Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  Vanessa Farnley-Huntington, who was an angular girl with frizzy blonde hair, had been talking as we came up; her nostrils flared a bit too frequently and her ruby silk suit did nothing for her skin. She and her husband Perry were just back from Paris, I gathered, as she carried on.

  ‘And darling P was buying me a totally divine evening bag in one of those snooty chic boutiques off the Champs Elysées when that ghastly Binky girl breezed in, Alicia – and you should see what she’s done to her hair! It was Jean Seberg meets sucked mango; it hugged the skull and her tint had gone all orange.’

  Perry beamed at his wife while Joe told the Swiss gent, Fabio, the best plays to see and Toby ordered another bottle of champagne. Fabio, not a slight man, was wearing a suit with such embarrassingly tight trousers that I couldn’t help eyeing his straining crotch, worrying about the harm to his procreative powers.

  Joe was suddenly distracted, turning towards the bar. ‘Don’t look now,’ he said, ‘but isn’t that Richard Burton sitting there all on his own?’

  It was one way of stopping Vanessa in her flow; it drew my eyes from Fabio’s cluster and caused Alicia’s head to spin round. ‘How’s that for a bit of showbiz spectator sport?’ Joe demanded, leaning forward to keep his voice down.

  ‘Burton’s face is a bit pitted.’ Vanessa cast a superior glance. ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘That sounds like meow, meow,’ Toby commented dryly, making clear – to me at least – that he could do without Vanessa whether she was Alicia’s best mate or not. Toby never revealed much of himself; he merely observed, Sphinx-like, and made money for his faithless wife to spend. But who was I to talk? I wondered if he’d ever chuck Alicia out one day.

  ‘He is Miss Elizabeth Taylor’s type!’ Fabio chortled, giving his trousers extra stress.

  We all had to sneak stares, it was impossible not to. Richard Burton was sitting half-sideways on his barstool, his back only partly to the room. I saw him nod at the barman for a refill, glance down towards the restaurant part of the Club, but then I was caught out, still staring when he turned further round and looked directly at me. He beckoned me over – and with everyone in the Club looking on . . .

  ‘Just see what he wants,’ I muttered, blushing as pink as the flower petals on my dress, loving the moment all the same, the astounded looks – jealous resentment through amused curiosity to total astonishment – from everyone at our table and others beyond.

  I climbed up onto the vacant barstool beside Richard Burton. No one, obviously, had liked to come and sit too close. He gave me an appraising eye and rested his hand on my arm. ‘If I had to guess,’ he said, ‘I’d say you’re not having much of a hell of a good time.’

  ‘Well,’ I tittered nervously, ‘they’re more friends of my husband’s . . .’

  ‘He’s the actor? Couldn’t be one of the others.’ The barman was waiting. ‘Champagne here, Luigi, for the lady, the beautiful lady,’ Richard raised an eyebrow, ‘who is called . . . ?’

  ‘Susannah. I read you’re doing a film called The V.I.P.s?’ I said, relieved to have seen a mention and have something to talk about. He nodded, watching me, and I sipped the champagne, feeling the telltale heat in my face. ‘Perhaps I should re-join—’

  ‘I think we should get out of here, Susannah, and go someplace else.’

  ‘Where? What do you mean?’ My heart was pounding, I felt like pressing a hand to it.

  ‘Just a trip round the block – give your husband a surprise. Don’t look back.’

  ‘You mean a little drive – somewhere not far? And you’d bring me back soon?’

  He laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh, and downed another whisky in one. ‘Yes, not far – only up the road.’ A thousand thoughts flew in. Elizabeth? Wasn’t she around? I could say no. He was staying at the Dorchester, I’d read, which was just up the road . . .

  I could see my table in the mirror. Joe was giggling, Alicia responding, Vanessa looking shocked and peeved, Toby enjoying the sport. It would stir them up all right.

  ‘Ready?’ Richard touched my arm, amusement in his eyes. I stared back at him, still torn. What the hell! As pick-ups went, it certainly had some class. Gil would approve.

  ‘Yes.’ I grinned. ‘Just a little spin round the block . . . mustn’t be long.’

