With Daisy gone I asked after his working week and the family beer business, and he opened up with enthusiasm. ‘My father built up the company – the brewery’s upstate, of course, while our head office is usefully in New York. The business jogged along, The Lindsay Beer Company, it was called, but it was only when we changed the name from Lindsay to Lippy that sales really soared. They hit the roof. It was like one of those fairground hammers sending the ball shooting up. Changing the shape of the bottle-top to a pair of lips was the clincher, as it made it big with the boozy young and fun-lovers. Lippy Lager is a huge seller. It’s a good feeling, to travel the world and see our beer in places like Mongolia, Zanzibar or Mozambique – I’ve never gotten over it. Don’t drink the stuff myself, too many calories, but the sight of a few hefty beer bellies around the place sure does my heart good!’
‘Fascinating how simply changing a name can make such a difference.’
‘Yes, I’m a complete convert to branding now. The firm we employed was ace.’
‘Is your son in the business too, working with you?’
‘Anything but, very sniffy about it; he’s an international lawyer. My daughter married the boss of the branding agency, though, so she’s kind of on board.’
‘Were they all right about the divorce? You’d been married what, thirty-five years?’
‘Oh no, not nearly that long.’ It seemed an odd thing to say without elaborating and I wondered about it as Warren talked on. ‘The kids were quite upset. They said we were a great team, that sort of scene, but how can you live with a woman who makes you feel lower than a worm in a hole?’ He gave a small, strangulated sigh.
I asked more questions about his lifestyle – for my own curiosity while using the cover of the job. His glances were provocative, his answers, too. ‘I’ve been living a lonesome hermit’s life out here, these last couple of summers . . .’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘No, it’s true. Though now, this summer, you’re certainly bringing me out of my shell, making me feel like putty with that smile.’
I left him soon after and went to my room. Warren’s flattery had been overdone from the start. I was determined not to read too much into it. I liked the protective undergrowth of ambiguity; it felt too early to be clearing a path and knowing the score.
A little rest would make me brighter-eyed and more on the ball over supper, with any luck, and I had emails to see to, texts to read: my mobile had been vibrating away at the Beach Club. I decided to shower first; they could wait.
Reaching for the dressing gown that Luisa had left ready on a nearby chair, I belted it loosely and stretched out on the bed with my phone. Bella had texted to say that Sapphire, my granddaughter, had won Silver in the life-saving class. I sent congratulations. I read a text from Josh, my unmarried son, who seemed convinced I wouldn’t be behaving myself. There was an excitable voicemail from Stephanie, my secretary, assuring me that all was fine. She’d moved into the office and Posh was well and happy, purring for Britain. Cats were fickle creatures, I thought.
Charles had left a voicemail too, that I listened to with irritated affection.
‘Just had an urge to call, but since it’s lunchtime with you I’m sure you’ll be at the Beach Club with your Mr Warren and that lovely girl, Daisy. I hope you’re having fun, Rum Sours and a riotous welcome from all those old-school WASPs. If you happen on that weird CNN man we stayed with once – the one with the heavy-going wife, remember? – say hello from me, will you? I quite liked him. Pity about her, doubt they’re still married.’ They weren’t, I’d heard so already. ‘It’s pissing with rain here in rural North Norfolk, but not there, I guess. Missing you, but then I have been for decades. Enjoy your American.’
It was midnight, a bit late to call, and I’d have sounded cross, impatient about Mr Warren and your American. Charles was only reversing the names for his own silly entertainment. And it wasn’t funny at that.
I texted him, resisting a whinge. Thanks for the call. Hope you rested up after cataract op, all went well and you have sharper vision now. No more bloodshot eyes, walking into doors . . .
Yes, lunch at the Beach Club, v sunny, usual crowd; lazy day before getting stuck into the house. Definitely needs a revamp, could double up as company boardroom. Ex-wife’s abominable taste. Lavish mod cons tho and charming, superb cook. Warren Lindsay is charming as well, by the way, and an excellent host. Speak soon, wrap up warm in those inhospitable climes
Miss you, too. Loads o love. xx
PS. The Taylors (CNN guy) have split up, you were right!
