by Lulu Taylor
Christophe interrupted, holding up a hand to quieten her. ‘I don’t need you to explain. I just consider Alan bloody lucky to have found you. And it’s clear now how you knew what systems to implement. It’s no wonder you’ve been able to sort out his messes so effectively. He was on borrowed time, as you know. But it can’t be allowed to go on like this, it’s completely mad.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Daisy. ‘You’re not going to sack him after all, are you?’ She gazed at him imploringly. That would be disastrous. As it was, her own job was probably on the line.
Christophe sighed. ‘No. There are reasons why we won’t, even though I personally think it would be much the best option. But things can’t go on in this topsy-turvy manner, especially as I sense that you’ve got some interesting ideas for the future of the hotel. So I recommended to John that you be promoted to joint manager, alongside Alan, with immediate effect. I don’t like the fact that you’re still on the payroll as a maid, and that you’re not getting a proper wage.’
Daisy gasped, a surge of delight rushing through her. ‘Really?’ She clapped her hands with pleasure. ‘That’s wonderful! But …’ her face fell ‘… how will Alan take it?’
‘He’ll smile nicely and be grateful, if he’s got any sense,’ said Christophe. He smiled at her. ‘I’m pleased you’re pleased. Now where’s our food? I’m starving.’
Over lunch, they talked about the hotel and how everything worked there. Christophe told her that Craven Dalziel had hotel holdings all over the west of England, and they in turn were owned by a larger hotel and property company. Daisy had to pretend she didn’t know anything about this, and used her supposed ignorance to ask as many questions as she could about how Craven Dalziel worked and was run.
Eventually, when they’d finished eating and were lingering over coffee, Christophe looked at his watch regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to be going. I’ve some other meetings this afternoon. It’s a shame. I’d like to carry on chatting.’
‘Me too,’ Daisy said, trying to sound normal and not as though she’d like to spend all afternoon with him if she could. He was charming, intelligent and funny – and extremely attractive.
‘I’m actually staying in Bristol tonight. I thought …’ Christophe looked a little bashful but only for a second and then he was smoothly charming as usual. ‘I thought it might be nice to go out and celebrate your promotion. I know a good place we could have dinner … if you’d like to, that is? You may have other plans.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said hastily. ‘I love to.’
‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll collect you from the hotel at eight.’
By the time he came to collect her, Daisy was a bag of nerves. She hadn’t been able to do a thing in the afternoon, and had even forgotten the excitement of her promotion in the anticipation of her evening with Christophe. Instead, she’d slipped out to Princes Street and bought herself a clinging red jersey dress that flattered her slender figure.
This is ridiculous, she told herself firmly as she hurried back clutching her shopping bag. I hardly know him. And, what’s more, he’s my boss. If I’m a joint manager, I’m going to have deal directly with him all the time. Getting involved is a terrible idea, even if he were interested. Which he isn’t.
Despite her little lectures to herself, she went home, showered, changed, and got ready carefully. Putting her dark lenses back in, she wished she’d never bothered with them in the first place, but she could hardly stop wearing them now. Even Alan might notice if his previously brown-eyed assistant – sorry, joint manager – walked in one day with blue ones instead. She assessed her reflection. Her dark bob was softened with an enamelled hair clip, and the new dress was elegant and quietly sexy. It was just right.
‘But nothing’s going to happen,’ she told her reflection. ‘You’ll see.’
The champagne cork flew out of the bottle with a satisfying pop, followed by a spume of white froth.
‘Quick, a glass!’ urged Christophe, laughing, holding the bottle up.
‘Here!’ Daisy pushed a champagne flute towards him and he tipped the bottle so that the foam fell into the glass like whipped egg whites, then topped it up with the honey-coloured liquid. He filled another flute the same way, and shoved the bottle back into its ice bucket.
Christophe lifted the glass, smiled and said, ‘A toast to you, Daphne. To your success. Congratulations.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you. I’m so excited, I don’t know what to say.’
‘You deserve it. And I’m sure it’s just the start.’
