Chapter Seven Daisy
Chapter Seven
Daisy
Daisy had been subbed in to cover an interview with the cast of the new action film Silent and Deadly. She left the office early and walked to Mayfair, joining the other journalists who were waiting in one of the hotel rooms
at the Dorchester. There was a selection of sandwiches and cakes and tea and coffee, with big posters around the room featuring
stars Annabelle Fletcher and Nate Bark, back-to-back, staring at the camera.
Daisy and Zack had gone to see the film the previous evening. Free screenings of early-releases were the one part of Daisy’s
job that Zack really committed to, and for once they’d agreed on how much they loved it. She could see why it was getting
so much attention. It was more than just an action film; there were hard-hitting themes of betrayal and grief and trust that
left journalists staring at the screen for a long time after it finished. In Daisy’s experience that was the sign of a hit
movie. As she waited for her interview slot, she started to scribble down some questions that could be used repeatedly, especially
around award season—no doubt it would get nominated.
“Be careful,” a reporter said, walking back into the room and grabbing a sandwich.
He worked for one of the national radio stations and Daisy had seen him at most of these junkets.
“Annabelle is not in a good mood today. Pretty much one-word answers which is entirely fucking useless for radio.” He picked up his bag and
another sandwich and left the room.
Ten minutes later another journalist returned.
“Jeez, what do they expect us to do with those interviews? There’s no sound bites. I might not even bother running it.”
Frowning, Daisy typed Annabelle’s name into Google for a second time, this time clicking on the news tab. Something must have
happened. She was normally one of the nicer A-listers to interview, sometimes even appearing to enjoy the publicity part of
the hamster wheel she was on, unlike most of them. Daisy was used to being met with straight faces or eye rolls, because it
was audio-only. One celebrity had even done the entirety of an interview lying on his back on the sofa with his eyes closed.
Annabelle wasn’t like that.
Daisy scanned a few articles dating back through the months and years. She landed on the story just as her name was called,
pinning it to her memory as the assistant led her into a different hotel room down the hallway, where Annabelle sat waiting
in an armchair.
Daisy took the seat opposite her and waited for the nod from the assistant.
“Congratulations on the film,” she said, taking her seat.
“Thanks.” Annabelle kept her gaze on the table ahead of her, where a bunch of pink roses gave off a scent that filled the
room.
“How was it to work with Nate again after the success of Life Before?”
“It was fun,” she said, looking down at her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy caught the assistant’s shoulders drop
as she let out a sigh. Three words wasn’t enough of a quote to put out on national radio. She’d try one more time.
“It’s quite a different genre of film for you. Is action something you’ll do more of now?” she moved the microphone toward Annabelle’s mouth.
“I guess I’ll see what scripts come my way,” she replied, glancing away again.
Daisy had done interviews like this before, and it took so much longer to slice together tiny bits of audio to make a clip
that even lasted ten seconds. She could already tell she wasn’t going to get anything more from Annabelle if she continued
down this path. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back in her chair. She didn’t have anything to lose.
“I can’t imagine you want to be doing these today,” Daisy said and Anabelle looked up, her dark brown hair pulled back in
a tight ponytail as her infamous bright blue eyes landed on Daisy’s face. She continued. “My dad died fifteen years ago and
I still struggle with the anniversary of his death and I don’t know that I’d be able to be sitting where you are, and I’m
really sorry.” Tom appeared in her head as she said those words and she smiled lightly. “In fact, my friend and I were talking
about the worst responses we’ve had to telling people one of our parents has died and he said he didn’t like ‘I’m really sorry,’
but I don’t mind it.” She was talking too much. The assistant took a step forward, frowning.
Anabelle’s mouth twisted into a tight smile. “I was estranged from my dad when he died,” she replied. “To be honest he wasn’t
a very nice man, and I’m annoyed I woke up feeling so sad about it.”
Daisy swallowed. She needed to stay professional, try not to make it about herself. “It makes the grief even more complex,
doesn’t it? When you’re not even sure if you liked them that much.”
Annabelle’s face creased as she broke into a real smile, her eyes sad but shining.
“Right? Like should I even be grieving this arsehole? Does he deserve my tears? I don’t know .
. . What’s so messed up about it all is that the reason I took this role is because I knew he would have loved this movie.
It had everything in it that made him happy.
Guns and shoot-outs. Action. A male hero,” she added, rolling her eyes.
“A woman just wanting someone to love, even if that man is flawed.” She turned to glance out the window, which looked out over Hyde Park.
“My dad was a romantic and so am I. I guess amongst all the shit he left behind, he left me with that, right? Like a small part of me wonders if he sent me this film.”
Daisy nodded. She understood. “It would make perfect sense.”
“Only to people like us, who know,” Annabelle replied. “I look for signs all the time, do you?”
Daisy shook her head, a cold chill moving through her. “I used to,” she said, trying not to think too far back.
Annabelle reached across and rested her hand on top of Daisy’s. “I understand,” she whispered, patting it. “Sometimes it’s
easier to avoid the disappointment.”
“It is,” Daisy said. “Speaking of disappointment, you narrowly missed out on the Best Actress nomination at the Oscars last
year, but I’m hearing a lot of talk about it for this. How do you feel?”
“I feel like my time will come,” she replied. “It’s very difficult to be a woman of a certain age in this industry. A lot
of the roles lose all substance. You go from being the love interest to the mum, with no real gap in between.” Her eyes darkened
and Daisy leaned farther forward, nodding. The assistant stepped back and, finally, sat down.
On the bus the next day, Daisy beckoned Tom toward her, excited to show him what she’d found. She’d been sucked into Orlando the moment she got home, gripped by the beautiful prose Woolf was so famous for and underlining any important-looking lines as she went through.
