Simon’s expression was unreadable. They were standing close in the bedroom and Daisy held her breath. It felt like being stranded on a precipice and praying he’d throw a rope; her heart was beating fiercely enough to fracture her ribcage.
He’d appeared unexpectedly an hour ago, at lunchtime. Daisy had been baking bread; the house smelled and looked like a French boulangerie, stacked with still-warm baguettes and loaves. She was late with her cookery column and had planned to write up the recipe then pop over to Chelsea with some loaves for Susannah and Stephanie.
Simon hadn’t wasted any time. He’d had her quickly and selfishly as soon as he was in the door, right there in the hall, overwhelming and thrilling her for the short-lived moment. He’d immediately immersed himself in his iPad afterwards, preoccupied, sending emails. Daisy made him his favourite ham and pickle sandwich, poured wine, brewed coffee. When he’d eventually come behind her at the sink, nuzzling her neck and feeling her up again, she’d led him upstairs, knowing she had to tackle him over America and lay it on the line. She couldn’t keep putting it off.
She ached for him to understand, to be ungrudging and a little less selfish for once.
‘You must see what an incredible chance this is, darling,’ she urged, trying as well to please with her eyes, ‘I’m otherwise going to have to sell the house, which I really love, and move to a grotty flat somewhere miles out, which would be much harder for you to get to. It’s my one chance to avoid that, and it’s the boys’ home, after all – they’ve only just started at university. And I can’t let Susannah Forbes down, not now.’
‘Don’t make so effing heavy of it,’ Simon said. ‘It sounds a very flaky, one-off job to me. Go for a couple of weeks, even a month, get your first pay-cheque, show willing then have some unavoidable crisis or other, and beat it. I need you here, Daisy; you’re everything to me, lover girl. And I had thought I meant something to you, too – more than soft furnishings at least.’ They were standing facing each other and his eyes didn’t stray. ‘Does all that really come before me – before us? She’s using you, babe, can’t you see?’
He brought her face close, holding her jaw, and Daisy parted her lips quivering with hurt and desire. The cruelty in Simon was a sexual force. She couldn’t escape.
She’d once heard a heroin addict describe the power of dependent need. It could put you beyond sanity, beyond humanity, unhinge you to the point of raising a hammer to a child or slashing out with a blade; you’d do whatever it took to feed your need.
Simon was still staring, wanting an answer. ‘You could come over,’ Daisy said helplessly. ‘We could meet in New York . . .’
‘No, too risky and I have things on here. I’m on the edge of one or two useful deals. Listen, darling, Sarah takes the kids up to her mother in Northumberland at the start of the holidays; she’ll be away at least two nights at the end of June. We can have that time together. Don’t let me down, Green Eyes. I’ve got one cold hard woman in my life, don’t be another. But if you bugger off for months on end . . . where’s the caring in that?’
He kissed her gently and took her to bed. His lovemaking was slow and sultry; Daisy felt enveloped, as if she really meant something to him, after all. And she still felt it later, sitting in her leafy back patch in the evening sun, sharing a chilled bottle of Sancerre and a sweet hour together. Her tiny garden felt like a hidden bower. She went back after he’d left. The wisteria was in scented flower, saxifrage plants filling every crack in the paving; her solanum was in bud, the tree peony had its first shaggy shell-pink bloom . . .
Taking the glasses and bottle indoors, she stood still for a moment, looking round, staring at the mess and clutter from their sandwich lunch. The kitchen was full of rich aromas, piquant basil and geranium plants, the newly baked bread. She had her writing to do, planning, packing. Where was the joy in any of it? Daisy sank down onto a kitchen chair. The plane tickets were bought and she was going – at least for three or four weeks.
Stephanie was on the phone, dealing with a small flurry of late calls from America, suppliers and contacts mainly, but she was never in a hurry to go home. She looked over enquiringly with the phone pressed to her chest. ‘It’s Daisy, Susannah. She’s been baking bread and wants to pop over with some loaves for us, if that’s okay.’
I took the phone. ‘Of course, Daisy, thanks – a treat – only can you come right away? My friend Charles is here and we can all have a quick drink before we must be off to the theatre.’
