Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  ‘So fill us in on Tom, the local gossip,’ I said, when she’d left, ‘and some of the more colourful characters who’ll be at the Benefit.’

  ‘Tom’s a long, tall beanpole of a man; he folds himself over like a paperclip when he’s dishing the dirt, muttering into any interested ears. He’s one sharp cookie, I can tell you; started with a small café on Main Street, opened another one up the road and has since acquired a couple of chic boutiques as well. Any whisper of an owner in trouble and he’s in there. People shop with Tom simply to keep up with the scandal, I think, and hear who’s the latest to go under the knife. Tom’s boyfriend, Oscar, keeps the books. He’s a canny operator too – short and carries a bit of weight. They’re quite a pair.’

  ‘Easy to spot at the Benefit then,’ I said. ‘I guess they’ll be there?’

  ‘Tom wouldn’t miss it if he had to be stretchered in. The same goes for Maisie Stockton who loves the big occasion and she sure knows how to flaunt it – and some! She’ll outdo the lot of ’em,’ Warren said. ‘Have on the biggest rocks, be wearing the barest frock – the last time I saw her, she had on a dress with a print of bare buttocks on the back. She’s the sixth wife of Art Stockton, a little snail of a man who’s made a packet in oysters. Maisie’s no airhead, though, she’s a fun-loving Southerner who loves to shock – not difficult in Southampton – and she doesn’t give a damn. Knows she’s a match for any of ’em.

  ‘There’s a bunch of grand dames, regulars at all the charity dos; they defer to a hideous old alligator called Gertrude Whelp who’s thought to look quite like Diana Vreeland.’

  ‘Diana Vreeland was in my life in the sixties,’ I said, ‘and terrifying! I shivered in my boots when summoned to her inner sanctuary at Vogue, but she was one of the greats.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that of Gertrude,’ Warren laughed, ‘with her dreadful halitosis. She stands real close, too, to make it worse, peering over her pince-nez and breathing out evil fumes.’

  ‘I did ask for local colour, Daisy,’ I said, smiling. ‘There’ll be normal, conventional types as well, and a few pampered young tennis players staying the weekend.’

  ‘Southampton’s into tennis,’ Warren explained. ‘We have our famous Meadow Club that’s been going since the 1880s. It’s strictly run and very social, with a good bar.’

  ‘American women always have such good legs,’ Daisy said. ‘Is it all the sport, or do they do the sport to show them off?’

  ‘Bit of both, I guess – assuming you accept the original premise, of course. However, from where I’m sitting there’s no arguing about British women’s complexions, so petal-soft.’ Warren smiled from me to Daisy, evenly distributing the flowery compliment.

  ‘On with the house,’ I said, drawing his eyes back. ‘I know you’ve promised me a complete free hand, but there are limits which I may be stretching and we should talk it over. This isn’t just a redo of décor. I want to take out walls, raise ceilings; open up the hall with a high wide arch . . . It would be spectacular, looking through into here with the ceiling lifted, the added height and brightness, but you need to be prepared.’

  ‘I have complete faith,’ Warren said, ‘and I want a total transformation, no single reminder of Willa – not a footstool nor a flower vase; it matters to me. After three long years of wrangling, this divorce is a hard-won victory which I mean to enjoy.’

  I’d heard that ruthless edge on our first meeting at Jimmy’s party, but Daisy looked shocked. She swallowed uncomfortably, as if reminded of lawyers and bitterness, the nasty taste left by her own divorce.

  We talked on. I mentioned a handsome refectory table in place of Warren’s mahogany one with its extending leaves; banishing some of the curlier pieces of silver to his Manhattan apartment, replacing them with resplendent pottery bowls. ‘You need a breakfast room,’ I said, ‘to make for easier summer living, the indoors and outdoors more naturally connected, everything flowing out to the deck, the chairs and pool.’

  Warren had heard of the top architect I wanted to employ, which was helpful, and he accepted the need for a project manager to oversee the construction work. ‘All of that would begin after the summer,’ I said, ‘to architect’s plans. Daisy and I would have done our stuff by then, ordered everything in, and you’d be back in the city, fulltime.’

