by Lucy Lord
‘I carry it everywhere with me,’ he said, handing the note over to Poppy, who read it in silence, before passing it on to Jack. Then she got to her feet and gave Ben a hug.
‘What a romantic story,’ she said. ‘Bless you both. But surely you’re not just going to give up on her? Haven’t you tried to find her?’
‘Of course I’ve tried to find her, Pops, but she’s completely disappeared. I’ve tried all the places she’s likely to have gone: Ibiza, London, Paris, Rome, St Barts, Mustique, Necker …’
‘Oh, Ben, you great lumbering idiot – don’t you see she’s not going to have gone to any of the places you’re likely to look. If she really wanted to disappear, she’d have gone somewhere totally different to her usual haunts …’
‘She’s right,’ said Jack, sitting up straight and looking at them both. ‘But can we go back a couple stages, please? You forget you both have a head start on me. For example, how do you know Natalia, Poppy?’
‘Well, I first met her at my friend Bella’s art exhibition last year, and we became friends. She let me and Damian use her amazing villa in Ibiza for the after-party to our wedding.’
‘Wow. A yacht and an amazing villa. A woman worth blackmailing, huh?’
‘Oh, she’s absolutely loaded—’ Poppy started, when Ben interrupted.
‘What’s her villa like, Pops?’ He was desperate to know as much as he could about the woman he loved.
‘Unreal. Five levels of terraces, a tower, a moat around the main house that leads into an infinity pool. And – get this – there’s an island in the middle of the pool with full DJ decks on it.’
‘God, she’s amazing …’ Ben went all dreamy-eyed for a minute, until Jack clicked his fingers in front of his face.
‘Yeah, yeah. If you want us to help you find her, we need you here with us in the present, not drifting off into some romantic dream-world.’
Poppy looked at Jack admiringly, and Ben said, ‘Sorry. Thanks, mate. You’ll really help me? OK, so what else do you want to know?’
‘Well, for a start, what is she being blackmailed for?’
‘She used to be a hooker,’ said Ben and Poppy simultaneously. They looked at each other and laughed.
‘Wow. O-kaaay,’ said Jack. ‘She told you?’
‘It’s not really that difficult to guess,’ said Poppy. ‘No offence, Ben, you know I think she’s great, but … She’s Ukrainian, stunning looking, and has billions and billions of dollars. Rumours have been circulating around her for years.’
‘In that case, why would she pay money to somebody who could only really confirm what everybody else was thinking?’
‘It would be different to have it confirmed in the press. She’s actually quite a private woman, and seeing her past splashed all over the papers would be quite horrendous for her,’ said Ben. ‘And now she’s been linked to me, she thinks that if anything came out, it’d be bad for my career. Lovely, selfless creature she is.’ He drifted off into another soppy trance.
‘She’s probably hiding from the blackmailer too,’ said Poppy astutely. ‘I can’t imagine he’s a very nice individual.’
‘Then it’s even more important for me to find her, and persuade her to go to the police. The sooner the bastard is behind bars, the better.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Jack, and the three of them shook on it.
Poppy was thinking hard. Something was lurking at the back of her booze-addled brain. It was a conversation she and Damian had had with Natalia, about how they first met, and – yes, it was coming back to her now, in detail.
‘It’s so beautiful, Natalia, and so remote,’ she remembered telling her. ‘You could just lose yourself there for weeks on end and forget that the real world ever existed …’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Natalia had said. ‘Maybe I go there one day.’
‘Ben,’ she said excitedly, laying a hand on his arm. ‘It’s just a hunch – in fact, it’s a really long shot … I’m probably being stupid, but—’
‘Come on, spit it out …’
‘I think I might know where she is.’
‘What? Where? For the love of God, tell me, Pops!’
Poppy sat back on her heels and smiled at them both.
‘Bottle Beach,’ she said. ‘I reckon she’s hiding out at Bottle Beach.’
