The Undoing of Daisy Edwards (A Time for Scandal) by Marguerite Kaye Page B
Authors: Marguerite Kaye
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safe there, I thought, with your head on one of those broad shoulders.
Safe
. That word again. I didn’t like the idea that it was this man who’d crept into my dreams, so I dragged my eyes away from him to survey my surroundings instead. The room was very masculine, all pale walls and dark furniture. Stark and modern. Clean lines, uncluttered, functional and discreetly expensive. How the hell had I got here?
I was light-headed. My brain was all sharp edges. When I eased back the sheet and slowly, carefully, began to sit up, I had the most awful feeling. Like first-night nerves. That dreadful sense of anticipation and premonition, as if you’re about to step into an abyss. I remembered the party, a flash in my head like a photograph with sound, and the dread deepened. Surely I hadn’t been so stupid?
But I was pretty certain that I had. Biting my lip, I edged out of the bed. The man didn’t stir. My feet touched the soft, pale carpet, and I ran for the door.
* * *
I made it as far as the bathroom, since I didn’t have any shoes, or any money for a taxi-cab either, and I sat on the edge of a huge bath, shaking. In the theatre, people do all sorts of things to calm their nerves and enhance their performance. The white powder in those slim little boxes worn like jewellery these days, that was one way. I’d never tried it. It wasn’t just that I found the whole process of sniffing it off-putting; I wasn’t too sure about the result. Martinis softened the edges of the world and gave a slow slide into oblivion. It seemed to me that white powder had the opposite effect. Why take something that makes the world seem like a brighter place when it’s not?
But last night I’d been just desperate enough to try. It wasn’t work. I never need anything to help me with my work. Nerves are what makes an actress. But after. It was his birthday, you see. Mine, too. It was one of those odd coincidences that Anthony took as a sign when we first met. He was a great one for signs. I turned twenty-nine yesterday. My husband would have been thirty-one. I celebrated with a needle full of cocaine. And just my luck, of course, that rather than making my world sparkle, it made it black. One of my so-called friends helped me to inject it, and after that I don’t remember a thing.
I felt surprisingly well, physically. Anything could have happened. My stomach clenched into a knot then, not with fear, but the opposite, whatever that is. When the cold of that needle pricked my skin, that’s what I’d wanted. Anything. Anything to make me feel something, no matter how bad. And all I’d got was oblivion.
No, that wasn’t true. There was one of those stupid treasure hunts, and I was in a car. And then I was in the street refusing to get back into the car. And then—and then
really
nothing. I had no idea how I’d got here or who the man in the bed was. But I’d spent the night with him and he hadn’t touched me, and suddenly that wasn’t an insult but extremely reassuring.
I got up and stared at myself in the huge mirror over the wash-basin. Washed clean of powder and lipstick, I looked like a ghost, all white cheeks and big black pools for eyes. I wasn’t beautiful, Poppy is the beauty of the family, but there’s something about the way my face is put together that fits with the fashion. I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair. Anthony would have hated it, but I liked it. They cut it with a razor. I never had it shingled; I preferred it straight. Sharp edges.
People found me intimidating. Some men saw me as a challenge. It wasn’t deliberate, on my part. When Anthony was killed, I simply stopped thinking about that sort of thing. But staring at myself in the mirror, I realised that was a bit of a fib. In dreams, sometimes, recently, those thoughts had been there, and I’d wake up with that particular ache. Watching the faint flush of colour creep up the pale skin of my throat, I couldn’t deny that it was there now.
Safe
. That word again. I didn’t like the idea that it was this man who’d crept into my dreams, so I dragged my eyes away from him to survey my surroundings instead. The room was very masculine, all pale walls and dark furniture. Stark and modern. Clean lines, uncluttered, functional and discreetly expensive. How the hell had I got here?
I was light-headed. My brain was all sharp edges. When I eased back the sheet and slowly, carefully, began to sit up, I had the most awful feeling. Like first-night nerves. That dreadful sense of anticipation and premonition, as if you’re about to step into an abyss. I remembered the party, a flash in my head like a photograph with sound, and the dread deepened. Surely I hadn’t been so stupid?
But I was pretty certain that I had. Biting my lip, I edged out of the bed. The man didn’t stir. My feet touched the soft, pale carpet, and I ran for the door.
* * *
I made it as far as the bathroom, since I didn’t have any shoes, or any money for a taxi-cab either, and I sat on the edge of a huge bath, shaking. In the theatre, people do all sorts of things to calm their nerves and enhance their performance. The white powder in those slim little boxes worn like jewellery these days, that was one way. I’d never tried it. It wasn’t just that I found the whole process of sniffing it off-putting; I wasn’t too sure about the result. Martinis softened the edges of the world and gave a slow slide into oblivion. It seemed to me that white powder had the opposite effect. Why take something that makes the world seem like a brighter place when it’s not?
But last night I’d been just desperate enough to try. It wasn’t work. I never need anything to help me with my work. Nerves are what makes an actress. But after. It was his birthday, you see. Mine, too. It was one of those odd coincidences that Anthony took as a sign when we first met. He was a great one for signs. I turned twenty-nine yesterday. My husband would have been thirty-one. I celebrated with a needle full of cocaine. And just my luck, of course, that rather than making my world sparkle, it made it black. One of my so-called friends helped me to inject it, and after that I don’t remember a thing.
I felt surprisingly well, physically. Anything could have happened. My stomach clenched into a knot then, not with fear, but the opposite, whatever that is. When the cold of that needle pricked my skin, that’s what I’d wanted. Anything. Anything to make me feel something, no matter how bad. And all I’d got was oblivion.
No, that wasn’t true. There was one of those stupid treasure hunts, and I was in a car. And then I was in the street refusing to get back into the car. And then—and then
really
nothing. I had no idea how I’d got here or who the man in the bed was. But I’d spent the night with him and he hadn’t touched me, and suddenly that wasn’t an insult but extremely reassuring.
I got up and stared at myself in the huge mirror over the wash-basin. Washed clean of powder and lipstick, I looked like a ghost, all white cheeks and big black pools for eyes. I wasn’t beautiful, Poppy is the beauty of the family, but there’s something about the way my face is put together that fits with the fashion. I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair. Anthony would have hated it, but I liked it. They cut it with a razor. I never had it shingled; I preferred it straight. Sharp edges.
People found me intimidating. Some men saw me as a challenge. It wasn’t deliberate, on my part. When Anthony was killed, I simply stopped thinking about that sort of thing. But staring at myself in the mirror, I realised that was a bit of a fib. In dreams, sometimes, recently, those thoughts had been there, and I’d wake up with that particular ache. Watching the faint flush of colour creep up the pale skin of my throat, I couldn’t deny that it was there now.
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