by Lulu Taylor
Lucy looked dismayed. ‘But I don’t understand why my father has to do what he wants!’
‘It’s all about power and influence. My father is incredibly influential. He can find a way to make anyone do anything. He won’t be above making threats either.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Tears filled Lucy’s brown eyes and her lip trembled. ‘I can’t believe this. You’re supposed to be able to rely on me.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s time I struck out on my own anyway. That’s the way it’s going to be from now on, right?’ Daisy smiled at her friend.
‘Are you going to stay with Antonia?’ Lucy asked in a small, miserable voice.
Daisy shook her head. ‘There’s no point. I don’t want to drag other people into this. Daddy wants me off his patch, so I’m going to make his life easy. For now.’
‘If you need any help, or any money … you know you can contact me, right?’ Lucy’s eyes were even damper as she gazed earnestly at her friend.
‘Of course – and I really appreciate it. I will have some favours to ask you, I’m sure. You’re going to be the only one I’ll keep in touch with for now.’ Daisy stood up, her face grim. ‘I expected something like this.’
‘I’ll do whatever I can, you know that. But … Daisy, what are you going to do? Where are you going to go?’
‘I have my plans,’ she said. ‘That’s all I’m going to say at the moment. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I promise.’
If Daddy wants me to disappear, then I will. And I’ve got to assume that he’s going to be on my trail for a little while longer.
But the truth was that she didn’t really have a clue what to do.
Leaving Lucy’s house was her first real experience of life beyond her own pampered upbringing. The only place she could think to go was the Dangerfield Florey but that would be madness: she would be recognised at once. So instead she got into a taxi with her cases and asked the driver to take her to Claridge’s. As she was booking in and handing over the bank card that Margaret had given her before she’d left, she thought to ask what the cost of a room was. On being told that it was nearly £700 a night, she felt like she might pass out. I can’t afford that kind of money, she thought, aghast. It would not take long before she’d burned through her cash entirely.
‘I … I … I’ve changed my mind,’ she stuttered, and went back outside with her bags, trying to ignore the receptionist’s pitying look.
Where can I go? she wondered, panicked. Then she tried to get a grip. Come on – there have to be cheaper hotels than this. But she had no idea where they were or how she might find one. She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her somewhere reasonable. He’d laughed knowingly, raising his eyebrows at the famous Claridge’s frontage, and then taken her to a small but clean and welcoming hotel in South London, not far from the Oval cricket ground. ‘You’ll be all right here,’ he said, dropping her off. ‘Tell the lady Dave sent you. She’ll look after you.’
He was right, the landlady had been welcoming, but even at £85 a night, Daisy knew that she couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Besides, she had to decide what to do next. The problem was, she felt in such a daze. The emotional fallout of what had happened was crippling her: she was permanently exhausted and on the brink of tears. She could think of only one thing to do.
The next day, she took a train from London out to the village near Thornside, and then walked from the station to the churchyard. There was her mother’s grave, still fresh from the funeral service only weeks before. It felt strange and almost dangerous to be so close to her old home, but it had been a compulsion to come. Daisy kneeled down by the damp earth and stared at the newly carved headstone.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that he wasn’t my father?’ she whispered. Sorrow as heavy as a stone felt as though it was weighting her down. ‘Why weren’t we closer, Mummy? Was it because he kept us apart?’ She tried to think back over the past but it was all so difficult. ‘I wish you could help me now. I wish you could tell me who I am.’
She reached out and traced a finger around the letters of her mother’s name. Julia Dangerfield. Poor Mummy was linked eternally to that name. She’d never be anything other than Daddy’s wife now.
That was when the idea had come to Daisy. She would show him how wrong he was to treat her the way he had, discarding her like an unwanted toy. It would take time, planning and determination. But as she’d sat by her mother’s grave, her fists clenched from the force of her decision, she’d resolved there and then to do whatever it took. That had been the first step on the road to her ultimate revenge.
Once she’d come up with her plan, she set the whole thing in motion. She’d stayed a few weeks in the hotel in the Oval, negotiating a special rate with the owner, so that she could do all the research she needed. In the day she would travel up to the British Library where she sat and worked, sometimes online and sometimes from books and journals. She had bought herself a laptop, having left her old one behind. She stopped using her old Daisy Dangerfield email account, though she logged in to monitor it, and set up a new one. That was when she’d decided on her new name: Daphne Fraser. She’d always liked the name Daphne, thinking it rather stylish in an old-fashioned way, and had picked Fraser at random from a bookshelf. It had appealed to her for some reason. Daphne Fraser she would be from now on.
She had searched out the best courses in the country for Hotel Management diplomas, and had settled on St Prudence’s College just outside Brighton. There was no problem in being accepted: once she had paid her deposit, she was registered on the two-year course starting in September. As soon as that was confirmed, she made the move to Brighton. Renting a place was not easy. She still had no bank statements and no permanent address for the bank to send them to, but she managed to find a small furnished apartment where putting down three months’ rent in advance and speaking in her most refined voice was enough to get her in. The landlord didn’t ask too many questions after he established that she was going to St Prudence’s. The fact that she had paid for her course seemed to vouch for her intentions to stay.
