by Prue Leith
Karl did not say anything at once. Then he straightened his back and said, “That’s not altogether a surprise. She said much the same thing herself last night.” His face was rigid, and he said with an effort, “I’ll go now. And Poppy, thanks for this week. And for the coffee and Danish.”
Poppy could see the damage she’d done. She could see it in the stiff formality of his speech. He was being rigidly polite, going through the motions, face of stone. A man whose dream has been cut away from him.
For a second she wanted to undo it. But he was talking again. “Poppy, forgive me. I’ve been an idiot. I just wanted to tell you about me. I never thought about how you must feel about Carrie. And I never thought that’s how I look to her.”
They walked back inside, his arms hanging by his sides. He said, “You’re a good woman, Poppy. Eduardo is a lucky man.” And then he was gone.
I can go and blub in peace now, thought Poppy, but knew she wouldn’t. She no longer wanted to cry. She’d applied the balm of pure malice to her pain and it had pretty much worked. In spite of her humiliation and wretchedness, she was conscious of a small smudge of pleasure. She had scuppered something of Carrie’s.
She filled a bucket with hot water, threw a sponge into it and picked up the packet of Flash. She’d clean the terrace furniture.
As she soaped and rinsed away a summer of London grime, she let her mind freewheel into calmer waters.
Karl’s last remark, about Eduardo being lucky, came back to her and cheered her. And now that they’d seen Carrie, some of the tension between her and Eduardo had gone. Maybe, as long as she gave up any fantasies of romance or revenge, they might yet be alright.
Eduardo had been complaining about the chairs and table. He’d be pleased. I could do with a bit of approval, she thought, even if it’s for scrubbing.
Chapter 23
Carrie was pretty low. Richard had decamped, simply saying he was through.
And she missed Karl. He’d not even come to say goodbye, just left a message on her, machine: “It’s Karl. I’m off now. Thanks for everything. And Carrie, if you want some thinking time, come to Kaia Moya. Could do you some good.”
Sanctimonious ass. Anyone would think she needed a shrink or something.
And things had not improved with Poppy. When she’d managed to get five tickets for the sell-out panto at the National she rang Poppy in triumph.
“It’s my Christmas treat. We’ll take the kids.”
There was a fractional pause and then Poppy said, “I can’t, Carrie. I’ve got a matinee.”
“No, you haven’t . . .” Carrie started to say, then the coldness of Poppy’s voice registered and Carrie realized her sister was lying. There was no Filumena matinee—Carrie had checked before she bought the tickets. Poppy just didn’t want to come.
Poppy’s lying upset her as much as the fact that she refused to come. She could not remember Poppy ever lying to her. Yet she knew the change in her sister was her fault. How could she object to Poppy telling her white lies, when she’d lived the grand lie for months?
Feeling saintly, Carrie took Lucille instead. Her mother could only follow plays and films if the story was parked in her long-term memory, so Carrie figured she’d be OK with Cinderella.
But Lucille fell asleep and snored, then protested loudly that modern actors all mumbled. Then in the second act she turned to Carrie and said, “Are you in this, dear?”
“No,” hissed Carrie. “Poppy’s the actress, not me, and if she was in it how could she be here?”
Being put right upset Lucille. Rebuffed and hesitant, she said, “But she isn’t here.” She looked like a child about to cry, and Carrie felt awful. She patted her mother’s hand and said, “Never mind, Mum. I’ll explain later.”
Then, in a quiet bit with the Prince mooning at Cinderella, Tom’s high-pitched voice rang out, loud and clear, “Carrie, can we turn it off now?” As the people around them burst into laughter, Lorato bounced up and down, saying, “Turn it off. Turn it off.”
When the final curtain fell, Lucille made a beeline for the front. To Carrie’s question, “Where are you going, Mum?” she replied, “To see you, dear. You always like friends in your dressing room.”
*
Poppy did not refuse to see Carrie altogether, but the old intimacy had gone, and when Carrie tried to recapture it by telling her about Richard walking out because she’d kissed Karl, Poppy brushed her off with, “Oh Carrie, grow up. How much more shit do you think Richard could take from you before he’d had enough?” Poppy saying shit rocked her as much as the uncharacteristic lack of sympathy.
