by Prue Leith
Eduardo did not answer, and Carrie was pleased to see he looked uncomfortable. She had made some serious decisions since her conversation with Poppy, and one of them was that if Eduardo was such a wet as to crumble because his wife issued an ultimatum, fine. It had only been a week since she’d been utterly in love with him, believing she could not live without him. But now she knew she could.
Only she could not afford to lose Poppy. She’d talked Richard into coming to the Filumena first night, when her sister’s dressing room would be full of friends, and Poppy would not be able to turn her away.
She felt bad about Richard. She’d treated him so appallingly. But it was time they were friends again. Why couldn’t they be friends? He was the only person who had known about Eduardo, and he’d been wonderful, telling no one. She’d make it up to him.
When they went from the gloom of the corridor to the bright lights of the dressing room, the first thing Carrie noticed was how old her sister looked. Forty at least. She’d appeared magnificent on stage, glamorous and confident and very sexy. Now, in spite of first-night elation, she looked pasty, her stage make-up accentuating the exhaustion of her eyes. There were already four or five people in the dressing room and in the hubbub of congratulation the fact that neither Eduardo nor Poppy said a word to Carrie went unnoticed, except by Carrie.
Poppy was buoyed up by the audience’s reception of her, on a high. So when a gay couple she’d known since RADA days suggested supper at the Ivy, saying they’d booked a table for four on the off-chance, she turned to Eduardo. “Do let’s, I could do with a bit of fun. It’s been a tough couple of weeks.”
As they trooped out of the theater Eduardo turned to Richard to say, “See you at the office then.” Carrie said “Bye, Poppy. Bye, Eduardo.” But neither answered.
As Carrie followed Richard out of the stage door into the piss-soaked alley behind the theater, she was close to tears. She felt like a child told to go to bed at a party. A child no one was allowed to talk to.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” asked Richard.
For a moment Carrie was tempted to tell him the whole sorry saga. But that would make for a gloomy evening. “Oh Richard, you don’t want to know. And anyway, it’s over.”
Carrie put her arm through Richard’s and leaned in close. Smiling up at him with visible strain, she said, “What I need”, she said, “is a few drinks and a line of coke.” Seeing his frown, she amended, “OK, some good weed.”
*
Sunday was the one day Poppy had off, and she was tired after the week’s performances. She’d driven down late last night after the show, crept into bed next to the unmoving Eduardo, and slept until the arrival of Tom and Lorato at seven. She wished Guillia had kept the children at bay, even for an extra hour, but she suspected her mother-in-law disapproved of her working, especially as an actress. In truth, she sometimes disapproved herself. She would have preferred to be with the children more, and sometimes thought she’d be happy to give up the stage. But she knew the desire to act would gnaw at her, pull her back to this dual life.
Now she was pushing slivers of garlic and needles of fresh rosemary into a leg of lamb, but preparing Sunday lunch was not the pleasure it used to be. Perhaps she was just exhausted after the emotional upheaval of the past few weeks. She’d found the two shows yesterday particularly draining, partly because of the heat, but also because she felt so marooned in London while the rest of the family were out of town. It never occurred to Eduardo to stay up with her and drive her down.
She used to like Saturdays. In the past when she’d been working, she and Carrie would sometimes drool round Harvey Nicks on a Saturday morning, or meet at the Fifth Floor restaurant or the sushi bar for an early lunch. Or Carrie might turn up in her dressing room between the shows with a picnic, or they’d walk round Neal’s Yard. Or if Carrie was coming down to Manor Farm she’d collect Poppy from the theater and they’d drive down together. But such sisterly jaunts were out of the question now.
Poppy wiped her hands on the tea towel and leaned against Olaf to push the dog out of the way while she shoved the lamb into the top oven of the Aga. Then she went through to the larder to get the potatoes, Olaf padding after her.
“I don’t bloody believe it,” she said aloud, looking at the potato box, in which one wrinkled potato lay in a bed of dusty earth.
“What’s the matter, Mum? What don’t you bloody believe?” It was Angelina, barefoot and in shorts, at the larder door.
