by Jill Mansell
‘Well, yes.’ Poppy deliberately didn’t look at Caspar, who was half-killing himself trying to keep a straight face. ‘It was what you did, to Jan, after you met me. The only difference is you did it on the phone. I heard you, remember?’
‘That was different,’ he shouted. ‘That was only Jan. We weren’t even living together.’
Poppy stood her ground. ‘Neither were we. Two and a half hours doesn’t count.’
‘But we were going to get married,’ Tom raged, unable to understand why he wasn’t getting through to her. ‘This is ridiculous. Poppy, you can’t do it.’
‘I can. I have. It wouldn’t work,’ she told him simply. ‘I’m staying here.’
Tom’s black eyes blazed.
‘Who put you up to this?’ Furiously he jabbed a finger in Caspar’s direction. ‘Him? What happened when you were making that exhibition of yourself on the doorstep last night—did he make you a better offer?’
‘Now you’re just being stupid,’ Poppy wailed. ‘I told you before, there’s nothing going on between Caspar and me. He’s married.’
Caspar, gazing steadily at a sociologist in bell-bottoms being witty on the TV screen, thought, So I am; I nearly forgot.
‘Oh my God,’ shouted Claudia, jerking awake and clapping her hands over her ears as an alarm clock three inches away from her head exploded into life. ‘Turn that thing OFF!’
‘Sorry.’ Leaning across, Jake silenced the terrible jangling. He hadn’t even been asleep. For the past hour he had been watching Claudia beside him, reminding himself that last night really had happened, and wondering if it was humanly possible to be happier than this.
She groaned aloud and squinted at the clock.
‘It’s eight o’clock. On a Sunday.’
‘There’s a flea market in Hertfordshire.’
‘Flea market…’
The look of undiluted horror on Claudia’s face brought Jake out in goose bumps.
‘I won’t go. It’s just what I normally do on Sundays. I set the alarm yesterday, before the party. Before… oh hell,’ he shook his head in resignation, ‘this is a good start.’
Claudia lay back against her tartan pillow, overcome with remorse. I’m so used to feeling miserable, she realized, I’ve forgotten I don’t need to be anymore.
‘My fault. I’m a terrible grouch.’ Her fingers brushed Jake’s bare shoulder, cold to the touch because, in her sleep, she’d managed to hog most of the duvet. How typical of him, she thought with a rush of love, not to have grabbed it back.
By the time Jake had finished making the coffee and carried it upstairs, the bed was empty and the shower was going full pelt next door. When Claudia emerged ten minutes later she was fully dressed.
Having rather hoped for a repeat performance of last night, his face fell.
‘You’re going?’
‘Not unless you want me to.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
Claudia took one of the mugs from him. Crossing the room, she drew back the faded blue curtains. Sunlight poured in. ‘It’s morning. Sure you still respect me?’
Jake said quietly, desperately, ‘I love you.’
‘Oh Jake.’ Claudia bit her lower lip, willing herself this time to say the right thing. ‘If you truly mean it, then I love you too. But you’ll have to be patient. I’m not used to being happy and I’m not used to being nice. I’m especially not used to men being nice to me—’
Clumsily, since they were both still holding brimming mugs of coffee, Jake kissed her. He felt Claudia’s mouth begin to tremble against his own.
‘Come on. You aren’t going anywhere.’ With his free hand he began unbuttoning her navy cashmere cardigan. ‘Let’s go back to bed.’
Claudia wanted to, like anything, but the urge to start being nice—to show Jake she could be if she really tried—was overwhelming.
‘No.’ She pulled away, wincing as hot coffee slopped over the back of her hand. ‘I want you to take me to a flea market.’
Jake, who would a million times rather have stayed in bed, said, ‘But—’
‘I mean it. Get dressed,’ Claudia told him firmly. ‘We’re going to Hertfordshire.’
‘Well well, it just goes to show the quiet ones are always the worst.’ Angie, phoning up for a post-party gossip, sounded amused. ‘We did wonder what had happened to you after that thrilling punch-up. And what a very Clint Eastwoody thing to do! Who’d have thought dear old Jake had it in him?’
