Daisy and Ella

Daisy and Ella

Chapter One

 

I wanted to be the woman that I was watching through the window.

The natural grace with which she tossed her head back, and laughed alongside her husband at their daughter’s latest story, made my stomach turn. The way in which she served their dinner before sitting at the table herself demonstrated an effortless level of sacrifice, which she made gladly. The kiss on the cheek from her husband though, proved these gestures, however mundane and every day, did not go unacknowledged.

I wondered if she realised how lucky she was.

With her elegantly bobbed, chestnut brown hair, understated diamond earrings, and Laura Ashley vintage-print dress, wholesome goodness radiated from within her. She could have walked into a casting call for an advert offering cleaning products, or sofas, and secured the job, without having to say a single word. She was the kind of woman whose goodness would never be questioned. The costume she wore, and the role she played, acted as a shield for any dubious thoughts, or opinions which may inhabit the dark recesses of her mind. Second chances and benefits of the doubt are luxuries afforded only to the rich, the beautiful, and the understandably arrogant.

I was sure that she could smash plates in a sudden rage at a dinner party, or even slip into conversation over coffee, a mildly racist statement; and, after the initial shock and discomfort, her acquaintances would laugh, roll their eyes, and joke about her charming eccentricity. When your view of someone is so firmly embedded in your mind, then your mind no longer allows you to question it. To believe that this woman was anything other than the epitome of innocence, domesticity and fulfilment, would call their entire lives into question.

My thoughts were interrupted by the realisation that the melting snow was slowly seeping into the broken sole of my left boot. Shaking it, I cursed under my breath. Just like that the spell was broken and the harsh reality of this caused tears to fall, tracing the shadow of my smile, which had left only moments before. Sighing, I bent to pick up my brown, leather satchel, now sodden from the snow, slung it over my shoulder, and trudged despondently to the bus stop. It always amazed me that our two words could be separated by such a pedestrian concept as the 211 towards East London, and in as little as twenty five minutes, but it could, and within half an hour I was standing at my doorstep, experiencing the kind of comedown I had only previously associated with heroin.

‘’Natalie is that you?’’, the voice echoed down the corridor.

I paused for a split second, wondering whether I could slip upstairs unnoticed.

‘’Natalie…’’ more urgent, less patient this time. Steeling myself, I hung my coat on the banister, eased my boots off, and padded down the dark hallway in my wet socks.

‘’Yes it’s me’’ I replied, ‘’I just popped to the shop on the corner.’’

 I heard the nervous falter in my own voice, just one telling octave higher than normal. There was a pause, which seemed to stretch for an eternity. He threw his beer can on to the tiled, kitchen floor, and belched loudly �" wiping his mouth on the arm of his stained t-shirt.

‘’What did you buy then?’’

 I froze.

 He had phrased it innocently enough, struggling to keep the friendly tone in his voice, as he slurred his words, yet I knew he was watching and waiting for me to trip up. Without wishing to draw his attention both hands fumbled desperately in the pockets of my hooded sweatshirt. In a moment of perfect gratitude, my fingers closed around an unopened packet of chewing gum, and I withdrew it triumphantly.

‘’Just gum �" do you want some?’’ I asked lightly.

He took a deep breath and held my gaze, as though weighing up whether to believe me or not. I was certain he didn’t �" just sometimes he felt more like a fight than others. I stood there in the dark kitchen, trembling, praying that he didn’t demand to see the receipt, or leave to interrogate Mark, who worked Monday evenings at the local shop. He had done both in the past.

‘’Nah…’’ he finally conceded in one long exhale of breath.

I began breathing again.

The noise he had made was more of a guttural, animalistic sound than a word at all, but I knew that it let me off the hook. His eyes had already flicked back to the small television balanced on top of a stack of newspapers in the corner. As I scanned the kitchen I counted around seven or eight beer cans. I realised I probably had them to thank for my lucky escape. I had learned early on in my relationship that four or five were the danger point. The point where memories returned and tempers flared. Many more than this and the alcohol numbed his anger, and his reaction time.