She’d had to apply to the college as Daisy Dangerfield – her examination certificates were in that name for one thing, so she couldn’t get a place without them – but she told them that she preferred to be called Daphne, and after the first six months, she explained she was changing her surname to Fraser because her parents had divorced and she was taking her mother’s name. That way, her graduation certificate would be issued to Daphne Fraser and she’d be able to apply for jobs under her new identity. She’d also changed the name on her bank account and applied for a passport in her new name. It took many hours of admin, and she feared that she would still be traceable if her father ever decided to track her down but there was nothing else she could do. It wasn’t possible to change her birth certificate and she wasn’t about to start doing anything illegal, like buying an identity or forging documents.
Then she’d had to become Daphne Fraser. She’d bought a box of black hair dye. A few hours later, the bath was grubby with grey streaks and her fair hair was gone. She’d had it cut into a blunt bob. A visit to the optician, and she had brown-tinted contact lenses and some black frames filled with clear glass. She acquired a new wardrobe from high street stores, places she had never visited before, wondering where her beautiful Birkin was now as she bought a cheap fake-leather lookalike.
Burned probably. Or shut in an attic somewhere. Oh well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. Daphne Fraser is not the sort of girl to have a £10,000 handbag, let’s face it.
But she rather enjoyed finding her new look, inventing Daphne’s character with cheap but cheerful outfits with a touch of sass. She bought bright floral dresses, colourful cropped cardigans and wide belts, giving herself a fifties prom-style look.
It was, she discovered, easier to change her name and looks than it was to change her attitudes. Daisy Dangerfield might not live in cosseted luxury any more, but Daphne Fraser knew nothin
g of the world outside. She had fallen to earth with a bump, and even by the standards of students, she was spectacularly un-house-trained. Cleaning was not something that came naturally to her; in fact, she’d had absolutely no idea how to do a thing for herself. She’d barely picked her own clothes up in the whole of her life. From her earliest childhood Nanny had done everything for her, from combing her hair to sorting out her underwear. She hadn’t even cleaned her own teeth until she was eight years old and told Nanny that she wanted to do it herself. The nursery had been cleaned by an invisible troop of maids who scurried in and did everything while Daisy wasn’t there. Meals arrived from the kitchen in their finished state. It had barely even occurred to her that toast was bread that had been grilled, because she’d never considered the process of how to make toast.
With no idea how to cook, she left burned pans and revolting disasters in her wake whenever she attempted it, and she’d really had no clue that she would have to clean the flat herself. After a few weeks, the place was messy and dirty, and Daisy felt increasingly miserable surrounded by chaos. At college she was learning the importance of high standards of hygiene and the orderliness that had to reign in any successful institution while at home she was wading through unwashed clothes and abandoned dishes. Realising she would have to retrain herself, she got a book on housework, stocked up on products and began to learn how to look after herself properly, though there were certain things she couldn’t bear to get to grips with: it made inroads into her precious savings, but she used a private laundry service that collected her washing once a week and returned it, clean and pressed, the following day. She told herself it was worth it.
Learning to clean was not her only problem: she also had no sense of what things were worth. Lights were left burning and heaters on without Daisy having any idea that running them cost money, until the bills came in and she gasped with horror. She tried to pay for loaves of bread or pints of milk with a credit card, and looked blankly at change as though it was foreign money. She nervously watched her bank account, appalled by how quickly the money drained out of it even though she was trying to be frugal. Her idea of frugal was not everyone’s, however – she’d decided that learning to cook on top of everything else was a bit much, especially when there were so many delicious ready-made things that could be delivered by boutique catering companies, so she’d mastered only a few basics.
Daisy had rented her own place so that she could have privacy, and she steered clear of the other students whenever possible. Being alone was the price she was going to have to pay for now. She was too frightened to make friends in case she inadvertently gave away the truth about her previous life. She soon had a reputation for being horribly stuck up, as she’d known she might, and everyone ignored her as thoroughly as she had hoped they would.
Being lonely hurt, she discovered, and there was no one to turn to. The day she made her great plan, she had also come to a momentous decision: she would break with all her friends except Lucy. It was heartbreaking but she told herself that there was no other way. A horrible little voice whispered to her that now she was no longer Daisy Dangerfield, with access to millions and enjoying a glittering lifestyle, perhaps many of them would no longer want to be her friend anyway. She sent round a chatty email saying she was going travelling alone in a last-minute change of plan and would be off the radar for some time. That, she hoped, would be enough to keep them happy, and after a while they’d become absorbed in their own lives and forget about her. She closed her Twitter account and shut down her Facebook page. She allowed herself to visit her old email once a week, watching as the messages there diminished too. Without her input, her friends began to drift away.
The final message was one to Freddie, who’d been her on-off boyfriend since those happy, carefree days before her mother had died. She sent him a breezy email explaining her plans to go travelling – a spur-of-the-moment thing with no fixed return date – and that they’d be better off as friends for now. He sent back a sweet message saying to keep in touch and to look him up if they were ever in the same country and signed off with lots of kisses.