‘Mum—’
‘And how wildly romantic, darling! What did he do, carry you off into the sunset on his white Vespa?’
‘Don’t you dare make fun of Jake,’ said Claudia, her knuckles turning pale around the receiver. ‘I mean it, don’t start. I love him and he loves me. I’m happy. Just this once, don’t try and ruin everything, okay?’
‘Sweetheart, as if I would!’ Angie sounded contrite. ‘Baby girl, I want you to be happy. Daddy and I were discussing it at the party, in fact—saying wouldn’t it be wonderful to see you off that lonely, dusty old shelf.’
Pride mingled with recklessness.
‘Yes, well, maybe I’m off it now.’
Claudia had to hold the phone away from her ear. For a small woman, Angie had a loud laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh sweetheart, have a bit of fun with Jake by all means. But you can’t seriously want to spend the rest of your life with him!’
‘Why not?’ Claudia countered hotly. It was what she wanted more than anything.
‘Darling, darling.’ At the other end of the line Angie was still gurgling merrily away. ‘Jake’s a nice enough lad, bless him. But let’s face it, he’s hardly going to set the world alight. He’s not exactly a thrill-a-minute merchant, is he?’
‘For God’s sake, I don’t want—’
‘Listen to me, Claudia, I’m your mother. I know you and I know the kind of man you need. A risk taker! Someone to make your pulse race! Someone,’ Angie declared passionately, ‘who rides a Harley Davidson, not a Vespa.’
Claudia howled, ‘Jake doesn’t have a Vespa!’
‘I know he doesn’t. I talked to him on Saturday night, remember?’ Her mother’s tone was cutting. ‘He drives a van.’
Claudia was still boiling with rage when Jake and Poppy arrived at the house an hour later. Jake, who had given Poppy a lift home from work, was looking forward to taking Claudia out to a popular new Italian restaurant in Fulham. Now, to his dismay, Claudia was insisting she was too wound up to eat.
‘You can share my Welsh rarebit,’ said Poppy, who knew Jake was ravenous. She offered him the least burnt slice, which he wolfed down in seconds. Generously—because she was hungry too—she gave him the rest.
‘My mother is the bitch of bitches,’ Claudia seethed.
Poppy tore open a packet of chocolate biscuits and emptied them onto a plate.
‘Yes, but what exactly did she say?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Why not? Was it something awful about me?’
‘No.’
Jake finished the last of the incinerated Welsh rarebit and reached for a biscuit.
‘I expect it was about me.’
Claudia didn’t deny it, so he knew he was right. He shrugged and helped himself to another biscuit.
‘Don’t let her get to you. It doesn’t bother me.’
‘She just doesn’t want me to be happy. She always has to stick her oar in.’
If Jake wasn’t bothered, Poppy didn’t see why they couldn’t all know what Angie had said to upset Claudia so much.
‘Go on, you may as well tell us,’ she wheedled. ‘What did she say?’
It was a relief to blurt it out.
‘That Jake isn’t very exciting.’
Jake looked amused. ‘I’m not very exciting. I already know that.’
‘She said what I needed was a man to make my pulse race. Someone who takes risks. A red-hot chili pepper,’ Claudia recited bitterly, ‘not a we
t lettuce.’
Jake rather wished he hadn’t asked now. He pretended not to mind.
Across the table, Poppy sensed his discomfort. Rushing to his defense she declared, ‘Chili peppers make my eyes water and my nose run. And some lettuces are great. You could be a cool iceberg, Jake. Or a drop-dead trendy lollo rosso.’
But Poppy was trying too hard to help. Jake wondered if maybe Claudia was upset because there was an element of truth in what Angie had said.
‘Is that what you want?’ he said quietly. ‘A risk taker? Someone who’d make your pulse race?’
‘No thanks. My mother has spent her life making my pulse race.’
Claudia stared hard out of the window. She loved Jake, she really did, but Angie’s cutting remarks had unsettled her. Outside, it was raining. A sleek, dark green Lotus shot up the street, the driver tooting his horn in appreciation as he passed a pretty girl in a miniskirt. Across the road, parked beneath dripping plane trees, stood Jake’s rusty old van with Landers’ Antiques stenciled across the side.