  ‘It will be finished by Christmas?’ Warren queried, looking concerned, making clear how important that was to him. ‘My son and daughter are holidaying in Europe this summer, showing their children the sights, but we always have Christmas here together.’ It was the first mention of family and I felt pleased that he so obviously cared.

  I touched his tanned arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping people to deadlines. I’ll come out in the autumn and crack the whip, make sure we’re on track.’

  The time difference was catching up – partly the fault of the gloomy unflattering lighting, which failed to create a mood of soft intimacy; as comparative strangers, we needed that. Martha came in with coffee and fresh mint tea. She pulled closed the heavy cream and burgundy curtains, which killed off the room entirely, then left as silently as she came.

  Daisy was silent too. Had my hand on Warren’s arm made her feel in the way and taken her mind to Simon? I’d grown to care about her and was also anxious how things would pan out; her mobile face mapped her emotions all too clearly. ‘My bedtime, I think,’ she said, brightening with conscious effort. ‘It is sort of three in the morning.’

  Warren smiled in sympathy. ‘You must be done in, both of you, though you’d never begin to know it.’ He kept smiling from one to the other. Did he always smile so much or was it newness and nerves? ‘Try to think yourself onto American time in the morning, though, Daisy dear,’ he said, causing her to lower her lashes rather coyly. ‘I want you to feel really settled in properly here. And tomorrow, as it’s Sunday and the weather’s so good, I thought maybe we’d have lunch at the Beach Club. How would that be?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘It’s a while since I was in Southampton, but I’m sure all the old regulars are still around. It’ll be fun to catch up – with most of them, at least.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed; same old faces, same muddle of sandals on the steps to the beach. Henry Koehler’s painted them, you know, and it’s become an iconic work. It’s a bonus having him as a local; he’s very involved, sure to give a painting to the Benefit auction.’

  We said our goodnights. Warren held my hand in both of his and repeated his fulsome words of welcome. He was a lucky man, he couldn’t feel more proud and pleased that I’d taken on the job – just a summer pad, after all . . . He talked on, over-egging it, flattering me excessively. I felt momentarily bored, unsure as yet how to read Warren, but recognising that this was a little overture, his calling card; first steps on the road to developing a relationship.

  Daisy had slipped past us on her way upstairs to bed, and I soon followed.

  I closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, thinking about Warren’s gushing praise and the summer ahead. The bedroom curtains were drawn, a curving sweep of chintz that was pretty in its way with sprigs of violets on a white ground. The bed was neatly turned down, my nightdress laid out on the coverlet, pinched in at the waist in a dainty, decorative way. Bottled water in a cooler was placed beside the bed, the lights switched on, glowing softly; towelling slippers were carefully positioned for ease of stepping into, a monogrammed towelling dressing gown within reach on a chair. So much pampered privilege. I felt an arrow of discomfort. Had Luisa felt the weight of life’s inequalities while prettily arranging my nightdress? She was a doe-eyed Latino, charming, smiling, spruce and tidy in her strawberry pinstriped maid’s dress that had a faint look of my old school summer uniform about it.

  Whatever lay ahead, the stage beyond Warren’s smiling flattery, I felt able to cope. If only I’d had the confidence I felt now, though, when I was younger, the same ability to hold my own and promote the very small amount of talent that I had. It was a
miracle of happenstance, this second career, an extraordinary late blossoming and moment in the sun. It was far easier as well, nowadays, to soak up the limelight and go with the flow, swim happily in the waters of overdone praise.

  I was sure enough of myself now, at this age, to make the most of it and not dwell on feeling undeserving of such an accidental career. Success softened the hard undeniable truths of growing old and also somehow recalled for me the whirling highs and heady passions of my first career long ago, as a young model. I’d suffered from acute feelings of inadequacy in those days, despite being in demand and wanted by men. I’d had time on my side then, decades of passion, enticements and living ahead of me.

  Not any more. This second career had all the gossamer fragility of a late-autumn rose; it was fleeting, weak-stemmed, a few frail petals opened up to the rays of a fading sun before the battering storms swept in to rust them and the winter cold finally laid them to rest.

