by Lucy Lord
Bella laughed.
‘Put like that, you’re right, Mum. You always are. OK, I’ll go outside and make my peace with the buffoon, if I must.’
‘You do that, darling. But hurry right back – this lunch isn’t going to cook itself, you know.’
‘All well?’ Olivia looked up from the potatoes she was peeling as Bella re-entered the kitchen five minutes later.
‘All fine.’ Bella smiled. ‘God, that’s starting to smell amazing.’ She nodded at the Aga. ‘Slow-cooked shoulder of lamb?’
Olivia nodded back.
‘I can smell the garlic and rosemary. Anchovies too?’
‘Of course.’ It had been a family favourite since Bella was a teenager, when they’d spent several summer holidays in Provence.
‘How long ago did you put it in?’
‘About four hours ago,’ said Olivia, checking her watch. ‘Needs a couple more at least, which will give us a chance to have a jolly old natter.’ One rarely sat down to Sunday lunch before five p.m. at Olivia’s house. By which time one was generally pretty well oiled.
‘OK, chuck me a knife and I’ll get started on the shallots.’
Seated at the table, armed with knife and chopping board, an enormous array of vegetables spread out in front of her, wineglass happily within reach of her left hand, Bella looked at her mother over the table.
‘You’re looking pretty, Mum. I love your top.’
Olivia was barefoot, in rolled-up jeans and a floaty white embroidered tunic top that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Ibiza Old Town. She’d tied her very slightly silver-threaded dark brown hair up into a girlish ponytail, and adorned earlobes and wrists with ethnic turquoise jewellery.
‘Thanks, darling. I picked it up in a little boutique a couple of days after Poppy’s wedding. It’s more suited to a Balearic climate than this ghastly English weather though.’ She nodded out of the window, at the lowering clouds and rapidly darkening sky. ‘Looks like we’ll be eating around the kitchen table again. Such a shame – we haven’t managed one alfresco lunch with you and Andy this summer.’
‘Never mind,’ Bella smiled. ‘We always have a good time around this table.’ She took a sip of her wine and laughed. ‘So, how long has Dad been taking pictures of Bernie?’
Olivia groaned. ‘I knoooww. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Of course, it’s nice that my ex-husband and my …’ She paused coyly for a moment.
‘Please, don’t say lover, Mum.’
‘Don’t worry, darling. Um … it’s nice that Justin and Bernie are friends, but I hadn’t anticipated them getting on quite so well. Your father almost seems to hero-worship Bernie, and Bernie treats him with the kind of affectionate amusement you’d reserve for your favourite naughty child.’
‘And which one of us would that be, then?’ Bella had never quite got over her sibling rivalry with Max.
‘Don’t be silly, Bella. Anyway, I’ll be quite glad to have Bernie to myself again, once your father’s buggered back off to Mallorca.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine – he and Bernie had nipped off to take some more photos by the apple tree when I went out there just now. You must feel a bit of a spare prick—’
There was a loud clap of thunder and seconds later the heavy black clouds outside the south-facing windows disgorged the contents of their swollen bellies. It was really, seriously, pissing it down.
‘Well, they won’t be down there for much longer now,’ said Olivia, and on cue a sorry trail of sodden males burst through the kitchen door, dripping and panting like wet dogs.
‘Oh, you poor things,’ said Olivia, trying not to laugh. ‘You’d better go and get into some dry clothes – do help yourselves to hot showers, if you want. There are fresh towels in both bathrooms. And by the time you’re down again we’ll have got the potatoes on, and then I’ve got a treat for you all.’
‘So what’s the treat?’ Bella asked her mother as they basted the par-boiled potatoes with sizzling goose fat and slid them into the Aga’s pre-heated second chamber. She was expecting homemade Scotch quails’ eggs or some such delicacy.
‘Poppy’s show! It’s not meant to be coming on for another month, but there was a preview last night on a really obscure American channel. I thought it would be a nice surprise for you all.’
‘I watched it, Mum.’
