by Jill Mansell
‘Me too.’ Rita stirred her lukewarm coffee and fiddled with an unlit cigarette. ‘We wanted children so much, you know. I’d always thought I’d have at least six. As it turned out, we couldn’t even manage one.’
‘That must have been awful.’
Poppy felt hopelessly inadequate. What else could she say?
‘When we found out we couldn’t have kids…’ Rita paused, then shrugged and lit her cigarette. ‘…I wondered if Alex would leave me.’
‘But he didn’t! Of course he wouldn’t have,’ exclaimed Poppy. ‘You two were rock solid.’
‘We weren’t always.’ With a rueful half-smile Rita glanced up at her. ‘We had our share of rough patches, believe me. In those early years.’
‘I can’t imagine that.’
‘Oh yes. He had a bit of a fling once, you know. With some woman in Bristol. Your neck of the woods.’
Poppy’s stomach squirmed. Her heart began to race. Thank goodness Rita was now gazing out of the window.
‘I never told him I knew,’ Rita said absently.
‘How… how did you?’ With difficulty, Poppy swallowed a mouthful of bacon. ‘I mean, how did you find out?’
‘I got a letter. Anonymous. Telling me my husband was getting up to no good with some married woman.’
‘H… heavens.’
‘I was all set to go down to Bristol and have it out with Alex. Confront her too, if need be. I was… wild,’ declared Rita, her nostrils flaring at the memory. ‘A thing possessed.’
Faintly, Poppy said, ‘So what happened?’
Rita pulled a face.
‘Fell off me bleedin’ perch, didn’t I? Of all the stupid things to do. There I was, completely sloshed, about to drive down to Bristol, and I got it into my head that I had to water the hanging baskets before I went. Otherwise they’d have died.’
‘Oh—’ Poppy realized what was coming next.
‘Yeah.’ Rita nodded and grinned. ‘I came off that stepladder with a wallop and heard the bones snap in my leg. Crack, crack, crack,’ she imitated the sound with relish. ‘And that was it. That was me, buggered.’
‘So…?’
‘So in its own way, it did the trick.’ Rita shrugged. ‘Call it my lucky break. Alex came racing home. He didn’t say anything, of course, about whatever he’d been getting up to in Bristol. I didn’t mention it either. He was back and that was all I cared about. And from then on, I made damn sure he didn’t get the chance to do it again. Wherever he went, I went. Wherever he played, I watched. I didn’t leave him any spare time for women. Simple as that.’
Poppy was struck by another thought.
‘This letter. You never found out who sent it?’
‘I had my ideas. Someone took the trouble to find out my address. My guess is the husband of the woman Alex was fooling around with.’ Rita shook her head, unconcerned. ‘That’s something we’ll never know.’
Poppy imagined Mervyn Dunbar writing his anonymous letter.
One thing’s for sure, she thought: I’m not going to ask.
Chapter 32
Claudia nearly fell over backwards when she walked into the living room and found Jake deep in discussion with Caspar.
He looked so different, not nerdy at all. The haircut, no longer manic Worzel Gummidge, was sleekly disheveled in a French film-starry way. Gone, too, were the disastrous Jack Duckworth specs. Even the clothes were… un-nerdy. Normal.
Jake looked great. Claudia, who hadn’t for a moment believed the Mail journalist’s hints that romance could be brewing between Jake and Poppy, felt jealousy slicing through her like a hot knife. It isn’t fair, she thought helplessly, Poppy can’t do him up and then decide to fancy him. Not when I’ve fancied him rotten practically from the word go.
The bad news about the disappearance of the heavy-rimmed Jack Duckworths was being able to see Jake’s long-lashed dark brown eyes that much more clearly. Since they were fantastically sexy eyes, this should have been good news, but Claudia, trying to smile ‘Hi’ at Jake without actually meeting his gaze, found it terribly disconcerting. Damn, she wished she’d known he was here. Especially looking like Olivier Martinez. Now she’d gone all tongue-tied and stupid.
And was it her imagination or had Jake’s confidence grown along with the length of his trousers?