  I would enjoy the commission, Long Island, the summer here with its promising possibilities. Warren was interesting and enigmatic, an attractive man, but I wasn’t a young beauty any longer with the world in her palm and time to repair mistakes. It would be precautionary and wise to limit any emotional investment, yet however much older and more self-assured, when it came to emotions was the ground ever any easier, was there ever a more solid footing? Did common sense and reason ever really prevail?

  Chapter 9

  Daisy woke in the night and reached blindly for her bedside light. She fumbled about, not finding the switch, disorientated for a moment before everything came flooding back: the flight, Long Island, Warren and her challenging new job. It was a fantastic experience being here, terrifically exciting, but the chances of screwing up, Daisy felt, were overwhelming. She’d just about managed at home, tossing ideas around with Susannah, absorbing all she could, but now, out here, not really knowing a thing, not even her way round New York properly . . .

  The room was in complete darkness. She had turned off the air-conditioning and lay in bed listening to the heavy silence of a sleeping house. Beams didn’t creak in Warren’s huge mansion; the only sound she could hear was the thudding of her heart. No whisper of noise from outside, no returning car, no tapping branch at the window. Daisy felt from the absolute quiet that it must be about three in the morning.

  She eventually found a light switch low on the electric flex. The bedside clock was obscured by the phone, its luminous face would have helped. It was four o’clock, not three, harder still to get back to sleep. Daisy switched off the light, determined to try, which meant steering clear of Simon and all her spin-off worries and fears. She tried to concentrate on Warren’s house, which was more depressingly staid and formal than expected, and so deeply stamped with his ex-wife’s taste that he’d hardly needed to describe her. Willa stalked the place: she was in the furniture, the fabrics; reflected in the silverware. It was understandable on the whole, his obsessive need to remove every trace. Daisy pictured Willa as tall, imperious, big-boned, with thick-fingered hands; her jewellery, she imagined, would be unstylish while unquestionably real. Willa was one of life’s takers, by the sound of it, with a lump of ice for a heart. She’d clearly had more interest in silver salvers than in poor old Warren. Who’d forced the issue on the divorce? Had she walked out? Had he just had enough? Either way, Willa wouldn’t have gone quietly. Daisy felt intrigued to know more – and about Warren.

  The flight had been great, the Club Class seat unfurling like a cat unballing itself, stretching out into an almost full-length bed. It made it easier to understand how business people could go straight into a full day’s wheeler-dealing after a long overnight flight.

  Simon flew long-distance occasionally. Surely he could find a reason to come to New York; if they could just have a night or two together it would ease the pressure and make all things possible. Susannah had given the okay to that, she’d even suggested it. Daisy let out a quavery doleful sigh. She knew in her heart Simon wouldn’t come. And the knowledge of that blighted her thrill, sullied the uniqueness of the adventure just begun.

  She wondered if Warren was seriously interested in Susannah. They were of an age, after all, and with so many top interior designers in New York, why else bring her all the way out here? Yet he had quite a roving eye. Daisy had sensed his interest, the sweep of his gaze, his warm attempts to make connection. She smiled to herself. He was likeable, handsome in a mature, good-taste-in-clothes sort of a way and he had bonfires of money to burn. Had he had a facelift? More and more men did these days, it seemed.

  She settled on her side, longing to feel drowsy, when the sound of a text arriving put her on red alert. She clambered out of bed and back in again with her mobile. Her heart was fluttering madly. It was from Simon. He was texting, thinking of her . . .

  How goes it, Green Eyes? Missing me enough to come home? I need U here, hate no chance to call by. Cut it short whatever. Don’t you want me any more?

  Daisy wanted him desperately. His text was contact, making her wet with need, but why couldn’t he sign off with more warmth and make her feel loved? He was passionate enough in bed, shouting out his love loud and clear when he came, pouring out his feelings then. Would Simon find another soft welcome, another place to call by? Oh hell. Tears weren’t going to help. She knew the harsh realities of life. Simon’s feelings were of the sexual moment; he was never going to put himself out or give much of a damn.

  Susannah had said play hard to get and he’d come running. But his wife, the vindictive Sarah, was that sort of woman and Daisy knew her own attraction for Simon was not being a mean tough bitch like his wife. That mattered to her as well for her self-esteem.

