Perfect Timing (21 page)

Bewilderingly, Poppy realized she was on the verge of tears. She had no idea why, just as she couldn't imagine where all this pent-up fury had come from. God, she thought, appalled, I sound like some screeching fishwife.

But whatever happened, Poppy knew she mustn't let Caspar see her cry.

Claudia wasn't nearly as sympathetic as Poppy would have liked her to be. Arriving home shortly after Caspar had left the house—without a word to Poppy—she was far more interested in rummaging through her wardrobe and swivelling in front of mirrors to see if last summer's bikinis made her bottom look big. Marilyn, one of the girls from the office, had split up with her boyfriend forty-eight hours before they were due to fly out to the Canaries. Marilyn wasn't heartbroken—‘Ah, he wasn't up to much; what can you say about a man who wears socks in bed?'—and Claudia, desperate for some sun, had offered to take his place.

‘By this time tomorrow, I'll be stretched out on a beach.' She heaved a blissful sigh and held up a parrot-green swimsuit. ‘Does this look as if it's shrunk?'

‘You're no help,' Poppy grumbled. ‘I've had the biggest fall-out since Chernobyl, Caspar's never going to speak to me again, and you aren't even listening.'

‘I am, I am.' There was a hole in the side seam of the green swimsuit. Claudia kicked it under the bed, rummaged in the wardrobe some more, and unearthed a burnt-orange bikini. ‘Now this one's good for sunbathing. But if you try and swim your boobs fall out—'

‘We may as well say good-bye now,' said Poppy. ‘He's bound to have kicked me out by the time you get back.'

‘D'you really think he will?' Claudia let out a shriek of delight as she spotted her favorite white espadrilles. ‘You little darlings… I've been looking for you everywhere!'

‘Not that you care.' Poppy was beginning to feel distinctly unloved. Claudia was hugging her espadrilles like puppies. Any minute now, Poppy thought, she'd give them a couple of biscuits.

‘Look,' said Claudia, because Poppy's thunderous expression was putting her off her packing, ‘I hate to say I told you so. But be honest: the reason you're upset is because you've only just realized what a shit Caspar is. I mean, isn't it what I've been saying all along?'

Claudia was lying; she
loved
being able to say I told you so. Poppy gritted her teeth and nodded. Under the circumstances, she didn't have much choice.

‘You always used to think it was funny,' Claudia went on, ‘the way he got so muddled up about who he was supposed to be seeing. I felt sorry for them but you just thought it was hysterical.'

‘I felt sorry for them too.' Poppy was stung. ‘Well, Kate anyway.' She decided she might as well confess. ‘I thought you were jealous because you fancied Caspar yourself.'

Claudia didn't howl with laughter; that would have been overdoing it. She just looked suitably amused, as if a small child had told a knock-knock joke.

‘I've never fancied Caspar. Oh, I know he has the looks and the charm, but don't forget I've lived here longer than you. I've always known what he's like. Anyway,' she added with a genuine shudder, ‘he had an affair with my mother. If that isn't enough to put you off someone, I don't know what is.'

Poppy had forgotten about that. Caspar and Angie Slade-Welch. He had laughingly denied it at the time, but of course he had slept with her. As Claudia pointed out, it was pretty yucky. Angie might be glamorous but she was old enough to be Caspar's mother too.

Belatedly, Poppy remembered that Claudia wasn't supposed to know about Angie's visits to the house.

‘Your mum?' She raised a tentative eyebrow. ‘And Caspar?' Surely Caspar hadn't been indiscreet enough to spill the beans.

Claudia carried on packing. Her expression was matter-of-fact.

‘My mother told me. She's on some kind of mission, if you ask me, to prove how attractive she still is to the opposite sex. I think she expected me to be impressed,' Claudia went on dryly. ‘The trouble is, having your portrait painted and getting slept with by Caspar isn't an achievement. It's par for the course.'

Arriving home from work the next day, Poppy found a note with her name on the front propped up against the biscuit tin.

The house was empty. Poppy's fingers shook as she unfolded the sheet of paper. She hadn't meant all those terrible things she'd said—well, maybe meant them a bit, but that didn't mean she wanted to be banished from Cornwallis Crescent for good.

But all the note said was: Poppy. Have gone away for the week with Babette. As Claudia is away too, this leaves you in charge of the house (i.e. don't leave front door wide open when you go off to work). I have bought an answering machine and set it up, so no need for you to take messages. C.

