"Daisy Buchanan, you're the worst wife a man can ever have!" Tom Buchanan spat at Daisy as she ran sobbing to her room.
She flung herself in front of her dressing table, tears coursing down her once beautiful face, ruining her carefully applied makeup.
Daisy was forty years old, but looked fifty. Grief that stemmed from her husband's endless affairs had played a big part in ageing her. Gone were the days that she could charm almost any man with her once-famous bewitching looks. Tom, who once adored her, preferred the company of women half her age and grew increasingly frustrated over her tantrums directed at him over them.
"Jay, oh Jay," Daisy whispered to herself, "I should never have let you go."
It had been seventeen years since she had heard of his death, but she could still remember him as clearly as if she had seen him the day before. The warmth of his arms, the scent of his body, the soothing caress of his voice.
Daisy, you stupid girl, you were so blind you chose the dull rock over the glittering diamond, she chided herself, her heart filling with the familiar sense of regret which had haunted her for the past seventeen years.
Jay Gatsby appeared in Daisy's dreams again that night. He was at one of his wild parties at his enormous estate. He was surrounded by adoring young ladies who were of exquisite beauty, like flowers in full bloom in the springtime. She was trying to draw his attention away from the women who clung to him like houseflies to piece of juicy fruit. As Daisy forced her way through the crowd, she felt her body crumbling, crumbling slowly to dust and fading away. "Jay!" she tried to scream, "I'm here, your Daisy, I'm here!" But Jay did not tear his eyes away from the adoring faces surrounding him and did not see her, and what remained of her was carried away by the wind.
Daisy woke up, her arms flailing wildly in the air, her heart pounding with terror. Jay had always loved her, always chosen her over any other woman he could have had. Surely he would still have loved her despite her fading appearances?
The next morning, Daisy made her way down to breakfast, her eyes red and swollen and her wrinkles more pronounced than ever. Her bob was messy and unkempt and she made no effort to tame it. Jay still loved me when I had messy hair, Daisy reasoned to herself. To her, Tom's opinion no longer mattered.
Despite the elaborate flower arrangement in the middle of the mahogany breakfast table and the cheerful landscape paintings hung above the unlit fireplace, a certain air of coldness permeated the dining room. Tom's only reaction to Daisy's entrance into the room was to butter his toast with unnecessary force. Pammy, Daisy's twenty-year-old daughter, mumbled a hasty "good morning." Daisy knew that right after breakfast, Pammy would make her way to one of her numerous male admirers' houses, just like she herself used to do so many years ago.
There was nothing to do in her dreary house, in her dreary life, in this dreary country. Daisy had no motivation to do anything. After breakfast, Daisy was left alone in the vast emptiness of the estate, gazing at the circular swimming pool in the garden, which was an unintentional cruel replica of Jay's pool. Sometimes, Daisy was convinced that she saw Jay cutting the surface of the pool with his perfect strokes, like he used to do to delight her.
Alone in her room, Daisy loved to dressed up. She pretended that she would be going to one of Jay's house parties. Her diamonds and pearls were strewn across her bed, her priceless evening gowns were heaped on the carpet. It was the only way for Daisy to cope with her grief.
Sometimes, in her full splendour, twirling in front of the mirror, she would see Jay behind her. "Daisy darling," he would murmur, causing her heart to skip a beat, "you're so beautiful." But when she stretched out her arms to reach for him, her hands only fell on thin air.
Daisy loved Jay's house parties simply because there were so many people. People of all backgrounds and all races would throng Jay Gatsby's mansion. Even though Daisy went to the parties with her reluctant husband, she would be able to slip away from him and blend in with the crowd. Her heart pounding in her chest, giggling breathlessly, she would run into his mansion, up the winding steps, into Jay's room and launch herself into his arms.
"My Daisy's a naughty little minx," Jay would tease her, and at the sound of his voice Daisy would grow weak at the knees. Then there would be no more words, only the pleasurable sensation of Jay's lips on her forehead, lips and neck. "Someday darling, you will be mine," Jay had always fervently promised her, his voice husky with passion.
"What would you want to do if we ran away together one day?" Jay had asked Daisy one night, his lips almost brushing hers, their clothes in a pile on the floor, the Egyptian cotton bed sheets bundled around them.
"Go to Paris," Daisy responded casually, leaning her head against his shoulder. Daisy had not taken Jay's question seriously, she lived each day in a light-hearted manner, flitting from party to party, and running into Jay's arms in the night. Giving up the frivolous lifestyle so familiar to her was out of the question. She had suggested running away before, but she had not meant it then.
Daisy never dreamt that Jay would take her words seriously. And as she grew older, the pang of regret that she had never did what she had carelessly uttered that night haunted her every day.