The options went round and round in her mind. She could simply wait here, miss her flight, go and explain, get her bags back. But then what? Slink back to the cottage? Spend the time suffering her parents’ censure? Go to a bed and breakfast in some retro seaside town? She’d still be on her own and she’d still be miserable.
She straightened up. What was she so worried about? She had a hotel room booked. It was only two weeks, for heaven’s sake. She could sit on the beach, enjoy the sun, read books, chill out. No one would know her. What did it matter? She might even enjoy it. And did she need a toy bear for comfort? Even one she’d treasured since childhood? She checked the departure board. The flight to Nice was delayed and she had another hour to wait. Picking up her bag, she stood up. She didn’t have a plan. She’d just have a look at the shops, maybe see if the newsagent had a guide book to the south of France or take a look at the duty free. It would all be fine.
Cameras. There they were. Rows of them. Neatly lined on shelves behind glass windows. Little cameras, pocket cameras, video cameras, cameras to sneer at, and cameras to die for. Black ones, silver ones, pink ones. Cameras with tiny built in zoom lenses and cameras with sophisticated interchangeable professional gear. Automatic cameras. Cameras with the capacity for infinite manual control.
Daisy, forgetting her situation, was transported with delight. Peering at the array of equipment on offer, she realised that she couldn’t even remember the last time she had been in a camera shop. For the best part of a decade, she’d been supplied with all her photographic needs. The equipment she’d used at the paper had hardly been state of the art, but it had been adequate. Now it occurred to her that the digital camera she had in her pocket was probably more suited to taking the odd snap on a drunken night out than anything affording the slightest bit of professional self respect.
‘Can I help you?’
The young assistant had come up on her shoulder as she peered at a fantastic-looking piece of high technology. Riveted by the camera, it took her a few seconds to focus on the youth’s face. Youth? Heavens, he looked as though he was barely out of school. His skin had the kind of spottiness she associated with teenagers struggling with the emergence of adult hormones. His lank hair looked unwashed and greasy. Didn’t they vet their staff?
‘Can you tell me about this one?’ She indicated the most expensive camera she’d seen on display.
‘Yeah, sure, that’s more aimed at the professional,’ he started. ‘It’s a bit complicated. Perhaps I could start by showing you this …’
Something in Daisy’s head exploded. She had lost the love of her life. She had become estranged from her best friend. She had completely messed up a relationship that might have become really special. She had lost her job. She’d been abandoned at the airport on her way to a country where she knew no one and could hardly speak the language. And to cap it all, she was being patronised by this spotty twit.
‘And that’s precisely why I’m interested in it,’ she said, holding back her anger and focusing perversely on the camera, which was way more expensive than she’d been considering. ‘So if you’d kindly allow me to look at it.’
It should never have happened. If he’d been just a little more respectful it never would have happened, but somehow, half an hour later, Daisy walked out of the shop the proud owner of an extremely expensive bit of kit and with a credit card that was taking the strain of the heavier side of three thousand pounds. She’d been in a daze when she’d gone in. When she came out, she was excited to the point of euphoria and by the time she looked at the departures board, she realised with a shock that she had just a few minutes to get to her gate. She rushed onto the plane in a complete funk. What had she done? She was totally without means of support and she’d blown a goodly part of her redundancy money on a camera. Was that a mature, grown-up thing to do?
She gazed distractedly out of the window as they soared heavenwards through the cloud. The land below them disappeared and they emerged into a space filled with bright sunshine. It was the first time Daisy had seen the sun for some days. It was an uplifting moment. All at once she was in another world, a world full of hope and light, and who knows, maybe joy. Miraculously, the sunshine transformed her mood. It was just plastic. It wasn’t real money. She could justify it – after all, she was a photographer and what kind of a photographer didn’t have a decent camera?
‘Would you like a drink, madam?’
She glanced at her watch. It was just past midday. ‘It’s a bit early,’ she said dubiously, thinking desperately that a glass of wine would actually slip down rather nicely.
