The Jitney ran extra buses to the Hamptons in the holiday season and the 5.55 from 23rd Street fitted very neatly with Daisy’s Wednesday afternoons with Warren. She could be back in Southampton in time for supper, just as in her more innocent early days. She never minded the journey – it was time to write her column, read, wind down from the city – but Warren made such a fuss. ‘Can’t you understand how much of a heel it makes me feel? I want to look after you.’ He tried every pleading, blackmailing tactic he could to persuade her to let him send her by limo.
‘It’s quite enough that you’ve upped my ticket to Ambassador class,’ Daisy argued every time. ‘I love that bit of luxury.’ Things had a habit of being found out and she didn’t want the small matter of transport to be her undoing.
She was enjoying her luxury seat now and wriggled her toes in the Manolo Blahnik sandals Warren had given her that were such sexy heaven, despite the straddling straps looking slightly like an eight-legged tarantula. Daisy cast an eye at her watch. Only ten minutes to go. She sighed and reached for her old flatties in her non-designer-label handbag; she needed to change back and hide the Manolos from Susannah.
Daisy was still in the aftermath glow of her post-lunch activities, slightly sore and as bewildered as ever at the way sex with Warren continued to be such a turn-on.
She needed her extended lunchtimes with Warren – and any snatched evening quickie when Susannah’s old friend Janet, who put Daisy up in the city, was out for the evening. They met at Warren’s Fifth Avenue apartment on those times, Daisy clock-watching, worrying slightly about what to say if Janet was back first. An economical half-truth, she decided: her Southampton host had had a small get-together – business contacts – and thought to invite her round.
She wondered at the contrast. Sex with Simon was hard-core, all about the overpowering force of his virility whereas with Warren it was simply the extraordinarily effective tenderness of his touch. True, she always felt sexier in hot weather, but Warren was so attuned to her needs and put them first; with Simon they were an afterthought, if remembered at all.
Warren’s presents were a problem – the smallest of beers to a beer magnate, but of a quality that she’d never before been given or able to afford. She knew they had nothing to do with the attraction; she wasn’t a sexual fraud, in the business of trying to snare him, yet the gifts gave her a feeling of being bought, which wasn’t easy to explain. All she could do was plead with him. ‘You mustn’t, mustn’t. You’ve showered me with far too much already!’
‘It gives me more pleasure than I can say, Daisy darling. You can’t deny me that.’
She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He chose presents with great care and sensitivity, like a father intimately familiar with his daughter’s more modern tastes and foibles. Beautiful leather belts and bags, cashmere, clothes and accessories that he mistakenly assumed – since he knew how worried she was about Susannah sussing – that Daisy could have bought herself. The exotic underwear was a less paternal choice.
He simply didn’t get that Susannah would know the belts were Dolce & Gabbana, the bags Chloé, the cashmere Donna Karan. The hidden presents were piling up; the whole situation was fraught.
The bus was approaching the Southampton stop. Susannah came to pick her up, since Jackson was off on Wednesdays, but she wasn’t in sight yet. She went in for fine timing, whereas Daisy was always massively punctual. A text came through. Two secs!
It wasn’t far to walk anyway and taxis were always lined up. People often shared them from the stop, a little Southampton summer camaraderie that had apparently grown into quite a custom. Daisy climbed down from the Jitney thinking, with a slight jolt, that there were only about two more Wednesdays to go. The job would be finished as far as they were concerned by mid-August. Then it was back to England, time to face Simon again, a pile of bills and a very wobbly future.
Would Susannah keep her on? She had her secretary, Stephanie, in London; all Daisy could hope for was an occasional one-off commission that was large enough to justify an extra pair of hands. So much was in the air. Warren was coming on a bit strong. Daisy remembered his extreme freeze-up, seeing his ex-wife at the restaurant. He showed every sign of having a very possessive nature and she didn’t somehow see him waving her off into the sunset, home to England, with a friendly, ‘So long!’
