Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  I hadn’t been back for nearly fifty years. The memories were so poignant, but now I felt able to cope. Any shame over Matt had faded to nothingness.

  The road up from the coast seemed wider and the land, the sleepy countryside, was a built-up mass of villas, enclaves – a different world. I couldn’t even make out the cottage. The fortress village was unchanged, despite the teeming tourists squeezing up the steep stone alleyways. There was serious art to be had, though; not all the shops were draped in tat. And La Colombe d’Or was as exquisite as I remembered – with its curtaining ivy and nestling Léger mural on the terrace where we ate – the age and beauty of the place. The food was perhaps more consciously gourmet, the paintings – Picasso, Utrillo, Duffy, Miró, Matisse – still all there, part of the furniture, the history. I’d stayed away too long.

  I flew home after a few precious days with the family, aware that grandmothers could smother, and sons-in-law needed holiday privacy. I wondered about Charles. He’d sent witty texts, mainly about the teenager and the straw-behind-ear boyfriends whom he’d had to shoo away like the hens poking their heads in at the kitchen door. He’d called too, and while not being distant or cool, he’d still left me with a sense of remoteness, as if he had things on his mind, elsewhere thoughts. It was unsettling.

  With my new electronic passport, I was away from Heathrow in no time. In the taxi, I turned on my phone and saw that I had an unknown voicemail message.

  Susannah dearest, it’s Warren. I’m here, staying at Claridges, briefly. I need to talk to you, to see you. I ’d heard from your PA that you were due to return from France today. Are you back yet – can I call by? Please say yes – or tell me when is a good time.

  What on earth had got into Warren?

  Daisy was in London, back over a week now. She’d phoned from the States and said the deed was done and that telling Warren hadn’t been quite the agony she’d feared. I was intrigued, impatient to hear more. She’d texted me in France, too; apologies for disturbing my holiday, but she was sooo bursting to give me the full lowdown. Could she perhaps come round when I was back home? I knew she had her future on her mind.

  I’d have liked to see Daisy before Warren, to be primed and properly filled in, but he’d seemed a bit desperate in that whiny voicemail. Perhaps it was only fair to see him quickly while he was here. He’d implied coming over specially, yet knowing Warren he was sure to be combining it with some business interest; he mapped his life that way. It was a tantalising twist, a call from Warren – the last thing I’d expected. The summer saga not yet quite put to bed, it seemed.

  Home by eight o’clock, I unpacked and settled in before phoning Warren. I couldn’t face him coming round that night. Charles might even appear.

  Warren answered instantly. ‘Hello, hello?’ He sounded very staccato and on edge.

  ‘I found your voicemail,’ I said. ‘It was quite a surprise. What’s brought you over?’

  ‘You, Susannah. I need to talk, and thought the only thing to do was to take action and grab a plane. Can I take you to dinner?’ He sounded really worked up, but too bad. He could wait a few hours; he’d given me enough aggro. I’d felt virtuous even answering his call.

  ‘I’m a bit whacked tonight, Warren, just got in. Let’s make it tomorrow.’

  ‘Even just a drink? I’m going spare, alone in the hotel. It’s full of tourists in sneakers.’

  ‘Sorry, Warren, not tonight. why don’t you give Jimmy Rose a call? I’m sure he’d love a catch-up. You could tell him that, having met me at his drinks party – what is it, nearly three years ago now – I’ve been out all summer doing your Southampton house. Jimmy’s around, busy writing a political exposé, which should scatter a few pigeons over here.’

  Warren seemed happier, given something to do and with a time fixed to come by next day. It was mid-week in the middle of August, not a lot happening. Lunch at one of the outdoor cafés in nearby Duke of York Square might be an idea if the weather held. I wanted to keep the meeting local – and short.

  I called Daisy in the morning with the news of Warren’s odd, unexpected hop-over. ‘He’s probably come all the way to London to cry on my shoulder about you and ask if he should get in touch. It’s a bit of a liberty! I take it you don’t want me to pass anything on, and that you’re not having second thoughts? He’s at Claridges, if you are.’

  ‘God, no. No way! But I’m sure it’s not about me anyway. I must tell you – I’ve held off with Simon so far, stopped him coming round. And he’s in Cornwall this week.’