Chapter 18
Late the following morning, Poppy was sitting at a white wrought-iron table in the pretty courtyard of her Chateau Marmont bungalow, eating a hearty breakfast of smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and bagels. Hangovers always made her absolutely ravenous. The studio did treat her well, she thought, looking around at the heavenly little whitewashed cottage, with its arched doorway, picture windows and terracotta-tiled, tropical-plant-filled courtyard.
She was feeling very pleased with herself. Not only had she won Best TV Newcomer, but there had also been talk last night of a follow-up series to Poppy Takes Manhattan, set in LA. If the last couple of days were anything to go by, she thought she could handle sun-drenched, fawning LA very nicely indeed, thank you. And it would be a perfect place for Damian to concentrate on his screenplay – both writing and networking. Marty was setting up several meetings for her, so she was going to be staying on a few more days. Oooh, twist my arm, why don’t you, she thought to herself gleefully.
She was also thrilled that she’d remembered telling Natalia about Bottle Beach. Ben was going to use the studio spies to find out if she actually was hiding there, and if she was, he planned to fly out there himself and surprise her on the beach. He only had another week’s filming and then he was free to travel as he pleased. Poppy reckoned he was looking forward to playing the romantic hero, and she couldn’t blame him. It was funny how all her dislike for him had evaporated after he’d ‘rescued’ her last night. Anyway, she was married now, and Ben was in love, and as far as Poppy was concerned it was all water under the bridge (though she just knew that Damian and Bella, with their thinner, more sensitive skins, wouldn’t see it quite like that). It had been easy for her to slip back into the friendship they’d had before all the madness had happened the previous year. She had been genuinely moved by his story about Natalia, and really hoped that the two of them would be able to sort things out.
Her phone rang.
‘Morning, Marty, isn’t it a beautiful day?’ she said cheerfully.
‘Sure is, honey. Say – have you seen any newspapers yet today?’
‘Not yet, no. Why?’
‘You’re front-page news, sweet cheeks!’
‘Really? Bloody hell, I can’t believe it! But why? Best TV Newcomer was hardly the most prestigious award of the night …’ She laughed, but was actually thinking, Maybe it’s because I looked so different to all the others in my minidress.
‘It’s not only about the award, Poppy …’ Marty took a breath. ‘There was also the stalker guy in the crowd with the “knife” …’ She could hear him putting the word in inverted commas.
‘Oh, my God.’ After the knife had turned out to be a crucifix, the incident had rather got lost in the excitement of the rest of the evening. Poppy mentally kicked herself. Of course it would make the papers – it had happened right under the noses of the assembled world press, for fuck’s sake. And if they’d papped the nutter, presumably they’d also papped her dramatic rescue by … Oh, fuck.
‘OK, Marty, tell me. How bad is it? Pictures of me and Ben? Loads of speculation as we used to be lovers? Oh, Jesus Christ, there’s not stuff about me going back to Jack’s party with the two of them, is there? Oh, please, Marty, tell me there’s not.’
‘There’s pretty much everything you’ve just said, sweetie.’ Marty sounded sympathetic: he’d witnessed Damian’s jealousy first-hand back in New York. ‘But try not to worry. I’m sure he’ll understand. I’d call him to explain just as soon as you can though.’
‘Thanks, boss, I’ll do that right now.’ Poppy looked at the time on her phone as she hung up: 10.35 a.m. They were three hours ahead in New
York. With any luck Damian would just be getting up – he’d sounded completely trashed when she’d spoken to him the previous night, and he liked to lie in. She took a deep breath and clicked on his number.
In the pocket of his rust-coloured velvet jacket, which he’d left hanging over the back of a chair in the penthouse bar of the Gansevoort Hotel, Damian’s phone rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang.
Damian, at home alone in his marital bed, was having a nightmare and pouring with sweat. As he woke with a jolt, he realized why he was so hot and uncomfortable: he was still wearing his jeans, shirt, socks and shoes, though at least he’d had the foresight to take off his velvet jacket before passing out. God, he must have been twatted last night – Lars’s insistence on shot after shot of schnapps really was lethal.
He took his clothes off and went to the kitchen for a pint of water, looking for his phone on the way. He and Poppy hadn’t bothered installing a landline and he wanted to call her and hear all about her big success again. For all their recent arguing, he really did miss her when they were apart.