And when Carrie had made some reference to coming down to Oxfordshire for Christmas, Poppy had said, quite brutally, “Carrie, I don’t want you to come this year. I’m not having Mother either. We are all exhausted, I only get two nights off, and I want to be as quiet as possible. With just the family.”
“Just the family” hurt. I am family, thought Carrie. But she’d said, “Sure. OK. No problem.”
*
Carrie spent Christmas with her mother, sleeping on her sofa. Adrienne was glad to shed the responsibility of Lucille for a few days and Carrie’s mood as Christmas approached veered from self-pity—everyone was away skiing or tucked up with family in the country—to feeling virtuous. There was no work, nothing to do, so she might as well look after Lucille and pig out in front of the telly. She’d lay off the dope, and sleep a lot. It would be good for her.
To her surprise she enjoyed it. Her mother was much less irritating on her own, not being fussed by too much noise, or made anxious by having to pretend she remembered things she didn’t.
And Lucille liked being spoiled, and she shared Carrie’s natural extravagance. She was delighted with a Christmas lunch of nothing but hot blinis, smoked salmon and soured cream, with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to start and finish with, and one of Cloudy Bay Chardonnay in between.
“Oops, I must be tiddly,” said Lucille, as, wobbling dangerously, she sent a cascade of squeezed lemons and dirty forks off the plates.
“Hey, Mum, let me,” said Carrie, taking the plates. “You sit down. And we aren’t a little tiddly. We are drunk.”
“I know,” responded Lucille. “Fun, isn’t it?” She sat down and poured the rest of the champagne into her glass.
They watched the Queen’s speech, and Carrie felt a pang of real sorrow when her mother, who had been a faithful listener to Queen’s speeches ever since they’d come to England, said, “Who is that woman? What is she talking about?”
“It’s the Queen, Mum. Christmas Day speech.”
“That’s not the Queen. That’s an old woman. Turn her off.”
Before her mother went off for her nap, Carrie had the presence of mind to dose them both with Alka Seltzer. Then she tucked down on the sofa with the video of Grease and a box of Mint Matchmakers.
In fifteen minutes she could feel herself drifting contentedly into sleep, dark and luxurious as chocolate.
*
A week later, Carrie was again at Lucille’s, this time for New Year’s Day. My social life, she thought, is rubbish—Christmas and New Year with a batty old mother.
The one area of their lives the sisters still talked easily about was Lucille, although there was an unspoken but mutually understood subtext: how long would she last? They’d been told dementia patients seldom lived ten years after diagnosis, but it was seventeen years since Lucille’s illness had become obvious and they’d come to live in England. But since their father had died seven years ago, Lucille had got much worse. She was now physically as well as mentally frail.
Carrie knew that Poppy bore the brunt of caring for their mother, but she felt she’d evened up the balance a bit with her Christmas stint, and increased her Brownie point stock further with an offer to cook this lunch.
Lucille was pleased. Repeatedly pleased. For
every time (about eight so far, Carrie reckoned) she asked who was coming or what the occasion was, she heard the news of a celebration afresh.
Carrie was sautéing chicken fillets in sesame oil, when Lucille appeared at the door. “Darling, I know you are cooking supper, but who is coming?”
“Lunch, not supper. It’s New Year. Poppy and Co are coming.”
“Oh, how nice. I’d forgotten. Shall I lay the table?”
“You just did, Mum.” Lucille looked at the table without noticing that Carrie had removed the tea-towels she’d laid for napkins and replaced the mugs with glasses.
“So I did. How funny. You know, sometimes I think my memory is going.”
Once the Santolinis arrived, Lucille became the gracious hostess. Knowing better than to cross her, the sisters left their mother to do the honors. Having asked Eduardo what he’d like, she responded to his request for “whisky, no water, no ice” with a brandy goblet containing gin, water, ice and a scattering of cigarette ash. Angelina’s protest that she’d asked for orange not tomato juice died in her throat at a look from Carrie. Poppy pre-empted trouble with Lorato and Tom by giving them each a tumbler of orange before their grandmother could turn her attention to them.