  ‘We’d better have that chat you want soon then, so I can keep stiffening your resolve. No sagging backbones allowed. He’ll be more trouble when he’s through with family holidays and back at work again, and we can’t have him camping on your doorstep, wearing you down. How’s Friday morning?’

  ‘It’d be fantastic. I’m terrifically grateful. And perhaps we can share notes about Warren,’ she added shyly – as well she might.

  Walking into the living room of my penthouse flat, Warren looked round carefully, cautiously, like someone who has seen too many spy-thrillers. He needed the familiar, to know the parameters of a room, where the doors were. I could imagine him always double-checking the exits on a plane, front and back. The room, the whole flat, was sunny and splendid – hardly a penthouse to him, of course, being only five floors up – but it was new territory.

  Warren’s eyes had made their circuit. They were back on me now and he seemed unsure whether to smile, even. He was unusually tense.

  ‘Champagne?’ I had a bottle of Bollinger in my hands.

  ‘Mineral water, if you don’t mind. I’m on a new regime – no alcohol before six. It’s hard to stick to, but I hate to gain weight – it’s bad for longevity!’ His smile was a relief, he was sounding like an American abroad. He gazed out of the window. ‘So much green space. London’s full of surprises.’

  ‘That’s Burton Court,’ I said, ‘cricket and tennis and stuff. It’s great having it there.’

  Warren followed me to the drinks table, standing oppressively close as I poured Perrier over a glassful of ice. I had the same without ice. I handed him his and went with mine to an armchair. He came to the one beside it, leaned over the table between us and held my eyes. I could smell the faint residue of a perfumed soap on his hands.

  ‘I had to come, had to see you. I’d made such an unbelievably dreadful fool of myself over Daisy.’ He kept up his gaze. ‘I mean, asking her to marry me! I’d felt nothing for her, no more than a typical urge, that stupid sexual itch men have to learn to control.’ I raised an eyebrow, wondering when that would be. ‘I was blinded, Susannah. I had floaters in my eyes, faulty vision. It was male hubris, kidding myself that I could mould her to my lifestyle. I mean, she’d be decorative, a sweet docile young wife at my side, but not a real mate.’

  I felt a need to defend Daisy. The whole point of her was her spark; Simon could subdue it, of course, but only with brute force.

  ‘I’d hardly call Daisy docile!’ I said. ‘Aren’t you rather doing her down?’ I stood up, feeling slightly bored. I’d made a fool of myself, too – and didn’t need reminding of it. All this was a waste of time: there was nothing more to be said.

  ‘How about a spot of lunch?’ I went on. ‘It was generous of you to come to explain, but it was only a near-mistake, after all, not one you actually made, or so I gather. I’d put it all behind you now, since I assume none of your friends knew and nobody’s any the wiser.’ I suspected that Warren had dropped a few broad hints, but he’d cover his back, he could say what he liked about Daisy. And would do, I was sure.

  ‘Do you mind a short walk to one of the local cafés?’ I suggested. ‘They have outside tables and I thought perhaps a light salad lunch – good for your new regime. I mustn’t be too long. Stephanie’s just gone on holiday, now that I’m back, and I need to be at my desk.’

  Warren looked strangely panicked. I wondered why. He was in a dark suit, a safe, striped tie; dressed for
a city meeting, but obviously not in a rush. He’d probably had a business breakfast.

  ‘Susannah,’ he leaned forward again, ‘I can’t talk privately over a café table and I must say what I need to, what I’ve come to say – even if it makes you justifiably angry. There’s no easy way to put this, but it’s just that, well, you see . . .’ he drew a breath. ‘The full misery of what I’ve been living with is that I asked the wrong woman.’

  He bowed his head. Looking up coyly he said, ‘I knew instantly. I felt sick as a dog, out on the ocean with Elmer next day, and it had nothing to do with the swell. I was lousy company for Daisy, the evening you left as well. I took her to the Meadow Club and sat in a stew of gloom, wondering what the hell to do . . .’

  It did indeed make me angry. I wasn’t in the business of being anyone’s second choice, certainly not Warren’s. I wasn’t that desperate, even at my grand old age. It was a load of baloney anyway. If he’d known that quickly, he’d have done something about it, not left it to Daisy to see her personal light.

  Warren studied his neatly clipped nails; he had them manicured weekly. He looked up. ‘Would you, Susannah dearest, consider coming out for a couple more weeks – to relax, not to work, of course; no pressure, just as a good friend? It’ll be Labor Day in Southampton. Everyone’s around, I know they’d all want to see you . . .’

