Chapter 17
Daisy was clock-watching and in a tizz. She was in a meeting with Susannah and the architect, Grace Mansfield, and was pleased to be included. Grace was sleek and gracious, smartly turned out in a red dress and clunky black necklace. The offices were ultra-modern, all glass, space and light, the plans exciting to see, but the meeting had been squeezed in unexpectedly, which had presented Daisy with a tricky little conundrum.
Susannah had come into the city the night before and Warren had taken them both to the theatre; he’d got last-minute tickets through a contact and insisted Daisy come, too. They’d seen Tom Hanks in Lucky Guy, a play by Nora Ephron that she’d been working on when she died. It was about the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, Mike McAlary, and Daisy had loved all the witty, whacky anecdotes. She’d loved the whole evening, apart from the continuous buzzing bee in her head – the problem of what to do about lunch with Warren next day.
He’d managed a muttered aside at the theatre. ‘Meet as planned? Same place?’ Daisy had nodded with a nervous smile, knowing that whatever cavalier attitude Warren might take, how much wiser and better it would be to cry off. But then he knew Susannah’s movements . . . He’d booked the car from Southampton Limos to bring her into the city, after all, since Jackson was on a day off; arranged as well for Jackson to drive in today and take her straight back to Southampton. She had a date with the site-manager in the late afternoon. But plans had a habit of changing and the clock was ticking on.
Grace looked at her watch. ‘You must want to get off, Susannah. Have you time for a quick bite of lunch? You should have something to see you on your way.’
Daisy held her breath. She could still call, it was no big deal, just . . . a disappointment.
‘Thanks,’ Susannah said, ‘I’d love that, perhaps in the coffee shop downstairs? I mustn’t be long. Coming, Daisy? How are you for time?’
‘I thought I’d whiz up to Bloomingdale’s and catch their summer sale. And I really should get on if I want to make the five o’clock Jitney. I’ll see you later, Susannah. And thanks, Grace, I think the plans are amazing – the offices, too!’
She left them finding a date for a meeting on site and dived into the loo, pouting into the mirror while no one was there then staring at her own still-undecided expression. It was mad to take risks, and for a man pushing seventy! The stupid thing was that she liked Warren, really quite a lot – which had nothing to do with how immensely rich he was, she felt sure of that. And he was certainly hot for her, no question.
She knew then that the decision was taken. It was completely weird, being so into him. Daisy glossed her lips and squirted scent onto her bra and pants, feeling a powerful sexual frisson. Going to his apartment would be for real this time, not just another flustered goodbye kiss at the door like last week. Warren had been comically anxious not to push it, but she’d have been fertile ground if he had, easily tilled.
It would be a good test of her feelings for Simon, she persuaded herself, stepping out of the elevator. He was arriving next week and staying Thursday to Sunday, which was hard to believe. Susannah had said a little cooling off would bring him round – and it had. Daisy had missed him less than she’d feared, but perhaps that wasn’t so strange with Long Island, the house, Warren, everything she was doing here being such a thrill. Yet it all had a sense of unreality about it and Simon, however hopeless, was a fact of life, grounded in a world to which she had to return.
Passing the coffee-shop window, Daisy saw Susannah and Grace, seated already and reading menus. Jackson was waiting, the car was right outside, and her heart pumped at a happier pace. She waved to Jackson before flagging down a cab. Sixteen blocks uptown felt a respectable distance; she sat back in the cab, tingling with guilty exhilaration and the adrenaline of risk.
It was Daisy’s second visit to San Pietro. The front of house staff recognised her instantly and she had an enthusiastic welcome. A waiter escorted her through the busy restaurant – jam-packed with Manhattan’s power-lunchers, dark-suited businessmen and a sprinkling of grey-suited women – to Warren’s table. In a jazzy sleeveless sheath with red and cream wiggly stripes Daisy felt conspicuous beside all the monochrome clothes, but the ambience, the jovial waiters, the delicious smells of fresh-cooked fish, were a colourful backdrop.
Warren kissed her cheek, gave her hand a discreet squeeze and pulled out a chair for her. The restaurant’s owner, Gerardo, came up, greeting them effusively and lovingly rattled off a list of specials – too speedily for Daisy to retain. ‘Can I have whatever smells so intoxicatingly fishy?’ she said. ‘You decide!’
