Daisy woke in the night and reached blindly for her bedside light. She fumbled about, not finding the switch, disorientated for a moment before everything came flooding back: the flight, Long Island, Warren and her challenging new job. It was a fantastic experience being here, terrifically exciting, but the chances of screwing up, Daisy felt, were overwhelming. She’d just about managed at home, tossing ideas around with Susannah, absorbing all she could, but now, out here, not really knowing a thing, not even her way round New York properly . . .
The room was in complete darkness. She had turned off the air-conditioning and lay in bed listening to the heavy silence of a sleeping house. Beams didn’t creak in Warren’s huge mansion; the only sound she could hear was the thudding of her heart. No whisper of noise from outside, no returning car, no tapping branch at the window. Daisy felt from the absolute quiet that it must be about three in the morning.
She eventually found a light switch low on the electric flex. The bedside clock was obscured by the phone, its luminous face would have helped. It was four o’clock, not three, harder still to get back to sleep. Daisy switched off the light, determined to try, which meant steering clear of Simon and all her spin-off worries and fears. She tried to concentrate on Warren’s house, which was more depressingly staid and formal than expected, and so deeply stamped with his ex-wife’s taste that he’d hardly needed to describe her. Willa stalked the place: she was in the furniture, the fabrics; reflected in the silverware. It was understandable on the whole, his obsessive need to remove every trace. Daisy pictured Willa as tall, imperious, big-boned, with thick-fingered hands; her jewellery, she imagined, would be unstylish while unquestionably real. Willa was one of life’s takers, by the sound of it, with a lump of ice for a heart. She’d clearly had more interest in silver salvers than in poor old Warren. Who’d forced the issue on the divorce? Had she walked out? Had he just had enough? Either way, Willa wouldn’t have gone quietly. Daisy felt intrigued to know more – and about Warren.
The flight had been great, the Club Class seat unfurling like a cat unballing itself, stretching out into an almost full-length bed. It made it easier to understand how business people could go straight into a full day’s wheeler-dealing after a long overnight flight.
Simon flew long-distance occasionally. Surely he could find a reason to come to New York; if they could just have a night or two together it would ease the pressure and make all things possible. Susannah had given the okay to that, she’d even suggested it. Daisy let out a quavery doleful sigh. She knew in her heart Simon wouldn’t come. And the knowledge of that blighted her thrill, sullied the uniqueness of the adventure just begun.
She wondered if Warren was seriously interested in Susannah. They were of an age, after all, and with so many top interior designers in New York, why else bring her all the way out here? Yet he had quite a roving eye. Daisy had sensed his interest, the sweep of his gaze, his warm attempts to make connection. She smiled to herself. He was likeable, handsome in a mature, good-taste-in-clothes sort of a way and he had bonfires of money to burn. Had he had a facelift? More and more men did these days, it seemed.
She settled on her side, longing to feel drowsy, when the sound of a text arriving put her on red alert. She clambered out of bed and back in again with her mobile. Her heart was fluttering madly. It was from Simon. He was texting, thinking of her . . .
How goes it, Green Eyes? Missing me enough to come home? I need U here, hate no chance to call by. Cut it short whatever. Don’t you want me any more?
Daisy wanted him desperately. His text was contact, making her wet with need, but why couldn’t he sign off with more warmth and make her feel loved? He was passionate enough in bed, shouting out his love loud and clear when he came, pouring out his feelings then. Would Simon find another soft welcome, another place to call by? Oh hell. Tears weren’t going to help. She knew the harsh realities of life. Simon’s feelings were of the sexual moment; he was never going to put himself out or give much of a damn.
Susannah had said play hard to get and he’d come running. But his wife, the vindictive Sarah, was that sort of woman and Daisy knew her own attraction for Simon was not being a mean tough bitch like his wife. That mattered to her as well for her self-esteem.
