black suit. But Daisy had her own car, a red Chevrolet Sport Coupe.
Daisy liked driving, loved the power and speed of it. They headed south out of the city. She was almost sorry it was only five or six miles to the beach.
As she drove she thought about life as Charlie’s wife. With her money and his status they would become the leading couple in Buffalo society. At their dinner parties the table settings would be so elegant that people would gasp in delight. They would have the biggest yacht in the harbour, and throw on-board parties for other wealthy, fun-loving couples. People would yearn for an invitation from Mrs Charles Farquharson. No charity function would be a success without Daisy and Charlie at the top table. In her head she watched a movie of herself, in a ravishing Paris gown, walking through a crowd of admiring men and women, smiling graciously at their compliments.
She was still daydreaming when they reached their destination.
The city of Buffalo was in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Woodlawn Beach was a mile of sand on the shore of Lake Erie. Daisy parked and they walked across the dunes.
Fifty or sixty people were already there. These were the adolescent children of the Buffalo elite, a privileged group who spent their summers sailing and water-skiing in the daytime and going to parties and dances at night. Daisy greeted the people she knew, which was just about everyone, and introduced Eva around. They got glasses of punch. Daisy tasted it cautiously: some of the boys would think it hilarious to spike the drink with a couple of bottles of gin.
The party was for Dot Renshaw, a sharp-tongued girl whom no one wanted to marry. The Renshaws were an old Buffalo family, like the Farquharsons, but their fortune had survived the crash. Daisy made sure to approach the host, Dot’s father, and thank him. ‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ she said. ‘I lost track of time!’
Philip Renshaw looked her up and down. ‘That’s a very short skirt.’ Disapproval vied with lasciviousness in his expression.
‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Daisy replied, pretending he had paid her a straightforward compliment.
‘Anyway, it’s good that you’re here at last,’ he went on. ‘A photographer from the
Daisy muttered to Eva: ‘So that’s why I was invited. How kind of him to let me know.’
Dot came up. She had a thin face with a pointed nose. Daisy always thought she looked as if she might peck you. ‘I thought you were going with your father to meet the President,’ she said.
Daisy felt mortified. She wished she had not boasted to everyone about this.
‘I see he took his, ahem, leading lady,’ Dot went on. ‘Unusual, that sort of thing, in the White House.’
Daisy said: ‘I guess the President likes to meet movie stars occasionally. He deserves a little glamour, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t imagine that Eleanor Roosevelt approved. According to the
‘How thoughtful of them.’ Daisy turned away, desperate to escape.
She spotted Charlie Farquharson, trying to erect a net for beach tennis. He was too good-natured to mock her about Gladys Angelus. ‘How are you, Charlie?’ she said brightly.
‘Fine, I guess.’ He stood up, a tall man of about twenty-five, a little overweight, stooping slightly as if he feared his height might be intimidating.
Daisy introduced Eva. Charlie was sweetly awkward in company, especially with girls, but he made an effort and asked Eva how she liked America, and what she heard from her family back in Berlin.
Eva asked him if he was enjoying the picnic.
‘Not much,’ he said candidly. ‘I’d rather be at home with my dogs.’
No doubt he found pets easier to deal with than girls, Daisy thought. But the mention of dogs was interesting. ‘What kind of dogs do you have?’ she asked.
‘Jack Russell terriers.’
Daisy made a mental note.
An angular woman of about fifty approached. ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, haven’t you got that net up yet?’
‘Almost there, Mom,’ he said.
Nora Farquharson was wearing a gold tennis bracelet, diamond ear studs, and a Tiffany necklace; more jewellery than she really needed for a picnic. The Farquharsons’ poverty was relative, Daisy reflected. They said they had lost everything, but Mrs Farquharson still had a maid and a chauffeur and a couple of horses for riding in the park.
Daisy said: ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Farquharson. This is my friend Eva Rothmann from Berlin.’
‘How do you do,’ said Nora Farquharson without offering her hand. She felt no need to be friendly towards arriviste Russians, much less their Jewish guests.
Then she seemed to be struck by a thought. ‘Ah, Daisy, you could go round and find out who wants to play tennis.’
Daisy knew she was being treated somewhat as a servant, but she decided to be compliant. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Mixed doubles, I suggest.’
‘Good idea.’ Mrs Farquharson held out a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. ‘Write the names down.’
