‘Ah couldn’t squeeze mah boobs into that,’ Maisie chuckled. ‘Jest imagine. It’s the size of a Band-Aid!’
‘Like it?’ Warren asked Susannah in an undertone. Daisy stiffened. She couldn’t hear Susannah’s response, but minded her hand on Warren’s blazer sleeve and the warm smile, which he returned. And when he began to bid, Susannah looked delighted.
Daisy sat rigidly upright, trying to maintain an expression of light innocent interest. Hands went up and she willed Warren to drop his down. At three thousand dollars, he and a kitten-faced woman with a pink bow in her hair were the only remaining bidders. At five thousand, Gerald pressed Kitten Face to an extra two hundred, but she shook her head with a face as black as an old boot – unbecoming with the little pink bow. Daisy smiled tightly. It was a ridiculous amount to pay, she thought piously, hugely inflated. It was for charity, she knew, but even so . . .
Gerald banged down his gavel to further loud clapping and Susannah looked over to Daisy. ‘It’s yours,’ she said beaming. ‘We thought it was just your dress.’
‘I’ll say,’ Elmer Harvey heartily agreed, and Art gave Daisy’s thigh another thumping prod. ‘There you are, girl! Didn’t I say that ’ud suit you? Wasn’t I right?’
Having a last dance with Warren before going home, Daisy was floundering, awash with embarrassment. She’d been overcome, blushing to her roots, feeling it was almost immoral to accept the dress. And she wasn’t used to being so much the centre of attention – unlike Susannah, she thought, giving into a bitch. Then as well, however generous of Warren, he’d first thought of the dress for Susannah. It had been all her doing, her urging. . . Still, he’d looked pleased with the idea, Daisy had to admit. And wouldn’t he have felt it right to put Susannah first? He was sitting next to her, after all, and she was his design consultant, not Daisy. She was a mere assistant, a minion – and one who was chancing her luck.
‘You’re thinking hard, I can tell.’ Warren’s hand on her back, with just a little extra pressure, drew her close. He smelled good, ferny and countrified, out of a bottle, but still pleasing. His cheek rested against hers. ‘I must have a drink with Susannah when we’re back,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to feel she’s relaxed about everything. I hope you understand.’ His body was moving with Daisy’s, touching, pressing. ‘Will you come to the restaurant on Tuesday? I’ve booked at San Pietro. It’s always packed, great Italian food, and extremely central. You’ll find it easily. I eat there often, it’s a natural place for me to take you to lunch.’
‘It sounds a perfect treat,’ Daisy said, acutely sensitive to his touching body, her urge to yield and press closer. She knew, with that last remark, he was colluding with her, making her aware of the delicacies. He was a free man, but he’d invited Susannah out to his home for a whole summer; he must have had his reasons. There’d been plenty of unspoken understandings, Daisy felt sure. Susannah had said as much before they left, joking about it, telling how she’d been mildly attracted to Warren at some drinks party yonks ago. Attracted enough to take the job, she’d said, and explore the possibilities.
Daisy couldn’t help wondering about other women in his life. It was quite a time since the start of his divorce and there was no doubting his need for female company. It was on her mind as they said their goodbyes. It seemed unlikely she’d pick up any clues, though, simply by having lunch with him in New York.
Jackson brought in the rustling, tissue-lined carrier containing the dress and Daisy took charge of it, blushing again. ‘What a night it’s been, and last couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘How can I ever say a quarter of the thanks that are due?’
‘I enjoyed the bidding,’ Warren said, ‘and it was all in a good cause – two good causes. It’s time I gave a small drinks party, I think. I’ll ask our table – Gerald too, I suppose, and a few others as well. And you, Daisy, must wear the dress. You’ll be the star of the show.’
Chapter 14
‘Daisy isn’t used to being on the receiving end, is she?’ Warren said. ‘She was so damn embarrassed about the auction prize, as if she couldn’t accept it. It was a resort dress, not a diamond-encrusted ballgown, after all – no big deal. I guess that boyfriend of hers must be a tight-fisted sod, not one to take her shopping and shower her with gifts.’