Susannah swept up and braked to a stop. ‘Good couple of days?’ she asked as Daisy climbed in. ‘You must be knackered with the heat in the city and all you’ve been doing.’
That possibly had a little edge, but it wasn’t said maliciously. Susannah’s warmth was genuine, Daisy knew. She felt as astonished as ever by their friendship. They were different generations, but good together; nothing felt forced. Susannah looked cool, tanned, wearing that witty turquoise tee with a toucan on the front. She’d had a hectic day too, site meetings, window people, marble suppliers, wood-floor people. She hadn’t been idling by the pool.
Daisy longed to pour out her heart about Warren, but the sensitivities were just too great. His growing seriousness spelled trouble. Susannah probably saw it as a temporary dalliance with a younger woman and wouldn’t take kindly to discovering it was more than that. At best she’d be sad, hurt and fed-up. At worst it could lead to a bare-knuckle fight. Either way, Daisy felt, it would mean a miserable end to their friendship and also, inevitably, her stimulating, satisfying new job.
She shut her mind to it all, and over one of Martha’s delicious light suppers they talked shop and also about the rash of weekend parties on offer: the cocktail parties, Saturday-night dinner with the Stocktons, Art and Maisie, which should be a laugh. Maisie was a riot when she was on form, always the flaunter, out to shock, and she loved to puncture pomposity.
‘I have my dinner date with Gerald the auctioneer tomorrow as well,’ Daisy said with a grin, relieved that Warren had got it firmly into his head that Gerald was gay. ‘I’m looking forward to it, I’d felt quite stood up when he had a sudden important trip to North Carolina the other day.’
Her mobile buzzed and in the uncanny way that often happens, it was Gerald, fixing the time and place. Susannah looked across the table with interest and Daisy said, clicking off from the call, ‘Well, it wasn’t another brush-off. He’s coming at eight and taking me to somewhere called Nick and Toni’s in East Hampton that he says is quite “jolly”.’
‘It’s about the most in place going,’ Susannah said. ‘Impossible to get a table there in summer. He must know all the right people.’
An evening with Gerald, Daisy decided, had distinct possibilities. He was certainly younger than Warren, in his fifties probably, and suitably cultured-looking for his grand auction house; he had a good head of thick brown hair and Daisy couldn’t forget his impressive nose. She had a sneaking desire to satisfy her curiosity about long noses and kissing. Would this be her chance to find out?
‘Is Warren back tomorrow?’ she asked, knowing the answer. ‘You won’t be on your own, Susannah, I hope?’ It was almost August; Warren was going to be around a lot more.
‘No, he’ll be back,’ she smiled. ‘I expect we’ll pop out to some staid trad joint, though – no Nick and Toni’s for me! Warren’s not one for experimenting with anywhere on-trend, after all. He’s an old stick-in-the-mud at heart.’
That was true, Daisy thought. Warren was solidly set in his ways, as conventional as custard pie.
Gerald arrived at eight on the dot. He brushed Daisy’s cheek, a formal little kiss. ‘I love your dress,’ he said. ‘I feel I had quite a hand in that!’
She was in the Carolina Herrera resort dress that Warren had bid for at the Red Tide Benefit’s auction – at Susannah’s suggestion, which she might now regret. She’d been amused, all the same, about how perfect it was for a date with Gerald.
Susannah came to the door to see them off, and admired Gerald’s silver Porsche convertible. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for sleek sporty cars,’ she said. The Porsche impressed Daisy no end as well; with this Long Island life she was leading she felt like someone on a crazy credit-card binge. The divorce had left her so strapped. A return to reality – bill-paying in Battersea – was far from a thrilling prospect, yet one that soon had to be faced.
