by Prue Leith
It would have been easier if Guillia had been with them. Guillia spoiled Eduardo rotten, waiting on him hand and foot. And she was great with the children and she shopped, cleaned, cooked and washed up like a machine. Poppy had looked forward to Eduardo’s mother being away for a change, giving her total access to her husband and children with no competition. But now, as she thought of the mountain of laundry, the carpet of pine needles under the Christmas tree, and the piles of newspapers and crates of bottles waiting to go to the recycling center she muttered, “Come back, Guillia. I give in.”
No, it wasn’t the moment to tell Eduardo about the latest £500. It was bad enough having to tell him that Carrie was coming back after New Year with a whole camera crew in tow.
But how was she meant to say no to her sister? That’s what families were for. Besides, Carrie was such fun: she’d go tobogganing on old tea trays with Angelina; she’d arrive with half of Harrods food hall in her boot and insist on fixing gigantic meals which might include the best Sevruga Caviar on buckwheat blinis and American hot dogs with ketchup out of squidgy bottles.
And most of the time she loved having Carrie around. Her sister could be maddening and selfish but she could always make her laugh, as unrestrainedly and incomprehensibly as she had when they were kids.
We are so different and yet so close, thought Poppy. Although I never tell her much, while she never stops gabbling. She’d always been more reticent than Carrie. She thought talking about relationships was an indulgence. Besides, she did not need a confidante. Only people with problems had to have someone to blab to all the time. Or people like Carrie, who just needed an audience.
Poppy closed her eyes and let the music wash through her. It would all be alright. Darling Eduardo. He would understand.
But in the back of Poppy’s mind, behind the door she was refusing to open, was a fear that he didn’t understand, or didn’t want to. Especially about Lorato. Maybe she was becoming obsessed with Lorato. The child so absorbed and fascinated her that the thought of going back to work, taking a job in the theater where she’d have to obey a director’s demands rather than Lorato’s, was unthinkable.
She was intrigued and delighted at Lorato’s relationship with Tom. The little girl patently adored her new brother, becoming anxious and fretful if he was removed from the room, and instantly calming down if he was brought back. But there was still something wrong. Except with Tom, Lorato never smiled, never laughed.
At the slightest sign of anger or impatience, a raised voice or a tone of irritation, Lorato would look up at the owner of the voice and make a small mewing noise, like keening, and wet herself. Lorato herself did not need to be the object of displeasure, anything could set her off: Poppy could chide Angelina for not putting the tops back on her colored pens; Eduardo could snap at Tom for tormenting the dog; Guillia could even berate the British Telecom Helpline, and Lorato’s eyes would grow round and liquid, and she would pee.
Poppy found this deeply worrying, and she suffered for Lorato. But Eduardo was maddened by it.
“I’m being bloody blackmailed, that’s what.” he’d said. “If my voice rises by so much as a decibel Lorato wails and pees, and you look at me as if I’m a criminal.”
“Oh I don’t, darling,” riposted Poppy, hurt. “She just needs time.” She put a placating hand on his arm. “It will be alright, I know it will.”
“Well, it better be alright soon. This is an Italian family, and Italian families don’t go around talking in tones of holy hush.”
Lorato could still bawl for hours. She seldom cried if she hurt herself, but she became desperate if Poppy tried to take something from her that she wanted to hang on to (especially food), or if she didn’t want to be put down at bed time. Or if anyone tried to lift her out of her bouncy swing. She would stand stock-still, her mouth so wide open it seem to occupy her whole face. You could see her tonsils. Tears would run in streams from her tight-shut eyes, and she would yell. Unremitting, high-pitched wails of such distress it broke Poppy’s heart. With Eduardo it broke his patience, and he would sometimes yell back at her. Then Poppy would yell at him. And he’d slam out.
Poppy made a determined effort to stop thinking and to listen to Verdi. She’d just managed to disappear under the music when the telephone wrenched her back.
It was Lucille, giggling down the line.
“Too silly,” she said. “I’m stuck in the bath. Can’t for the life of me get out.”
