Outrageous Fortune

by Lulu Taylor

  He took her to all sorts of plays as well, which she was surprised to find she loved: Oscar Wilde, Chekhov, Rattigan, Shakespeare – she found something to enjoy in all of them, even when she didn’t quite follow what was going on.

  He gave her a reading list and a stack of books to work her way through. This wasn’t such a success. Reading was too much like hard work and Coco didn’t fancy it. She had no idea of when she was supposed to read, and sitting down with a book in the day felt odd. Eventually she got tired of Charles asking her what she was reading and blurted out that she fucking hated it, it was weird, and she couldn’t sit down and relax. After that, Charles gave her audio books on her iPod and she listened to novels and poetry while she was on the treadmill at the gym that Margaret had insisted she join. That was much better, and she got quite into the stories after that. She liked Charles Dickens, though the stories went on forever, and she liked more modern stuff too. But she adored P. G. Wodehouse, to Charles’s surprise, because he made her laugh.

  ‘It’s that man from the telly reading them,’ Coco explained. ‘And he just does it funny. I really like it.’

  The last of her instructors was a large woman called Penny, a lady who spoke with a rich theatrical alto voice and whose job was to sort out Coco’s flat London accent and bad grammar.

  These lessons really were Coco’s least favourite. It was hard work to try and change her voice and the way she talked. Every time she opened her mouth, Penny was stopping her or cutting in with the right word. And every time she said ‘innit’ or ‘sort of like’ or ‘yeah’, Penny jumped on it. ‘Bad habits, bad habits!’ she’d cry. ‘We must stop these pointless fillers, mustn’t we? Speak clearly, enunciate and lose the bad habits!’

  Coco wasn’t allowed to say ‘you was’ or ‘he don’t’ any more and the effort of changing was driving her mad. There was more than one tantrum when she stormed out and was found in a rage on the balcony or in the street below, smoking and tapping her feet with rage. But gradually, with everyone correcting her – Lady Arthur, Charles, Penny and Margaret – and with the constant murmur of approved literature in her ears from her audio books, she began to lose her old way of talking and slip into a new, posher way of expressing herself. Her accent started to change subtly as her mouth narrowed when she spoke and her vowels became rounder. She would never have the drawl of the girl who was born to it, or the barely noticeable giveaways in certain words that marked out someone from a privileged background. But she didn’t sound like Coco from the estate any more either.

  One day, six months after the experiment had started, Coco looked in the mirror. The peroxide blonde with her vaguely unhealthy look, her too-tight clothes and cheap shoes, had gone. In her place was a healthy, glowing young woman, with artfully applied barely there make-up that brought out the colour in her eyes and added shimmer to her cheeks, lids and lips. This woman had glossy, caramel-blonde hair, and wore Chloé trousers with a Prada top cinched in with a skinny belt, and Balenciaga stacked shoes, and held herself with poise and confidence. She could still hear the strains of The Magic Flute in her ears from last night’s trip to the Royal Opera House, and that afternoon Margaret was taking her to one of the Dangerfield hotels for tea to test all her newly acquired scone-buttering skills, followed by dinner at Le Gavroche.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said out loud, amazed. ‘Look at me! I’ve been fuckin’ Cinderella-ed!’

  She could tell she was nearly ready for whatever plan it was they had prepared for. She tried not to think about what would happen when the clock struck midnight.

  44

  THE HEELS OF her black patent Jimmy Choos tapped on the black-and-white marble floor as she walked across it. The sound was so familiar but Daisy had thought she’d never hear it again – not in this particular place, anyway.

  It was a bizarre feeling to be back. Even though she’d often looked at the website, it was nothing to the experience of actually being here.

  Inside the Florey! Imagine. What would Daddy do if he knew I were here? Daisy’s skin prickled at the thought of it, although whether with fear or excitement she couldn’t quite tell. She was confident that she wouldn’t be recognised – after all, she was a world away from the girl who used to waft about this place as though she owned it. Then she’d been dressed in skin-tight Hervé Léger or Gucci, her fair hair in deceptively casual-looking waves, a Prada bag on her arm as she tottered about in her sky-high heels. Now she was an elegantly dressed businesswoman with a sharp black bob and, while she looked successful, there was no way she could be mistaken for a spoiled trust-fund princess. Surely no one would ever connect the two very different people … but now was the time to put that to the test.

