That was rare.
‘It’s a big job,’ I told him. ‘It would take months. And I’d need an assistant, probably. You’d be into substantial costs.’
‘That’s not a problem. I had in mind your coming for part of the summer and staying in the house as my guest, to make it easier. I’d be in Manhattan during the week. I have a cook and maid to see to all your needs and I hope you’d allow me to entertain you at weekends.’
Did I need that in my life? At my age, being chased round the ex-wife’s furniture, even before the new was installed?
‘I’ll need to sleep on it,’ I said, wishing I’d chosen another expression. ‘Send me an email and I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.’
Lying in bed, I considered it long and hard. Only the pinpoint reading light was on and the bedroom looked soft and shadowy, ivory and apricot, with the scent of some lily-of-the-valley in a vase, deliciously intense. A huge pine armoire and hand-painted French dressing screen gave the room height and form. My bed was sumptuously comfortable, but it was the size of a playground, built for a ménage à trois or even à cinq.
I stretched out a toe and felt the cool barren expanse. I had a clear recollection of Warren Lindsay, the grey-speckled hair, his crinkly, earnest gaze and the meaner frown when speaking of his wife. He’d made quite an impression. I could even remember the sense of anti-climax I’d felt when he hadn’t suggested dinner as expected.
Did I want to be away most of the summer, missing the best of my South of France garden? It would mean giving up a few summery weekends in Norfolk, too. I made the journey for those. It was boring and selfish of Charles, fossilizing up there for the rest of the year with his deadline and love of his crumbling creeper-clad home.
Would Stephanie move in, man the office and cat-mind? She was elderly, my PA, and lived alone; she’d probably quite enjoy it. I’d done up a house in Connecticut, an apartment in New York, I knew the American scene. And I should be able to find an assistant, someone to do the legwork, the inevitable running around.
Everything seemed to be pointing to heading out west this summer, but I’d known that right away really, talking to Warren Lindsay on the phone.
Chapter 2
Daisy stared at the text. She’d been drifting off, but heard it come through and knew it would be Simon. Fuck, what did she do now? Call Susannah Forbes first thing in the morning and say she was ill? That was bound to ring false. It would need to be some pretty high drama; a headache was hardly going to do. Daisy bit on her lip, wide awake now, her heart thumping with indecision. She could always tell the truth, of course – that her married lover was suddenly free and she was incapable of turning him away.
A familiar ache of longing rose like quicksilver and snaked through her body, taking instant hold. She imagined Simon rushing her upstairs as he always did, the fierce silent lovemaking, the heaven of it when he stayed on afterwards, sitting about in the kitchen as though he belonged. Daisy gave a deep sigh. She knew he’d never leave his wife, however much he bitched about her. She was the moneybags. He talked big about doing deals, but was employed by her, in fact, helping with the accessories shops she owned; his children were still very young as well. Daisy was everything to him, he said, but they were empty words.
So what, if she had to ditch Susannah Forbes? It had been a mad impulse, asking her, a vague cockeyed hope of something flowing from it, some miraculous lead into who knew what? Would Susannah agree to postpone lunch? But it wouldn’t happen, not if she cancelled this time, Daisy thought miserably; stuff always got in the way. And now she was going to worry all night and look a shagged-out, bag-eyed wreck for Simon into the bargain.
She texted him back. Can u make it 3? Old bird to lunch, bit diff to chuck. Need to c u, burning up. xx. Worth a try, after all. His timing could be elastic – he didn’t live by lunch-hours, and sex came before food in Simon’s book; her cooking was never a priority. Daisy grimaced. He could have the remains of Susannah’s lunch for his tea.
He rang early in the morning while she was still running a gamut of excuses in her head. ‘Three o’clock’s better, in fact,’ he said. ‘I was thinking I mightn’t be able to make it – someone I need to see. Anyone I know, this bint who’s coming to lunch who’s so important to you?’
‘She’s not! You are. I’ll tell you about her over tea.’ Daisy felt quite light-headed.
It made precautionary sense, she felt, to call Susannah and suggest she came at twelve-thirty. Frustratingly, her phone was on voicemail; Daisy left a message.