The tall wrought-iron gates were opening, Warren returning. He jumped out and began to come over. Gerald was holding open the passenger-seat door; Daisy climbed in hurriedly, waving at Warren with a backward smile and calling goodbye. She didn’t want him slowing them up and embarrassing her with his moony eyes queering her Gerald pitch. Warren stopped in his tracks. He waved back, but looked hurt, taking it as a slight. It was unsettling. Daisy felt disturbed.
‘So how did it go, down south in North Carolina?’ she asked, once they were through the gates and Gerald was revving down the street.
‘Well, the trip became extended, as you’ll have gathered,’ he said dryly. ‘Sorry I mucked you about. One of Wilmington’s most venerable worthies had kicked it and her family were selling off some important paintings and French furniture. They feuded on and on about what to auction, the reserve prices, with no thought at all for my time. And Wilmington is the kind of small city where everyone gets in on the act, so other grandees wanted me to see their treasures – some of which were truly grim – but buyers come in all tastes and sizes so I had to take a look.’
‘Isn’t it hugely satisfying and worth it all when you make a real find?’
‘It sure is, and seeing beautiful pieces in situ, too. One house I visited had some rare gems, a perfect French Empire secrétaire and a seventeenth-century longcase clock – only the old lady wanted to hang onto those. She lived in a moated mansion that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, even down to the yellowing lace cloth on the hexagonal table where we had tea. She was gracious, with swept-up hair, and we had dainty cucumber sandwiches – but it was the spookiest experience you can imagine.’
‘How come?’ Daisy asked curiously.
‘The house was reached by a path through the garden, and along the banks of the moat – which was stuffed full of alligators watching me! It was a perfect setting for one of your Agatha Christie weekend-house-party murder stories. I’ve never felt more scared in my life!’
‘I long to see the Deep South, but does North Carolina actually qualify?’
‘It’s a southern plantation state, but not the full Deep South. Wilmington’s a port city and was very active in the Civil War, extremely supportive. Not all the state – the struggling farmers in the west were more ambivalent, quite anti-slavery, in fact. Here we are now.’ He drew up on the restaurant’s gravel parking. ‘I hope you like this place. It has a good buzz and gets the celebrities.’
‘It’s a real treat to come here,’ Daisy said, revelling in being out with him, ‘I’m having one new experience after another.’
Nick and Toni’s had two interior rooms, primitive art on white walls, a centrepiece wood-burning oven covered in mosaic, and an outdoor terrace too, where Gerald had asked to be seated. There wasn’t a table to be had; the place was a honeypot for the most social limelight-seeking bees. Daisy liked the coloured lights strung along an overhead awning and the bordering spiky architectural plants.
Their table was to the side, good for celebrity spotting and hearing themselves talk. ‘The cocktails are great here,’ said Gerald, ‘you must try one. I’m going to have a Rosita. It’s basically tequila and vermouth, but have a read-through and see what you like.’
‘I love the sound of a local berry Rosado, thanks.’ Daisy settled back while he gave the order, amazed at who was there. ‘I see what you mean about celebrities,’ she murmured. ‘I mean, isn’t that Bill Clinton in that group over there? And Alec Baldwin just beyond – his wife looks very pregnant! I do feel rather the church mouse, very ordinary indeed.’
‘You’re not. I doubt any one of these people is related to a French countess.’
Daisy stared, bemused and disconcerted. ‘How on earth do you know that? And anyway, she’s my stepmother – it’s only by marriage.’
‘Just from a piece in the local rag’s diary column. Society designer Susannah Forbes and Daisy Mitchell, her young assistant, daughter of a French countess, are taking Southampton by storm. You write a column under your own name too, Daisy; which makes it easy for nosy people like me. But in case you’re wondering, I asked you out before seeing the piece.’ Gerald had an appealing, educated sort of a grin. Daisy felt quite flustered to think of the Beach Club regulars reading about her. Had Warren seen it? She suspected he had, yet wouldn’t have wanted to allude to it.
‘I’ve never met anyone with such definitively green eyes,’ Gerald remarked, more curiously than as a come-on, ‘and the Herrera dress has green in it. Shall we order?’