  She walked into the hotel brasserie and looked about. Quickly locating her lunch date, she went straight to the table. ‘Hello.’

  The woman sitting there looked up from her paper and gazed at her blankly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lucy – it’s me. Daisy.’

  Lucy gasped, her eyes widening with astonishment. ‘Daisy! Is it really you?’ She leaped to her feet and hugged her friend. When she stood back to examine her again, there were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it! You look so different. I simply wouldn’t have recognised you.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ Daisy sat down, putting her bag under the table. ‘I could hardly stride in here looking like I used to.’

  ‘But it’s been four years,’ Lucy ventured. ‘Is it really still dangerous?’

  ‘I think it always will be. Oh, I’m sure the staff have changed and there are plenty here who’ve got no idea I ever existed. But imagine if I ran into Daddy …’ Daisy shuddered. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’

  The waiter came up to give them menus. As he left them, Lucy gazed at her friend, grinning broadly now that she’d got over her shock. ‘Honestly, I would never have recognised you. That black hair and those glasses – you’re completely transformed!’

  ‘You’re just the same,’ Daisy said warmly. It was a thrill to see her old friend and she realised how much she’d missed her. ‘Actually you look even better.’ Which was true – Lucy had acquired a sophisticated gloss, the result of plenty of leisure and fun. She reached out and put her hand over her friend’s. ‘It’s so great to see you, Luce, it really is. Talking on the phone and emailing is fine but …’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Lucy smiled back fondly. They’d been in touch once a month or so since Daisy’s departure but usually by email. They hadn’t spoken for a while. ‘There’s masses to catch up on.’

  ‘And you said you’ve got something to tell me …’

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ Lucy said, putting her snowy white napkin on her lap. ‘Let’s order and have a catch up, then tackle the other stuff.’

  They both ordered crayfish salad and ate them while they sipped large glasses of bone-dry Reisling. Lucy, city-smart in a white silk top and beige high-waisted Céline trousers, chattered away, telling Daisy all the gossip, and she drank it in, revelling in this taste of her old life, lunching in her favourite hotel as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘It’s so funny to see you,’ Lucy said, ‘because I was thinking about you only last weekend when I was at a wedding. You remember Freddie Umbers, don’t you?’

  Daisy had an instant flashback to Freddie’s golden good looks and wicked way with her. She saw the two of them rolling around the vast canopied double bed in the Crillon. ‘Oh, yes. What’s happened to old Freddie?’

  ‘It was his wedding. He got married.’

  ‘Married?’ Daisy blinked in surprise. Marriage still seemed to be aeons off for her generation – another five years at least. And it was hard to imagine Freddie settling down with one woman for the rest of his life. ‘Who did he marry?’

  ‘You’ll never guess – only Keira Bond!’

  There was a brief astonished pause from Daisy and then she burst out laughing, Lucy joining in. ‘Do you think it will last?’ she said, when she’d managed to draw breat
h. She realised to her relief that it didn’t matter to her that Freddie was married, even if it was to the dreadful Keira.

  ‘Who knows? They both looked blissful. It’s a good starter marriage, anyhow. Antonia asked after you. I said I hadn’t heard from you for ages but apparently you were doing very well, living in a village in the hidden depths of Patagonia.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘She seemed happy enough with that.’ She gave Daisy a quizzical look. ‘But how long is this going to go on for? How long before they have to be told the truth – that you’re not who you used to be any longer?’

  Daisy put down her fork and examined her plate for a moment before she answered. ‘I don’t know. My plan is progressing as well as I could have hoped. It shouldn’t be too long before all is revealed.’