‘He doesn’t part with a dime. She’s tight on funds, too, and very relieved to have this job, I think. He’s a selfish, testosterone bully, but that seems to be half the attraction.’ I turned to smile at Warren and the poolside swing seat we were sharing rocked gently to and fro. We were lingering in the garden after the Benefit ball. It was two in the morning, his hand resting lightly across my thighs. I drank in the beauty of a quarter moon, platinum in the violet sky; the underwater pool lighting was a distraction, yet it was a magical night, the air as soft and warm as loving arms, and the cicadas making their own particular music.
‘Daisy assumed you were buying the dress for me, of course. She was a touch uptight about that and took a little time to adjust.’ Uptight wasn’t in it, I thought irritably. During the auction Daisy had looked like a wife watching a scene of brazen extra-marital flirtation.
‘She’s a sweet thing,’ Warren said, ‘very unspoilt and unsophisticated. She can be forgiven for being a tad jealous when you were the most beautiful woman there by miles. I had a kind of reflected celebrity status as the bringer of such beauty and glamour to the party. There were plenty of swivel-eyed stares!’
It was a flowery compliment and I felt mollified. Warren was pleasing company and attentive in all the right ways. ‘It’s late,’ I said, leaning companionably against him, ‘and such perfect weather, I want to make the most of tomorrow, another lazy Beach Club day. It’s definitely my bedtime, I think.’
‘Am I coming with?’ He turned my face to him, holding my jaw. His mouth was close, his eyes searching.
Daisy was upstairs, probably not asleep, and I didn’t feel ready for the subterfuge yet, of creeping past her door. ‘It feels a bit soon,’ I said, reaching for Warren’s other hand and stroking it. ‘But didn’t you once speak about getting back on a Thursday? I’m driving to Providence this Thursday, to see a Ronnie Landfield painting; it’s a garish abstract, just right, but perhaps you should see it first. I was going to try to do the trip in a day.’
‘You couldn’t possibly – with the ferry crossings as well? You’d have to stay over, it’s the only way. I’ll have Jackson take you in the Mercedes. Would I be able to see the Landfield in the evening? I could get away mid-afternoon on Thursday, come by chopper and drive back with you next day. We could stay in Newport,’ Warren said, taking all that as read, ‘at the Vanderbilt. Nice hotel. Jackson can sort his own accommodation.’
‘No need for Jackson, I’d enjoy the drive. I can meet you, too, if you let me know where to be.’
‘That’s an offer,’ Warren’s mouth was on mine, ‘that I’d be a fool to refuse. Step by step then,’ he murmured. ‘Newport’s very atmospheric, wonderful food.’
It was an anticipatory kiss, hungry, but lingering, too. His mouth felt good. Charles kissed me in a similarly leisurely way, an enjoyable preamble that suited our years; we knew where we were at, which was a soothing security. With Warren I felt a less comfortable sort of adrenaline flow; he was still a stranger, but we were on an exploratory journey and that was about to change.
On Monday, Daisy and I spent the morning with the project manager, Jeremy Dean. He’d come on board rather cautiously, and the more I detailed the plans, the more his arched dark eyebrows knitted anxiously under a pronounced widow’s peak. He had a pair of shades stuck down the front of a tangerine shirt, rather naff-looking, but I’d done my research and he seemed to be thorough.
‘Don’t look so worried, we’re doing all the legwork,’ I assured him. ‘Everything will be ordered, measurements double-checked, the architect on the end of her phone. I’ll come out, too.’
‘I think the plans are awesome,’ he said. ‘I just hope my guys are up to the job.’
/>
‘It’s your job to see they are,’ I said firmly. ‘We must have schedules for each individual trade hired, a clear timeline, rigidly adhered to. Watch over the electrician for the floor outlets, clear cord too, please; and take particular care with the ribbon pattern on the marble floor.’ He made notes in a hardcover exercise book, which was a good sign, writing steadily in a tidy hand. Daisy made a few on-the-ball contributions, but she was on a learning curve, absorbing, desperate to gain experience, fizzing with enthusiasm for the job in hand. She already had a good grasp. I felt we were on track, as long as she stuck to it. If she did that, and shook off Simon, she’d go far.
After lunch, one of Martha’s lusciously light salads, chicken and minted cucumber, Daisy and I set off for East Northport, towards Long Island Sound. We were going to look at top-of-the-range pool tables. Warren’s basement was about to be transformed.