She was surprised by how much it hurt. She knew he wasn’t the one, but even so she would miss him and all the fun they’d had. He belonged to a different life, though, and she was certain that he couldn’t come with her into this new one. His world was of travelling round the globe, going to parties and having fun. He would never dream of dating a girl like Daphne Fraser.
I never realised how much my money made my choices for me – or how many doors would close when it disappeared.
When all was ready, she made her plans for the next move. She needed to find a particular hotel in a particular place, where she would slip unnoticed into the workforce and start her campaign.
25
THE COSTUMES WERE stunning. Coco didn’t think she’d ever worn anything so beautiful in her life, ever. She turned in front of the mirror at the studio, admiring her sequined gown as it shimmered and glittered under the lights. Each girl had a different-coloured dress but in identical styles: traditional Hollywood glamour. The dresses were strapless and figure-hugging, but slit up to the thigh so that the girls could dance.
Mine is the best, Coco thought with satisfaction. There was gold, silver, blue, green, pink and purple, but none had quite the same impact as her fire-engine red dress, especially when teamed with her white hair. She had taken Roberto’s advice and gone to a hairdresser who’d freshened her dry peroxide white into a sparkling silver, cut out some of the shaggiest bits and attached shoulder-length extensions. Now she could see how she would look with her hair styled and her stage make-up on, her legs endless in stilettos. Maybe Roberto’s right – I should be on the lookout for a rich bloke.
Each girl had three different outfits: a sexy little military number for their dance to a medley of hits from the forties – Coco’s favourite was ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy From Company B’ with its irresistible bounce. Their next routine was tap dancing to songs from golden-age Hollywood musicals, their costumes a take on the classic tuxedo, with the girls wearing fishnet tights, black satin hot-pants, a close-fitting tailcoat over a white silk corset, and a top hat at a jaunty angle. They also carried canes for some of the dance. It was the finale that was going to blow the audience’s socks off, though, as each girl appeared in her sex-bomb sequined dress for the delicious, sexy last number that began with Haley, the singer, cooing out ‘Fever’, segued into a smoky ‘Do Right’, and ended with a big bump-and-grind routine with Haley belting out ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’.
Coco couldn’t take her eyes off the reflection of the dress in the big mirror opposite, and the way it made her look. This is real glamour, she thought. Forget thongs and cheap silver material, forget the kind of look they wanted in the club. This was what she wanted. A touch of class. Was this stunner in the mirror really little Chanelle Hughes from the Peckham estate? The girl whose uniform was always shabby, who couldn’t afford her dancing lessons? She could hear Jamal’s voice buzzing in her ear, telling her she looked fantastic, that she was beautiful and he loved her.
A stab of pain made her almost moan aloud. She tried never to think of Jamal. Over the last two years she’d done her best to shut all the memories of him out of her life. It hadn’t been that difficult: her body had obliged her by remaining in that numb, emotionless state that had descended on her the night he’d been killed.
‘Girls, girls!’ Roberto came in, clapping his hands and followed by a pretty but stony-faced girl with elfin looks and cropped black hair. ‘This is Haley, our singer. She’s come for a run-through.’
Coco looked at her, interested. So far they’d only danced to a tape of Haley singing. Here was the real thing. Haley nodded curtly at the assembled dancers, glancing coolly at their sequins. She turned to Roberto. ‘Where’s my outfit?’
‘Over there, babes. You’ve got the best – the black – of course.’
She looked a little mollified and went to chan
ge. The dancers got themselves into position as Haley came back, wiggling along in her dress and platform heels. Roberto set the music playing, counted them in and off they went, Haley singing over the top and sounding a little reedy without a microphone. Coco went into the routine, loving the way the tight dress subtly changed her movements: her bottom wiggled just a little bit more, her breasts jiggled enticingly and she couldn’t help smiling when she caught a glimpse of her red sparkling dress in the mirror. The song moved into ‘Do Right’, and without thinking, Coco began to sing along. She’d learned all the words during rehearsals and had often sung them when she was practising in the dressing room at work. Blanche said she sounded good, too, but Coco had protested she was definitely no singer.
She didn’t even realise that Haley had stopped singing and was staring daggers at her; in fact, she hadn’t realised that she was now singing loudly against the music, her voice rising pure and clear over the recorded track, until her concentration was broken by a wild shriek.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Coco came to an abrupt halt, gazing round her, confused. Everyone stopped and Roberto switched the music off. Haley stood by the mirror, her eyes blazing. She pointed at Coco, then turned to Roberto, screaming, ‘She’s singing, Roberto! That little cow is singing!’
Coco blinked at them, still puzzled. Had she been singing? She must have. One of the girls next to her shot her a look of sympathy while another muttered crossly. ‘Oh. I didn’t realise. Sorry.’
‘Er, Coco …’ Roberto said sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid Haley’s the singer, so …’
‘Oh, it’s Coco, is it?’ Haley put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve heard about you. The lap dancer. Roberto – keep her out of my sight as much as possible, do you understand?’ She tossed her head. ‘Now, shall we start again?’