‘How about some ice cream?’ suggested Poppy brightly. ‘I’ve got Chunky Monkey or New York Fudge Crunch.’
‘Vanilla?’ asked Jake.
‘That’s so boring! Come on, live a little.’
Abruptly Claudia turned away from the window.
‘We’d better get a move on. Our table’s booked for seven thirty.’
‘You said you didn’t want to eat.’ Jake looked startled.
‘I changed my mind. I do now.’
‘But I’ve just…’ He gestured towards the empty plates littering the table. Between them, he and Poppy had finished the whole plate of biscuits. ‘I’m not hungry anymore.’
‘Oh I don’t believe this!’ shouted Claudia. ‘You are so selfish. All that money of yours and you won’t even take me out for a lousy pizza.’
Poppy stared at her.
‘Claudia, you said you couldn’t eat a thing. You can’t blame—’
‘It’s okay,’ Jake cut in, ‘we’ll go.’ He knew why Claudia was so on edge. He just wished she wouldn’t drag his money into every argument they ever had.
‘Mind your tights, by the way, on the passenger seat,’ Poppy called out as they left the house. ‘There’s a hole in the plastic with a spring sticking out.’
Claudia, who was wearing a cream linen dress and Donna Karan opaque stockings, said, ‘Your van is the pits. Why don’t you buy something decent?’
‘I am. I’ve ordered a brand new one.’ Jake looked pleased with himself.
‘I didn’t mean another van. Why can’t you get a Mercedes? Or… or a Lotus?’ she demanded fretfully. ‘You can afford it.’
Chapter 55
‘Oh flaming Nora, what are you doing here?’ groaned Rita, opening the front door with a headful of fluorescent pink curlers and no make-up.
‘I came to apologize.’ Hugo modestly inclined his head and handed her a bunch of tiger lilies.
‘Blimey, no need to bow. I’m not the Queen.’ Grinning, she took them from him. ‘Come in. Sorry about the hairdo. Serves me right for thinking you were the milkman. Anyway, what have you got to apologize for?’
‘I didn’t know if I’d offended you the other night, inviting you out to dinner.’ Hugo followed her through the vast wood-paneled hall and into the swimming-pool-sized kitchen. He watched Rita fill a fluted vase with water and begin to arrange the flowers. ‘Do you remember what Poppy said, that you had the best husband in the world and that I couldn’t hope to compete? Well, I’ve been a pretty lousy husband in my time and I’m not even trying to compete. But I would very much like us to be friends.’
While not strictly true, it would do for a start. Hugo didn’t know why he should have been so instinctively drawn to Rita. She was hardly his usual type. But there was something about her, maybe something that reminded him of the women he had knocked around with back in the old days in Edinburgh, those lusty, straight-talking, honest-to-goodness real women he had known—and frequently bedded—before acting had changed his life and the fiendish Hollywood bug had bit.
Rita regarded him shrewdly, her head on one side.
‘Friends, eh?’
‘Purely platonic,’ Hugo assured her.
‘All the rage, is it, in California this year?’
He liked the way she made fun of him, refusing to be impressed by his fame. Although with a house like this, he thought dryly, why on earth should she be impressed?
‘Oh, absolutely. The latest thing. And so much less painful than body piercing.’
Rita cackled with laughter, stifled a cough and patted the pocket of her cardigan. ‘Bugger, I forgot.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Gave up smoking yesterday. I keep thinking it’s time for a cigarette. It’s murder.’ She pulled a face. ‘Can’t see me lasting.’
‘In that case, what you need,’ said Hugo, ‘is the help and support of a friend. A non-smoking platonic friend,’ he added in his most beguiling tone, ‘to take your mind off the fact that you’ve given up.’
He took Rita, minus fluorescent rollers, to Little Venice. They ate lunch at The Glassboat, a floating restaurant moored on the Regent’s Canal, and listened to the jazz being played by a quartet out on the deck. The sun shone and the sky matched Hugo’s cobalt blue shirt. Rita’s dress, which was peony pink shot through with lilac, clashed exuberantly with the restaurant’s Rosie-and-Jim-style decor.
