s going out with me,’ Keira said. ‘So paws off. OK?’
Lucy murmured, ‘You’re only after him because his dad’s got a fuck-off yacht. So transparent.’
Keira scowled at her and pointedly ignored the comment.
‘Oh – and does Freddie know about that?’ asked Daisy. ‘’Cos he seemed pretty keen on asking me out last week – if the fact that he kissed me has anything to do with it.’
Keira’s eyes narrowed and two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks. ‘You heard me,’ she spat.
‘Stay away from him, you pleb.’
‘What?’
‘A pleb. A noove.’
Daisy flushed in her turn, anger flaring inside her. ‘What are you talking about?’
Keira snorted. ‘Come on, you know what I mean! Your dad’s rich, but he comes from nothing. My father said he’s a common little immigrant who got lucky when his father bought a few houses. You’re just a generation away from being a poor-as-muck peasant.’
Daisy felt a rush of anger. She had suspected something of the sort was being said around the common room. Keira and her little gang had taken to whispering about her and laughing cruelly whenever she came past, calling out insults that hadn’t meant anything to her but which she now guessed were jokes about her background. Questions of social status were taken very seriously in this school: exactly where your money came from and how big your house was were matters of great importance – almost as important as how thin and pretty you were, and whether or not you had a boyfriend, and what school he went to, and how much money he had.
So that’s what it’s all about! Daisy thought, burning with fury. I might have guessed … stupid, stuck-up bitches! How dare they talk about my father like that? A rush of protectiveness towards him surged through her. How could anyone think him anything less than wonderful? He was charismatic, powerful … the greatest man in the world, probably. And as for the story of Daisy’s grandfather and his extraordinary rise from buying a few dilapidated houses in the East End to owning a magnificent real-estate empire that included leisure resorts and hotels … well, it was an amazing achievement and nothing to be ashamed of. It had made the Dangerfield family extremely rich. But money wasn’t enough according to the girls in Daisy’s school. They valued blue blood and the leisure that came from being born to inherited wealth; they sneered at hard work and a family who had arrived in this country and made its mark within two generations.
Daisy leaped to her feet, her eyes flashing. ‘How dare you!’ She lifted her nose in the air. ‘For your information, my father is the best there is, and I’m not ashamed of his background one little bit. He works amazingly hard and does loads for charity. What does your father do? Mix a mean gin and tonic while he’s waiting for his turn on the tennis court? Well, excuse me while I faint with admiration.’
‘And anyway,’ Lucy pointed out, ‘Daisy’s mother is actually a lady.’
Keira curled her lip with scorn. ‘Yeah, and my mum told me that her family cut her off for marrying a ghastly peasant. But apparently she was pissed at the time.’ She turned to Daisy. ‘See? You’re just a common little nobody with a father who’s as plebby as you are.’
Daisy flew at her and grabbed the other girl’s hair. Keira squealed and tried to grasp Daisy’s wrists, writhing against the strong fingers tugging against her scalp.
‘Let go of me, you stupid bitch!’ howled Keira.
‘Not until you apologise,’ Daisy said through clenched teeth, and yanked again on Keira’s long locks, hearing with satisfaction the squeal of pain that resulted.
Lucy rushed up, pulling Daisy off. ‘Stop it, you’re going to have Miss Reed up here! We’ll all be in trouble.’
Daisy let go reluctantly and Keira pulled back from her, clutching at her head, her eyes full of furious tears.
‘You’re going to pay for this, Dangerfield, I mean it!’ she hissed, before turning on her heel and stamping away.
There was a moment of silence and then Lucy said, ‘Her face was a picture. That was brilliant, Daisy, it really was!’
‘She deserved it, the horrid cow!’ said Daisy, still panting. ‘No one says that about my family and gets away with it.’
*
Her father thought it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Daisy was in his study, sitting on his knee, while he made her tell the story all over again. A fat Cuban cigar burned in the ashtray on the leather-topped desk, giving off a smell that was simultaneously fragrant and fetid.
‘So you couldn’t contain yourself, could you, my little firework? You rushed to defend your father’s honour.’
‘She was being horrible about you,’ Daisy said in the little-girl voice she often used with her father, though she was hardly aware of it.
‘What did she say?’ He looked up into her face, his dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement, thick black brows beetling above them as they always did when he found something funny.
Daisy was pierced by embarrassment. She didn’t want to repeat what that awful girl had said about her beloved father. She saw him for a moment through the eyes of her schoolmates, suddenly understanding how they might laugh at his fat stomach, always encased in a florid waistcoat, the last button carefully left undone as a gentleman always does. No doubt they sniggered at his jet black hair, too intensely dark and over-shiny to be natural, and at his tanned skin, which he kept a constant walnut brown with his trips overseas and the sunbed in the house gym.
But she didn’t see any of those things – or at least, not usually. She only saw warm brown eyes and welcoming arms, and heard that deep chortling laugh or the voice calling her his princess. She smelled the comforting scent of his Hermès cologne mixed with the bitter undertone of old cigar smoke, and knew that she was loved.
‘Well?’ he pressed, taking her hand in his. ‘What did that little minx have to say about me?’
‘Oh …’ Daisy squirmed. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She was afraid that her father might feel bad about himself, or, worse, think that she might share Keira’s sentiments. ‘You know … she was just nasty. That crowd always are. The whole lot of them are catty, but Keira Bond is the worst.’ She tried to change the subject. ‘Daddy, did you see the pictures of the shoe designs?’
‘Of course I did, darling,’ he said, successfully diverted. He tipped her off his knee and went over
to the computer to pull up the pictures she’d sent him. ‘They’re wonderful.’ He scanned the images proudly as Daisy went round to join him in looking at the screen.
Displayed were a series of photographs of ballet pumps in a variety of materials, colours and finishes, along with some biker-style boots and sparkly sandals. To Daisy, they looked even more gorgeous than she remembered. The factory in China had done a marvellous job and soon they would start proper production.
‘These look splendid, Daisy. Really. I’m very impressed.’
She smiled up at her father, delighted by his praise. It had been her idea to start designing a line of shoes aimed at girls her age, to be sold both on the Dangerfield website and in the boutiques on-site at Dangerfield hotels and resorts. Daddy had loved the idea, and arranged for her to meet people who could help bring her designs to reality. So far, Daisy’s ideas had all tested very well in market research: her shoes were filling the gap very well between little-girl styles and more grownup, sophisticated looks sold to older women. Although there was no reason why grownups wouldn’t want them too, the shoes looked so good.
‘If this does well,’ Daddy said thoughtfully, ‘we can look at expanding the range and perhaps exploring other lines.’ He gazed down at his daughter, his eyes momentarily stern. ‘This doesn’t mean I want you to forget that our main business is property. You understand that, don’t you? That’s what you’ll be doing for me when your schooling is over.’
‘I know that, Daddy,’ she said.
He put one big brown hand over hers. ‘It’s more important than ever, Daisy. You’re all I have. You know that, don’t you? Now that your mother is so ill.’
Daisy nodded, her eyes wide. Her mother was more absent from her life than ever, in and out of places where Daddy said they would help her with her problems. Once or twice, she’d seen Drake wrestling Julia down the stairs and out of the house, into a private ambulance waiting to take her to a rehabilitation centre. Her mother would scream and shout and Daisy would want to run to her, but Daddy would hold her tight, whispering to her that her mother was very sick and had to see special doctors to help cure her of the alcoholism that was killing her.
