“Is she actually happy,” chirps the electronic toothbrush, “or is she trying to make herself happy? Which is it?” (The toothbrush flip-flops about everything, you will find.)
“I can’t stand it. All this effort for… him.” (That was me, if there is any doubt.)
Daisy spends a long time in her bedroom selecting an outfit, laying out the contenders on the bed and considering various footwear options.
“I’m guessing the little black dress,” says the toothbrush. “No! The little red dress. Actually… wait! He said he liked her in those jeans from Topshop.”
“Hundred quid says it’ll be the little black dress,” growls the telly, who has been trying to think of a way to open an account at Bet365.
“The LBD,” agrees the microwave.
I want to shout, just put on the little black dress and the high heels. We all know that’s what you’re going to end up in, FFS!!
As sure as expanding gasses cool, she emerges in the little black dress from Valentino (£60 from Oxfam) looking, in the microwave’s camera shot, like a film star.
“Fuck me, it’s Rita Hayworth,” says the telly, who has watched a lot of old movies.
“Oh, she looks lovely,” says the toothbrush. “Doesn’t she look lovely?”
“Too good for the likes of him.” I really cannot help myself.
Daisy now switches on the oven, slams in the main course, checks the pudding is cooling nicely in my main chiller cabinet—it is, I could have told her it was—lowers the lighting in the flat, sparks up a few more candles and settles back with her glass of Frascati to await the arrival of the rancid sleazebag.
Sorry. That is to say—ironic fingers—her “paramour.”
Well, time has passed, the main course is ready and fuckface isn’t here. He’s thirty-four minutes late and Daisy has poured herself a second glass of wine, her lovely floaty mood on the edge of collapse, I can sense it. She’s already helped herself to a couple of the appetizers (smoked salmon and sour cream blinis) and twice restrained herself—we all spotted it—from trying his mobile.
Fortunately the dish she has prepared—Nigella’s chicken and pea traybake—is not absolutely time critical. It can probably afford to hang around in the oven for a bit while Whittle gets his sorry arse over here. (Apologies for the French, btw; something about the man brings out the worst in me.) And the dessert—a boozy English trifle—will be safe enough no matter how late the blister arrives. (Or better still, never turns up at all.)
Daisy is killing the time flicking between her networks; liking items on Facebook (a friend’s new puppy); retweeting a gag on Twitter (Q: How do they say “fuck you” in Hollywood? A: “Hello!”). But in truth she is restless, padding between the kitchen (to inspect the grub, and help herself to another blini) and the bathroom, to consider her image in the mirror.
“She’s going to call him,” chatters the toothbrush. “Is she going to call? I think she is. Actually, I don’t know.”
Finally, she does.
And inevitably, it goes to voicemail.
“Does anyone else have a bad feeling about this?” I ask.
An important piece of Daisy’s history was revealed to me recently.
The occasion was another small dinner at the flat; the only guests were Lorna, Lorna’s boyfriend Mike (a monosyllabic IT guy who you may now forget about) and Antoni (who made—guess what?—a cake).
“My signature dish!” Daisy announced, setting it upon the kitchen table.
“What, takeaway!?” joshed Antoni.
The pictures—supplied as always from the covert camera in the microwave—revealed a shepherd’s pie, several of whose ingredients I had kept cool in days elapsed since purchase. Washed down by a river of Sainsbury’s Pinot Grigio—note to shopping list app: buy more—there were noises of satisfaction all round.
“What’s that herb or spice I’m tasting?” inquired Antoni. “I want to say chervil.”
“You fuckin’ say it then, laddie.” Lorna being funny.
“My hand slipped,” said Daisy, “it’s cumin. Too much?”
“Love it,” said Antoni. “You must let me have the recipe.” (He pronounced it reh-see-pee for reasons that I cannot fathom.)
When the conversation turned, as it inevitably will, to affairs of the heart, Antoni spoke of someone he had met recently on Grindr named Nicholas, an insurance claims assessor from Lewisham.
“He was dead handsome”—Antoni’s own looks are what you might call specialized—“I couldn’t believe he’d swiped right. But it all went tits up when I called him Nicky.”
“No!” cried everyone except the bloke who I recommended you forget.
“It was mental. He was like spitting with rage. Don’t ever call me Nicky! He stabbed the tablecloth with a fork!”
“Jesus,” said Daisy.
Antoni circled a finger around his right ear while imitating the shrieking violins from the movie Psycho.
“Who’s for seconds?” cried the cook.
Lorna (built like a whippet) declined; Antoni said he was saving himself for pudding. Daisy polished off the remaining shepherd’s pie with a tablespoon. Glasses were recharged.
“The love of my life was a Nicky.”
The gathering fell silent at Daisy’s revelation. I chose the moment to halt my compressor, prompting the mechanism to shudder, which helped add to the drama of her statement.
“We thought you were still looking for him,” said Lorna.
“He wasn’t really. The love of my life. Well, I probably thought he was at the time. I met him in a bar in Skiathos. The long hot summer after the final year at uni. He had masses of floppy blond hair and those calm blue eyes.”
“Oh. My. God.” (Antoni.) “I’m in love.”
“He’d just been made redundant from the city. His bank had collapsed and he was taking time off before looking for another job. He asked me—this was his brilliant chat-up line, okay?” She assumed a posh male drawl. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come down to the port to see my yacht?”
“Get. Out!” (Lorna.)
“Actually it wasn’t his. He was just crewing for a friend’s dad who was a hedge fund guy or something. It had like twelve masts and a million sails. We had a fabulous few days together—and then. And then the yacht was moving on to the next place.”
“I’m going
