‘Going without saying goodbye?’ he asked, lighting up a cigarette and putting the packet back in the pocket of his dinner jacket.
Arrogant bastard, she thought to herself. Stephen Lyons was in his late fifties but he clearly thought he was a character out of Mad Men. She didn’t like to admit to herself that it wasn’t too far from the truth. The lines of his jacket were sharp, his cold, hard eyes were the same icy shade of blue as his son’s, his arrogance worn with the confidence of someone with millions in the bank who no longer needed to prove himself.
Behind her she could hear the voices and the laughter from the party. A band was playing now and she imagined those crusty old couples getting up to dance politely, arms held out straight so as not to touch each other too much.
‘Goodbye, Mr Lyons,’ she said, not even meeting his gaze.
‘Stephen,’ he replied casually, exhaling a line of smoke through his nostrils.
‘Goodbye, Stephen,’ she said, feeling goose bumps pop on her forearms.
‘Do you need a car? Or money for a taxi?’
‘I don’t want your money,’ said Amy. ‘I never did,’ she added more quietly as he stepped towards her.
‘I know this must be hard for you,’ said Stephen Lyons, his expression changing from mock concern to something more businesslike. ‘But you have to be realistic. This is about Daniel’s career, not your relationship.’
‘Quite clearly the two are linked,’ said Amy, hating the bitterness in her voice – but why hide it? They both knew that she had just been dumped in favour of a job.
Stephen tilted his head to one side – a gesture of sympathy, mixed with condescension.
‘I’m sure Daniel cares for you,’ he said. ‘But you have to understand he is devoted to achieving his potential. Always has been, ever since he was a little boy. Always put in that little bit extra to keep ahead of the pack.’
‘And I’d get in the way of all that?’
Stephen pulled a face.
‘Amy, Daniel’s posting to Washington is just the start of it. Entre nous, there’s talk of an ambassadorship for him within three or four years. Do you know how unusual it is for anyone to snap up a senior diplomatic post under thirty-five?’
He crushed his cigarette stub under his shoe and continued.
‘Daniel wants to go all the way. We know he can go all the way. HM Ambassador to France, hell, even the US ambassadorship itself. And for that to happen, for him to do the job as well as it can be done, he needs the right partner by his side.’
‘And you’re suggesting that I wouldn’t support him?’
‘Not wouldn’t,’ said Stephen. ‘Couldn’t. The wife of a senior ambassador is a very specific role. You need to understand etiquette, procedure, small talk, how to handle delicate situations. It’s not for everybody. And not everyone can do it.’
‘This is about the artichoke, isn’t it?’
Stephen laughed, his eyes lingering on her body just a fraction too long.
‘No, it’s not about the artichoke.’
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a card.
‘I should go back in,’ he said finally. ‘But perhaps we could meet again under more pleasant circumstances. I used to like dancers myself, back in the day. Old habits die hard, as they say.’ He said the word ‘dancers’ as though it was one step up from prostitutes.
‘Screw you,’ growled Amy, hot tears of humiliation threatening to fall.
‘I’d say my son got off lightly. Can you imagine that sort of language at the embassy,’ he said, and disappeared back into the Pavilion.
She got off the tube at Leicester Square and started to walk. The streets of London flashed past her like streaks of fireworks in the night sky, cars beeped as she darted between them, her brain barely processing how close they were to clipping her as she cut across Shaftesbury Avenue and into the bowels of Soho. Blinking back the tears, she reminded herself that she was tough – you didn’t grow up in a blue-collar area of New York and let men get to you – but by the time she arrived at the Berwick Theatre her eyes were red-ringed and raw.
The show had long finished, and there was just a dribble of people on the pavement, drunks, and theatregoers hanging around the stage door in the hope of seeing some of the stars. Amy joined them, leaning against the wall to pull off her shoe and massage her toes. The shoes she had chosen to show Daniel how sexy and sophisticated she was. Proposal shoes, her mind mocked her, the ones she would never throw away, the ones that were going to have such special meaning in years to come. Well, the moment she got home – whenever that was – she was going to throw them in the trash. They were ugly and tainted, and anyway, they were too damn tight.
