Perfect Timing (12 page)

Caspar was on his way out to a party in Belsize Park the following evening. He offered to drop Poppy off at St Clare's en route.

‘Nervous?'

‘What, of your driving?' Poppy grinned and shoved a gummy bear into his mouth. ‘I'm used to it by now.'

‘Nervous about the class. Getting your kit off.'

‘Yes.' She could admit as much to Caspar. ‘But that won't last, will it? The first five minutes will be the worst.'

‘Sure you don't want me to come in for a bit, keep an eye on you?' He winked. ‘Make sure they don't laugh?
Ouch
—'

Poppy whacked him on the arm.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be okay. I just hope the heating's on.'

Caspar's petrol light flashed with renewed urgency. Spotting an Esso garage up ahead, he pulled onto the forecourt.

‘Won't be a minute. Give me one more gummy bear… not another green one,' he protested, because Poppy always fobbed him off with those. His eyes lit up as he glimpsed a coveted red gummy bear in the bottom of the bag.

Poppy had seen it too.

‘Here, have a lovely yellow one—no, no!' She let out a yelp as Caspar made a grab for the bag. They wrestled over it for several seconds. Then the bag split. Gummy bears catapulted in all directions.

Grinning, Caspar picked the red one off the dashboard and popped it into his mouth.

‘You should know better than to fight with me. Don't I always win?'

‘Petrol,' Poppy reminded him, because if he didn't get a move on she was going to be late.

While Caspar was filling up, she slid off the passenger seat and began collecting the scattered gummy bears. By the time she scrambled upright, he had disappeared into the shop to pay.

If she hadn't been so busy chasing gummy bears, Poppy realized afterwards, she would have seen Tom sooner.

If she'd stayed down on the floor a few seconds longer, she would have missed him altogether.

But there he was, clearly visible under the bright fluorescent garage lighting, making his way back from the shop with a packet of Benson & Hedges and a can of Coke in one hand, a copy of the
Evening Standard
in the other. The tangled curls and glittering dark eyes were just as Poppy remembered them. He was wearing jeans—maybe the same pair he had worn last time she'd seen him—and a dark grey polo-necked sweater beneath a black leather jacket. The way he walked was the same. Nothing about him had changed. If she touched him, Poppy realized, she knew exactly how he would feel.

She sat frozen in the passenger seat, too shocked at first to react. It felt like hours but was probably no more than a couple of seconds. I've got to move, thought Poppy, dazed. I've got to attract his attention.

Tom's car was obscured from view by an RAC van. All she could see was the bumper. But he was heading for it, and if she didn't do something sharpish, he was going to climb in, start the engine, and disappear.

Galvanized into action, Poppy launched herself at the door handle. As she did so, the car Tom was about to get into started up. Someone else was driving. Poppy panicked and tugged again, frantically, at the handle. Slippery with sweat, her hand slid off. The car with Tom inside began to move and thanks to the angle of the RAC van and the petrol pumps, she still couldn't get a good look at it.

‘Stop… help… WAIT… STOP!!' screamed Poppy, realizing too late that she was the helpless victim of a child lock. Any second now, the car would pull out into the road. This had been her chance in a million and she'd almost blown it. Her heart racing, Poppy threw herself across to the driver's side and leaned as hard as she knew how on the horn.

‘Here. Don't say I never buy you anything.'

An unopened bag of gummy bears landed with a crackly thud in Poppy's lap. Caspar climbed back into the car.

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘Nothing.' Poppy was too shell-shocked to explain. She felt sick. She couldn't eat a gummy bear now to save her life.

‘Last-minute panic?'

‘No.'

‘Well, something's happened.'

‘Your car horn doesn't work.'

Caspar waved his keys at her. ‘Not without these in the ignition.'

Hell.

‘And there's a child lock on this door. You don't
have
children,' said Poppy.