Later, over a welcome cup of tea on the terrace, I talked Daisy through the week, all her city chores. It was a huge project we were embarked on. ‘Have a look for silk screens,’ I said, ‘and I’m after one of Joseph Albers’s Homage to the Square paintings. I haven’t located one online. See what the galleries come up with. And check out the contemporary rug scene – think spot paintings, zigzags. I know people who’ll make to our own design, but I’d like to see samples, the best you can find of what’s out there. You’re clear on it all, you know where to go?’
‘Sure thing,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ll get the first Jitney bus tomorrow. Shall I stay over?’
‘No, Wednesday here on paperwork then you can be off again on Thursday with a new list. Have that night with Janet; you’ll need the time. I’m going to Rhode Island to see a painting and staying the night there.’ I smiled. ‘You’ve got it, Daisy, you’re doing fine. How are the boys, things back home? Is Simon weakening yet and coming over?’
‘You know, it’s funny, but he is threatening to! I’ve been so busy and preoccupied, and I had a sense on the phone last night that it’s actually made him a bit keener. I was convinced that if I were away for any length of time he’d give up on me and look elsewhere, but now he’s talking about a possible business trip to New York.’
‘What did I tell you,’ I said, feeling relief. Some good hard sex with Simon might shake her up a bit; take her eyes off Warren. ‘And the boys, all good there?’
‘Well, here’s another funny thing.’ Daisy turned to me with a soft, helpless look on her open face. ‘Their father’s turned up! He went to New Zealand after we divorced. We were both still so young and he had no job, couldn’t handle being a father, especially of a bawling pair of twins. He said it was best if he stayed away, and he did. We never heard a word. He worked as a waiter in Auckland, the boys say, and has his own bistro on a marina there now. He’s over on holiday and tracked us down through the solicitor.’
‘How have the boys reacted?’
‘They were fascinated to meet him, of course, and say he’s got a ponytail, an earring and a boyfriend! He cooked them dinner in my kitchen, seems he’s the chef at his outfit, gave them each twenty pounds – big deal – and said any time they felt like sampling the joys of Auckland . . .’
‘So if it’s only a holiday and he’s returning, isn’t that a happy tying-up of loose ends?’
‘As long as they’re not fired up to go there and want to emigrate.’ Daisy’s eyes were misting; she was feeling emotional. ‘They’re all I’ve got.’
‘They’re almost adults, they’ve got their lives to lead,’ I said. ‘Think about yours now, Daisy. You’ve found your niche and you have independence within your grasp, which would make your sons proud, I’m sure. I can’t see them taking off for New Zealand. You’re obviously close – I’d love to meet them sometime when we’re home.’
Talk of being home focused my mind, for a moment, on Charles. I should give him a call, tell him I was going to Newport, somewhere he’d talked about and said I’d enjoy. It would be slightly more politic, I decided, to leave Warren out of the equation.
I was going on a jaunt to Newport with him, but where else? Could I imagine sharing his New York apartment, having summers on Long Island – as well as, or in place of, my London life? That, I told myself sternly, was jumping a whole battery of guns.
On Thursday I dropped Daisy at the Jitney bus stop and continued on, enjoying the car that Warren had hired for our use. It was a Thunderbird, sporty and good to drive. I took the Hampton Bays Road towards Riverhead, following Jackson’s directions faithfully, and reached Orient Point and the Cross Sound Ferry in good time. I had a booking, and waited patiently in a long line of cars, glad to be on my own. I felt younger, freer, a sort of blowin’-in-the-breeze feeling – literally, once on board and on the upper deck where the wind off the Sound was tugging powerfully enough to pull me overboard.
The crossing took an hour and twenty minutes. I had a flapjack and coffee and was chatted up by a weird man in light fittings who gave me his card. Americans swapped enough cards to save a forest. I often wondered if they ever put them to practical use.
I lost my way on the Connecticut side, even with a satnav, but I had time to spare. I was meeting Warren at six and taking him straight to see the Landfield, which was a private sale. The painting had pizzazz and wasn’t vastly expensive, but I feared Warren might take fright, since it was as unlike any painting in his house as Paris, France was from Paris, Texas.
