Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  A plump girl manning the entry-point was chatty and annoyingly repetitive. ‘Hi, how you doin’, Mr Lindsay. And these are your summer guests . . . And they’re here for the whole summer, are they, the whole summer?’ She was snacking on a plate of chips, pausing to wipe her fingers – doing anything but signing in Warren’s guests. Daisy felt impatient and turned her attention to the bronzed, fit parents with small children, teenagers and elderly singles arriving, clustering and calling out to each other in East Coast American speak.

  They were wearing shorts, kaftans or maxi beach dresses, depending on bulk and age. The ancients had on the full warpaint, dangly earrings and wide statement hats. Could they have come straight here from church – or want people to think they had? Daisy was pleased about the shorts, that it was okay to wear them; they looked good on her, suited her legs.

  Signed in eventually, Warren took them past an Olympic-sized swimming pool that looked temptingly people-free; rows of wooden changing rooms stirred childhood memories of the dated old beach huts at Frinton-on-Sea. He led them on to the clubhouse, where a huge open-air deck overlooking the beach seemed to be the hub of club-life, scene of the action; the slatted round tables, bright with sheltering royal-blue sunshades, were filling up fast.

  Daisy’s first glimpse of the ocean freaked her out, the sight of the giant thundering breakers remorselessly powering to shore, unravelling like scrolls as they crashed onto the sands. The sea was pewter-grey, at times it looked navy, and the vast arcing waves were topped with showers of silvered spray. The beach stretched for miles in either direction, sun-bleached white and virtually deserted. The call of the gulls was haunting, and a strong breeze, pricked with sand, carried the smells of sea and salt on the air.

  ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed feebly. ‘That’s a breathtaking view.’

  Warren gave a proprietary smile while Susannah seemed to understand Daisy’s inability to find the right words. ‘It does that to me too,’ she said, ‘and it lives on. I used to come here quite regularly, to stay with a good friend from my modelling days before she became overrun with grandchildren and I had my new career. I often think of this beach, though, back home on bleak rainy days.’

  ‘First thing to do is grab a table,’ Warren said, looking gratified, ‘which isn’t that easy. There’s an unwritten code about who sits where; woe betide you if you bag the favoured spot of a board member, or some fat slob’s chosen piece of shade. The gossips have their pet tables, too, where they can keep watch on the entrances and exits like bodyguards.’

  He secured them a table and they settled in. ‘Now drinks,’ he said. ‘You got to have a Rum South Side, it’s the Club special – rum, ice and fresh mint leaves whirled up in a blender; cool and frothy. I’ll join you in one. I usually save my booze calories for evening, but this is a red-letter day.’

  ‘Drinking at lunchtime?’ Daisy grinned. ‘I’m not sure my new boss will approve.’

  ‘Dead right,’ Susannah said, ‘but since I’m having one . . . though that’s my lot. I don’t want to turn into a South Sider – which is what they call the over-fifties round here, all the afternoon boozers who never budge from their chairs.’

  ‘No chance of you ever doing that,’ Warren snorted. He summoned a waiter, gave the order and sat back with his customary smile.

  A constant stream began to flow past their table, people reuniting with Susannah or angling to be introduced. Warren’s guests were indeed hot news. Daisy met an aging Paula, a prying Abigail. She felt the eyes of the men at nearby tables on her; it was fun.

  Elderly couples, cosmetically enhanced women of an uncertain age and their paunchy husbands, invited them to their houses, for lunches, cocktails or just to visit – with or without Warren. Susannah deflected them with masterly ease. ‘Goodness, how long is it? So good to see you! We’ll certainly try, but we have a punishing schedule.’

  The rum drinks that looked mostly ice and mint leaves packed a hidden kick; Daisy felt an internal glow as well as the sun on her outstretched legs. She’d pushed her chair clear of the sunshade’s arc, loving the heat and brilliance; she felt in a good place.

  ‘Ready for lunch?’ Warren queried. ‘It’s self-service; we can bring it out here.’ Daisy stood up a bit over-keenly; she was hungry. They went indoors to a heartening sight: hot and cold lobster and meat dishes, salads, slices of gateaux and apple tart. Sturdy capable women in white waisted aprons doled out mammoth portions, huge dollops of a chopped lobster, celery and mayo mix that Warren promised was ‘chunky and good’. The devilled eggs were a Club special, he said, and they must try the various salads. Daisy was less coy than at breakfast, she didn’t hold back.