  ‘I’d better have you turn into a missionary or something then,’ Lucy said with a laugh. ‘Anything to keep you away for a few more years. Although to be honest, people don’t care about much beyond themselves. They all seemed perfectly content with the idea that you’re in a mud hut somewhere.’ She leaned in towards Daisy. ‘The only thing is – I’m worried that someone might be on to you.’

  A flicker of anxiety ran through Daisy. ‘Really? Why?’ A waitress walked past, apparently oblivious, but there was no sense in being reckless. She leaned closer as well so that they could speak without being overheard.

  ‘I had a call, asking if I knew where you were, from someone who wouldn’t say who they were.’

  ‘Was it a woman?’ Daisy asked swiftly, thinking immediately of Margaret.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘A man. With an American accent.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’

  ‘He asked if I knew the whereabouts of Daisy Dangerfield and when I’d last had any contact with you. I didn’t give anything away, of course. I just asked who was on the line and why they wanted to know.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘He tried to imply he was a friend of yours, but I told him I didn’t buy it and that I wasn’t going to talk about anything to a stranger. He asked if he could come to see me and I said no.’ Lucy looked worried. ‘That’s it. Not much, but I thought you should know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Daisy bit her lip and frowned, feeling edgy and uncertain. ‘I wonder if it was safe even for us to meet up. What if you’re being followed?’

  At once, they both instinctively looked about as though for someone lurking suspiciously in a corner.

  ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ Lucy said cheerfully. ‘They’d have had to spend a jolly long time in Fenwick’s bra department, anyhow!’

  They both laughed, and Daisy felt her fear subside a little.

  The lunch came to an end all too soon, and the two friends kissed one another’s cheeks fondly and promised to keep in touch.

  ‘I’m travelling a bit for my job,’ Daisy explained. ‘So I’m sure I can get away more often.’

  ‘Your mysterious job!’ Lucy said, looking curious. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Best you don’t know. Then they can’t torture it out of you.’ She grinned to show she was joking.

  Lucy went but Daisy lingered a little, reluctant to leave the luxurious comfort of the beautiful old hotel. She wandered out of the brasserie and into the atrium, where afternoon tea was already being served. A piano tinkled gently over the murmur of voices and the chink of china. This felt like home to her, she realised. She’d grown up believing that the Florey would be hers one day. That was pretty much impossible now, even if her plan was successful. This might be all the connection she ever had to it.

  It was hard to drag herself away from a place that felt like a refuge from the pain and heartbreak she’d been suffering since Christmas. Sometimes she missed Christophe so much, it felt as if there was a gaping hole in her centre. But she’d heard nothing from him and had to respect his apparent desire never to see her again.

  She walked towards the hotel entrance, catching a glimpse of herself as she passed the great gilt mirror in the foyer: a slim figure in a belted Moschino suit. She was so absorbed in her thoughts as she exited through the revolving doors that she hardly noticed the long black Rolls-Royce gliding to a halt in front of her. A moment later, as the doorman opened the car door, a woman stepped out on to the pavement, and Daisy drew in a horrified breath as she recognised her.

  Oh my God, it’s Margaret! And if she’s here, that means only one thing …

  Daisy dropped her head, resisting an impulse to veer away violently and run. That would only draw attention to herself. Instead she fought for calm despite her pounding heart and kept moving easily forwards, watching from beneath her lowered fringe as Margaret turned and waited for the other person inside the car.

  Was he there? Was Daddy inside? She looked for that imposing figure with its bulky stomach straining under a waistcoat. But there was nobody like that in the car. Instead, a slender honey-blonde climbed out, holding tight to a crocodile-skin handbag as she put one elegant Gina-shod foot to the pavement and then another.

  Daisy had to keep moving. She turned to her left and started walking west, risking one backward look. The elegant young woman, surely no older than herself, was following Margaret into the hotel entrance.

  Who is that? Daisy was still shaking with adrenaline, but the question thudded relentlessly through her mind: Who the HELL is that?