She texted back, sitting bolt upright in bed, thumbs flying. Loved hearing, love u! All okay here. Scary job but will get me to NY and can overnight there. Can’t u come out and c me? Please, please try! Miss u. xxxxxxxxxxx
Daisy opened the curtains onto a beautiful morning; she must have gone back to sleep. It was seven o’clock. The lawn was glistening with dew, low rays of sunlight were finding routes into the garden and in patches of heavy shade the thick lush foliage looked as dense and dark as to be sinister. She felt a shaft of loneliness.
She opened a window, refusing to give into feelings of gloom, and breathed in fresh scented air. It gave her an urge to set about preparing for the day, fake-tanning her legs to try to keep up with the members of the Beach Club, re-varnishing her toenails and washing her hair.
As the sun rose and the light streamed in she began to feel almost exuberant. She dressed in shocking-pink cropped pants and a tee of a lighter-shade, worrying, as she went downstairs to breakfast, about being under-dressed. Perhaps her high canvas wedges would add a bit of glam.
They had soundless rope soles and Warren didn’t raise his head as she entered the dining room. He was deep into the New York Times.
‘Hi, isn’t it a fabulous day!’ Daisy exclaimed, a bit over-loudly, anxious to let him know she was there. She gave Warren such a start that he dropped his bulky Sunday paper onto the table and sent an army of cutlery flying. They were both on their knees then, retrieving skittering spoons – which must have surprised Martha as she came in to see the cause of the clatter.
Martha offered bacon and eggs, which was tempting, but since Warren seemed not to be having any, Daisy weedily declined. There was fresh-squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit, muesli, muffins, dainty triangles of toast; she wasn’t going to starve.
Sipping juice and staying politely silent to let Warren return to his newspaper, it came as no surprise when he set it aside and studied her. Daisy smiled and lowered her eyes, busying herself with sprinkling blueberries onto a plateful of muesli.
‘I can’t tell you the joy of this beautiful British invasion,’ Warren remarked, smiling she looked up. ‘I only wish I was half my age! But seriously, Southampton’s not such a bad place and it will give me a great deal of pleasure to show you round my favourite haunts. You’ll be the talk of the Hamptons, I can tell you.’
‘We are here to work,’ Daisy laughed, glancing to the door as she heard footsteps. ‘And with Susannah’s plans it sounds like we’ll be at it twenty-four seven.’
‘Morning all,’ Susannah said with a yawn, coming into the room.
Warren leaped up and pulled out a chair. ‘Hey, how are you? Sleep okay, I hope?’
‘Blissfully. It’s such perfect quiet here, the sort of silence that sings. How are you doing, Daisy? Make the most of today. It’ll be all go from then on, I can tell you.’
Daisy gave Warren a what-did-I-tell-you glance, yet she felt overshadowed by Susannah and more subdued. Susannah was the star making an entrance, the diva coming on stage, Warren’s attention instantly distracted. And she wasn’t even dressed and made up, simply wearing a loosely tied silk kimono dressing gown. Still looking incredible, getting away with the no-makeup look, but then she had that sort of high-boned face that was kinder to aging.
The money must help. Daisy tried not to let spiky jealousy take hold; she hated to feel covetous, never allowed herself to do so for long. Susannah had had her own financial struggles, after all, and a hurtful, difficult love-life. Losing the one husband she’d truly loved must have been devastating, even if everything had come good in its way in the end. Would it ever do that for her? Daisy knew she couldn’t look for parallels; she had none of Susannah’s looks or talent, and her own life was such sad small beer.
The aroma of Susannah’s crispy bacon was making her jealous, if nothing else. Daisy averted her eyes and caught another of Warren’s surreptitiously friendly glances. It was cheering and diverting. Was he flirting, or simply trying to put her at her ease? His small attentions were gratifying all the same, balm for the ache of physical need.
They left at noon for the Beach Club. Susannah was wearing mandarin cut-offs, not unlike Daisy’s bright pink ones, and a floaty white shirt, fine soft muslin and fastened low enough to draw the eye. The slim gold chain round her neck glinted so lustrously, any thieving jay or magpie would have swiped it for their nests; it reflected the sunlight sheen of a glorious day.