They both sipped their champagne. The bubbles exploded pleasurably over Daisy’s tongue. Christophe had arrived, looking handsomer than ever in a dark coat, and they’d taken a cab to this elegant, discreet restaurant in Clifton. It was the first time she’d done something like this since she’d left home, and it was lovely to feel spoiled again. She ordered the oysters, and black cod to follow. While they waited for their food, Daisy said, ‘Where do you live, Christophe?’
He picked up a bread roll and broke a piece off. His cufflinks glittered in the candlelight. ‘I have a small flat in Cheltenham where I live during the week so I can be close to the office. At weekends I escape to my house in Wales. It’s beautiful there. The countryside is amazing.’
‘Do you live by yourself?’ she asked innocently, and then blushed at the implication.
‘Yes, by myself,’ he said, without appearing to notice. ‘I love the solitude actually. Nothing better than arriving home on Friday evening, turning on the heating and getting a fire going, then cooking myself a bit of supper, opening a bottle of wine and relaxing with a book or a film.’
Daisy nodded. She understood the kind of comfort that could be derived from one’s own company. She’d grown up with it.
‘Of course, I’m not always on my own,’ he then added gravely.
‘No? Who are you with?’ she said, just a touch too quickly.
‘A very beautiful lady called Sasha. You should see her. Gorgeous brown eyes with extraordinary eyelashes. And boundless energy.’
‘Oh,’ Daisy said, trying not to feel too disappointed.
‘Yes, she’s wonderful. Just a bit licky. You know – she does like to climb up me and lick me all over if she can.’
Daisy stared at him, astonished, then realisation dawned and she burst out laughing. ‘Sasha’s a dog!’
‘Of course. What did you think?’ he said with a mischievous grin. ‘She won’t forgive me if I go to Nant-y-Pren without her.’
The oysters arrived and Daisy dived in happily, dousing each one in shallot vinegar before shucking it down, savouring the salty taste. ‘Yum,’ she said, reaching for another, then stopped as she realised Christophe was staring at her. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ There was curiosity in his brown eyes. He’d looked at her the same way when she’d scanned the wine list earlier and excitedly recommended a particular vintage. ‘You intrigue me, that’s all. You’re a bit of a mystery. Tell me more about yourself – where are you from?’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Daisy said lightly, trying to quell her uneasiness at being scrutinised.
‘Really?’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Come on. Everyone has a story to tell.’
‘Well, mine’s very dull. Just a boring little girl from a suburban backwater, with a good convent education and a desire to get on.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘Only child,’ she said lightly, moving chips of ice about on the oyster plate with her fingertip. She looked up at him from under her lashes. ‘And what about you?’
‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m like you. Perfectly normal. Just your average French Welshman.’
They both laughed.
‘So how did you end up at Craven Dalziel?’
‘Well, it wasn’t my boyhood dream, I admit that. I trained as a pilot actually, and flew professionally for some years. I was a contract pilot, going wherever the work was. Then something happened and …’ His face da
rkened and he frowned, gazing down at the table. Daisy went still, sensing he might be about to reveal something about himself, but the moment passed. When he looked up, his usual good humour was restored. ‘Anyway, I gave that up. It wasn’t right for me. I had a friend who worked at Craven Dalziel and she recommended me for a position there. I got it, not intending to stay very long, and of course I’m still there. But I enjoy it – and it suits me. It’s close enough for me to get back to Nant-y-Pren as often as I need to.’ Christophe smiled, showing a row of fine white teeth. He buttered some of his bread roll but didn’t eat it, putting the pieces back on his plate.
‘And … the friend?’ Daisy asked shyly. ‘Is she still at the company?’
‘No. She left a while ago. And we’re still … just friends.’ He shot her a look. ‘And you? A boyfriend?’
‘Me?’ She burst out laughing. ‘I don’t think so!’
‘Why not?’
