by Jill Mansell
‘You might have a girl.’
‘Yeah.’ As they made their way back to the house, Dina gave Poppy’s arm a squeeze. ‘Poor kid, if we do. We’ll just have to hope she doesn’t take after me.’
‘Now there’s a blast from the past,’ remarked Hugo, inhaling pleasurably as he found himself next to Rita. ‘That takes me way back. All of a sudden I’m twenty-five again.’
‘In your dreams,’ replied Rita good-naturedly.
‘Mitsouko. Guerlain. I’m right, aren’t I?’
She nodded. ‘My husband bought it for me.’
‘I haven’t smelled it for years. Reminds me of a beautiful woman I once knew, back in Edinburgh. I was madly in love with her.’ Hugo’s eyes crinkled. ‘Sadly, her husband had bought her that scent too.’
‘Did you have an affair with her?’
‘Even more sadly, no. She wouldn’t. I was a penniless drama student, not much of a catch. And she was a lady of expensive tastes.’
‘I bet she was gutted when you became famous.’ Rita looked entertained. ‘Did you ever hear from her again?’
Hugo shook his head.
‘But for years, every time I was interviewed on television, or one of my films was being shown, I imagined her sitting at home watching me. And hoped, of course, that she was… gutted.’
‘If she’d really loved you, she wouldn’t have minded you being broke. When I met my husband he didn’t have a bean.’
Unlike Poppy, Hugo was able to tell real diamonds from fakes.
‘And what does he do now?’ he inquired with genuine interest.
‘Nothing much. He died in January.’
Hugo was appalled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘On the other hand,’ Rita went on easily, ‘he could be getting up to all sorts. We don’t know, do we? He might be having a high old time, banging away on some piano, vamping it up with Louis Armstrong and Count Basie, playing up there in the clouds where the bar never closes, the beer’s free, and the audience always knows when to clap.’
‘Your husband was a jazz pianist!’ Hugo looked delighted. ‘I’m a bit of a jazz buff myself. Would I have known him?’
‘He wasn’t famous. Alex Fitzpatrick. I shouldn’t think you’d—’
‘Alex Fitzpatrick? I have heard of him! I even saw him playing once, many years ago, at a club in Soho. He was excellent. I say, what a small world.’
‘Bugger it!’ exclaimed Rita as a blonde trailing a handbag squeezed past. Looking down, she saw that the clasp on the girl’s handbag had caught against her tights. When she bent her knee to examine the hole, a ladder promptly slithered the length of her leg. She rolled her eyes at Hugo Slade-Welch. ‘Shit, don’t you just hate it when that happens?’
He started to laugh. ‘Where are you going? Don’t disappear… we’ve only just met. I don’t even know your name.’
‘Rita. And if you want to make yourself useful, find me another gin and tonic.’ She moved away, trailing Mitsouko. ‘That way you can guarantee I’ll be back.’
‘Sorry to interrupt, pet, but look at the state of my tights. Is there an all-night garage anywhere near here or a late-opening corner shop?’
‘I’ve got a spare pair.’ Poppy, who had just waved off Dina, Alison and Rob, was talking to Jake. Luckily, Rita’s torn tights were Barely Black. ‘Same color, one-size-fits-all, still in the packet.’ Feeling madly efficient she said, ‘You can have those. Hang on a sec, Jake…’
‘Don’t worry, I can get them. Just tell me where to look.’
Following Poppy’s directions Rita made her way downstairs. The tiny bedroom Poppy had occupied for the past eight months was almost empty now, most of her belongings having already been packed into suitcases and moved into Tom’s flat. The narrow bed was stripped, the wardrobe empty. Only an overnight case remained, crammed with toiletries and the contents of the bedside table. The tights, Poppy had explained, were somewhere in the case.
Rummaging carefully, Rita found them near the bottom. As she slid the oblong pack out, her rings clunked against glass. Silly girl, thought Rita, glimpsing the silver edge of a photograph frame squashed against a can of hair spray, that could get broken.
She pulled an ancient pink tee-shirt out of the bag, to wrap around the glass and keep it in one piece. Then she levered the photograph frame upwards.
