Outrageous Fortune

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because … because I can’t. Because they’re dead.’ Tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffed.

  ‘Dead?’ He looked puzzled again. ‘Then why have you pretended they’re alive?’

  ‘I don’t know! I didn’t want to tell you.’

  ‘But my parents are dead. I understand what it’s like. Why couldn’t you tell me, of all people? Why did you tell such an awful lie?’

  She stared at the floor, wishing this could all just go away so they could be back in their perfect Christmas Day with its happy, loving, cosy atmosphere.

  ‘Daphne … please.’ He walked towards her. ‘Please tell me why you kept something like that from me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said lamely, longing for him to take her in his arms. ‘I just don’t.’

  ‘Can’t you see that it makes me question everything about you? About us?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered in a small voice.

  ‘I don’t know how I can trust you. This book …’ He held it out again, wafting the pages back and forth. ‘It’s got so much in it. I don’t know what to make of it except that you’ve been spinning me some enormous story and I’ve fallen for every bit of it. But I don’t understand why.’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ Her voice was loaded with the misery she was feeling. ‘Please, you have to trust me …’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ He sounded hard and angry again. ‘I can’t. That’s the last thing I can do, until you explain exactly what this is.’

  The day was finished for them. There was no cosy fireside game of Boggle while munching on chocolates. Christophe put on his coat and boots, pointedly leaving behind his new gloves, and took Sasha out for a long walk. Daisy sat by the fire, alternately weeping and staring into the flames, feeling furious. She considered telling him the whole story but she didn’t dare. What if he somehow stood in the way of her plans?

  What if he decided to tell everyone the truth? What if Daddy found out about her and where she was and what she was doing? The very thought made her shudder with fear. And it wasn’t just her. She would bring Christophe to his attention too, and that could ruin his life as well. No. She couldn’t risk it. There was no way she could tell him the truth, even if it meant losing him.

  Damn that notebook, and damn my own stupidity for leaving it in my bag!

  But it was too late. What was done, was done. There was no closing Pandora’s box now.

  Part Three

  41

  ONCE SHE HAD agreed to the scheme put to her by Margaret Anderson, Coco found that her life was taken out of her own hands.

  Back in the pristine office, Margaret had opened out an extensive contract. Coco hadn’t bothered reading much of it except to check how much they’d be paying her and when, and what she had to do in return. The money clause seemed pretty straightforward: £50,000 for the job, half now and half on completion. Fifty grand! With that I might be able to get started, think about investing in a dance studio. Roberto and I can go into business together maybe … The obligation clause was a little less clear, just saying she had to supply such information as was in her power according to the requirements of blah-blah-blah. She’d got bored with that bit, and skipped to the end and signed it.

  ‘Good,’ Miss Anderson had said. ‘Now, I’ll need your bank details to make the first payment.’

  ‘Don’t have a bank account,’ returned Coco. ‘Cash, please.’

  ‘No bank account?’ The other woman had looked astonished. ‘Very well, cash if you want it. I’ll give you a small advance now – say five hundred – and arrange for the rest. But I do advise you to get an account, your money will be much safer that way. You’ll only need a passport and a utility bill with your address on it.’

  Coco sighed sulkily, running her fingers through her white hair. ‘No passport, no address – OK?’

  Margaret Anderson frowned, pursing her thin lips. ‘No passport? We’ll certainly have to remedy that. Do you have a birth certificate?’

  ‘My mum probably has it.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to get it from her at some point. It’s not urgent. Perhaps when you see her at Christmas. But we will need it.’

  Coco hadn’t been intending to see her mother at Christmas, or at any other time come to that, but she supposed she might be able to stand the prospect if it was the only way of getting the rest of her dough.

  As soon as Coco had signed the contract, it was as though this Margaret woman thought she owned her. She went with her back to the Victoria hotel and checked her out at once, settled the bill and hailed a taxi. Within a short time they were bowling up to a house in Kensington, one of those wedding-cake white-iced ones with pillars at the front.