‘Good God, woman, you look like the sky’s fallen in.’
Amy sighed with relief as she saw her friend Annie Chapman bustle out of the stage door.
‘Something like that,’ she said, ready to cry all over again.
Annie noticed her tear-streaked cheeks and pulled her towards her.
‘Sweetie pie, what’s wrong? When you texted and said it was urgent, I was worried, and look at you . . . Dear me, I think we’d better get you back to the Bird’s Nest, huh?’
Amy choked back a laugh, knowing that her friend had instantly sized the situation up and was taking control. As wig mistress to various shows, Annie Chapman had found a profession that suited both her flamboyant personality and her innate skills as a no-nonsense agony aunt. The wig mistress’ chair seemed to function in the same way as that of a hairdresser or a shrink: actors felt they could tell Annie anything, and she was happy to dispense home-spun wisdom where she could.
‘Annie, he’s ended it,’ whispered Amy, too angry, too shocked, too everything to even say Daniel’s name.
‘I can see that, sweetie,’ said Annie, pulling off her leopard-skin fur coat and wrapping it around Amy’s shoulders.
‘No, you’ll freeze,’ protested Amy, nodding to the vintage fifties dress Annie was wearing.
‘I think I can manage, darling – I’m much more insulated than your skinny arse. Come on. Let’s go. And I think we need to stop off for Chinese on the way.’
‘Honestly, I don’t think I can face anything,’ said Amy miserably.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for me,’ smiled Annie, slipping her arm around Amy’s waist and guiding her to a small shop in Chinatown, the front strung with soy-glazed chickens, where Annie ordered what sounded like a mountain of food. ‘And make sure you put in some fortune cookies, Phil,’ she said to the wizened old man behind the counter. ‘I think we might need a peek into the future tonight.’
It was only five minutes’ walk to Annie’s Covent Garden flat, known affectionately as the Bird’s Nest because of its artistic chaos. It had been left to Annie by her grandmother, a 1940s showgirl who had been the mistress of a wealthy aristocrat. Inside, you could still see the traces of what it had been like when she had entertained her lover there – the elaborate flock wallpaper, the lampshades rimmed with black lace tassels – though Annie had added her own larger-than-life personality. There was a full-sized dressmaker’s mannequin standing by the door dressed in a French maid’s outfit (‘Makes me feel as if I have servants,’ Annie had explained upon Amy’s first visit), an easel with a half-finished nude in oils, swatches of garish material, piles and piles of books, not to mention virtually every available wall surface being covered in posters and photographs from the great shows. Just being in the Bird’s Nest always made Amy feel like a performer, which was one of the reasons she so loved to come.
‘Right, sit there,’ said Annie, steering Amy to a plush velvet armchair leaking its stuffing from the seams. ‘You put out the food, I’m going to fix you my pat-pending pick-me-up.’
‘No, Annie, I don’t want—’
But her friend silenced her by holding up a finger and pursing her lips. ‘Annie knows best,’ she said, crossing to the tiny galley kitchen and rummaging around in the American-style fridge. ‘Besides, I always like
a squirty cream daiquiri after a hard night at the wig face,’ she added, ‘so don’t be selfish.’
Amy covered the coffee table with the little boxes of food and Annie handed her a huge glass – half cocktail, half ice-cream sundae, complete with sprinkles and a paper umbrella on the top. ‘It’s laced with Ukrainian brandy. After a while, you won’t feel a thing,’ explained Annie as Amy dutifully sipped at the concoction and found, to her surprise, that it tasted pretty good.
‘Right, you tell me everything while I get stuck into this lot,’ said Annie. ‘Leave nothing out.’
Taking a deep breath, Amy related the events of the past few days, beginning with the discovery of the Tiffany box, going through the excitement of the dance audition and ending with her tussle with Daniel’s father, pausing every now and then to blow her nose on Annie’s pastel tissues and watching in awe as Annie wolfed down satay, spring rolls and dumplings.