Poppy’s mind whirled about. Someone must have forgotten to put the bathplug on the top of the medicine chest. They hid it so Lucille could not have a bath when there was no one around to haul her out. And why was she in the bath in the middle of the day?
Her mother sounded perfectly cheerful. Thank God she’s mad, thought Poppy. If she knew I was an hour and a half away . . .
Lucille went on, “Just as well I’ve got your telephone number on the wall, isn’t it?”
Poppy blessed Eduardo’s good sense. He’d put up laminated notices all over Lucille’s flat in numbers large enough for her to read without her glasses.
“Oh God, Mama, are you on your own?”
“Of course I’m on my own, you silly girl. Your father died years ago . . .”
Poppy’s mind raced round her mother’s circle of helpers. It was Adrienne’s day, wasn’t it? Poppy looked at her watch. 3 p.m. Adrienne would have given her mother some lunch, and wouldn’t be back until 5:30. Maybe Carrie was in town. Poppy said, trying to keep her voice casual, “Darling, I’ll ring round and find someone. I’ll ring you back. Don’t worry now.”
She dialed Carrie’s number but only got her maddening message: “Hi, Carrie here. If it’s boring, please send a fax. If it’s fun, here’s my mobile . . . ” She tried the mobile—it was switched off—and the two other women on her mother’s rota. There was no reply from Mary Roberts, and Joy Black had gone out and taken Lucille’s door key with her. But her husband Eric was instantly helpful. “Poor Lucille. I’ll go and chat to her through the bathroom window. I can be there in five minutes. Stop her panicking. What do you think?”
“Oh thank God for you, Eric. I’m so grateful. I’ll get the fire brigade or the police or whatever you do, but it would be wonderful to know you’ll be there.”
Poppy rang 999 and was impressed. Old ladies obviously get stuck in the bath a lot. “No problem, Madam. We’ll have her out in no time.” They said they’d send the fire brigade and the police.
This seemed a little like overkill to Poppy, but she gratefully accepted and rang her mother back to tell her help was on the way.
Her mother answered at once.
“Hi Mum. You OK?”
“Yes, of course I’m OK. I’m having a bath.”
Poppy’s relief at her mother’s lack of distress was tempered by irritation at her indignant tone. “Mum, you just rang me to say you couldn’t get out of the bath, so I was calling back to say help is on its way.”
“Goodness, you do talk nonsense. Of course I can get out of the bath. I get out of the bath every day of my life.”
Poppy took a breath and said steadily, “Mum, if you roll round onto your knees, you will get up better than trying to pull with your hands.”
Poppy could hear swishing noises, and she said, “Mum, Are you there? Are you on your back, or sitting up, or what?”
“I’m going to have to stop chatting, darling,” said her mother, her voice now as friendly and sweet as seconds ago it had been sharp. “It’s such a luxury having a phone in the bath so I can chat to you. But I’m getting chilly, and I must get out.”
“But Mum, that’s the point. You can’t get out.”
“Of course I can get out. That’s just what I must do. I will ring you back after breakfast.” And the telephone went dead. Poppy shut her eyes. Breakfast! It was 3 p.m.
Poppy dialed again. It took a couple of rings before her m
other answered, and she sounded out of breath.
“Oh Poppy, is that you? What a bit of luck you rang. You’ll never believe this. Too silly. But I can’t get out of the bath . . .”
“I know, darling. But I’ve ring the fire brigade and they are going to come and rescue you.”
“The fire brigade? You’ve rung the fire brigade? But I’m stark naked. I can’t let the fire brigade in here.” Lucille laughed. A relaxed merry laugh. “Still, it will be the first time for God knows how long any man has seen me in the buff. What a joke.”
Suddenly Poppy could hear Eric Black shouting through the kitchen window.
“Lucille, are you OK? Hear you are stuck in the bath?”
Poppy held the telephone a little away from her cheek as a shouted conversation between her mother and Eric ensued. Then her mother was talking to her again.