‘I will if you will.’ The voice came from the man in the aisle seat.
Daisy looked at him across the empty seat between them. He looked like a businessman. He was probably around sixty, was dressed in a lightweight business suit, with a crisp white shirt and an extremely bright silk tie. His hair was grey but abundant and his eyes, behind silver-rimmed glasses, were amused and friendly. He was smiling at her.
‘I’ve just lost my job,’ Daisy said, apropos of nothing at all. She hadn’t meant to. It just came out.
‘Then it’s on me.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean … I can buy my own … I wasn’t asking –’ she blurted out, embarrassed.
He laughed. ‘Shall we have champagne?’
‘Oh I …’
‘Don’t you like champagne?
‘I love it, but –’
‘No buts. I insist. Now,’ he went on when the bottles were in front of them and the cabin crew had moved on, ‘are you going to tell me about it?’
So Daisy Irvine found herself telling her story to a complete stranger and discovering that the experience was oddly comforting.
Chapter Two
The hotel, near the station, seemed to be fine. It was comparatively new and nicely decorated, the room was clean and she had a nice view of the street, with all its comings and goings. The sea was just ten minutes’ walk away, the station ten in the other direction, and Nice’s picturesque old town was a brief walk to the east – but there were snags. The walls were paper thin, the rubbish collection took place every night at one, the street cleaners followed along at two, and at six in the morning the hotel took its deliveries for the day. To compound all this, the bedroom doors were heavier than the walls and were self closing, which resulted not only in constant banging, but also an alarming kind of juddering and shaking of what seemed to be the whole fabric of the building. Two days later Daisy was at screaming point and after three she was ready to murder someone.
‘Please, have you got another room? A quieter one?’
The girl on Reception was polite, but unmoved. She shrugged and spread her hands helplessly. ‘Sorry. Ze hotel, he ees very busy. Ze rooms zey are all full.’
‘At the back? Do you have a room at the back?’ If she was insistent enough, perhaps the girl would find something. ‘Could you look again please?’
A shake of the head. ‘Sorry, madame. Complet.’
Daisy was close to tears. She couldn’t stay here another night. She didn’t know what to do. She had to get out, do something, go somewhere. Turning, she pushed open the door and felt the full heat of the sun blasting into her face. She’d walk around, go into other hotels, find somewhere, anywhere.
The business card was in her pocket. She felt it while she was trying to pull out a tissue to blow her nose. Not that she was crying, of course, her eyes must be watering because she was so tired.
Daniel Bryce, Art Dealer .
The man on the plane. She’d slipped his card in her pocket while they were chatting. ‘Give me a call. I’ll be in Nice for a week or two,’ he’d said. In her nervousness and her excitement at exploring the town, she’d forgotten about it. He’d been nice. Genuinely sympathetic. He didn’t have to give her his card. It would have been easy to say au revoir when they left the plane. On an impulse, she found her mobile and dialled the number.
‘Hi Daniel. It’s Daisy Irvine here. Fro
m the plane? I hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘Daisy! Hello. You still in town? Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes. No.’ That sounded confused. ‘I mean, yes, I’m here.’
‘But you’re not enjoying yourself.’
‘Not really,’ she confessed. ‘The hotel’s very noisy and I’m not getting much sleep –’ Her voice tailed away. For goodness’ sake, Daisy, she chided herself, don’t be such a drip. Why would anyone want to talk to such a misery? ‘I love Nice, though,’ she added hastily, trying to sound more cheerful, ‘and I’ve seen lots of things. Anyway, I thought I’d say hi.’
‘Hi. Got time for breakfast?’
‘Sure. Lovely. Thanks.’
They met at a small café near the sea front. He wasn’t alone. He was with a small, shiny-eyed, balding man dressed very stylishly in the palest of grey suits. Daniel said, ‘Daisy,’ and kissed her three times on the cheeks, before introducing him. ‘This is Monsieur Lefèvre.’