  After the meal she said she’d love a swim. ‘But in the pool if that’s okay? Those breakers would toss me up like a beach ball, and I have had quite a large lunch!’

  ‘I’ll stay and soak up the sun, I think,’ Susannah said, smothering a yawn.

  Warren said he’d keep her company, but he went with Daisy to show her the towels and lockers and explain the form.

  She was glad to swim alone. It was thinking time. Other swimmers were sociable and curious, but soon left her in peace to potter up and down the pool. She revelled in the sunny day, the chance to swim, and couldn’t help imagining where working for Susannah could lead, the freedom of no more red reminders, all the unpaid bills. No more depending on an ex-husband who’d truly shocked her with his brute meanness. Peter would deeply resent any success of hers – a tempting goal and incentive if ever there was one. Having met Simon through Peter still bothered her, yet with the force of the attraction her discomfort had dimmed.

  Daisy swam idly on with her mind on both sides of the Atlantic – Simon, Warren, the compelling roar of the ocean. She spared a thought for her tiny back garden, where the Felicia rose would be in its prime and made a mental note to text the boys about deadheading. She marvelled at the way her life seemed to be pointing in a whole new direction – and all on a pinhead of chance.

  She came out of the water, sunbathed a little then tied round a beach wrap, a soft lime and yellow kanga bought on a holiday in Kenya years ago.

  Returning to the terrace, she found Warren alone. ‘Susannah’s been nobbled,’ he said, clicking off his phone. ‘She’s over with Denise, doing her decorating thing. I didn’t know she was such a softie.’

  Daisy saw that Susannah was poring over some photographs that Denise whoever must have had in her bag; her forehead was knitted wearily, she looked a picture of resignation. Seeing Susannah’s forbearance made Daisy feel a rush of affection, a kind of daughterly empathy. She loved her for not being able to say no.

  She felt Warren’s eyes on her and he rested a hand on her arm. ‘Come for a walk on the beach. I can point out some of the Gin Lane houses that are such a feature of Southampton. I’ll text Susannah and suggest she catches us up.’

  They went down some steps onto the beach, stepping over a great jumble of flip-flops, sandals and mules. ‘Everyone leaves them on the top steps,’ he said, slipping off his navy Docksiders. ‘It’s a little tradition.’

  ‘This beach,’ Daisy said, feeling curiously at home with Warren, ‘gives me shivers with its drama and kind of rugged muscularity. And it’s free of people! There are more pairs of gulls than sunbathers – look at them, strutting along the sand.’ She sighed. ‘It must be a constant pull, I don’t know how you can bear to head back into the city after the weekend.’

  ‘It’s why I fought so hard to hang onto the house. It cost me. Willa has a new Manhattan apartment on Park, worth a ton, and she’s landed a tidy sum to have some other summer place. She fancies Martha’s Vineyard, I believe, as the place to be seen.’

  ‘And your children,’ Daisy asked, feeling miles out of her depth, ‘where do they live?’

  ‘Connecticut, Manhattan. I see them, but they’re busy with their own lives.’

  He didn’t want to talk about his children; that was obvious. Was he lonely? She thought it was possible. He had his
obsession with Willa, the bitter satisfaction of winning out to keep him going, and he was productively busy with his billion-dollar business as well; people who had his sort of money always seemed determined to make more.

  Daisy smiled to herself. He wasn’t so one-track minded, had been distracted by their arrival and he even seemed to be playing a two-handed game. Harmless enough. She was enjoying his quiet flirting ways, the boost it was giving her morale.

  Warren broke into her thoughts. ‘Susannah mentioned you were newly divorced,’ he said. ‘Still smarting, like me?’

  ‘A bit. It’s been a torrid time. But since it brought out the very worst of my husband’s characteristics, I feel mightily relieved to be free of him.’

  ‘You didn’t have any children, no problems there?’

