‘Miss Forbes? I’m Jackson, ma’am, Mr Lindsay’s driver. You had a nice flight? Let me take those. The car’s right across in the parking lot.’
‘Thanks. Good to meet you, Jackson,’ I said, giving him my best smile as he slung Daisy’s heavily filled laptop bag onto his shoulder and wheeled my small carry-on case. ‘It’s great to be here.’ A porter followed with the main luggage. I’d grown used to the perks of wealth, thanks to poor dear Clive, but porters were new to Daisy.
‘I’d been dreading lugging those hefty cases ourselves,’ she said, looking back. ‘Such luxury!’
‘Stick around.’ I fixed her with a loaded look. Would porters be enough to keep Daisy from doing a flit home? On the plane she’d swung between a buzzy thrill at the Club Class, New World adventure and looking physically ill from her private angst. Simon was sexually dominating and an unpleasant bully, but he had her in a pincer hold.
Warren Lindsay’s black Mercedes purred along the highways. I’d taken to Jackson on sight; he had a distinguished air about him, a natural courtesy. And albeit elderly, he drove confidently and fast, which was cheering; I’d always found the speed limit in the States frustratingly low. I leaned closer behind his solid grizzled head to speak to him. ‘About an hour from here, would you say?’
‘Maybe a little less, ma’am. We should be there just on six, I reckon.’
The Mercedes sped on, eating up the miles, and I dropped off. Opening an eye, I saw Daisy was bent low over her mobile, but she looked up with an exhilarated shine. ‘I’m terribly excited and nervous,’ she said. I felt quite nervous, too.
I knew Long Island and its smart village resorts, called the Hamptons, of old, and reaching Southampton enjoyed the feeling of familiarity. We crossed Main Street, the heart of the place that had a sort of square, slightly self-conscious chic about it, a sense of belonging to its summer regulars, and drove on down residential streets that led to the coast.
Jackson slowed in front of a pair of immense wrought-iron gates, curved at the top and incorporating a central scrolled design of Warren’s initials. They opened silently as the car approached. The house name was painted on one of a pair of supporting square white pillars: Great Maples – our new home from home.
Warren Lindsay was on the doorstep to greet us, casually dressed in mimosa-yellow Bermudas and a short-sleeved white linen shirt. His legs were tanned, his hair more uniformly grey; I felt a small snaking of adrenaline. He pumped my hand, smiling from me to Daisy, pumped hers, welcomed us and asked after the flight.
‘It’s an honour to have you as my house guests,’ he said, with the sort of grave, old-fashioned formality, characteristic of some Americans of his kind. ‘My luck was in when you accepted the commission and I’m very grateful. I hope you’ll both manage to relax as well, though, while you’re here and feel right at home – even as you pull this tired old place apart.’ He gave me a long look before turning to Daisy, as though anxious not to exclude her. ‘Susannah has told me how pleased she is to have you along – and I get to be lucky twice over!’
His eyes rested long on Daisy as well, which made her blush and become even more effusive.
‘You have the most magnificent, sensational house, and seeing it for real after all those brilliant photographs – I mean, actually to be here . . .’ She burbled on while Warren looked flattered and pleased.
‘Now I’m sure you both want to rest and freshen up,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was about to go change myself, but you made such good time. First, come meet Martha who does the cooking, and Luisa, my maid, who will show you to your rooms. She’ll help with anything you need, never minds staying late, and Martha lives in so there’s always someone right on hand. Martha’s an absolute pearl, an excellent cook; you’ll enjoy her repertoire, I know – but tell her any of your special requests, of course. Now what shall we say? Meet around eight for a little light supper?’
‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but really just a snack before the time change catches up with us.’
The Hamptons had their own personalities and I’d filled Daisy in, coming over. Easthampton attracted the celebrities, Bridgehampton was new money and Southampton was old – and in more ways than money; some of the immense houses of the famously exclusive, ocean-hugging Gin Lane dated back to the 1880s. They were seriously gigantic properties, called ‘cottages’ locally – though not euphemistically. It was more just a case of quaint American phraseology.