Having vented her spleen yesterday, Poppy had pretty much got her exasperation with Caspar out of her system. Now, re-reading the terse little note, she felt a lump expand in her throat. No Dear Poppy, no jokes, no lighthearted warnings about wild all-night parties. He hadn't even been able to bring himself to sign off with his full name; all she now merited was a chilly initial.

He was still angry with her.

She might not be out on her ear—yet, anyway—but they definitely weren't friends.

TOM: Are you the Tom who visited a Bristol nightclub last June and met a girl, out at her bachelorette party, called Poppy?

If you are Tom or you think you may know him, please phone this number, any evening…

Studying the advert in the personal column of the
Evening Standard
, Jake experienced a rush of something that was a mixture of excitement and pride. He felt quite private detectivish, maybe even a bit James Bondy. It had taken him hours to perfect the wording of the advertisement. He had been tempted, at first, to put Desperately Seeking Tom. Then he had toyed—quite daringly for him—with Did You Ever Meet A Girl Who Wore Durex On Her Head?

In the end, he kept it simple. He had bought a mobile phone—okay, so the world and his dog carried mobiles around these days, but it still secretly gave Jake a thrill—and arranged for the ad to run every night for a week. He'd had two calls already, from a girl offering exotic personal services and from a man called James who would be more than happy to change his name to Tom. So long as the money was good, he explained matter-of-factly, he'd answer to any name Jake liked.

‘Fancy a trip to the cinema?' asked Poppy, who was missing Caspar and Claudia dreadfully. The big house felt strange without them, and the weekend loomed emptily ahead. She sat on a George III giltwood armchair with her feet tucked under her and prodded Jake's copy of the
Standard
. ‘Whenever you like, tonight or tomorrow night. Go on, have a look and see what's on. You can choose.'

‘Can't make it,' said Jake, imagining his mobile phone ringing in the middle of the film. He had already decided he had to stay at home in order to take the calls that were bound to flood in. ‘Sorry, I'm… er… pretty busy just now.'

Jake never went anywhere in the evenings. Poppy wondered if he was cinemaphobic.

‘Okay, never mind seeing a film. How about coming round to my place and letting me cook dinner? Nothing too glamorous, just chili or something, but we could play Boggle, open a bottle of wine…'

Jake had compiled a series of questions to ask the potential Toms who phoned up, in order to weed out the cranks. The questionnaire was his version of Cinderella's glass slipper and he could hardly put it to each caller with Poppy there, her ears out on stalks.

‘Sorry. I really am busy. Maybe another time.'

Poppy nodded without speaking. She tried not to feel hurt. Jake's manner had become almost abrupt; he clearly had better things to do these days than socialize with her.

I smartened him up, she thought with a twinge of resentment, and now I'm paying the price. Jake isn't busy; he's just seeing someone else.

As if on cue, two women who were regulars at the market approached Jake's stall. Hunched low in her chair pretending to read next week's Bonham's catalogue, Poppy watched them flirt gently with Jake. In the old days he would have blushed, stammered out some lame excuse, and disappeared before you could say white rabbit.

To look at him now you wouldn't believe it. He was coping beautifully, taking their attentions in his stride, and well on his way to making a sale. He wasn't flirting back at them, Poppy noticed, but he was certainly letting them think he might.

And all thanks to a new image.

Jake had discovered self-confidence and it suited him.

Poppy, whose weekend was looking emptier and more gloomy by the minute, thought: Fat lot of good it's done me.

Feeling faintly guilty, even though all she was doing was phoning a friend for a chat, Poppy rang Dina in Bristol.

‘…it's so weird, I'm never usually like this. Six o'clock on a Friday evening and I'm already bored out of my skull. You wouldn't believe how quiet the house is. Every room is so
empty
.'

‘What do you look like?' Dina, ever practical, thought it best to check.

‘Eh?'

‘Your face. D'you still look like a gargoyle?'

‘Oh! No, that's all gone down.'

‘So you can be seen out in public?' In Bristol, Dina fluffed her hair up in front of the mirror and gave her reflection a knowing grin.

Poppy pretended not to understand. ‘What are you getting at?'

‘Come on! I can be there by nine. And if Claudia's not there I can't upset her, can I? While the cat's away and all that. We'll have a ball!'

Poppy felt guilty again.

‘What about Ben? And the baby?'

‘They'll manage,' Dina breezily dismissed that problem. ‘You know Ben. If I'm happy, he's happy. He won't mind. And as for Daniel, he won't even notice! Tell you what, hang on a sec and I'll just square it…'

She was back on the line moments later.

