by Jill Mansell
‘Mmm?’ Rita’s attention was being drawn elsewhere. At the other end of the room, Alex and his band had launched into a rousing, jazzed-up version of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown.’ Suddenly everyone was dancing. Rita was clearly dying to rush over and join in.
‘It’s just, this house.’ Having started, Poppy felt compelled to finish. ‘Um… I couldn’t help wondering where the money… I mean, it must have cost a fortune…’
Alex was belting out the chorus on his Bechstein. Everyone sang along. Rita, gazing in adoration at him, said, ‘Sorry, what?’
‘You and Alex,’ Poppy shouted above the noise of the music. ‘How did you GET SO RICH?’
‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Kenda, gripping Poppy’s elbow with such force she felt her funny bone start to go. Smiling fixedly at Rita, Kenda wheeled Poppy round and propelled her in the direction of the kitchen.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ She hissed the words, bullet-like, into Poppy’s ear, as shocked as if Poppy had been asking how they’d caught syphilis. ‘What did I say earlier about professional behavior? I warn you, Poppy, you’re treading a very fine line. Anymore of this nonsense and you are out.’
Poppy did as she was told. She returned to the kitchen, armed herself with two fresh trays of prosciutto wrapped dates, and spent the next twenty minutes dutifully offering them around.
Then she watched one of the other musicians take over at the piano. Alex, kissing Rita’s hand, led her into the center of the room. Cheered on by the noisier guests, he made a short speech thanking everyone for being with them tonight and Rita in particular for marrying him in the first place. Then they danced together to ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World.’ Everyone whistled and applauded before piling back onto the dance floor themselves.
‘What did you do?’ whispered Janet as she passed Poppy going in the other direction. ‘Kenda’s blowing a gasket. She asked me if you were on drugs.’
‘Honestly.’ Poppy sighed. ‘From the way she’s going on, you’d think I’d been spitting in the soup.’
Janet said, ‘If you had, you wouldn’t be the first.’
Poppy carried on serving. Physically she was doing her job, but mentally she was checking out every detail of the house. As much as she dared anyway; she was going to get some pretty funny looks if she started rummaging through the cupboards under the stairs.
Still, she was seeing enough to get the idea. At a guess, a team of top-class interior designers had been called in. They had organized, amongst other things, the elegant pleated curtains, the concealed lighting, the chair rails, and the white Italian marble kitchen. Rita and Alex had said how lovely, so as not to hurt the design team’s fragile feelings. Then the moment they’d left, they had set to work putting their own personal stamp on the place.
Brightly patterned rugs were strewn around, probably to cheer up the tasteful taupe carpet. Even brighter lampshades, frilled and fringed to distraction, were perched on imitation Oscar lampstands. Ornaments thronged every available surface. There was enough Capo di Monte china to stock a factory. Huge gilt-framed photographs of Alex and Rita hung on every wall.
One of the doors off the wood-paneled hall led into a library with no books but plenty of videos in imitation leather covers. There was also a cinema-sized television screen. The black leather sofa in front of it was piled high with fluffy toys. An oil painting of a liquid-eyed spaniel hung over the fireplace. Another, of Elvis, adorned the opposite wall.
Goodness, Claudia would sneer if she could see this. Poppy glanced down at the shag pile carpet, deep enough to need mowing. It wasn’t her own taste, but she felt oddly comfortable in the room. Alex and Rita had furnished it to suit no one but themselves. Which was, really, how homes should be furnished.
The door swung open behind her and Poppy jumped, guiltily aware that she had no business being in here.
‘Aha,’ purred a male voice, ‘caught you.’
A stray remote control had been buried in the depths of the shag pile at Poppy’s feet. When she jumped, she unwittingly turned the video recorder on. A naked couple romping together in bed appeared up on the giant television screen. Poppy went scarlet, dumped her tray of canapés on the gilt-embossed coffee table and grabbed the remote control. A million buttons later she managed to find Off.
‘No need to look so shocked.’ Her male intruder was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of nookie between consenting adults. All in favor of it, myself.’