  ‘No, but I have twin boys from a brief early marriage who’ve only really known my second husband. He’s seen them grow up and I’d have hoped he’d feel a little more responsibility towards them. They’re nineteen and at university now – except that it’s the vacation and they have the run of the house. God knows what they’re up to!’

  Warren made polite disbelieving noises about their age. ‘So you’re a free woman now, Daisy.’ He smiled and kept up his gaze. ‘With a line of guys beating a path to your door, I’m quite sure. Anyone special? Someone not pleased you’re out here?’

  ‘Certainly no line of suitors. I am a bit involved, but I’m afraid he’s married.’

  ‘Divorce on the cards?’

  ‘I think not. His wife calls the shots. She has him pretty much locked in.’

  ‘Oh. But that could change. You never know.’ Warren eyed her. ‘Will he come over?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Daisy changed the subject. ‘Tell me about these extraordinary properties we’re passing. Fancy fronting onto the ocean like this. Are the houses really in single ownership, though? It’s hard to believe.’

  ‘Most are. They hardly ever come onto the market and don’t hang about if they do. A few are still owned by descendants of the original families, but ever since the Depression it’s been down to who has the serious bucks, mainly punters in the financial world these days. The cottages date back to the 1880s; hurricanes have taken their toll, but I think about nineteen of the original thirty-four still survive, at least in part.’

  Daisy said, ‘I love the grey shingle, it looks weathered and right. It seems to belong, but I can’t say the same about the name. Gin Lane!’

  ‘A lot of fun is made of the name. Residents have endlessly tried to change it, but the Gin part is really an Old English term meaning common grazing area. This whole stretch was once just a feeding ground for farm animals – and to think of the land values today!’

  They started back, slightly surprised to discover how far they’d walked, and Warren slipped a guiding hand under Daisy’s arm. She looked out for Susannah as the clubhouse came into view, but could see no sign of her approaching.

  ‘Do you know New York?’ Warren asked. ‘Will you manage okay, rushing round all those fabric showrooms, antique shops and whatever?’

  ‘I’m going to have to. Susannah can be very crisp . . .’ Daisy stopped herself saying she didn’t even know her way round the job, far less Manhattan. Susannah had probably built her up as an experienced assistant. Warren was, after all, paying the bills.

  ‘I’ll give you my card,’ he said, ‘when you have somewhere to put it.’ Daisy had been conscious of being in a bathing wrap while he was in shorts and shirt. ‘My office is central and I’m on the end of a phone. Don’t hesitate to call – in fact, I’d positively enjoy giving directions and help. We could combine it with a bite of lunch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said cautiously, feeling that could be tricky waters, a delicate situation. Susannah, for all she knew, might have serious designs on Warren and a jealous nature, despite the jolly Charles whom Daisy had enjoyed meeting the time she’d popped round with home-baked bread. He’d been staying over; he and Susannah seemed like old friends and to gel well. ‘It’s a comfort to know I could call,’ Daisy added, not wanting to sound too abrupt. ‘I’m sure to get lost at first.’

  Warren was good company after all and seemed decent enough; she doubted he’d try anything much. He’d told Susannah he was almost seventy – which probably meant seventy-one or two.

  Arriving back, they found Susannah ensconced at another table. She was surrounded, being feted by a group of old codgers, whose South Side-drinking wives or whoever were gassing too much to notice the glint in their husbands’ eyes.

  Warren did. His face clouded slightly and his lips were pressed together in an irritated line. He seemed instinctively watchful of the men round Susannah like a tiger warding off any chancers with an eye to its territory. He was a business giant, of course, a man with a steel core who wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to stand in his way. Complicated, Daisy could see, and accustomed to winning his wars.

  Chapter 10

  Warren and Daisy were back from their walk and I joined up with them again. Daisy was being boringly gushy about the beach and now bloody Margo Foster was coming over, looking freshly Botoxed and dieted to the bone. I wasn’t getting much of a look-in with Warren. I’d met Margo once before, fended off her husband, and could have done without her fixing on Warren now with a staring-eyed, predatory look. ‘Quite a little harem you’ve come with today, Warren dear,’ she smirked, arriving at the table. ‘What summer fun – can I be squaw number three?’