  He took my arm and we left without a backward glance. His car was waiting, engine running, and we spun up Curzon Street – to the Dorchester. ‘Elizabeth’s having a teeth op,’ he said, ‘and I hate being alone.’ He gave me a lovely time.

  Joe was asleep when I crept into bed, or pretending to be.

  ‘Nice time last night?’ he queried sarcastically, in the morning. ‘Vanessa asked how I stood for it and I’m really not sure. I suppose you never considered my feelings when you chose to stand me up like that – or the gossip, the harm to your reputation with friends?’

  ‘Isn’t that rather bourgeois of you, darling? I thought it was me who’s supposed to be the prude.’

  Joe almost, but not quite, had the grace to smile.

  Chapter 21

  The Jitney ran extra buses to the Hamptons in the holiday season and the 5.55 from 23rd Street fitted very neatly with Daisy’s Wednesday afternoons with Warren. She could be back in Southampton in time for supper, just as in her more innocent early days. She never minded the journey – it was time to write her column, read, wind down from the city – but Warren made such a fuss. ‘Can’t you understand how much of a heel it makes me feel? I want to look after you.’ He tried every pleading, blackmailing tactic he could to persuade her to let him send her by limo.

  ‘It’s quite enough that you’ve upped my ticket to Ambassador class,’ Daisy argued every time. ‘I love that bit of luxury.’ Things had a habit of being found out and she didn’t want the small matter of transport to be her undoing.

  She was enjoying her luxury seat now and wriggled her toes in the Manolo Blahnik sandals Warren had given her that were such sexy heaven, despite the straddling straps looking slightly like an eight-legged tarantula. Daisy cast an eye at her watch. Only ten minutes to go. She sighed and reached for her old flatties in her non-designer-label handbag; she needed to change back and hide the Manolos from Susannah.

  Daisy was still in the aftermath glow of her post-lunch activities, slightly sore and as bewildered as ever at the way sex with Warren continued to be such a turn-on.

  She needed her extended lunchtimes with Warren – and any snatched evening quickie when Susannah’s old friend Janet, who put Daisy up in the city, was out for the evening. They met at Warren’s Fifth Avenue apartment on those times, Daisy clock-watching, worrying slightly about what to say if Janet was back first. An economical half-truth, she decided: her Southampton host had had a small get-together – business contacts – and thought to invite her round.

  She wondered at the contrast. Sex with Simon was hard-core, all about the overpowering force of his virility whereas with Warren it was simply the extraordinarily effective tenderness of his touch. True, she always felt sexier in hot weather, but Warren was so attuned to her needs and put them first; with Simon they were an afterthought, if remembered at all.

  Warren’s presents were a problem – the smallest of beers to a beer magnate, but of a quality that she’d never before been given or able to afford. She knew they had nothing to do with the attraction; she wasn’t a sexual fraud, in the business of trying to snare him, yet the gifts gave her a feeling of being bought, which wasn’t easy to explain. All she could do was plead with him. ‘You mustn’t, mustn’t. You’ve showered me with far too much already!’

  ‘It gives me more pleasure than I can say, Daisy darling. You can’t deny me that.’

  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He chose presents with great care and sensitivity, like a father intimately familiar with his daughter’s more modern tastes and foibles. Beautiful leather belts and bags, cashmere, clothes and accessories that he mistakenly assumed – since he knew how worried she was about Susannah sussing – that
Daisy could have bought herself. The exotic underwear was a less paternal choice.

  He simply didn’t get that Susannah would know the belts were Dolce & Gabbana, the bags Chloé, the cashmere Donna Karan. The hidden presents were piling up; the whole situation was fraught.

  The bus was approaching the Southampton stop. Susannah came to pick her up, since Jackson was off on Wednesdays, but she wasn’t in sight yet. She went in for fine timing, whereas Daisy was always massively punctual. A text came through. Two secs!

  It wasn’t far to walk anyway and taxis were always lined up. People often shared them from the stop, a little Southampton summer camaraderie that had apparently grown into quite a custom. Daisy climbed down from the Jitney thinking, with a slight jolt, that there were only about two more Wednesdays to go. The job would be finished as far as they were concerned by mid-August. Then it was back to England, time to face Simon again, a pile of bills and a very wobbly future.

