The Devil You Know (15 page)

‘Both? Why do you need to know the electric bass?’ Jerry said.

‘Daddy, you’re such a lawyer. Always with the interrogation,’ Poppy pouted.

Her father grinned. She knew he was melting. Poppy zoomed in for the kill.

‘I want to learn some flamenco and some folk tunes, maybe even a little classical, but I’d also like to play Country and Western and you know, some Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly.’

Her mother smiled proudly. Marcia Allen was a huge Everly Brothers fan.

‘Bye, Bye, Love,’ Poppy started to hum.

Jerry’s eyes crinkled. ‘So no heavy metal then?’

Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘Daddy! That stuff is so over. Come on, now all the kids are learning an instrument. Josh Cohen even started a rockabilly band.’

‘All right, honey.’ Her father gave in. ‘Sign up, if you want to.’ ‘Thanks, Dad.’

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Daisy opened the door to her tiny flat and sighed with satisfaction.

It was located down St Aldgate’s, in a modern building. She hated everything modem, being strictly a country girl whose idea of perfection was anything which looked like it belonged in a Beatrix Potter book. But once you rode up in the lift - her flat was on the sixth floor - there was an incredible view. She had windows on two sides, flooding the place with light and looking over Tom Tower in Christ Church in one direction, and the green meadows leading down to the Isis in the other. It was autumn, and there was a p!easant crispness in the air, with the trees turning gold and red, and white mist creeping up over the fields in the morning.

Daisy adored her place. It even had a tiny balcony with a wrought-iron chair and table, so she could take her morning cup’ of real coffee, brewed up in a Bodum’s pot, and sit out there in her white towelling bathrobe and just watch the beauty of Oxford. From a height, even traffic was romantic. She loved watching the students zip around on their bicycles, like so many ants, in jeans and sweaters, occasionally wearing some delightfully clich6d college scarf. It was the start of the academic year, and that meant the new crop of Britain’s brightest, attending the University, were going through a bunch of ceremonies. They whirred past her in tasselled black caps and all sorts of gowns, like something out of an Anthony Trollope novel. Even her envy couldn’t dampen her delight.

Daisy was only cynical about herself. This might have an air of Disneyland-England about it if you were a Guardian reader, she conceded. But not to her. To her it was pageantry-, and she loved it.

This was her first week up and she still wasn’t used to anything. Not the city, with its glorious old piles of Elizabethan beauty around every corner, not her own little college with its lectures and classes, and not this flat. Mummy and Daddy had rented it for her fully furnished. It was by far the most luxurious place she’d ever lived in.

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Almost all R:ckham students were crammed into dingy flat-shares

on the Woodstock road, or thereabouts.

‘We don’t have to pay those school fees any more,’ Quentin Markham told his daughter, solemnly. ‘Budgeting is very important. You realise that, Daisy.’

‘Of course I do, Dad.’

When had it ever not been important in their house? Daisy sometimes felt guilty about her hatred for school, knowing what a stretch it was for her parents to afford it. They went without holidays and her mother often secretly bought clothes at the Oxfam shop. But her mother was a clever cook and decorator and gardener, and kept an attractive house on a minute budget.

Being a teacher just did not pay well, and her father’s job brought

in even less, editing a line of translations of the classics. Academia may have been fascinating, Daisy thought, but it certainly wasn’t lucrative. And yet, having adopted her as a child - endometriosis having left Sally Markham infertile - her parents had been determined to bring her up as a lady, as a member of the upper classes. And that meant public school.

If only she’d been scholarship material! They barely made it even

with the shameful bursary Disy received for being her mother’s

daughter.

But now the school fees monkey was off the Markhams’ back, and

Quentin Markham wanted his daughter to have the best possible time at university. He sometimes wondered if Daisy had really enjoyed her schooldays as much as she protested she did. He himself was lanky and small-boned and had been beaten up as a boy. But Quentin Markham did not allow himself to think like that. Daisy had survived, and even made her way to university. He wanted her to have the best. Or something like it.

So no faded wallpaper or shares with drunken freshmen for Daisy Markham. He rented this tiny jewel of a studio flat, with the view and the gated development, nice and safe, at five hundred pounds a month. And if Quentin Markham had seen how happy his daughter was to be there, he’d have thought it money well spent.