“I don’t bloody believe”, said Poppy, “that neither your daddy, nor your granny, nor the bloody gardener has dug up any bloody spuds. So guess whose got to?”
Angelina said, “Hey mum, wicked. You never say bloody. That’s really cool.” But she looked more anxious than admiring.
Poppy looked at her skinny daughter and laughed. “Oh darling, you are not meant to be impressed. I am not meant to say bloody. And certainly not in front of you. Come on. You can dig up the spuds.”
They collected a fork and a bucket from the potting shed—Poppy was mildly irritated that the spade wasn’t where it should be—and set off for the vegetable garden. As they went through the little gate in the hedge, Angelina exclaimed, “Look, Mum, Daddy’s digging up the potatoes, and he’s got the spade!”
Eduardo smiled broadly at Poppy.
“You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?” He shook a clutch of potatoes free of soil and scooped them into his bucket. Then he said, “Angelina, would you like to do your old dad a huge favor?” Angelina nodded solemnly. “Will you finish this job for me? I want to talk secrets to your mother for five minutes. Then we will come back and admire how many spuds you have managed to dig up.”
Angelina took the spade eagerly. Eduardo went on, “If you have filled both buckets, without putting the spade through any of the spuds, I’ll take you to the stables after tea. Is it a deal?”
Angelina hopped about. “Yes, yes. It’s a deal. Cool, Dad.”
Eduardo put his arm over Poppy’s shoulder and steered her toward the lane that ran down to the river.
Poppy was mollified by Eduardo remembering the potatoes. She was even a little gratified at his wanting to talk to her. But she felt so drained by the misery of the last two weeks that she almost wished he would not say anything at all. Maybe they could just walk down to the river, and watch Olaf fail to catch squirrels or rabbits.
But he said at once, “Poppy, I know I have put you through the mill. And I won’t go over everything again. But I just want to make a speech, which I want you to listen to without interrupting. OK?”
Poppy started to protest, “Oh Eduardo, let’s not . . .” but Eduardo cut in:
“Darling, all I want to say is this. You are the most astonishing and wonderful woman. To have managed to go through last two weeks, give a truly great performance as Filumena, and behave to the children and to Guillia as though nothing has happened proves what I have always known. You have more character, more good sense, more talent and more love than any woman on earth, and I am a complete bastard to have lost sight of it for a single second. I love you, Poppy. And that’s the truth.”
Poppy could not help being touched by this. Eduardo, though physically affectionate, was not given to emotional talk. But she would not let herself melt so easily. She kept her voice even and detached and asked, “Carrie says you love her. And have told her so.”
Eduardo walked in front of her and put his arms on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. He said, “I don’t. And I have not.”
It’s odd, thought Poppy, but at this moment anyway, I do believe him.
After lunch Angelina ran and the toddlers staggered backward and forward through the spray of the lawn sprinkler. Poppy lay on the grass under the walnut tree and Eduardo slept in the hammock, the Sunday Independent on the grass beside him. Guillia had gone upstairs for a proper siesta on a bed.
; Poppy looked at the idyll before her, but it did not lift the bleakness she felt. Eduardo’s speech before lunch had helped, but she could not forgive him easily. She feared she’d never forgive him.
The spray caught the sun and refracted it into a rainbow over the greenest of lawns. The shrieking children ran under the water and danced about with unselfconscious excitement. The three naked bodies were the picture of health and happiness: Angelina’s milk-white and skinny, her blond hair darkened into rat-tails; Tom’s burly and pink; Lorato’s round, brown and shiny. They haven’t an inkling of how close we all came to shipwreck, she thought. Or that we may founder yet.
Eduardo drove up to London on Sunday night after supper and Poppy had to will herself not to accuse him of going up to see Carrie. He said he had to be up for an early plane for Bilbao.
She didn’t say that it was almost as quick from here to Gatwick as from London. She had to stop accusing him all the time. Over the last fortnight she had run the gamut of accusation, hurt, hate, misery and fear. Somewhere she had lost the mastery she had had that first morning when he’d appeared in their bedroom and brought her tea and contrition. Now, only on the stage did she feel in control and confident.