‘Oh.’ Olivia’s shoulders sagged slightly, the wind taken out of her sails. ‘I assumed you and Andy would be out – you know, Saturday night …’
‘Nope, he was working.’ Bella’s voice was slightly bitter. ‘We don’t go out on Saturday nights any more. I stayed in and watched Poppy looking gorgeous in the sunshine instead.’
‘And didn’t she just?’ Olivia beamed. She wasn’t stupid, and could hear the resentment in her daughter’s voice, but wasn’t about to pander to it. ‘I’ve Sky Plus-ed it, but can’t work out how to get it to work today. Bloody remote’s gone missing again. Please help me, darling. I’m sure everybody else would love to see it.’
So Bella was on her hands and knees, unable to work out, herself, how to get Poppy’s show on her mother’s telly, when the men, all dry and fluffy now, reappeared from their ablutions.
‘Oh, I can’t work out how to do it,’ she snapped.
‘What?’ asked Andy.
‘Mum recorded Poppy on Sky Plus last night. I’ve seen it anyway.’
Andy looked at her in bemusement.
‘Really? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You weren’t in the mood to be told about anything so trivial when you got in last night.’
Andy felt guilty. All he had wanted to do the previous night, after yet another evening steeped in the horrors of people trafficking, was collapse into bed with Bella in his arms.
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Well, I can’t wait to watch it now.’ He crouched down next to her and started to sort out the buttons on the machine.
‘Poppy’s show?’ said Mark from the armchair in which he’d ensconced himself. ‘Bet it’s a stormer.’ He was slightly pissed by this stage, but very aware of trying not to offend anybody. Not the most sensitive of souls, he honestly thought that praising Poppy might get him back into Bella’s good books.
‘Course it will be,’ said Justin from the sofa. ‘That girl’s a knockout. Your best friend for life, isn’t she, Angel Face?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ Bella’s teeth were gritted as the opening credits scrolled up, revealing Poppy’s beautiful, smiling face framed against the New York skyline.
‘Wow,’ was her opening comment. Not particularly clever, or eloquent, but as she spread her arms wide to indicate the roof terrace on which she was being filmed, she also exposed her lovely, slender body in its Missoni string bikini, which more than compensated.
‘Wow, indeed.’ Mark whistled.
For fuck’s sake! thought Bella. They’ll be rubbing their crotches and panting next.
‘I have to say that I have the best job in the world,’ Poppy confided to the camera. ‘As an English girl from the sticks …’
‘Puh-lease …’ groaned Bella, until she realized that everybody was looking at her weirdly. She shifted uncomfortably on the floor and leant back against the sofa. Andy kissed the top of her head as he sat down beside her.
‘… who has been lucky enough to do a bit of global travelling, I’ve seen some amazing places. But I don’t think anything can really beat this! I mean – come on! A pool on a roof in the centre of the coolest city in the world? That’s what I call glamour. And look at this weather!’ She gestured up at the cloudless, almost-navy-blue sky. ‘It’s as hot as it looks, and – you know what? I can’t resist that water. Sorry, Patrick …’ This was directed at the cameraman. ‘But I’ve always been able to resist everything but temptation.’ And, holding her nose, she took a running jump into the bright blue pool, covering the camera’s lens with droplets of water.
It was funny, endearing and clearly unscripted.
Poppy hauled herself out of the pool, rubbing t
he running mascara away from under her eyes, joking with and apologizing to the rest of the crew. The wet hair and lack of concern about her appearance only served to make her look more gorgeous.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, giggling from the screen. ‘But if you’d been here too, you’d have done the same. God, this is fab. OK, I’d better get on with being professional now …’ People were running up to her with towels, and she thanked them all.
‘Thanks, Susie – you’re an angel.’ Poppy took one of them from a plumpish girl in specs, then continued, with an arm around the girl’s shoulder, ‘This is Susie, my assistant. She’s just brilliant, and won’t be pandering to the likes of me for much longer, will you, Suze?’
Susie, who was clearly besotted with Poppy, laughed. She was used to bitches and divas.
‘And I would like to say, “Hello,” to Mrs Arkwright in Wisconsin – or may I call you Elizabeth? Susie’s told me so much about you!’
‘Hey, Mom!’ Susie grinned, waving at the camera.
