Читать книгу Daddy’s Girls - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 11

Ten-year-old Cate Balcon clutched the tow-rope anxiously and threw a nervous smile to her sisters who were standing on the jetty behind her. Her bent legs wobbled as she bobbed in the chilly water, waiting for the engine to growl to life. She squinted, the glare of the Côte d’Azur sun bouncing off the sea as she looked to her father sitting in the boat in front of her. She hadn’t wanted to water-ski. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, so the open sea scared her, but if there was one thing that frightened her more, it was her father.

‘Are you ready?’ he shouted, turning from the wheel to salute her as the hum of the motor grew louder and louder. She nodded, her knees shaking as the boat roared away. Concentrate. Straighten legs. Pull up. A breeze slapped against her navy blue swimsuit as she stood shakily on the water. They were going fast now. Waves splashed onto her legs and the pine trees that flanked the shore blurred into the granite rock of the Cap Ferrat coastline behind them. But she was up; she was water-skiing.

Cate glanced at the jetty to smile proudly towards her sisters. Suddenly her right knee buckled. Too fast. Too fast, Daddy. She screamed out, but the growl of the motor swallowed it up. Her small body flipped over, her face smacking the water as she was pulled violently forward. Stop, Daddy, please, stop, but the boat carried on faster and faster. She gripped tighter onto the rope, determined not to let go, but her body sank lower and lower into the sea and water rushed into her eyes. Help me. Please, she croaked between gasps for air. Finally the engine fell quiet. The boat turned in a horseshoe around her, the rope falling slack, and then there he was, her father. Cate coughed violently, spewing up curves of salty water. A tanned, hairy hand came over the side of the boat, but its grip was hard and angry, leaving deep red welts on her shoulder.

‘You can never do anything right, can you?’

A gentle knock on the bedroom door woke Cate up from her sleep.

‘Can I come in?’

Cate rubbed her eyes as Venetia came into her room, a tiny space in the castle turret that was still decked out in chintz and lilac from when she called Huntsford home. Her sister perched on the eiderdown and Cate had a rush of déjàvu. It was a familiar scene with the Balcon girls – one sister creeping in to comfort another in the night, or sneaking away to the rickety old boathouse down by the lake to escape the shouting, the mocking, the disapproval. The boathouse had been the only port in their storm; Venetia, as the eldest sister, would take it upon herself to bring out rations of sweets and fizzy drinks and comfort to whoever was bearing the brunt of their father’s anger. Although Oswald deliberately sent them to different boarding schools to quash the bond, their closeness had survived into adulthood, and the Balcon girls still turned to each other in times of trouble – they were the only ones who really understood.

‘You’re crying.’

‘In my sleep, I think,’ said Cate, wiping the dampness from her cheek.

She felt a wave of guilt and sat bolt upright against her pillow.

‘Anyway, forget me. How’s Serena?’ she said quickly. Cate had run to the top of the stairs when she’d heard the commotion, but had left Venetia to deal with putting her drunk, emotional youngest sister to bed. ‘I’m so sorry I left you to it.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ smiled Venetia, handing her sister a mug of cocoa. ‘She was flat out as soon as you left her. Glamorously slumped out, of course.’

‘Slumped?’ said Cate raising an eyebrow. ‘Sloshed, more like it. She must have had a skinful. I’ve never seen her drunk before, let alone like that.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised. Apparently she drank half the bar on the flight over from Egypt.’

‘It’s so sad, isn’t it? Her and Tom. I just never saw it coming. They’ll get back together, don’t you think?’

Venetia shrugged. ‘You have to leave people to it.’

She noticed Cate’s red-rimmed eyes and put her hand on her shoulder. She knew that, for Cate, losing her job was equal to losing a lover.

‘You’ve got to learn how to ignore Daddy, you know. He was being an idiot tonight.’

Cate shrugged. ‘I’ve spent over thirty years trying to do precisely that, but he does seem to have a gift for making people feel as shitty as possible.’