Daisy studied the menu. ‘Lots of ideas for my column here – red pepper coulis and dustings of porcini. It’s so hard to choose – and to stop eating these fantastic olives!’
‘They cure their own to minimise the salt content. It’s a good selling touch.’
Gerald made suggestions: seared tuna, sweet pea ravioli. He was having antelope. He ordered a bottle of Italian white, Vermentino Litorale, and a red Bordeaux to follow.
The white wine came quickly and was deliciously chilled. ‘Now we can relax.’ He smiled.
He was easy to chat to, not pressurising. Daisy found herself talking about her mother dying, her father busy with his health club and new family, how she hadn’t wanted to lean on him over her marital troubles. She even told Gerald her fears about her usefulness to Susannah in the future. ‘I’m a real con out here, you see,’ she confessed. ‘Non-achieving and sewn-up by my ex in the divorce – unlike most females in the Hamptons, I suspect.’
‘Hmm,’ Gerald said, ‘but if I read the signs right, Warren would like to step in.’
Daisy felt her face burn. ‘He likes to flirt, sure – and not just with me. Susannah’s the main attraction. She’s doing a fantastic job on his house – you’ll be impressed.’
‘It certainly needed a bomb under it, and Warren needed a shake-up. Still, he’s bid up for some dull stuff over the years, so I shouldn’t complain. But Daisy, you’re dodging the business of Warren being hooked. You do like him? He’ll be hard to shake off.’
‘I’ve talked far too much about me,’ Daisy said, seeing to her relief the waiter coming with their main course. ‘Gosh, the ravioli looks phenomenal, what presentation! And your antelope, too.’ The waiter smiled and poured the red wine for Gerald to taste.
‘Excellent. I’ll take care of it, that’s fine.’ Gerald seemed impatient for them to be alone again.
Daisy felt a little confused. Was he interested and had he been trying to establish where he stood? Did that explain all the talk about Warren, which seemed slightly odd?
‘Tell me more about you,’ she said, still question-dodging. ‘You’ve told me about your love of travel and Europe, having a pampered East Coast childhood . . .’
‘Yes, I was very indulged. My father publishes art books, my mother breeds horses.’
‘And your personal life? Warren said you weren’t married – have you ever been?’
Gerald refilled their glasses. He sipped his Bordeaux and gave her a gentle smile over the rim.
‘Once, a while ago. I extricated myself and it ended fairly amicably – well, just about. No children. It was a mistake, only I hadn’t known it at the time.’
‘Who does? We could all say the same.’
‘No, it’s a bit different in my case. You see, I discovered I was gay.’
He was smiling, but lost in thought for a moment as well, which gave Daisy time to adjust. Had he not known before? To get as far as marrying . . . Her feelings, like one of the House cocktails, had their sharp flavours. Her pride and self-confidence had taken a knock, which wasn’t surprising, and she raged internally, unfairly and irrationally, at Warren for being so complacent about her date. And right! But with her mind flitting briefly to her own first marriage and her newfound knowledge, via the boys, that their father had a long-term male partner. She began to be keenly interested too, pleased and touched that Gerald enjoyed her company and had even felt able to talk of his ‘discovery’.
‘It must have been a great shock for your wife, obviously, but was it hard for you, I mean, quitting the whole hetero way of life?’ Daisy queried. ‘And peoples’ curiosity as well, the looks and undercurrents, that sort of stuff – or did you feel a great sense of release?’
‘Oh, the latter. I’d fallen wildly, desperately in love. The trouble is, that can be so painful and difficult, “no assignment for cowards”, as Ovid said. My partner’s very young and unsuitable, and I live in fear of losing him; it would kill me. Yet for that reason, conversely, my instinct is to give him space.’
‘Like coming to the Hamptons on your own?’ Daisy felt fascinated and awed.