“Hello, who is this? . . . Oh, it’s you Poppy, is it? I must go. I have to get out of the bath and let someone in. I haven’t a clue who he is, but he seems to have come to see me and I’d better let him in.”
Poppy had a fleeting thought that her mother would let in absolutely anyone. Another of the multiple risks of senility. But she shelved the thought for later and started to tell her mother once again how to get out of the bath, but Lucille had already put the phone down.
In the end, according to Eric, it was quite a party. The fire brigade arrived but as Lucille wasn’t panicking they were reluctant to stave the front door in, so they waited for the police, who tried, without success, to pick the lock. Lucille repeatedly declared herself about to get out of the bath and let them in, and then found to her astonishment that she couldn’t.
Eventually the smallest of the policewomen burgled her way through a narrow skylight into the bedroom and opened the front door. At this moment Adrienne appeared and she and the policewoman hauled Lucille out of a now tepid bath.
And then three firefighters, two police officers, Eric, Adrienne and Lucille had tea and toast together. Lucille responded to Poppy’s call with “Can’t talk now, dear, I’ve got guests for dinner.”
Oh God, thought Poppy as she put the telephone back in its cradle. What am I to do with her? Carrie’s no help though she lives round the corner. She thinks because our mother doesn’t know if it’s Tuesday or Belgium she needn’t bother with her. Pretends she visited yesterday, and promises to visit tomorrow. And sometimes Lucille is not as daft as she seems and is hurt.
If only Lucille would have someone live with her. But she sniffed at the idea of a companion. Once when she’d forgotten Dad was dead and Poppy had again suggested live-in help, she’d said, “What would Bill think? He doesn’t want to come home to find a lodger in the house, does he?” and Poppy hadn’t had the heart to remind her she’d been a widow for two years; that she’d kissed her husband’s cold cheek, still showing the downward pull of the stroke that had killed him.
Sometimes Poppy felt like a sponge, with everyone—Eduardo, the children, her sister, her mother—sucking at her.
And would she ever get back to the theater? There were moments when she felt that this domestic life would capture her, that she’d never again feel the glorious lift of a standing ovation, the heady triumph as the curtain comes down, the delirium of giving an unassailable performance.
Maybe, if she didn’t accept something soon, she’d never work again? She shouldn’t have turned down Bogside, a new play by a young Irish writer that her agent had insisted she read. The part of Sinead was made for her: a passionate young woman brought up in a revolutionary family, who sees the ceasefire as a betrayal and ends up killing her brother and destroying her world. It was a bleak story, but Poppy had seen at once how she would play Sinead: lighthearted as well as passionate, sympathetic as well as bigoted. The audience on her side one moment, hating her the next.
But even before she put the script down she’d known she wouldn’t do it. Lorato wasn’t ready yet.
Poppy rang Carrie’s number again. She left a message, her voice a lot brisker than normal: “Carrie, why is it me our mother rings when she’s stuck in the bath? Go round and hide her bathplug, will you?”
Chapter 5
Carrie liked the Eurostar. The food was awful, of course, and the service not much better, but there was a pleasant pinkish thirties feeling about the decor, and the champagne was free. She felt great. She was wearing a new cream suit from Nicole Farhi and had recently spent a fortune in the Tanning Shop standing in a ring of ultraviolet tubes: it had taken six 12-minute sessions to make her look as if she’d just returned from St. Moritz. And her tan was all-over, which wasn’t true of her skiing friends in Momo’s.
Carrie looked over the top of her copy of Tatler, checking for talent. A few boring and bored couples. Most of the passengers were men but none of them on their own. Pity. A mild flirtation would pass the time.
She felt a bit guilty about ditching Richard at the last minute. But since she was now committed to interviewing four chefs and eating at each of their restaurants, it wouldn’t have been much fun for him. Besides, his absolute adoration was beginning to be a drag. He never stopped talking about love.
Richard worked for Eduardo. He’d left the Cambridge School of Architecture at 24, backpacked for two years, and had worked for her brother-in-law ever since. Carrie had met him at an office bash given by Eduardo. Eduardo and Poppy gave great parties—on their terrace in the summer, in the flat in the winter. Carrie always went because she liked the mix of creative successful people. They were mostly the right age too, late twenties to early forties, with a few older grandees thrown in. There was almost always someone there she fancied. Either young and beautiful, or old (well, not too old) and famous.
