by Jill Mansell
But they made it, finally. Dina, with her stressed bladder, was dropped off first. Then Susie, then Jen. Kissing each of them good-bye in turn, Poppy wondered how they would react if they knew what was racing through her mind. Jen was Rob’s cousin, Dina his sister-in-law. Only an hour or so ago Susie had confided tipsily, ‘If I could meet and marry someone even half as nice as your Rob I’d be so happy.’
‘Edgerton Close is it, love?’ asked the taxi driver over his shoulder when only Poppy was left in the car.
Poppy looked at her watch for the fiftieth time. Quarter to three. She took a deep breath.
‘Delgado’s, Milton Street. Opposite the university. Hurry, please.’
***
Delgado’s was a trendy post-nightclub hangout popular with students and diehard clubbers alike. Poppy, who had visited it a few times in the past, knew its atmosphere to be far more of a draw than the food.
But with its white painted exterior and glossy dark blue shutters it certainly looked the part. On a night like tonight, Poppy knew it would be even busier than usual, packed with people showing off their tans, making the most of the perfect weather while it lasted and pretending they weren’t in Bristol but in the south of France.
As her taxi drew up outside Poppy wondered just how stupid she would feel if she went inside and he wasn’t there. She looked again at her watch. One minute to three.
Then she saw him, sitting alone at one of the sought-after tables in the window. He was lounging back on his chair idly stirring sugar into an espresso and smoking a cigarette.
Poppy’s pulse began to race. Twelve hours from now she was due to walk down the aisle of St Mary’s church on her father’s arm. Twelve and a bit hours from now she would become Poppy McBride, wife of Robert and mother—in due course—to three, maybe four little McBrides. It was all planned, right down to the middle names and the color of the wallpaper in the nursery. Rob was a great one for thinking ahead.
‘Here, love?’ The taxi driver was showing signs of restlessness. When Poppy still didn’t move he lit up a cigar and exhaled heavily, making smoke ricochet off the windscreen and into the back of the cab. This usually did the trick.
Poppy didn’t even notice. She saw Tom look at his own watch then gaze out of the window. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if she stepped out of the taxi now her life would be changed drastically and forever.
The taxi driver shifted round in his seat to look at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re dozing off back there.’
Hardly. Poppy, awash with adrenaline, wondered if she would ever sleep again. Her fingers crept towards the door handle.
‘Look, love,’ began the driver, ‘we can’t—’
‘Edgerton Close.’ Poppy blurted the words out, clenching her fists at her side and willing herself not to leap out of the cab. ‘Please.’
‘You mean back to Henbury?’ The driver stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘No, but do it anyway.’ She turned her face away from Delgado’s and held her breath until the taxi reached the far end of Milton Street. It was no good; she couldn’t go through with it.
The bad news was, she didn’t think she could go through with the wedding either.
Since sleep was out of the question Poppy didn’t even bother climbing into bed. Instead, making herself cup after cup of tea and pacing the moonlit back garden as she drank them, she went over in her mind what had happened so far. And, nerve-rackingly, what had to be done next.
By six o’clock, the sun was blazing down out of a flawless duck-egg blue sky and upstairs Poppy heard her father begin to stir. She showered, pulled a comb ruthlessly through her tangled hair, cleaned her teeth, and threw on a white tee-shirt and jeans. Then she tapped on his bedroom door.
‘Dad? I’ve made you a cup of tea.’
Since the death of Laura Dunbar ten years ago there had been no other woman in her father’s life. Poppy had missed her mother desperately following the nightmarish accident when an out-of-control lorry had careered down Henbury Hill smashing into Laura and killing her outright. Her mother had been fun-loving, vivacious, and openly affectionate. She had also doted on Poppy, her much-loved only child.
In the first unbearable months following the accident, Poppy had secretly wondered why the lorry couldn’t have suffered brake failure in front of her father instead. It was shameful to even think it, but at twelve years old, you couldn’t always control your thoughts. And it would have been so much easier to lose the withdrawn, humorless, silent parent who didn’t even seem to like her that much anyway.