It soon became apparent, in their minimalist warehouse apartment, that neither his jacket nor his phone were there. Shit, shit, shit. He had to stop getting so pissed. As he tried to piece together the events of the previous night, he remembered speaking to Poppy just before they headed to the final bar, the late one. That was where his phone and jacket had to be. But what the fuck was the bar called? Was it in a hotel? He had a vague inkling that it might have been on a roof somewhere.
Decisively – or as decisively as he could when he was feeling so rough – he sat down at the kitchen table and opened his laptop. Lars would know.
Hey buddy. Left my bastard phone and jacket somewhere last night. Don’t suppose you could call the last bar for me and see if they’re there, could you, before I have to start cancelling things? (What was the bar called, btw? Were we in a hotel? I seem to have a bit of an – erm – memory lapse). Cheers mate.
Then he emailed Poppy:
Good morning my darling. Congratulations again, you clever thing! You’ll never believe it but I seem to have lost my fucking phone (hoping it hasn’t been stolen). What a bloody nightmare – I’m dying to talk to you. Maybe we should have gone with the old landline after all. Will let you know how I get on finding it in a bit. Love you, Me xxxxxxx
Then, as there was nothing practical he could do until Lars got back to him, he decided to see what he could find out about Poppy’s award online. As he typed poppy wallace pluto awards into Google, entry after entry flashed up at him, and a proud smile slowly crossed his face. He clicked on one of them.
Movie and TV fans were left gasping when Best TV Newcomer Poppy Wallace was threatened in the crowd by a crazed stalker brandishing a knife.
What? Damian read on, heart beating furiously – why hadn’t Poppy told him?
In a moment of exquisite bathos, the knife turned out to be a crucifix, and the stalker a well-known ‘professional fan’ (we all know what that means, don’t we kids? LOSER!). But the real story was Poppy’s dramatic rescue by none other than HOT HOT HOT Brit actor, Ben Jones – who stars in next year’s sure-fire big hit Beyond the Sea, with new best buddy Jack Meadows, fact fans. Poppy, who has been married to unemployed British journalist Damian Evans for less than six months, spent the rest of the evening looking très cosy with Ben and Jack, even accompanying them both to Jack’s villa for his legendary after-party. Sensationally, Poppy left her then boyfriend Damian (now husband – keep up, losers) for Ben back in London ONLY LAST YEAR, before their fling fizzled out. Is history repeating itself, we wonder? And what of poor Damian? According to friends, he has become something of a recluse since losing his job on failed Brit mag Stadium earlier this year, and some even say he is resentful of Poppy’s success. We’re betting he won’t like this latest development one teensy iota. Watch this space, gossip fans …
The piece was accompanied by far too many photos. Numbly, automatically, Damian found himself clicking through them: several of Poppy on the red carpet, looking utterly gorgeous in her minidress and boots as she posed for the cameras; a few of Ben looking dashing and manly as he threw his dinner jacket over her head and swept her indoors. And then, obviously taken much later in the evening, and probably through a long lens, grainier footage: Ben and Jack reclining on sun loungers, with Poppy sitting on the floor between them, chatting animatedly; all three of them laughing about something, Jack sitting up straight this time; Poppy standing up with her arms around Ben …
‘YOU FUCKING BITCH!’ Damian shouted at the screen, remembering his conversation with Poppy the previous night. She had probably been with them then, all three of them laughing at him behind his back. Absolutely overcome with pain, humiliation and anger, he threw himself at the bare brick wall, kicking and punching it until his feet and knuckles bled. Then he collapsed in a heap against it, clutching his dark head, sobbing.
After a bit, he picked up some kitchen roll to wipe up his blood, then went back to the computer to torture himself some more. He had two new messages. First, he opened the one from Poppy, every finger joint hurting as he worked his way round the mouse and keyboard.
Oh darling, I’ve been trying to call you all morning. I’ve got something to tell you, but you mustn’t take it the wrong way …
Everything misted over and he couldn’t bring himself to read any more. Lying little bitch. He remembered her looking him in the eye and saying, ‘Yes, I would,’ when he asked her if she’d like a threesome with Ben and Jack. Fuck her. He deleted her message and opened the one from Lars instead.