  She texted back, sitting bolt upright in bed, thumbs flying. Loved hearing, love u! All okay here. Scary job but will get me to NY and can overnight there. Can’t u come out and c me? Please, please try! Miss u. xxxxxxxxxxx

  Daisy opened the curtains onto a beautiful morning; she must have gone back to sleep. It was seven o’clock. The lawn was glistening with dew, low rays of sunlight were finding routes into the garden and in patches of heavy shade the thick lush foliage looked as dense and dark as to be sinister. She felt a shaft of loneliness.

  She opened a window, refusing to give into feelings of gloom, and breathed in fresh scented air. It gave her an urge to set about preparing for the day, fake-tanning her legs to try to keep up with the members of the Beach Club, re-varnishing her toenails and washing her hair.

  As the sun rose and the light streamed in she began to feel almost exuberant. She dressed in shocking-pink cropped pants and a tee of a lighter-shade, worrying, as she went downstairs to breakfast, about being under-dressed. Perhaps her high canvas wedges would add a bit of glam.

  They had soundless rope soles and Warren didn’t raise his head as she entered the dining room. He was deep into the New York Times.

  ‘Hi, isn’t it a fabulous day!’ Daisy exclaimed, a bit over-loudly, anxious to let him know she was there. She gave Warren such a start that he dropped his bulky Sunday paper onto the table and sent an army of cutlery flying. They were both on their knees then, retrieving skittering spoons – which must have surprised Martha as she came in to see the cause of the clatter.

  Martha offered bacon and eggs, which was tempting, but since Warren seemed not to be having any, Daisy weedily declined. There was fresh-squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit, muesli, muffins, dainty triangles of toast; she wasn’t going to starve.

  Sipping juice and staying politely silent to let Warren return to his newspaper, it came as no surprise when he set it aside and studied her. Daisy smiled and lowered her eyes, busying herself with sprinkling blueberries onto a plateful of muesli.

  ‘I can’t tell you the joy of this beautiful British invasion,’ Warren remarked, smiling she looked up. ‘I only wish I was half my age! But seriously, Southampton’s not such a bad place and it will give me a great deal of pleasure to show you round my favourite haunts. You’ll be the talk of the Hamptons,
I can tell you.’

  ‘We are here to work,’ Daisy laughed, glancing to the door as she heard footsteps. ‘And with Susannah’s plans it sounds like we’ll be at it twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Morning all,’ Susannah said with a yawn, coming into the room.

  Warren leaped up and pulled out a chair. ‘Hey, how are you? Sleep okay, I hope?’

  ‘Blissfully. It’s such perfect quiet here, the sort of silence that sings. How are you doing, Daisy? Make the most of today. It’ll be all go from then on, I can tell you.’

  Daisy gave Warren a what-did-I-tell-you glance, yet she felt overshadowed by Susannah and more subdued. Susannah was the star making an entrance, the diva coming on stage, Warren’s attention instantly distracted. And she wasn’t even dressed and made up, simply wearing a loosely tied silk kimono dressing gown. Still looking incredible, getting away with the no-makeup look, but then she had that sort of high-boned face that was kinder to aging.

  The money must help. Daisy tried not to let spiky jealousy take hold; she hated to feel covetous, never allowed herself to do so for long. Susannah had had her own financial struggles, after all, and a hurtful, difficult love-life. Losing the one husband she’d truly loved must have been devastating, even if everything had come good in its way in the end. Would it ever do that for her? Daisy knew she couldn’t look for parallels; she had none of Susannah’s looks or talent, and her own life was such sad small beer.

  The aroma of Susannah’s crispy bacon was making her jealous, if nothing else. Daisy averted her eyes and caught another of Warren’s surreptitiously friendly glances. It was cheering and diverting. Was he flirting, or simply trying to put her at her ease? His small attentions were gratifying all the same, balm for the ache of physical need.

  They left at noon for the Beach Club. Susannah was wearing mandarin cut-offs, not unlike Daisy’s bright pink ones, and a floaty white shirt, fine soft muslin and fastened low enough to draw the eye. The slim gold chain round her neck glinted so lustrously, any thieving jay or magpie would have swiped it for their nests; it reflected the sunlight sheen of a glorious day.