‘Maybe Claudia can help,’ he said, turning to her. ‘We were just talking about this chap from Poppy’s murky past. Tom. The one she met the night before her wedding.’
‘And on that garage forecourt the week before Christmas,’ said Caspar. ‘Well, not met. Saw.’
‘What about him?’
‘Jake wants to have a go at tracking him down.’ Caspar wasn’t wild about the plan. ‘He’s been watching too much Columbo if you ask me. The thing is, even if we could find the bloke, is it a good idea?’
Jake looked at Claudia, willing her to be on his side. He tried not to picture her naked, modeling her glorious body for those lucky, lucky art students at St Clare’s.
He tried so hard not to picture her naked he forgot why he had been willing her onto his side in the first place.
‘Er…’
‘Um…’ said Claudia.
For crying out loud, thought Caspar, what is the matter with the pair of them?
‘I think if she met him again she’d be disappointed.’ Caspar wasn’t examining his own motives too closely. All he knew was, if Poppy were to fall in love with someone, he wouldn’t like it one bit.
‘But what if she isn’t?’ argued Jake. ‘It’s been almost a year now, and she hasn’t been able to get him out of her system. This could be her one chance of happiness.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like one of Claudia’s Harlequins,’ mocked Caspar.
Claudia flushed angrily. She kept her Harlequins well hidden under her bed.
‘And you’re beginning to sound like a killjoy,’ she snapped at Caspar. If it stopped Poppy becoming interested in Jake, she was all in favor. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’
‘She needs cheering up,’ Jake said firmly. ‘She’s been pretty low since the funeral. And since money’s no longer a problem, it seems the least I can do.’
‘How will you?’ Claudia looked interested. Once she got into a conversation with Jake she was okay; the paralyzing shyness abated. Those first couple of minutes were the worst.
‘We’ll take out newspaper ads,’ said Jake. With heroic self-control, he kept all Claudia’s clothes mentally in place. ‘The local press as well as the nationals. If that doesn’t work, we can try radio, maybe even TV. I’ve made out a couple of drafts if you’d like to see them.’
‘I’d love to see them.’ Claudia leaned so far forwards her boobs teetered in their D-cups, on the brink of tumbling out.
Poor Jake’s eyes nearly followed suit.
Grinning, Caspar said, ‘I’d love to see them too.’
‘Will you tell Poppy what you’re doing?’ Hurriedly, Claudia changed the subject.
‘Not until we get a result. If we get a result. No point raising her hopes,’ said Jake.
Caspar had always run a complicated love life but now, as spring approached, even he was beginning to get confused.
Kate was still around, chiefly because he hadn’t had the heart to get rid of her. Caspar knew he was wasting both his time and hers but what could he do? Every time he tried to ease himself out of the relationship Kate gave him one of those puppy-eyed, please-don’t-drown-me-in-a-bucket looks. If he persevered, she dissolved into tears and whispered, ‘I don’t mind you seeing other women. Really, I don’t mind. Just don’t finish with me, please… I couldn’t bear it.’
Feeling trapped and uncomfortable but wondering what else he was supposed to do, Caspar had taken Kate at her word.
He had also got himself slightly more involved than he’d planned with an energetic aerobics instructor. Julia—‘call me Jules’—had a super-honed body, rippling white-blonde hair down to her twenty-two inch waist, and a sunbed tan the co
lor of caramel. She also had an insatiable appetite for salad and sex.
Caspar was in favor of the latter but lettuce wasn’t his thing at all. Jules had recently begun to take a distressing interest in his diet. ‘We only have one body, darling. Think of it as an investment for the future.’
Caspar’s idea of investments for the future was buying a scratch-off lotto card. Twice last week Jules had turned up at Cornwallis Crescent with cellophane-wrapped bowls of lollo rosso, frisée, and rocket leaves in a special oil-free dressing, because, ‘No one can say they don’t like salad until they’ve tried my dressing. I defy anyone to say it isn’t out of this world.’
Jules made these pronouncements with missionary zeal. Caspar thought her lovingly prepared salads tasted like grass. He was more interested in her talent for undressing. Jules was wonderfully acrobatic in bed. And he enjoyed driving her to distraction with huge, untidy honey and peanut butter sandwiches, currently his favorite après-sex snack.