Daisy loved all the furniture. Everything was from IKEA, clean

Swedish lines, lots of stripped pine. She had a sofabed, which saved space, and which she pulled out at night, shoved a fitted sheet and a duvet on to it, and then was able to sleep like a queen. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a real sheepskin rug in which she loved to rub her toes. The bathroom had brand new tiling and shiny

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fixtures with a stand-alone shower as well as a bath, and the kitchenette even had a microwave. Perfect for baked potatoes.

For once in her life, Daisy had just about everything she wanted. She was filled with a wild, heady optimism. Oxford was gorgeous, her flat was gorgeous, and all she had to do now was go to a few boring lectures on Titian and Rembrandt!

I can’t wait for Isobel to see this, Daisy thought.

Then she remembered. Isobel hadn’t made it through the rigorous Oxonian entrance procedure. She’d been ‘desummonsed’, a horrible way of telling candidates ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’. She hadn’t even made it to interview stage, and Daisy for once had had to comfort her friend, letting Isobel cry all over her shoulder and passing wads of Andrex over to her.

‘Wait a year and reapply,’ Daisy had urged, but Isobel wouldn’t hear of it. She took a place at Edinburgh and promised she’d stay in touch.

Deep down they both knew that it was unlikely. University was where people made the friends that stayed with them for life. But

they hugged and cried as though it were a certainty.

.

Daisy anticipated starting out with a few acquaintances. There

were six others in her particular History of Art course, though she’d

only seen them a couple of times. And, of course, there was Edv˘d

Powers.

Daisy walked into her neat little kitchenette and put the kettle on.

She got out the Tetley and her packet of milk-chocolate Hob-Nobs

and made a small pot of tea, considering Edward and what to do

about him. He was so nice, and she enjoyed his company so much.

But he seemed to be so into her, and she wasn’t interested. Was it

cruel to be friends with him? Leading him on?

Oh come on, now, she told herself. Edward’s rich and sort-of

titled and this is Oxford. There are hundreds of gorgeous, intelligent

girls just in his own college. He’d soon forget all about her. He could

do so much better. And meanwhile, he was the only person that she

knew at Oxford University.

Edward. could be a window into that whole glittering life. Besides,

she liked him. So why not?

Daisy ate three Hob-Nobs and started on a fourth before deciding

that perhaps she’d better not. She was meant to lose some weight. At

St Mary’s it had been too hard, but here it should be easier. She

could control her own diet. What did the skinny girls eat? Fruit.

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Blergh, fruit. Daisy had never seen the point of apples and oranges when God made Buttons, Flakes and Hob-Nobs. But …

She looked down at her soft thighs, spreading out under her ample 5oIs. There were plenty of amazing-looking men here, and she still wanted to meet somebody. A new Marks & Spencer had opened in Cornmarket. She could buy some peaches there, maybe. And then walk round to Merton and see Edward.

Daisy picked up some healthy, taste-free options for supper - diet sandwiches and masses of fruit; vegetables was going a bit too far - then walked back down the High Street towards Queen’s. There was a turning off to the left that took you down an ancient, cobbled road towards Merton. It ended in a little square by a back gate to Christ Church and the unimpressive frontage of Oriel College. To her left was Merton, apparently the only college in Oxford that served edible food. It was small and well-regarded. A bit like Edward, Daisy thought.

She went nervously inside the college gates. There was a sign directing tourists to pay an entrance fee. But nobody stopped her. She looked like any other undergraduate, Daisy realised.

Inside the porter’s lodge w.ere pigeon-holes with names stencilled above them. She found Edward’s in a second. Daisy didn’t quite dare approach the frock-coated porter in the bowler hat to ask where Edward’s rooms were. She dug a biro out of her handbag and

scribbled a note to Edward on the back of a scrap of paper. ‘Hey.’

Daisy jumped out of her skin. There was a tall American boy standing right behind her. He was gorgeous, with black hair, dark eyes, a tan, and muscles. A rower, Daisy thought instantly.