He didn’t notice as I slowly backed out of the kitchen. Sinking onto the old, leather couch in the living room, I lit a cigarette. Closing my eyes, I pictured the eggshell blue drapes at the window; they were new, she had bought them last month. I had loved the embroidered, cream drapes which has been up before, and personally thought they matched the dining room better. One of my lowest points came when I searched the rubbish bins outside their house one evening whilst they were away in the Cotswolds, hoping to find the discarded fabric; believing I could wash it and use it in my daughter’s room. I hadn’t of course, she was the kind of woman who would donate to charity, or even offer it to her weekly cleaner in a flourish of upper class generosity.

Reaching under the couch I pulled out my box of magazines and catalogues. Mostly stolen from doctor’s surgeries and shops I clearly didn’t belong in, I had accumulated quite the hoard. Good Housekeeping, Bridal Monthly, Cath Kidston, Anthropologie, Laura Ashley. Trusting my instincts, I flipped open the Cath Kidston catalogue and scanned the index until I saw the heading of fabrics. Turning to page 82 I immediately saw the delicate turquoise, textured fabric that I recognised. Pleased with my new found eye for brands, I ran my fingers over the page. Whispering aloud, I read the description, dimensions and serial number for the fabric. Again and again I quoted the serial number, as though it were my own personal mantra, clutching the glossy pages as though they were my only chance of redemption.

·          

 

The next day I woke with a surprisingly clear head, and a new sense of purpose. I made sure that breakfast was on the table when the kids woke up. This selfless and rare act was unappreciated by the two older boys who snatched handfuls of toast and headed for the door, shouting vague, non-committal plans for the evenings behind them. This left me with Ella and the two babies.

‘’Looking forward to school today?’’ I asked, trying to make pleasant conversation with my daughter; trying to pretend this was just any other Tuesday, in any other home, and that we were a perfectly normal and ordinary family.

‘’I think so’’ she replied; followed by a quiet sigh that belied her eight years of life, and immediately made me feel guilty.

 I had been awake at five am, cleaning the kitchen and recycling the cans and bottles that littered the floor. Despite my best efforts, the putrid aroma of stale alcohol still lingered, and self-consciously I threw open a window, noting how ridiculous this was in January, as snow still lay on the ground.

 ‘’Did you remember it’s the meeting for the school trip tonight?’’ Ella gazed at me doubtfully.

I hadn’t.

‘’Of course I had sweetheart, five o clock right?’’

‘’Four.’’ Ella replied, reproachfully, without the faintest hint of a smile. She scooped a fistful of cheerio’s out of the open box on the counter, jumped down from her stool, and strolled out of the kitchen. My good intentions for the day already fading, I tore through the drawer in the hallway, searching for the permission slip that I knew wouldn’t be there.

‘’Ella!’’ I shouted upstairs. ‘’Ella, will I be able to get a new permission slip tonight at the meeting?’’

I waited.

‘’Yes Mum, Mrs Davis said she’d keep some extra cause she knows what some mum’s are like.’’

Well f**k Mrs Davis I thought, hating that people’s preconceptions of me were about to be proved right yet again.

We were half way out of the door when Ella remembered her violin. Rushing back inside to get it, I checked my watch, knowing we were running late. The car had been repossessed six months ago, so every day we caught the bus and two tubes to Ella’s school. Violin, lunchbox, PE kit, a pushchair and two children under three in tow. I had fought hard to get Ella into Fairfax �" after discounting the six or seven schools that were closer. I wanted her to have the best start in life possible, and although she didn’t appreciate the daily dash across London now, I hoped she would come to in the future.

We arrived at the bus stop with exactly one minute to spare. Choosing our seats carefully, as you had to on the number 48, even at this time in the morning, we collapsed in a row near the back. Ella was soon engaged in checking over her carefully completed maths homework; causing me to question, not for the first time, where she had inherited her diligent and methodical nature. I opened up the violin case, as sometimes Ella’s music teacher left notes in there for me to read. When I lifted the lid of the case however, I did not see Ella’s violin. Instead I saw a beautiful, polished mahogany instrument, slightly bigger than Ella’s, with taut strings and the word ‘Stradivarius’ etched on the side in black calligraphy. It was entirely different, in every way, to the sorry instrument my daughter borrowed from the local council.

‘’Ella, this isn’t yours.’’

She peered at me over her tortoiseshell glasses, mildly irritated that I had distracted her from her equations.

‘’No’’ she said, as though tired of stating the obvious, ‘’it’s Daisy’s.’’

‘’Who’s Daisy?’’

Ella closed her workbook with a sigh, and resigned herself to my conversation.