‘The chap I bought the car from had them fitted. Kate was showing me yesterday how to work them. Sorry, couldn't you open the door?' said Caspar. ‘I didn't realize they were still switched on.'

Around Poppy, at varying distances, sixteen pupils stood before their easels observing, drawing, re-drawing, and shading the contours of her body. Every detail mattered. Their concentration was total. When they spoke, they did it in whispers.

The group comprised seven women and nine men, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty. The only disparaging remark about their new model had come from a tall older woman in a hand-crocheted tunic, complaining about Poppy's lack of saggy bits and wrinkles. Nobody had ogled her either. They were too busy drawing to leer.

Poppy gazed at a peeling patch of wall. Her mind was elsewhere—back on a chilly garage forecourt on the Marylebone Road—but her body was right here doing its job.

At least seeing Tom again had given her something else to think about other than the fact that she was sitting here minus her clothes.

Money had been tight for the last few weeks and Poppy had been forced to give the Cavendish Club a miss. When she visited it the Friday before Christmas, she heard the jaunty, bluesy sound of Alex on the piano as she reached the stone steps leading down to the entrance of the club.

Inside, half the office parties in London appeared to have crammed themselves willy-nilly into the three interlinked cellars. The place was heaving with tipsy secretaries and excitable clerical types with their shirtsleeves rolled up and their ties awry. Everyone was celebrating their last day at work. Ugly men waving scrawny bits of mistletoe were looking hopeful. There was a lot of smudged lipstick about. Poppy found herself fending off the enthusiastic attentions of a burly lad in a reindeer suit.

‘If you don't give me a Christmas kiss, you'll hurt my feelings,' he pleaded.

‘If you don't take your hands off my bottom,' said Poppy with a grin, ‘I'll rip your antlers off.'

She found Rita in her usual corner of the bar, looking festive in a bright red dress and snowman earrings. The first thing she did was buy Poppy a drink.

‘Still speaking to us then? I thought you might have decided you'd had enough of these jazz types.' She watched Poppy take a thrifty sip of her lager and downed her own drink in one. ‘Come on love, get it down your neck. Don't worry, I'm buying.'

Was Rita looking older? Were there shadows under her eyes, carefully but not totally masked by concealer? Poppy watched her stub out one cigarette and straight away light up another. There was an air of recklessness about her tonight, a definite I-could-do-with-a-Valium look in her eyes. The smile was put on. And she kept glancing across in the direction of the stage, as if compulsively checking that Alex was still there.

Maybe they've had a fight, thought Poppy. Maybe Rita had been a bit free and easy with her own Christmas kisses and Alex had got jealous. Or vice versa.

Or there was more to it than that, and she had discovered he was having an affair—

Poppy stopped herself before she got carried away. This was her trouble, she was always imagining things and leaping to conclusions. There were, after all, any number of reasons why Rita might be on edge.

Poppy glanced over her shoulder and saw a pregnant girl standing over by the fire exit. Rita had mentioned ages ago that she hadn't been able to have children. Briefly, almost casually, she had said, ‘No, no kids. It just didn't happen. Still, never mind.' But behind the brave, don't-care façade, Poppy had glimpsed the pain, and the number of soft toys in Rita's house had been another giveaway. The sight of a pregnant woman must remind her every time of what she had missed.

As for her and Alex having an argument… so what? It was what married couples did, and for the most mundane reasons. Alex had probably left his socks on the bathroom floor… squeezed the toothpaste in the middle… spent too long with his mates in the pub.

‘Let's hear what you've been up to then.' Rita finished the second cigarette in a series of fast, jerky drags. ‘Managed to get yourself another job?'

Poppy told her about St Clare's, which had now broken up for Christmas. Then she went on to tell her about the end-of-term party in a pub around the corner from the college, where during the course of the evening, each student in turn had come up to her and said, side-splittingly, ‘Gosh, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on.'

