The Devil You Know (11 page)

Daisy smiled a bit at that thought. OK, so the face staring back at her from the mirror above the stinking urinals was plump, but was that any worse than some of the buck-teeth and pizza-faces her year was drooling over out there? She’d spotted one lad in that baying crowd who had a face that was erupting like Etna on a bad day, and another with coke-bottle glasses and railway-track braces on his teeth. She took out the free sample of EstSe Lauder perfume she’d

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ripped from a magazine and brought with her in her bag, robbed it over her neck and wrists, and marched into the ballroom.

There was definite revenge to be had, she thought, determined to make the best of it. After all, she wasn’t going to be the only person who was about to have a bad night. She was a writer. So she’d sit here and watch and take notes. Daisy longed for her rough book, but it was back in her room at school. She would have to do it all mentally. She swept into the room, telling herself she was a stately Spanish galleon, just like in that poem they had learned in last week’s English class, and made a beeline for a stretch of wall not already covered by gaggles of boys or girls. Isobel and Emma were on the dance floor with partners already. Daisy hoped one of them was Tom l:khys. Victoria and Arabella and most of the other girls were dancing by themselves, though.

Daisy instantly saw how it was going to be. A blacktie version of all the excruciating teenage dances she’d been dragged to. For three quarters of the time, the boys would huddle together, making loud coarse comments and trying to score a cider. The girls would dance with each other, pretending they didn’t want the boys to come over and approach them. When the boys finally worked up enough courage to say something, the ‘event would be almost over. One guy usually asked one girl, then there was a flood. Dancing lasted for less than five minutes, because people needed to get their snogs in before the final curtain. Watches were checked, lads fumbled enthusiastically and clumsily at bras stuffed with tissue paper, there was some tongue wrestling, and the lights went up. Girls ran off giggling and hoping for phone calls, and boys ran off to lie to each other about how Jo Smith had let them feel under her knickers …

Her internal monologue made her laugh. Victoria Campbell heard it. She was twirling stiffly to ‘Venus’ by Bananarama at the edge of the dance floor.

‘Don’t laugh at me, you fat cow,’ Victoria hissed, flushing.

‘Hard not to,’ Daisy said. ‘You can’t dance. You should hang out by the drinks table.’

‘Excuse me,’ said a voice.

Daisy turned around. There was a tall, very lanky boy standing next to her. His suit fitted immaculately, but she could instantly see that he was as skinny as a rake.

‘May I have the honour of this dance?’

Victoria tossed her hair triumphantly and made towards him,

to

flashing her green eyes at Daisy, but he shifted, and extended one bony hand to Daisy.

Victoria drew back like a snake poked with a stick, but Daisy

hesitated. How did she know this wasn’t just a cruel joke? She glanced up at the boy’s face. It was terrified.

Daisy knew that look. She wore it every day. It was the look of waiting for the humiliation to happen.

‘I’d love to,’ she said, smiling radiantly at him.

He beamed, a mixture of pleasure and relief. ‘Shall we?’

Victoria stage-whispered, as Daisy passed her, ‘Couldn’t you do better than that, Markham?’

Isobel, dancing with Tom 1Khys, saw to her astonishment that Daisy was on the dance floor.

‘Who’s that boy?’ she asked.

‘Edward Powers,’ 1Khys told her. ‘Very good family. Very rich. Clever. Bit eccentric. Who’s the fat girl? It’s like Jack Sprat and his wife.’ He laughed.

Isobel hit him. ‘Lay off.’ She waved frantically at Daisy. ‘This is brilliant. Everyone can see her dance.’

When Daisy said goodbye to Edward at eleven, he kissed her ha’nd. She felt overwhelmed with gratitude towards him and had to bite her lip to stop from saying so.

‘I hope I shall see you again,’ he said, with old-fashioned courtliness.

‘Of course,’ Daisy said. She wasn’t remotely attracted to him, but there was no way she’d allow him to suffer one second’s worth of humiliation. ‘Here’s my phone number.’

Miss Crawford shepherded them all back on to the bus, and as Daisy climbed on, everybody went, ‘Woooh.’

She thought it was one of the happiest moments of her life.