The sweep of Gin Lane encompassed a peaceful lake, opposite which was the staid and respectable Beach Club. Its members were a select band, proudly aware of belonging to a group to whom life had been kind. People had to wait years and go through endless hoops – mainly the dislikes and foibles of old-stagers – even to be considered, let alone deemed appropriate and allowed to join. Warren was a member, not surprisingly, and since Great Maples was just off Gin Lane, walking distance from the Beach Club, we would potter up there often, I was sure.
Luisa, the maid, settled me into a spacious, richly carpeted bedroom. It had a desk, a round table with potted orchids and a piled fruit bowl, walk-in hanging cupboards. It looked out over the neat lawns, tennis court and lavish patio of the photographs, and standing at the bay window, absorbing it all, my modernising urges were to the fore. The house, whose architecture hinted at Lutyens, had square bays and sloping roofs that presided over a basement and two floors. It needed to shake off its shackles of convention, the intercommunicating reception rooms, safe chintzes and European landscape paintings, the high surround of drear box hedging, immaculately clipped. I wanted to lift ceilings, add fanlights, do away with walls; cover the remaining ones with contemporary paintings by the American artists I most admired. Daisy was going to be kept busy.
My ideas for Great Maples had begun as a jumble, a shaken kaleidoscope, but now I could see the final pattern. It would be a revolutionary makeover, lighten Warren’s bank balance and be too innovative for some of Southampton’s stuffiest notables, yet a talking point at the dinner tables, I felt sure.
A rest made all the difference. Showered, dressed in a pair of tight white jeans and sapphire silk top, I went downstairs feeling good, pleased with my smoother-looking face, thanks to Angelica, and more confident, ready for a little flirt or whatever was Warren’s game.
He was alone in the sitting room, leaning against a sepia marble fireplace. A huge vase of flowers, stiffly arranged with spikes of delphiniums, filled the grate. He was wearing pink summer trousers now and a loose linen shirt that looked fittingly expensive. Coming forward to greet me, he held aloft a tall misted glass topped with a slice of lemon. ‘Join me in a gin fizz? Or would you like champagne? There’s anything else as well, of course.’
‘I don’t often drink spirits, but that gin fizz looks great. Luisa’s whisked away armfuls of creased clothes, she’s been a marvellous help.’
‘That’s good; you’re in charge now here, remember. I’ll come and go, but I promise to make myself scarce and not interfere. It really is a delight to see you again, Susannah, and looking even more lovely than I recall.’ Warren brought over my drink and his smile had a provocative glint. ‘And after all the travelling too . . . I can’t thank you enough for taking this on, I’m impressed with my powers of persuasion!’ He held my eyes, only letting go and turning to the door as we heard Daisy’s heels tapping across the polished hall.
She came in looking shy and uncertain, arresting in a short white dress with a dizzy print of red poppies. Warren beamed. ‘All well, Daisy? Beats me how you can both look so fresh and well after that flight.’ He glanced back to include me. ‘We’re drinking gin fizz. It’s mostly soda and crushed ice: can I tempt you?’
‘Easily,’ Daisy laughed, looking more relaxed and assured. ‘And everything’s fabulous, thanks. I feel as if I’ve stepped into the pages of a Scott Fitzgerald novel.’
‘Well, you have the name and look the part . . .’ Warren knew how to flatter.
We chatted on – a little formally at first, though the drinks soon burnished our conversation with a sparkier sheen. Martha brought in canapés – roulades of asparagus and skewered prawns with a dip that she said was mango and basil. She was a tall, thin, studious-looking woman, more like a historian or lecturer, yet from her obvious pride and involvement, I felt she must have found her niche and be a natural cook. She soon murmured to Warren that dinner was ready, and we wandered through into the dining room.
It was a depressingly elaborate room, too formal even for city living. A long mahogany table laden with silver, a pair of ornamental pheasants, curly-handled sauceboats, huge candelabra; three silver placemats as well that looked lost, set miles apart.
‘May we move up closer together?’ I suggested. ‘It’ll be easier to talk, and I need more of a feel for your lifestyle, Warren. There is so much I’d like to ask. For instance, this is a rather formal dining room and it would help to know if you give many large dinner parties, that sort of thing.’
