by Ken Follett
Eva was looking sympathetic. Her pity stung Daisy. Eva’s father was thousands of miles away, and she might never see him again, but she felt sorry for Daisy, as if Daisy’s plight was worse.
It made Daisy feel defiant. She would not let this ruin her day. ‘Well, I’ll be the only girl in Buffalo who has been stood up for Gladys Angelus,’ she said. ‘Now, what shall I wear?’
Skirts were dramatically short this year in Paris, but the conservative Buffalo set followed fashion at a distance. However, Daisy had a knee-length tennis dress in a shade of baby-blue the same as her eyes. Maybe today was the day to bring it out. She slipped off her dress and put on the new one. ‘What do you think?’ she said.
Eva said: ‘Oh, Daisy, it’s beautiful, but . . .’
Olga said: ‘That’ll make their eyes pop.’ Olga liked it when Daisy dressed to kill. Perhaps it reminded her of her youth.
Eva said: ‘Daisy, if they’re all so snobbish, why do you want to go to the party?’
‘Charlie Farquharson will be there, and I’m thinking of marrying him,’ Daisy said.
‘Are you serious?’
Olga said emphatically: ‘He’s a great catch.’
Eva said: ‘What’s he like?’
‘Absolutely adorable,’ Daisy said. ‘Not the handsomest boy in Buffalo, but sweet and kind, and rather shy.’
‘He sounds very different from you.’
‘It’s the attraction of opposites.’
Olga spoke again. ‘The Farquharsons are among the oldest families in Buffalo.’
Eva raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Snobby?’
‘Very,’ Daisy said. ‘But Charlie’s father lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, then died – killed himself, some say – so they need to restore the family fortunes.’
Eva looked shocked. ‘You’re hoping he’ll marry you for your money?’
‘No. He’ll marry me because I will bewitch him. But his mother will accept me for my money.’
‘You say you will bewitch him. Does he know about any of this?’
‘Not yet. But I think I might make a start this afternoon. Yes, this is definitely the right dress.’
Daisy wore the baby-blue and Eva the navy-and-white stripes. By the time they had got ready they were late.
Daisy’s mother would not have a chauffeur. ‘I married my father’s chauffeur, and it ruined my life,’ she sometimes said. She was terrified Daisy might do something similar – that was why she was so keen on Charlie Farquharson. If she needed to go anywhere in her creaking 1925 Stutz she made Henry, the gardener, take off his rubber boots and put on a black suit. But Daisy had her own car, a red Chevrolet Sport Coupe.
Daisy liked driving, loved the power and speed of it. They headed south out of the city. She was almost sorry it was only five or six miles to the beach.
As she drove she thought about life as Charlie’s wife. With her money and his status they would become the leading couple in Buffalo society. At their dinner parties the table settings would be so elegant that people would gasp in delight. They would have the biggest yacht in the harbour, and throw on-board parties for other wealthy, fun-loving couples. People would yearn for an invitation from Mrs Charles Farquharson. No charity function would be a success without Daisy and Charlie at the top table. In her head she watched a movie of herself, in a ravishing Paris gown, walking through a crowd of admiring men and women, smiling graciously at their compliments.
She was still daydreaming when they reached their destination.
The city of Buffalo was in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Woodlawn Beach was a mile of sand on the shore of Lake Erie. Daisy parked and they walked across the dunes.
Fifty or sixty people were already there. These were the adolescent children of the Buffalo elite, a privileged group who spent their summers sailing and water-skiing in the daytime and going to parties and dances at night. Daisy greeted the people she knew, which was just about everyone, and introduced Eva around. They got glasses of punch. Daisy tasted it cautiously: some of the boys would think it hilarious to spike the drink with a couple of bottles of gin.
The party was for Dot Renshaw, a sharp-tongued girl whom no one wanted to marry. The Renshaws were an old Buffalo family, like the Farquharsons, but their fortune had survived the crash. Daisy made sure to approach the host, Dot’s father, and thank him. ‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ she said. ‘I lost track of time!’
Philip Renshaw looked her up and down. ‘That’s a very short skirt.’ Disapproval vied with lasciviousness in his expression.
‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Daisy replied, pretending he had paid her a straightforward compliment.
‘Anyway, it’s good that you’re here at last,’ he went on. ‘A photographer from the Sentinel is coming and we must have some pretty girls in the picture.’
Daisy muttered to Eva: ‘So that’s why I was invited. How kind of him to let me know.’
Dot came up. She had a thin face with a pointed nose. Daisy always thought she looked as if she might peck you. ‘I thought you were going with your father to meet the President,’ she said.
Daisy felt mortified. She wished she had not boasted to everyone about this.
‘I see he took his, ahem, leading lady,’ Dot went on. ‘Unusual, that sort of thing, in the White House.’
Daisy said: ‘I guess the President likes to meet movie stars occasionally. He deserves a little glamour, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t imagine that Eleanor Roosevelt approved. According to the Sentinel, all the other men took their wives.’
‘How thoughtful of them.’ Daisy turned away, desperate to escape.
She spotted Charlie Farquharson, trying to erect a net for beach tennis. He was too good-natured to mock her about Gladys Angelus. ‘How are you, Charlie?’ she said brightly.
‘Fine, I guess.’ He stood up, a tall man of about twenty-five, a little overweight, stooping slightly as if he feared his height might be intimidating.
Daisy introduced Eva. Charlie was sweetly awkward in company, especially with girls, but he made an effort and asked Eva how she liked America, and what she heard from her family back in Berlin.
Eva asked him if he was enjoying the picnic.
‘Not much,’ he said candidly. ‘I’d rather be at home with my dogs.’
No doubt he found pets easier to deal with than girls, Daisy thought. But the mention of dogs was interesting. ‘What kind of dogs do you have?’ she asked.
‘Jack Russell terriers.’
Daisy made a mental note.
An angular woman of about fifty approached. ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, haven’t you got that net up yet?’
‘Almost there, Mom,’ he said.
Nora Farquharson was wearing a gold tennis bracelet, diamond ear studs, and a Tiffany necklace; more jewellery than she really needed for a picnic. The Farquharsons’ poverty was relative, Daisy reflected. They said they had lost everything, but Mrs Farquharson still had a maid and a chauffeur and a couple of horses for riding in the park.
Daisy said: ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Farquharson. This is my friend Eva Rothmann from Berlin.’
‘How do you do,’ said Nora Farquharson without offering her hand. She felt no need to be friendly towards arriviste Russians, much less their Jewish guests.
Then she seemed to be struck by a thought. ‘Ah, Daisy, you could go round and find out who wants to play tennis.’
Daisy knew she was being treated somewhat as a servant, but she decided to be compliant. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Mixed doubles, I suggest.’
‘Good idea.’ Mrs Farquharson held out a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. ‘Write the names down.’
Daisy smiled sweetly and took a gold pen and a little beige leather notebook from her bag. ‘I’m equipped.’
She knew who the tennis players were, good and bad. She belonged to the Racquet Club, which was not as exclusive as the Yacht Club. She paired Eva with Chuck Dewar, the fourteen-year-old son
of Senator Dewar. She put Joanne Rouzrokh with the older Dewar boy, Woody, only fifteen but already as tall as his beanpole father. Naturally she herself would be Charlie’s partner.
Daisy was startled to come across a somewhat familiar face and to recognize her half-brother, Greg, the son of Marga. They did not meet often, and she had not seen him for a year. In that time he seemed to have become a man. He was six inches taller, and although still only fifteen he had the dark shadow of a beard. As a child he had been dishevelled, and that had not changed. He wore his expensive clothes carelessly: the sleeves of the blazer rolled up, the striped tie loose at the neck, the linen pants sea-wet and sandy at the cuffs.
Daisy was always embarrassed to run into Greg. He was a living reminder of how their father had rejected Daisy and her mother in favour of Greg and Marga. Many married men had affairs, she knew; but her father’s indiscretion showed up at parties for everyone to see. Father should have moved Marga and Greg to New York, where nobody knew anybody, or to California, where no one saw anything wrong with adultery. Here they were a permanent scandal, and Greg was part of the reason people looked down on Daisy.
