‘No one is perfect,’ Gianna boomed, her tone knowing. ‘Trust me. No one!’
Daisy stepped back and smiled at her boss. ‘But they are! Literally perfect. They’re good-looking. They’re quite rich. They drive nice cars. They love each other. They laugh, a lot. They even have a holiday villa, and they go there together and post pictures of themselves all tanned and happy by their pool, holding up drinks with little umbrellas in them. Some of them used to live inAustralia! Their house is extended, smart. And ...’ She took a breath.
‘And what,bambina?’ Gianna coaxed while her expression was a little pained, as if she doubted any family could be this flawless. But Daisy knew best – they were, after all, her next-door neighbours.
‘And I can’t imagine being part of a family like that and to me they are like a mirror in which I see my own family reflected,and we don’t compare that well.’ She thought about her mum, wrapped in her fleecy blanket on the sofa, and her dad, working too hard, eating and drinking too much, and in recent years being too wound-up about all that went on next door. ‘Let’s just say, I’m not proud of feeling envious of them, but I guess I am a bit.’
‘I think your envy is misplaced. You’re a wonderful girl. A smart, wonderful girl and you will lead a magnificent life! It is all waiting for you, Daisy. This’ – Gianna waved her hand in the air – ‘this is the first rung of your ladder. It might be my last, but it’s your first.’
‘Do you really think so?’ She wanted so badly to believe that good things lay ahead. Wanted to think that maybe, just maybe, she might after all get to dance off into the sunset.
‘I don’t think so, Iknowso. Those grades you get, the way you work so hard, but mostly your beautiful heart, they will all bring you the life you want. All good things come to those who wait. Just you wait and see.’ The way Gianna enthused made Daisy wonder if she was waiting for good things to come her way too.
All good things come to those who wait ...God she hoped so.
‘Am I paying you two to stand and chat?’ Carlo called through the doors, his tone jovial but with something sincere in his words. He was always a little antsy when they were fully booked, a bit like pre-show nerves.
‘I can’t remember the last time you paid me anything!’ Gianna shouted, wanting to make Daisy laugh, she suspected.
‘Feeling a bit better, Daisy?’ he asked with a look of concern.
‘Much,’ she lied.
‘Good, good.’ He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Because it’s going to be one helluva night!’
CHAPTER TWO
WINNIEKELLEWAY
Winnie Kelleway sat perched on the velvet stool in front of the triptych of gilt-edged mirrors and pulled up her chin, running her hand over the crepe of her neck, rubbing in where she had dotted the thick moisturising cream that she hoped might help keep the years at bay. And actually, she liked what she saw. There was none of this negative self-hate she knew dogged some women; if anything she was the opposite, brimming with satisfaction. Sure, her hair was greying, although a monthly visit to her hairdresser put paid to that. And to the woman on TV who had said that a face lift was the best gift anyone in their fifties could give themself, well, Winnie certainly owed her a drink!Everyonesaid she looked twenty years younger.
‘Oh, stop it, you!’ She’d bat away their words, while joy at the compliment pinged in her veins. Aware of their flattery, she knew it was more like ten, but hey, she’d take it!
Dressing impeccably had always been important to her and this standard was as vital as ever now her seventies lurked on the horizon. Only this afternoon she’d spent the best part of half an hour deciding which wrap to place about her shoulders this evening – the sage,the mocha, the plum. All colours that worked with her dress, but which complemented her skin and jewellery the best? The dusky rose linen, drop-waisted frock with bias cut hem hung on the front of the wardrobe; she’d pair it with her tan sandals and lots of chunky beaded jewellery – pieces she’d picked up over the years on their excursions overseas. Her whole ensemble looked like she hadn’t bothered at all, as if she’d just plunged her hand into the wardrobe and flung on whatever her fingers grazed, but in fact her clothes for all events were planned days, if not weeks, in advance.
Winnie Kelleway was a woman who liked a plan.
It was nearly time to leave for the restaurant. Having earlier taken two of the roses from her glorious bouquet and placed them in a crystal bud vase, they now sat reflected in the glass, adding a small fragranced scent to her dressing area. The sight of them made her smile. Yes, she was one lucky, lucky lady.
It wasn’t without a certain smugness that she had woken on this the morning of her anniversary. It felt a lot like winning when she thought about the countless couples – acquaintances, neighbours, and friends – whose marriages had disintegrated. There were some she knew whose thinly disguised hatred lubricated their vowels when addressing their spouse. To live like that was, she believed, enforced misery of the worst order. For others, divorce had clearly felt like the best option, even if it was a decision made in haste. Those same friends now lived in a state of barely hidden resentment, quietly seething at the fact that, unlike them, she didn’t have to forgo every other Christmas with her children and grandchildren or worry about cold feet in her twilight years, not with Bernie’s plump calves to rest her soles on as sleep beckoned.
She was proud of their longevity, their history; proud of her close-knit family, all living within walking distance, and wanted everyone to see it, acknowledge it. This, she figured, somehow made them even stronger – if everyone couldseetheir happiness ...
The secret to her long and happy marriage had been using her smarts, her cunning. Sex had always been on tap for her husband, whenever, wherever. She fed his sexual appetite, knowing that when it came to asking for more cash, a holiday, an addition to the house, she only had to bat her lashes or unbutton the top button of her blouse and he’d agree to almost anything. It seemed simple to her. A trade, if you like. She didn’t have to enjoy it as much as he did, although she often did, didn’t even have to pay heed to the grunts, groans, thrusts, and meandering hands that got him so riled. No, instead, she could plan supper, remind herself to water her seedlings, even dissect the news stories of the day, as long as outwardly she gave the occasional murmur or offered a word of encouragement.
He, of course, believed she was as lost to the raptures of physical connection as he. It was a neat trick and one that meant she and Bernie lived happily. How could they not? Her husband enjoyed the benefits of a gorgeous house, supper on the table, a willing wife and all the material comforts that came with the success of their business. Winnie was confident in the knowledge that she was definitely ‘steak at home’.
Four decades married! How was that even possible? Time seemed to be going faster.Forty years... and she wouldn’t have traded a single one of them. Checking her phone, she did the mental maths, wondering what the time might be in Portland, Oregon and whether her sister Patricia would be awake yet. Yep, plenty of time for her to have texted or called with her words of congratulations. Jealousy was, she thought, a most unbecoming trait. In truth, she pitied her sister a little.
Winnie was both cursed and blessed with an extraordinary memory. Her sibling’s sneer when Winnie had announced one Sunday evening over tea that she and Bernard were engaged had stuck with her. As did the accompanying words of derision.
‘Bernie Kelleway? Good Lord, Win, he’s not got two brass farthings to rub together.’
‘And who are we, the Rockefellers?’ she had cut in.
‘No, but we areprettyand that’s currency,’ Pattie had reasoned. ‘He’s got a very big nose and rumour has it was born the wrong side of the sheets, if you get my meaning. That’s what everyone at church always says.’
‘Well’ – she had splayed her fingers and marvelled at the narrow gold band with no more than a chip of a diamond on it – ‘I reckon people should worry less about rumours and more about what goes on in their own backyard, especially if they are the good, churchgoing type.’