‘Yes, taking trips to Europe alone as well. It cuts me up, but the coming-togethers are worth anything, indescribably exquisite. And I like the opera, theatre, time with women friends, which is far from his scene. He’s a DJ, works nights, funny hours. He goes to disgusting dives, gets pissed and worse, in with druggies, needs rehab, hates himself for it and loves me to pick up the pieces. Those are the beautiful moments.’
Daisy wondered privately if such a misfit relationship had a hope. Was it really worth it? Yet she could see the ecstasy in Gerald’s eyes. She jealously longed to feel such love. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Mark. He’s twenty-eight – from the Midwest.’
‘I can only imagine that sort of reciprocal love,’ Daisy smiled wistfully, ‘that kind of certainty. I see a married man in London, can’t turn him away, but it’s purely physical, two-dimensional – and in fact, he’s holding me back. He doesn’t care, doesn’t love me. I really envy you, Gerald, the completeness of what you have.’
‘It’ll happen for you,’ Gerald said. ‘I’d bet on it. And meantime, perhaps I can take you out when I’m in London? I’d love that, my green-eyed French countess’s stepdaughter. You have great style, Daisy; don’t do yourself down.’ He looked at her fondly before turning to summon a waiter. He ordered a lavender white chocolate and pear dessert with two spoons. ‘Coffee? Espresso?’ He was easy in her company and relaxed.
They drove back, both of them, she felt, in that comforting realm of a fresh new solid-based friendship. Gerald seemed almost like the brother she’d never had, except that he wasn’t; he was a male pal, a man who’d been married, a sexual being. It took a little getting used to. ‘Did you always know, inside?’ she asked. It still felt such a surprising revelation.
‘I’ve wondered about that endlessly, and the fact is, I simply don’t know. I suppose I never will.’ Gerald pulled up just short of Great Maples. ‘I won’t come in or anything. We might meet over the weekend with all the social goings-on, but if not, thanks for tonight and for listening. It’s good to let it out now and then. And we had fun! You’re an entrancing girl.’
Gerald put his lips to hers and squeezed her arm. When he was gone, Daisy could still feel the brush of his nose. It felt quite sexy. No need to wonder about that little conundrum any more, she told herself happily, feeling buoyed up and light-hearted. It wouldn’t be a precluding factor. She hugged the evening to her. Gerald had given her fresh confidence, and a new sense of contentment, too.
Warren was waiting in the hall, in the shadows; it was hard to gauge his expression. ‘I was worried – it’s nearly one,’ he said plaintively, coming close. ‘Susannah said you’d gone to Nick and Toni’s, but was the service really that slow on a Thursday? I’m surprised.’
‘The place was packed. There wasn’t a table to be had, and a Clinton here, a Baldwin there; my head was on permanent swivel.’ Daisy laughed. ‘But the service was fine; we just chatted on for ages.’
She felt ever so slightly irritated. Warren was intruding into the mood somehow, and she’d had a lot of wine, just wanted to get straight to bed. She smiled grudgingly, only to reel back when he lunged forward and clutched her with force, pulling her into the shadow of the staircase, smothering her in a furious, passionate kiss.
She came up for air panicking, hissing, ‘Not here, for fuck’s sake!’ She flashed a look upwards through the banisters. No sign of Susannah. She let out a breath. ‘I’m going up now, Warren, and alone. Promise you won’t do that again with . . . others here. It matters to me.’
He was shaking, she realised, looking disturbed and emotionally overwrought. ‘I missed you,’ he muttered. ‘I need to talk to you, Daisy, and if not now, before the end of the weekend. Any time, anywhere we can be private.’
She stared at him, her heart quickening all the more. It was too much pressure and she was longing to get away. ‘Maybe we’ll have a moment or two at the Beach Club or one of the parties but please, Warren, go easy. There are three of us and I’d really hate any upsets. We’re managing fine as we are. Sleep tight,’ she murmured lightly, giving him a token peck on his cheek.
