Perfect Timing (17 page)

Poppy, who had slept through the night and missed the whole thing, was amazed by Dina's lack of shame.

‘Come on,' Dina shrugged, ‘I did the silly bitch a favor. He wasn't her type anyway. She's better off without him.'

This was undoubtedly true, but there were ways and
ways
of finding these things out.

‘You still shouldn't have done it. She was crazy about him.'

‘All the more reason.'

Exasperated, Poppy said, ‘I don't know what you thought you were playing at.'

‘Oh, this is good.' Dina grinned, unrepentant. ‘Coming from the girl who danced with a stranger at her bachelorette party and ended up canceling her wedding.'

‘Hardly the same thing.'

‘Isn't it?' demanded Dina. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You
really
want to know what I was playing at? I was playing at having a bit of fun, just like you. I was playing at doing something out of the ordinary. Getting myself a life.'

‘You're lucky you didn't get a wallop round the head. Anyway,' said Poppy, ‘you've already got a life.'

‘I'm bored with that one. I don't want it anymore.' Dina had spent ages practicing her Sienna Miller pout in front of the mirror. She did it now. ‘I want one like yours.'

‘You've got a baby.'

‘I've got a whole family,' Dina wailed, ‘not to mention enough in-laws to fill Wembley sodding stadium. That's what's
wrong
with my life!'

‘But—'

‘Poppy, you don't know how lucky you are, not having any relatives.' She shook her head to show Poppy she couldn't possibly understand. ‘I'm telling you, they wear you down.'

It had only been a fortnight since Poppy's last visit, but the change in Alex was shocking. His mind was still clear—he even managed to crack a couple of feeble jokes at Rita's expense—but his body was shriveling away.

It was a heartbreaking sight.

One of the round-the-clock nurses hired to look after him hustled Rita and Poppy out of the room after just a few minutes. Alex needed morphine and rest.

‘I need a stiff gin,' Rita sighed when they reached the kitchen. She sat down heavily and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Then she looked up at Poppy. ‘The cancer's everywhere. They've given up on the chemo. There's no point. All they can do now is control the pain.'

They drank massive gin and tonics. Rather unsteadily, but feeling that she should, Poppy made a plateful of cheese and tomato rolls.

Rita managed a couple of mouthfuls then gave up and smoked five cigarettes, one after the other, instead.

‘Anyway, enough about us,' she said half an hour later. ‘Time to change the subject. Come on, Poppy, cheer me up for Gawd's sake. Tell me what you've been getting up to in the last couple of weeks.'

Poppy told her all about the Wilhelm von Kantz painting, which was due to be auctioned at Gillingham's next week. The
Daily Mail
was running a feature on how the lost work of art had been discovered. Dorothea de Lacey's grasping daughters were wild with fury, foaming at the mouth and threatening to sue the auctioneers who had handled the sale at Chartwell-Lacey Manor. Thanks to their incompetence, the sisters had raged at the journalist who had gone to hear their side of the story, they had missed out on a fortune.

‘It's quite good, saves us having to feel guilty,' Poppy explained. ‘If they'd been nice, we would have done. But they sound like complete witches. The journalist told me he'd spoken to practically the whole village. Not one person had a decent word to say about them.'

‘So this chap of yours,' said Rita, ‘this Jake. Pretty eligible now, is he?'

She was looking more cheerful, Poppy noted with relief.

‘Don't start matchmaking. There's nothing like that between me and Jake.'

‘All right, what about Caspar?' Rita thought Caspar was wonderful. Stupid name, but that wasn't his fault. Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘There's definitely nothing like that between me and Caspar.'

‘That's your trouble, there's nothing like that between you and anyone,' Rita pointed out with characteristic bluntness. ‘You want to get yourself sorted, girl. Get yourself a decent bloke and settle down. Find one and grab him before someone else does.' She gave Poppy a sly look. ‘Are you sure this guy Jake wouldn't fit the bill?'

The auction of the von Kantz at Gillingham's was over in no time flat. Four telephone bidders battled it out, and in less than ninety seconds it was all over.

If Poppy had nipped to the loo she would have missed it. She clutched Jake's arm as the auctioneer's gavel fell. Dead Hamster on a Patio had just been bought by a New York collector for seven hundred and seventy thousand pounds.

‘How do you feel?' asked Ross Wilder, the journalist from the
Mail
who was sitting next to Poppy.

‘I need a pee.'

‘Congratulations.' He shook Jake's hand.

‘How do you really feel?' Ross murmured in Poppy's ear as they made their way out of the auction rooms.

‘Look,' said Poppy, ‘since I started working for Jake, all I've ever done is muck things up and lose him money. Now, for once in my life, I've done something right. I couldn't be happier,' she told him firmly. ‘Nobody deserves it more than Jake.'

She meant it, she really did. And Ross was almost sure he knew why.

‘You and Jake,' he said, nodding encouragement, ‘tell me, are you two an item?'

Jake was walking ahead of them. Poppy caught up and tapped him on the shoulder. His green shirt had a nylony slither to it.