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‘And we want to congratulate Daisy Markham,’ Sister Clare said in her booming voice at Assembly. Her wrinkled hands gripped the polished wooden podium firmly as she looked out over the rows of girls sitting quietly in their neat navy uniforms. ‘Daisy has been placed third in a national writing competition and although she did not get the prize, she has won a certificate of merit. I’m sure we’re all very proud of her.’

Daisy sat on her polished wooden bench between Isobel and Emma, who clapped enthusiastically. The whole school gave her some dutiful applause. Behind her, Daisy could hear Victoria going, ‘Oooh’ sarcastically. Miss Crawford, up on the teachers’ dais, looked satisfyingly green with aggravation.

That was nice, but it really didn’t make Daisy feel any better. Third. As in, not first and not even second. Basically, not close.

‘Come up here and get your certificate of merit, Daisy!’ barked Sister Clare excitedly.

Daisy lumbered to her feet, putting on a fake smile. She couldn’t let Sister see how disappointed she’d been. Gutted, in fact. Everybody loved their old Headmistress, with the twinkle in her eye and the stout tweed skirts she habitually wore. Sister Clare always liked to see ‘her girls’ do well at anything.

Clearly, Sister thought this was a pinnacle of achievement for Daisy. Her results streamed her into a university, but not Oxbridge, and not even the second rank of London, Edinburgh, Durham, and the rest. She had avoided being put in the polytechnic class, but only barely, so there were not to be any great academic laurels for Daisy.

Instead, though, there was this stupid certificate of merit, Daisy thought, as she stumped up the podium steps.

‘Well done, dear!’ Sister Clare said brightly, thrusting the gold embossed piece of paper at her. ‘Smile for the school magazine.’

Oh, God. Now this humiliation. Daisy blushed and twisted the

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scowl on her face into a rictus grin. Some impossibly tall Upper Sixth-former, eighteen with coltish legs, neat little breasts and the long, glossy trademark St Mary’s hair, was standing there snapping her for the Gazette.

Now all the parents would know she hadn’t made it, as well as the entire school.

I ought to feel grateful, Daisy told herselŁ

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

She felt like a big loser who had blown her only chance.

‘You can go back to your place again now, dear,’ said Sister Clare. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ Daisy muttered.

‘What about this one?’

Isobel threw the prospectus across at Daisy. It landed with a little thud on top of all the other glossy brochures that were strewn across her coverlet.

‘Packham University,’ Daisy read. ‘A small university set in the heart of the ancient City of Oxford … oh, come on, there’s only one university in Oxford. All the other ones are secretaries’ colleges and places with “college” stuck on the end of their names so’ they can overcharge stupid Americans who think they have somethin to do with actual Oxford University.’

Isobet sniggered. ‘Mostly true. But l

Daisy pouted. ‘But they’re so boooring.’

‘You’re telling me. But no pain, no gain. They specialise in the arts. History, French, English, History of Art … and it’s near the university. Near Christ Church. Just think of all the interesting people you could meet there. In fact, I hear,’ Isobel said slyly, ‘that

Edward Powers is going to study at Christ Church.’ Daisy sighed. ‘Subtle as a brick, aren’t you?’ ‘I had a date with Tom last weekend.’

‘How did that go? I’m much more interested in your love life than in you trying to fix me up.’

‘And he mentioned,’ said Isobel, not to be put off, that Edward

wanted to know where you were going to go to university.’ ‘Edward Powers is very nice.’

‘So you said after your last dinner with him.’

‘But,’ Daisy said, putting her foot down, ‘I don’t fancy him. Not

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at all, not even a little bit. I don’t like boys that are really skinny. I like muscles. Now, I know I am not a big catch and I should be grateful to Edward for dancing with me and being interested at all, and I am. But I’d rather be alone than date somebody just because I’m - I’m the desperate fat girl who should take anybody that’ll look twice at me.’

Her cheeks had gone shiny pink with high spots of red right in the middle, like they did when she was more than comtnonor-garden embarrassed. This might be the most honest she’d ever been with Isobel. And herself, come to that.

For a second her friend was stumped.

‘But you could like him as a friend,’ she said.

‘Of course. He is my friend.’ Daisy smiled. ‘He’s so clever. And he’s such a gentleman. How could anybody not like him?’

‘Well, then. I’m trying for St Anne’s. So that would make two friends. And you always said that beauty mattered to you.’