If I become a neurotic wreck, even if it is his fault, she thought, he’ll leave for sure. He’s not the type to nursemaid a feeble wife.
In truth, she didn’t think he was seeing Carrie. She suspected that Eduardo was secretly relieved to have the decision about Carrie made for him. For her it was more complicated. She both mourned the loss of Carrie, as if she had died, and hated her guts. One thing was for certain, she was never going to let her back into her life.
Chapter 17
Poppy pressed the play button. She stiffened as she heard Carrie’s voice.
“Poppy. It’s Carrie. The only communication I’ve had from either of you in months is Eduardo’s e-mail telling me not to write as you won’t open the envelopes. So I’m going to have to say it all on this thing.” Carrie’s voice faltered and then was suddenly very loud. “Don’t switch it off, Poppy. Don’t. If you are there, for God’s sake pick it up and let me talk to you.”
There was a pause, and then Carrie’s voice resumed. “OK, if you won’t, at least hear me out. Poppy, I need you. I can live without Eduardo, but not without you. I’ve been either drunk or high on coke or knocked out with sleeping pills for weeks. There’s nothing stable in my life. I’ve just lost a job for the Sunday Times because I failed to turn up for a meeting. I know it’s all my fault. But for Christ’s sake, Poppy, help me. Lucille asked me what was wrong and I started crying and . . .”
The mention of their mother electrified Poppy. She snatched up the receiver and said, “Carrie, for God’s sake, you haven’t told Mother . . .”
Carrie said, “Oh thank God.” Poppy could hear her wobbly intake of breath and then she said, “Don’t hang up, Poppy. Please. Just talk to me, OK?”
There was a pause and then Poppy said, “OK, I won’t hang up. But Carrie, what’s the point?”
Poppy could hear the break in Carrie’s voice, could tell she was crying. Carrie said, “Please, Poppy, just let me come and see you.” Another pause. “I’m begging you.”
Poppy felt a tug of angst, even sympathy, but she said, “Carrie, I’m trying to get over what you did. I’m trying to stop being angry with Eduardo. I’m trying not to become bitter as hell. I’ve nothing left for you.”
Carrie put the phone down then, and Poppy felt a tiny flash of triumph, of satisfaction in hurting Carrie.
But within an hour she was miserable, a hard ball of guilt in her chest. What if Carrie OD’d on some awful drug? What if she drank herself stupid? She picked up the telephone.
Carrie answered immediately. Poppy spoke fast, her voice flat.
“Carrie, it’s me. Look, I don’t think it can ever be right between us, but you are my sister. Come round if you like.”
When Carrie arrived they sat each side of the kitchen table, as if at a meeting. Poppy poured tea, then sat down and began with, “Look, I’ve got enough troubles without you becoming a pothead or drinking yourself out of employment. If you think it will help to see the children and me, I’m OK with that. But if you ever get within a mile of Eduardo, I’ll kill you.”
She said it so unemotionally that for a second Carrie could believe the threat. Carrie tried to smile and said, “It’s OK, Poppy. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt—his dumping me after all that we . . .Sorry.” She swallowed, then shook her head and cleared her voice. More firmly she said, “but I don’t think I want to see him anyway. I just don’t want to be cut out of your life. OK?”
Poppy said, her voice not quite as cool as before, “Carrie, how can it ever be OK between us? After what you did? That night. Before I found the condom. . . . I thought we were so close . . .laughing about when we were kids. How could you be so loving while all the time deceiving me? How am I to ever understand that?”
Carrie just shook her head, her eyes on her lap. When she looked up, they were wet with tears. “Poppy, I don’t know either. It was as if the two things were separate. I suppose I told myself they were. It doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”
They agreed a sort of wary truce. Carrie promised to lay off the drugs and the booze, at least most of the time, and Poppy agreed to resume family relations.
Poppy didn’t believe either side would keep to the bargain. Carrie was incapable of saying no to anything. As to sisterly relations, that was blown. She felt only anxiety for Carrie now, not love.