That seemed popular. Fingers were raised to pursed kissing-lips to indicate that what Gerardo intended to bring would be perfection.
‘I’ve been on tenterhooks,’ Warren said. ‘So glad you’re here.’ He gave a warm, gentle smile, resting his calf against Daisy’s, leaving no doubt of his need for tactility – or his intentions. She didn’t ease her leg clear.
‘It was slightly tricky, making excuses and slipping away, but it was the only possible day,’ she said self-consciously. ‘And it lets me say another huge thank you for the theatre. I adored every minute, but you shouldn’t have felt you needed to include me. It was a lovely chance for you to have had an evening with Susannah.’
Warren drew a cautious breath as though about to tread delicate waters, only to be interrupted by the arrival of the antipasti.
‘You must never,’ Warren said, rather abruptly and startlingly once they were alone again, ‘think I wouldn’t want you there, too. I think Susannah’s terrific, as you know. I’ve been a little in love with her, long distance, ever since a trip to London way back, and we had a great time in Newport last weekend. She’s elegant and still beautiful. I greatly enjoy her company, but you were in my head all the time.’
He reached over the table to cover her hand with his. It was the most elderly bit of him, bony and speckled with a few small liver spots, but she still felt sexy quivers. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me,’ he murmured, his fingers lightly stroking. ‘I don’t listen in meetings, I step out into the street on green lights, I keep seeing your sparkly eyes – emerald eyes – and imagine lying beside you . . .’ He let that drift, looking sheepish, clearly worried about overstepping it, and withdrew his hand.
Daisy felt it was time to talk about Simon’s visit. ‘You’ve been really wonderful to me,’ she said, giving him her most adoring smile, ‘but you know I mentioned about my friend, Simon, possibly coming over? Well, he’s arriving a week tomorrow, which makes me feel a little guilty about this lovely cosy lunch.’
It was a slight foot on the brake and she wondered how Warren would react. She didn’t want to put him off altogether, just slow up a whisker for dignity’s sake.
Warren looked relieved, as a waiter chose that moment to clear the plates, glad of a temporary hiatus – although his face took on a glaze of frustrated irritation when another waiter took his time serving the main course. ‘Sea bass in a crust of sea salt for the lady,’ he said obsequiously, with a gold-tooth smile, ‘and your risotto with asparagus and shrimp, sir.’ He hovered around being smarmy, pouring more wine, water, asking if everything was all right more than once.
‘Fine, fine,’ Warren snapped – impatient now, it seemed, to make clear he was anything but put off. His eyes holding hers had a look of gentle lust. ‘Will you come back afterwards and have coffee at the apartment? It would give me a chance to ask about Simon. You look tense whenever you mention him, and we haven’t gotten very far.’ That could be taken two ways, deliberately so?
‘If I could just—’ Warren stopped mid-sentence and stiffened. Having just accused her of being tense, he was a frozen block. He was facing out into the restaurant. Who had he seen? Daisy died inside. Had Susannah known his regular lunch place and come to thank him for the theatre last night? It couldn’t get worse.
‘What is it, Warren? Someone you’ve seen?’
‘Yes, only my ex-wife, whi
ch I could certainly do without. She’s with a guy I know, a parboiled old jerk, but she’s seen me and is coming over. Shit, shit, this won’t be easy. Gee, I’m sorry – steel yourself.’
‘I’ll try.’ Daisy smiled and let out her breath while Warren audibly drew his in and set his face. She was dying to look round even as Warren struggled to his feet with more muttered expletives.
Willa proffered both cheeks with speedy turns of the head in such a way as to dispense with any need for actual kissing. ‘No surprise, seeing you here, Warren,’ she said. ‘Same old haunts, same old groove.’ She laughed, harshly and confidently.
Daisy stared open-mouthed. Willa, who looked halfway between her own age and Susannah’s, was a siren vision with rich-red lips, lustrous black hair, a sensual body and a voice dripping with sexuality. She was in a slate-grey linen dress with a skinny nude belt, a wide heavy bangle that looked solid gold; it was spangled with diamonds, pure moneyed elegance. She was a typical rich bitch, yet reeking with class.
‘So, Warren,’ Willa said, ‘aren’t you going to introduce me to this child?’