Daisy’s mellow sleepiness was out of the window; she felt resentfully alert, churning over the implications of Warren prowling around in the hall waiting for her. He’d worked himself up into a frenzy. She feared that he’d decided it was time to come clean and tell Susannah what had been going on. It must surely have got harder for him, unless he was a complete phony, to play the suitor, out with Susannah at a restaurant, alone in the house on their return. Wouldn’t Susannah have expected him to cuddle up with her in bed? Martha was off, Daisy out; Susannah must be feeling more than suspicious by now, as sour as an unripe gooseberry, thoroughly pissed off all round.
Yet no resentment showed at breakfast on the terrace.
‘Hi, sleep well?’ She smiled as Daisy appeared. They’d weaned Warren off the dining room at last and Luisa had set up the table out there. ‘Good time with Gerald last night? I’m dying to hear all about it.’ Susannah looked rested, bright and fresh in a white top, vivid yellow pants and espadrilles; she had a touch of makeup on too, always did, but at seventy, if you cared, that must be kind of inevitable.
‘Lots to tell, but later,’ Daisy returned Susannah’s smile, trying to imply it was more for her ears than Warren’s. ‘We were back late and I couldn’t sleep, so I feel a fright, a real mess – and you look just the opposite. Doesn’t she look glowing, Warren?’
He’d lowered his newspaper when Daisy came out to the terrace, smiled vaguely and raised it again. He did the same now, with a token nod of agreement. Daisy wondered how they’d get through the day.
It was a Friday. She and Susannah had work to do, which helped. An electrician was coming. Susannah wanted to be sure he knew exactly where to put the floor outlets for lamps, since electrical mistakes were costly. He was late, and waiting for him they wandered in the garden, discussing plant and pot positioning after the reconfiguring of the terrace.
The weather had changed. They’d been caught in a downpour walking from the Beach Club earlier in the week, soaked to the skin, laughing, loving the relief from the humidity. There had been thunderstorms all week, but it was brighter today and the forecast was good.
Daisy asked after Susannah’s evening – feeling tense about it, which she hoped didn’t show – before embarking on describing her own with Gerald.
‘Oh, we just had a quick meal at the café-restaurant on Main Street. I wanted an early night – I need them these days.’ That was pretty dismissive. Had she and Warren rowed?
Susannah was warmer, hearing Daisy out about Gerald, and interested.
‘It’s surprising, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Not that he’s gay, but that he only discovered it so late in life. You’d think he’d have found out earlier, or at least had some sort of clue. Your first husband was only twenty, you said, he’d hardly had time to know his leanings, although a couple of my gay friends have told me they’d known as young as twelve. I suppose falling in love can be such a visceral force, though. I hope Gerald doesn’t get too badly hurt – after the ecstasy, the agony, that sort of thing.’
So that’s that, then,’ she gave an ironical smile, ‘bang goes one of my small hopes. I’m on the lookout for personable marriageable-age men of means for you, Daisy. Simon isn’t for life – or love.’
Daisy went quiet, thinking of how soon she’d be home and the danger of falling into the same old groove. ‘Simon’s just texted,’ she said, ‘but only because he’s on family hols and bored, I expect. I suggested his kiddos would love a game of Monopoly.’
Susannah smiled. ‘Keep your options open. Don’t miss out on falling in love.’
‘Gerald said the same thing last night, but time’s not on my side . . . Ah, here’s Jimmy the electrician,’ Daisy said with relief, sensing undercurrents in Susannah’s advice. Was she telling Daisy to play the field, move on, get Warren out of her hair as well as Simon?
Susannah had her back to the electrician and turning, seeing the sweating lump of human lard slopping across the grass, she muttered, ‘Think we were right to check him out.’