  Would Susannah keep her on? She had her secretary, Stephanie, in London; all Daisy could hope for was an occasional one-off commission that was large enough to justify an extra pair of hands. So much was in the air. Warren was coming on a bit strong. Daisy remembered his extreme freeze-up, seeing his ex-wife at the restaurant. He showed every sign of having a very possessive nature and she didn’t somehow see him waving her off into the sunset, home to England, with a friendly, ‘So long!’

  Susannah swept up and braked to a stop. ‘Good couple of days?’ she asked as Daisy climbed in. ‘You must be knackered with the heat in the city and all you’ve been doing.’

  That possibly had a little edge, but it wasn’t said maliciously. Susannah’s warmth was genuine, Daisy knew. She felt as astonished as ever by their friendship. They were different generations, but good together; nothing felt forced. Susannah looked cool, tanned, wearing that witty turquoise tee with a toucan on the front. She’d had a hectic day too, site meetings, window people, marble suppliers, wood-floor people. She hadn’t been idling by the pool.

  Daisy longed to pour out her heart about Warren, but the sensitivities were just too great. His growing seriousness spelled trouble. Susannah probably saw it as a temporary dalliance with a younger woman and wouldn’t take kindly to discovering it was more than that. At best she’d be sad, hurt and fed-up. At worst it could lead to a bare-knuckle fight. Either way, Daisy felt, it would mean a miserable end to their friendship and also, inevitably, her stimulating, satisfying new job.

  She shut her mind to it all, and over one of Martha’s delicious light suppers they talked shop and also about the rash of weekend parties on offer: the cocktail parties, Saturday-night dinner with the Stocktons, Art and Maisie, which should be a laugh. Maisie was a riot when she was on form, always the flaunter, out to shock, and she loved to puncture pomposity.

  ‘I have my dinner date with Gerald the auctioneer tomorrow as well,’ Daisy said with a grin, relieved that Warren had got it firmly into his head that Gerald was gay. ‘I’m looking forward to it, I’d felt quite stood up when he had a sudden important trip to North Carolina the other day.’

  Her mobile buzzed and in the uncanny way that often happens, it was Gerald, fixing the time and place. Susannah looked across the table with interest and Daisy said, clicking off from the call, ‘Well, it wasn’t another brush-off. He’s coming at eight and taking me to somewhere called Nick and Toni’s in East Hampton that he says is quite “jolly”.’

  ‘It’s about the most in place going,’ Susannah said. ‘Impossible to get a table there in summer. He must know all the right people.’

  An evening with Gerald, Daisy decided, had distinct possibilities. He was certainly younger than Warren, in his fifties probably, and suitably cultured-looking for his grand auction house; he had a good head of thick brown hair and Daisy couldn’t forget his impressive nose. She had a sneaking desire to satisfy her curiosity about long noses and kissing. Would this be her chance to find out?

  ‘Is Warren back tomorrow?’ she asked, knowing the answer. ‘You won’t be on your own, Susannah, I hope?’ It was almost August; Warren was going to be around a lot more.

  ‘No, he’ll be back,’ she smiled. ‘I expect we’ll pop out to some staid trad joint, though – no Nick and Toni’s for me! Warren’s not one for experimenting with anywhere on-trend, after all. He’s an old stick-in-the-mud at heart.’

  That was true, Daisy thought. Warren was solidly set in his ways, as conventional as custard pie.

  Gerald arrived at eight on the dot. He brushed Daisy’s cheek, a formal little kiss. ‘I love your dress,’ he said. ‘I feel I had quite a hand in that!’

  She was in the Carolina Herrera resort dress that Warren had bid for at the Red Tide Benefit’s auction – at Susannah’s suggestion, which she might now regret. She’d been amused, all the same, about how perfect it was for a date with Gerald.

  Susannah came to the door to see them off, and admired Gerald’s silver Porsche convertible. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for sleek sporty cars,’ she said. The Porsche impressed Daisy no end as well; with this Long Island life she was leading she felt like someone on a crazy credit-card binge. The divorce had left her so strapped. A return to reality – bill-paying in Battersea – was far from a thrilling prospect, yet one that soon had to be faced.