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. How could she have a boyfriend? After all, how could she tell anyone new the truth about herself? And she felt so strange, living in virtual disguise, having to dye her roots dark every few weeks and keep her horrible contact lenses in. ‘Well …’
‘It seems to me you need to have a bit more confidence. You hide away behind those glasses – but I can see that there’s a lovely girl underneath. Now,’ he said, swiftly changing the subject before Daisy could feel embarrassed, ‘let’s have a little bit more champagne and discuss how I’m going to break the news of your promotion to Alan.’
The evening came to an end far too soon. Daisy felt on a high, the happiest she’d been for a very long time. Christophe was handsome, funny and interesting, and there was clearly a spark between them. He leaned close to her, gazing at her seriously with those melting brown eyes. Everything about him was delicious and she yearned to be close to him. She longed suddenly to be held, embraced, kissed … at the thought, a wave of dizziness swept over her but she managed to hide it and appear normal. By the end of the meal, though, as they sipped their coffee, she could hardly think of anything else but how much she would like him to kiss her.
But how can I? I mean, he’s virtually my boss. That didn’t seem to matter now they were alone, though. She knew hardly anything about him, but they were so comfortable together – except for that undeniable frisson of electricity that flowed between them, sparking and crackling whenever they got close.
As they left the restaurant, he helped her put her coat around her shoulders and said, ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘That would be lovely.’ A delicious, quivering sensation stirred in her at his nearness. They began to stroll together through the dark streets, saying very little, both aware of how a couple walking together in the night was usually a romantic occasion.
Outside Daisy’s building, they lingered on the pavement to say goodbye.
‘You do realise we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, don’t you?’ Christophe said. ‘You’ll have to report to me every month.’
Daisy nodded, unable to think about anything other than how much she wanted him to envelop her in his arms and put those soft-looking lips on hers. She wondered if she should ask him to come upstairs but she couldn’t form the words.
He was staring at her and she was certain she could see desire glimmering in his eyes. She waited, hoping he would do something, step towards her, put out his hand, anything … But he turned suddenly and abruptly away. ‘Good night, Daphne,’ he called back over his shoulder as he strode away. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight!’ she called after him, and then sighed heavily, shaking off her excitement. As she let herself into the dark hallway, she was overcome suddenly by a terrible sense of loneliness.
But it’s for the best. I’ve got to do this on my own. I knew that when I started.
33
I RECKON I could get used to this, Coco thought as she pulled the door of her flat shut and went downstairs. In the hall, she passed the rather grand, white-haired lady who lived on the ground floor, and who came in and out several times a day to walk her ridiculous Pomeranian ball of fluff – sorry, dog – in Green Park. The lady was always immaculate, with coiffed snowy hair, wearing smart jackets with glittering brooches on the lapels, dark trousers and flat shoes with velvet bows on them. Whenever she saw Coco, she stiffened and her coral-lipsticked mouth tightened with disapproval.
‘Wotcher, missus,’ Coco sang out as she headed for the door. ‘Lovely day, innit?’
The old lady said nothing but looked huffier than ever.
Coco giggled as she went out of the front door. It brightened her day a little to piss off her stuck-up neighbour, who was no doubt scandalised by the presence of someone from the wrong side of the tracks. And it didn’t take a genius to work out the nature of the arrangement between Coco and Matthew.
Who gives a fuck? she thought defiantly. Her life’s nearly over and she probably had everything given to her on a plate. I’ve got to work to get anywhere I want to go.
She pulled her fake-fur coat round her shoulders and walked jauntily on stiletto heels towards Bond Street. So far, the new set-up was suiting her very well: it had been eight weeks since Matthew had installed her in his company flat and she was adjusting to Mayfair life just fine. She loved being away from the noise and dirt and litter of Whitechapel, and the sense of chaos and desperation that pervaded the streets there. Here, she was surrounded by money, and money seemed to keep streets clean, iron railings gleaming, brass polished and everything neat and attractive. Behind the smart Mayfair doors were expensive flats and even more expensive houses, or else they were private clubs, important institutions or discreet businesses – bespoke property consultants, private banks, investment companies, and God only knew what else.