‘God no, none of that now. Willa – that’s my ex-wife, Daisy – was the one for entertaining. She never stopped – lavish parties, people for drinks, and we often sat down twelve to dinner at weekends. Martha says she’s under-employed these days.’
I’d begun to shift the place mats down to one end of the table, but Martha melted into the room and took over. From her body language she seemed not to mind my interference; it was a good sign. We needed to be able to rub along well together while Warren was away in the city during the week.
Martha had made a supper dish of ravioli filled with lightly spiced crab in a piquant tomato sauce. It was all delectably good.
‘So back to my lifestyle,’ Warren said, once we’d exhausted our compliments. ‘It couldn’t be quieter. I lead a hermit’s life now, it’s a hell of a lot more peaceful.’ He gave a curt laugh, more of a dragged-out snarl, as if control of his resentment had snagged and unravelled like a pulled thread. The bitterness over Willa was well dug in.
‘Willa had the Long Island crowd in her palm,’ he continued. ‘She was queen bee, high priestess of the bitching and partying set, which is all the wives do out here all summer while their poor-sod hardworking husbands swelter in Manhattan earning a crust to pay the checks.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, thinking how similarly bitter Willa must feel, ‘I had an August in the city once when I was modelling, and those same “poor-sod” husbands spent all their time chasing after any female in sight.’
‘Well, can you blame them in your case?’ Warren looked pleased with himself, as though feeling that was one up to him. ‘Now I have a favour to ask. Southampton has a grand Benefit ball in a couple of weeks; it’s the event of the summer, always well supported, and it would give me great pleasure if you’d both come as my guests. My stock would go through the roof, of course, escorting two beautiful women – not that the gossip won’t have got started way before then. Your arrival is going to cause quite a stir.’
‘I’m sure we’d love to come, wouldn’t we, Daisy?’ She nodded energetically. ‘Can you fill us in a bit more, though?’ I asked. ‘Explain what it’s in aid of and whether it’s a dinner, a full-blown dance – the form?’
‘And what people will be wearing,’ Daisy added, looking alarmed – worrying, I suspected, about keeping her end up with the very rich.
‘Oh, it’s a dance, the Red Tide Benefit Ball, and called that because there’s a sort of red tide that sweeps into the bays every so often, discolouring the waters and killing the fish in their thousands. It’s a rampant form of algae, phytoplanktons, that creates terrible problems. The fish are washed ashore, no one can swim, the beaches stink; waterfront properties are unrentable and popular bays like the Peconic, Shinnecock and Gardiner’s really suffer. It’s a generic problem with no real solution. It goes as mysteriously as it comes,’ Warren said, ‘but strangles the clam and bay scallop industry, and the fishermen really struggle. So the Benefit’s in aid of the Baymen’s Association and we locals dig in deep.
‘And as for what to wear, Daisy,’ he gave her a saucy look, ‘it’s all about outdoing everyone else: big, big rocks, the full gold lamé, everything you can throw at it – and not only the women. I’ll be among the restrained few. Probably wear a blazer and light trousers; no one wears black tie out here any more.’
‘Do people know you’re redoing the house?’ Daisy asked, looking more alarmed than ever. ‘The reason we’re here?’
‘No, I haven’t talked about it, in case of a change of plan. I’d explain when introducing you, of course, but as I said, the gossip will already be well under way. Someone will have seen the car returning with you both in it, and Tom Horne will have made sure word gets round.’
‘He’s the village grapevine?’
‘You can say that again!’
Martha came in with seconds of ravioli and a chicory, cherry tomato and rocket salad. She returned with a platter of Italian and French cheeses in perfect squidgy condition, with huge amber Muscat grapes. We were in for a summer of good living.
‘So fill us in on Tom, the local gossip,’ I said, when she’d left, ‘and some of the more colourful characters who’ll be at the Benefit.’