Poppy remembered serving him earlier when she had been passing round the smoked salmon parcels. He was in his thirties, she guessed, with gelled-back hair, a reddish complexion, and a confident, wide-boy smile. He was wearing a well-cut grey suit, the jacket lined with bright blue silk. A mobile phone stuck out of his pocket. He was well-built but not particularly tall and spoke rapidly, like a stock market trader, with a slight London accent.
‘Hey, hey, not so fast,’ he said as Poppy seized her tray and attempted to breeze past him. He put out an arm to stop her. ‘We can carry on watching together. Come on, sit down, take the weight off your feet. Let me have that remote control… hey, relax, I said…’
Poppy gave up on breezing. Breezing wasn’t going to do the trick. This chap was one of those take-what-you-want types and his arm was tightening around her waist like a boa constrictor. Now she remembered he was the one who’d been drinking champagne out of a half-pint glass. He was drunker than he looked. Grinning triumphantly, he flipped Poppy’s silver tray over, catapulting two dozen bacon-wrapped oysters in all directions. She felt his hot breath on her face as he yanked her towards him. There were bits of spit at the corners of his mouth. At such close quarters, the smell of hair gel was overpowering.
‘Let go of me,’ said Poppy. Feeling wimpish, she added, ‘Please.’
‘Whoa, no need to panic! Nobody else is coming in here. I noticed you earlier, y’know. I like redheads. Sweetheart, sweetheart, stop fighting it! I fancy you, you fancy me. How about a little kiss to get us warmed up?’
‘No.’ Poppy hesitated. What would Kenda want her to say? ‘No… thank you very much.’
He grew more insistent. The grip around her waist tightened another couple of notches. ‘Just a little kiss. Don’t be a spoilsport. This is what parties are all about, a bit of fun—’
Breezing was by this time out of the question. Poppy was hemmed in, pinned firmly against a black and gold lacquered sideboard with a heavy crystal whisky decanter on it, together with six matching tumblers. She felt behind her, located the neck of the decanter and picked it up. Heavens, it was even heavier than she’d thought.
‘Please let me go.’
‘Are you kidding?’ He laughed, his mouth approaching hers, his left hand zooming in on her right breast. ‘Just as we’re getting to know each other at last? Baby, don’t you know how to have fun—?’
It seemed an awful waste of whisky. It was bound to be a blended malt. Still, Poppy decided, better this way than a whack over the head with several hundred quid’s worth of lead crystal. Less brain-damaging at least.
She tipped the contents of the decanter over his ultra-gelled hair. Glug, glug, glug… within seconds he was drenched from head to foot.
‘Sorry,’ said Poppy as he let out a bellow of rage. Next moment, the library door was pushed open and Alex appeared. He stared at Poppy with the empty decanter still in her hand. He looked at his whisky-soaked guest. Then he examined the sole of his left shoe and discovered one of the scattered bacon-wrapped oysters clinging to his heel.
‘Hmm.’ Alex glanced with regret at the puddle of whisky sinking into the carpet around the other man’s feet.
‘Sorry.’ This time Poppy meant it.
‘No need. I can guess what happened. Derek been up to his usual tricks, has he?’
‘She was begging for it,’ Derek said irritably. ‘I’m telling you, begging for it.’
‘You always say that. You always think that.’ Alex sou
nded resigned. He turned to Poppy. ‘He’s just a lech. Predictable too. As soon as I heard the racket I guessed he’d done it again. Are you all right, pet?’
Poppy nodded. Moments later, she stopped being all right. Like a traffic warden turning up just when you’d parked somewhere clampable, Kenda loomed in the doorway.
‘Right,’ she said, taking in the scene far more swiftly than Alex had done and drawing her own tight-lipped conclusions, ‘that is IT, Poppy. You have brought disgrace upon Kenda’s Kitchen. I warned you earlier. I gave you every chance.’ She paused. The performance was as much for Alex’s sake as Poppy’s. Clients who spent, spent, spent like the Fitzpatricks deserved nothing but the best. ‘Your behavior tonight has been abysmal,’ she concluded rigidly. ‘You are fired.’
Bugger, thought Poppy.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Derek, even though nobody was. ‘It ain’t my fault. She asked for it. Look at the state of my flamin’ suit.’