‘Get your kit on, girl. And do yourself up. This weekend is going to be wild!'

Deciding to go for it was easy enough; actually going through with going for it was another thing altogether.

Hopelessly out of practice, Poppy took a leaf out of Dina's book and tripled her usual amount of make-up. Heaps of black around the eyes, more blusher, and
gallons
more mascara. Rifling Claudia's dressing-table drawers in search of big earrings, she came across a nice bronzy-looking lipstick and put it on. Bronze was good; it went with her hair and wouldn't make her look a complete tart.

Poppy stared at herself in Claudia's mirror as within seconds bronze turned to crimson. She looked at the label on the base of the lipstick. Damn, it was one of those Ultraglow indelibles.

Now she looked a complete tart.

‘Hey, Morticia!' gurgled Dina when Poppy pulled open the front door at three minutes past nine.

By midnight Poppy's mouth was magenta. The lipstick, which couldn't be scrubbed off, not even with a Brillo pad, got darker the hotter you got. And Poppy was hot.

Matching Dina drink for drink had seemed the only way to banish the demons. By eleven o'clock, they had jostled and scrummed their way through half a dozen packed-to-the-rafters South Ken wine bars. Poppy found herself drinking tequila and exchanging banter with a crowd of city types ready to celebrate the start of the weekend. Dina, whose skirt barely covered her bottom, kept rounding on innocent men shrieking, ‘You pinched my bum! Right, you can buy me a drink for that.
And
one for my friend.'

When they eventually moved on to a club, it was with half a dozen or so stockbrokers still in tow. Poppy, purple-lipped and light-headed, wondered if the tall one called Neil was really as good-looking as she was beginning to think or just the best of an extremely average bunch.

Dina was dancing with B.J., the one who had started all the bottom pinching in the first place. Poppy danced first with Tyler, then with Ken, then with an Austrian called Hans who galloped around the crowded dance floor like a camel. Feeling sorry for him, because everyone else was laughing and pointing him out to their friends, Poppy galloped like a camel too. By the time Neil managed to battle his way back from the bar, she had worked up a raging thirst.

‘Steady,' said Neil. ‘Don't want you passing out cold.'

Poppy eyed him over the rim of her lager glass—well, maybe not
her
lager glass exactly, but the one she was drinking out of.

‘I'm all right. I've got hollow legs.'

Weird, but true. Tonight, she decided, they were definitely hollow.

‘You've got gorgeous legs.' Neil had an engaging lopsided grin and endearingly curly earlobes.

‘You've got gorgeous ears,' Poppy heard herself say.

The grin broadened. ‘You have… um, stupendous eyes.'

She wagged a finger at him. ‘Are you making fun of me?'

‘Absolutely not. Your eyes are stupendous. So's the rest of you.' His appreciative gaze flickered over the little white Lycra dress which clung lovingly to Poppy's every curve. ‘I just wish you weren't so plastered. I'd really like to see you again.'

About time I got myself a boyfriend, Poppy thought. She nodded approvingly. Yep, that was what she needed. To sort herself out and settle down with someone nice. Normal and nice. She gave Neil an encouraging look and wondered if he squeezed the toothpaste in the middle. She hated people who didn't do that.

‘The thing is, you're going to wake up tomorrow not even able to remember tonight.' He looked wistful. ‘When I phone, you won't know who I am. You'll be too embarrassed to meet me… we'll never see each other again… bang goes our great love affair. We're
doomed
.'

Poppy thought at once of Tom, of the great love affair that had never happened. Thanks to her. Damn, how could she have been so stupid?

‘Oh God, don't cry!' Neil was filled with dismay. ‘Come on, cheer up. Have another drink.'

Poppy couldn't remember afterwards whose bright idea it was that the impromptu party should be carried on at Cornwallis Crescent. She vaguely recalled everyone piling out of three cabs, loaded down with bottles from an all-night liquor store, and staggering noisily up the front steps to the house.

Boisterous games were the order of the night. Dina, a Club 18–30 devotee, appointed herself games mistress and bullied everyone into teams. In her element, she demonstrated with B.J. how to play pass-the-banana. B.J., who was like someone out of
Baywatch
, kept whispering, ‘Wait till this lot have gone. I know better games than this.' Dina shivered with pleasure; she could hardly wait.

Poppy knew if she sat down for a second she'd crash out, so she didn't sit down. If she was going to have a monumental hangover tomorrow—and really, there was no ‘if' about it—she was jolly well going to get maximum enjoyment out of tonight. And if playing wheelbarrows around the sitting room—picking up matchboxes in your teeth along the way—wasn't sophisticated, so what? Who cares, thought Poppy as she was hoisted onto Ken's shoulders for the start of the next game. I'm having fun.