Charles came on the phone and we had a little bantering chat. I cut the call short, keen for my few minutes’ kip, which inevitably made him a bit prickly.
‘Sounds as if you want to rest up and shine,’ he said. ‘Lindsay Warren must have plenty going for him, more than his hosting skills. I hope he’s good fun as well.’
‘It’s all good fun out here,’ I snapped, ‘and not pissing with rain.’
‘Call if the mood takes you,’ Charles replied, unperturbed, ‘if you have a free moment one day.’
‘Will do,’ I said, feeling contrite. ‘Best go now – and you should be asleep anyway. You’ll call, too? Any time.’
Going down to dinner I could hear Warren and Daisy laughing, Warren being ‘good fun’. He was falling over himself to entertain her, they were getting on rather well. I shouldn’t mind, it would be taking her mind off Simon at least and Daisy was in her own world half the time, white-faced with downcast eyes. I did genuinely care about her.
Warren was enjoyably attentive as I joined them, and we rehashed the Beach Club for a few minutes before Martha summoned us for supper. He kept up the warm glances, pulling out my chair and sitting beside me, though he immediately pinged a cosy look across the table to Daisy as well. The table was laid with crystal glasses and enough silver to fill the London vaults. And all for Sunday supper. I was in my skinny white jeans with a black T-shirt, Daisy in a button-through denim dress. Warren had on a cream sweatshirt; we hardly did the gleaming silverware on the table a good turn.
‘So, Daisy, have you got your marching orders for tomorrow?’ Warren beamed.
‘We’re hanging out here, I think, working on new floor and furniture plans,’ she said cautiously, eyebrows raised in my direction. ‘There’s plenty to keep us busy, elevation drawings and the like, I think, with all Susannah’s dramatic new ideas.’
She pattered on, rather sweetly trying to sound like a seasoned assistant while I slid into a small brood about Charles. I knew his silly reversal of Warren’s names was his way of transmitting feelings; he’d chosen to presume that Warren was suspect and wanted me to know his thoughts. Charles would never say he didn’t like what I was doing. Ours was a good solid relationship: sensitive or emotional feelings were never aired, never allowed to show, they were kept in check or occasionally relayed in code. He’d succeeded this time, however, in making me feel testy and on the defensive. He’d not met Warren, after all, and had no business making assumptions and being such a tremendous transatlantic snob. Surely, if I liked ‘my American’, as Charles insisted on calling him, that should be credentials enough?
All the same, it made me keener to peel away some of Warren’s layers. It might take a few closer encounters, I suspected, which tweaked my adrenaline. I felt my face glow. Warren was discreet, personable, appropriate, and at my age such opportunities were as rare as black pearls. I didn’t feel much guilt, just a twinge. The physical side of my relationship with Charles had always been contained, only indulged in between our respective marriages – his single one and my spread – a natural extension of a continuing friendship that had always survived.
I glanced sideways. Warren was looking slightly bored by Daisy’s earnest decorating download. ‘How you doing, Susannah?’ he said vaguely.
We talked art for a while, restaurants in the Hamptons and New York shows while being served with perfect pink roast lamb. Warren praised
an exhibition of Brazilian sculpture that seemed to have made quite an impression – more for the flaming beauty of the sculptor, I felt, than her exhibits. From her photographs she was a fiery stunner.
‘I have a couple of powerful American artists in mind,’ I said, feeling a need to remind Warren of my not inconsiderable spending plans, ‘whose paintings have terrific zing.’
‘Who like? Need they be American?’
‘No, not at all, but a Josef Albers or Ronald Davis would look splashy and great in here when the room is transformed. And a de Kooning would really set the tone.’
Warren didn’t flinch even though he must have known the cost of a de Kooning, who was a Long Island painter, after all. Yet I sensed he was less willing, when it came to art, to allow me a complete free hand. He changed the subject, talked of the excellent reviews for Chekhov’s Three Sisters, newly opened on Broadway, and seemed about to suggest seeing it, but held back. Was that because bringing it up with Daisy there inevitably meant going as a threesome, which possibly wasn’t ideal?
Daisy would enjoy it hugely, of course. I could still remember the thrill of exploring New York years ago.
