Perfect Timing (10 page)

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.'

‘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.'

Eek! Poppy's blood ran cold. She hoped she hadn't just been snogged by her uncle.

‘You mean he's related to Alex?'

Rita had begun vigorously Ultraglowing her neck and cleavage. She let out a bellow of laughter.

‘Good job he didn't hear you say that! I meant
my
family, love. Derek's a cousin of mine. Been a prat all his life, too. Ow, I knew I should've given that jiving a miss.'

Poppy watched Rita flex her left knee as if it hurt.

‘You were dancing like a pro. I was impressed.'

‘Yeah, and it'll give me gyp tomorrow.' Rita carried on massaging the area below her knee. ‘I broke my leg a long time ago. In three places. Nasty business it was.'

Of course, the fateful break. Poppy wondered what would have happened if Rita hadn't had her accident. Alex wouldn't have needed to rush back to London, her mother would have told him she was pregnant… who knows? He might have decided to stay with Laura after all. He might have divorced Rita and married her mother instead. And I, thought Poppy, would have had a whole different life, an unimaginably different life…

‘You're miles away, love.'

‘I was. Sorry.' Poppy shook her head and grinned. What had Rita been talking about? Oh yes, the leg. ‘I bet it put you off hanging baskets for life.'

Rita looked at her strangely.

‘How on earth did you know that?'

Hell's bells, this was what happened when you didn't pay attention.

‘You told me,' said Poppy.

‘I don't remember.'

‘A couple of weeks ago, at the Cavendish Club.' She improvised wildly, banking on Rita's fondness for a drink to get her out of this mess. ‘I told you about Claudia setting her heart on a couple of hanging flower baskets and Caspar offering to kidnap next door's, and you said, “Bloody hanging baskets, I was nearly killed once, by a hanging basket.” And then you told me about falling off the ladder and breaking your leg.'

‘Blimey,' said Rita.

‘It was the night you were drinking tequila slammers with Harry Osborne. You must remember that!'

‘I remember the headache the next morning.' Rita pulled a face, gave her hair a one-for-the-road burst of hair spray, and stood up. ‘Oh well, I'll blame Harry for that. Ready to go back down, love? The dress looks terrific.'

‘This house is terrific.' Poppy seized her chance as they headed for the stairs. ‘Have you lived here long?'

‘Couple of years.'

It was no good, she had to ask.

‘So does Alex have… um… another job?'

Rita glanced at her. ‘You mean how come we're living in a place like this, Bethnal Green's answer to Buck House?'

‘I know I'm being rude.' Poppy tried to look ashamed. ‘I'm sorry, I'm the nosiest person I know.'

‘That's all right, petal. Only natural to be curious. No mystery to it anyway,' Rita continued smoothly. ‘Alex was just in the right place at the right time during the property boom.'

‘Property? Buying and selling houses?'

‘Yeah, that's it. Then he invested in a high-risk land deal in Spain. Two years ago the deal came off. And we woke up one morning a few million quid richer than we'd been the night before.'

The words sounded well-rehearsed, as if they'd been trotted out a few million times themselves. One thing was for sure, thought Poppy: Rita wasn't telling her the truth.

‘Here we are.' Proudly, Alex steered Poppy into the drawing room where an illuminated cabinet contained his small collection of Bristol Blue glass. One shelf was occupied by a set of four goblets, three lozenge-stoppered decanters, and a single spirit bottle.

Poppy recognized the spirit bottle at once. There was another one, just like it, in the house where she had grown up.

‘Two hundred years old,' said Alex, ‘can you credit it?'

‘Cheeky bugger,' Rita retorted over his shoulder. ‘I am not.' She winked at Poppy and said to Alex, ‘Have you told her yet?'

‘Told me what?'

‘Me and Rita, we've had an idea.' He grinned. ‘To make up for you losing your job.'

Poppy's heart began to race. She struggled to contain her excitement. This is it, she thought, hardly able to believe her luck, they're going to offer me work! They want to employ me as a… as a…

Poppy wasn't quite sure what, but she didn't care. She would clean, do odd jobs, mow the lawn, anything. Dammit, she'd even cook.

‘Go on love, you tell her.' Rita gave Alex a nudge.

‘The dress,' said Alex kindly. ‘It suits you, love. We want you to have it. And no arguments; it's yours.'