He asked her politely how she was, and she answered: ‘Angry as heck, if you want to know. Father’s let me down – again.’
Greg said guardedly: ‘What did he do?’
‘Asked me to go to the White House with him – then took that tart Gladys Angelus. Now everyone’s laughing at me.’
‘It must have been good publicity for Passion, her new film.’
‘You always take his side because he prefers you to me.’
Greg looked irritated. ‘Maybe that’s because I admire him instead of complaining about him all the time.’
‘I don’t—’ Daisy was about to deny complaining all the time when she realized it was true. ‘Well, maybe I do complain, but he should keep his promises, shouldn’t he?’
‘He has so much on his mind.’
‘Maybe he shouldn’t have two mistresses as well as a wife.’
Greg shrugged. ‘It’s a lot to handle.’
They both noticed the unintentional double entendre, and after a moment they giggled.
Daisy said: ‘Well, I guess I shouldn’t blame you. You didn’t ask to be born.’
‘And I should probably forgive you for taking my father away from me three nights a week – no matter how I cried and begged him to stay.’
Daisy had never thought of it that way. In her mind, Greg was the usurper, the illegitimate child who kept stealing her father. But now she realized that he felt as hurt as she did.
She stared at him. Some girls might find him attractive, she guessed. He was too young for Eva, though. And he would probably turn out as selfish and unreliable as their father.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘do you play tennis?’
He shook his head. ‘They don’t let people like me into the Racquet Club.’ He forced an insouciant grin, and Daisy realized that, like her, Greg felt rejected by Buffalo society. ‘Ice hockey’s my sport,’ he said.
‘Too bad.’ She moved on.
When she had enough names, she returned to Charlie, who had finally got the net up. She sent Eva to round up the first foursome. Then she said to Charlie: ‘Help me make a competition tree.’
They knelt side by side and drew a diagram in the sand with heats, semi-finals and a final. While they were entering the names, Charlie said: ‘Do you like the movies?’
Daisy wondered if he was about to ask her for a date. ‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Have you seen Passion, by any chance?’
‘No, Charlie, I haven’t seen it,’ she said in a tone of exasperation. ‘It stars my father’s mistress.’
He was shocked. ‘The papers say they’re just good friends.’
‘And why do you think Miss Angelus, who is barely twenty, is so friendly with my forty-year-old father?’ Daisy asked sarcastically. ‘Do you think she likes his receding hairline? Or his little paunch? Or his fifty million dollars?’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Charlie, looking abashed. ‘Sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t be sorry. I’m being kind of bitchy. You’re not like everyone else – you don’t automatically think the worst of people.’
‘I guess I’m just dumb.’
‘No. You’re just nice.’
Charlie looked embarrassed, but pleased.
‘Let’s get on with this,’ Daisy said. ‘We have to rig it so that the best players get through to the final.’
Nora Farquharson reappeared. She looked at Charlie and Daisy kneeling side by side in the sand, then studied their drawing.
Charlie said: ‘Pretty good, Mom, don’t you think?’ He longed for approval from her, that was obvious.
‘Very good.’ She gave Daisy an appraising look, like a mother dog seeing a stranger approach her puppies.
‘Charlie did most of it,’ Daisy said.
‘No, he didn’t,’ Mrs Farquharson said bluntly. Her gaze went to Charlie and back. ‘You’re a smart girl,’ she said. She looked as if she were about to add something, but hesitated.
‘What?’ said Daisy.
‘Nothing.’ She turned away.
Daisy stood up. ‘I know what she was thinking,’ she murmured to Eva.
‘What?’
‘You’re a smart girl – almost good enough for my son, if you came from a better family.’
Eva was sceptical. ‘You can’t know that.’
‘I sure can. And I’ll marry him if only to prove his mother wrong.’
‘Oh, Daisy, why do you care so much what these people think?’
‘Let’s watch the tennis.’
Daisy sat on the sand beside Charlie. He might not be handsome, but he would worship his wife and do anything for her. The mother-in-law would be a problem, but Daisy thought she could handle her.