‘They're a nice enough crowd,' Poppy sighed, ‘but their idea of humor is to say, “What's this, cellulite?” And you should see some of the finished drawings. One old dear had me looking like Joyce Grenfell on speed. She's seventy-three and thinks she's Picasso, except she wears a black wig. Rita, are you okay?'

‘Hmm? Sorry, I missed the last bit. Something about cellulite.'

‘What's wrong?' asked Poppy.

She watched in horror as Rita's heavily mascaraed eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Damn, this is doing my image no good at all.' Rita's voice cracked. She fumbled uselessly in her bag for tissues.

People were beginning to notice and Rita's make-up was woefully un-waterproof. Poppy led her through the crowded cellar to the exit.

‘I hate these sodding steps,' mumbled Rita. ‘Oh God, we're going to freeze to death. What do I look like? I
swore
I wouldn't let this happen…'

Poppy had brought her outside because she knew the ladies' loo would be packed. Now they'd reached the top of the steps, she wondered what to do next.

‘Where's your car?'

‘Parked round the back.' Rita sniffed. ‘I haven't got the keys. They're with Alex.'

A black cab turned the corner. Poppy flagged it down.

‘Where to, love?'

‘I don't know.' Poppy looked at Rita. ‘Home?'

‘Not without Alex. Oh, I get it.' Rita shook her head. ‘You think we've fallen out. It's not that.' Wearily she added, ‘I only wish it was.'

The streets were icy. Poppy's feet were numb. She started to shiver. The cab driver was beginning to look fed up.

‘We don't want to go anywhere,' she told him, pulling open the door and jumping inside. ‘Just keep the engine ticking over. And the heater on.'

Rita sobbed noisily. The cab driver provided a box of Kleenex. Poppy had to wait several minutes before she heard what had happened.

‘…you know what men are like, all this macho “I'm okay” stuff, when really all they are is scared out of their wits.' Rita sighed and blinked back more tears. ‘Well anyway, Alex wasn't feeling so clever so in the end I made the appointment for him. We went together and the woman checked him out. Dead nice, she was. Kept saying she was sure it wasn't anything to worry about, but to be on the safe side, he'd better go and have a few tests. So we went along for those this morning. We've got to see the specialist tomorrow for the results. Oh Poppy, I know what they're going to tell us.'

Rita's voice began to break again. The floor of the cab was covered with bits of damp shredded tissue. With practically no make-up left she looked quite different. Poppy held her hand.

Reassurance wasn't what Rita wanted. Cheer-up-it-might-never-happen speeches would do no good because as far as Rita was concerned, it already had.

‘He's being so brave,' she told Poppy. ‘Just carrying on as if nothing's changed. I'm the one embarrassing myself, bawling like a baby. It's just, I feel so helpless… and so bloody
angry
… Christ, I'm the one who drinks too much and smokes too much. If something like this has to happen, why can't it flaming well happen to me?'

All Poppy could do was sit there and listen while Rita ranted on. By the time the meter had clocked up eight pounds fifty, the tears had pretty much dried up. By ten pounds fifty Rita had renewed most of her make-up. Poppy paid the cab driver while Rita did her lipstick, and realized that she would have to go home now. All she had left was enough money for the bus.

‘You're a good girl.' Rita gave her an awkward hug. ‘And thanks for putting up with me. What a way to spend an evening, eh? You must've been bored stupid, having to listen to me droning on and on. God, I'm a selfish cow.'

‘You aren't.' Poppy hugged her back. ‘Look, I have to go now. Give my love to Alex.'

At home in bed, Poppy couldn't sleep. She lay staring up at the ceiling thinking about Alex and going over in her mind everything Rita had said.

I've only just found him, Poppy thought with trepidation. This can't happen. I can't lose him again. Not yet.

Poppy caught the coach to Bristol on Christmas Eve. She hadn't told Dina she was coming down; she wasn't staying long. This was purely a duty visit.