But, with what seemed to Poppy dizzying speed, Carrie was back in her life. It wasn’t the same as before. Both she and Carrie were careful with each other, which they had never been in their lives before. Neither mentioned Eduardo. But Poppy had to admit that it was nice to have Carrie arrive with a video for the children or a plan to go rowing on the Serpentine. And she was grateful that Carrie was obviously avoiding Eduardo. Carrie always left when Poppy’s taxi arrived to take her to the theater—long before Eduardo would be home.
At the beginning of October Carrie asked if she could do a photo-shoot at Manor Farm one weekend. She wanted, she said, to get a few pics of the children eating scones and jam tarts. It was for an article in a South African magazine. Carrie said, “It’s for My Mag. Do you remember it—fat upmarket glossy? They want a piece on English teatime, as if that still existed. I think the ed. has a vicarage lawn in mind with silver teapots and bread-and-butter before cake.”
Poppy sounded reluctant. “Oh Carrie, I don’t know. You know Eduardo hates the children being used as models.”
Carrie interrupted, “But it won’t take long. And no one in England is ever going to see the photos, so being child models is hardly likely to go to their heads. And it will be a doddle to do.”
Carrie paused to give her sister time to say yes, but when she didn’t immediately do so, she forestalled a refusal with, “Say yes, Poppy, You’ll get the silver cleaned for free and end up with a freezer full of white walnut cake, treacle tart and Victoria sponge. And I’ll be a Saturday baby-sitting service.”
Poppy laughed. “OK,” she said. “But I’ll hold you to the baby-sitting bit. Guillia has hardly had a break since Filumena reopened.”
*
Carrie was pleased with herself. She hadn’t expected Poppy to agree to the photo-shoot. Her using Manor Farm for pictures used to annoy Eduardo quite as much as her borrowing the children.
Carrie suspected her sister would not have agreed if she’d known the whole deal, and she was quite certain Eduardo would have blocked it. The truth was that the article was not going to be exclusively recipes. It was also to be a “lifestyle” piece about the Santolinis.
The family was perfect celebrity fodder for My Mag. Eduardo’s company had recently won an international competition to design the gigantic new South African Sports and Arts Centre, Poppy was a well-known actress, brought up in
South Africa, and the icing on the cake was their adoption of a black African child. A triple hook. My Mag’s editor had first approached Eduardo directly, but had been told by his office that he never agreed to personal publicity: they were welcome to a handout on the Santolini architectural practice, or photographs of the proposed center in Natal, or even a head and shoulders of Eduardo, but no family stuff.
So My Mag had contacted Carrie, who assured them she could swing it under the guise of a food piece. She’d let on later about the “famous family” angle. Carrie reckoned Eduardo would not really mind. He had occasionally consented to be photographed with Poppy to promote her career or her latest play. And Carrie intended to write only flattering things about them all, so how could they mind? It would help atone for the last months, make Poppy forgive her. And it would make Eduardo . . . Carrie shied away from what she hoped of Eduardo.
The family snaps were not a problem either. She had some good shots taken before they went to Mpumalanga in the summer: Eduardo playing croquet on the lawn with Angelina, and everyone eating lunch under the pergola. If she cropped them right she could cut out the grilled salmon and wine bottles. Maybe if Nick, who was a bit of a computer nerd as well as a photographer, scanned them into his PC, he might be able to replace the salmon with scones and the wine with a jug of lemonade. Anyway, they’d manage, and she’d end up with some great pics, a few good recipes and an article that would restore her relations with the Santolinis.
As she drove over the hump-back bridge over the Windrush and turned into Manor Farm’s poplar-lined drive, Carrie studied the sky. Some of the leaves were just beginning to turn, but the light was similar to the day she’d taken the photos in June, with scattered cloud, not blazing sun. If she got the kids into the clothes they were wearing then, and made sure the background was green lawn, she’d be away.
Guillia did not seem pleased to see her. She was stringing runner beans at the wooden table outside the kitchen and she nodded at Carrie without pausing in her task. I wonder if she knows about Eduardo and me, thought Carrie. Old witch, she probably knows by instinct. But the children were excited to see her, dancing round the car as she unloaded the food, props and white string hammock.