Perhaps with a hazy memory that guests for drinks meant canapés, Lucille disappeared into the kitchen, refusing all aid.
Carrie caught Poppy’s eye. Carrie shook her head. “Leave her,” she said. “She’ll give us hell if we help.”
In a surprisingly short time, Lucille reappeared with a plate of snacks—small biscuits on which was spread some kind of pâté. Lorato, ever desperate for anything edible, reached for a canapé and ate it, her eyes already searching for the next one. Tom, less bold, put his carefully into his mouth, then promptly spat it out again. Carrie dived into the kitchen and returned with a half empty tub of Felix, “gourmet food for cats”.
Lucille said, “Darling, leave the pâté in the kitchen. It’s so crude to serve it straight from the tin. And I’ve made cocktail bits.”
Eduardo was having trouble keeping a straight face as Poppy surreptitiously gathered up the offending Felix bits. Lorato held tight to her second one, stuffing it hastily into her mouth and swallowing before Poppy could get to her.
Carrie watched as Eduardo swung Lorato up into the crook of his arm and put his other arm round his wife, saying, “I don’t suppose it will kill her.” Poppy’s eyes were bright with trying not to laugh.
Carrie distracted Lucille by calling everyone to lunch, and handing her the wine to pour. This proved a mistake as she filled everyone’s glasses, including the children’s, to the brim. But it gave Carrie time to dish up.
Halfway through lunch Lucille suddenly came to life. She’d been out of it for a while, but she came to with a vengeance.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I really am a terrible cook.” She looked at the half-eaten plates, and pushed her own away from her. “This stuff is truly disgusting. Don’t eat it. I won’t be offended. We’ll just leave it and we’ll go out. Get something edible in a restaurant.”
Poppy caught her sister’s eye and Carrie saw something of the old sympathy and understanding there.
Poppy said, “Mum, it’s simply delicious. Did you cook it? I would have sworn it was cooked by Carrie, it’s so good.”
Lucille, her previous opinion forgotten, tasted a piece of chicken and said, “Mmm. It is good. Did you make it, Poppy?”
Praise for the food, if not for the cook, worked its usual magic on Carrie and after that lunch went better than Carrie had expected. She’d barely seen Eduardo since their affair, and not at all since Lorato nearly drowned and he’d told her she was a witch. She’d thought she’d still be angry with him. But somehow it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing to do with Eduardo mattered anymore.
She could see that he was still, technically, drop dead gorgeous. But he wasn’t right for her. There was something weak about him. Poppy was the stronger of the two, and he hadn’t had the courage to leave her.
Looking at his big hands cracking nuts, one hand gripping the nutcracker, one shielding the nut to prevent pieces of shell flying, Carrie could no longer see what had turned her on so. She remembered the many times she’d felt weak with lust as she’d watched those hands hugging a mug of coffee, or stroking her thigh.
She shook her head a fraction, disbelieving. It was over. Like a hurricane or a disease.
Carrie watched Poppy patiently denying Tom more chocolates, and thought how lucky Poppy’s children were. Whatever the sins of the father, they had a rock-solid mother. One day, when the events of the last year were far in the past, she would mend relations with her sister.
But things went wrong over coffee. Eduardo said, “Carrie, you should get your claws into Karl. He’s a good guy, and he’d be a match for you. Why don’t you?”
Carrie expostulated, “Get my claws into him? That’s a bit rich.”
“It would make sense. He’s got a bit of money now the Game Lodge is doing so well. If you went in with him you’d have two-thirds between you and I’m sure Poppy would sell you her third.”
“No I wouldn’t,” said Poppy, very quickly.
Carrie, her mouth open in astonishment, said, “Hey, excuse me you two. Do I get a say in this? Or does Karl? What is this, a marriage market?”
Eduardo shrugged and said, “OK, OK. Just an idea. Not serious.”
“It’s a lousy idea,” said Poppy. “Karl would never marry Carrie in a million years.”