‘Sending a note to Powers? I’ll give it to him, if you like. I’m his room-mate.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ He was so goodlooking that it came out as a high pitched squeal, like a dying mouse. Daisy loathed herself, but giggled

nervously. ‘I’m a friend of his from school. Daisy Markham.’ He shook her hand warmly and gave her a little bow. ‘Brad Evans,’ he said.

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‘And of course artists’ relationships with their patrons were complex. Take Lorenzo de Medici …’

Dr Marsh droned on in his annoyingly monotonous voice and Daisy found herself drifting off. Marsh’s lectures reminded her of particularly boring sermons at St Mary’s. Back then, she used to stare at the stained-glass windows. Now, she gazed at the beautiful pictures of Renaissance masters in her book.

Luckily she was also sitting by the window. The lawns outside Rackham’s lecture hall led down to the river Isis, and boasted an enormous weeping willow right by the river bank. Daisy loved ,that tree, loved to go and sit under its shade and imagine he’elf picnicking there with Brad Evans.

Ooh. He was too gorgeous. Thick muscles, broad shoulders like’an American football player, dark eyelashes, and a sexy Southern accent. Daisy knew he was out of her league, of course. But he seemed to enjoy her company, at least.

She could see her silhouette reflected in the windows. Yes … There was definitely a little more definition to her chin. Eating fruit

and Shapers sandwiches sucked, but it seemed to be worth it. Losing weight was all about motivation. Now she had some.

‘Thank you, class, see you on Wednesday.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ they chorused.

Daisy packed up her book and notepad and hurried out of lackham’s rather suburban grounds, making a right on St Aldate’s, heading up towards Christ Church. She cut through the college to Merton. It was the shortest way, and it was so incredibly beautiful. Walking through Peckwater Quad always gave her a buzz; the stately beauty of the library made Daisy feel as though she were in a Jane Austen novel, and that Mr Darcy would drive a coach and eight horses past her any second.

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Merton was not quite as attractive, but it was still beautiful. She didn’t particularly envy Brad and Edward their room, though. Daisy liked privacy. She didn’t have to share her own place. And even if it was modern, it had a view, and you didn’t have to use a communal bathroom.

There was the sound of classical music drifting out of their room. Daisy rapped on the door. Obviously Edward was in. Brad preferred country and western.

‘Come in,’ Edward called. ‘Ah, Miss Markham. Good morning.’ ‘Hi, Edward.’ Brad wasn’t around. Daisy suppressed her stab of disappointment. What the hell, she liked Edward. Maybe Brad would be coming later. Edward had asked to take her to a speaker meeting at the Union, and Daisy hadn’t been crass enough to ask if Brad would be coming too.

‘You look as lovely as ever,’ Edward said, his eyes drinking her in. Edward was wearing a wellcut dark suit and expensive-looking shoes that picked out his black eyes. He always wore the same thing anyway.

Daisy twirled, feeling a bit uncomfortable, but smiling at her friend. She was wearing a naW dress with a heavy silk lining and a forgiving A-line skirt. Navy was just as slimming as black, but kinder to her skin tones. She had kept her make-up light and neutral, and she was trying to grow her hair. It was at that awkward stage right now, but she had twisted it up in a French pleat. The dress had little chiffon sleeves that covered her plump dimpled upper arms. Since she’d met Brad, she’d become so much more aware of her figure. She’d thrown out every pair of shorts she owned, all her trousers that weren’t jeans, every skirt that was made of thin material.

Fat girls - Daisy was harsh with herself, why not? Everybody else was - should only wear lined skirts and dresses. She had learned how to take five pounds off her figure by dressing better. Dark colours, monochromes, coverage of tell-tale bits like the arms, push-up bras for the huge boobs that were her one asset. And, yes, waists. If she gave in to the temptation to disappear in a huge piece of fabric it just made her look bigger. She needed well-fitting stuff that came down around her ankles. With blusher she ould shade away - or at least minimise - the pouch under her chin, she could paint on cheekbones.

The other fat girls Daisy saw around the place went one of two ways: they either gave up completely, and wore shorts that showed

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their cellulite, had dirty hair and glasses, or they pretended they didn’t care and wore God-awful ‘funny’ outfits - sweaters with 3-D animals embroidered on them.