  The tall wrought-iron gates were opening, Warren returning. He jumped out and began to come over. Gerald was holding open the passenger-seat door; Daisy climbed in hurriedly, waving at Warren with a backward smile and calling goodbye. She didn’t want him slowing them up and embarrassing her with his moony eyes queering her Gerald pitch. Warren stopped in his tracks. He waved back, but looked hurt, taking it as a slight. It was unsettling. Daisy felt disturbed.

  ‘So how did it go, down south in North Carolina?’ she asked, once they were through the gates and Gerald was revving down the street.

  ‘Well, the trip became extended, as you’ll have gathered,’ he said dryly. ‘Sorry I mucked you about. One of Wilmington’s most venerable worthies had kicked it and her family were selling off some important paintings and French furniture. They feuded on and on about what to auction, the reserve prices, with no thought at all for my time. And Wilmington is the kind of small city where everyone gets in on the act, so other grandees wanted me to see their treasures – some of which were truly grim – but buyers come in all tastes and sizes so I had to take a look.’

  ‘Isn’t it hugely satisfying and worth it all when you make a real find?’

  ‘It sure is, and seeing beautiful pieces in situ, too. One house I visited had some rare gems, a perfect French Empire secrétaire and a seventeenth-century longcase clock – only the old lady wanted to hang onto those. She lived in a moated mansion that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, even down to the yellowing lace cloth on the hexagonal table where we had tea. She was gracious, with swept-up hair, and we had dainty cucumber sandwiches – but it was the spookiest experience you can imagine.’

  ‘How come?’ Daisy asked curiously.

  ‘The house was reached by a path through the garden, and along the banks of the moat – which was stuffed full of alligators watching me! It was a perfect setting for one of your Agatha Christie weekend-house-party murder stories. I’ve never felt more scared in my life!’

  ‘I long to see the Deep South, but does North Carolina actually qualify?’

  ‘It’s a southern plantation state, but not the full Deep South. Wilmington’s a port city and was very active in the Civil War, extremely supportive. Not all the state – the struggling farmers in the west were more ambivalent, quite anti-slavery, in fact. Here we are now.’ He drew up on the restaurant’s gravel parking. ‘I hope you like this place. It has a good buzz and gets the celebrities.’

  ‘It’s a real treat to come here,’ Daisy said, revelling in being out with him, ‘I’m having one new experience after another.’

  Nick and Toni’s had two interior rooms, primitive art on white walls, a centrepiece wood-burning oven co
vered in mosaic, and an outdoor terrace too, where Gerald had asked to be seated. There wasn’t a table to be had; the place was a honeypot for the most social limelight-seeking bees. Daisy liked the coloured lights strung along an overhead awning and the bordering spiky architectural plants.

  Their table was to the side, good for celebrity spotting and hearing themselves talk. ‘The cocktails are great here,’ said Gerald, ‘you must try one. I’m going to have a Rosita. It’s basically tequila and vermouth, but have a read-through and see what you like.’

  ‘I love the sound of a local berry Rosado, thanks.’ Daisy settled back while he gave the order, amazed at who was there. ‘I see what you mean about celebrities,’ she murmured. ‘I mean, isn’t that Bill Clinton in that group over there? And Alec Baldwin just beyond – his wife looks very pregnant! I do feel rather the church mouse, very ordinary indeed.’

  ‘You’re not. I doubt any one of these people is related to a French countess.’

  Daisy stared, bemused and disconcerted. ‘How on earth do you know that? And anyway, she’s my stepmother – it’s only by marriage.’

  ‘Just from a piece in the local rag’s diary column. Society designer Susannah Forbes and Daisy Mitchell, her young assistant, daughter of a French countess, are taking Southampton by storm. You write a column under your own name too, Daisy; which makes it easy for nosy people like me. But in case you’re wondering, I asked you out before seeing the piece.’ Gerald had an appealing, educated sort of a grin. Daisy felt quite flustered to think of the Beach Club regulars reading about her. Had Warren seen it? She suspected he had, yet wouldn’t have wanted to allude to it.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone with such definitively green eyes,’ Gerald remarked, more curiously than as a come-on, ‘and the Herrera dress has green in it. Shall we order?’