by Lulu Taylor
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ he’d said, his eyes desperate as she prepared to drive away.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ she’d retorted, and they’d stared at each other in frustrated anguish before she started the engine and drove away, fighting the tears that threatened to cloud her vision all the way back to Bristol.
They hadn’t spoken since. She’d known Christophe was going to France for the New Year and that she would miss him horribly but she couldn’t have anticipated how painful it would be, standing at the window of her flat, watching fireworks pop in the sky as revellers roared and danced in the streets below, feeling more alone and grief-stricken than she had since the first night she’d left home. There was no one to turn to. Even Lucy was away for New Year, and anyway she’d never met Christophe. She wouldn’t understand.
On Daisy’s first day at the Craven Dalziel headquarters, a modern office building on the outskirts of Cheltenham, she sat at her new desk in her plainly furnished office and tried to read through the company literature John had left there for her, while she waited for IT to come and log her into the system. The words swam in front of her eyes, and her attention wandered.
Concentrate, Daisy, concentrate, she said firmly to herself, and turned back to the monthly reports on the company’s performance. It wasn’t exactly gripping, but she had to absorb it all. I need a break. Some water. The commute from Bristol had taken longer than she’d expected. Perhaps she ought to think about giving up her flat there and moving closer. She felt a pang of sadness as she remembered wondering if Christophe would invite her to move in with him, and how much she’d looked forward to being with him all the time. Don’t think about it.
But she couldn’t help it. All she could think about was the fact that he was in this very building, right now.
She got up and went down to the water cooler at the end of the hall. She’d just filled her glass when she looked up and saw Christophe walking towards her, a bunch of files clutched to his chest. He was staring at her and yet looking through her, his eyes intense and his mouth stern. She felt her insides spin with something that was both fear and excitement, and she began to shake. What would he say to her? For a moment she had a wonderful vision of their being reunited, falling into one another’s arms. She missed him so much and had almost called him a hundred times, but held herself back.
But as he came close, he simply nodded once and said, ‘Daphne.’
‘Hello, Christophe,’ she said, though it came out weakly and not at all the way she’d expected.
He stared past her and continued to walk by without looking back. Misery washed over her. This was awful. But what could she do?
John called her into his office later that day to go through her new role in detail. As well as overseeing the implementation of her suggestions in the group’s town centre and airport hotels, he wanted her to take on another special project.
‘We have a group of eight hotels in the Cotswolds area, each completely different. They belong to us but are lived in and managed by the previous owners. I’d like you to take a look at them and come up with some ideas for their future development. It may be that it’s best simply to bail out and sell them if you don’t think there’s potential. Here’s all the information I have on them, and no doubt you’ll need to make some field trips.’
Daisy nodded. ‘No problem.’ She picked up the files. ‘It sounds fascinating. I can’t wait to get stuck in.’ She turned to go, only to be stopped by John.
‘Daphne – I can’t help noticing that you and Christophe don’t seem to be on very friendly terms today. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ she said miserably. ‘It’s all fine.’ She walked out, knowing that John was watching her and hoping he wouldn’t see the sadness that had engulfed her.
The following week was agony. Christophe ignored her in meetings, in the staff café and in the corridor, except for an expressionless greeting with eyes that never met hers. Being around the man she loved and not able to touch him, talk to him or laugh with him was torture, but she had no choice. She’d made her decision and couldn’t go back on it now, much as she wanted to. There was no way she could risk everything by getting involved with him again, even if he wanted her, which she doubted. He would have to know the truth – and she’d vowed that no one could know that. Besides, she couldn’t expose him to any danger. No. It had to be this way.
On Friday, John Montgomery called her to his office. When she arrived, his assistant nodded her straight in. John was standing at his office window looking stern-faced.
‘Ah, Daphne. Come in. Sit down.’ He indicated the sofa by his coffee table. She went over, feeling a little anxious.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. But … I thought I should let you know. I’ve just had a visit from Christophe.’