When she arrived, she felt even more of a stranger than she had imagined. Beryl Bridges was there, in a pale blue hand-knitted twinset, putting the finishing touches to plates of sandwiches and homemade cakes. There were doilies on the plates. The tea service was one Poppy hadn't seen before. When Beryl reached for the teapot and said coyly, ‘Shall I be mother?' Poppy felt a twinge of alarm. Beryl was nudging sixty; surely she hadn't gone and got herself knocked up?

‘We're getting married,' Mervyn Dunbar announced when the tea had been poured. He no longer took sugar, Poppy noticed. Beryl was probably behind that too.

‘Oh… well, that's good news.' Poppy smiled at them both. ‘Congratulations.'

‘Next week,' said Mervyn. ‘Down at the Register Office. Nothing fancy. No big party or anything.'

Of course not, Poppy thought. Wouldn't want to break the habit of a lifetime.

‘Just a couple of my friends as witnesses,' Beryl put in hurriedly. ‘And a spot of lunch afterwards.'

‘So don't worry about having to trek down here from London all over again.' Mervyn blinked. Poppy turning up like this out of the blue had unsettled him. He had his own life now and Beryl to share it with him. Knowing that Beryl would never sneak off behind his back with another man gave him indescribable peace of mind, whereas seeing Poppy again only served to remind him of all the misery and humiliation his first wife had put him through. ‘There's no need,' he went on brusquely. ‘We understand. It's a long way.'

It certainly was, Poppy mused. Even longer when you weren't wanted at the wedding.

‘Still, you've got your own life to lead, haven't you?' Beryl said brightly. ‘Up in the big city! Must be lots going on there, eh love?'

‘Oh, lots.' Poppy nodded in agreement. She had no intention of telling them she had met her real father. She finished her tea and reached down to the raffia bag at her feet, pulling out Mervyn's wrapped Christmas present. Luckily, gardening books were his passion so he was easy to buy for.

Lucky too, thought Poppy, that I'm pretty passionate about washing. She thanked Mervyn for her own present, which she knew was Yardley soap. It was wrapped in last year's paper, which had been kept and recycled.

‘Actually,' said Poppy, ‘I was going to ask a favor.'

Mervyn looked wary. ‘Oh, yes?'

‘You know that blue spirit bottle, the one on the shelf out in the hall. Was it my mother's?'

Bits of old glass were of no interest to Mervyn Dunbar. He nodded.

‘She came home with it one day, before you were born. Bought it in Clifton. Waste of money, I told her.' His eyes flickered. ‘Why? Valuable, is it?'

‘Not really,' Poppy fibbed, because Bristol Blue glass of that age could fetch hundreds of pounds at auction. ‘It's the same color as the curtains in my bedroom, that's all. I wondered if I could have it.'

***

Claudia always enjoyed the
idea
of going along to her mother's cocktail parties. Angie invited so many men you never knew who you might meet. It was only when she was there she started wishing she hadn't come.

The trouble was, having spent ages looking forward to it, the event itself was bound to be a letdown. As in childbirth, Claudia conveniently forgot the bad bits—like the fact that her mother spent the whole time shamelessly hogging the limelight and always bagged the best men for herself.

‘You look gorgeous, like an ice cream,' one of them told Claudia now. He was spectacularly drunk but so good-looking he could get away with it. ‘Can I lick your shoulder? Do you taste as good as you look?'

Claudia began to perk up. How lucky she'd chosen to wear the ivory satin dress and not the blue wool one, and how right she'd been to keep up those sessions on the sunbed. She preened a bit, then squirmed with pleasure as the man began to drop nibbling little kisses along her collarbone.

With a whoosh of Chanel Number 5, Angie materialized beside them like an unwanted genie out of a lamp.

Her smile was provocative.

‘Why bother with Wall's economy-sized vanilla,' she purred, ‘when you could be enjoying Häagen-Dazs?'