‘’She’s my violin mentor from Saint Mary’s Mum, I did tell you.’’

‘’I don’t remember sweetheart, I’m sorry.’’ I pulled an apologetic face.

‘’It was the night that you and Dad argued, and you drank an entire bottle of wine.’’

‘’Ah yes, thank you Ella.’’ �" I said, in my most offhand manner, as though she were simply reminding me of the day of the week.

I was not quick enough however, to prevent the raised eyebrows and disapproving glance of the elderly lady who sat opposite us. I hated the tutters and the eye-rollers the most. There was nothing for either party to gain from these unwelcome interjections from strangers. They were sharing their own judgement and superiority and that was all. I had more respect for the woman who lived next door to us in Manchester. She had heard his raised voice one night, followed by my desperate pleas �" after this carried on into the early hours of the morning, she called the police. Although this action earnt me a black eye, I admired her for stepping in. Her choice showed a genuine concern and compassion for my situation, however fleeting. I was fairly certain that he could board the bus at the next stop, knock me out in front of my daughter, and this particular lady would still only tut, and step over me in disgust.

·          

By the time we arrived on our final tube of the morning, it was quarter to nine, and I knew we were going to be late. I had teased a little more information from Ella about the case of the swapped violins. Fairfax had entered into a partnership with Saint Mary’s where their year six pupils would come to support one to one music tuition with any promising students. Ella met with Daisy twice a week, usually during PE classes, which pleased her greatly. They were working on a duet to perform at the end of year show, held at Fairfax. As far as I could make out the agreement to exchange instruments was not a part of the original program. Daisy had allegedly suggested the swap �" and Ella, thrilled at the idea of playing a newer, shinier instrument, had understandably jumped at the chance.

A quick google search on my phone told me that any violin carrying the Stradivarius name was probably worth upwards of two hundred thousand pounds. I felt bile rise up in my throat at the sight of the many zeroes, and my forehead grew clammy. Gingerly, I picked up the case and moved it from the seat next to me, and on to my knee. Cradling the case like a new-born baby, I explained to Ella that she shouldn’t have accepted the violin without speaking to me, and that I would need to speak to Daisy’s mother about the arrangement.

My daughter hated to have her judgement called into question, and felt criticism unusually harshly for an eight year old. As predicted, this perfectly reasonable explanation sent her into a dignified silence; she turned away from me, and pressed her forehead against the grubby glass of the tube window. On other days I would try to trick her out of her mood, with funny faces and bad jokes, but my fleeting good intentions from the morning had quickly evaporated, and I enjoyed the remainder of the trip in silence.

We arrived at school nearly half an hour late. I could feel Ella’s embarrassment as we stood in the office. I could feel the office staff’s judgement as they took down yet another black mark against our family name. As they condescendingly asked Ella if she was sure she had eaten breakfast, I made my excuses and fled, tears stinging my eyes. I quickly dropped the younger ones off at Fairfax’s day nursery, making empty promises to bring that half terms cheque with me when I picked them up, and found myself back out on the pavement again. A sudden flurry of snowflakes threatened a repeat of yesterday.

·          

I knew that there was only one thing that would make me feel better. Even the bus seemed different on my way to Mayfair. Better dressed people carrying Mulberry handbags and leather briefcases. No one seemed nervous or rushed; they possessed the serene calm belonging to those so secure in their jobs that they knew running half an hour late was not an issue. Nearly everyone carried a cup of coffee from Starbucks or Café Nero �" I could read the complicated orders on the side of the cups. Venti matcha latte with soy milk and an extra shot. The calling card of the wealthy. I estimated the cost of one latte to be around the handful of spare change I painstakingly collected from around the house this morning, to feed the electricity meter with. Their daily ritual cost around the same as mine.

I arrived at the driveway just after ten, and quickly determined that nobody was in. The silver jag and black range rover were both gone, most lights were off, and the milk had been collected from the step. I counted the stones lining the pathway, until I reached the twelfth. Reaching underneath, my fingers closed around the smooth cold metal of the key. Hearing the sweet, satisfying click in the door gave me the same flurry of excitement that it always did �" the high never grew old. I had often considered the seemingly lax security that the Redford’s had settled for. It was clear that they could stretch to a key box, an alarm system, even security cameras if they decided to. The only possible explanation was that they suffered from the naïve optimism often experienced by people who had, so far, only lived charmed lives. Just in the way that no one questioned the goodness of the rich and the beautiful, the rich and the beautiful had no reason to question the goodness of the world around them.

