Sunset casts a flattering glow over the first guests, making them shimmer as they accept flutes of champagne from waiters dressed in togas. A jazz band is playing, the singer giving throaty renditions of Ella classics. The party’s being held on a roof terrace. There are plastic flamingos and gold palm trees, reminding Sam of Atlantic City. He leans against a wall, at the edge of the action. He can smell the fumes from the gritty street far below.
A redhead with skin like double cream is in the middle of the dance floor. Nobody else is dancing except her; she moves slowly, undulating her hips, twisting her arms. With her colouring and curves, she should have been painted by one of the Impressionists, he thinks, Degas or Matisse.
‘Oh, I love Matisse,’ she says, when he tells her. ‘I get sick of all those art snobs saying it’s not proper art if it’s pretty.’
She looks up at him under dark lashes when he asks her name. ‘Daisy. Daisy Armstrong.’ She smiles, ‘I know exactly who you are, Sam Sage. I love your new single, “Ocean Blue”. Really gets me, you know, right here.’ She presses her chest. ‘I’m a total romantic.’
She is so knowingly coquettish that Sam finds it entrancing. Her glances and pouts are performed with the grace of a dancer, her timing skilful as a chess player, and he appreciates the fact that she doesn’t take herself too seriously.
She doesn’t capitulate to his advances at once. It takes a conversation on the merits of different Impressionists and two cocktails before she agrees to leave and have dinner with him.
They go to a Japanese restaurant. Kneeling at the low table, she says, ‘I didn’t want to burst your bubble before, but Matisse is technically thought of as a Fauvist rather than an Impressionist. I thought you should know. For future reference.’
‘Oh, what’s the difference?’ he asks.
‘Mainly colour. Matisse used a brighter, bolder palette.’
He groans, ‘So my chat-up line did nothing but expose my lack of knowledge?’
‘It was sweet.’ She leans forward conspiratorially, ‘Actually, I was all yours before you said a word.’
He swallows hard. ‘You mean there was nothing I could have said to put you off?’
She tilts her head to one side. ‘Maybe if you’d compared me to a Renoir.’
‘What’s wrong with a Renoir?’
‘Cellulite.’ She winks. ‘Lots of cellulite. The man was crazy for it.’
He laughs. ‘What do you do, Daisy Armstrong, when you’re not giving art history lessons?’
‘I sing,’ she tells him, waving her chopsticks. ‘And model. But really I want to be a star. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a little girl.’
‘I think you’re made to be a star,’ he says, looking at her huge green eyes, the tumbling curls spilling over her naked shoulders.
‘But nobody’s giving me my big break,’ she sighs. ‘This business is tough.’
‘I played the pub circuit for a couple of years before the Lambs,’ he says. ‘It felt as though I was banging my head against a brick wall.’ He puts a piece of sushi in his mouth, the horse-radish making his eyes smart. ‘I’d like to hear you sing.’
‘Really?’ She unfolds herself from the low seat. She’s kicked off her heels, and her long split dress trails on the floor. She grins down at him and his heart lurches. ‘How about now?’
He waits in breathless anticipation. She opens her mouth and belts out a Whitney Houston song. She warbles and riffs, not quite hitting those tricky high notes, her voice swallowed by vibrato. The other diners turn and stare in amazement.
When she finishes, most of them clap, including Sam.
Daisy bows and flicks her hair, then sinks back onto her knees and leans across the table. She’s practically purring. ‘Well?’
Sam nods, ‘Um. Amazing. Really … breathtaking.’
The girl can’t sing. But my God, he thinks, she’s got guts.
There have been other girls since Cat, but none has intrigued him like Daisy, and he supposes part of the attraction is that they’re so different. If Daisy’s like looking at a gorgeous painting, a kind of clever and intriguing artifice, then Cat’s the subject, the real thing, with nothing hidden. But he wasn’t able to live up to her high standards. With her truth and her unwavering need to do the right thing, she obviously found him wanting. With Daisy, though, he thinks, he can just be himself. A bit selfish, a bit shit – in other words, a normal human being.