‘Oh?’ She felt weak at the sound of his name, full of longing. She pushed it down.
‘Yes.’ John came over and sat down opposite, his expression serious. ‘I’m afraid he’s handed in his resignation. He wants to leave immediately as well, if it can be arranged. I thought I’d better let you know.’
She averted her eyes, her shoulders drooping. ‘I see.’
‘Yes. It’s been plain for the last few days that he’s in a terrible state. He’s been a wreck since the holidays. I take it something happened between you? I don’t mean to pry, but you seemed so happy at the firm’s dinner.’
‘We were,’ she said in a small voice. ‘But, yes, we broke up over Christmas. It’s been hard … for both of us.’
‘Obviously you couldn’t go on working here together like this, and it seems Christophe has taken the decision to leave.’
‘Do you know where he’s going?’
John sighed. ‘Oh, you young people, making life so miserable for yourselves. He’s going abroad. To France.’
She flinched. He was leaving Nant-y-Pren. That was how much he hated her now. He’d rather go to another country entirely than be near her. Tears threatened to well up but she bit her lip hard to stop herself. She couldn’t cry in front of John, she had to be strong. She couldn’t speak for the effort of controlling herself.
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, and I’m very sorry to lose Christophe. But we’ve got you, Daphne, and the talent you’ve shown so far. You’re a real asset to us.’
‘Is he … is he going today?’
John nodded. ‘I said that he didn’t need to work out his notice under the circumstances. He’s going to finish up any last bits and pieces from home.’
Daisy stood up shakily, smoothing down her skirt, desperate to get out of John’s office now. She had to be alone. ‘I’d better get back to work. Thanks for telling me about Christophe. And you needn’t worry – I won’t let this interfere with my performance.’
She was grateful to be out in the corridor. As soon as she’d closed the door behind her, she ran for her own office and to the window that overlooked the car park. There he was, walking towards his car, a box of possessions in his arms. She watched as he opened the boot, stowed the box and went round to the driver’s door. A moment later, the little Audi had reversed and then roared out of the car park. It disappeared at the roundabout as Christophe headed away from Craven Dalziel for good.
‘I won’t cry,’ said Daisy in a shaky voice. ‘It’s better this way. I have to do this alone. There’s no other way.’
She went back to her desk and forced herself to pick up the file and start reading. She ignored the hot splashes that hit the pages, and stayed in her office till very late.
43
COCO HADN’T LIKED being in school much, and sometimes this reminded her of that – but without the noise, chaos and the frustration of never being able to hear anything the teacher said. In fact, if school had been more like this, perhaps she would have enjoyed it. She had plenty of lessons to get through, that was for sure, but the focus was entirely on her.
Margaret – as Coco now called h
er – had arranged it all: the timetable of lessons, the afternoons out, the visits to hairdressers and stylists.
‘It’s a little like running my own finishing school with a pupil of one,’ she said wryly. ‘But it’s amusing, in its own way. If you’re going to be accepted into certain social circles, you have to know how to behave.’
Coco found some of it hilarious and some of it infuriating. She couldn’t see why it mattered. Table manners drove her wild. On three mornings a week, a prissy woman called Lady Arthur Rewsham came to instruct her in matters of etiquette, and table manners were the first thing she tackled. Lady Arthur was an immaculately turned out woman, with short blonde hair, blue mascara and pink lipstick. She wore three strands of pearls to match her earrings, plain or stripy blouses with navy skirts and low-heeled smart shoes, and always white tights and sensible cashmere cardigans. On her little finger she sported a huge gold signet ring with a crest engraved deep on its surface.
‘Not being funny, but why’s your name Arthur?’ asked Coco, hardly able to believe it when the woman told her to address her as Lady Arthur.
‘My name is actually Shirley,’ the woman said loftily, ‘but my title is Lady Arthur.’
Coco giggled.