  45

  IN THE CINEMA room of the Belgravia house, the only light came from the movie flickering away on the screen. It showed a small redheaded boy riding his bike. He was freckled, knobbly-kneed, and a big gap between his front teeth flashed black as he grinned into the camera. Near him, a smaller girl was running about chasing a puppy, a serious expression on her face. The children were playing in the grounds of a large house that Coco recognised as the one where she had performed at the party. A woman’s voice in the background was urging them on.

  ‘That’s the children’s mother, Elizabeth.’ Margaret’s voice floated over from the back of the room. ‘I apologise for the quality. The technology wasn’t up to much in the early eighties.’

  The movie cut to another time: it was Christmas Day and they were opening their presents. The boy, older now and even more gappy where he didn’t have huge grownup teeth descending from his gums, was clearly delighted with the vast Lego set he’d received, while the girl, her fair hair in pigtails, was cooing over a doll in a perfectly scaled Silver Cross pram.

  Then the scene changed to a birthday party: a lavish affair by the looks of things, with merry-go-rounds, helter-skelters, dodgems, candy floss and popcorn stalls. Clowns, stilt walkers and magicians were wandering through the crowds of children in their party best, some holding on to the hands of their parents and evidently overawed by the spectacle. The boy zoomed into range of the camera, older now and getting gangly, and then raced out of sight, appearing again by the dodgem cars where he hopped about, eager for a ride. The girl came into focus, standing by an enormous birthday cake and smiling and waving at the camera. Then the camera panned left to a glamorous-looking woman in a blue dress, who was holding a baby, a girl by the look of her sprigged dress. The woman made the baby wave at the camera, lifting one fat arm and waggling it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Coco, interested.

  ‘No one who matters,’ came Margaret’s reply. ‘A family friend.’

  But the girl featured in the next snippet as well, this time as an unsteady toddler waddling across the lawn, her nappy jutting out behind her. The older boy was watching her with a curious expression on his face, as though he was interested in observing this strange creature but set apart from her. Then the glamorous woman from the last scene came running across the lawn, laughing. She picked up the toddler and swung her upwards before hugging her to her chest and covering the little girl’s face in kisses.

  The film was switched off abruptly.

  ‘Is that it?’ Coco said, surprised.

  ‘Mr Dangerfield says that William refused to take part in any films after that age
. But he appears in the family photo albums. Come along. We’ll go and look at them now.’

  Margaret led her out of the basement and upstairs to a library where the books didn’t look as though anyone ever read them. On a gleaming walnut table were laid out large photo albums bound in green, navy and burgundy leather, each stamped in gold with a crest and a year. Margaret opened one and flicked through the pages.

  ‘The old-fashioned way of storing photographs,’ she remarked with a tight smile. Before Coco could see any of the pictures inside, Margaret suddenly closed the albums and said, ‘You know, I think we should look at the file I’ve prepared for you. It’s probably more use than these old things.’

  ‘All right,’ Coco said, though she was sorry not to be looking in the albums. She liked looking into the past and examining these people’s childhoods. Their experience was so different from her own, it was hard to believe they had grown up in the same country. She’d seen these kids on horseback, on skis, riding miniature sports cars, swimming in their own pool, relaxing on the deck of their own yacht. It was a life she couldn’t imagine, a universe away from the estate and everything that had gone on there.

  Margaret led her over to the armchairs by the fireplace and they sat down. She handed Coco a black folder. ‘Everything you’ll need to know is in there. When you’ve read it, we’ll discuss it. It’s important you understand exactly what we want.’

  ‘So – let me get this straight. This William has written letters to the family lawyers, and that’s what made everyone upset?’ Coco frowned as she flicked the pages of the folder back and forth, glimpsing more up-to-date photographs of the redheaded boy.

  Margaret nodded. ‘There are several trusts that were set up by Josef Dangerfield to protect the family fortune and ensure that the next generation’s inheritance would be kept intact. William is alleging mismanagement of the trusts by his father – quite untrue, of course – and he’s threatening legal action to uncover the trusts’ actions if his questions are not answered. We need to discover first exactly what he wants to know and why – and whether there is anything in his own behaviour that is less than … shall we say … proper.’