She was looking at me. ‘Does Manhattan always trigger memories for you, Susannah? Take you back? I mean, it must have been wild, modelling out here in the sixties.’
‘I never knew you’d modelled in New York,’ Warren said. ‘I’d assumed only London.’
‘I worked mostly there, sure, but I was on Eileen Ford’s books as well – if that name means anything to you? She was the great doyenne of the time, and the agency still thrives today.’
‘I’m well up in Ford models, I can assure you! Back in the sixties, they were the girls to know. I’ve lived in New York all my life, but the sixties was the best time by far, escaping my parents and having an apartment of my own. And to think we could have met then!’
We were still sitting round the table, drinking camomile tea. Daisy looked ready for bed, but she stayed when Warren carried on.
‘So reveal all, Susannah. Let’s hear more about Fords and the lofty life you led.’
‘Lowly, more like. The modelling could be a very hard slog.’ I didn’t elaborate. I wanted some time with Warren. Daisy’s chaperoning had its moments, but they could be overdone.
‘So downplaying it,’ she said, smiling, and smothered a yawn. ‘Forgive me, jetlag is catching up, and it is a working week.’
‘And for me too,’ Warren said, returning her smile, too warmly, as she stood up to go. ‘I dread that long commuter crawl on a Monday. Jackson and I leave at five but it’s never early enough.’
That sounded a bit overkeen. Warren had made his billions, he could afford to relax; he must be more hands-on and in love with the business than I’d thought.
‘Have a great first week, Daisy,’ he called after her, his eyes at the level of her short denim dress. He immediately trained them back onto me, ready to turn on the charm.
‘You must need your beauty sleep too,’ I said primly, rising from my high-backed tapestry chair.
‘Don’t go. Let’s chat for a while, talk over plans and have a little downtime. How about we walk to the village for a drink? It’s a beautiful night.’
I went, on a slight high, to collect my handbag and we set off.
The evening air felt as soft and soothing to the skin as fine silk. We ambled past the towering, immaculately clipped box hedges that were such a feature of Southampton. ‘Whoever has the clipping concession,’ Warren said, seeing me staring up at their great height, ‘is onto a real money-spinner.’
The sidewalk had a thin strip of paving bordered by neat grass verges, and he walked on the grass to stay alongside. The occasional shade-providing trees, sycamores, maples, had to be negotiated. Street lamps, spherical and harmonious, threw out circles of gentle yellow light. ‘If I ever managed to get back on a Thursday evening,’ Warren said, looking ahead, ‘would I be in the way?’ He slowed and turned for a reaction.
‘We’d be delighted to welcome you in your own home,’ I said. ‘But we might not always be there. We might be up in the city, staying overnight with a friend of mine, antique hunting in Connecticut, looking at paintings in Washington.’
‘Ah, I can see it’ll need pre-arranging,’ he replied.
That had sounded encouragingly provocative, I thought, as we reached the village. Warren eyed a brightly lit café-bar on Main Street. ‘Too rowdy, taken over by kids.’ We walked on, rounding a corner, rejecting another café until he settled on a small restaurant with a long, near-deserted bar. A single customer, a heavy man in a grimy sky-blue tee, was seated at the far end, nursing a tankard of beer. We climbed onto high stools topped in forest-green leather and I cast an eye round. The place had a vaguely Tyrolean feel, with bench seating, booths up the sides; it was dimly lit with pairs of green-glass lamps that hung low over the middle tables. ‘The owner’s German, I believe,’ Warren said.
He ordered our drinks, scotch and a glass of white wine for me. The gaunt middle-aged woman serving us had short spiky black hair and a wiry tension about her; she didn’t seem inclined to chat. The gloom and lack of customers were depressing. I thought rather longingly of the noisy café we’d passed.
Warren touched glasses. ‘I’m excited about your plans for the house,’ he said, ‘and being shaken out of my rut. Willa never let up about that, she went on and on about how she despaired of me ever doing anything original and new.’
I was surprised. I’d held Willa entirely responsible for the dreary pomposity of Great Maples. I hadn’t marked Warren down as a particular conformist, though he could, with that remark, simply be pointing up his ex-wife’s nagging in a slightly sympathy-seeking, self-deprecating way. But would he really paint himself as henpecked if it wasn’t the case?