This time, it was her hand that was taken and kissed, in a charming gesture of old-world courtesy. ‘Enchanté’.
‘So, you’re not enjoying Nice?’
‘It’s lovely.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d love to get to know it better. But,’ she shrugged. She’d told Daniel about her job, she didn’t need to explain again.
‘Work? I’ve been thinking about that. In fact, I was talking to M. Lefèvre when you called.’
The little man beamed at her. ‘I was sayeeng to M. Bryce zat I do a lot of work for ze new Musée Jaune near the Matisse Museum. Eet ees a collection of objéts – objects – not paintings. Vessels, céramiques, glass, jewellery, paper, metalwork. Fantastique.’ He spread his hands expressively, his dark eyes darting from Daniel to Daisy and back. ‘Beautiful objéts. A private collection. The objéts, they are owned by a wealthy woman, an Américaine.’ He leaned forward, his arms in front of him on the table, his head just a foot from Daisy’s. ‘Zey need a photographe. A photographer, you say. Just to record ze objects, you understand. Eet ees not glamourous work. Set up ze object, cleek,’ he held an imaginary camera in front of his eyes and pressed the shutter, ‘put eet away, zen out with ze next one, cleek. Of course, ze light, eet must be parfait and zat ees not so easy, I sink? But you can do zat, yes?’
He looked at her expectantly. Daisy, seeing the fabulous objects in her mind’s eye, set pristine and beautiful in a room of perfect white, took a moment to catch up. ‘Me? But I …’
Daniel said, ‘Why not? What’s to stop you?’
‘But I … I don’t have anywhere to stay. I don’t have many clothes with me.’ Excuses tumbled out. It was so unexpected, so sudden, so terribly outside her comfort zone. Her French was poor. She had a return ticket for Saturday. She should go home because …
Why? Why go home? The sun was blissfully warm. Just yards away was the Mediterranean, its vivid blue the exact colour of the tour operator’s propaganda. What was there to draw her home?
‘The contract would be for the summer, Daisy. It’s a matter of recording the collection and once that’s done, the job may be complete. Of course, you’d need to see the Director, Madame Prenier, for an interview, but I imagine if my friend here recommends you, it’s a formality.’
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her lips moved as she thought about it all, screwing up first to one side, then the other. She looked at Daniel. Then at Monsieur Lefèvre. It was unreal. If Sharon had been here, this would never have happened. But what did she have to lose? She smiled. Her mouth relaxed, she felt alive in an excited, nervous, ridiculous kind of way. Her world had just opened up and she had no idea what lay in front of her.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Just ... wow.’
Chapter Three
Dear Lizzie,
Nice is very nice. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s an old joke but still, it’s true.
Did you hear about Shagger? She got engaged to Sir Cosmo Fleming! Guess it was something he’d been trying to predict for ages. Which meant she didn’t come here with me. Unexpected, huh? But I decided to come anyway and boy, am I glad I did because guess what? I’ve been offered a job already!
Yup. Photographer-general at a new museum of objects. Don’t know how long I’ll stay – the summer, at least. So I’m afraid I’ll have to give you notice on the room in the cottage because I can’t afford to keep it and pay the rent here too. Sorry. Truly. But time to move on anyway, wouldn’t you say? I’ve asked Mum if she can drop by for my things sometime in the next few days – she’ll give you a ring first to make sure you’ll be in.
Hope life’s a dream. Take care of Ben, have fun,
Lots of love,
Daisy xxx
Daisy sealed the letter to Lizzie after three drafts. Achieving a natural tone had been the big challenge and she had to take care with the words.
The last week had been a whirl of activity – meeting la directrice at the museum and, apparently passing some sort of interview; delightedly checking out of the hotel and into L’Hirondelle, a small pension; buying a whole new set of clothes on her wilting credit card; starting work.