Charles was taking me to a Pinter revival and staying the night. He was occupying himself upstairs while Stephanie and I finished off in the office, mussing up the flat with his newspapers and earthy home-grown vegetables. He’d left them on a kitchen worktop looking like a still-life painting; white-based asparagus spears, baby carrots, plump peapods and a bunch of rhubarb with vast dark-veined leaves.
He hadn’t chosen an ideal night. I had an appointment early the next morning with Cosmetic Solutions in the slim hope that they had some miracle solution for my faded old face.
I turned, hearing Charles descend the spiral staircase. ‘Can I get you two a drink?’ he said, coming over, ‘Steph, what’ll it be?’
‘A wee gin and tonic,’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘Then I must be off.’
‘And you, Susannah?’ He touched my bare arm with his chunky ice-filmed glass. His face could crease and collapse as much as it liked, I thought with frustration, and lose none of its aged appeal. He had a high forehead, eyebrows that were thick and bushy enough to comb – unlike what was left of his hair – deep-set eyes, walnut brown. Eyes that often gleamed with private amusement as if he had some witty diversionary plan up his sleeve that was keeping him entertained. He was rangy without being particularly tall, yet having caught the last year of National Service, good at standing up straight.
‘That’s a very large whisky,’ I said primly, eyeing his glass. ‘You’ll go to sleep in the play. I’ll have the other half of Stephie’s tonic, thanks.’
‘How boring. They drink like cowboys out on Long Island, you’ll have to keep up,’
‘Isn’t it sailors? Will you come and see me? You know your way round those parts – you even like ice in your whisky.’
Charles shook his head. ‘No, I’d queer your pitch. You’ve set your sights on this maturely perfect American,’ he kissed my cheek, ‘that’s clear to see. And I have to get on with the book; my deadline was last month. Cowboys drink buckets, think of the saloon bars in Westerns.’ He gave me a cryptic look. ‘You could come to Norfolk instead, bring your Mr Warren over for a long weekend. He might enjoy a spot of squelchy rurality for a change.’ I knew Charles too well to bother to correct his nonsense mixing up of the name. At least it meant he cared a bit about me going, which was a comfort.
It would be easy to see Charles in the context of his ancestors, a great-great-grandfather who’d fought for the repeal of the Corn Laws; a family that stretched back to George Villiers, after whom half of Covent Garden was named. And he was, after all, an estate-owning, Labrador-loving countryman. But to pigeonhole him would be to miss his flip side. Charles was a thinker, a dreamer, given to travelling to remote uncomfortable corners of the globe simply to reflect on life. He’d spent a year breaking in horses on a Colorado ranch, another year learning Chinese when he’d taken risks to help dissidents. Even with his biographies, he chose offbeat characters for his subjects, loners and individualists; he liked to explore their lives minutely, yet always allow them their own voice.
He’d reappeared with our drinks and was perched on the edge of Stephanie’s desk, smiling and looking expectant. ‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘do either of you know what I mean by Dinkies?’
‘Weren’t they those little cars?’ Stephanie said. ‘Like matchboxes?’
‘Quite right, but when I asked the salesgirl in a toyshop if I could see her Dinkies I was nearly arrested! She went all set-mouthed and called over the supervisor. “Watch it, mate,” he said. “Any more of that lip and you’re outta here”.’
The buzzer sounded and I let in Daisy, who looked bemused at the sight of the three of us, grinning like fools. I introduced Charles. ‘We were talking about Dinkies,’ he said, beaming. ‘Ever heard of them?’
‘Not again, Charles! It’s not that funny and I’m sure Daisy would have you arrested too.’ Daisy shook her head in smiling confusion and took her carrier of crusty loaves into the office kitchenette. She looked almost as if she’d been crying, which was worrying, and was much less exuberant than usual.
‘The boys okay?’ I asked, as she returned. ‘All set for the holidays in your absence?’