  Margaret led her up the stairs to the third floor, talking as she went. ‘Luckily, Mr Dangerfield has a property vacant that you can use while this business is going on. I will take care of the admin, but you’ll be registered here as the tenant. That will give you a permanent address and then we can see about getting you a bank account and whatever else you might need.’

  When they got inside, Coco looked about, pleased. The flat was small all right, and felt like the kind of place where no one stayed for long: a stop gap or a holiday home. But it was very comfortably arranged, with everything necessary for one person to be quite snug. The front room had a big broad sofa flanked by lamps and facing a flat-screen telly. In one corner, by the French windows that gave out on to a miniscule terrace, was a round table with two chairs. In the other was a U-shaped kitchen area, neatly done so that all the appliances were stowed under the blond-wood surfaces, behind pale blue cupboards. At the rear of the flat was a bathroom, prettily decorated in white and sandy seaside beige with touches of red, and a cream-painted bedroom with a built-in wardrobe, dressing table and neat double bed.

  ‘Yeah, this is nice,’ Coco said, nodding as she looked about.

  ‘You’re lucky to be getting it free of charge,’ Margaret observed, closing the wardrobe door she’d opened to show the space inside.

  ‘Mmm. Well, I might get something like this myself one day,’ Coco said carelessly. ‘I like this area.’ The bedroom window looked down over a neat garden, and the back of the house on the neighbouring street. Everything was clean and fresh.

  ‘If you’ve got the best part of a million pounds to spare, I’d certainly advise it,’ Margaret said tartly, leading her back towards the little hallway.

  ‘A million pounds for this?’ gasped Coco.

  ‘Close on. You’re in South Kensington, my dear, not the back of beyond.’ She gestured to Coco to sit down on the sofa. ‘Now, a few things to be sorted out.

  What Mr Dangerfield hasn’t exactly realised is that you’re not really in a suitable state to be introduced to his son.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ demanded Coco, wondering if she could spark up a cigarette. She considered asking Margaret and then decided she would wait until she’d gone. In the meantime, Margaret was looking her up and down with a steely light in her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? I hate to say this, my dear –’ she always said ‘my dear’ as though she could not bring herself to say the word ‘Coco’ ‘– but there is very little that’s right. Poor dear Mr Dangerfield is under the impression that you are a very good-looking girl and obviously spirited, so all you’ll need are a few nice new dresses and then you’ll be quite ready to introduce into polite society. But, as Professor Higgins knew only too well, it’s simply not that easy.’

  ‘Professor who?’ Coco was instantly suspicious.

  ‘Never mind. What I’m saying is that you’ll need some lessons before I’ll feel confident sending you off to do this very particular job.’ Margaret caught a glimpse of Coco’s face. ‘Now don’t worry. We won’t do anything until after Christmas, so if I were you I would take a few days to calm down and get used to what you’re going to be doing. I’ll send round some reading material for you to study. Here are your keys. Do you have a mobil
e? Give me the number. Oh goodness, look at that – what a state it’s in. You must look after your things, my dear, particularly when we start to acquire some decent ones for you.’ Margaret shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly but looked more energised by the challenge ahead than daunted. ‘Right, then. I think that’s all. I’ll call later to check on you. Goodbye.’

  When Margaret had gone, Coco danced around the flat, whooping and cheering. She was still stunned by everything that had happened but realised that she had fallen spectacularly on her feet. Her own flat in South Ken, cash in her hand, some people taking an interest in her and looking out for her and – best of all – she hadn’t had to sleep with anyone to get it.

  Well, not yet, anyhow.

  She hadn’t gone to her mum’s on Christmas Day. She’d known only too well what that would be like. Her mum might not even recognise her. But two days later, when the hangover was probably nearly gone and Michelle might be able to cope, Coco found herself on the doorstep of her mother’s old house.

  Shit, I don’t know if she even lives here any more.

  She looked about. It hadn’t changed: the estate was still tatty, down-at-heel, unkempt. Gloom weighed down her shoulders as she stood there on the doorstep. The whole place seemed full of memories, most of them miserable. The only good thing in her life – Jamal – had been ripped away from her here. There was nothing to remember with pleasure.

