Chasing Daisy

clothes that I left here.’ My tone is petulant.
    ‘You can’t wear those.’
    ‘Why not? They’re only three years old.’
    ‘Exactly. What would people think?’
    I stifle a sigh. There’s no point. He always gets his own way and it’s just a waste of energy to argue with him. In fact, the only time he hasn’t got his own way was probably when I moved to LA. That must’ve been quite a shock . . .
    ‘Do you have any funds left in your bank account?’
    I assume he’s referring to the 10 million. He probably thinks I’ve come home to top it up. I don’t say this, just nod.
    ‘Leave it there. Speak to Martin. He’ll sort you out.’
    Martin is my father’s lawyer and on-hand man. He’s practically a member of the family. Except that I can’t stand him since he started making eyes at me at the age of thirteen. Fat, bald, disgusting. I shudder as I recall how he was the first person to comment on the fact that I had breasts.
    ‘ I might have to ask daddy to give you money for a bra and some little panties . . .’
    The sound of my father putting his knife and fork down on his plate brings me back to the present. He stands up.
    ‘Will you not have dessert?’ my mother asks anxiously.
    ‘No,’ is my father’s blunt reply. He looks down at me. I pause chewing my fillet steak. ‘I have an early start.’
    ‘Okay,’ I say with my mouth full.
    ‘Good night.’ He stalks out of the room.
    No questions about what I’ve been doing, what I’ve been up to, how I am . . . But he probably knows all this already. Knowing my father, he could have had his lackeys checking up on me ever since I left New York.
    My mother and I finish the rest of our meal in silence and afterwards I tell her I’m going outside for some fresh air. She wants one of the family’s minders to accompany me, but I leave before she has time to do anything about it. I know she’s most concerned about what my father would say if he knew she’d let me out alone.
    I grab my lightweight cream-coloured jacket from French Connection and non-designer handbag and walk into the elevator, pushing my penthouse apartment key into the slot so the elevator goes straight down to the lobby without stopping at other floors, even if other people are waiting. Barney hurries to open the door for me, wildly looking around for my minder, but not seeing one.
    ‘I’m going out alone, thanks Barney,’ I tell him, not waiting for his reply before walking quickly out onto Fifth Avenue and setting off in the direction of the city.
    It’s Sunday night, but New York never sleeps and the sound of cars honking their horns from far away resounds through the air. I don’t know where I’m going, but I head towards Times Square, craving the need for lights and sounds and anything that will take me away from where I’ve been. The shops here are still open and the pavements are crowded with pedestrians. I clutch my handbag tightly to my side and push my way through the throng, enjoying the feeling of anonymity amongst the tourists. It’s eleven o’clock, but I don’t feel the least bit tired after my nap earlier, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. I wander aimlessly through a couple of shops, before finally heading away from the noise and the giant neon displays towards a quieter back street. I come across one of my favourite nightclub haunts of years gone past and feel surprisingly nostalgic as I spy the queue of people waiting. Back in the day I would have gone straight to the front, doormen falling over themselves to let me pass through with my well-dressed friends. I wonder what those friends are doing now? I haven’t kept in touch with any of them. I finally came to the conclusion that they were shallow princesses, but at the time it didn’t occur to me to mind.
    Eventually exhausted, I head back to the apartment. It’s one o’clock and I’m surprised to see the lights still blaring in the living room. I pop my head around the door to find my mother waiting alone on one of the sofas. She leaps up when she sees me.
    ‘You still up?’ I say stupidly. Clearly, she is.
    ‘Yes. I wanted to . . . Wanted to . . .’
    I nod my head in frustration, willing her to go on.
    ‘You got back safely,’ she says eventually.
    ‘Yes. I’m off to bed,’ I tell her, barely waiting for her to reply before I head off back down the corridor to the other side of the apartment where my bedroom is.
    I did love my mother, once. I’m sure I did. When I