She slipped out of her jacket and offered the man her own bare shoulder. ‘Go on, try me. And be honest, which would you prefer? A dollop of plain old vanilla or a little taste of heavenly Caramel Cone Explosion?'

‘Honestly darling, I don't know why you have to be so touchy.' Mindful of the perils of dehydration, Angie poured herself another glass of mineral water and yawned. ‘It was just a bit of fun. You're lucky Carlo only nibbled your shoulder.'

Claudia had managed to contain herself until the party was over. By the time the last of the guests had drifted off into the frosty night, she'd had a good three hours in which to seethe.

‘I'm not talking about my shoulder being nibbled,' Claudia howled. ‘Having my shoulder nibbled doesn't
shock
me… what I can't bear is the way you always have to barge your way in and start showing off.'

Angie began to laugh.

‘Oh dear, you mean the bit about economy blocks of ice cream? Sweetheart, you are so sensitive about your size! It was a joke, that's all.'

‘You couldn't bear to think that someone like Carlo might have been more interested in me than in you.' Claudia glared at her accusingly. ‘You had to shimmy up and start diverting his attention.'

‘Fairly easily accomplished,' Angie retaliated. ‘I mean, he hardly had to be pried off you, did he?'

‘Now you're being spiteful.'

All the pent-up resentment of the past months was on the brink of spilling out. Having Angie back on the scene must have been more of a strain than she'd realized. Claudia gave her mother a measured look. ‘And you're embarrassing yourself,' she said coldly. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that some people might be watching the way you carry on and laughing at you behind your back? Not everyone thinks you're completely irresistible, you know. You aren't that perfect.'

Angie was no longer looking amused. If there was one thing she really couldn't bear, it was the thought that she was being laughed at. It was only a cheap jibe of course—nobody
was
laughing—but the fact that Claudia could even make such a snide remark… well, it really pissed her off.

‘I didn't say I was perfect,' she bristled. ‘Or irresistible. Not that I can recall any complaints—'

‘For God's sake,
there
you go again.'

‘Oh please, can I help it if men find me attractive?'

‘Not all men,' Claudia repeated through gritted teeth. This evening's episode had really bugged her. This time her mother wasn't going to get away with it. ‘Not all men. Not Carlo, And,' she added for good measure, ‘not Caspar either.'

Right. That was it. Mockingly Angie said, ‘Caspar? Oh, you mean the Caspar
you've
had such spectacular success with? Dear me, so what you're saying is, if I were to make myself available to Caspar French, he wouldn't be the teeniest bit interested. Is that it?'

‘That's it.' Claudia looked triumphant. Inwardly, she thought: If I have to bribe him with every last penny I own, Caspar is never going to sleep with you.

Angie uncurled herself and rose from the sofa. She crossed the room to where the Christmas tree stood. It was an impressive ten-footer smothered in Victorian lace and beeswax candles. A mountain of exquisitely wrapped gifts was piled around the base. Angie reached for a large flat rectangular package done up in tartan paper. She handed it to Claudia with a tight little smile.

‘Go on, open it.'

‘Why? It's not mine.' Claudia looked at the label, which bore her father's name. Hugo was flying over from Los Angeles on Boxing Day.

‘Just open it.'

The crimson ribbons unraveled, the paper fell open and the layers of tissue paper seemed to peel back of their own accord. Claudia sat gazing down at the picture on her lap. Her mother, naked and golden, sleepy-eyed and smiling, gazed back up at her. As if the carved wooden headboard of the rumpled bed on which she lay wasn't enough, there was the signature in the bottom right-hand corner to dispel any last lingering doubts.

‘What a talented boy he is.' Smiling at the look on Claudia's face, Angie heaved a pleasurable sigh. ‘And what fun we had! No wonder you're so keen to get to know him better,' she added in a taunting whisper. ‘He even exceeded my expectations! Darling, you simply must give Caspar a try. I do recommend him. You're missing out on a treat.'