  Once I get away again, I’m never coming back. Never. This is the last time.

  But before she could truly be free, there was business to be done. Coco took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It was a long time before she heard any sound from inside, but eventually she heard a slow shuffle approaching the door and it opened a crack.

  ‘Yeah?’ said a deep voice roughered by thousands of smoked cigarettes. A bleary eye blinked behind the edge of the door.

  ‘Mum. It’s me.’

  The door opened a little more, revealing Michelle’s ravaged face. It was heavily lined and mazed with broken veins. Puffy dark bags sat under her eyes. Her stringy hair hung around sunken cheeks. There was a tube going into each nostril and vanishing around the back of her head. ‘Chanelle?’ she said in a wondering tone.

  ‘Yeah. Let me in.’ She was impatient to be inside away from any prying eyes that might have spotted her.

  Looking astonished, her mother stood back to let her into the hallway. ‘What you doin’ here? You never said you was coming! You should’ve let me know.’ She peered harder at Coco. ‘What you done to your hair?’

  ‘Anyone else here?’ she asked, going into the sitting room. It was a tip, as usual, with overflowing ashtrays and half-drunk mugs of tea everywhere. There were some pathetic attempts at Christmas decorations as well: scraps of tinsel, some crêpe-paper chains and a wispy plastic tree in the corner.

  ‘Nah, nah, I’m on my own now. Bill fucked off, didn’t he?’ Her mother followed her, shuffling along in her pink slippers, perking up as she realised that Chanelle had come to visit her. ‘Well, this is a turn up, my girl. I didn’t know if you was alive or dead!’

  ‘Now you know.’ Coco found a place to sit on the sofa. ‘How are you?’

  Michelle shook her head. She looked aged well beyond her years, more like an old woman than someone in her early-fifties. ‘Not so good, love. It’s this emphysema. They’ve given me oxygen and all but they don’t reckon it’s going to get much better.’ She looked mournful. ‘Don’t know how long I got now, love, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Mum, I need something, that’s why I’m here,’ Coco said, swiftly changing the subject. She didn’t want a long, self-pitying monologue from her mother. If she hadn’t wanted emphysema, she should have given up the fags, shouldn’t she? ‘It’s my birth certificate.’

  Her mother stiffened. ‘Why do you want that?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘I need it.’

  ‘Why? Why do you need it all of a sudden?’

  Coco snorted. ‘Why do you think? Everyone needs their birth certificate, don’t they? I wanna get a passport.’

  ‘Oh. Going somewhere nice, are we?’ Michelle lowered herself into an armchair and then puffed and wheezed painfully with the effort. ‘Wish I could afford a holiday, I’m sure!’

  ‘Gotta travel for work and I need a passport. I can’t get one without a birth certificate. So have you got it or not?’

  There was a long pause as Michelle breathed noisily, whistling and wheezing. ‘Yeah, I got it. But you’ll have to fetch it. I can’t.’

  Coco was surprised. She realised that she’d been expecting her mother not to have the certificate, to make excuses, to be as useless as she’d always been. But here she was, saying that she did have it after all. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Upstairs. Under my bed. There’s a shoe box. Inside there’s a big brown envelope. It’s got Birth Certificate written on it. It’s in there. But …’ Her mother held out a hand, her eyes anxious. ‘There’s other stuff in there. Promise me you won’t go through it? It’s private.’

  Coco rolled her eyes. ‘’Course I won’t. Think I’m interested in your life? I ain’t.’

  She stood up and went up the stairs to her mother’s room. So Michelle was alone now. Well, it didn’t look like she was up to much in the sack any more, and she’d never been any good at looking after anyone: she couldn’t cook and didn’t clean. No wonder the men had vanished now that she was just a sick old lady with nothing to offer. Coco felt a stab of pity for her mother – what did she have to live for? It was a miserable existence by the looks of things. She felt a pang of fear that Michelle might try and drag her back to this house, to share this excuse for a life. No way, Coco thought grimly. I can’t do it. I just can’t. The bedroom was full of a dense, musty smell, as though it needed a good airing. A couple of oxygen cylinders and some bits of equipment stood by the bedside, where her mum had to hook herself up each night before she went to sleep.