Lady Arthur sighed. ‘I see you have a lamentable ignorance of the peerage. It’s very simple. A child of four could understand it. It simply means that I acquired my title through my marriage to Lord Arthur Rewsham, younger son of the Duke of Haslemere. I cannot be Lady Shirley – that would mean I was born the daughter of a duke, marquess or earl myself. If I were Lady Rewsham, that would mean I was married to Lord Rewsham – who would be the holder of a main title, or the heir to one and holding the heir’s courtesy title – or that I was married to Sir Arthur Rewsham. Do you see?’
Coco made a face and shook her head. ‘Er … no.’
Lady Arthur warmed to her theme. ‘That’s why it infuriates me when they call some women “Lady” incorrectly.’ She tutted with irritation. ‘They do it all the time, even the Telegraph. One would expect better.’
Coco put up her hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t it get confusing at home, with both of you being called Arthur?’
Lady Arthur turned her eyes to heaven. ‘Silly girl! My husband and friends call me Shirley of course! And anyway …’ she sniffed ‘… we’re divorced, as it happens. It was a rather brief marriage. Now, on with the lesson.’
Lady Arthur had brought with her a canteen of silver cutlery, plates, napkins and a selection of glassware. She carefully laid two place settings which looked to Coco like some kind of weapons display. Why did anyone need so much cutlery to eat one meal? Lady Arthur began to instruct her in how to recognise and use all the different knives, spoons and forks. It seemed like a never-ending task. The first thing she got wrong was the most basic – how she held her knife and fork.
‘No!’ screeched Lady Arthur, appalled. ‘That is the most terrible giveaway. You mustn’t hold your knife like a pen, you must hold it like this.’ She demonstrated how the handle fitted into the palm and the index finger stretched along its length. Coco couldn’t see why it mattered, but the woman wouldn’t let up until she’d mastered holding both knife and fork correctly. The rules seemed endless.
‘No, no, Coco! You use your soup spoon by pushing away from you, not towards! You simply mustn’t cut your bread roll, it isn’t done. You must pick it up and tear it gently like this. And don’t butter the whole thing at once. Remember – dainty, dainty movements.’
There was different-sized cutlery for different courses, different-sized glasses for different wines, there were times to put a napkin on and times to take it off, and accepted places to leave it. There were finger bowls here, and condiments there, and conversation on your left for one course and conversation on your right for another.
Coco thought it was all stupid and a massive waste of time, but Lady Arthur persisted and before long she was beginning to hold her knife and fork in the required way without even thinking about it. When they weren’t at the table, practising how to eat asparagus or how to take fish neatly off the bone, they were on the sofa, learning to get and up and sit down elegantly, or walking across the room to improve Coco’s posture – ‘You have a good strong back, my dear,’ Lady Arthur said admiringly, ‘do you dance?’ – or taking afternoon tea, learning the correct way to pour it out into porcelain cups, add the milk, sit and drink it. And how not to gobble all the little delicacies that came with it.
‘If you can,’ advised Lady Arthur, ‘always eat something before you go out. It is much more elegant to eat very little at tea or a cocktail party than to wolf down everything you see. Besides, accidents with canapés are so easy – very difficult to eat them while holding a drink and an evening bag. I knew one woman whose poached quail’s egg slid off her foie gras and broke on the carpet – at Buckingham Palace! Can you imagine?’
Coco laughed. The longer she knew Lady Arthur, the more she enjoyed her company and all the hilarious stories she told to illustrate her points, as if doing the right thing at a party were a matter of life and death. Coco enjoyed the cocktail lessons the best, when she learned to mix martinis, G&Ts and Bloody Marys, and how to spoon caviar on to crème-fraiche-covered blinis, even though her teacher told her firmly that no lady ever, but ever, got drunk at a cocktail party. Or anywhere else, come to that.
‘One gin fizz or two glasses of champagne or one of white wine,’ Lady Arthur said firmly. ‘Any more than that is forbidden. It’s frightfully common for women to get drunk.’
No wonder the posh bitches are so obsessed by their knives and forks, thought Coco. They’re not allowed to get pissed and let their hair down.