Carrie felt the blow as if it was physical. A double blow. Why was Poppy suddenly being so unkind? She’d been almost friendly a minute ago. And Karl liked her. She knew he did.
“Oh,” she said as coolly as she could manage. “I dare say he wouldn’t. We’ve never discussed it. But how come you know what Karl thinks of me?”
“Because he told me,” said Poppy, standing up and walking over to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Goodbye, Mum. Happy New Year.”
Carrie opened her mouth and closed it again. She was bursting to challenge Poppy, but the suddenness of Poppy’s onslaught had taken the wind out of her, and she could not marshal her thoughts. And then Poppy had gone in a flurry of goodbyes and instructions to the children, leaving Carrie to clear up and cope with their mother, who kept putting things away before Carrie had washed them up. Christ, thought Carrie, her throat tight and her eyes pricking, who needs families?
*
“What is it?” said Carrie, “A bill? Bung it in the drawer with the others, will you?” Her hands were floury from the pizza dough. Lulu could hardly expect her to open letters.
“No. You’ve got to read it.”
Something in Lulu’s voice made Carrie turn round and look her in the face. “Why? What’s up, Lulu? What is it?”
“It’s my resignation. I’m leaving.”
Carrie straightened up, her face at first blank, then astonished. She lifted her floury hands in a gesture of denial, then dropped them again. “Lulu, you can’t. I can’t manage the business without you.”
“Carrie, you can’t manage it with me. You used to be so great. The best. But you are all over the place. I’m tired of bailing you out.”
Carrie felt her face flush. “What do you mean, bail me out?” she said, her voice rising.
“Just that, Carrie. You’ve lost it. Last night was the last straw.”
Carrie had an uneasy feeling about last night, and didn’t want to talk about it. She said quickly, “Look, I’m sorry about that, but . . .”
Lulu cut in, “It’s not just last night, though that was the worst. It’s all the time. Last week you forgot that wedding cake and I was up all night, icing the thing, blowing the layers dry with a poxy hairdryer . . .”
Carrie interrupted, “But Lulu, have a heart, anyone could forget an order . . .”
“And what about the props you forgot to
return and I had to go crawling to Hot Properties with some story about you being ill so they wouldn’t charge you an extra £800?” Lulu’s chin was up, her eyes accusing. “And the millions of suppliers I have to fob off because you haven’t paid them?” Lulu dropped her eyes and said, her voice flat, “Last night was one too many, Carrie. I’m sorry but I’m off.”
Carrie could not get her brain to focus. What had happened last night?
Lulu said, more kindly, “You don’t remember a thing, do you?”
Carrie snapped back, “Of course I do. It was the Everton boy’s 21st. It went off perfectly. There was a message from his mother on the machine this morning, She said it was the best party they’d ever . . .”
“Yes, because I did ninenty percent of the work, and because I managed to get you home before they found you completely out of your skull with young Everton’s mates.”
Carrie turned her back to Lulu then, and washed the flour off her hands. She dried them on her apron and sat down. “Oh God, Lulu, what did I do?”
Lulu sat in the chair next to her and said, “Carrie, you’ve got to get some help. I don’t know what drugs you were doing last night, and I don’t know if you are addicted or just unhappy. But last night you ended up in a gang-bang with a bunch of 20-year-olds.”
Carrie felt her stomach contract. Oh God, she remembered now. She’d been on such a high when the dinner was over that when the birthday boy, pissed as a newt, had asked her to dance, she’d joined in. And then . . .
Lulu said, “Open the envelope, Carrie.” She offered it to Carrie again.
Carrie pushed Lulu’s hand away. “Why the fuck should I?” said Carrie. “You’ve told me what it says. You’re quitting.” Carrie took a deep breath and changed tack. “Look, Lulu, I’m sorry. Maybe I can’t blame you, but Oh Lulu, don’t leave now. I can’t . . .”
Lulu opened the envelope herself. “Look,” she said. “They were printing them out on the computer, and handing them round.” Lulu passed Carrie a sheaf of folded A4 papers.