But it hadn’t happened that way. Laura had been the one to die and Mervyn Dunbar had never made any attempts to replace her. Gradually, Poppy had grown used to the fact that from now on there would be just the two of them. Poppy had made heroic attempts to learn to cook. A cleaning woman came in twice a week to keep the place hygienic.
Despite Poppy’s best efforts, her father had continued to treat her as more of a stranger in the house than a daughter. In turn, she had taken to going out a great deal. He was her father but Poppy wasn’t sure she loved him. It was hard to love someone who so plainly didn’t love you back.
Now, having knocked on his bedroom door, she waited downstairs in the kitchen. Ten minutes later he appeared, fully dressed, in the doorway.
‘Dad, I can’t do it. I’m going to have to call the wedding off.’
Poppy watched him heave a sigh before reaching slowly for his cup of tea. When he had taken the first sip he would pull a face. She knew this because it was what he always did when she had made the tea.
‘Why?’ her father said at last when he had swallowed and grimaced. ‘What’s he done wrong?’
‘Nothing. Rob hasn’t done anything wrong.’ Poppy pushed her fingers through her wet hair, wincing as a strand of it caught up in her engagement ring. The small diamond twinkled in the sunlight. She would have to give it back. ‘It’s me. I just can’t go through with it.’
‘And it’s taken you until now to realize this?’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’ her father said bitterly. ‘Causing trouble?’
She stared at him, appalled. ‘Of course I don’t!’
‘You’ve always caused trouble.’
‘I have not,’ Poppy almost shouted, outraged by the lie. If there was one thing she’d never been, it was a troublemaker.
‘You’re like your mother.’ Mervyn Dunbar’s voice dropped to a hoarse undertone. With her red-gold hair pushed away from her forehead like that, Poppy so resembled her mother it was unnerving. And she was twenty-two now; the same age Laura had been when he had first met her.
How he had loved Laura, he thought wearily. And how she had hurt him in return.
‘What do you mean?’ Poppy began to feel sick. She had never heard him say anything like this before. Her mother wasn’t a subject he had ever seemed to want to discuss.
Mervyn Dunbar finished drinking his tea. ‘Nothing. I’m just saying you like a bit of drama, that’s all. So what happens after you’ve called the wedding off? Have you thought about that?’
‘Not really—’
‘And where will you live? Or,’ said Mervyn heavily, ‘does this mean you’ll be staying on here?’
It was ironic, thought Poppy, that she should ever have worried about having to leave her father to fend for himself. Not normally slow, it had taken her until now to realize he would actually prefer her out of his way.
‘It’s all right, I’ll move out.’ She spoke jerkily, not having had time yet to think things through. ‘I don’t know where. Maybe out of Bristol. At least that way I won’t keep bumping into Rob and his family. And all his friends—’
Poppy jumped as out in the hall the newspaper clattered through the letter box. She looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten to seven. Oh dear, she’d better get a move on. Poor Rob. He wasn’t going to be very pleased.
Chapter 3
This was
pretty much the understatement of the year. Having walked the half-mile or so to the semi-detached house where Rob lived with his parents and younger brothers, Poppy and her aching toe arrived at seven o’clock to find the McBrides already up and rushing about. Margaret McBride, who had insisted on doing all the food for the reception, was plastic-wrapping everything in sight and ferrying trays of hors d’oeuvres out to the cars standing in the driveway. The younger boys were stuffing themselves with Scotch eggs while their mother’s back was turned. Their father, sitting straight-backed on the kitchen doorstep like the army man he had once been, was vigorously spit-and-polishing a long line of shoes.
‘You what?’ said Rob, when Poppy told him in the privacy of the ultra-tidy sitting room.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I can’t marry you.’ She winced inwardly at the sound of her own voice saying the words. Poor Rob, he really didn’t deserve this.
Poppy wished she didn’t have to be here doing it, inflicting all this pain. The temptation to forget the whole thing—to just go ahead, what the hell, and marry the man—was huge. She could understand why not many people called off their wedding on the day it was due to take place.
What was really awful, she realized when she looked up moments later, was that Rob was smiling.
‘Poppy. Come on now, love, calm down. It’s normal to have last-minute jitters, you know it is. Don’t you remember, there was a piece about it in that magazine of Mum’s last week? She read it out to you.’