Etiquette was boring and repetitive. Coco much preferred some of the other aspects of her new education. There was, for instance, Leanne, a stylist at Noble’s department store, who was tasked with changing the way Coco dressed.
‘To be frank,’ Margaret said, taking her into the grand old store with its beautiful Art Nouveau interior, ‘you need to stop dressing like a prostitute and more like a woman of style.’
Coco loved these afternoons in the private shopping area where she had her own dressing room with velvet armchairs, a wall of mirrors and small leaded windows looking down on the busy London street below. Leanne would bring her piles of clothes to try on, along with mountains of shoes and bags, and instruct her in the art of looking fashionable. At first, Coco couldn’t see any difference between designer jeans and the ones she’d got in Whitechapel market, except for a few hundred pounds, but she soon began to learn the subtle differences in cut and quality.
‘Besides,’ said Leanne, shaking out a Vivienne Westwood dress, ‘half of it is what you buy and the pleasure of wearing it, and the other half is people recognising the brand and respecting your style knowledge and choices. It’s all about telling people: I know what’s chic and I’ve already gone out and bought it, and mixed it with this fab Alexander Wang top and a scarf by this new designer who’s about to be massive. See?’
‘Yeah,’ Coco said, fired up by her new understanding. ‘I get it. I really do.’
‘And you’re lucky, you’ve got a great figure,’ Leanne said admiringly. ‘You look terrific in expensive clothes.’
‘My bust’s too big,’ Coco remarked, inspecting herself in a mirror and adjusting her floaty top so that it hung over her boobs a bit better.
‘Maybe for a model it’s too big. But believe me …’ Leanne gave her look ‘… a lot of women would kill for legs like yours and that bra size as well. They all go to surgeons to get it, and you’ve got it naturally.’
‘Yeah,’ Coco said cheerfully. ‘A boob job is one thing I’ve never had to worry about.’
Each week a few more items were purchased – Coco had no idea how they were paid for, they were simply wrapped in tissue, put into boxes and bags and handed to her – and each week she transformed herself further from the person who’d arrived in the little flat in South Ken
just before Christmas. Her hair was growing and Margaret had insisted on a colour change. It had meant hours in a hairdresser’s chair, but now her hair was a warm, caramel blonde, glittering with lights. She had to go back once a week for treatments to restore its health after so much heavy dying, and each time she came out her hair was a little smoother and glossier. At the salons, long facials were mitigating the effects of years of late nights, booze and countless cigarettes. ‘Your epidermis is severely dehydrated,’ she was told firmly by the white-coated facialist, ‘and you need to work hard to restore it right away. You’re lucky you’re young and that you’ve naturally good skin.’
Coco was put on a course of supplements and provided with a vast array of bottles and tubes and strict instructions on how to apply them and when. Each morning, she was expected to anoint herself with serums, boosters and moisturisers, eye creams, sun screens, lip salves and hand creams. Each evening, she had to do a whole different routine with exfoliators, polishes, washes, more serums, more creams, more eye treatments, and goodness knows what else. At the dentist, her teeth were cleaned and assessed, and three weeks later she was fitted with a clear invisible brace like a mouth guard, which she had to wear at all times except when eating or drinking, and was renewed every three weeks. Its purpose was to push a couple of her teeth into perfect alignment, then they would be whitened. Coco hadn’t been aware there was anything wrong with her teeth, but she submitted. Why not? What bit of her were they going to leave alone, after all?
When she wasn’t being groomed, she was being educated in different ways. She had a tutor, a shy young man called Charles, who took her to galleries and exhibitions and gave her stuttering, low-voiced lectures on everything she was seeing. She’d thought it would be boring but she became interested despite herself.
‘I didn’t realise all this was here,’ she said, as they wandered out of the National Gallery, having spent an hour or two inspecting the works of Goya.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Charles, ‘and all free. Our nation’s heritage. And there’s much, much more … We have the V&A, the British Museum, the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum, the National Portrait Gallery …’ And on it went.