  ‘That wouldn’t suit you at all, Margo, honey. Mrs Bronson Foster-Barlow not number one? That would never do!’

  Warren had jumped up to peck her cheek and now, introducing us, explaining our design credentials, he began to pull out a chair. ‘No, I won’t stay,’ Margo said, with a glacial edge, knowing when she was beat. ‘Mustn’t interrupt your little housing session. You’re busy with that, I can see.’ She was another pampered, bored, married-for-the-money Southampton regular and making a play that Warren had dealt with quite deftly on the whole. I was pleased, liking him more, and amused.

  He smiled ruefully between Daisy and me by way of an apology for the invasion. ‘Tea here – or shall we meander back? Martha will give us some at home, I’m sure.’

  ‘Let’s get back,’ I said. ‘It’s been great, seeing the Club again, a lovely day, but I’m ready to go now.’

  Daisy looked sorry to leave. She’d obviously had a high old time, especially with Warren, to go by the body language. ‘I just have to get changed,’ she said, pushing back her heavy wooden chair and fixing her wrap more securely. ‘Won’t be a mo.’

  ‘Such a sweet girl.’ He gazed after her. ‘A little troubled about the man in her life, I thought. She wouldn’t discuss him apart from admitting he was married. Is there a problem, the wife kicking up or something?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but he’s a dreadful shit. The wife’s the meal-ticket, I gather, and he’s just taking advantage of Daisy, making unreasonable demands with no intention of getting a divorce.’

  ‘Is there any way to warn her off?’

  ‘I’ve tried, but however selfish and overbearing, he’s a sexy ram and she’s in thrall to him. She knows it’s hopeless and going nowhere, she doesn’t need me to tell her.’

  ‘Perhaps being over here might help, well away and having new experiences.’

  It was an unsettling conversation. I felt tense and piqued, suspicious of his interest. Surely I didn’t need to worry about Warren and Daisy? I’d become fond of her already, my new young soft-natured friend, and to imagine her being competition hadn’t entered my mind. Yet now, thinking of those compelling green eyes . . . She wasn’t an obvious beauty, but Daisy had warmth and spontaneity, an eagerness to please, youth on her side and Warren was at a susceptible age.

  ‘She seems to have that fatal knack of falling for the wrong guy,’ I said, breaking into the small silence that had fallen. ‘I had it too, and had to live with the consequences.’

  ‘But you don’t make those mistakes
any more?’

  ‘I take better care.’

  Daisy returned, all smiles, and we strolled the short distance back to Great Maples. Could she seriously fall for a man of Warren’s age? He was too civilised and well behaved, I thought, to jump on her uninvited. And Simon was a high bar.

  The shadows were lengthening, and away from the beach there wasn’t a breath of wind. We passed houses with impenetrable hedges, formidable gates, alarm systems that clung to the walls like leeches, the owners’ privacy secure. Staid homes, grandee living. I didn’t hold out much hope that my plans for Warren’s house would be his immediate neighbours’ glass of iced tea.

  We had our tea out on the patio, warm and in a pot. It was a lapsang souchong blend, Martha said, and it had a lilting flavour, fragile, fragrant. I was reminded of a modelling trip to Malaysia, the tea-plantations, the romance of that part of the world. Martha had baked almond cookies, too, that were irresistible.

  The fabric on the wicker chairs was floral, the teacups as well. There were plenty of flowers in the garden . . . I couldn’t wait to strip Warren’s house from teacup to bathroom tiling. The architect I wanted to employ was a New Yorker, Grace Mansfield, whose sassy original achievements I much admired; architecture was still such a male-dominated world. She was also young, vivacious and stylish, as I’d told Warren in the interests of pressing her case.

  Daisy coughed politely and rose. ‘I’m just off to chat to Martha,’ she said. ‘I’ve talked my editor into an American slant for my column, a Stars and Stripes banner, top of page, and Martha has promised to share some traditional recipes. Clam chowder, Southern fried chicken, pumpkin pie, that sort of thing.’

  Warren smiled absently, probably too used to gourmet white-tablecloth restaurants or the Martha equivalent to be madly interested in culinary cogs and wheels. I couldn’t picture him in the kitchen, donning an apron and propping his favourite recipe book on a stand.