‘Actually, Suze, I’m meant to be reviewing the drinks here, but if it’s only me, it’s a bit one-sided, isn’t it?’ Poppy continued, the sun shining off her wet blonde hair. ‘How about we try a couple of cocktails together? For a bit of journalistic even-handedness?’
‘Wow, yeah – thanks. If that’s OK, Marty?’ Susie looked over at her boss, who nodded enthusiastically. He loved the way Poppy was with the little people – it just made her all the more likeable.
‘Creep,’ muttered Bella under her breath.
‘You know I’m not Poppy’s greatest fan,’ said Andy, putting his hand on Bella’s leg and giving it a little squeeze, ‘but I have to say, I think she’s doing a brilliant job.’
‘Yeah, and she looks amazing!’ Mark laughed.
‘Are we going to talk all the way through it?’ said Olivia, glancing at her daughter. ‘Let’s save the comments until the end, shall we?’
So they turned back to the TV and watched the rest of the programme in silence.
‘You’ve excelled yourself again, Princess,’ said Bernie, licking his lips and patting his paunch.
They were just finishing off lunch, which had been to die for – the aromatic lamb, so tender it fell off the bone, offset by deeply savoury crispy bits and a variety of summer vegetables. The sweetness of the petits pois à la français – peas simmered in stock with shallots and lettuce hearts – had complemented the meat particularly successfully. And nothing beat Olivia’s crispy, fluffy roast potatoes.
‘It was a joint effort,’ said Olivia. ‘Credit where it’s due.’
‘Too right,’ said Andy, smiling at Bella. ‘To the cooks!’ He raised his glass, and Bernie, Justin and Mark followed suit.
‘The cooks!’
Bella smiled, feeling all warm and happy again, her earlier resentment towards Poppy all but forgotten. The rest of the show had been equally sparkling, as she drank cocktails on the roof terrace, chatting away happily with Susie, and flirting with random handsome men reclining on sun loungers. But she never lost sight of conveying the important bits, the facts that would be useful to anybody actually wanting to visit this particular hotel. Poppy was destined for TV greatness; that much was apparent to all.
But the show had finished hours ago, much wine had been consumed since, and (largely thanks to Olivia) many more topics discussed. Bella always loved sitting around her mother’s kitchen table, eating delicious food and getting happily sloshed.
And it felt especially cosy inside now, as the storm continued to rage fiercely outside the windows. Bernie and Justin had lit a fire in the grate, with much showing off of their manly skills, and Olivia had switched on the many lamps that gave a soft, flattering glow to the family kitchen.
There was another roar of thunder, this one so loud it made them all jump.
‘Bloody English summer!’ Bella laughed. ‘But not for you and Mum for much longer, Bernie. Aren’t you off to Miami in a week or two?’
A couple of months into Bernie and Olivia’s relationship, Bernie had moved into the mill house, selling his faux-Tudor monstrosity up the road for several millions. But he had kept his two other properties – an ultra-modern villa on Miami Beach and a surprisingly beautiful Art Nouveau apartment in Istanbul – and he and Olivia now led an enviably jet-set lifestyle, dividing their time between the three destinations.
‘That’s right. Business calls. Places to go, people to see.’ Bernie winked and tapped the side of his nose. Nobody really knew what Bernie did for a living, not even Olivia. Bella had once asked her, and her mother had dismissed the question with an airy, ‘No idea, darling, and quite frankly, I’d rather not know.’
‘Miami Beach!’ chortled Justin. ‘The stories I could tell you about that gaff in the eighties. I remember shooting Jerry there with Helmut – Newton, you know …’
‘Jerry Hall?’ asked Mark, and Justin nodded, starting to roll another spliff. ‘What was she like? Always struck me as a game old bird.’
‘Not so old in those days, son, but, yeah, definitely a game bird. Face like an ’orse, mind you, but legs that went on forever. You could see what Mick saw in ’er.’
‘Any other stories?’ asked Andy, taking a swig of his red wine. He did find Bella’s parents entertaining – they were like no one he had encountered in his life before.