A plump girl manning the entry-point was chatty and annoyingly repetitive. ‘Hi, how you doin’, Mr Lindsay. And these are your summer guests . . . And they’re here for the whole summer, are they, the whole summer?’ She was snacking on a plate of chips, pausing to wipe her fingers – doing anything but signing in Warren’s guests. Daisy felt impatient and turned her attention to the bronzed, fit parents with small children, teenagers and elderly singles arriving, clustering and calling out to each other in East Coast American speak.
They were wearing shorts, kaftans or maxi beach dresses, depending on bulk and age. The ancients had on the full warpaint, dangly earrings and wide statement hats. Could they have come straight here from church – or want people to think they had? Daisy was pleased about the shorts, that it was okay to wear them; they looked good on her, suited her legs.
Signed in eventually, Warren took them past an Olympic-sized swimming pool that looked temptingly people-free; rows of wooden changing rooms stirred childhood memories of the dated old beach huts at Frinton-on-Sea. He led them on to the clubhouse, where a huge open-air deck overlooking the beach seemed to be the hub of club-life, scene of the action; the slatted round tables, bright with sheltering royal-blue sunshades, were filling up fast.
Daisy’s first glimpse of the ocean freaked her out, the sight of the giant thundering breakers remorselessly powering to shore, unravelling like scrolls as they crashed onto the sands. The sea was pewter-grey, at times it looked navy, and the vast arcing waves were topped with showers of silvered spray. The beach stretched for miles in either direction, sun-bleached white and virtually deserted. The call of the gulls was haunting, and a strong breeze, pricked with sand, carried the smells of sea and salt on the air.
‘Wow!’ she exclaimed feebly. ‘That’s a breathtaking view.’
Warren gave a proprietary smile while Susannah seemed to understand Daisy’s inability to find the right words. ‘It does that to me too,’ she said, ‘and it lives on. I used to come here quite regularly, to stay with a good friend from my modelling days before she became overrun with grandchildren and I had my new career. I often think of this beach, though, back home on bleak rainy days.’
‘First thing to do is grab a table,’ Warren said, looking gratified, ‘which isn’t that easy. There’s an unwritten code about who sits where; woe betide you if you bag the favoured spot of a board member, or some fat slob’s chosen piece of shade. The gossips have their pet tables, too, where they can keep watch on the entrances and exits like bodyguards.’
He secured them a table and they settled in. ‘Now drinks,’ he said. ‘You got to have a Rum South Side, it’s the Club special – rum, ice and fresh mint leaves whirled up in a blender; cool and frothy. I’ll join you in one. I usually save my booze calories for evening, but this is a red-letter day.’
‘Drinking at lunchtime?’ Daisy grinned. ‘I’m not sure my new boss will approve.’
‘Dead right,’ Susannah said, ‘but since I’m having one . . . though that’s my lot. I don’t want to turn into a South Sider – which is what they call the over-fifties round here, all the afternoon boozers who never budge from their chairs.’
‘No chance of you ever doing that,’ Warren snorted. He summoned a waiter, gave the order and sat back with his customary smile.
A constant stream began to flow past their table, people reuniting with Susannah or angling to be introduced. Warren’s guests were indeed hot news. Daisy met an aging Paula, a prying Abigail. She felt the eyes of the men at nearby tables on her; it was fun.
Elderly couples, cosmetically enhanced women of an uncertain age and their paunchy husbands, invited them to their houses, for lunches, cocktails or just to visit – with or without Warren. Susannah deflected them with masterly ease. ‘Goodness, how long is it? So good to see you! We’ll certainly try, but we have a punishing schedule.’
The rum drinks that looked mostly ice and mint leaves packed a hidden kick; Daisy felt an internal glow as well as the sun on her outstretched legs. She’d pushed her chair clear of the sunshade’s arc, loving the heat and brilliance; she felt in a good place.
