‘Good God, woman, you look like the sky’s fallen in.’
Amy sighed with relief as she saw her friend Annie Chapman bustle out of the stage door.
‘Something like that,’ she said, ready to cry all over again.
Annie noticed her tear-streaked cheeks and pulled her towards her.
‘Sweetie pie, what’s wrong? When you texted and said it was urgent, I was worried, and look at you . . . Dear me, I think we’d better get you back to the Bird’s Nest, huh?’
Amy choked back a laugh, knowing that her friend had instantly sized the situation up and was taking control. As wig mistress to various shows, Annie Chapman had found a profession that suited both her flamboyant personality and her innate skills as a no-nonsense agony aunt. The wig mistress’ chair seemed to function in the same way as that of a hairdresser or a shrink: actors felt they could tell Annie anything, and she was happy to dispense home-spun wisdom where she could.
‘Annie, he’s ended it,’ whispered Amy, too angry, too shocked, too everything to even say Daniel’s name.
‘I can see that, sweetie,’ said Annie, pulling off her leopard-skin fur coat and wrapping it around Amy’s shoulders.
‘No, you’ll freeze,’ protested Amy, nodding to the vintage fifties dress Annie was wearing.
‘I think I can manage, darling – I’m much more insulated than your skinny arse. Come on. Let’s go. And I think we need to stop off for Chinese on the way.’
‘Honestly, I don’t think I can face anything,’ said Amy miserably.
‘It’s not for you, it’s for me,’ smiled Annie, slipping her arm around Amy’s waist and guiding her to a small shop in Chinatown, the front strung with soy-glazed chickens, where Annie ordered what sounded like a mountain of food. ‘And make sure you put in some fortune cookies, Phil,’ she said to the wizened old man behind the counter. ‘I think we might need a peek into the future tonight.’
It was only five minutes’ walk to Annie’s Covent Garden flat, known affectionately as the Bird’s Nest because of its artistic chaos. It had been left to Annie by her grandmother, a 1940s showgirl who had been the mistress of a wealthy aristocrat. Inside, you could still see the traces of what it had been like when she had entertained her lover there – the elaborate flock wallpaper, the lampshades rimmed with black lace tassels – though Annie had added her own larger-than-life personality. There was a full-sized dressmaker’s mannequin standing by the door dressed in a French maid’s outfit (‘Makes me feel as if I have servants,’ Annie had explained upon Amy’s first visit), an easel with a half-finished nude in oils, swatches of garish material, piles and piles of books, not to mention virtually every available wall surface being covered in posters and photographs from the great shows. Just being in the Bird’s Nest always made Amy feel like a performer, which was one of the reasons she so loved to come.
‘Right, sit there,’ said Annie, steering Amy to a plush velvet armchair leaking its stuffing from the seams. ‘You put out the food, I’m going to fix you my pat-pending pick-me-up.’
‘No, Annie, I don’t want—’
But her friend silenced her by holding up a finger and pursing her lips. ‘Annie knows best,’ she said, crossing to the tiny galley kitchen and rummaging around in the American-style fridge. ‘Besides, I always like
a squirty cream daiquiri after a hard night at the wig face,’ she added, ‘so don’t be selfish.’
Amy covered the coffee table with the little boxes of food and Annie handed her a huge glass – half cocktail, half ice-cream sundae, complete with sprinkles and a paper umbrella on the top. ‘It’s laced with Ukrainian brandy. After a while, you won’t feel a thing,’ explained Annie as Amy dutifully sipped at the concoction and found, to her surprise, that it tasted pretty good.
‘Right, you tell me everything while I get stuck into this lot,’ said Annie. ‘Leave nothing out.’
Taking a deep breath, Amy related the events of the past few days, beginning with the discovery of the Tiffany box, going through the excitement of the dance audition and ending with her tussle with Daniel’s father, pausing every now and then to blow her nose on Annie’s pastel tissues and watching in awe as Annie wolfed down satay, spring rolls and dumplings.
‘So to sum it up,’ said Annie, dabbing at her bright red lips with a napkin, ‘Daniel’s family are a bunch of hideous snobs, they don’t think you’re good enough to be an ambassador’s wife and Daniel himself has the backbone of a jellyfish.’
Amy let out a sad giggle, despite herself.
‘You got it. It would have been fine if I was a ballet dancer,’ she added softly. ‘I bet Darcey Bussell isn’t slipped business cards with a nod and a wink to come and practise the horizontal tango.’
Annie crossed the room and sat on the arm of the chair.
‘Daniel’s parents don’t want a beautiful, talented woman by their son’s side; they want a Barbie doll in Chanel who knows her place. You were never going to fit into their narrow little world, so don’t start thinking things could have been any different.’
Amy nodded silently. She knew Annie was right, that she had just been a convenient distraction for Daniel while he waited for his big break.
‘But I love him,’ she said, her voice croaking.
Sitting in the Bird’s Nest, which felt a million miles away from the formality of the Tower, all she could think of was the good times she had shared with Daniel. She had first met him at a nightclub in Chelsea – she couldn’t even remember what she was doing there, but she could remember the way he had smiled at her across the dance floor and then tracked her down with a glass of champagne that had been cold and delicious, if not quite as delicious as the way it had tasted on his lips when they had finally kissed two hours later. Quite simply, life was more exciting and magical with Daniel Lyons in it. Without him, she was a struggling dancer living in a tiny apartment three thousand miles away from home, going nowhere, dreams fading. With him, she was whisked away to a world of five star mini-breaks to Paris, Rome and Prague, where he could always speak the native language and single out the hippest hotels and the hottest bars. He made her laugh. And he had the cutest Hugh Grant accent. And the bluest eyes this side of Paul Newman. And he was good, so good in bed . . .
Too good, she thought with the realisation that sometimes crept into her thoughts.
Daniel Lyons was a superstar in whatever environment you put him in. She was an ordinary girl from Queens with a thick accent, a bad toe and a tattoo of a daisy on her shoulder obtained on a night out in Harlem after the K Double Swagg video shoot. Whatever had made her think she could be a beautiful and elegant diplomat’s wife?