Angelica caught Daisy’s eye and knew they were both thinking the same thing—remembering their parents’ parties with horror.
“You look good,” said Daisy, defeated by the onslaught of memories that only Angelica shared. “I love your blouse. Where’s it from?”
“Oh, Harvey Nichols, I suspect,” she replied vaguely.
“I bet it was expensive. I mean, too expensive for me.” Daisy fiddled with the buttons on her Gap shirt.
“You can borrow it anytime, Daisy.”
“I don’t know how that’s possible, seeing as we never see each other.”
“I gather your books are doing very well, love.”
“They are. Actually, I’m going on a book tour in February.” Angelica brightened at the thought.
“Really, how wonderfully glamorous. Where are they sending you?”
“South Africa.”
“Goodness me! Denny and I went to Cape Town one year when you were little. We stayed in a charming little boutique hotel—it was a delight. I lay beside the pool all day while Denny showed off on the diving board. He had a very sexy pair of red swimming shorts in those days. I wonder whatever became of them.”
“Who’s going to look after the children?” Daisy asked.
“I have Sunny, of course, but I’ll need someone to come and supervise the children’s homework. I’ll find someone.”
“It’s easy if you have money. I could never go away like that, being a single mother and having to do it all on my own.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Daisy. You’re brilliant: cooking, cleaning, looking after the children, and working as well. You’re a domestic goddess as well as a talented musician. You’re amazing, really.”
“It’s what I do. I don’t know any other way. You know, I couldn’t have your life. I couldn’t get up every morning and . . . do my hair.” She shrugged and gave another little sniff.
Angelica stared at her. Once she might have been quietly offended by such an aggressive comment. But now she just laughed. “Well, of course. I mean, my books write themselves. I have all the time in the world to do my hair.”
17
Laughter is the greatest healer.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
The following morning, Joe and Isabel ran into their parents’ bedroom at dawn carrying stockings full of presents. Angelica had taken enormous pleasure filling a pair of Olivier’s shooting stockings for each child, and the wool was stretched to capacity. Angelica wondered what Daisy had bought her three children and felt a wave of pity at the thought of them opening their meager stockings on Angie and Denny’s bed, without their father to enjoy it with them.
She remembered opening her own stocking with Daisy: her mother fighting a hangover with a bottle of pills, chain-smoking in bed in a silk nightie that barely contained her bosom, her naked father on the floor doing press-ups. There were always lots of dogs, and the room smelled of damp fur and Opium. Their presents had been generous. Her mother was extravagant. Denny wasn’t rich, but he couldn’t deny her anything, and he liked her to look good. And she did, in those days. Her nails were always manicured, her hair in an updo. Her clothes had been cheap, but somehow she had pulled it off. Not a lot had changed. Her father still did press-ups, her mother still wore Opium, the dogs still slept on their bed. Only now Angie’s nails were false, her hair badly dyed, the fake tan too orange for her skin, and of course her once voluptuous figure had ballooned so that her clothes had to hang around her like drapes over an ugly table. Angelica didn’t want to imagine the sight on the bed and thanked God it wasn’t her own children having to witness the pill-popping and chain-smoking and her mother’s breasts, sagging like old udders.
The night before had been a trial for Daisy and Angelica. Angie had appeared in a blue silk kaftan that fell over her bosom like a waterfall. Her turquoise eye shadow shimmered from her false black lashes to her overplucked eyebrows, and her lips were pale beige, clashing against the copper tones of her skin. Denny’s trousers were tight, emphasizing the un-seemly bulge that clearly excited his wife, for she grabbed it with a pudgy hand and gave a dirty laugh. “Hey, handsome!” she breathed, pressing against him.
“I think I’ve pulled!” he said to Olivier, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
Olivier caught Angelica’s eye and grinned. Angelica smiled back, grateful for his support. For the first time she realized what a unique man he was for not thinking less of her because of her appalling parents.
Jennifer and Alan Hancock arrived first, a mousy couple clearly in awe of their hosts and very nervous. Jennifer sat on the club fender, unable to take her eyes off Denny’s crotch, and Alan agreed with everything Angie said, however ridiculous. When Marge and Tony Pilcher arrived, Angie was transformed into a coy little girl. Her voice went soft and babyish, she pouted and giggled, she even blushed through her tan. Denny stood with one foot on the club fender right in front of Jennifer so that she had a clear view of what he obviously believed were his most significant assets. He smoked a cigar, showing off the gaudy signet ring that sat on his little finger like a Quality Street toffee. His nails were too long to be masculine. Olivier filled glasses with pink champagne and passed around the nuts, observing the party with amused detachment.