Tall Joanne Rouzrokh was serving, in a white skirt that flattered her long legs. Her partner, Woody Dewar, who was even taller, handed her a tennis ball. Something in the way he looked at Joanne made Daisy think he was attracted to her, maybe even in love with her. But he was fifteen and she eighteen, so there was no future in that.
She turned to Charlie. ‘Maybe I should see Passion after all,’ she said.
He did not take the hint. ‘Maybe you should,’ he said indifferently. The moment had passed.
Daisy turned to Eva. ‘I wonder where I could buy a Jack Russell terrier?’
(ii)
Lev Peshkov was the best father a guy could have – or, at least, he would have been, if he had been around more. He was rich and generous, he was smarter than anybody, he was even well dressed. He had probably been handsome when he was younger, and even now women threw themselves at him. Greg Peshkov adored him, and his only complaint was that he did not see enough of him.
‘I should have sold this fucking foundry when I had the chance,’ Lev said as they walked around the silent, deserted factory. ‘It was losing money even before the goddamned strike. I should stick to cinemas and bars.’ He wagged a didactic finger. ‘People always buy booze, in good times and bad. And they go to the movies even when they can’t afford to. Never forget that.’
Greg was pretty sure his father did not often make mistakes in business. ‘So why did you keep it?’ he said.
‘Sentiment,’ Lev replied. ‘When I was your age, I worked in a place like this, the Putilov Machine Factory in St Petersburg.’ He looked around at the furnaces, moulds, hoists, lathes and workbenches. ‘Actually, it was a lot worse.’
The Buffalo Metal Works made fans of all sizes, including huge propellers for ships. Greg was fascinated by the mathematics of the curved blades. He was top of his class in math. ‘Were you an engineer?’ he asked.
Lev grinned. ‘I tell people that, if I need to impress them,’ he said. ‘But the truth is, I looked after the horses. I was a stable boy. I was never good with machines. That was my brother Grigori’s talent. You take after him. All the same, never buy a foundry.’
‘I won’t.
’
Greg was to spend the summer shadowing his father, learning the business. Lev had just got back from Los Angeles, and Greg’s lessons had begun today. But he did not want to know about the foundry. He was good at math but he was interested in power. He wished his father would take him on one of his frequent trips to Washington to lobby for the movie industry. That was where the real decisions were made.
He was looking forward to lunch. He and his father were to meet Senator Gus Dewar. Greg wanted to ask a favour of Senator Dewar. However, he had not yet cleared this with his father. He was nervous about asking, and instead he said: ‘Do you ever hear of your brother in Leningrad?’
Lev shook his head. ‘Not since the war. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dead. A lot of old Bolsheviks have disappeared.’
‘Speaking of family, I saw my half-sister on Saturday. She was at the beach picnic.’
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘She’s mad at you, did you know that?’
‘What have I done now?’
‘You said you’d take her to the White House, then you took Gladys Angelus.’
‘That’s true. I forgot. But I wanted the publicity for Passion.’
They were approached by a tall man whose striped suit was loud even by current fashions. He touched the brim of his fedora and said: ‘Morning, boss.’
Lev said to Greg: ‘Joe Brekhunov is in charge of security here. Joe, this is my son Greg.’
‘Pleased to meet ya,’ said Brekhunov.
Greg shook his hand. Like most factories, the foundry had its own police force. But Brekhunov looked more like a hoodlum than a cop.
‘All quiet?’ Lev asked.
‘A little incident in the night,’ Brekhunov said. ‘Two machinists tried to heist a length of fifteen-inch steel bar, aircraft quality. We caught them trying to manhandle it over the fence.’
Greg said: ‘Did you call the police?’
‘It wasn’t necessary.’ Brekhunov grinned. ‘We gave them a little talk about the concept of private property, and sent them to the hospital to think about it.’
Greg was not surprised to learn that his father’s security men beat thieves so badly that they had to go to hospital. Although Lev had never struck him or his mother, Greg felt that violence was never far below his father’s charming surface. It was because of Lev’s youth in the slums of Leningrad, he guessed.