The woman in the photo, smiling up at her, was instantly recognizable.
She stood in a small garden, holding a newborn baby in her arms.
She was wearing a white blouse and a full, flower-patterned skirt, and her curly hair was tied back from her face with a white scarf.
She was, Rita realized, Poppy’s mother.
And although there was no date on the back of the photograph Rita also knew when it must have been taken.
Nine months, give or take a few weeks, after she had broken her leg.
Chapter 53
Jake knocked on Claudia’s bedroom door.
‘Go away.’
‘No.’ Standing his ground he said firmly, ‘It’s me. I want to come in.’
When Claudia opened the door, her eyes brimmed at the sight of him.
‘What a fiasco. Has everyone stopped laughing yet?’
‘No one’s laughing. Nobody has laughed. Why would they?’
‘Oh come on.’ She rubbed her face with the sleeve of her dressing gown. ‘I would have if it hadn’t been me. As my mother once so thoughtfully pointed out, I’ve got more spare tires than Michelin.’ Almost as an afterthought Claudia added wearily, ‘Thanks, by the way. For punching him.’
Exasperated, Jake said, ‘Why do you suppose I did?’
‘Because there are some things it’s kinder not to say.’
‘Dammit, what’s the matter with you?’ shouted Jake. ‘I punched him because what he said wasn’t true.’ Reacting physically had unleashed something in him; the adrenaline was still pumping, making it easier to say what he had never before had the courage to put into words. His dark eyes were alight with almost missionary fervor. ‘You looked beautiful… dammit, you are beautiful. If you don’t want the painting, I’ll have it. I could happily look at that portrait of you every day for the rest of my life.’
Masochistically, Claudia whispered, ‘But he called me a blob.’
‘And did you see that stick of celery with him? That scrawny girlfriend of his? Some men like shrimps,’ Jake declared with reckless abandon. ‘Others prefer… well, langoustines. Stop looking at me like that,’ he went on, close to despair. ‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. And I don’t make a habit of punching people either. I’ve never done it before… oh, don’t cry. He isn’t worth it. He deserved to be punched.’
‘I’m not crying because of him,’ Claudia sniffed. Her dressing-gown sleeve was really quite soggy now. ‘I’m crying because I’m h-h-happy.’
I will never, ever, understand women, thought Jake.
But Claudia, who had made up her own mind, moved towards him. If she was going to do anything, it had to be now. Jake had rushed to protect her earlier. He had called her beautiful. He had even—well, it was the thought that counted—told her he preferred langoustines to shrimps.
She kissed him. On the cheek. Just a peck.
Jake stopped being angry. Instead he looked nervous. Not very romantically he said, ‘What was that in aid of?’
‘I just wanted to do it.’
‘Why?’
This was make or break time. Claudia heard the sound of her own blood drumming in her ears. She took a shuddery breath and threw herself into the breach.
‘Why d’you think? Because I’ve wanted to do it for months but I never knew if you liked me, but now I think maybe you do after all. Because you never kiss me. Because… because you’re hopeless and it’s about time one of us did something. Now, shall I try again or would you rather I didn’t?’
There, she’d said it. God, thought Claudia, I feel sick.
Jake smiled.
‘Try again. Definitely try agai
n. I’d much rather you did.’
***
‘You came back.’ Evidently relieved, Hugo Slade-Welch handed Rita the gin and tonic he had been holding onto. ‘You’ve been ages. The ice has melted.’ He glanced down at her shapely legs. ‘All okay now?’
‘What? Oh… yes. All okay.’
‘You’re looking more cheerful.’
‘I’ve just made a discovery.’ Rita nodded. ‘You know that feeling you get when the last piece of the jigsaw slots into place?’
‘I’m not a great one for jigsaws,’ Hugo admitted. ‘I like crosswords though.’
There was laughter in Rita’s eyes.
‘Either way. It’s a great feeling, isn’t it? Suddenly figuring everything out?’
Hugo nodded. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but he knew what he wanted to say next. He had spent the last ten minutes rehearsing his lines.
‘Look, I’m staying in London for a while. Say if you don’t feel up to it, but would you like to come out with me one evening? Have dinner, maybe, and visit a jazz club afterwards?’ He glanced across, trying to gauge her reaction. ‘We could go to Ronnie Scott’s.’