Having eventually found the highway I made good progress, exiting onto a country road that weaved quietly through forested land. Sunlight slanted through silent trees and the road was almost deserted. I felt high on exhilaration like a girl in love, but I was neither a girl nor in love, and the night ahead came with a health warning. Sex pumped up the volume, mood music was dangerous, however old I was and inured by experience; I didn’t want to be left with emotional knots to unpick.
That evening, standing well back from the immense blast of wind, I watched the helicopter drop tidily into its chalk circle. Warren leaped out and as the deafening whir of propellers subsided, he had a quick word with the pilot, who handed him his bag.
‘Good flight?’ I asked.
‘Sure thing! The East River chopper service is just down the road at 34th Street and I had Hank, my favourite pilot.’ Warren turned to wave to him. ‘A bit of late lunch on board and,’ he said, taking my arm, ‘a chilled demi-bouteille of white wine.’
He kissed my cheek, asked after my journey and took over the wheel. We drove into a residential street and drew up outside a house that looked Dutch colonial, built of white-painted clapboard and with a small, bright green, much-watered lawn. Warren squeezed my hand, hanging onto it as we climbed the front steps and rang the bell.
The seller had erratic taste in art and his lesser works showed up the quality of the Landfield. I sensed Warren adjusting to the loud, glorious splodges of colour and hoped he’d appreciate the fun and energy of the painting. He finally gave me an imperceptible nod and proceeded to bargain. I was riveted. The painting, at 3,200 dollars, was only slightly over-priced, yet Warren drove down the poor man – a dentist probably, or schoolteacher – a full thousand. His wife left the room, throwing him a look of contempt.
‘You’re a demon businessman,’ I said, as we stowed the bubble-wrapped spoils and drove away. I’d had to ask for the wrapping – the seller thought he’d done with us.
‘It gets to be a habit,’ Warren confessed. ‘I mean, it certainly wasn’t in the major league, not a pricy painting, but I’d checked it out and reckoned he’d stuck on a thou. He didn’t do badly, it was a more realistic deal. Shall we go to the hotel then down to the waterfront? It’ll give you the flavour for your first time in Newport. It’s always lively and packed round the Wharfs, kind of preppy, good spots to eat, too. How does that sound?’
‘Pretty good. A bistro or even a pub would be great, nothing too smart.’
‘I’ve booked a small suite at the hotel, and another separate room; I thought you might like some time to yourself before
dinner.’
That was thoughtful, delicately put, and allowed me to keep my options open. My respect for Warren was growing – and I liked the way he kissed.
‘Give me half an hour or so,’ I said, ‘then come and have a drink.’
The hotel, quite recently opened, hadn’t lost a sense of its past glories as a Vanderbilt family home in the transformation. My room, which had a well-designed divider to create a small sitting room, was up-to-the minute as well as comfy, clean and fresh with a sort of crisp green apples fragrance. I got going and had a scented bath – jasmine, not green apples – deciding to wear a rather joyous silk print dress, almost as vivid as the painting, with pink espadrilles that had a funky, two-tone chevron design.
‘You’re determined to get my eye in, aren’t you?’ Warren said with a grin, coming into the room. ‘But it’s no test, you’d make a couple of sewn-together dishcloths look like an elegant dress.’ Warren didn’t do funky; he was in an open-neck striped shirt and cream pants.
He kissed me and accurately guessed my scent was Chanel. ‘I feel slightly guilty,’ he said, popping the cork on a bottle of champagne, ‘after all Willa’s attempts to modernise me and the house. But she was so belittling, it made me dig in all the harder.’
‘I’d kind of assumed that the décor was all her doing,’ I said, curious.
‘It was, mostly. She loved the English country-house look and was mad for collecting extravagant pieces of silver, but I was a bit stuck on formality, as I can see now.’
‘It’s easier for me, sweeping in with a new broom,’ I said tritely, trying to be diplomatic. ‘I’d better warn you, I’m feeling inquisitive. I want to know all sorts of things, mainly about you, as well as trying to do Newport in twenty-four hours! Do I get to see those vast summer-cottage palaces, before we leave, the images I have from Edith Wharton and The Age of Innocence?’
Tell the Girl Page 18