Poppy went rigid as, still smiling, he pulled her into his arms for a reassuring hug. Horrors, he didn’t believe her…
‘This isn’t a last-minute jitter.’ She lifted her chin, realizing she had to make certain this time she was getting through. ‘I mean it, Rob. I’m sorry, I know you’re going to hate me for doing this but we have to cancel the wedding. We really have to.’
As Susie had observed last night, it would be hard to find a better husband than Rob McBride. He was charming; he was honest; he was generous to a fault. With his solid physique, his unflashy good looks, his heroic job as a fireman, and his kindness to old dears and small children alike, he was everything a girl could want. He didn’t drink, gamble, or womanize. He knew how to put up shelves. He didn’t even mind that Poppy couldn’t cook.
Staring at her now, Rob said, ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No.’
‘Poppy, you can’t just cancel a wedding—’
‘Yes we can.’
‘But why would you want to?’ Rob was no longer smiling. His complexion had turned three shades paler. His dark eyebrows drew together as he tried to make sense of what was going on. ‘This isn’t very bloody funny, you know. Come on, tell me what’s happened. Why don’t you want to get married?’
His body was well-muscled, honed to perfection with regular sport and weight-training exercises. Poppy could see that every one of those muscles was in a state of rigidly controlled tension. At least she didn’t have to worry that he might hit her. Wife-battering wasn’t something Rob would ever go in for. Except, Poppy realized belatedly, she wasn’t going to be his wife. She was the bitch jilting him practically at the altar. He might not be able to resist giving her a quick slap across the face.
‘I said,’ Rob repeated stonily, ‘why don’t you want to get married?’
‘Look, it’s not you, it’s me,’ Poppy rushed to explain. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. This is all my own fault. The thing is, it wouldn’t be fair to marry you. Not fair to you or me. Oh Rob, I know I keep saying I’m sorry, but I am. You see, I don’t love you enough—’
‘Someone else.’ The words came out through gritted teeth. Rob’s light grey eyes were like ice-chips. ‘Is this what you’re trying to tell me? You’ve met someone else?’
It was no good. Poppy realized she might as well be honest. He deserved that much.
‘In a way, I suppose. But—’
‘In a way?’ shouted Rob. ‘In a way? And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
Poppy tried to imagine what was going on at this moment on the other side of the sitting-room door. Rob’s family must by this time be listening to every word. Their ears would be suction-cupped to the freshly glossed wood.
‘I’m not leaving you for another man, Rob.’
The look of absolute horror on his face said it all.
‘Not another woman either,’ Poppy went on hastily. ‘Please, try and understand. I’m not leaving you for another man but it is because of another man. He’s someone I met, briefly. Very briefly. And I’m never going to see him again. But he made me realize I couldn’t marry you,’ she said with a helpless shrug. ‘He made me realize I don’t love you as much as I should. All I ever really wanted, you see, was an excuse to leave home and become part of a… a happy family.’
‘So all the time I’ve been putting in extra hours, getting a bit more money together for the house,’ said Rob slowly, ‘you’ve been screwing some other bloke behind my back.’
‘No. I wasn’t. I didn’t sleep with him,’ Poppy explained. ‘I didn’t even kiss him. I know it sounds bizarre—’
‘Bizarre’s hardly the word I’d have called it. Will you look at the time?’ He thrust his watch under her nose. ‘Half past fucking seven. We’re supposed to be getting married in six hours. What are you, some kind of sadist? If you had to call the thing off, couldn’t you at least have done it before now?’
‘No—’
‘Who is this lover boy anyway?’ Rob demanded furiously. ‘For his sake it had better not be anyone I know. And you can tell me how long it’s been going on.’
‘It’s no one you know,’ said Poppy. ‘It’s no one I know, come to that. And it hasn’t been going on any time at all,’ she added wearily. ‘I only met him last night.’
The next hour was so horrible it seemed to drag on for weeks. Poppy, effectively cornered by Rob’s unhappy family, began to wonder if she would ever be allowed to leave. Most alarming of all was their absolute refusal to accept her decision. Margaret McBride carried on grimly plastic-wrapping sausage rolls and plates of cheese-and-asparagus quiche.