‘It matters so much.’ Daisy finally paid attention. ‘I couldn’t bear some grim, industrial town somewhere. I need trees, or at least beautiful buildings.’

‘Rackham’s red-brick,’ Isobel admitted, ‘but it’s near everything beautiful. Walking around is gorgeous in Oxford. And it’s full of music, lots of chamber performances, debates - you can join the Union …’

Daisy looked at the prospectus.

‘You can read English.’

‘If I have to study one more Shakespeare play, I think I’ll burst. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, fuck off,’ Daisy declaimed.

Isobel burst out laughing. ‘You’re awful. It’s Miss Crawford, she can make anything seem crap.’

‘Maybe History of Art. I wouldn’t mind taking lots of trips to museums and galleries.’

‘There you go, then.’ Isobel grinned. ‘Thank your lucky stars you’re not me. I have to cram three hours a night for the Oxford entrance examination.’

‘Yeah.’ Daisy smiled at her friend, but her thoughts were sarcastic. Thank heavens she wasn’t in a class like Isobel! What a stroke of luck, Daisy wasn’t going to Oxford University, she wasn’t going to distinguish herself in any way.

Close, but no cigar. It seemed to be the story of her life.

Daisy spent the next six months doing some halfhearted studying.

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The teasing had pretty much stopped since Edward Powers had called at the school to see her. Victoria Campbell and her cronies made cruel remarks about Edward being a nine-stone weakling, but not too many; they were, Daisy had realised with a delicious jolt of pleasure, jealous.

It didn’t really matter to girls like Victoria if a boy wasn’t all that goodlooking if he had money and was the heir to a title.

When Edward’s father died, he would be Sir Edward, and his wife would be Lady Powers. Daisy hadn’t realised the depths of Victoria’s snobbery until she watched her reaction when Isobel told her about Edward being the son of a baronet. Her enemy had gone pale around the gills. Later, Daisy had had the delicious pleasure of catching Victoria poring over a Burke’s in the library, open at the Powers page.

‘Hadley Park,’ Victoria was muttering to Catherine Jackson, her new lieutenant. ‘Eighty acres of deer park, built in the eighteenth century, with a lake and …’

‘I wouldn’t bother, Victoria. He’s taken,’ Daisy had said triumphantly. Then she’d felt bad, because she knew she wasn’t interested in Edward, not like that. But the look on Victoria’s” face was enough for her.

‘I wasn’t looking at that. Mr Skinny-Minny, you can have hirrl,’ Victoria said, but she blushed scarlet. ‘You two will make a perfect ten.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Daisy patted the ink drawing of the Powers coat of arms and grinned smugly. ‘Bothers you, doesn’t it?’

Then she had walked out, without getting the history textbook she’d wanted. But Daisy knew how to make an exit.

Victoria had avoided Daisy after that. Most of the crueller girls did. Daisy understood. They judged a person’s worth by men’s standards. A rich boy wanted Daisy, and so now she wasn’t such a loser. Even though she was exactly the same plump dumpling she’d always been, with the same bad grades.

Daisy worked out her time at school with nobody paying attention to her. Even Isobel didn’t bother with her quite as much, because she didn’t need so much defending. And she wasn’t writing any more. A sense of listlessness and lethargy overcame her. Daisy coasted through her exams, and managed two Bs and a C, which both her parents and the school were thrilled with.

She knew she could have done better, but she didn’t see the point. lackham accepted her for History of Art, and Daisy called to

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confirm she was taking up her place. When her parents came to pick her up from St Mary’s for the last time, Daisy felt a sense of relief. School was done with.

Now she was an adult. Oxford would be different, it had to be. Something had to change in her life.

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‘Stop living pay-cheque to pay-cheque!’

The beaming faces of the people in the infomercial stared back at Rose. A man in his early twenties wheeled a yellow Porsche on to the screen as he pulled up to a comfortable-looking suburban house with a landscaped garden.

‘Yes!’ said the booming voice. ‘You too can reach for your dreams with real estate! No need to rent! Houses can be purchased for no money down! Start with no credit! Put cash in your pocket every month!’

Rose reached up and turned the TV off. ‘Mom,’ she said, ‘how’s your credit?’ Her mother laughed, tossing the pasta. ‘What credit?’ she said.