‘It’s a funny thing,’ Rita mused, ‘all those years with Alex, I used to think I couldn’t stand jazz. It wasn’t until he died and I found myself going through his old LPs I realized I’d got to like the stuff after all.’
‘Is that a yes?’
She looked tolerantly at Hugo. ‘What is this, a set-up? Did Poppy tell you to be kind to me? There’s no need, love. Really. I’m fine as I am.’
‘I’m not being kind. I’d like to get to know you better, that’s all.’ Hugo was wounded. ‘And I’ve never been turned down before. Please say yes, for the sake of my ego if nothing else.’
‘Tights all right?’ said Poppy, joining them.
‘They’re fine.’
Rita’s smile was affectionate. There was no hurry; she could tell Poppy about her discovery another time. And she could give her the other photograph too. It would mean a lot to her—
‘Poppy, do something,’ Hugo pleaded. ‘I’ve invited this lady to have dinner with me and she’s making excuses. I’m on the verge of rejection here. Help.’
‘It’s too soon, love. Nothing personal, I just wouldn’t feel right. Ask me again in a year.’ Rita patted his arm equably. ‘That’s if you aren’t married again by then.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t try and argue,’ said Poppy. ‘Not with Rita. She had the best husband in the world. You can’t compete.’
The party finally broke up in the early hours. Caspar stood in the lit-up doorway seeing out the last of the guests. Earlier he had watched Tom carry Poppy’s overnight case to the waiting taxi and had thought how like an amicable divorce it felt as Poppy, hesitating on the doorstep, had slipped her still-warm front door key into his hand.
‘Thanks for everything,’ she had whispered almost shyly, brushing Caspar’s cheek with her lips. ‘And the party. See you soon.’
‘Darling?’ Babette appeared behind him, holding his leather jacket. She had to be up at six, for a breakfast meeting with a new client. ‘Ready?’
‘You go.’ Caspar knew he wouldn’t sleep. ‘I’ve got some work to do. A painting to finish.’
Babette raised her eyebrows sympathetically. ‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay darling. Make it a masterpiece.’ She lifted her face up to his for a kiss. ‘See you when I see you. ’Night.’
Caspar took a half-full bottle of warm Chablis up to the studio with him and began to paint. He wasn’t in the mood but anything was better than sleeping. Or thinking.
He especially didn’t want to think.
At four o’clock in the morning the phone rang. Caspar picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘What are you doing still there?’ whispered Poppy. ‘I wanted to speak to Claudia.’
‘Bit of an odd time for a girly gossip, isn’t it? What’s wrong, did nobody ever tell you the facts of life?’
Clearly put out, she hissed, ‘I wasn’t expecting you to answer the phone.’
‘I’m working. And Claudia isn’t here. She left with Jake and a terrifying smirk on her face.’
‘Oh.’
‘Won’t I do?’ asked Caspar.
Sounding nervous, Poppy whispered, ‘This is embarrassing.’
‘What’s it about? Contraception? Come on, you were going to ask Claudia. Ask me instead.’
‘Okay.’ He heard her rapid breathing. ‘I was going to ask Claudia to leave a key under the mat.’
‘Who for?’ Caspar was less than enthusiastic. ‘Not Dina again.’
‘No. Oh Caspar.’ For the first time, Poppy’s voice broke. ‘Can I come home?’
Back on the front doorstep, Caspar watched as the taxi pulled up at the curb and Poppy—this time carrying her own cases—jumped out. It was like déjà-vu on rewind.
At least the long black dress had gone. Poppy’s hair swung loose around her shoulders and she was wearing a white shirt tucked into tightly belted Levi’s.
‘Get inside,’ said Caspar, taking the two largest cases from her. ‘What was that business with the bracelet?’
The silver bangle she always wore had disappeared with the taxi driver.
‘Couldn’t pay my fare.’ Poppy avoided looking at him. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry about this. Am I a prat or what?’
In the sitting room Caspar plonked her down on the sofa amid the party debris and pushed an abandoned drink into her hand. Her face seemed okay, but you could never tell.