  He was newly into pregnant pauses. His eyes were limpid like a pleading child’s, begging to be allowed out. He’d broken the back of his homework, presented his mea culpa face, made a tentative start at reparation and now wanted the girl next door to come out to play mummies and daddies. Warren was pretty transparent, as I well knew after a couple of months of a non-admitted-to ménage. I felt determined to cling onto a bit of dignity and not let fly; no stroppy, loss-of-face bitching. I’d leave that to his ex-wife.

  ‘That’s no go, I’m afraid, Warren. There’s no chance of my coming over, not least because of Stephanie’s holiday. And while you may have decided you fell the wrong way, that’s hardly going to inspire me with any great confidence. It doesn’t mean you’d have felt it a right decision if you’d fallen the other way in the first place! You’re set in your ways and lifestyle, too, and by the same token, understandably at our age, so am I in mine.

  ‘My life’s here in London. We’re not in love, after all – which is not to say we’re too old, nor that there isn’t a fulfilling relationship out there waiting to happen. Yet from one who’s made many mistakes in her time, I’d advise you to hold your horses.’

  Warren was looking more and more hunted and I eased up a bit. ‘I appreciate all you’ve said, and taking the trouble to make this trip, though perhaps you’ve managed to combine it with a little business?’ He flushed, always so easy to read. ‘Anyway, I’ve got an off-the-wall suggestion for you, if you’d like. Let’s go for a bite and I’ll try it out on you.’

  He took my hand and squeezed it as we started out round Burton Court. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Of course. Oh, and how was last night with Jimmy, by the way? All good there?’

  Jimmy had called me that morning to thank me warmly; he’d managed to get Warren to buy up quantities of his wine company’s top-notch stock.

  ‘Very convivial,’ Warren said. ‘He’s invited himself out to Great Maples next summer – to see the transformation, he said, the fruits of Susannah’s stay. Tell me this suggestion of yours, though. Don’t keep me hanging fire.’

  I’d kept up a brisk pace to Duke of York Square and made for the Saatchi Art Gallery’s outdoor café. ‘It’s to do with Willa,’ I said, as we sat down at a table. ‘She’s not out of your system yet, Warren. Anyone else in your life is by way of a passing affair.’

  His mouth hung open. He shut it hurriedly, self-consciously, his eyes darting about. He never let go of appearances; ‘convention’ was his middle name. No one was looking; only shoppers gossiping, a young couple flirting, a bearded loner fixing people with hopeful gazes. An artist? Willing everyone to go into the Gallery and admire his paintings?

  Warren was more in control now – wary and on the defensive. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Susannah.’ He impatiently waved away a tall thin girl offering bread rolls.

  ‘Hear me out,’ I said. ‘Keep an open mind. Daisy told me about Willa coming up in a restaurant, you see, and the crumbly old bore she was with. She hasn’t found her match, Warren, obviously, and I’m sure she’d be more amenable to an overture from you than you’d think. She wouldn’t take you so much for granted, second time round either, having had her bluff called and seen your tough, don’t-cross-me-or-else side. You were bitter, sure, but I’d thought when we met that you protested it a little over-much. It seemed more a case of bruised pride – on both sides – than being simply bored and out of love.’

  ‘Wouldn’t your pride have been bruised, if you’d been constantly belittled and put down?’ Warren demanded. He looked insulted, deeply injured and all the more on the defensive.

  ‘But you still care, be honest with yourself. And you’d be in command this time round, Warren, and able to call the shots. You can give her a lifestyle she loves . . . I think she’d bite.’

  ‘But the house!’ he exclaimed, hit by the thought. ‘All your work, the plans, the orders in train; everything would have to be stopped – and the cancellation fees involved! I mean, just imagine!’ True to form he was instantly into financial practicalities while not dismissing an approach to Willa out of hand.

  ‘Why cancel the conversion? Go ahead with it, do the work. Don’t tell her. Willa needn’t see the house till Christmas or next summer anyway. You could say you did it for her as a surprise! She’d see you were far from in a decorative rut, which you’ve said she complained about, and if she likes to be the centre of attention, allow in the magazines to do features. They’d want to, there’d be a lot of interest.