‘So to sum it up,’ said Annie, dabbing at her bright red lips with a napkin, ‘Daniel’s family are a bunch of hideous snobs, they don’t think you’re good enough to be an ambassador’s wife and Daniel himself has the backbone of a jellyfish.’
Amy let out a sad giggle, despite herself.
‘You got it. It would have been fine if I was a ballet dancer,’ she added softly. ‘I bet Darcey Bussell isn’t slipped business cards with a nod and a wink to come and practise the horizontal tango.’
Annie crossed the room and sat on the arm of the chair.
‘Daniel’s parents don’t want a beautiful, talented woman by their son’s side; they want a Barbie doll in Chanel who knows her place. You were never going to fit into their narrow little world, so don’t start thinking things could have been any different.’
Amy nodded silently. She knew Annie was right, that she had just been a convenient distraction for Daniel while he waited for his big break.
‘But I love him,’ she said, her voice croaking.
Sitting in the Bird’s Nest, which felt a million miles away from the formality of the Tower, all she could think of was the good times she had shared with Daniel. She had first met him at a nightclub in Chelsea – she couldn’t even remember what she was doing there, but she could remember the way he had smiled at her across the dance floor and then tracked her down with a glass of champagne that had been cold and delicious, if not quite as delicious as the way it had tasted on his lips when they had finally kissed two hours later. Quite simply, life was more exciting and magical with Daniel Lyons in it. Without him, she was a struggling dancer living in a tiny apartment three thousand miles away from home, going nowhere, dreams fading. With him, she was whisked away to a world of five star mini-breaks to Paris, Rome and Prague, where he could always speak the native language and single out the hippest hotels and the hottest bars. He made her laugh. And he had the cutest Hugh Grant accent. And the bluest eyes this side of Paul Newman. And he was good, so good in bed . . .
Too good, she thought with the realisation that sometimes crept into her thoughts.
Daniel Lyons was a superstar in whatever environment you put him in. She was an ordinary girl from Queens with a thick accent, a bad toe and a tattoo of a daisy on her shoulder obtained on a night out in Harlem after the K Double Swagg video shoot. Whatever had made her think she could be a beautiful and elegant diplomat’s wife?
‘Listen, sweetie, why don’t you go home?’
She felt Annie’s hand on her knee and looked up, attempting a smile. ‘I’m not sure the contents of my purse will stretch to a cab,’ she said, taking a last sip of her cocktail. ‘Do you mind if I pull out the sofa bed?’
‘Of course not, dimbo. But I don’t mean tonight, I mean for Christmas. I mean why don’t you go back to New York?’
Amy looked up at her friend.
‘To my mom and dad’s?’
‘Why not? It’s the holiday season, isn’t it? The perfect time to be around your family and friends and remember what’s important.’
‘Yes, and for that reason, I’m not going to get an air fare for less than a thousand bucks at this late notice.’
‘Well, I can lend it to you.’
Amy squeezed Annie’s hand.
‘That’s so sweet of you, but I’m a big girl. I’ll deal with it. I can go home in January when the flights are cheaper.’
‘In that case, you’re coming to my mum and dad’s,’ beamed Annie. ‘Can’t have you moping around on your ownsome over the festive season, can we?’
Amy was touched by the sentiment, but she had stayed at Annie’s parents’ house before. They were, if it was possible, even more eccentric than their daughter. Thomas, her father, was a children’s illustrator, but spent all his spare time working on various ‘inventions’, none of which ever saw the light of day, while her mother was a sculptor who made ends meet by running a pottery class at the local college. Their house was a large and rambling affair stranded in an unfashionable north London suburb. It was warm and welcoming, but Amy could only remember the scuttling noises in the roof and the smell of dog hair in every room, generously shed by Brunel, their ageing red setter.
‘Yes, I know it’s a madhouse, but it’ll be fun!’ said Annie, almost telepathically acknowledging her misgivings. ‘And if not, it’s certainly guaranteed to take your mind off things.’
She was right, of course, but the thought of her friend’s close-knit family made Amy long for her own, and suddenly she was overwhelmed with loneliness and the tears began to roll down her cheeks again.