Man is my head heavy. Don’t cancel anything – your phone is still at the Gansevoort. You really don’t remember? Ha! Are we still meeting tonight to watch your beautiful wife on TV? Maybe we can meet earlier? I need beers and I need them fast. Lars
Damian typed back:
I may need something stronger. Read this:
He attached the link to the webpage and pressed SEND with his little finger, the one that hurt the least. A few minutes later, Lars’s reply flashed up:
Meet me at Stone Street in 15 minutes. I’ll order drinks. Don’t jump to any conclusions. But man, that journalist is one motherfucking BITCH.
Poppy checked her phone again, frantic with worry. Damian hadn’t replied to her email and still wasn’t answering his phone. Maybe she hadn’t explained enough in the first email. She tried again:
Listen darling, whatever you may have seen in the gutter press, there is absolutely NOTHING going on between me and Ben. He is actually IN LOVE, would you believe it? And guess who with? NATALIA, of all people!!! Oh sweetheart, please pick up your phone (if you’ve managed to find it) so we can have a good old gossip about it. I’ve got so much to tell you! I’m really, really sorry if you’re upset, but really, all Ben did was rescue me when he thought I was in danger, which was quite nice of him really, wasn’t it darling? I love you xxxx
Damian and Lars were sitting nursing beers with whiskey chasers on brown leather upholstered chairs at the Stone Street Tavern, a spit-and-sawdust bar that was, most evenings, packed with secretaries trying to pick up bankers. In the daytime, it was frequented pretty much solely by those made recently unemployed by Wall Street. As Lars had said to Damian, on a jollier occasion, ‘It’s when you see your former CEO here that you really have to worry for the economy.’
Now he said, seriously, ‘Man, you must give her a chance.’
‘She’s had enough chances: I gave her a chance when I took her back, I gave her a chance when I fucking married her, I gave her a chance when she was canoodling in the toilets with Jack fucking Meadows, I even gave her a chance after she said she’d like to have a fucking threesome with the two vain cunts!’
‘I think maybe you put the words in her mouth that time,’ said Lars mildly, taking an enormous swig of his beer and trying not to let his belch involve schnapps-flavoured vomit. He had heard a slightly different version of the story from
Poppy.
‘Makes no fucking difference. You saw the article. She didn’t have to go back with the two of them. Why did she go back with them, Lars? Why did she do it?’ His voice was different all of a sudden, pleading like a little boy’s. Then it hardened again. ‘Anyway, maybe she should be with them. They are both much more her type anyway. How did the article describe me again? An unemployed journalist who lost his job on a failed magazine earlier this year … A recluse who resents his wife’s success … A loser … Yeah, that pretty much sums me up.’ He took a large swig of his whiskey and blinked back the angry tears that had sprung into his eyes.
‘Man, you must pay no more attention to that cocksucking bitch of a journalist.’
Damian laughed drunkenly. It hadn’t taken a lot to top up the previous night’s alcohol intake.
‘It was definitely written by a woman, wasn’t it? Fucking cunts, the lot of ’em.’
‘That journalist, yes. And my little whore from Romania. Yes, she loved the banker more than the man. That is true of them, and many more of them. But I do not think it is true of your Poppy, Damian. I think she loves you …’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me even you are taken in by her? Her big green eyes …’ He opened his dark eyes wide and shook his head about, putting on a horrible gooey impersonation of either Poppy herself, or the men who were meant to be falling at her feet, Lars wasn’t sure. ‘Whose side are you on, mate?’
‘If it must be sides, then I am on yours, of course. But surely you should speak to her?’
‘No. If I do, I know I’ll let myself be fooled – yet again – by that angelic fucking face. Or voice. Or whatever.’
‘So what are you going to do, my friend?’
‘I, my friend –’ Damian put his hand on Lars’s shoulder – ‘am going to take a little holiday. She’s not the only one with prospects out West, you know. SKOL!’ He raised his whiskey at his enormous friend.