Then there was Babette—Babs—the elegant PR consultant he had met at the Serpentine Gallery the other week.
Being stood up by Caspar that first night hadn’t put Babs off. She had simply phoned him again the next day and asked him when he would be free for dinner. When Babette Lawrenson wanted something, she got it. She had sharpened her skills over the years, starting out as a double glazing doorstepper before moving into PR. Three years ago, she had set up her own company. Now she represented a carefully chosen selection of actors, musicians, and artists.
She had already offered to add Caspar to her list.
Babette had very short, glossy dark hair, cool blue eyes, and a taste for expensive, sharply tailored business suits. She never went anywhere without twin mobile phones—sometimes one at each ear—and her PDA. She was the most organized person Caspar had ever met.
She didn’t have time for aerobics classes and she wasn’t wild about salad. She was neither thin nor fat, just average. But she knew how to dress to make the most of herself. She always looked, and smelled, stylish. She also had excellent legs.
‘We’d make a terrific team,’ Babette calmly informed Caspar on their third date. They were eating roast pigeon with wild mushrooms at Neil’s Bistro in Covent Garden. Jules would have shuddered at the sauce and said, ‘Not for me, thanks. A minute on the lips and all that.’
‘Team?’ Caspar watched her neatly spear a mushroom. ‘Sounds like a couple of cart horses pulling a plow.’
‘That’s a typical male ploy,’ said Babette.
Caspar grinned. ‘I said plow.’
‘See, you’re doing it again. As soon as a woman mentions emotional commitment, the man panics. He tries to turn it into a joke.’
‘What d’you mean, emotional commitment? I thought you were talking about business. Me becoming one of your clients.’
‘Oh well,’ said Babette, ‘that too.’
‘Are you serious?’ Caspar was enchanted by her upfront attitude. This was the kind of stuff girls kept to themselves. They might think it, but they would die rather than come out and say it.
‘Of course I’m serious.’ Babette stopped eating. She put down her knife and fork and rested her chin on her hand. Her fingers were strong and capable-looking, French-manicured, and ringless. ‘I know these things. It’s my job to know these things, and I’m good at my job. I’m almost thirty, ready to settle down. So are you.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘Come on,’ she chided humorously. ‘You’ve sown enough wild oats to feed Russia. Be honest, aren’t you bored with all that? It’s time to move on, darling. I’m not saying decide right away, just give it some thought. I’d be perfect for you.’ Her cool eyes appraised him for a second. Then she smiled. ‘You’re certainly perfect for me.’
She had guts, that was for sure. He had to admire her for that.
‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’ Caspar nodded to humor her. He wasn’t entirely certain he knew what he was meant to be thinking about. Had she simply been recommending they carry on seeing each other or was she talking marriage, kids, two point two dogs, and a pension plan?
Talk about efficient. Caspar was surprised she hadn’t whipped out her PDA and keyed in: Neil’s Bistro, 20:25 hrs, proposed to CF. Await decision.
It was an entertaining idea. She was talking about the future and he hadn’t even slept with her yet.
Caspar wondered if she would time him in bed with a stopwatch.
‘Do you like peanut butter and honey sandwiches?’ he asked.
Babette looked amused.
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
Chapter 33
‘I’ve double-booked myself,’ Caspar told Poppy when she took a mug of tea up to him in his studio.
He had been on another painting bender, working through the night to finish a huge canvas in oils commissioned by a wealthy Italian banker. Cold sunlight streamed through the skylights, highlighting the thin layer of dust on the room’s surfaces. The smell of oil paints, linseed, and turpentine hovered in the air. Caspar took the Batman mug from Poppy, promptly covering it with cadmium yellow paint. His white sweatshirt was streaked with Venetian red.
‘You look as if you’ve been shot.’ Poppy unwrapped a Mars bar for him so he wouldn’t get paint on that too.
‘Probably will be.’ He nodded at the door, which served as his diary. The haphazard assortment of scribbled notes pinned to it was escalating out of control. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Babette for lunch. She’s introducing me to some journalist who might be interested in doing a piece on me for GQ. I’d forgotten I was meant to go with Jules to her best friend’s wedding. She’s expecting me to pick her up at one o’clock. She’ll go ape.’