‘Please,’ Alex said reasonably, turning to Kenda, ‘there’s no need to sack anyone. Derek’s pretty tanked. He got carried away, that’s all. Polly had to defend herself. She couldn’t let herself be slobbered over, could she, without putting up a bit of a fight?’
‘Poppy,’ said Poppy, feeling hurt that he hadn’t even remembered her name. ‘Not Polly. It’s Poppy.’
‘Sorry love.’ Alex winked, then returned his attention to Kenda. ‘Come on, give the girl a break. You don’t really want to kick her out into the snow.’
‘I’m afraid I have no other choice,’ Kenda replied with an air of finality. She looked at Poppy. ‘And before you leave you can clear up this appalling mess.’
There were hors d’oeuvres everywhere. Bits of oysters and strips of smoked bacon were strewn across the shag pile. One oyster had landed on top of the framed painting of Elvis.
It was an appalling mess. Poppy prayed the carpet wasn’t ruined beyond repair. She picked up the silver tray, bent down, and began picking the oysters out of the carpet.
‘Stop it.’ Alex reached down, seizing her by the elbow. He pulled Poppy to her feet and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘You don’t have to do that. If you ask me, this woman here’s been bloody rude to you. Well out of order.’
‘I… I…’ stammered Poppy.
‘And if she’s giving you the boot anyway, I reckon you ought to let her pick up her own sodding oysters. Why should you do it,’ Alex demanded, ‘if she’s already sacked you? Tell the old cow to get stuffed.’
Poppy hadn’t cried when she’d canceled her wedding. She hadn’t cried when she’d made the discovery that her father wasn’t her father. She hadn’t even cried the other night when Caspar had raided the freezer and pinched her last ice cream bar.
‘There. Now see what you’ve done.’ Alex pointed an accusing finger at Kenda. His identity bracelet glittered in the light. ‘And you wouldn’t even listen to her side of the story.’
Poppy wasn’t crying because she’d lost her job. She was crying because her father had his arm around her. He was comforting her, defending her, just as a real father should. It was a feeling Poppy had never experienced before, and she’d never realized until now how much she had been missing out on.
Since she didn’t have a cold, Poppy didn’t have a hanky. Alex whisked a red and white spotted one out of his waistcoat pocket and shoved it into her hand.
Derek, still dripping whisky, grunted something about a change of clothes and disappeared.
‘Good riddance to him,’ said Alex. ‘Silly sod. His old lady’ll give him what for when she sees the state of him.’
‘I’ll send one of the other girls in,’ Kenda announced coldly. ‘To clear up.’
‘It’s all right.’ Poppy sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes with the spotted hanky. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Are you going to give this girl her job back?’ demanded Alex.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Right then,’ Alex said as he turned Poppy in the direction of the door, ‘you’re coming with me. What you need is a drink.’
Chapter 17
‘I was going to ask if you’re feeling better now, but I don’t think there’s much point,’ said Alex.
Poppy was panting for breath, having danced non-stop for the past twenty minutes with a beaming barrel of a clarinet player called Buzz.
‘Now I know how to jive,’ she gasped. Buzz had to be in his early fifties. Who would have thought someone so old would be so amazingly mobile? Even now he hadn’t stopped but had deposited Poppy on the arm of a chair and begun twirling Rita around the floor instead.
‘Look at my girl,’ said Alex, watching the pair of them with pride.
For someone who must get through forty fags a day, Rita was doing pretty well herself. Her cocktail dress flared alarmingly out at the waist as Buzz launched her into a spin.
‘Come on, have another drink.’ Alex waved a bottle over Poppy’s nearly-empty glass.
She let him pour.
‘Thanks for sticking up for me earlier,’ said Poppy. ‘And for letting me stay on.’ It was almost midnight. Kenda and the others had done their duty and left in the vans. Relations between Kenda and Alex had been frosty to say the least.
‘Hang on, before I forget.’ Alex dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled notes. He passed Poppy a couple of tenners. ‘For your cab home, seeing as you’ve missed your lift. We’re carrying on for a few hours yet, mind. Not planning on having an early night, were you? Not about to go and do a Cinderella on us?’
‘What, and risk losing one of these elegant glass slippers?’ Poppy waggled her black shoes, which were flat and sensible to match the plain white shirt and black skirt worn by all Kenda’s employees. The female ones, anyway.