‘Good job Collins put four shots of whisky in your cocoa, then. You’ll feel better after that.’ She walked over to the windowsill and lit a candle perched on top of it. ‘You’ll get another fabulous job, no problem.’

Cate shook her head. ‘No. All the big jobs at Elle, Vogue and Harper’s have all been filled recently. And anyway – I really want an editorship. At this stage in my career I don’t think it’s time to start going down the job ladder.’

She tailed off and leaned back to sink into the plump pillows, feeling small and childlike. She looked up, and for a second in the dim, amber candlelight, Venetia looked like someone else.

‘You look like Mum,’ Cate said quietly.

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t remember.’

‘I can. Sometimes I think I can.’

Cate had been seven when their mother had died of a brain haemorrhage, just months after the birth of Serena. One minute she had been sunbathing in the garden of their Cadogan Gardens home, with Cate running around barefoot and happy, the next minute she had a headache and, before they knew it, she was gone. It was the beginning of the end of their carefree childhoods as the four girls came under Oswald’s unbending control. Brought up by their nanny, Mrs Williams, and the shadow of a tyrant.

Venetia was right, though, thought Cate; she had only the foggiest memories of Margaret Balcon, just the vague smell of perfume, the feel of a soft sweater, and the odd detail of her face, the fullness of her lips as she tucked Cate in at night and kissed her. They were memories that came back at the most random of times, and tonight as Venetia leaned over her to put the coffee cup on the floor, their mother reached out across the years. Not for the first time, Cate wondered what life would have been like if their mother had still been around.

Feeling suddenly very tired, she pulled the eiderdown up to her chin. ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’

Venetia nodded and left the room.

Although the castle walls were three feet thick, Cate could hear the howling of a winter wind outside quite clearly. She lay back in the half light, trying to clear her head, but here in her teenage bedroom that was too hard. Despite wanting to forget about the job and her embarrassment at dinner, her thoughts kept drifting back to another time, another misery, another dinner when her father had humiliated her in front of his society crowd. On that occasion fourteen years ago, Cate had been home from Wycombe Abbey school for the weekend, to break the news that she had missed out on a place at Oxford.

‘See? I’ve produced a tribe of thickies,’ Oswald had mocked her in front of one of his selected audiences, this time down for a weekend of shooting. ‘And to think, I actually thought Catherine might have a brain. Well, at least my other three girls are lookers.’

Talk about the last straw. Over the years since her mother’s death, Cate had somehow slipped between the cracks and become an insignificance in her father’s eyes. Not the eldest like Venetia, not the cleverest like Camilla, not the most beautiful like Serena. At that moment, Cate knew she had to strike out on her own. That weekend was the last time she returned to Huntsford for six and a half years. Daddy could no longer hurt her if she didn’t see him, she reasoned.

From then on, Cate spent her weekends at school or with friends. Easters were spent studying art in Florence, summers backpacking around Morocco, Egypt, Spain. She didn’t go to Oxford, or her second-choice university, Bristol. Instead she enrolled to study literature at Brown University in Rhode Island, the liberal, Ivy-League institution that encouraged creativity and self-expression. The east coast elite, who thought royalty had graced the campus, loved her – Cate had dated an Astor, a Vanderbilt and a Rockefeller, spending holidays in the Hamptons, in Aspen and Palm Beach. She spent every penny of the small trust fund her mother had left her on tuition fees and a Madison Avenue wardrobe, but had gained bags of confidence, connections and self-belief in return. She took internships at Vanity Fair and the New Yorker, and emerged back in Britain six years later stronger, leaner, more accomplished, and with a set of John Barrett russet-blonde highlights that meant, from that moment on, Cate Balcon would always be described as a looker too.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a clump of Kleenex she had stuffed under the pillow. OK, she told herself sternly, enough self-pity for one evening. She picked up a tatty copy of Madame Bovary from the little bookshelf by the bed, but still she couldn’t concentrate.