Hugo, as deft a storyteller as David Niven, told Rita how utterly hellish each of his marriages had been, and showed her the photographs in his wallet, of his three glossy ex-wives. He carried them with him at all times, he explained with suitable gravity, as a salutary reminder never to do it again.
‘Maybe I should carry a picture of a packet of Rothmans.’
To steer the subject away from cigarettes, Hugo said, ‘Do you have a photo of your husband with you?’
She shook her head.
‘Don’t need one. I can remember what he looks like.’
‘Tell me all about your happy marriage’—he refilled their coffee cups—‘and your perfect husband. I want to hear about Alex.’
‘He was a wicked old bugger and he made me laugh.’ Rita heaped sugar into hers. ‘But he wasn’t perfect. He was no Jane Asher.’
Hugo raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Would you have wanted to be married to Jane Asher?’
‘She’d be a whizz with homemade Christmas decorations.’
‘Ah, but sit her in front of a jazz piano and what would she do?’
Rita roared with laughter.
‘Stencil it.’
After lunch they walked along the canal path.
‘I want a cigarette.’
‘Here, hold my hand instead.’
‘Can I smoke it?’
Hugo took her hand anyway.
‘Try patches. They worked for my agent and he was a twenty-a-day man.’
Only a lifelong non-smoker, Rita thought affectionately, could think twenty a day was a lot.
‘I was a fifty-a-day woman.’ She looked depressed. ‘Anyway, why d’you suppose I’m wearing long sleeves? I’ve already got a week’s supply slapped on all over me. Underneath this dress I look like Mr Blobby.’
It was five o’clock when they arrived back at Rita’s house, almost five fifteen by the time she’d finished deactivating the elaborate security system.
‘It’s a bugger but you have to have it. D’you want a drink or is it time you were off?’
Hugo, following her into a sitting room so big you’d need binoculars to watch television, realized she wanted him to leave. Feeling distinctly put out, because he’d thought she was enjoying his company—and because nobody ever wanted him to leave anywhere—he made himself comfortable on an indigo velour upholstered sofa.
‘I’ll have a brandy, thanks.’
He watched Rita pour two incredibly small measures.
‘There you go. Cheers.’
Before Hugo had finished saying cheers back, her drink
had vanished. She was hovering in front of him, willing him to drink up and go.
‘Well, thanks for today. It’s been great, really. I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘But,’ drawled Hugo.
Rita looked evasive. ‘But what?’
‘But it’s time I left? But it’s time for your bath? I don’t know,’ said Hugo. ‘You tell me.’
‘I thought you’d have other plans. Places to go, VIPs to see.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
She was jittering; he could see it. If he reached across and touched her it would be like resting his hand on the bonnet of a Volkswagen Beetle.
Hugo said evenly, ‘Why do you want me out of here?’
‘I d-don’t—’
‘Unless you have a secret lover tucked away upstairs.’
‘Ha ha.’ Rita laughed nervously.
‘Or, better still, a secret stash of cigarettes.’
‘You sod!’ She went bright red and covered her face with both hands. ‘Oh God, and after all your hard work. I’m so ashamed… what must you think of me?’
‘I think you’re human. And being with you today hasn’t been hard work. Go and get them.’ Enormously relieved, he added, ‘Now, can I stay?’
He insisted on peeling the nicotine patches off Rita’s arms first.
‘Otherwise you’ll overdose.’
‘Ouch!’ She winced; he was being careful but it still hurt. ‘This is worse than having your legs waxed.’
‘Sorry. Tenacious little buggers. There, last one. You can light up now.’
‘Bliss,’ sighed Rita, taking her first toe-tingling drag. ‘Right, we’ll have a proper drink this time.’ She grinned happily at Hugo. ‘You pour, I’ll forget to say when.’
The level in the brandy bottle went steadily down. Swathed in smoke, Rita relaxed visibly, regaling him with stories of growing up in the East End.
‘So when did all this happen?’ Hugo gestured around the sitting room, at the three chandeliers, the football-pitch sized carpet, all the gold-plated trappings of wealth. ‘And how did it happen?’
‘Property deals.’ Rita stubbed out a cigarette and promptly lit another. ‘Buying, doing up, selling on. That old routine. You know the kind of thing.’