“Okay, so I figured we’d try one thing at a time, and I’ve got my first idea,” she said to Tom, a smile on his lips as he
took the seat beside her, hair ruffled and eyes bright, as the bus pulled away from his stop and out into the darkness toward
King’s Cross Station. From the scent filling the air, the woman who got on at Essex Road with some prawn cocktail crisps had
now opened them.
“Hit me,” he said. “You’re wearing your black jacket,” he added, motioning toward her. “I like that one.”
Daisy looked down at the outfit she’d pulled on under the light of her phone torch that morning, one of her five on rotation.
“Oh,” she said. “Yes.” She paused but could think of nothing further to say. She wondered why he’d mentioned it, but he was
a photographer; maybe he paid more attention than usual to what people wore. “So,” Daisy continued. “Don’t hate me for this . . .
It’s the first thing I spotted, and I think we just have to rule things out at this point.”
“Agreed.” He nodded, and she could imagine what he was like at school. Studious. A good listener.
“Is there a chance you could have been a bit . . .” She grimaced. Having thought about it, this probably wasn’t the one to
open with, but so far it was all she had.
He waited. “A bit . . . ?”
“Sexist.” She blurted it out, then raised her hands to cover her face, pulling them away again to see him laughing, his eyes
alight.
“Wow. Going right there, are you?”
She shrugged. “Had to at some point.”
“Did you?”
She nodded toward her new pristine copy of Orlando. “Don’t blame me, blame Virginia.”
“Go on.”
She opened the book on the page she’d marked by folding down the corner.
“Okay. ‘As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.’ I feel like that could have stood out?”
He frowned, holding a hand toward her and beckoning for the book. She watched as he read it over and over, whispering it to
himself in the same way he’d repeated the line she found on their walk the day before.
“Woah, V,” he said, eventually. “Hashtag not all men.”
Daisy looked across at him, a smile forming. She was so used to Zack’s perfunctory way of speaking, but Tom spoke more like
her brother Dan. Dan! She’d completely forgotten to check in with him again, and there was still no word from him. At what point should she start
worrying? Tom’s next words pulled her away from her thoughts.
“I’d like to say she would absolutely have never got that impression from me,” Tom continued, handing the book back. His nails
were cut short and his hands were tanned, which she imagined was from holding a camera to shoot models in exotic locations.
“However, I’m also questioning my entire personality, possibly existence . . . so maybe it’s safest to presume that anything
you notice is something I could be guilty of.”
Daisy had hoped he might outright deny being sexist. “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her voice upbeat.
The doors to the bus opened and two women stepped on, one carrying a mop bucket and mop and the other a Henry hoover, both
with swollen backpacks. They chatted away in Spanish and stood in the area that would later be filled with pushchairs.
“But if that is what she thought about me, what do I do about it?”
“Well, we want to show her you’ve changed, right? So, we find some feminist event that’s happening, and send you along. Then you post photos on Instagram so Sophie sees them.”
He frowned for a minute, then laughed, clapping his hands together. “I love it!” He paused. “What sort of event?”
“Well,” she said, pulling out her phone. “It just so happens my friend Clara has some tickets for some charity ceilidh tomorrow
night in Stoke Newington that’s raising money for Women’s Aid. ‘Male allies welcome.’ You could go to that? I mean, we can
keep looking . . .”
He let out a thoughtful noise, leaning toward her to look at her screen, his brown jacket resting against her black one for
a moment. “You’re telling me that a guy rocking up to that solo will look like an act of feminism, rather than a creepy attempt
to meet women.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. It absolutely will look bad at first, but the photos you post won’t.”
He turned to her, smiling sheepishly, his face inches from her. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do literally
anything to get Sophie back at this point, but I also don’t want to burst into a safe space for women.”
Daisy warmed at his words. “Which would make you the opposite of sexist, I think. I could . . .” She ran through it in her
head. “I could . . . come? I imagine it looks a lot better if you turn up with a fr . . . a woman.” She couldn’t call herself
his friend. Not yet. Not to his face.
“Yeah? You’d . . . go to a charity ceilidh in Stoke Newington . . . with me.”
She ran through what she’d tell Zack. Historically telling him about other men hadn’t gone down well.
A story about the security guard at the office once prompted such a big overreaction from Zack she nearly had to quit her job, and she didn’t want him to suggest she stop the early bus rides.
She could just try the truth. Say that Clara had tickets and they were going with someone called Tom.
But no, he’d ask and there was too much at stake.
Her work. Their photographer. She’d figure it out.
“I would,” she said, sounding more sure than she felt. “To save you being chased out for the wrong reasons.”
“Well . . .” He looked across at her, meeting her eyes. “I appreciate that. Let’s do it. Let’s hit up the ceilidh, I guess?”
“Bring your camera,” she said. “Obviously.”
He rested his hands on his lap, tapping his legs with his fingers. “Of course. It’ll be fun to take some photos of people
actually moving for once.”
“This isn’t about having fun, Tom. It’s about looking like an ally.”
“Right. Got it. It’s not about me.” He nodded firmly.
“It’s not about you. It’s about feminism. And Sophie.”
“Feminism and Sophie,” he muttered, and Daisy broke into a laugh.
Her phone pinged and she looked down, clicking on the alert. “Ooooh, no. Burt Rushmore’s been caught cheating again.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” He glanced over at his usual seat and back. “What about . . . ‘Flirty Burty?’ For your story?” he
said, standing up and moving across the aisle and sitting.
“I love that!”
Once he’d settled, he looked back at her and waved. She waved back, her brain already thinking up more puns for the latest
affair scandal.