‘They’re trying not to show too great a thrill at the prospect of having the house to themselves. They’re at university,’ she said to Charles, brightening up and meeting his eyes, as though warming to him and feeling more able to contribute. ‘One of them, Sam, has a serious girlfriend already and he even asked, last holidays, if she could move in with us.’
‘And did you let her?’ Charles gave a teasing smile, ready to be amused.
‘No. I told him it wasn’t on, that we’d be just too much on top of each other, only Sam was a bit quick for me. “But that’s what it’s all about, Mum,” he said. “That’s the whole idea!”’ Stephanie took a moment to get there, then, given a rather strong gin, went into gales of laughter.
‘I must be going,’ she said, a little pink in the face and steadying herself. ‘Thanks for the bread, Daisy. With the smell of it, I’ll get envious looks on the tube.’
‘Time we were off too,’ I said. ‘Call you tomorrow, Daisy. Oh, and Warren phoned. He’s sending a car to the airport and talked of arranging soirées, visits to the Beach Club. I had to remind him we were there to work.’
My beauty appointment was probably a lost cause since we were flying out in days, which left too little time to have anything very worthwhile done. I told Charles I was having a medical MOT and kissed him goodbye, feeling guilty about it. He’d be gone before I was home. He had a local lunchtime commitment, his grandchildren for the weekend, a cataract operation next week, yet he’d made the time to see me and even shown a little jealous pique.
We got on, got it together in bed in a comfortably familiar way, but there was always the same old impasse. Moving to Norfolk would, I knew, bring a sense of dread. It would make me feel like an old nag being put out to grass, marking out my days.
At Cosmetic Solutions I was given a form to fill in by a pretty young assistant with a black bob, and shown into an elegant first-floor Harley Street consulting room. My appointment was with Angelica Kavouni and I was admiring the décor as she came in. ‘It’s very soothing,’ I said, appreciating her positive handshake and eye-contact. ‘I love the willow-tree silk panel on the wall, calm and delicate, just right.’
‘That’s one expert praising another! A client of mine is an interior designer and she helped me with the room. Now, what can I do for you? I see you’re a friend of Mrs Beamish.’ Angelica was attractive, slim and dark, and she had an intelligent look, intellect and competence. Nothing about her suggested she went in for flannelling.
I explained the shortage of time and that I didn’t want any Botox or pouting lips. ‘Just something to make me look a bit fresher, brightened up, a little less faded and slumped.’
‘You’ve narrowed the field right away. I would normally offer a range of non-invasive options, fillers and low-dose Botox, which does keep the main expression lines, just reduces their intensity. However, I think Fractora would be ideal for your face. You might consider the other suggestions later on, combination treatments are very much in vogue, but this is a light radio-frequency treatment that will refresh your skin beautifully.’
‘What are the after-effects? What’s the downside?’
‘Have you anything much on this weekend? You will be quite red in the face for a couple of days, but you can cover it with make-up.’
It was Friday. I had no plans apart from supper on Saturday with my photographer son, Josh, who was arriving back from his Kenyan fashion shoot today. Angelica was waiting for a response. ‘It’s a good time for me,’ I said, feeling twitchy all the same, ‘if you can fit me in.’ Josh could handle his mum with a bright red face, I felt sure.
After the half-hour treatment, which involved a trawl over my face with a small machine that made popping noises, I asked about the safety of breast implants. Not something I’d ever seriously contemplated, though I’d never got over the painful feelings of inadequacy all those years ago, the fear of comparisons with Alicia.
Her affair with Joe when I was hardly out of my teens and blithely naïve, had been shattering. I’d worn my misery like a dead bird round my neck, and even now there were times when I could still feel its weight. Alicia had a lot to answer for. She’d remarried a couple of times and had died very recently, I’d been told.
‘Are people put off having breast implants now, after all the scares?’ I asked, curious.
‘No, not at all. The latest trend is fat recycling from the thighs to the breast. It was proposed at least ten years ago and extensive research has concluded that it’s quite safe. It is very popular, because the patient gets body sculpting and the breasts are very soft, none of that unnatural rigidity, and provided your weight remains steady there is a forty to sixty per cent long-term increase in breast size. It is done with special needles too, so there is no scar, and only twilight sedation is needed.’