‘I’m Daisy Mitchell.’ It felt best to take over, since Warren seemed silenced, in some kind of a trance.
Willa stared coldly before saying, ‘I don’t know you. Are you a daughter of some old crony of his?’ Did she know every available female in New York?
‘I’m more parent than daughter. I have adult sons!’ Daisy laughed, little put off by Willa’s hostile dark-eyed stare. She was surprised at her ability to hold her own; at home she was often made to feel like a naïve country cousin, but not here in the States. The warmth and interested curiosity of Warren’s neighbours, the Beach Club crowd, and the reflected glory of being his house guest had given her a new confidence.
‘You’re English,’ Willa asserted, given to talking in statements, it seemed. She spun round a chair from the next-door table without so much as a ‘May I?’ and motioned to Warren to sit down with an impatient wave of red-painted nails, as though she were drying them.
He found his voice. ‘Yes, she is. Daisy’s over from London, one of my house guests staying in Southampton this summer.’ He made no mention of the redecoration project, obviously keen to dispatch Willa back to her table and not prolong things. ‘I see you’re with my old crony, Chuck. He’s looking lonely over there,’ Warren said, with some bite. ‘Give him my best, the old gasser. Solid chap in his way, pity he’s riddled with arthritis these days, poor bugger.’
Willa ignored him and continued to fix Daisy with a cold calculated gaze. ‘So let me guess: you’re a young divorcée, a bit short of money . . .’ She was getting her own back, all right. ‘A word of warning, if I may, on that score. Warren’s a tight-fisted old sod, as I should know,’ she gave a rich bark of a laugh, ‘but I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay.’ And with that stinging little parting shot, she gave a honeyed smile and sauntered back to poor-bugger Chuck, leaving the chair unreturned to its table.
Daisy felt deflated and drained. Warren would think the worst of her now. Willa had known which nerve to touch, all right. She’d made Daisy feel cheap and tarty, money-grubbing and scruple-free. Warren’s riches couldn’t be ignored. His money shaped him; it gave him an aura of power, steeliness and drive, but she wasn’t a gold-digger, not in the business of prospecting and out for all she could get. She just happened to like him. The money was neither here nor there.
Warren was looking distant, crumpled, knocked off his stride; his lips were tight-pressed in a grimace. ‘Sorry about that. I can see she’s upset you,’ he said. ‘She was jealous, bitchy as ever, but if it’s any consolation, she got to me, too.’ That was obvious enough; he still looked quite ashen. He managed a grin and settled his leg back against Daisy’s. ‘I’ve a very small present for you, you see – a nothing and only tiny because of all the fuss you made over the auction prize – but now you’ll think I’m just being tight-fisted!’
While Daisy protested earnestly, Warren reached under the table and transferred a package from his briefcase into her bucket handbag. ‘It’s only a little silver chain,’ he said, ‘really just a token. Now, will you have dessert? Sure? I’ll get the check and let’s get out of here and have coffee up the road.’
Daisy took the chance to go to the loo and peek at the present. It was from Tiffany’s, simple silver links, just the right chunkiness and length. Fantastically wearable, she couldn’t refuse it.
Walking the few sunlit blocks up Fifth Avenue with Warren, shyly enthusing and thanking him for the necklace, she imagined Susannah in every car that drove by. Only when the door to his apartment had closed behind them did she stop feeling exposed.
Warren, too, heaved a sigh once they were safely inside. He touched her hair, lifting it lightly away from her face. ‘Can I kiss you?’ Daisy didn’t speak. He wasn’t allowing much wriggle-room for coy protesting anyway, taking her in his arms with his body pressing, his mouth inches from hers. She could feel his hard-on and he’d had a quaver in his voice which she sensed was from the effort of self-control. It was the best thing about sex, she thought, as his mouth sought hers, feeling wanted when you wanted it, too.
He kissed her long and passionately, crushing her breasts until she pulled away, touching his lips with her fingers and giving a small smile. It alarmed her, how ready she was to fall into bed. ‘We’re here to talk about Simon,’ she said, trying to get a grip. ‘And I really can’t stay long. I’ve got so much to do yet, not to mention a bus to catch.’
‘You can’t possibly get the bus, I’ll put you in a chopper, that’s easily fixed.’
‘God, no. I couldn’t let you do that! I’ll be fine, there’ll be a later bus if need be, I’m sure.’
