‘Don’t tell them that it’s just down to having an eye for fashion. You make it sound too simple,’ Alex chided. ‘Tell them it’s bloody hard work and there’s no guarantee you’ll sell a single thing you buy.’
Alex worked in investment banking in Dublin city, a job where it was mandatory to blow your own trumpet. Even after fourteen years with Daisy, Alex still couldn’t understand her natural reticence. She was brilliant at what she did – what was wrong with telling people? And Daisy, safe in the love of the one person in the world who made her feel good about herself, laughed and said that being a fashion buyer was impossible to explain to the uninitiated. It was like wearing Prada and looking effortlessly cool, so effortlessly cool that nobody would ever guess all the hard work that went into the whole outfit.
Besides, Daisy, like all people who doubted their worth, had a horror of boring other people. She felt she’d bore everyone rigid if she told them about the years of following fashion from the sidelines and of how she’d tried to make clothes from odd scraps of fabric almost before she was old enough to sew. Daisy might have been blessed with an eye for fashion, but her lengthy apprenticeship had sharpened it.
‘It’s a female thing,’ she added. ‘Women don’t like showing off.’
‘It’s a Daisy thing,’ Alex replied. ‘My office is full of women who have no qualms about telling people how talented they are.’
‘Only because they’re trying to impress you,’ Daisy laughed. And it was true. At thirty-six, Alex still had the physique of the college rower he’d once been. Long and lean, he looked good in his office suits, even better out of them, and his glossy wolf’s pelt hair and strong, intelligent face meant that women noticed him. One of the many, many things Daisy loved about him was that Alex didn’t notice them back.
It never occurred to her that he might ever have to worry about men noticing her. Daisy had no illusions about her own beauty. A person didn’t grow up overhearing their mother call them an ugly duckling, like Daisy’s mother did, without drawing their own conclusions. But she had style, fabulous shoes, and Alex, the man she’d adored since their first meeting in a dingy college pub a lifetime ago.
Her beloved Alex was linked to the three questions that Daisy really hated. First up was, ‘Are you and Alex ever going to get married, Daisy?’
Short answer: ‘Perhaps,’ delivered with a little smile that hinted at plans for something elegant on a far-flung beach where the party could pick exotic blooms to hang behind their ears as they stood, barefoot, in the sand. A Vera Wang dress, privately designed rings, and a select beachside party for their small group of friends, followed by a relaxed gathering in a restaurant when they got home from the honeymoon.
Daisy’s real answer was: ‘I’d love to but Alex’s not interested. We’ve talked about it but he’s not really into marriage. Why fix what’s not broken, he says.’
She’d said it to Mary Dillon, her partner in the shop.
‘That’s such a man thing to say,’ remarked Mary, who was just divorced and still inhabiting the all-men-are-pigs zone. Mary had started Georgia’s Tiara ten years before, and Daisy had come on board shortly afterwards. Together, they made a great team.
‘Getting married isn’t about not fixing anything. It’s a bigger commitment, that’s all,’ Mary went on. ‘It’s Alex saying he wants the world to know he’s going to be with you for ever. Living with someone can’t do that. Mind you,’ she added gloomily, ‘if I’d just lived with Bart instead of being stupid enough to marry him, we mightn’t have ended up paying the lawyers so much. Every time I see my lawyer in his new Porsche, I feel like saying I own an eighth of that car, so when can I borrow it?’
‘Yes…’ said Daisy, wishing she hadn’t started this. Mary was not the sort of woman to call a spade a metal digging implement and Daisy had just broken her own steadfast rule about couple loyalty. Never speak about your loved one in a negative way. Anything else was too like what she’d grown up with. ‘I suppose I can see Alex’s point,’ Daisy went on untruthfully, backtracking out of guilt. It had been a private conversation with Alex. What on earth had made her spill it all out to Mary? ‘We are happy as we are. I must be premenstrual, that’s it. Ignore me.’
The only plus about not having plans to get married meant that Daisy didn’t have to think about the dilemma of inviting both her parents to the wedding. It had been years since Daisy’s mother had tolerated being in the same town as her father, much less the same room. Nan Farrell had insisted that her husband move out of Carrickwell years ago so she could pretend – to herself, at least – that she was still a person of consequence in the town. Daisy’s father had drifted in and out of her life for years. He lived in San Francisco now and seemed perfectly happy to send and receive nothing more than a Christmas card.
Whenever Vogue had a feature on beautiful brides, Daisy contented herself with the knowledge that she had commitment without the need for an intricate seating plan to keep all her family happy. Her family had been a bit of a non-family all her life. And surely, she reasoned, it was more modern to live with a loved one than rush up the aisle just for the sake of it?
Her second most hated question was even more personal.
‘How did you lose all the weight?’ interrogated all the people who hadn’t seen her for years and who remembered Daisy as the rounded creature she would always remain in their heads.
Ignoring the rudeness of the question – weight was a terribly personal matter and yet so many recklessly demanded to know what you ate for breakfast if it would help them lose a few pounds – Daisy would say that she hadn’t done a thing. Honestly.
For all his charming sociability, Alex was incredibly private and hated anyone knowing he’d been sick, so she couldn’t say that the sheer worry she’d gone through over the two years of his mystery illness meant the weight, three stones of it, had just melted away.
‘Not WeightWatchers, not the Atkins?’ people would then say suspiciously, clearly convinced she was lying through her teeth, lived on nothing but cabbage soup and probably had terrible problems with bad breath.
‘Not a thing,’ Daisy replied, privately wondering was there an opening in the book world for the Epstein Barr Virus Diet.
Alex looked great now. Thanks to the last year as a patient of the fabulous Dr Verdan, he was glowing with health and brimming with his old energy. He was taking enough health supplements to open his own shop, but they all seemed to be working. She hoped the ones she’d begged him to ask Dr Verdan for were helping.
Which led on to the third question, the one that wasn’t asked quite as often. Apparently, people were more aware of the delicacy of asking it these days, so that when a woman reached a certain age and no children had appeared, only the bumbling lumbered in and asked: ‘What about kids? Don’t you want them?’
Unfortunately, there were lots of bumblers out there, people who thought it was perfectly acceptable to ask a healthy thirty-five-year-old woman with a long-term partner if she’d ever considered the notion of children.
Hell, no, Daisy wanted to yell at them. ‘We thought about it but we’ve heard that a child costs 30,000 euro in its first five years, so we’re going to the Bahamas instead.’ Only an answer so flippant could disguise the genuine physical pain she felt when asked such a question.
Because Daisy didn’t want children. She craved them, yearned for them, cried for them in her sleep.
When she was thirty, she’d stopped taking the pill.
‘It’ll be fun making babies,’ Alex had said at the time.
And