‘Make that triple-booked,’ said Poppy. ‘Kate rang five minutes ago. She said to remind you about meeting her at one thirty.’ Caspar looked blank. ‘The preview at the Merrydew Gallery. You promised to take her.’
‘Damn.’
‘At least she won’t go ape,’ Poppy reassured him.
‘No, just cry.’
‘So who’ll it be? Who’s the lucky winner?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Caspar began cleaning the worst of the paint off his hands. Poppy wandered over to the door to take a closer look at the pinned-up notes.
‘B. McCloud,’ she read, peering at the dreadful writing in green felt tip. ‘Is that Bella McCloud the opera singer?’
He pulled a face. ‘Ugly old trout wants her portrait done. At least she’s keeping her clothes on. First sitting’s next week.’
‘Not next week. Two o’clock this afternoon.’
‘You’re having me on.’ Caspar looked up. Poppy showed him the note. He winced. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What it is to be popular,’ she mocked. There was a smudge of blue paint below Caspar’s left ear, nestling in the groove between his jawbone and neck. She took the spirit-soaked cloth from him and carefully rubbed it off. Those were the kind of tucked-away smudges Caspar was likely to miss.
He looked down at her, watching the expression of intense concentration on her face. When she had disposed of the smear she spotted another, this time hidden just beneath the hairline behind his ear.
Caspar said, ‘It’s midday. You aren’t supposed to be here either. What happened, did Jake sack you again?’
There. Poppy had finished. Now, whichever of Caspar’s girlfriends saw him this afternoon, they could safely nuzzle his neck without risking a mouthful of cobalt blue paint.
‘For once, no. I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.’
Poppy tried to sound grown-up and unconcerned. Only wimps were frightened of the dentist.
She just wished she hadn’t had that toffee-chewing contest with Marlene last week.
And she wished dental surgeries didn’t have to smell so… dentisty.
‘Scared?’
‘Scared? Me? Nooo.’
The trouble with Caspar, Poppy thought with frustration, was nothing got past him. He was brilliant
at reading faces.
‘So if you aren’t scared,’ he persisted with evident amusement, ‘what are you?’
She may as well admit it.
‘Um… more like pant-wettingly petrified.’
Downstairs the phone began to ring.
‘That’ll be for you,’ said Poppy. ‘One of your dates.’
‘In that case, better not answer it.’
‘You must. What if it’s Bella McCloud?’
‘All the more reason.’ Just to be on the safe side, Caspar hung onto Poppy’s wrist until the ringing had stopped. ‘What time’s this appointment of yours?’
‘One o’clock. Why?’
‘Okay. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
‘Where?’ Poppy was confused.
‘Don’t say I never take you anywhere.’ His grey eyes regarded her solemnly. ‘We’re going to the dentist.’
The office was off the Bayswater Road, across the park. Since Caspar’s car’s tire had been clamped and the sun was shining, they decided to walk.
‘You can’t come in with me,’ Poppy protested. ‘I’d really look like a hopeless case.’
‘I’m not staying out here,’ said Caspar. The waiting room was heaving with kids flinging Licorice Allsorts at each other. He pointed to a group photograph up on the wall of the staff at the practice. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t mind meeting your dentist.’
Poppy’s dentist didn’t look like a dentist, she looked more like Joanna Lumley. Her tawny-blonde hair was swept back in a severely elegant chignon. Her white coat fell open to reveal a dark blue Lycra dress as tight as a bandage, and she had the best pair of pale-stockinged knees Caspar had seen in years. She reminded him, he decided happily, of one of those beautiful Russian scientists in The Man from U.N.C.L.E., ice-cool on the outside but when you whipped off their glasses and let down their hair…
Poppy’s wisdom tooth wasn’t only badly cracked, she soon learned, it was growing diagonally and pushing her other teeth out of line. Her heart sinking, she heard the ominous pronouncement: ‘You’ll be far better off with it out.’
Poppy lay back in the chair, palms sweating, and marveled at Caspar’s idea of keeping her company.