Polo

over the years,’ she said untruthfully.

‘Oh God,’ said Daisy miserably, ‘I feel so awful.’

‘You shouldn’t. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘How is she?’

‘Pretty low – particularly after losing us the match yesterday. Needs her Mum actually, but too proud to admit it. I’m going to talk to her tonight and see if I can bring you two together.’

‘That’s terribly kind,’ said Daisy. Perhaps she’d misjudged Chessie. ‘It’d be wonderful.’

‘And you can do one thing for me in return,’ drawled Chessie.

She’ll have stripped that bench in a minute, thought Daisy.

‘I’ve just seen your painting of Will,’ continued Chessie. ‘It’s stunning. One day I want you to do me a copy. But what I really want is – it’s Bart’s fiftieth birthday next week and he’s pretty disgruntled about it, particularly after yesterday. Could you possibly paint me in the nude as a surprise for him?’

No, thought Daisy, in horror.

‘It’s terribly sweet of you,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m really honoured, but I’ve got about four commissions I’ve simply got to finish.’

‘Oh, please. It’d be such fun. I’m in such a muddle. I feel I need someone like you to talk to.’

In the end Chessie offered her so much money that Daisy couldn’t refuse.

67

Daisy had never disliked a commission so much. Day after day she was taunted by Chessie’s naked beauty, as Chessie babbled on as relentlessly as the Frogsmore about how she and Ricky loved each other and how perhaps the portrait would end up as second wedding present for him, and how Bart was so old, and how she didn’t want to end up looking after him when he was old and crotchety, and boy, he’d be crotchety.

Daisy got lower and lower, particularly when Ricky dropped in to see Ethel’s puppies and found Chessie in residence on Daisy’s saxe-blue sofa with her body as warm and brown and tempting as new bread from the oven. She had made no attempt to get dressed, and Ricky, shooting Daisy a murderous look as though it was all her fault, had stormed out.

By contrast Little Chef popped down twice a day to kiss, lick and clean Ethel’s eyes, ears and nose, to examine his offspring with obvious delight and then to curl up for an hour on the priceless clothes Chessie dropped so casually on the floor. Daisy wished Drew were as attentive. He still hadn’t rung. All the telephone calls that week were for Chessie, usually when she wasn’t there.

‘Say I’ve just left, whatever time Bart rings,’ insisted Chessie or, to explain one day when she wasn’t going to turn up at Daisy’s at all, ‘Just tell him you’ve reached a really tricky bit and I can’t come to the telephone, but I send him a huge kiss, and I’ll be home around seven.’

She’s seeing Ricky, thought Daisy, and was amazed how desolate she felt. Having now spent some time in Chessie’s company, she was now utterly convinced she would only make Ricky miserable if they got together again.

Ashamed of disliking her so much, Daisy also totally sabotaged any artistic integrity by making Chessie even more beautiful than she was and giving her face a soft wistful sweetness it certainly didn’t possess.

Chessie was enchanted and left on the Saturday afternoon giving Daisy a huge hug and a fat cheque, which would at least pay for Eddie’s school fees next year, Violet’s trip round the world and a new dress for Daisy. But what was the point of that if Drew never rang again?

In a furious urge to work off her depression, she painted Chessie again with a glittering rhinestone for a face and a viciously cruel, angular body totally cased in a chain-mail of self-absorption. It was one of the only surrealistic paintings she’d ever done and a much truer likeness.

Exhausted, she took Ethel for a quick walk. Venus was rising to the left as Ethel splashed through the brilliant green watercress and forget-me-nots which clogged Ricky’s stream.

I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers, thought Daisy despairingly.

A vast, black cloud massed threateningly along the horizon like a tidal wave about to engulf her. What worse things could happen in her life? But as she wandered home through the buddleia-scented evening, she saw a dark- green Mini draw up outside her front door with a jerk. Not more press? Then she froze – worse than press. Sukey Benedict had got out and was waving like a restrained goal judge.

‘I was in the area and thought I’d pop in and say hellair. What a darling cottage, and how charming you’ve made the garden.’

This was untrue. The lawn, like a hayfield, towered higher than the flower beds, which were a holiday-let to weeds. Even worse the coat rack had collapsed in the hall, so Sukey and Daisy had to mountaineer over a hillock of Barbours and bomber jackets into the kitchen where two days’ washing-up jammed the sink.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Daisy. ‘I’ve been finishing a painting.’ If Sukey insisted on seeing round, she thought nervously, she might unearth the nude of Drew in the potting shed.

‘Would you like a drink?’

Sukey hesitated. ‘I’m driving. I’d love a cup of tea.’

Daisy, desperate for vodka, had to winkle two cups out of the sink and wash them in the upstairs bathroom. But Sukey didn’t seem to notice anything. She sat down at the kitchen table, playing with one of the yellow roses in a blue vase which promptly collapsed in a shower of petals. She’d always worn her trousers loose to de-emphasize her bottom, but now they were so loose they were almost hipsters, and too loose to contain her striped shirt which was done up on the wrong buttons. A long lock of mousey hair escaped from a most inappropriate Alice band of red velvet dotted with seed pearls. It was like seeing Mrs Thatcher with a punk rocker hairstyle chewing gum, thought Daisy. Despite the muggy warmth of the day, Sukey was shivering uncontrollably.

‘Thank you so much.’ As she took the cup and saucer it was difficult to tell where Daisy’s rattle ended and hers began.

There was a dreadful silence.

‘I’m not very good at confiding in people.’ Sukey looked down at her big, rubber-glove-cherished hands. ‘Daddy was in the Foreign Office and we never talked about feelings. I came to you, Daisy, because you always seem such a sweet person. It’s about Drew actually.’

The room darkened. Daisy knew the tidal wave was going to drown her. Never admit to anything, Drew had always insisted, but she was such a dreadful liar.

‘I knew Drew married me for my money.’ Sukey was busy dismembering another yellow rose. ‘He’s so frite-fly attractive it couldn’t be for any other reason.’ Then, when Daisy murmured in protest, ‘I’ve been awfully happy really – even though he’s always had other women.’

Drew, the solid, the utterly dependable, thought Daisy aghast. She felt like the conjuror’s blonde-haired assistant who hears sawing and realizes she’s got into the wrong box.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, one knows. He’s away so much – claiming to stay at his club when I later discovered it was closed down for the summer, meetings he said he’d been to, then finding apologies for his absence in the minutes a month later. Beautiful girls seeking me out at parties, then being particularly nice out of relief that I wasn’t pretty. Girl grooms suddenly getting cheeky.’

Daisy could definitely feel the teeth of the magician’s saw grazing her side now.

‘Didn’t you mind?’ she asked in a strangled voice.

‘Of course, I love him. The worst bit was one au pair, very pretty, who left in a hurry to work as a chalet girl. Drew must have met up with her again when he was playing snow polo last Christmas. Afterwards she wrote and gave me all the details of all the other girls he’d slept with. He got eight valentines this year.’