She would wear the shell-pink cashmere top that Simon liked, a grey flared skirt and ankle boots, but jeans while she cooked. Wild mushroom risotto, she’d thought. The final stage could be done with Susannah there. They’d be eating at the kitchen table, after all – she could sit with a drink. Daisy prepared a tomato and basil salad, washed a garden lettuce and mixed up a lemony dressing. Its piquant scent tingled her nose and cut into the smell of the onions sautéing in the heavy cast-iron pan. Homemade lemon and lime ice cream, thinly sliced oranges; there was a delicious gorgonzola stinking out the fridge, the reduced-price grapes . . . Daisy cooked a batch of gooey brownies while she was at it. Simon could have some later.
She checked round. The sitting room was looking fresh and summery, despite it being a cold windy April. It almost resembled a room set for a Noël Coward play with the baby grand piano that had been her mother’s – which took up half the room – and Daisy’s extravagance of armfuls of fragrant, creamy-pink Angélique tulips. She felt wired up with tension, fiddling, rearranging the flowers. How would it be with Susannah? Two weeks had passed since the Wilsons’ dinner . . .
The house, two tiny Battersea cottages knocked through, was still small and a squash when her six-foot sons were home. Daisy had designed a glass extension to the kitchen that showcased her exuberant little back yard. She loved the house, but it had to go; it would be hard on the boys when they weren’t yet earning and couldn’t have flat-shares, but they’d just have to cut their cloth and bring friends to a grottier home.
It was her own house, bought with money left to her by her mother and a small mortgage. Peter, her ex-husband, had taken over the repayments and his lawyer had made much of that, pleading his client’s current straitened circumstances, which was a sick joke. What Peter contributed now barely covered the boys’ upkeep. They weren’t his children, he said. No matter that he’d lived with them for twelve years, that their father had disappeared untraceably to New Zealand immediately after the divorce.
Daisy seethed. No greater shit than Peter existed. All the women, all he’d done to her . . . She was glad now that he’d set his face against more children, hard as she’d pleaded early on and however much she’d longed for them.
She was still brooding when the doorbell rang. Zipping her boots, she raced downstairs and was breathless, opening the door. Susannah had come by taxi; it was turning round in the small cul-de-sac. ‘There’s a delicious fight going on over the road,’ she said, looking round over her shoulder. ‘Those two women have been turning the air blue; they reversed into the same meter space and now they’re trying to shunt each other out.’
‘And swearing like navvies,’ Daisy said. ‘Just hark at ’em! There’s a warden coming – bet he finds a way to give them both a ticket. Come on in. It’s fabulous of you to come slumming it over here. I felt guilty even asking.’
Susannah took off a cuddly-looking grey wool jacket and flung it onto the hall chair. She wandered ahead, peering into the sitting room and down to the large square kitchen and its extension into the garden. ‘Is this décor all you?’ she asked, turning back to Daisy. ‘Those raspberry-painted bookshelves and the steel sculpture and the mirrors? I love the cyan blue wallpaper, too.’
‘Thanks, but you’re being far too kind.’ Daisy was chuffed, terrifically proud of what she’d achieved on a shoestring. ‘It is all me, though. What’s this!’ she exclaimed, as Susannah held out a flocked carrier bag. ‘You’ve b
rought a whole shop!’
‘Just a couple of bottles of wine; there’s a jar of preserved black truffles for the store cupboard, since it’s too late for fresh, and that funny-shaped bottle is black-truffle vodka, something a bit different, I thought.’
‘Gosh, how wild! Let’s try the vodka right now with the cheese straws.’ She fetched glasses.
Susannah took a cautious sip. ‘What do we think? Pretty weird? It’s sure to go to our heads.’
She kept looking round, taking everything in, and Daisy eyed her curiously. She had lines, dry-looking lips, but her hazel eyes had gold flecks and a glint, a knowingness – the equivalent, in eye terms, of a suppressed smile. Her hair was fair, just below chin length and in great glossy nick. Was that HRT? Did people stay on it that long? Susannah had the sort of high and lowlights that blended away the grey; her hair was shorter than in old photographs, and she was always flicking it away from an eye. People of her age didn’t go in for tossing their hair back, but Susannah didn’t act old. That was her thing really, Daisy thought.
