thought Daisy.
She passed the record shop. She’d get the Wham record for Eddie and Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto for Violet on the way back. Out of the loudspeakers belched ‘Last Christmas’. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight, she thought to herself. So many fears, so few hopes. Daisy bit back the tears and nearly got run over crossing George Street before plunging into the supermarket to buy a tiny turkey for Christmas dinner for her, Ethel and Gainsborough.
‘Fresh luxury bird,’ said a large sign of a fat turkey holding a piece of mistletoe, ‘with wishbone removed for luxury carving.’
How awful, thought Daisy, when she’d got so much to wish for: Perdita forgiving her, Eddie and Violet wanting to spend Christmas with her one day, money getting all right, her paintings being good enough for an exhibition, Eddie and Violet passing their exams, Perdita not getting pregnant in Palm Beach.
Would she ever have a man in her life to carve the turkey? Rubbing her eyes, she ran out of the supermarket. She was getting nowhere, Eddie wanted the new Adrian Mole book, Violet was taking
In the corner of Hammicks a beauty wafting a cloud of Jolie Madame was thumbing mindlessly through a biography of Wellington, constantly looking at her watch and checking her face in the mirror. She wore a wedding ring. Lucky thing, thought Daisy wistfully, to have a lover
Handing over the books to the assistant, she burrowed in her bag. It was only after the till had been rung up that she realized she’d left both her cheque book and her cheque card behind. She wished that the carpet would swallow her up, but it was such a hideous green it had probably swallowed several people before that day and was suffering from frightful indigestion.
Her account was in Stroud and overdrawn, so there was no possibility they’d guarantee a blank cheque at a Cheltenham branch. There was no way she could buy anything now for Eddie and Violet, which Hamish and Wendy would construe as a further example of parental neglect and a reason to assume custody.
Running sobbing out of the shop, she collapsed on one of the octagonal benches in front of the clock at the north end of the arcade. A drunk reeled up to her and offered her the remains of his whisky bottle.
‘Go away,’ howled Daisy. Then, conscious of being ungrateful, howled even louder.
‘Mrs Macleod,’ said a soft voice.
Frantically wiping away the tears and the mascara, Daisy looked up. It was Drew Benedict, who seemed to have arrived from a different planet. He’d obviously been playing polo somewhere hot and he handed her his green-and-red Paisley silk handkerchief which smelt faintly of French Fern.
‘I got an afternoon off for Christmas shopping’ – Daisy blew her reddened nose noisily – ‘and I left my cheque book behind.’
Taking her arm, Drew pulled her to her feet.
‘I’ll get you some money.’
Waving aside her frantic apologies, he took her to his bank and drew out ?150.
‘I’ve got to see my lawyer about a contract, have a pair of boots fitted, buy something for Sukey and some arsenic for her ghastly mother, who’s staying with us. I’ll give you a lift home in a couple of hours.’
Embarrassed but cheered up, Daisy scurried around, managing to get everything done in time, and even buying a bottle of Polo aftershave for Drew because she felt so guilty dragging him out of his way when he must be so busy. She was also shocked to find herself going into the Ladies at Cavendish House to clean her teeth, redo her face and retie her hair back in its elastic band. It was too dirty to wear loose. As she went past the scent counter she sprayed herself with Jolie Madame. Outside the beauty who’d been reading Wellington was sobbing uncontrollably as an embarrassed but very good-looking man ushered her into a taxi.
‘Don’t cry, darling,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll ring you every day when Emma goes out to walk the dogs. If Patrick answers I’ll hang up. It’s only nine days.’
‘Oh, come all ye faithful,’ sang the loud speaker.
‘Daisy,’ yelled a voice. It was Drew in a dark green Mini. Between them they managed to fill up the back seat with their purchases. The temperature had dropped. The sun was setting in nougat colours, pale purple and cyclamen-pink.
‘Where have you been to get so brown?’ asked Daisy.
‘Middle East with the Carlisle twins, playing for Victor Kaputnik against the Sultan of Araby. Contrary to what people say, the country is not dry. Everyone was so drunk on Sunday afternoon that the ball stayed in the same place while everyone swiped at it.’
‘How lovely,’ said Daisy.
‘Pay was good,’ went on Drew cheerfully. ‘The twins have gone to Italy so they can ski into Switzerland next door and put all their loot into a Swiss bank. I’ll bank mine when I play snow polo at St Moritz in January. How the hell d’you manage without a car?’
‘Very badly,’ said Daisy gloomily.
Drew had removed his coat and was wearing a light blue cashmere jersey, so new it still had the creases in and which matched his eyes. Rutshire, Cirencester and Guards polo stickers curled on the windscreen.
‘How did Perdita get on in Argentina?’
‘She adored it,’ said Daisy on the evidence of one letter, ‘but she found the Argentines a bit cruel.’
‘They train the best polo ponies in the world.’
‘And she’s spending Christmas in Palm Beach with Bart Alderton’s son, Luke.’
‘Bloody nice,’ said Drew approvingly. ‘She couldn’t be in better hands, and a very good polo player. Might get her over Ricky.’
‘D’you think Ricky’ll mind her spending Christmas so near Bart Alderton?’
Drew shook his head. ‘Ricky’s not small-minded. Bart’s the only person he’s got any fight with.’
Like all polo players, Drew drove very quickly, overtaking much faster cars on bends with a centimetre to spare. He was so nice to talk to, Daisy wished he would slow down She longed to ask him in, and tried to remember if she’d drunk all that bottle of cheap white last night, and if she’d put it back in the fridge. It was only drinkable if it were cold.
‘That’s Declan O’Hara’s house – he’s just moved in,’ said Daisy, pointing to towers and battlements hidden by yew trees and huge Wellingtonias. ‘I think his telly interviews are so wonderful. Everyone’s going to Midnight Mass at Cotchester Cathedral to gawp at him.’
‘We’re going to a party there on New Year’s Eve,’ said Drew. ‘Promises to be the thrash of the decade. Rupert’s got a terrific yen for Declan’s daughter, Taggie. He’s coming back specially from Gstaad to have a crack at her.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Daisy wistfully.
‘Ravishing, but too tall for me. I don’t like standing on tiptoe to kiss girls.’
The setting sun was firing the windows of Snow Cottage as they bumped along the dirt track.
‘Ricky ought to do something about this road, it’s terrible,’ said Drew disapprovingly. ‘You need a snow plough rather than a car.’
Weaving, singing, her eyes screwed up with sleep, Ethel temporarily distracted them from the mess left by the children. All the kitchen chairs had been pulled out. Orange juice cartons, bowls barnacled with muesli, overflowing ashtrays littered the kitchen table.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Daisy, writing out a cheque at once, then blushing furiously, ‘but would you possibly mind not cashing it until the New Year.’
‘Won’t be going near a bank before then,’ said Drew, getting a bottle of Moet out of a Cavendish House bag. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
Daisy, having extracted two clean glasses from the washing-up machine, hastily cleared the kitchen table. As the cork flew out of the bottle, Ethel fled out of the room.
‘Not much use for shooting,’ said Drew as Daisy put some anemones she’d bought in water.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said, fingering the scarlet-and-violet petals. ‘They’re for Will’s grave.’ Then, blushing and wishing she hadn’t said that, she added, ‘Ricky asked me to keep an eye on it while he was away.’
Drew eyed her speculatively. ‘D’you find him attractive?’