‘It sounds too good to be true,’ I said, wondering if I was really too old and squeamish ever to contemplate it.
‘No, it is true – and good! It costs a few thousand, though. Well, I’m always here,’ she smiled, shaking my hand and seeing me to the door, ‘if you ever decide to take the plunge.’
‘You mean as in plunging bras and cleavage?’ I queried and she laughed.
Taxiing home, I eyed my tingling face in a tiny handbag mirror, peering close for any dramatic reddening, but there was nothing yet to see. I tried to talk some sense to myself: all this effort to restore a little bloom, hung on a five-minute chat with Warren Lindsay at a party. A man to whom the idea of taking me to dinner hadn’t even crossed his mind.
His interest had been all about my designing skills, nothing to do with the smoothness of my skin. He’d been in the throes of a bitter divorce, tediously so, and however maturely attractive, who knew how deeply, genuinely dull he could turn out to be? A couple of months on Long Island was all good and fine, but to go out there expecting romance and excitement? Let’s get real. My phone was pinging, texts coming in. One was from my daughter, Bella – and Josh was back, he’d just landed. I read his text first. Off into Vogue, Mum, re pics and shoot, but we’re on for tomorrow night? C U then, can’t wait!
I texted back feeling, as always, an emotional rush and tinge of concern. I worried about Josh, never entirely sure how happy he was, how fulfilled. He was at the top of his game, artistic, successful; he had sensitivity, good looks – he could make people laugh. Yet despite all that he seemed vulnerable somehow, even at forty.
Bella’s text was warming, too. She wanted to do a family Sunday meal.
Josh home, you zooming off – can you make lunch here, Mum? I’ll do easy food. Al and co. can come, too.’
I texted to say that was great, nothing better and I’d bring the wine and a pud. The bonds of family were what mattered and I pulled the ties tight. My three children were loving and thoughtful, never grasping. And close – they got on. Bella was a mother to us all.
By the morning I had a bright red face. I looked like a tomato. Whatever would Josh think? Out came the make-up and I piled it on thick. I warned him about it on the phone, which caused some laughter and later, when he walked in the door – looking deliciously tanned in an open-neck white shirt, his hair lifted by the sun – he didn’t let up.
‘What’s this all about, Mum, all this beautifying? This American must have really caught your eye. Husband number five, by any chance?’ Josh handed over a pair of carved wooden elephant bookends, heavy and polished to a golden sheen. ‘These are for the lav or somewhere,’ he said. ‘I had to buy things, they’re all so desperately poor in that beautiful country.’
I had a vivid image of a hollow-cheeked youth in oil-stained rags, squatting in the red Kenyan dust, toiling for hours to turn out something so accurately and elegantly carved. Seeing Josh, feeling emotional, the tears began to prick at my eyes.
I set him straight about ‘this American.’
‘Don’t hold your breath, Josh. I’m not about to marry a client – and after only meeting this guy for minutes I suspected an underlying dullness.’
‘Bet you he falls for you, though. He couldn’t fail to – you look bright pink and gorgeous,’ Josh said, and hugged me close.
We talked about his intrepid models, quite prepared to rough it on the trip, and the obliging leopards who’d almost, Josh said, seemed to pose. We argued about the Republican contender for American President. Josh was for him, surprisingly, while I was against. Over spinach soup and steaks, his favourites, I told him all about Daisy and her ghastly lover. It was a rare delight of an evening and I hugged it to myself, rising to make the coffee.
‘Does a trip like this one to Long Island revive memories, Mum?’ Josh asked, bringing the plates over to the dishwasher. ‘You’re an old hand at the States now, but it must have been wild, arriving in California with Bella’s dad, modelling in New York, all that glam stuff when you were still so young.’
‘Sure, it was amazing, my first time in America and plunged straight into a Hollywood whirl. The flight took over thirteen hours and no films on board, of course. I have been thinking back actually, more than I’ve done in years. It’s partly because of this girl, Daisy, I was telling you about. The mistakes she’s making are very similar to the ones I made. It seems we women never learn!’