‘Ready for lunch?’ Warren queried. ‘It’s self-service; we can bring it out here.’ Daisy stood up a bit over-keenly; she was hungry. They went indoors to a heartening sight: hot and cold lobster and meat dishes, salads, slices of gateaux and apple tart. Sturdy capable women in white waisted aprons doled out mammoth portions, huge dollops of a chopped lobster, celery and mayo mix that Warren promised was ‘chunky and good’. The devilled eggs were a Club special, he said, and they must try the various salads. Daisy was less coy than at breakfast, she didn’t hold back.
After the meal she said she’d love a swim. ‘But in the pool if that’s okay? Those breakers would toss me up like a beach ball, and I have had quite a large lunch!’
‘I’ll stay and soak up the sun, I think,’ Susannah said, smothering a yawn.
Warren said he’d keep her company, but he went with Daisy to show her the towels and lockers and explain the form.
She was glad to swim alone. It was thinking time. Other swimmers were sociable and curious, but soon left her in peace to potter up and down the pool. She revelled in the sunny day, the chance to swim, and couldn’t help imagining where working for Susannah could lead, the freedom of no more red reminders, all the unpaid bills. No more depending on an ex-husband who’d truly shocked her with his brute meanness. Peter would deeply resent any success of hers – a tempting goal and incentive if ever there was one. Having met Simon through Peter still bothered her, yet with the force of the attraction her discomfort had dimmed.
Daisy swam idly on with her mind on both sides of the Atlantic – Simon, Warren, the compelling roar of the ocean. She spared a thought for her tiny back garden, where the Felicia rose would be in its prime and made a mental note to text the boys about deadheading. She marvelled at the way her life seemed to be pointing in a whole new direction – and all on a pinhead of chance.
She came out of the water, sunbathed a little then tied round a beach wrap, a soft lime and yellow kanga bought on a holiday in Kenya years ago.
Returning to the terrace, she found Warren alone. ‘Susannah’s been nobbled,’ he said, clicking off his phone. ‘She’s over with Denise, doing her decorating thing. I didn’t know she was such a softie.’
Daisy saw that Susannah was poring over some photographs that Denise whoever must have had in her bag; her forehead was knitted wearily, she looked a picture of resignation. Seeing Susannah’s forbearance made Daisy feel a rush of affection, a kind of daughterly empathy. She loved her for not being able to say no.
She felt Warren’s eyes on her and he rested a hand on her arm. ‘Come for a walk on the beach. I can point out some of the Gin Lane houses that are such a feature of Southampton. I’ll text Susannah and suggest she catches us up.’
They went down some steps onto the beach, stepping over a great jumble of flip-flops, sandals and mules. ‘Everyone leaves them on the top steps,’ he said, slipping off his navy Docksiders. ‘It’s a little tradition.’
‘This beach,’ Daisy said, feeling curiously at home with Warren, ‘gives me shivers with its drama and kind of rugged muscularity. And it’s free of people! There are more pairs of gulls than sunbathers – look at them, strutting along the sand.’ She sighed. ‘It must be a constant pull, I don’t know how you can bear to head back into the city after the weekend.’
‘It’s why I fought so hard to hang onto the house. It cost me. Willa has a new Manhattan apartment on Park, worth a ton, and she’s landed a tidy sum to have some other summer place. She fancies Martha’s Vineyard, I believe, as the place to be seen.’
‘And your children,’ Daisy asked, feeling miles out of her depth, ‘where do they live?’
‘Connecticut, Manhattan. I see them, but they’re busy with their own lives.’
He didn’t want to talk about his children; that was obvious. Was he lonely? She thought it was possible. He had his obsession with Willa, the bitter satisfaction of winning out to keep him going, and he was productively busy with his billion-dollar business as well; people who had his sort of money always seemed determined to make more.
Daisy smiled to herself. He wasn’t so one-track minded, had been distracted by their arrival and he even seemed to be playing a two-handed game. Harmless enough. She was enjoying his quiet flirting ways, the boost it was giving her morale.