‘I imagine most of them involve coke and hookers,’ said Olivia, and they all laughed. As Justin launched into a scandalous anecdote involving Joan Collins, Jacqueline Bisset and a Puerto Rican rent boy, Bella got to her feet to clear the table and make way for home-made summer pudding. Olivia had knocked it up the previous day, using fruit from her garden and two-day-old home-baked white bread.
Bella put the glistening ruby dome in the centre of the table, with a cold jug of double cream, fresh from the village farm. It was the most delicious cream she had ever tasted. Disgustingly, she could drink it by the spoonful – and probably would, if she wasn’t so aware of her increasingly tightening waistband.
‘Wow, that looks amazing,’ said Andy.
‘Do all of you tuck in.’ Olivia beamed. ‘I’ve the perfect little tipple to accompany it, too.’ She floated into the sitting room, where the fully stocked drinks cabinet lived, and returned triumphantly bearing an almost spherical, gold-labelled bottle with some sort of deep purple liquid sloshing around inside it.
‘What on earth’s that, Mum?’ asked Bella, laughing.
‘Chambord. It’s made out of black raspberries and is utterly delicious.’
‘I bet it is. Looks expensive …’
‘Oh, it is, darling, it is. It was originally created for Louis the Fourteenth. But worth it, as I’m sure you’ll agree when you try it.’
It was. And it went like a dream with the summer pudding. The problem was, it tasted so yummy-ly fruity that it was easy to forget that they were, actually, downing neat spirits.
Soon the bottle was empty, and the mood more raucous than ever.
‘I think we need some music,’ said Bella, getting unsteadily to her feet. She really was very pissed now. ‘Anyone got any requests, or can I be DJ?’
‘Oh, you choose, darling, you always do so so beautifully,’ said Olivia, hiccupping slightly.
So Bella plugged her iPhone into its speakers and opened Spotify. Soon, Ella Fitzgerald was crooning classic Cole Porter hits into the kitchen and everybody around the table had a soppy, drunken smile pasted on to his or her face.
They all sang along to ‘Everytime We Say Goodbye’, really getting into it when it got to the ‘from major to minor’ bit, looking sentimentally into one another’s eyes, as if it really, really meant something.
The next song was ‘I’ll Take Manhattan’, and the conversation turned, inevitably, to Poppy’s show. Well, it was called Poppy Takes Manhattan.
Bella cursed herself internally. How could she not have seen this coming?
‘I have to say, Angel Face, that that friend of yours is going to be a huge success,’ said Justi
n, taking a drag on his spliff.
‘She’s certainly a very talented young lady,’ concurred Bernie.
‘And she’s looking hot as hell,’ leered Mark.
Something snapped inside Bella. It probably wouldn’t have, without so much booze inside her, but there was, and it did.
‘WILL YOU ALL JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT POPPY!’ she shouted.
And the room, for the second time that day, fell silent.
Chapter 13
Marty and Eleanor’s clapboard beach house in Westhampton was a monument to understated good taste. White-painted woodwork contrasted with dark floors – slate in the kitchen, polished wooden boards everywhere else – and was complemented by natural linens and cottons in muted shades of cream and taupe throughout. Jaunty blue-and-white-striped cushions and rugs added a nautical flavour, and enormous French windows leading to decks on both floors let in enough light by which to perform microsurgery, if one so chose.
Poppy and Damian were reclining on the lower deck on incredibly comfortable polished teak sun loungers – upholstered, naturally, in cream linen, and piled with cushions in different variations on the blue-and-white-striped theme. The deck looked out onto the white sandy beach, and a cooling breeze wafted in from the glittering cobalt ocean.
Poppy, exquisite in a pale yellow string bikini that matched her surfer-girl hair and showed off her golden tan, was happily immersed in a trashy novel. She’d been working so hard on Poppy Takes Manhattan that it had been ages since she’d had a chance to relax properly, and she was practically purring with contentment. Damian, as was his wont these days, was poring over his laptop as he ploughed on with his screenplay.
‘Sweetheart, don’t you want to take a break?’ said Poppy, reaching out to touch his arm. ‘You’ve been slaving away all morning.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got a job.’ Damian didn’t look up from the screen and Poppy sighed.