Chasing Daisy

honours, and as a reward of sorts, my father opened a bank account in my name and transferred 10 million dollars into it. I don’t know why, but that was the catalyst to me leaving. I packed my bags and went to Los Angeles, and perhaps it was my father’s name that did it, or even my lawyer credentials, but I scored a job through an agency and ended up working for Johnny Jefferson. You know the rest.
    As for my father’s money, I’ve never spent a cent of it.
    I tell my mother I need to rest and walk via the elevator entrance on the off chance my suitcase will still be there. Of course, it’s not. In fact, when I reach my bedroom, my drawers are already full of my bag’s contents, neatly folded, with the items of my cosmetics case precisely placed on the shelves in the bathroom.
    I used to love it when our servants unpacked my bags, but now I can’t stand it. I’m too used to a life without ‘help’, and I don’t like the idea of anyone – paid or unpaid – going through my things. But there’s nothing I can do about it. This is the way it is. This is my life for the moment. I came back, so I’m just going to have to get used to it.
    I go to the bed, a giant super-kingsize one with an enormous cushioned bedhead pressed up against the far wall. I lie down on it and curl up on my side, staring out of the opposite window with its view of New York City’s skyscrapers.
    I must have dozed off, because when I awake the city is glittering with lights. I groan and put my hand to my head. I have a storming headache. I stagger into the bathroom, in search of ibuprofen. I down a couple of tablets and drink straight from the faucet, before remembering the crystal glasses resting on the sink on a solid silver tray. Oh, well. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look a state: haggard, tired, bags under my eyes the size of suitcases. I turn and switch the bathroom light off, then head out of the bedroom.
    The lights on in the rest of the apartment are overpowering. Halogens spike down at me with every step. In a far-off corner, I can hear the sound of knives and forks scraping on plates. I look at my watch. It’s nine o’clock. My father is probably only now eating dinner.
    I reach the dining room and push open the door. My mother and father are eating in silence, as is their way, with each of them at either end of a fourteen-seater dining table. You’ve seen this scene in movies countless times, but who would have ever believed it actually happens?
    My father’s eyes flicker as he glances up and sees me at the door. But they fall hard again as my mother looks on nervously.
    ‘Daisy. Come in. Have a seat,’ my father says.
    My mother stands up.
    ‘Sit down, Christine.’ My mother’s name is actually Cristina I found out when I was eleven, but my father always calls her the British equivalent.
    ‘I was just going to ask Candida to prepare something for Daisy’s dinner.’
    ‘I’m not hungr—’ I start, but my father interrupts.
    ‘CANDIDA!’ he barks. The cook comes running. ‘Get something for Daisy.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ She hurries off again. I pull up a chair. There is no halfway point between my mother and father, so I choose a chair three away from him and four away from her. I don’t know why I’d opt to be closer to my father, but I guess I’m still drawn to him in that way.
    ‘You need a hair cut,’ my father says.
    I’m not wearing it up – it’s falling halfway down my back. I don’t reply.
    My father is in his late fifties with silver grey hair and grey eyes. You rarely see him out of a suit.
    ‘And you need to go shopping,’ my father adds, glancing at my favourite green jumper – the one that Will first fell for me in. No, no, no, don’t think about that . . .
    I gather myself together. ‘I have enough clothes, thank you,’ I reply tautly.
    ‘Except that you don’t,’ he says, slicing through a piece of carrot and balancing it on his fork.
    ‘How would you know how many clothes I have?’ That’s the rebellious teenager in me, rearing its head.
    ‘The servants informed me.’ He puts the piece of carrot in his mouth and chews it, while calmly and coldly meeting my eyes.
    I avert my gaze. Of course they did.
    Candida comes through with my meal. ‘Thank you very much,’ I tell her warmly, as she places it on the table in front of me. She hurries away again, not acknowledging my gratitude. I bravely look back at my father. ‘I still have a wardrobe full of