Susannah asked after Daisy’s twins and questions about the house. Stirring the risotto, Daisy explained about her days here being numbered, resisting whining about the wrench, the late-night crying into her pillow; she mentioned the inevitability, though, with so many bills outstanding. She said the boys, Will and Sam, were reading Classics and Business Studies respectively.
They had lunch at the farmhouse kitchen table that she’d painted mustard yellow and it was a satisfying moment when the risotto was a big hit, the lemony dressing as well. Susannah drank tapwater, she wasn’t faddy, and hardly any wine. Still, they’d had the vodka, and as Daisy cleared the plates Susannah sat back, looking as relaxed as if she was in her own home, lifting her legs onto an opposite chair, idly arranging the folds of her burnt-orange wool dress.
She was very slim. Daisy wondered if she’d ever had to diet, how thin models had had to be in her day, and voiced the thought. Susannah laughed. ‘We all dieted madly, though there were no size noughts back then, and we always tried to turn sideways to camera. Protein diets were the thing, I remember a six-foot-tall Australian model once taking a whole cooked chicken out of her tote bag and eating the lot in the studio!’
Daisy was beginning to worry about time and she wasn’t especially interested in other people’s children, but having talked about her own, felt it only polite to mention Susannah’s. ‘Does your daughter have university-age children as well?’ she asked.
‘No, Bella’s are younger, girls of twelve and fifteen. She was in her thirties when she married – wiser than you and me! She’s a barrister and her husband, Rory, who’s a great tall guy, rangy and athletic, has a company selling bagels. It’s a fast-growing market, they say.’
‘And your other children?’
‘Both boys. Josh is forty, Al’s thirty-seven. Al called this morning, sounding nervous as a bird – he’s just sent off a first novel to a publisher. He designs theatre sets by day, has a three-year-old son and a smiley, curly-top wife who’s a GP. There’s another baby on the way. It makes me feel limp with exhaustion!
‘I worry most about Josh,’ Susannah went on, and smiled. ‘You did ask! It’s very old-fashioned of me, but I’d love to see him married. He’s forty, after all. He’s a photographer – tall, fair, passionate about his work – out in East Africa on a fashion shoot right now, hoping for leopards as a backdrop. He’s attractive to women, so Bella’s friends say, and has girls in his life. I just wish he was in a long-term relationship.’
‘Perhaps he’s being constantly chased and very wary,’ Daisy said, thinking who’d want a guy working with models? ‘Single men of forty are rare gems.’
‘That’s all very well . . .’ Susannah broke off with another smile. ‘I was about to say he could at least give it a go, but with my record I’m hardly one to give advice.’
‘Your early mistakes were understandable and you got it right, you found love.’ Daisy worried that sounded sycophantic and had a moment of bleakness, wondering if she ever would herself.
‘You’ve obviously had a bad time with the divorce, but that’s done now,’ Susannah said. ‘What happened, what went wrong?’ Her eyes above those famous cheekbones weren’t letting go and Daisy felt cross-examined, sensitive about her mistakes. She was getting in a panic about Simon, too; the clock was ticking fast.
She rose to bring over the bowl of sliced oranges. ‘I’ll just decant the ice cream,’ she said. ‘It’s lemon and lime – blends well with the oranges, I think. And you must have one of these brownies.’ She busied about, but sitting down again it was hard not to unburden, a release to let it flood out.
‘I should have known better, I’ve only myself to blame. Peter was flash, though, and he did mad extravagant things, like hiring a helicopter to go to country operas, whisking me off to Nice, buying crazily-priced wine in restaurants to impress his friends – well, anyone useful to him. It was glamorous fun, but I began to see through the façade soon enough and to realize how much and how often he lied. People would call and want to be paid. I found a receipt for a £12,000 necklace – not one he ever gave me. And he was tight about the housekeeping! The affairs, the barely covered-up tracks, his manhandling if I ever dared to accuse him. He could win me round, as there was a physical bond, but it only lasted for so long. All the pressures and menace piled up and I couldn’t go on.’
‘I’ve been there,’ Susannah admitted, ‘in very similar circumstances. But you have someone new now? You have that look. Don’t make another mistake,’ she said, quite fondly. ‘Two’s enough. Is it serious – do you love this man? I’m actually asking for a reason.’