Warren broke into her thoughts. ‘Susannah mentioned you were newly divorced,’ he said. ‘Still smarting, like me?’
‘A bit. It’s been a torrid time. But since it brought out the very worst of my husband’s characteristics, I feel mightily relieved to be free of him.’
‘You didn’t have any children, no problems there?’
‘No, but I have twin boys from a brief early marriage who’ve only really known my second husband. He’s seen them grow up and I’d have hoped he’d feel a little more responsibility towards them. They’re nineteen and at university now – except that it’s the vacation and they have the run of the house. God knows what they’re up to!’
Warren made polite disbelieving noises about their age. ‘So you’re a free woman now, Daisy.’ He smiled and kept up his gaze. ‘With a line of guys beating a path to your door, I’m quite sure. Anyone special? Someone not pleased you’re out here?’
‘Certainly no line of suitors. I am a bit involved, but I’m afraid he’s married.’
‘Divorce on the cards?’
‘I think not. His wife calls the shots. She has him pretty much locked in.’
‘Oh. But that could change. You never know.’ Warren eyed her. ‘Will he come over?’
‘Probably not.’ Daisy changed the subject. ‘Tell me about these extraordinary properties we’re passing. Fancy fronting onto the ocean like this. Are the houses really in single ownership, though? It’s hard to believe.’
‘Most are. They hardly ever come onto the market and don’t hang about if they do. A few are still owned by descendants of the original families, but ever since the Depression it’s been down to who has the serious bucks, mainly punters in the financial world these days. The cottages date back to the 1880s; hurricanes have taken their toll, but I think about nineteen of the original thirty-four still survive, at least in part.’
Daisy said, ‘I love the grey shingle, it looks weathered and right. It seems to belong, but I can’t say the same about the name. Gin Lane!’
‘A lot of fun is made of the name. Residents have endlessly tried to change it, but the Gin part is really an Old English term meaning common grazing area. This whole stretch was once just a feeding ground for farm animals – and to think of the land values today!’
They started back, slightly surprised to discover how far they’d walked, and Warren slipped a guiding hand under Daisy’s arm. She looked out for Susannah as the clubhouse came into view, but could see no sign of her approaching.
‘Do you know New York?’ Warren asked. ‘Will you manage okay, rushing round all those fabric showrooms, antique shops and whatever?’
‘I’m going to have to. Susannah can be very crisp . . .’ Daisy stopped herself saying she didn’t even know her way round the job, far less Manhattan. Susannah had probably built her up as an experienced assistant. Warren was, after all, paying the bills.
‘I’ll give you my card,’ he said, ‘when you have somewhere to put it.’ Daisy had been conscious of being in a bathing wrap while he was in shorts and shirt. ‘My office is central and I’m on the end of a phone. Don’t hesitate to call – in fact, I’d positively enjoy giving directions and help. We could combine it with a bite of lunch.’
‘Thanks,’ she said cautiously, feeling that could be tricky waters, a delicate situation. Susannah, for all she knew, might have serious designs on Warren and a jealous nature, despite the jolly Charles whom Daisy had enjoyed meeting the time she’d popped round with home-baked bread. He’d been staying over; he and Susannah seemed like old friends and to gel well. ‘It’s a comfort to know I could call,’ Daisy added, not wanting to sound too abrupt. ‘I’m sure to get lost at first.’
Warren was good company after all and seemed decent enough; she doubted he’d try anything much. He’d told Susannah he was almost seventy – which probably meant seventy-one or two.
Arriving back, they found Susannah ensconced at another table. She was surrounded, being feted by a group of old codgers, whose South Side-drinking wives or whoever were gassing too much to notice the glint in their husbands’ eyes.
Warren did. His face clouded slightly and his lips were pressed together in an irritated line. He seemed instinctively watchful of the men round Susannah like a tiger warding off any chancers with an eye to its territory. He was a business giant, of course, a man with a steel core who wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to stand in his way. Complicated, Daisy could see, and accustomed to winning his wars.