‘To go back to Thursdays,’ he said, ‘it’s Martha’s day off. I hope you won’t mind, but she’ll be gone overnight, back by lunchtime next day. Also, she does occasional lunches or dinner parties for locals when I’m in the city, to make a little extra – but I’ve told her you come first and she won’t let you down.’
‘You needn’t have said that. We’ll be fine – please tell her to carry on as before. Does she have family she stays with or her own place?’ I was interested to know more about her.
Warren hesitated before answering. ‘Martha has a few problems,’ he said finally. ‘Her son’s in a federal prison in New Jersey, you see. She visits weekly and stays somewhere nearby. I feel sorry for her. She had him real young: a night or two out with some guy who didn’t stick around. And it seems her very religious parents didn’t want to know either. She gave up studying, brought the boy up alone, but only found out about the drugs when the police became involved and he was put on probation. He’d been stealing to feed a coke habit. He couldn’t get clean, kept re-offending, wrote fraudulent cheques and now, at just twenty, he’s behind bars.’
I felt desperately sad for Martha, sure that she lived for her son, while also feeling heartened by Warren’s sympathetic attitude. It showed a decent side. I felt more reassured about my judgement and reasons for being out here. In some ways it had seemed madness, taking on a huge job when I didn’t need the money. I liked to think I’d be attracted to a man who had a little more going for him than grey-sprinkled hair, good facial grooves and vast riches. Enormous wealth could give a misleading veneer of glamour; pleasing at times, to see oneself reflected in the smooth polished sheen – although it was so often only surface deep.
I asked about the chances of Martha’s son receiving treatment in prison, but Warren didn’t seem to have much faith in that. ‘I went to visit him once,’ he said. ‘The boy, Daniel, is in a correctional institution, Fort Dix in Burlington County. God, the place, the doors clanging behind me . . .’ Warren sighed. ‘But Daniel seemed bright enough. His mother says he’s artistic. I’ll see what I can do for him when he comes out.’
Warren asked for the check and we wandered out. Back onto the residential side streets, th
e grassy pathway, he gave me a sideways, almost coquettish look, and reached for my hand. He entwined fingers, his thumb gently rubbing my palm. ‘I’m not sure whether this is transgressing some designer-client decorum,’ he said, ‘but strolling home on a balmy summer’s evening . . . perhaps it’s not such a terrible sin?’
‘I’ve known worse.’ I smiled and he squeezed my fingers a little more tightly.
We were nearing the house. I could see the gates slowly widening, opened by a buzzer in Warren’s pocket or some unseen payroll hand. They closed silently behind us and as we approached the front door, a sensor lit up; we coyly avoided glances. Inside, the hall seemed to echo with quiet. Large bulbous lampstands on side tables gave out puddles of sharp light. I thanked Warren and wished him a good week. He kissed my cheek lightly, wished me a productive time in his absence, and I took myself off upstairs.
I knew he was staring up after me. I’d enjoyed his company, very much, but was I being ridiculous? Shouldn’t I simply be grateful for an exceptionally full life, a lot of happiness, and act my age? Oh, fuck it, if a man could still look at me, if the urge was there . . . It was summer on Long Island and I had a stimulating challenging contract. Closing my bedroom door, my face bore a very wide smile.
Chapter 11
November 1961
We were about to go to Frank’s small supper party for Marilyn Monroe. Joe was humming in the bath, high on anticipation, and I could have cried with relief. We’d got by in New York, staying at the St Regis and with all the excitements, but his mood graph had been on a disastrous dive ever since, pointing down as sharply as a stalactite. He couldn’t handle being back in our apartment on Sunset Strip, and had done nothing but drink and curse the place. ‘Sodding utilitarian dog-kennel.’ He’d kicked a cupboard and shattered the plywood door, yanked out an ill-fitting drawer, hurled it to the floor. If he’d spoken to me at all it was to bitch and abuse. I was pathetic, holding him back, no stimulation . . . ‘God, what a hellhole, boring, boring!’ Joe had poured himself another vodka, and another.
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