It was a hot evening last summer and Richard had been helping Poppy ladle out the risotto when Carrie first saw him. She wanted him at once. He had a bony thinness she found really sexy. And deep dark eyes behind rimless oval glasses. His dark hair was very short, almost shaved, and he wore the designer’s obligatory collarless black shirt, open at the neck.
“Richard,” said Poppy, “meet my sister, Carrie. Now she really is a cook. She does it for a living.”
Richard looked up at her, and Carrie knew at once she’d landed him. She just kept very still, looked unblinking into his eyes, then smiled slowly.
Richard said, “Sisters? You can’t be sisters. You look so . . . You sound so different.”
Poppy laughed,
“It’s OK, you can say it. I don’t mind. She’s the stunner.” Her eyes teased Carrie. “But I’m the one who’s been taught to speak posh, while Carrie here still displays her bushveld background . . .”
Richard interrupted, his eyes on Carrie, “Is that what it is? I thought maybe you had a trace of down-under . . .”
Carrie still hadn’t said anything, and Richard changed tack. He said, “You’re a cook?”
She nodded. “I cook for a living. For mags and books, you know?”
From then on it was easy. Richard dished up the risotto and she carried the bowls and forks to the guests. As she moved around the room she was conscious of Richard’s gaze. She was wearing a short black mini and a lacy black devore top, through which her black bra was clearly visible. When she’d bought the top she’d wondered, just for a second, if at 32 she was too old for such teenage fashion, but she looked great in it, and what the hell?
She was at her most vivacious when she was furthest from Richard. A little jealousy did a lot to cement desire.
After supper, Carrie allowed Richard to waylay her, and they talked about her latest project—styling the food for a film about Mary Queen of Scots. But she was careful not to spend too much time with him. Nonetheless, she kept an eye on him. She didn’t think he’d disappear, but you never knew. Some guys headed for safer ground when they felt the pull of the current.
When one of Eduardo’s assistants, an amateur DJ, set up her decks
and put on some dance music, Carrie said, “Come and dance. It’s great music.” But Richard shook his head. Carrie joined the dancers anyway, and for a while forgot about Richard. She loved dancing. The music got right into her head, sort of took her over, made her forget everything else. And she knew she moved well.
But she didn’t forget Richard entirely. She was aware of his tall frame slouched against the door to the terrace. He was watching the dancers. Watching her.
Then suddenly he was no longer there. Carrie stopped dancing and, flushed and gasping from the exertion, staggered onto the terrace. It was cooler out here. But still warm. She was sweating and she could feel her hair sticking to her neck.
Poppy emerged from the kitchen with fizzy water and a tray of tumblers, filled with ice. Carrie filled two, took a couple of gulps from one of them, then carried them to where Richard was standing on the far side of the terrace, looking down into the canal.
“Here,” she said.
Richard took the proffered glass and said, “Thanks. Good idea. It could help with the hangover.”
“You pissed then?”
“I guess. Do you mind?”
“No.”
Carrie put her glass down on the ledge. She was still panting, and hot. She leaned on the terrace wall, feeling the cool stone against her bare arms. She could feel Richard studying her, looking at her face as if he had to draw it from memory. She liked him looking.
Straightening up, she breathed in deeply and linked her hands, interleaving her fingers, and stretched her arms out in front of her. She turned her palms to the front, exhaled a long breath and shut her eyes. Her shoulders rounded and flexed under the gauzy top. As she prolonged the movement she thought of Richard’s eyes on her narrow black bra-straps each side of her armholes. As she lifted her arms over her head, she knew he’d watch her hair swing round her shoulders and flow down her bum as she arched her back. She knew his eyes would be fixed on her neck, offered like a sacrifice as her head fell back in an exaggerated yawn. Then he’d see the two-inch strip of bare belly, warm and damp from dancing.