“I think that was mean, don’t you?” she asks her uncle. “I only asked her a question.” She turns her expression my way. “And watery soup doesn’t sound very delicious, does it?”
“Sounds rotten,” I agree.
“I don’t even like regular soup,” she says, picking up her spoon again. “Especially gazpacho. It’s cold,andit has tomatoes in it.”
“She has a point. Soup is never going to rock anyone’s world,” I say.
“Here we go.” Whether hearing my plea or taking advantage of the pause in our conversation, Sam delivers on his second attempt.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him as he places a white cup paired with a slightly elongated saucer next to my elbow. On the saucer sits a couple of tiny but very fancy pistachio-speckled biscuits.
“Thepetit fourswere made fresh this morning,” Sam adds. He looks to his boss. “What time would you like dinner served, sir?”
“The usual time would be fine.”
Sam nods. “I’ll be down in the cellar if you need anything else.”
His sneakers squeak as he leaves the room. Raif puts down his ice cream, the spoon jutting from it like Excalibur in the stone.
Crunch time, I think, as I pick up my cup and bring the fragrant steam to my nose.
“Well, the thing is, Daisy. I have found the right woman to marry.”
The little girl’s spoon freezes midair.
“And I wanted you to be the first to know that I got married at the weekend.”
“Oh.” She lowers the spoon and, swapping it for a napkin, dabs her ice cream-free lips as though stalling for time. She brings the napkin to her lap, her fingers turning white as she begins to twist it. “Is she very nice, your new wife?”
My heart aches at her quiet question.
“I think so.” Something warm blooms inside me as his eyes seek mine. “She’s exactly what I need,” he adds smokily.
“Does that mean I have to go and live with him? With Daddy, I mean.”
“No, lovely girl.” I know it’s not my place, but I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding my arm around her small shoulders. “Nothing is changing, I promise. You’ll still have Uncle Raif here, like always. I won’t get in the way of anything.”
“Oh.” Her head drops. I think she’s looking at my Doc Marten boots. Her head lifts slowly, taking in my jeans, my cardigan, and then my eyes. Her head tilts like a puppy trying to work out a new training trick. Something flickers in her expression; a decision made, it seems. She turns to Raif and makes me laugh so loud as she says, “So who did you marry?”
19
LAVENDER
Poor,sweet, little Daisy.
I wonder if she’s disappointed to have a stepmother who isn’t at all hoochie. Not that I would threaten her with watery soup to find out. For starters, the poor little thing seems far too concerned with doing the right thing.
But as the saying goes, from the mouths of babes comes truth and wisdom. I think I can now safely assume how Raif ordinarily likes his women. And I suppose this might go some way to explainingwhy me.
If I’m not his type, things are less likely to be complicated, obviously.
I cross the bottom of Raif’s imposing bed and the luxurious velvet bench that runs along with it (if this were my bedroom, the thing would be piled high with clothes and books and plates with toast crumbs), still looking for the laundry hamper that wasn’t in his swanky bathroom.
His room is more like a suite of rooms, the vibe one of masculinity, and the design pallet stark with an overlay of muted tones. The bedroom includes a sitting area, then there’s a bathroom as big as my living room, and a closet that looks like a menswear boutique. I had a little snoop, of course, as soon as the opportunity arose. So many bespoke suits and shirts, all color-coded. Designer sneakers and handmade Italian shoes. And watches. So many watches. What is it with men and their wrist wear? They only have two wrists, so what’s with the compulsion?
I also snuck a peak in his underwear drawers, given I haven’t seen hisunderwear drawersyet. Tom Ford boxer briefs. Black, naturally.And some traditional boxer shorts, the maker’s mark including a royal warrant.
Back to the laundry hamper hunt. It’s not in here, either, as far as I can tell as I swing around, scanning the place.