The weekend parties crowded in and Warren regained his equilibrium, or seemed to. He socialised happily with the moneyed gossiping locals: they were his friends, his kind. The three of them went to the Stocktons’ dinner party on Saturday night, where Maisie’s outfit didn’t disappoint. She was in a flesh-coloured lace corset-dress that pushed up the rising-sun boobs and frothed out in froufrou pink net skirts over seamed black stockings. She looked like a Texan can-can girl. Daisy was feted, asked about her French mother, and it made no difference, patiently explaining about being a stepdaughter. A new gloss of glamour was assured.
Warren slipped her occasional hurt looks of the why-aren’t-you-wearing-any-of-my-presents kind, and when Maisie encouraged dancing on the terrace, he asked Daisy to partner him and muttered his whinges in her ear.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered back. ‘I can’t. Susannah would know they’re from you.’
He still looked injured. Her body responded to the well-judged pressure of his hand on her bare back, his legs pressing, moving with hers, yet he nagged on. ‘At least you could have worn the shoes.’
‘God, Warren, they’re Manolo’s – amazing, fabulous. Do you really think Susannah wouldn’t know that?’ Daisy eased away a little, the sensual moment lost.
Sunday lunch was at the Beach Club. Others joined them – Warren’s neighbours, Elmer and Jan Harvey, and a couple of married roués who chatted up Daisy and Susannah; the roués’ wives talked to each other and drank South Siders.
Warren looked across the untidy extended table. ‘Come on, Daisy,’ he said, catching her eye. ‘Come for a hike along the beach. Help me walk off some of this flab.’
‘That sounds a bit keen,’ Elmer Harvey said. ‘You do need to watch the old ticker.’
Warren, who was getting to his feet, looked daggers at Elmer. ‘Thanks for that,’ he muttered. ‘Old boy.’ He came to help Daisy up from her chair. It was a humid day and she had to make an effort to stir herself, which she hoped was apparent to Susannah.
‘Less of the hike,’ she laughed. ‘On a day like this, it’s a slow amble for me.’
She kicked off her strappy wedges and left them with Warren’s loafers on the steps down from the Clubhouse. The sand was hot under her feet, the breakers thrashing, the ocean, vast and filling the distance. It was always a shock, always gave one a feeling of experiencing it for the first time.
‘I couldn’t last another minute without seeing you alone. I’ve been so worked up, Daisy, I had to say it now, not wait till some point in the week that may not pan out. God knows, it’s hard enough to be alone with you.’
‘Say what, Warren? You’ve been stressed out and nervy all weekend, that’s for sure.’
‘I want you to think about marrying me. I love you, I can’t bear to look at you and not be able to say so, kiss you and shout it out loud. Don’t say a word right now, either way. Mull it over; think it through. You know the obvious downsides, but Daisy darling, I can give you a very good life, no more money worries, the best possible launching for your sons, apartments for them, cars, real security. And for my part I’d trust you not to be marrying me for my money, I know you too well for that. I can’t imagine a girl less motivated by gain. And you’re kind, sensitive to people’s feelings, the way you care about Susannah’s . . .’
He’d begun speaking, walking side by side, but slowed and turned to her, taking her hands and fixing her with an achingly painful gaze. Daisy felt softened, touched, the irritation she’d felt with him all weekend melting away in the face of his sincerity.
‘I’m glad you don’t want me to say a word, but thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s a huge thing, a real bolt from that deep blue ocean out there, and I’m overwhelmed. I’ll definitely need time . . .’ She gently extracted her hands and separated from him, looking nervously up and down the beach, which was as near-deserted as ever. ‘I’ll give you an answer soon, Warren, I promise. Certainly before my flight home.’
Daisy couldn’t keep looking at him; the intensity of emotion in his gaze was exhausting. She turned to face towards the Clubhouse, saying, ‘Shall we wander back? And,’ she hesitated, ‘perhaps it would be best not to meet in the city midweek, during this thinking space. It’s a very big decision, for both of us, Warren. You need to mull it over too. I’d never, ever hold it against you if, in the cold light of day, you wanted to change your mind.’