‘Then it sounds like we’d better get started on talking about Simon, ‘Warren said dryly, taking Daisy into a vast bright room overlooking Central Park. The light was streaming in, even with protective voile curtains. He ripped off his tie, chucking it onto a chair. ‘Shall I make coffee? My maid’s off, but I don’t make a bad cup.’
‘Not for me. I’m wired-up enough already.’
She looked round, absorbing the sumptuous, slightly off-key grandeur. A magnificent Aubusson carpet, a genuine old one, beautifully preserved, set the tone. The furniture had a continental feel, unyielding sofas, heavily fringed, cream-damask drapes with swags and tails. The paintings were mainly English sporting scenes – Herrings and Ferneleys at a guess – that needed a clubbier, more library setting. There were quantities of American silver – Warren must collect the stuff – and more huge candelabra, although they were probably better suited to his lifestyle here, with business entertaining. Daisy felt a small pang of homesickness for Battersea, her cramped house with its friendly clutter and exuberant back patch of garden.
Warren drew her down onto a small Bergère sofa, walnut-framed, hardly suited to lovemaking, and kept his arm round her. ‘If I’m honest,’ he said, fondling her hair with his other hand ‘Simon’s the last thing I want to talk about – for reasons which must be clear as day. I guess you’d say I’m biased, but the guy sticks in my craw. He sounds a louse, a loser, and you said yourself, Daisy dearest, that he’s not about to leave his wife. You don’t need him! Creeps like that are a dime a dozen. He’ll go on taking advantage. You gotta stand back and see it’s time for going cold turkey.’
‘I think that needs translating,’ Daisy said, smiling up at Warren, gratified by the intense, burning-up look on his face.
‘It’s like if you were trying to lick a drugs habit, we’d say going cold turkey. You’re a sweet, beautiful girl, Daisy – irresistible. I could kick his ass for treating you like a rug under his feet.’
‘I know it’s hardly an ideal relationship,’ Daisy said, holding her ground. ‘He’s a married man for a start, not something I’m proud of. And then there’s the casual cruelty and put-downs that hurt so much when you care. I’m sure you’ve been there with Willa. Simon refusing to fly over, telling me he wouldn’t stick around if I went away fo
r so long was hard to bear, yet now he’s coming after all. The boys more or less knew about Simon in my life anyway, but they certainly do now; he’s called our home, asked about my movements in a roundabout way – when they expected me back, that sort of thing. He’s changed.’
‘Men don’t change,’ Warren said, with one arm round her, the other resting on her thigh, as if all he wanted to do was get her to bed. ‘Simon won’t change his spots. Once a jerk, he’ll go on being one – and you know it.’
Daisy looked away. It was true. Warren turned her face back, fixing her with another burning gaze. ‘You’re different from any woman I’ve ever known. Lovely, that goes without saying,’ his light brown eyes were burrowing into her, ‘but you’re soft, caring, too vulnerable and tender-hearted by half. You need protecting, Daisy. I want to look after you and be there for you. If you’ll just let me do that a little, let me try . . .’
Daisy allowed herself to be led into the bedroom. His bed was colossal, heavy and masculine with a scrolled mahogany bedhead. ‘Sure it’s okay?’ Warren murmured. ‘You’re not just being kind?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Kindness doesn’t come into it, I’m not that sort of saint!’
‘I’ve been having these fantasies ever since you arrived, undressing you, doing what you’d most like . . .’
‘I’m not wearing much in this summer heat,’ she said, quivering with the exquisite lightness of his fingers on her skin. She wasn’t used to Warren’s kind of gentleness, the delicacy, his tenderly persistent fingers, and succumbed with a sigh as he found his way round her body and its needs. He could hold her, swooning, unbearably close and keep her on the point, but when she tried to reciprocate, he took away her hand. ‘I don’t trust myself. I’ll come too quickly,’ he whispered, ‘and I’m in my dreams.’
Only when they were lying back in the lee of his cumbersome bedhead, contented, shattered – more relaxed than would have seemed possible an hour ago – did Daisy think about the difference in age. It hadn’t been on her mind in the heat of the moment, but it crept in. Still, he wasn’t in bad nick for a man over thirty years older – and unselfish too; certainly by comparison, not a bad lover at all.
Tell the Girl Page 23