‘Tom’s a long, tall beanpole of a man; he folds himself over like a paperclip when he’s dishing the dirt, muttering into any interested ears. He’s one sharp cookie, I can tell you; started with a small café on Main Street, opened another one up the road and has since acquired a couple of chic boutiques as well. Any whisper of an owner in trouble and he’s in there. People shop with Tom simply to keep up with the scandal, I think, and hear who’s the latest to go under the knife. Tom’s boyfriend, Oscar, keeps the books. He’s a canny operator too – short and carries a bit of weight. They’re quite a pair.’
‘Easy to spot at the Benefit then,’ I said. ‘I guess they’ll be there?’
‘Tom wouldn’t miss it if he had to be stretchered in. The same goes for Maisie Stockton who loves the big occasion and she sure knows how to flaunt it – and some! She’ll outdo the lot of ’em,’ Warren said. ‘Have on the biggest rocks, be wearing the barest frock – the last time I saw her, she had on a dress with a print of bare buttocks on the back. She’s the sixth wife of Art Stockton, a little snail of a man who’s made a packet in oysters. Maisie’s no airhead, though, she’s a fun-loving Southerner who loves to shock – not difficult in Southampton – and she doesn’t give a damn. Knows she’s a match for any of ’em.
‘There’s a bunch of grand dames, regulars at all the charity dos; they defer to a hideous old alligator called Gertrude Whelp who’s thought to look quite like Diana Vreeland.’
‘Diana Vreeland was in my life in the sixties,’ I said, ‘and terrifying! I shivered in my boots when summoned to her inner sanctuary at Vogue, but she was one of the greats.’
‘You wouldn’t say that of Gertrude,’ Warren laughed, ‘with her dreadful halitosis. She stands real close, too, to make it worse, peering over her pince-nez and breathing out evil fumes.’
‘I did ask for local colour, Daisy,’ I said, smiling. ‘There’ll be normal, conventional types as well, and a few pampered young tennis players staying the weekend.’
‘Southampton’s into tennis,’ Warren explained. ‘We have our famous Meadow Club that’s been going since the 1880s. It’s strictly run and very social, with a good bar.’
‘American women always have such good legs,’ Daisy said. ‘Is it all the sport, or do they do the sport to show them off?’
‘Bit of both, I guess – assuming you accept the original premise, of course. However, from where I’m sitting there’s no arguing about British women’s complexions, so petal-soft.’ Warren smiled from me to Daisy, evenly distributing the flowery compliment.
‘On with the house,’ I said, drawing his eyes back. ‘I know you’ve promised me a complete free hand, but there are limits which I may be stretching and we should talk it over. This isn’t just a redo of décor. I want to take out walls, raise ceilings; open up the hall with a high wide arch . . . It would be spectacular, looking through into here with the ceiling lifted, the added height and brightness, but you need to be prepared.’
‘I have complete faith,’ Warren said, ‘and I want a total transformation, no single reminder of Willa – not a footstool nor a flower vase; it matters to me. After three long years of wrangling, this divorce is a hard-won victory which I mean to enjoy.’
I’d heard that ruthless edge on our first meeting at Jimmy’s party, but Daisy looked shocked. She swallowed uncomfortably, as if reminded of lawyers and bitterness, the nasty taste left by her own divorce.
We talked on. I mentioned a handsome refectory table in place of Warren’s mahogany one with its extending leaves; banishing some of the curlier pieces of silver to his Manhattan apartment, replacing them with resplendent pottery bowls. ‘You need a breakfast room,’ I said, ‘to make for easier summer living, the indoors and outdoors more naturally connected, everything flowing out to the deck, the chairs and pool.’
Warren had heard of the top architect I wanted to employ, which was helpful, and he accepted the need for a project manager to oversee the construction work. ‘All of that would begin after the summer,’ I said, ‘to architect’s plans. Daisy and I would have done our stuff by then, ordered everything in, and you’d be back in the city, fulltime.’
‘It will be finished by Christmas?’ Warren queried, looking concerned, making clear how important that was to him. ‘My son and daughter are holidaying in Europe this summer, showing their children the sights, but we always have Christmas here together.’ It was the first mention of family and I felt pleased that he so obviously cared.
I touched his tanned arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping people to deadlines. I’ll come out in the autumn and crack the whip, make sure we’re on track.’