Who gets to have all this? she wondered. And how do I get it too?
She wasn’t doing too badly though. Matthew had sorted her out a credit card and all the bills were taken care of. She was practically a lady of leisure and was enjoying the unusual sensation of having nothing to do. Soon she’d start putting her plan into action – Matthew would need to be tapped for even more money, but why not? He could afford it and was getting a very nice service in return, coming round virtually every afternoon and quite a few evenings too for plentiful sex, just the way he liked it.
That was the trade-off, of course. She was literally a call girl. When he called, she had to be there, all ready to welcome him in. That was fine for now. After all, what else did she have to offer? What other options were there? She wasn’t like the girls she saw all around her in Mayfair: smart girls in black suits with clean neat hair and clever faces, heading off to work every day. They had qualifications, training and, no doubt, loving parents who’d supported them through school and college and made sure their little darlings had the right start in life. Well … that hadn’t happened for Coco, so no one had better criticise her for trying to get ahead in the only way she could.
She found herself on a smart side street between her place and the shopping Mecca of Bond Street. It was lined with the kind of shops she was becoming familiar with: boutiques and shoe shops with names in chic lettering above the windows. She stopped in front of one and gazed at the dress on the mannequin, suddenly entranced. It was beautiful, an asymmetric, one shouldered style that clung to the body and skimmed the model’s plastic thighs. It was covered in hundreds of burnished gold square sequins so that it looked almost like a piece of armour, protection against enemy arrows. Coco stared. She loved it. She wanted it. And I can have whatever I want, right? I reckon I’ve earned it.
She stepped out fifteen minutes later, the dress neatly folded inside the stiff paper carrier bag, and her credit card lighter by four thousand pounds. To celebrate, she went to have a cigarette in Berkeley Square. She was sitting on one of the benches watching people passing by as she smoked when a voice interrupted her.
‘Coco? It’s you, isn’t it?’
She turned to look, instantly on her g
uard. To her surprise, it was one of the girls who’d danced that night at the Dangerfield party. Sheridan was one of the nicer ones, a sweet-natured girl from Peterborough.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Coco wasn’t sure if she was glad to see her but managed a smile. ‘Hiya. How’s it going?’
‘Good. I’ve got a job in a West End show at the moment. It’s great. Mind if I join you?’
‘Oh. Sure. If you like.’ Coco tried to quell a pang of jealousy. Sheridan was doing something she herself would love to do. She glanced down at the bag containing her new dress. She’d give up the credit card and the dress and whatever else in a heartbeat if it meant having a proper dancing career, one with a future. Her life had seemed such fun a moment ago. Now, suddenly, she felt hollow inside.
Sheridan sat down next to her and smiled encouragingly. She was a normal-looking girl, her brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, and unremarkable enough in her shorts, tights and jacket, a bag slung across her front. Coco knew though that once Sheridan was in costume with her hair and make-up done, she could be a smoky femme fatale, or a rosy-cheeked girl-next-door, or whatever she wanted.
‘So,’ Sheridan said, ‘I haven’t seen you since that birthday party when you pulled that blinder by locking Haley in the loo.’ She laughed. ‘God, it was hilarious!’
Coco softened and smiled back. ‘I thought you all hated me for it? Haley certainly did.’
‘Oh, God, no. Couldn’t stand Haley. She totally deserved it, the cow. So … what are you doing? Are you going for jobs?’
‘Nah. No point.’ Coco took a drag on her cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke. ‘I’m not a trained dancer. No one would hire me.’
Sheridan looked astonished. ‘Are you crazy? You were great at the party! We were all knocked out by your performance. You really had it.’
Coco looked at her suspiciously to see if she was taking the piss but Sheridan gazed frankly back. So she shrugged. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘That’s negative thinking,’ Sheridan replied wisely. ‘Just start by going to some auditions. Buy the Stage and turn up. You probably already know most of what you need.’ Then she added, ‘It’s funny I should bump into you like this. I was at the studio yesterday. Roberto’s looking for you. Have you changed your number?’