He takes Daisy back to the flat. They don’t bother with the pretence of coffee. They’re already removing each other’s clothes as he flings the door to his room open. He kisses her bare shoulder near her heart tattoo, buries his face in her hot neck, inhaling the patchouli she wears, the musky aroma of her skin.
She giggles, pulling his face down to meet hers, her lips parting for him. ‘Fuck me,’ she whispers.
Afterwards, she falls asleep, curled on her side, one hand by her cheek, snuffling gently. Sam gazes down, wondering at the vibrant lustre of her hair, the fullness of her lips. He touches one of her red corkscrew curls, threads it through his fingers, pulling it straight and watching it bounce back. She’s not just gorgeous, she’s smart and funny and brave. Hope flares in his chest that this woman could be the one to erase his memories of Cat, give him another chance at love.
‘Ocean Blue’ is a huge hit; it’s had the number one spot for weeks. And there are other songs he wrote for Cat on the album. When he sings them, his voice is raw with emotion. Every word, every note takes him back to her, scrapes out the void of missing her all over again. He was afraid that he’d never get over her if these songs were a success, that he’d be committed to singing them for the rest of his career. His worst fears have come true. It’s the music he wrote for her that’s propelled them into the big time, but Cat herself is lost to him for ever.
Sam rolls close to Daisy, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of her skin, the salty tang of sex. He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her in, fitting his body to the shape of hers. She murmurs and sighs.
July 1986
George and Sam are watching the Wimbledon men’s final. Daisy slips onto the sofa between the two men. ‘Becker’s pretty cute,’ she says.
She’s in a pair of cut-off denim shorts, her creamy legs smooth, her toes painted scarlet. Her knee presses against Sam’s thigh, a distraction from the brilliance of the game, as a ball flies over the net in a flash of yellow.
‘Whoa! Becker’s thrashing him,’ George says. ‘No way is Lendl coming back from this.’
‘Oh, I can’t watch,’ Daisy says, putting her hand over her eyes. ‘I hate it when people lose. I always feel sorry for them.’
‘Don’t waste your pity,’ George says. ‘These guys are sportsmen. They’re tough as nails.’
‘No.’ Daisy squints through a gap in her fingers. ‘It’s awful. Look at his face. He’s going to cry.’ She gets up and pads into the kitchen. ‘Tell me when it’s over,’ she calls.
George smiles at Sam. ‘You’ve got yourself the sweetest girlfriend, as well as the sexiest.’ He thumps Sam’s arm. ‘You’re a lucky bastard.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Sam shrugs.
‘Hey, Daisy,’ George yells. ‘Brace yourself – Becker’s about to win Wimbledon!’
‘You cannot be serious!’ she calls, doing a bad McEnroe impression.
A memory from his first date with Cat comes back to Sam in a rush.
‘You okay?’ George glances at him.
Sam nods, as Lendl’s ball fails to clear the net.
George leaps to his feet, cheering. Daisy is back with a tray. She’s made Pimm’s in a jug filled with ice, decorated with sprigs of mint and slices of cucumber. She sets it down carefully, giving them a spectacular view of her cleavage, and then stands up to pour them all a glass. ‘Cheers, Daisy,’ George says.
On the TV, Becker is raising his arms in jubilation.
Sam holds his glass, the sides cold and slippery with condensation. ‘Thanks, baby,’ he says, raising it to Daisy. ‘You’re the best.’
He finds himself saying things like that: you’re the best; you’re the sweetest; I love the way you do that; I love your laugh, your eyes, your smile. But he knows Daisy is waiting for him to tell her that he loves her. Only he can’t. Sometimes he feels as though he’s going to say it, but then she’ll do something that only a few weeks ago seemed adorable or clever but now feels too knowing. To make up for the lack of words, he leans across and kisses her on the mouth. She kisses him back, immediately warm and generous, her lips full of forgiveness.
‘Hey, you two,’ George says. ‘Get a room, can’t you? Have pity on the single man.’
They break off, laughing. Daisy ruffles George’s hair, and suddenly it feels so easy that Sam thinks those elusive words might be sayable after all. Soon, he thinks, when the moment is right.