Alex looked appalled. ‘You poor kid, I didn’t think! How can you relax and enjoy yourself like that, stuck in that stupid uniform when everyone else is dinked up? Here’—he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door—‘come on, the least we can do is lend you something decent. Rita won’t mind. Just have a rummage and pick out whatever you want.’
They were up the winding staircase, along the endless landing, and into the master bedroom before Poppy could even think of a tactful reply. The bedroom, which had to be forty feet square, was lined with mirror-fronted walk-in wardrobes. The carpet was fluffier, thicker, and whiter than Pekinese fur. Arranged along every window sill were yet more soft toys.
‘Go on, help yourself,’ Alex urged, plonking himself down on the rippling water bed as Poppy gazed helplessly at row upon row of Rita’s clothes. ‘Anything you like. Don’t worry, it’s good stuff. And it’s all clean.’
Poppy pulled out the plainest dress she could see, of royal blue taffeta with long sleeves, an over-sized Peter Pan collar, and a scalloped hem. It was a couple of sizes too big but the style of the dress meant it wouldn’t matter too much. And unlike all the pinks, oranges, and reds Rita favored, it wasn’t going to clash alarmingly with her hair.
‘Good choice.’ Alex nodded his approval. ‘Know what color that is, Poppy? Bristol Blue. Like the glass. I’ve got a few pieces in one of the cabinets downstairs. Beautiful stuff, it is, Bristol Blue glass.’
‘I know it,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m from Bristol. I was born there.’
‘Yeah? Great place.’ Alex was still lounging on the bed, propped comfortably on one elbow. His dark eyes lit up at the memory. ‘I worked there once, years ago. In some poncy country club, playing in the resident band. I had a terrific time there.’
I know you did, thought Poppy. Her heart was hammering. It was now or never. She hadn’t planned to say it, but how could she pass up an opportunity like this?
‘What a summer that was.’ Alex was half-smiling to himself. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
What do I say? Poppy’s brain went into frantic overdrive. How do I say it? What if the shock’s too much for him and he has a heart attack on the spot?
‘Um… was that the Ash Hill Country Club?’ Poppy ventured
. She was trembling, she realized. Even her voice sounded shaky. At this rate she was the one heading for the heart attack.
‘Ash Hill, that’s the one!’ Alex beamed. ‘You know it?’
How about: No, but my mother was once on intimate terms with their pianist.
Or: Yes, Dad, actually I do.
Poppy practiced the words in her head and chickened out. Her cowardly tongue had superglued itself to her teeth. How about if she could think of a less corny way of doing it? What if she just went for total simplicity and said, ‘Look, Laura Dunbar was my mother.’
‘L-look,’ Poppy stammered, struggling frantically to free her tongue from her teeth. ‘L-L-L—’
‘There you are!’ cried Rita, materializing in the doorway. Still barefoot, neither of them had heard her approach. ‘Buzz said he saw the two of you disappearing upstairs.’
‘It was Alex’s idea. To stop me looking like a waitress.’ Awash with guilt and praying Rita wouldn’t leap to the wrong conclusions, Poppy held up the blue dress.
‘I said you wouldn’t mind,’ Alex put in equably.
‘’Course I don’t mind.’ Rita sounded outraged by the suggestion. ‘But that dull old thing? Are you sure?’
The dull old thing had the kind of designer label Poppy had only read about in magazines. Her fingers curled around the padded silk hanger. ‘Oh, it’s great.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you girls to it.’ Alex ambled out, patting Rita’s generous backside as he went.
Poppy slithered gratefully out of her uniform. Rita sat at her Hollywood-style dressing table and primped. She glanced at Poppy’s reflection in the mirror.
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Me? Why?’ Poppy was wearing a pale blue cotton bra and orange panties. She put the expensive dress on quickly, before Rita could change her mind about lending it to someone with such deeply unworthy underwear.
‘Losing your job. I feel responsible.’
‘Don’t be! I’ll be fine, really—’
‘Bloody Derek, he’s such a prat.’ Rita whisked an extra layer of blusher onto her cheeks with a huge brush. Indulgently she said, ‘I don’t know, suppose it runs in the family.’