The time difference was catching up – partly the fault of the gloomy unflattering lighting, which failed to create a mood of soft intimacy; as comparative strangers, we needed that. Martha came in with coffee and fresh mint tea. She pulled closed the heavy cream and burgundy curtains, which killed off the room entirely, then left as silently as she came.
Daisy was silent too. Had my hand on Warren’s arm made her feel in the way and taken her mind to Simon? I’d grown to care about her and was also anxious how things would pan out; her mobile face mapped her emotions all too clearly. ‘My bedtime, I think,’ she said, brightening with conscious effort. ‘It is sort of three in the morning.’
Warren smiled in sympathy. ‘You must be done in, both of you, though you’d never begin to know it.’ He kept smiling from one to the other. Did he always smile so much or was it newness and nerves? ‘Try to think yourself onto American time in the morning, though, Daisy dear,’ he said, causing her to lower her lashes rather coyly. ‘I want you to feel really settled in properly here. And tomorrow, as it’s Sunday and the weather’s so good, I thought maybe we’d have lunch at the Beach Club. How would that be?’
‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘It’s a while since I was in Southampton, but I’m sure all the old regulars are still around. It’ll be fun to catch up – with most of them, at least.’
‘Nothing’s changed; same old faces, same muddle of sandals on the steps to the beach. Henry Koehler’s painted them, you know, and it’s become an iconic work. It’s a bonus having him as a local; he’s very involved, sure to give a painting to the Benefit auction.’
We said our goodnights. Warren held my hand in both of his and repeated his fulsome words of welcome. He was a lucky man, he couldn’t feel more proud and pleased that I’d taken on the job – just a summer pad, after all . . . He talked on, over-egging it, flattering me excessively. I felt momentarily bored, unsure as yet how to read Warren, but recognising that this was a little overture, his calling card; first steps on the road to developing a relationship.
Daisy had slipped past us on her way upstairs to bed, and I soon followed.
I closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, thinking about Warren’s gushing praise and the summer ahead. The bedroom curtains were drawn, a curving sweep of chintz that was pretty in its way with sprigs of violets on a white ground. The bed was neatly turned down, my nightdress laid out on the coverlet, pinched in at the waist in a dainty, decorative way. Bottled water in a cooler was placed beside the bed, the lights switched on, glowing softly; towelling slippers were carefully positioned for ease of stepping into, a monogrammed towelling dressing gown within reach on a chair. So much pampered privilege. I felt an arrow of discomfort. Had Luisa felt the weight of life’s inequalities while prettily arranging my nightdress? She was a doe-eyed Latino, charming, smiling, spruce and tidy in her strawberry pinstriped maid’s dress that had a faint look of my old school summer uniform about it.
Whatever lay ahead, the stage beyond Warren’s smiling flattery, I felt able to cope. If only I’d had the confidence I felt now, though, when I was younger, the same ability to hold my own and promote the very small amount of talent that I had. It was a miracle of happenstance, this second career, an extraordinary late blossoming and moment in the sun. It was far easier as well, nowadays, to soak up the limelight and go with the flow, swim happily in the waters of overdone praise.
I was sure enough of myself now, at this age, to make the most of it and not dwell on feeling undeserving of such an accidental career. Success softened the hard undeniable truths of growing old and also somehow recalled for me the whirling highs and heady passions of my first career long ago, as a young model. I’d suffered from acute feelings of inadequacy in those days, despite being in demand and wanted by men. I’d had time on my side then, decades of passion, enticements and living ahead of me.
Not any more. This second career had all the gossamer fragility of a late-autumn rose; it was fleeting, weak-stemmed, a few frail petals opened up to the rays of a fading sun before the battering storms swept in to rust them and the winter cold finally laid them to rest.
I would enjoy the commission, Long Island, the summer here with its promising possibilities. Warren was interesting and enigmatic, an attractive man, but I wasn’t a young beauty any longer with the world in her palm and time to repair mistakes. It would be precautionary and wise to limit any emotional investment, yet however much older and more self-assured, when it came to emotions was the ground ever any easier, was there ever a more solid footing? Did common sense and reason ever really prevail?