‘You don’t mean it,’ Rob’s father said for the tenth time. He gestured towards the kitchen table, heaped with shrimp vol-au-vents and tins of biscuits. ‘You can’t let good food like this go to waste.’
‘I’ll pay for the food,’ Poppy said in desperation. ‘I’ll pay for everything. Please can’t we phone the vicar—?’
‘Never mind the cost,’ shouted Margaret McBride. ‘What about the humiliation? How’s our son supposed to live this down? You’re not even being logical, Poppy! If you were running off with another man I could understand it, but this… this is just a whim, a stupid idea you’ve got into your head. And it’s selfish. Selfish,’ she raged on, tears welling in her eyes, ‘because you will destroy my son if you go through with this. How will he ever live down the shame?’
‘What shame?’ Rob demanded hotly. He had had enough of this. It was plain to him that Poppy had no intention of changing her mind. Sod it, why should he have to stand here listening to his own mother fighting his battles for him? She was making him sound a complete wimp.
He turned to face Poppy. ‘You’re the one who should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘I know,’ Poppy pleaded. She didn’t care how angry he got—it would almost be a relief if he did punch her on the nose—she just wanted the showdown over with. ‘I know and it’s all my fault—’
‘Damn right it is.’ Rob’s muscles were still bunched up, but he didn’t hit girls. Never had, never would. That didn’t matter though; there were other ways of getting back at Poppy Dunbar, better ways of hitting her where it hurt. Silkily he said, ‘So what does your dear old dad make of all this? You have mentioned it to him, I suppose?’
‘He’s not thrilled.’ Poppy began to relax slightly. Rob sounded as if he were starting to accept the situation at last. ‘He said I was causing trouble again—’
‘You did enough of that, didn’
t you, when you were born?’
‘Rob.’ His mother spoke in warning tones.
Puzzled, Poppy echoed, ‘When I was born?’
‘Why should he give a toss, anyway, whether you get married or not? Mervyn Dunbar isn’t your father.’ Rob reveled in the moment. His mouth curled with pleasure. ‘Dear me, so surprised,’ he drawled triumphantly. ‘I thought everyone around here knew that.’
Chapter 4
At twenty-two, Claudia Slade-Welch had a great deal going for her. She knew this because people were always telling her so. She was lucky to have thick blonde hair, lucky to have splendid breasts—no need for a Wonderbra there—and lucky to have legs long enough to counterbalance what might otherwise have seemed a rather large bottom.
The luck didn’t end there. As if all this wasn’t enough for one girl, Claudia had also been blessed with an endlessly glamorous mother and a father who wasn’t only charming but famous to boot. Only when she was asked where she lived were people able—for a few fleeting seconds—to feel sympathetic towards her rather than envious. Renting a room in a friend’s house didn’t have much of a glamorous ring to it, they thought. It sounded mundane, if not downright dull. Until someone else happened to mention in passing that the friend in question was Caspar French. Then everyone, especially the women, changed their minds in an instant and gasped, ‘My God, how fantastic! You lucky, lucky thing…’
The trouble was, as Claudia had come to realize over the years, she never actually felt as lucky as everyone else thought she should feel. As a child, reading endless Enid Blyton books, she had first suspected that her mother wasn’t a normal Enid Blyton-type mother. Normal Enid Blyton-type mothers were never called Angie for a start. Nor did they wriggle into glitzy mini dresses and flirt with almost everyone in trousers, from her husband’s celebrated circle of fellow actors to Claudia’s own beloved homeroom teacher at school, Mr Elliott.
Time hadn’t improved matters. Normal mothers were supposed to be looked up to. Claudia, growing and growing like an over-watered sunflower, had overtaken tiny, five-foot-tall Angie by the time she was eleven. Being ten inches taller than your own mother, she discovered, wasn’t a comfortable sensation. Nor was it helped by Angie’s habit of pointing it out at every opportunity, of faxing diet sheets to the matron at her daughter’s school, and of wailing loudly at parties: ‘…and I thought the whole point of having girls was so one could borrow their clothes! I mean, tell me, where did I go wrong?’