‘Ross wants to know if you're going to make an honest woman of me.'

‘Honest?' Jake looked incredulous. ‘Remember a certain cheese and pickle sandwich? You still owe me fifty pence.'

The nurse gave Alex his midday morphine injection. He eased back against the pillows and felt the pain blessedly melt away. With it came the irresistible urge to sleep but he wouldn't. Rita was sending the nurse down for her lunch break, shooing her away so they could have some time alone together. It was like having a bleeding minder, he thought frustratedly. These days they never seemed to get a moment to themselves.

He had to stay awake awhile at least…

When he woke up, Rita was sitting in the armchair next to the bed reading a newspaper. The play he'd been half-listening to on the radio earlier had finished; a boring lecture about economics burbled on instead.

For several minutes Alex lay there, just watching her. His woman. He loved her so much. They had been such a good team.

God, he hoped she wouldn't drink herself to death when he'd gone. He hoped she'd meet someone else, in time. He wanted her to be happy again.

Rita looked up. Her face softened.

‘You're awake. What are you thinking?'

‘That you could do with a visit to the hairdresser. Your roots need doing, girl.'

‘You always were a smooth-talking bugger.'

‘I mean it. You could give that Nicky Clarke fellow a try. You fancy him, don't you?'

‘Not so much as I fancy you.' Rita smoothed his hair away from his forehead. ‘How are you feeling? Anything you need?'

Another wave of exhaustion swept over him. Alex squeezed her hand and felt his eyes close.

‘You're here, aren't you? You'll do.'

Rita bent over to kiss him. The paper on her lap slithered off her knees and onto the floor.

‘Why the
Daily Mail
?' he said as she gathered it up. ‘You don't usually read that one.'

‘It's got the piece in it about Poppy and that painting she found.' Rita held up the relevant page. ‘I was going to show it to you. The reporter reckons there's a bit of a thing going on between her and Jake. Did I tell you how much that painting went for in the end?'

Alex didn't have the energy to study the article himself. His eyelids were closing again.

‘Read it out to me.'

He kept his eyes closed while Rita began to read.

‘“…and Jake's young assistant, twenty-three-year-old Poppy Dunbar.” Talk about not believing what you read in the papers,' crowed Rita, ‘they haven't even got her name right. It's Dunn, for Chrissake, not Dunbar. And look, they've done it again—' she pointed to a section further down the page—‘what's the matter with these people? Why'd they keep putting Dunbar? What a stupid mistake to make.'

Some names you never forgot. Alex was glad his eyes were closed. His mind flew automatically back to almost a quarter of a century ago. To a country club on the leafy outskirts of Bristol and a beautiful girl called Laura Dunbar.

And then it all clicked into place.

Of course.

It explained everything.

Poppy was Laura's daughter.

Alex frowned slightly. He wondered why Poppy had never told him. Then he remembered something else Rita had just said.

‘How old did they say she was?'

Rita double-checked.

‘Twenty-three. At least they managed to get that right. It's her birthday in May. Anyway, pay attention. Let me read you the rest.'

She carried on but Alex didn't hear another word.

Poppy Dunbar wasn't only Laura's daughter.

She was his too.

When Rita had finished she looked up. Alex was smiling to himself.

‘What?' she demanded.

‘Nothing,' said Alex.

Caspar had spent the afternoon at the Serpentine Gallery supporting an exhibition organized by a friend of his. He had been plied with wine and invited to a party that night by a tall, spikily elegant PR girl called Babs.

He caught the tube back to Kensington. As he made his way out of the station, he was spotted by one of the tramps he regularly gave money to.

‘Fifty pence for a cup of tea, sir?' The tramp looked hopeful. Caspar normally bunged him a pound.

Caspar hunted in his pockets. Bugger, no coins. Lucky he was in a good mood.

He winked, gave the tramp a fiver and began to move away.

‘Hang on a sec,' said the tramp.

When Caspar turned back, four pound coins were pressed into his hand.

The tramp, who had once been a bank teller, said, ‘Your change, sir.'

The phone was ringing as Caspar let himself into the house. It was four thirty; Poppy and Claudia were both still at work. Miraculously, the ringing didn't stop before he could reach it.

‘Hello?' said Caspar.

‘Is Poppy there?' said a quiet voice he didn't instantly recognize. ‘I'd like to speak to her please. It's Rita.'

Poppy arrived home an hour later. She burst into the untidy sitting room, hair flying, green eyes alight with happiness.

‘Let me tell you, I have had
the
most brilliant day,' she declared with pride. ‘Jake let me bid at Lassiter's and I got a Goldscheider face mask for seventy pounds!
And
a Barthelemy bronze for thirteen hundred—is that a bargain or what? Then we went to—'

She stopped abruptly. Caspar's face was somber. He wasn't interested in her terrific bargains.

‘What?' said Poppy, suddenly afraid. Her knees began to tremble of their own accord. ‘What?'

‘Rita phoned.' Caspar hesitated, then moved towards her. ‘I'm sorry, sweetheart. Alex died this afternoon.'