It was a big step. She was more alone than she had ever been, but she had surprised herself in a hundred ways. For a start, her French was better than she could possibly have anticipated. Five years of schooling had not been completely wasted. She found the local accent difficult and her efforts weren’t helped by everyone wanting to speak English with her, but hearing the language all around her, watching television, reading the local newspapers all helped to bring the lessons back.
She started her job. The work could not have been more different from life at The Herald. Instead of days filled by rushing from shoot to shoot or snatching quick people shots, she had all the time in the world to set up an object, light it, get the image precisely and absolutely right. Perfection was what was needed and the change of pace, far from being tedious, was balm to her bruised soul.
She settled into her new accommodation. The room was small, but bright and self-contained, having its own tiny kitchen, a small en suite bathroom, and – delight of delights – a balcony, from which she could just see the sea above the rooftops of old Nice. Three floors below was the narrow street, not on the tourist radar but full of small shops where locals bought their bread, fruit, and wine and all the makings of the delicious meals that were the hallmark of French life. From the street below, Daisy could already smell the delicious aroma of garlic frying. Soon it would be time to make her own supper.
She smiled. First she had to complete her break with the past. The next letter was easy.
Dear Jay,
I was so pleased to hear about the new job. Back on the telly again, huh? That’s where you belong and I’m sure the fashion-for-men show will be the first of many great contracts to follow.
I’m so glad you and Amelia are back together. It was very kind of you to invite me to stay at your riverside warehouse conversion if I’m in London – it sounds fab! In the meantime, though, I have taken a job in the south of France, photographing wonderful objects for a new museum in Nice. Quite a change from dashing around East Lothian!
I just wanted to thank you for everything. You did a great job at The Herald, don’t think you didn’t. The closure just reflects the whole newspaper industry at the moment.
Just wanted to say thanks for everything – and good luck.
All best,
Daisy
Now for Sharon. Sharon, who had bossed her around for years. Sharon, who’d thrown Tiny Ted in the river. Sharon, who’d let her down by abandoning her at the airport.
Sharon who had been lonely and who had found love.
Dear Sharon,
Congrats on your engagement. Cosmo must be seeing stars! (ha ha). But he’s the right man for you, I’m sure of it.
You really missed yourself here – Nice is just the best. The sea is a blue to die for, the sun never fails, and the food and wine are tops. So good, in fact, I’ve decided to stay.
Look after Cosmo, won’
t you, he’s such a dear.
All best,
Daisy
Photographe-general, La Musée Jaune, Nice
She liked that one. Short and simple. Adding her new job title as a sign-off was a great touch. What would Sharon make of that? She’d love to see her face when she read it. But Sharon would be very good at Fleming House. She was energetic and organised. She’d find a way of managing Lady Fleming – years of practice as a journalist meant that she knew how to get what she wanted out of people. As for Cosmo, he’d blossom under Sharon’s touch.
She laid down her pen and wandered inside for some water. The bottle in the fridge was delightfully cold. She sipped from it greedily.
Should she write to Jack? She still felt a dark hole inside her whenever she thought of him, but the feelings that had dominated her emotional life for the past eighteen months were changing. They were less raw. A scab was growing over the wound. From time to time she still felt compelled to scratch it, but like all healthy scabs, the crust round the edge was beginning to drop away and the remnant was getting smaller. Thoughtfully, Daisy picked up her pen. She was closing doors. She needed to close this one as well.
Dear Jack and Iris,
Not sure when I’ll see you both again but hope the wedding goes well. I’m planning on staying in France for a bit – got a new job. Say thanks to your friend Carol, Iris, and sorry about squashing your bedding plants.
Daisy
No kisses this time.
Jack and Iris. He’d swapped one flower for another, she realised suddenly, and laughed out loud. That was funny. On the balcony next door, a dark head turned at the sound and she was aware of a face of great beauty, of olive-brown skin and dark eyes and a smile of infectious brilliance. She smiled in return. The sense of emerging from a dark place into sunshine intensified. Jack and Iris. So be it.
Maximum Exposure: The Heartlands Series Page 18