  ‘Give it some thought,’ I said. ‘Examine your feelings, and if you do decide to ask her out and see how it goes, take it slowly, won’t you? Plan your strategy like a business deal.’

  Warren’s mouth was open again, he’d forgotten about appearances. He was thinking hard, staring at me as if I was completely off with the fairies – yet probably, I suspected, weighing up the risk-to-gain ratio even as his head was in spinning confusion.

  ‘Are your children and grandchildren home from Europe yet?’ I enquired, and he gave an absent nod. ‘Why not have them out for Labor Day weekend?’ I suggested, mindful of his need for company. ‘The work isn’t due to start till the Wednesday afterwards. Now can you catch that waitress’s eye, do you think? I really mustn’t be long.’

  Daisy breezed in, looking fit for the front row of a fashion show, confident and classy, smelling deliciously of some soft rich decadent perfume. Balenciaga? Warren bounty?

  ‘It’s fabulous to see you,’ she said, ‘and of you to let me come.’

  Her arms were dropping off with all the carriers and panniers she was carrying; she’d brought enough home cooking to stock a farmer’s market. More of her fresh baked bread, which smelled intoxicating, sexy little cupcakes with a nipple-like glazed raspberry on top, a tub of her scrumptious marmalade ice cream. Tomato chutney, red Thai curry . . .

  ‘I make the curry with chicken thighs,’ she said, as we went into the kitchen with it all. ‘It’s quite tasty. I just thought perhaps you could use a few bits with Stephanie away. Hello, Posh! Doesn’t she look well? Silly little puss cat, aren’t you?’ Daisy bent to muss her fur affectionately. Posh lapped up the fuss, which she seldom did; she was Siamese, it must be the Thai curry.

  ‘You’ve gone quite mad,’ I said. ‘There’s enough food here for a week! And the smell of that bread . . . Well, let’s look at you then. That’s some necklace. Great with the shirt; you do get it together, Daisy. The handbag’s not so dusty either.’

  ‘Warren insisted on buying up half Southampton. I’d told him not to before I’d made up my mind, how embarrassed about it I felt all round. He was just showing off, w
anting to remind me how rich he was. He shopped for himself, too.’

  Daisy was trying to tread sensitively while only underlining how conclusively I’d been Secondhand Rose. It blew Warren’s cover over being a misery at the Meadow Club; he’d hardly been that, strutting up Southampton’s Main Street with the bouncy young Daisy on his arm. I was past caring, all the more fascinated to hear it from her side.

  ‘We’ve got plenty to talk about,’ I said. ‘There’s a proposition I want to put to you and notes to share about Warren. I’m dying to hear all! Let’s have coffee and some of that irresistible bread.’

  I ground the beans, which along with the fresh-baked aroma and Daisy’s scent produced an orgy of delectable smells. And finding some damson conserve in the back of the cupboard we got stuck in, feet up at the telly end of the kitchen, gorging ourselves silly.

  ‘You look terrific,’ Daisy said, in her typically gushy way. ‘So rested. The sun’s blonded your hair and I adore your stripy trousers, they’re so cool. Um, did you see Warren yet? I just wondered what brought him over?’

  ‘It wasn’t actually you, Daisy. He started by pouring out the apologies then got round to asking me back out to Long Island – to hold his hand! I resisted telling him what a filthy cheek he had and suggested he was still hooked on his ex-wife, the toughie cow, dangling the idea of him taking up with her again. He was in shock, horror at the thought, but didn’t rule it out. He’s gone off now, to do profit and loss columns on Willa!’ I grinned. ‘So tell me how you managed to extricate yourself and turn away your billionaire.’

  ‘It was surprisingly easy,’ Daisy said. ‘Elmer Harvey helped, coming staggering up to our dinner table, drunk as a raisin in rum. All the nods and winks when I’d asked him not to, Warren’s bragging and swagger as though I were the victim of a takeover; it was too much. It crystallized my decision. And as the week wore on, Warren genuinely seemed to see for himself that he’d been a bit carried away with the imagined pleasures of a dolly bird at his side. He’d muttered about lawyers and premarital contracts too, which hardened my resolve. I’d rather kiss goodbye to all the billions in America than marry on contractual terms. I encouraged him in downside thinking as best I could. Little things like reminding him without actually saying so, how set in his ways he was, that his bedroom wouldn’t look quite the same, no more staid orderliness in his life; girls spread themselves, they had a lot of stuff.