Chasing Daisy

was little – very little – before I lost all respect for her for staying with my father. Now she’s just this meek little mouse who stutters and worries. I don’t know why he hasn’t left her , come to think about it.
    My father has already gone to work by the time I wake up at seven o’clock the next morning. I barely slept, despite not going to bed until after two a.m. I read a book for a while and then tossed and turned, trying to clear my mind of things.
    Martin, my father’s lawyer, comes to find me later that morning. I’m sitting on one of the windowsills in the sitting room, looking down at the park. I’ve been watching the joggers go round and around, round and around . . .
    ‘Well, look who it is . . .’
    The sound of his voice sends a chill spiralling down my spine. I turn to look at him. ‘Hello,’ I say coldly. I make no attempt to get up.
    ‘Ooh, haven’t you grown up.’ He looks me up and down, smarmily. When I don’t reply, he continues. ‘Your father said you needed some funds to go shopping. Anywhere nice?’
    ‘The usual.’
    ‘Right, yes, okay.’
    He takes a few steps towards me and hands over an expensive red leather Hermes purse – whatever happened to a simple envelope? A quick look inside tells me I have a wad of 100 dollar notes and a single credit card.
    ‘Do you have anything smaller?’ I ask, pulling out one of the hundred dollar bills.
    Martin looks at me warily, before his face breaks into a slimy smile. ‘Oh, you’re joking.’
    ‘I’m not actually.’
    He laughs again and turns away. ‘Well, you have fun. Perhaps you could give me a little fashion show later.’
    I hold my tongue and quash the urge to kick him where it hurts as he walks out of the room, snickering to himself.
    I look down at the purse and feel empty. But there’s nothing much else I can get my head into. I may as well go shopping.
    Prada, Chanel, Dolce and Gabbana, Donna Karen . . . I used to love going to these shops with my friends and spending vast amounts of my father’s money.
    Arnold, one of my family’s minders, keeps guard outside on the pavement as I rifle through the racks, horribly aware of the eagle-eyed sales assistants watching my every move. I pick some clothes out and don’t even bother to try them on – one of the servants will return them for me if they don’t look right.
    I pause at the racks for a moment as I think this, and just feel sad. I can’t believe how quickly I’m slipping back into this life; this life I despise. But it takes me away from my memories. The thought of Holly, fun, bubbly, lovely Holly, is enough to make my eyes well up. I tell myself that she lied to me about Simon and my heart hardens. I go back to rifling through the racks.
    News travels quickly here and soon my old friends and acquaintances begin to call. I receive invite-after-invite to attend various glittering parties and bar openings and I decide on the spot to accept them all. I don’t want to go out – it’s the last thing I want to do – but I figure if I sink back into this lifestyle it might make the pain go away. I’m not thinking of Will. Hardly ever. And it’s just as well because I can’t remember what he looks like.
    So I accept these invitations and ten days after arriving don my new designer gear and go downstairs where one of our drivers is waiting diligently with the limo. It’s shiny and new inside and the leather still smells like leather. I see that someone has put a bottle of champagne on ice for me, and I hesitate for a moment before opening it. I’ll only have one glass – the rest will go to waste – but there’s plenty more where that came from.
    ‘DAISY!’ As soon as my high-heeled Jimmy Choo is on the pavement, I hear my name being screamed. I turn to see Donna, one of my old friends, standing on the sidewalk having only just exited her own limo. More screams follow as two other friends spy us both.
    I’ve known Donna, Lisa and Cindy most of my life. Their fathers work in banking, law and banking respectively and have known my own father for years. Their mothers do nothing except shop, eat and exercise, much like my own. The girls and I went to school together, holidayed in the Hamptons together, and as we got older, partied together. Cindy’s dad spent 1½ million dollars on her eighteenth birthday party. Which was pretty amazing until Donna’s daddy trumped it with a cool 2 million on hers. My father spent even more on mine. He’s a