After all the world had only been good to them.

I was sure that if the Redford’s were to spend an afternoon on my estate, with its broken windows and angry pit bulls, then they would re-think their security measures. I recalled the many nights that I walked home, my keys clenched between fingers, trying to maintain calm, self-assured strides, as the gang by the corner shop shouted obscenities after me.

I pushed the thought of home to the back of my mind. The key to making the most of this experience was to step into character, and fully immerse myself in number 26, Park Row.

I hung my Primark duffle coat up on the chrome coat rack in the hall; trying not to notice how incongruous it looked next to the Burberry trench and furs belonging to Mrs Redford. I was careful to leave my boots on the mat �" although I was unconvinced that it cost any less than the varnished, wooden floors. I helped myself to a sparkling water from the gigantic, double fronted fridge in the kitchen. As I sipped on my drink I perused the photographs stuck to the fridge with kitsch little magnets in the shape of flowers. A surprisingly tacky move for a woman whose entire home looked like a showroom.

They had been to Florida, Lake Como, the Greek islands, Paris and New York. All since their daughter was born, as she featured in every shot. I imagined Ella in these places. She had been learning about Greece in school last term, and was fascinated by the temples and the history �" coming home every day with a new fact about Greek mythology. The three of them stood, immaculately dressed, beaming at the camera �" in front of the empire state building, the rolling Italian countryside, the whitewashed houses of Santorini…

They looked like the family who sat in the photo frames until you replaced them with your own gaudy snapshots, which never quite lived up to expectation. The assumption that every home was filled with attractive graduates who loved one another, visited exotic places, enjoyed scuba diving, and owned a sheepdog, often painted a rather lacklustre picture of your own life in comparison. Tearing myself away from the Colgate advert smiles I took my bottle of water and wandered through the rest of the house.

I admired the addition of a new chandelier over the dining room table, I ran my fingers through the luxurious silk of the new drapes, and I questioned the new colour palette in the guest bedroom. New, new, new.  Perhaps it didn’t matter to them whether or not their décor improved, or even that it was an obvious upgrade, just that it was new. Feeling the plush, cream carpet on the stairs under my feet, I knew I was approaching my favourite part of every visit, and my heartrate quickened.

·          

Neither cigarettes, drugs nor alcohol gave me this kind of a rush.

Today I decided I was going to a charity gala at the Hilton, where my brilliant husband was due to give an outstandingly generous donation. After balancing the pros and cons of three or four choices, I decided on a midnight blue, floor length, satin gown from Karen Millen. It wasn’t the most expensive dress in the closet, but to my mind it was one of the most beautiful. I accessorised the gown with a simple sapphire necklace, diamond teardrop earrings, nude Louboutin’s, and my favourite cream quilted Chanel bag. I stood in front of the standing mirror, slipped the heels off, and felt the luxurious carpet beneath my toes. Twirling around in the gown, feeling the satin brush against my breasts and thighs, I took a sharp intake of breath. If I imagined my hair blow-dried and styled like hers, and had access to the top skincare lining the ensuite to clear up my blackheads, then I too could be beautiful. More than that, I looked like her. A collection of three photo frames sat on her bedside table, clearly far more sentimental than her husband, who had nothing more than a box of tissues and a stack of crime novels on his. In one she was wearing almost the exact same outfit that I was now, her head tilted up to his, laughing, her eyes twinkling; the camera capturing yet another perfect moment. I had noticed the similarity before of course, however something about comparing us side by side now, in the same colour and jewellery, made the comparison even clearer. Our dark brown, almost black hair, azure blue eyes, pronounced cheek bones, dark eyebrows and lashes �" we could be sisters, at a glance, we could be twins.

The dawning realisation that money and circumstance were the only thing preventing me from being beautiful like her, made me angrier than ever before. As I looked around the room, at everything she had, and everything she was, I knew with more certainty than ever before, that this could have been me. In another lifetime, this could have been me.

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Apologies - some formatting has gone awry as I copied and pasted from word! Semi colons have been replaced in some places with quotation marks for some reason and a few other small errors. I will edit and correct these as soon as possible.