Daisy’s cheeks felt as hot as hellfire. Simon wasn’t the way forward, as Susannah would certainly tell her. He was in another-mistake territory – even if he were on offer.
‘I am keen,’ she mumbled, ‘but it’s complicated.’
‘He’s married?’
Daisy nodded dejectedly. ‘Yes. Coffee?’ she asked, trying not to look at her watch.
‘That would be nice, just a quick cup before I go. Don’t worry, I’ve got the message. I wondered why you advanced the time this morning.’
‘Oh dear, am I that transparent? Please don’t feel I’m rushing you. This is awful.’
‘It is a bit! If it’s serious, though, I’m sure he’ll find a way, but . . . is he a Good Man? It’s a vulnerable time for you – and look, I’m the last person to talk, but try not to be too accommodating. Sometimes, with your own deep feelings, it’s hard to see that his might be a little less sincere.’
Daisy didn’t want to hear that. It didn’t help. Simon wasn’t a Good Man. He was a friend of Peter’s, for a bad start: it was through Peter they’d met. She lived for Simon all the same; she marked time, sometimes for more than a week, even two or three, living for those crumbs of contact that kept her going. She knew she was an utter fool.
Susannah was looking at her watch ostentatiously and Daisy pulled herself together. ‘Um, you said just now you were asking about a man in my life for a reason?’
‘Yes. I had an idea, you see. I’ve just taken on a very big new decorating job and I’m going to need an assistant. I wondered if you’d like to learn the ropes. It would be a proper paid job, but hard work as well as interesting, and it involves a trip to America.’
Daisy blushed all over again. ‘I can’t believe this. There’s nothing I’d love to do more! I’d try hard to learn fast. I’d still have my column to do, but could handle that, I’m sure.’
‘There is a complication.’ Susannah had an uncomfortably firm look in her eye. ‘The time factor. I’m not talking a quick flit out to the States and back. This job could take up to three months. I plan to go out end of May, early June, when I’m sure your twins will have summer-vac plans lined up. My client has suggested staying in the house, working from within, which would be good. He’s my sort of age, recently divorced and immensely bitter about it. This is all about expunging any last t
race of his ex-wife, even down to the furniture. It’s rare to have such a free hand, a luxury in itself. He’s a beer magnate called Warren Lindsay.’
Daisy’s heart was pounding like thundering hooves. Three months . . . She’d lose Simon. He’d forget about her, look elsewhere . . . ‘Could I perhaps come back once or twice, just to break it up a bit?’
Susannah had an impatient look on her face. Without knowing how selfish and domineering Simon could be, she seemed to feel Daisy was over-reacting. ‘Possibly,’ she said coolly. ‘Obviously you could if there was a crisis with your sons, but probably not otherwise. It’ll be serious work with a lot of running around. I need someone I can rely on. Think it over,’ she said. ‘Let me know in a day or two. If your guy really cares, he’ll find a way to come out, make the trip to New York, or at least he’ll understand. And it never hurts to be a little less available. Not exactly as a test of his feelings, but you do have your future to think about, your own life to lead. It sounds to me as if you don’t think it likely he’ll leave his wife.’
Daisy was silent. Susannah rose. ‘Will I find a cab easily? My car’s being serviced today, always such a bore. I don’t mind walking a bit.’
‘Best to call one,’ Daisy said. ‘You’d be lucky to find one, even on the main road.’ She leaped up and scrabbled in a kitchen drawer, hoping to find a card. She never used taxis.
‘Don’t worry,’ Susannah said, hiding any irritation. ‘I’ve got numbers in my phone.’ Daisy closed the drawer with an apologetic smile.
The taxi firm said five minutes; it was cutting it fine. Daisy’s mind was in a whirl. America, a chance anyone would give their eyeteeth for, but three months . . . Simon would try to stop her going. Would she really lose him? Could she bear to take the risk?
Susannah was looking expectant and Daisy played for time. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how thrilled and overwhelmed I feel. It’s fantastic of you. I just have to think it through a bit – is that all right?’
Tell the Girl Page 3
