33. Lavender
“What about that one?”Her small hand in mine, Daisy’s pale ponytail swings left as she points across the park to an elegant, long-haired hound, its blond locks rippling in the breeze.
“Phillipa,” I announce.
“What kind of accent has Phillipa got?”
“Well, Phillipa, daarling, has a hai-ss near Sloane Square,” I say, impersonating someone who sounds like a cousin to the King of England.
“She has a what?”
“A hai-sss,” I say, hamming it up. “Hai-sss, darling. You know, roof, windows, doors, gold-plated Hermes toilet seats, and so on.” I wave my hand like the details are inconsequential. “Phillipa is trotting along, ridiculously annoyed because Harrods food hall didn’t have her favorite Castelvetrano olives in stock. It’s devastating, darling, because she’s holding an intimate soiree at her bougie hai-ss this evening.”
“What’s a soiree?” Daisy’s nose scrunches.
“A party. A fancy one. And she just had a blow-out to impress her guests.” I shake my own mane, which isn’t near as magnificent as the Afghan hound’s.
After breakfast, Luis had driven us to Notting Hill to shop, and Daisy now owns a selection of clothes more suited to a girl in this decade. Jeans, shorts, cute sequined T-shirts, that sort of stuff.
It seems Maria has been buying her clothes—beautiful clothes, but kids need stuff they can move in, that they can get dirty in without fearing the consequences of a grubby silk dress.
After shopping, we stopped for lunch in a café before strolling through Holland Park. In the Kyoto Gardens, we’d watched the koi swimming and doffed our invisible hats to the magnificence of strutting peacocks. After an ice cream, we’d visited an exhibition at the Design Museum, which Daisy had loved. On our slow walk back, I’d introduced her to something we used to play on outings as kids—Dog Deal. The basic premise is you pick a dog, usually one passing by, give it a fictional name, maybe an accent, and a story.
“What about that one over there?”
“The white one?”
Daisy nods vigorously.
“A poodle? Too easy. You know all poodles speak with a French accent, don’t you?”
“Dogs don’t speak!” she retorts delightedly.
“In Dog Deal, they do. So ’e is Claude from Toulouse—Toulouse as in ze saucisson?” I add in the worst French accent known to man. “’E is, ow you say, désolé ’e cannot stop to ’ave ze chinwag but ’e is late to meet ’is paramour.”
“His para what?” Daisy giggles.
“Girlfriend. Zey enjoy to eat ze… viennoiseries, among other zings.” Cutting off my inadvertent smuttiness, I decide it’s Raif’s fault. Because of the lack of action we seem to be having lately. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want me.
“Now do the gray one with the big chest and short legs,” she insists.
That looks like an old English bulldog.
“Cor blimey, Daiz!” I announce, trying hard not to sound like Dick Van Dyke, chimney sweep era. “That’s Albert. Bert for short, and he’s a proper geeza!”
“A geezer?” she trills. “What’s a geezer?”
“A man. But ’e can’t stop to natter ’cause his china plate called him on the Nina Simone to meet him down the rub-a-dub.”
“That’s not even a real sentence. Just a jumble of words.”
“Shows what you know,” I reply loftily.
“People don’t really speak like that!” she insists through a fit of giggles.
“Lots of people in London do, and a dog called Albert does, too. Also, Albert wants you to know that’s not Claude’s own hair. It’s a syrup.”
“Claude has syrup on his hair?” Her feet come to a stop, and she scans the park, but the poodle and his owner are long gone.
“Syrup of figs,” I add. “That’s Albert speak for a wig.”
“A dog in a wig sounds so silly.”
“You’re right. It should be a pig in a wig.”
“Lavender, you are so silly, but I love you.”
Ah, my heart. It’s spilling rainbows and pink hearts. And my eyes are suspiciously wet. “I love you, too. You’re adorable, Daisy. And you’re going to look so cool in your new jeans. Maybe you should wear them to see your dad next week.”
“Yes.” Her expression falls. “I forgot about that.”
“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”
“We don’t really do fun things,” she says. “Not like this.”
“Well, maybe—”
“Look!” Daisy’s arm shoots out. I follow the direction and break out in a classic case of the butterflies as I see Raif walking toward us. “Uncle Raif!” She waves manically and, pulling her hand from mine, runs along the path to him.
He smiles at her enthusiasm, but his eyes are all for me. And he’s quite the picture. Dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, the breeze artfully ruffling his hair. My mouth hooks up at one side. All he’s missing is a film crew hovering around him because he looks like an aftershave commercial in the making.
He stands out like a sore thumb. A really good-looking, sexy sore thumb. I know it’s not just me who thinks so as, at the nearby playpark, a yummy mummy fails to catch her kid as he shoots from the bottom of the slide.
Raif snatches Daisy up as she reaches him, arms wide. He swings her around, their joint pleasure so evident. It’s heartwarming and not the only place I experience pleasure.
Probably also thanks to the lack of action you’re getting.
Shut up, brain.
“Hey.” His expression softens as I reach them. Lifting Daisy to one side, Raif presses a kiss on my head.
“How did your meeting go?” I ask, stuffing my hands into my cardigan pockets. I really want to touch him, but things have become so awkward between us. There’s still tenderness, and I see the heat in his gaze when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I know he wants me. And I want him. But there seems to be this invisible wall between us, and I don’t know how to breach it.
“It went.” He gives a short shrug.
“Uncle Raif, is that ketchup on your shirt?” Daisy reaches for the tiny but vivid fleck of red peeking from under the placket of his otherwise crisp, white shirt. He grabs her hand and presses a quick kiss to it, keeping it in his, which speaks volumes.
As rich as Midas and more intrigue than Machiavelli. Tod’s words come back to haunt me, and I wonder how much violence fits into his reputation.
“Did you have a spot of bother at your meeting?” So my words, my gaze, might be a little pointed.
Is this what he does? Hurt people for work?
“It’s paint,” he says, putting Daisy down.
“What were you painting?” Daisy continues as he takes her hand, offering me the other.
“I wasn’t. Someone nearby must’ve splashed me with it.”
“Is it cadmium red?” she asks, looking up at him.
“More like claret,” I mutter. “At least, that’s what Albert would call it, anyway.”
“Who’s Albert?”
“He’s a dog who talks like a geezer,” Daisy replies. “I like the color red. Crimson, carmine, vermilion, and…”
“Brick?” I offer.
“Scarlet.” Raif’s choice. “It’s the color of good fortune and luck.”
“For some people,” I murmur. For others, it represents fear, aggression, and hatred, I think, glancing at my husband’s hand. His knuckles were battered and bruised after the gallery. They aren’t now. Not one bit.
“Uncle Raif? Daisy turns a big old smile his way. “How did you know where we were?”
“That’s easy. I have you under surveillance.”
“Like a spy!” she yells, delighted.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
“I take care of what’s precious to me,” he says.
The way he looks at me, intent and unwavering, almost makes me believe him.