‘What happened, did he hit you?’
‘Hit me?’ Poppy looked amazed. Then she sank wearily back into the sofa. ‘He didn’t hit me. I almost wish he had. It’d make all this a damn sight easier.’
‘All what?’
Poppy pushed her fingers through her hair. Her sigh blasted a layer of ash from a nearby ashtray.
‘It’s no good, I can’t do it. Tom… worships me. I know how stupid that sounds, but he does. And it’s too much. He loves me too much. If I stayed with him I’d… well, I’d drown.’
‘He doesn’t love you too much,’ said Caspar. ‘He’s just possessive. Jealous. Desperate to keep you to himself. If he loved you,’ he added, unable to resist pointing it out, ‘he’d have bought you a dress that suited you. Not a bloody marquee.’
‘I was flattered,’ Poppy said sadly. ‘Nobody’s ever cared that much before. I thought it was so great… so romantic.’
‘So you’ve left him.’
‘It’s a good thing I wasn’t expecting you to be sympathetic.’
Poppy’s look of indignation was adorable. Bottle it, thought Caspar, and you’d make a fortune.
‘Is that what you want? Sympathy?’
She lifted her face to him. ‘I know. I’m sorry. The party must have cost a bomb.’
‘Sod the party. Your moving out was only an excuse to throw one,’ said Caspar.
‘And now I want to move back in.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can I?’
‘Am I likely to say no?’
‘Thanks.’ Poppy drank her drink and pretended she hadn’t really been nervous at all. After a while she said, ‘I’ve been so stupid, kidding myself everything was all right.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I desperately wanted it to be, I suppose.’
‘Should have listened to me,’ Caspar said lightly. ‘I knew he wasn’t right for you.’
Poppy heaved a sigh.
‘The trouble is, I knew it too, practically from the start. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself.’ She paused, lost in thought, then glanced up again at Caspar. ‘He was jealous of you, you know.’
Caspar grinned. ‘Surely not.’
‘He said did I have to snog you in front of everyone, as we were leaving earlier.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I said it wasn’t a snog, and anyway I’d been living here since last September, if anything was going to happen between y
ou and me it would have happened by now.’
Caspar felt his heart begin to race. He picked up an abandoned cigarette packet; annoyingly it was empty.
‘Would it?’
‘Well, before you got married, anyway.’
He spotted a crumpled Marlboro pack behind a cluster of glasses on the mantelpiece and went to investigate. Bingo, three left. His hand unsteady, Caspar lit one.
‘Poppy, listen to me—’
But when he turned to face her, she was crying.
‘Shit, what a mess. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Run away.’
‘But it was the right thing to do.’
‘All I ever wanted was to be happy.’ Poppy grabbed a crumpled-up napkin and sobbed into it. ‘God, I’m such a failure. There must be something horribly wrong with me. Why can’t I meet someone like you did? Why can’t it be for me like it is for you and Babette?’
‘Poppy, stop crying and listen—’
But when she started, Poppy didn’t stop easily. With a wail she held a cushion over her face.
‘Mmf Tom mmmff mff furry mmf…’
‘What? I can’t hear you.’ Leaning across, Caspar whisked the cushion away. ‘What did you say?’
Red-eyed and miserable, she gazed up at him.
‘I said Tom’s going to be furious when he finds out.’
Chapter 54
Furious wasn’t the word. Caspar, enjoying every moment and making only a token effort not to show it, lay across the sofa with his feet up pretending to watch The Open University.
Poppy stood with her back to the bottle-strewn fireplace. Tom endlessly paced the room.
‘Can’t we at least have some privacy?’ he demanded, glaring at Caspar’s suntanned feet. The fact that they were propped up on the arm of the sofa seemed to annoy him more than anything else. ‘This is ridiculous. Does he have to be here?’
‘I want him to stay. I’m not going to change my mind,’ said Poppy. ‘You shouldn’t have come. I told you not to.’
‘Shouldn’t have come?’ Tom stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you mad? You left me a note, Poppy. I woke up this morning and found a fucking note, telling me it was all over. Did you seriously expect me to leave it at that?’