It was bad enough she’d been sacked, but from what she’d learnt from her PA Sadie that afternoon, she’d also been outmanoeuvred. Sadie had been asked to book Nicole Valentine a Eurostar ticket to Paris – for the shows – two weeks earlier. Someone knew that Cate wasn’t going to be around to take her front-row seat …

Cate couldn’t stop thinking about Philip Watchorn’s words at dinner.

I’d been fired four times by the time I was your age. Then I thought, bugger them. I’ll do it my own way.

Still wrapped in the eiderdown, she leaned out of the bed to drag her big Mulberry bag onto the mattress. Inside was a black plastic folder filled with notes, photographs from fashion shoots, and rough magazine layouts. She flipped it open and pulled out a mocked-up cover which featured a beautiful image of Serena lying in a hammock. The elegant masthead read ‘Sand’. She smiled. This was her labour of love. It had been eighteen months ago, at Alliance Magazines’ summer drinks party, that she’d been approached by the then managing director with an idea. Cecil Bradley, William Walton’s predecessor, could not have been more different from the boardroom shark. A cuddly, affable man of sixty, Bradley had been impressed by Cate’s quiet ascent through the ranks of the company, her experience in New York and her reputation as a creative editorial force. He’d cornered her over a Pimms in the hot August sunshine and asked her to come up with a concept to expand their existing women’s magazine division. The project wasn’t allowed to interfere with work, he’d warned her with a wink, but there was a board meeting in October and, if she could get a proposal ready by then, he would see if he could move it into development.

Cate was ecstatic. This was her dream. For two months she spent night after night poring over UK and international magazines, looking for the gap in the market, tearing out images that captured her imagination, listing names of photographers she knew would work for her. And celebrities who, through Serena, she knew would agree to appear. From market research commissioned for Class, she knew that travel and style were big growth areas in the upmarket magazine sector. Sand would create a delicious lifestyle for cash-rich, time-poor couples to embrace. Less fashion than Vogue, more lifestyle than Condé Nast Traveller, Sand would be crammed with exotic holidays, fashionable shopping breaks, fantastic clothes and dreamy interiors, all with a dash of class and glamour from a bygone age.

The thought of all that sunshine was making Cate feel cold. She plugged in a tiny electric fan heater in the corner of the room, which chugged out a little stream of warm air. She lit another candle for more light, drained her boozy cocoa, and spread all the images over the bedspread, stroking the dummy layouts that her art-editor friend, Carol Shelley, had designed in return for a Chanel bag. They were beautiful, graphic, impressive. And such a waste.

Cate thought back to when she’d been told, two weeks before the October deadline, that there had been a management buyout of the company. Cecil Bradley and the older members of the executive were paid off into retirement, and in came the hotshot marketing and money men like Walton. An email went round to say that all launch activity was to be temporarily halted in favour of ‘rationalizing and restructuring’ the company.

Cate had been gutted. She’d briefly thought about taking Sand to another company, but then she’d been offered the Class editorship and she’d consigned her precious dummy to a box file under her bed. This afternoon she’d rescued it and made a list of which companies – Emap, Condé Nast, Time Warner – she might take it to. But still thinking about Philip Watchorn’s words: why couldn’t she try and launch it by herself? Jann Wenner had started Rolling Stone from his kitchen, likewise Tyler Brulé and his style magazine Wallpaper. It was certainly a more competitive climate these days, and the odds never favoured the little guy, but why couldn’t she give it a try?

She felt a tingling in her tummy. An enthusiastic planner, Cate pulled out a blank sheet of paper and, eyes straining in the dim light, started writing a ‘to do’ list: meetings to arrange, paper costs to research, advertising directors to talk to – not to mention the thorny issue of financial backing. She knew there was no point turning to her father. After forty-five minutes she was exhausted. She walked over to the windowsill to blow out the candles and stumbled back to her cosy canopy bed in the pitch black, feeling her way in the dark. It was something she was going to have to get used to.