‘Oh honey, what is it?’ said Annie, gathering her up against her ample bosom.
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to go home. But how? I can’t take your money and I’m totally broke.’
Annie thought for a moment.
‘What about those courier flights?’ she said. ‘You take a package on your knee – like some business documents or a donor kidney or something – and you get half-price air fare.’
‘I’ve never heard of that.’
‘They exist, I’m sure of it,’ said Annie decisively. ‘We’ll get on the internet tomorrow. But right now, I’m putting you to bed.’
Clearing away the plates and shooing Amy into the bathroom with a pair of fleecy pyjamas, Annie set about transforming the living room into a plush boudoir, complete with a fur rug thrown over the pull-out bed.
‘Ta-da!’ she said dramatically when it was done. ‘Now you just snuggle down and I guarantee you’ll feel better in the morning.’
Nodding gratefully, Amy crawled into the bed and clicked off the light. The too-big pyjamas were soft against her skin and the brandy cocktail had done the trick of making her sleepy, but still she couldn’t help going over everything in her mind.
‘I can hear you,’ called Annie in a sing-song voice from her bedroom next door.
‘You can hear me doing what?’ frowned Amy.
‘I can hear your little brain going over every last conversation. Stop it. You’ll drive yourself mad.’
Amy laughed out loud. Annie wasn’t known as a world-class agony aunt for nothing.
‘All right, all right, I’ll think about something else.’
‘Think about New York,’ called Annie. ‘Think about snow on the Empire State Building and sexy blokes skating around the Central Park ice rink in lederhosen.’
Sinking back into the pillows, Amy tried to imagine the little house on Carmichael Street, the tree trimmed with lights and baubles, the turkey on the table, her parents drinking egg nog and bickering over the bread sauce. She’d even invited Daniel to go home with her that Christmas, but there had been the usual excuses about work and family obligations, and looking back, that should have been a sign. Yes, there had been moments in their relationship that had been pure magic. A summer week in the Kefalonian village of Fiskardo, walking through the pastel-coloured harbour and drinking ouzo in the quayside bars, had been one of the best holidays of her life. She’d loved their autumn walks through Hyde Park, kicking leaves and kissing on benches, or cosying u
p in his Kensington mews house eating pizza and watching Netflix. Perhaps if she’d suggested nights out at the opera and afternoons at the polo then things would have been different now.
A tear trickled down her face and she wiped it away angrily and all her negative, defeatist thoughts with it. If Daniel Lyons didn’t like who she was, what she did, what she enjoyed doing, then screw him. Nobody in Queens ever judged her for the way she ate stupid vegetables or what she did for a living. No one on Carmichael Street ever made her feel she wasn’t good enough; on the contrary, they had always told her to get out of the old neighbourhood, to go out into the world and make something of herself, to make them proud. Back home – her real home – she was the star of the glee club, the girl-next-door made good, the little Carrell girl who had danced her way clean across to Europe. Sure, there would always be some people who would take a certain delight in her not quite having made it to the top, but screw them too. Amy allowed herself a smile; she could feel her old self creeping back, little by little. And what did she have to feel bad about anyway?
She was twenty-six and already she had danced on Broadway and in Berlin and the West End. To the goombahs back in Queens she was a star already, and she knew that simply being with them would make her feel infinitely better about herself. But the smile on her lips faded as she remembered that she was still three thousand miles from home and that her bank balance would not cope with the strain of the flight. Before Daniel – before the broken toe – money had been tight, but she had coped. Dancers didn’t exactly get paid a fortune, but when you were in a show, you danced eight performances a week and slept on your day off, so there was never time to spend what little you made. Being out of work for so long, despite the fortnightly pay packet from the Forge, had depleted her bank balance. No, depleted didn’t quite cover it: her bank account was empty. If you’d thrown a dime into it, it would have echoed.
Realising she was never going to sleep now, she sat up and clicked on the little lamp next to the sofa. She could hear Annie snoring loudly next door so she knew she wasn’t going to disturb her friend.
The Proposal Page 3