  Coco bent down to look under the bed. Just the sight of it made her want to sneeze; it was thick with dust and full of detritus: odd shoes, abandoned pairs of tights, old cotton wool balls and other rubbish. There was also a large box. Coco reached under and pulled it out, brushing off the fluff and dust on top. She lifted the lid. Inside there was a collection of letters, cards and photographs, but she had no interest in them, pushing them aside and catching only brief glimpses of her mother in a few of them – Michelle in younger days, with long fair hair and a fresh complexion, always holding a cigarette between her fingers. There was the manila envelope.

  Coco took it out and stared at it for a moment. Then she lifted the flap and pulled out the certificate inside. So there it was. Her name, her date of birth, the address. Michelle’s name was there as the mother. And the father’s name was … unknown. Of course. A small smile tugged at one corner of Coco’s mouth. Unknown. She’d known he was unknown. It was one of the things she did know. And her mother wouldn’t have let her up here if there had been anything really secret to discover. She’d always told herself that Michelle didn’t have a clue who her father was; after all, she’d been a junkie back then, no doubt sleeping with anyone who’d help her score. But an inner voice had whispered of other possibilities to her. There was another candidate, and she’d been half expecting to find his name on the certificate. But it wasn’t there.

  Unless she didn’t want to name him. Didn’t want him to know maybe.

  There was no point in dwelling on it. She pushed the certificate back into its envelope, kicked the box back under the bed and hurried down the stairs.

  ‘OK, Mum, I got it!’ Coco called. ‘See ya.’

  ‘You ain’t goin’, are ya?’ cried Michelle weakly.

  ‘Well, I’m in a bit of a hurry actually …’

  ‘Ah, come on, it’s Christmas! Stay and have a cup of tea with me, won’t you? Don’t know when I’ll see you again, do I?’

  Coco stood in the hall. The front door was tantalisingly close and, beyond it, freedom. But then �
� the state of her mum. It was obvious she didn’t have all that much time left. But knowing her, she’ll hang on for bloody years.

  ‘Chanelle?’ The voice was pitiable, crackling and strained, the breath to speak fought for.

  ‘Yeah. All right. One cup of tea, OK? Then I’m gone.’ She turned away from the door and towards the sitting room. ‘I’ll make it. Just as long as you’ve got some bloody milk.’

  42

  DAISY FOUND LEAVING the Excalibur in January an emotional experience. There were lots of tears at her leaving party, her own and other people’s, as various maids, receptionists, sous-chefs and waitresses sobbed on her shoulder and said how much they were going to miss her. Even Alan looked as if he might be going to weep, but probably because he was afraid of what might happen now that he wouldn’t have Daisy to rely on.

  ‘We’re certainly going to miss you, Daffy,’ he said in a tone of immense bravery. ‘You’ve been a breath of fresh air here, and it’s no wonder that they want you at the big HQ. You’re off to work your magic elsewhere in the company, so I hear?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll always be rooting for the Excalibur!’ she said, blinking away more tears. ‘I’ll come back and visit, I promise.’

  ‘We’ll have a room on permanent standby!’ declared Alan. They gave her a leaving present of a framed sketch of the hotel and a card signed by everyone, then they toasted her future success.

  She cried all the way home, but not just because she was leaving. Her emotions had been in turmoil for almost a month, ever since the events of Christmas.

  On Christmas night, Christophe had slept in the spare room. The next day he’d told her frankly that if she couldn’t explain herself to him, tell him why she’d told those lies, then it was over. Daisy had wept but told him that she couldn’t say anything more than she had. He had to accept her as she was, or not at all.

  Not at all then, he’d said, and she was sure he too was on the brink of tears. She’d got into her car that afternoon.