He cradled her in his arms and let her sob.

Poppy got through half a box of tissues. Every time she thought the tears had stopped, they started again.

She was crying, she realized, for all those years she hadn't known her father. All the time she had missed.

Caspar stroked her red-gold hair. He kept his arms around her and couldn't help thinking back to Christmas night when he had so badly wanted to hold her like this.

That feeling hadn't gone away, but now was hardly the moment. All he could do now was comfort Poppy and pray she couldn't read his mind.

He made her a mug of tea, heaping in extra sugar.

‘I feel stupid.' Poppy hiccupped, taking the mug and wiping her eyes with another tissue. ‘Getting this upset over someone I didn't even know that well.'

‘It isn't stupid. He was your father.'

‘I got to know Rita better than I got to know him.' Poppy disconsolately blew her nose. ‘That's another thing. When I see her at the funeral I can't be this upset. She'll think I'm downright weird.'

‘You'll be fine,' said Caspar. ‘People do cry at funerals.'

‘Yes, but not buckets. Not this many buckets.'

The phone rang. Poppy flinched.

‘Oh help, is that her? Did she want me to call her back?'

‘No. She just said she'd let you know when the funeral was.'

‘Look at me. Listen to me.' Poppy was pale and red-eyed. Her voice was clogged with tears. ‘You answer it.'

It was Babs the elegant PR girl. Not thrilled.

‘I thought you were going to meet me outside Langan's at seven.'

‘Something else came up. Sorry, I won't be able to make it.' Caspar tried not to sound too insincere. He had forgotten all about Babs.

‘Go,' sighed Poppy, nudging him. ‘Don't stay in just because of me.'

‘Oh come on, you said you'd come to the party,' Babs entreated. ‘You promised.'

‘Sorry, I can't.'

Caspar put the phone down. He turned to Poppy.

‘Now you are being stupid. I'm not leaving you on your own.'

‘But what about whatsername?' Poppy gestured helplessly at the phone.

‘She had legs like Barry Manilow,' said Caspar. ‘I'd rather be here with you.'

The phone shrilled again, shortly after Claudia got home.

‘It's someone from St Clare's.' She came into the sitting room looking helpless. ‘I told him you were ill but he isn't happy. He says he's got a classful of students waiting for a model and if you were ill you should bloody well have let him know.'

‘Oh hell,' Poppy mumbled miserably, still on the sofa knee-deep in tissues. ‘Look at the state of me. I can't do it.'

‘He's not taking no for an answer. He won't get off the phone.'

Caspar looked at Claudia.

‘You'll have to do it.'

‘What? Are you
mad
?'

‘Someone has to.' He shrugged. ‘Like you said, they won't take no for an answer. I mean, come on. It's not such a big deal—'

‘You bloody go then.' Claudia was staring at him in horror. ‘I can't do that! If it's no big deal, you can strip off your clothes for a classful of students.'

Poppy, whose eyes were by this time so puffy she could hardly see, swiveled her head between the two of them. This was like Wimbledon.

‘I would. But the class is Study of the Female Form.' Caspar played his trump card. ‘And I'm a man.'

‘You're a complete bastard,' wailed Claudia. ‘No, I'm sorry, Poppy, but you cannot ask me to do this.'

‘Please,' Poppy whispered.

‘No, absolutely not.'

‘Okay. Don't worry. Tell them I'm on my way.'

Claudia watched Poppy sweep a mountain of soggy tissues off her lap. White-faced, frog-eyed and fragile she hauled herself to her feet.

Claudia tried to imagine how she would feel if her father had just died.

Then she tried to imagine how it would feel to be naked in front of a classful of art students, all ogling those bits of her she had spent her entire life trying to keep hidden.

Her most hideous recurring nightmare involved walking into a party and suddenly realizing she wasn't wearing any clothes.

‘Oh sit down, dammit,' Claudia blurted out. ‘You can't go anywhere looking like that. I'll do it,' she announced defiantly and with more than a trace of hysteria. ‘Okay? I'll go.'

***

‘Poor Claudia, I feel terrible,' said Poppy when she had left. ‘It takes the students six sittings to finish each picture. She's going to be bamboozled into doing it now for the next fortnight.'

‘She might enjoy it.'

Caspar had picked up a pencil and notepad. He did a lightning sketch of Claudia, spare tires atremble, cowering behind a screen in her overcoat, refusing to come out until every student had his blindfold in place.

‘She won't enjoy it. She'll hate every second.'

‘It'll be character-forming. Anyway,' Caspar spoke with a casual air, ‘you mustn't feel terrible. I don't.'

Poppy was instantly suspicious.

‘Why should you? What have you done?'

‘Nothing much.' Caspar put the finishing touches to his sketch. This time he was unable to hide his amusement. ‘Just changed the title of the course from Study of the Human Form.'

‘You mean you could have done it? You could have volunteered?' said Poppy accusingly.

‘What, take my clothes off for a bunch of strangers?' Caspar looked appalled. ‘No fear.'