‘Stop wobbling,' Dina shouted across the room. ‘Don't hit the lights. And smile.'

A flash went off. Then another. Dina grinned and threw the camera to Hans. She grabbed B.J. ‘Come on, now take one of us.
Ouch
'—she yelped with laughter as B.J.'s hand slid downwards—‘you sod, I told you not to pinch my bum again! I'll be black and blue tomorrow. What's my old man going to say when I get home?'

Waking up the following morning was awful. As soon as Poppy realized how bad she felt, she tried to go back to sleep.

But how could you possibly sleep when you felt this ill?

‘Here,' said a male voice over her shoulder. Poppy jumped as a mug of hot tea was pushed into her hand. When she turned her head—ouch,
ouch
—she realized she wasn't in her own bed.

‘I live here,' she groaned up at Neil, who had made her the tea. ‘How did I get landed with the sofa?'

‘It was more a case of you landing on the sofa,' Neil explained. ‘Once you did, you were out cold. To be honest, none of us wanted to risk carrying you down the stairs to your room.'

‘Oh.' Poppy thought for a moment. ‘So who slept in my bed?'

Neil looked nervous. ‘I did.' Hurriedly he added, ‘I kept my clothes on.'

‘What about everyone else?'

‘Um… B.J. and your friend Dina disappeared upstairs. Tyler fell asleep on the bathroom floor—he always does that—and Ken's behind the sofa.'

‘Ken,' said Poppy, ‘are you behind the sofa?'

No reply.

‘I can see his feet sticking out,' Neil explained. ‘I didn't say he was conscious.'

‘Hans,' mumbled Poppy.

‘No, his feet.'

‘
Hans
.' She tried to remember who else had been at the party. A couple of blonde girls, but they had caught a cab around four. Her last memory of Hans was of him dancing that astonishing dance again, round and round the sitting room like a wasp in a bottle…

Neil shrugged. ‘Maybe he left.' His earlobes turned red. He cleared his throat and sat down on the far end of the sofa. Poppy shifted her feet over to make room. How embarrassing, had she really been irresistibly drawn to those glowing ears? Had she actually told him they were gorgeous?

In the harsh light of the morning after, it was immediately obvious that Neil wasn't the boyfriend she'd been looking for. Last night he had been good fun, really quite handsome, and flatteringly attentive. Today he was looking thin and gangly. He had adopted one of those eager-to-please, you-do-still-like-me-don't-you expressions that were always, as far as Poppy was concerned, an instant turn-off.

As for the ears: frankly, they were weird.

Guiltily, Poppy dropped her gaze. Since she wasn't looking so hot herself, there was every chance Neil was thinking the same about her.

But it was still embarrassing, having him perched at her feet like a puppy. She had had too much to drink and led him on. Shamelessly. She wondered if she could off-load the blame onto Dina.

‘Well,' Neil joked feebly, ‘at least you remember me. I was worried you wouldn't.'

‘Oh, I remember.'

Sensing her discomfort, his shoulders sagged a good couple of inches.

‘But now you're sober and you're having second thoughts.'

Defeated wasn't the word for it, Poppy decided. The boy looked positively trounced.

‘Sorry and all that.' She felt rotten, but what else could she say? ‘We had a great time last night. But really, to be honest—'

‘You don't fancy me, you don't want to see me again, it isn't going to be the romance of the century after all.' Neil shrugged and managed a self-deprecating smile. ‘It's okay, I've heard it before. Story of my life.'

‘Oh come on, it can't be that bad.'

‘It can.' He was making light of the situation, but clearly meant what he said. ‘That's my trouble, you see. If I meet a girl I like, I start fantasizing. Oh, not that,' he added hastily as Poppy's eyebrows went up. ‘I start fantasizing about us getting married. I actually picture the church service, the whole bit. Then, I imagine us with kids. Sometimes I even get as far as grandchildren. I know it's hardly macho.' He glanced, shamefaced, at Poppy. ‘It's not what men do. But I can't help it. I want to live happily ever after. That was why I couldn't let you disappear last night. You might have been the one I'm looking for. I can't wait for it to happen,' he said sadly. Then, with a rueful smile, ‘Of course it never does, because I scare girls off.'

Poppy said nothing. She was thinking about Tom again. And wondering if the magic of their all-too-brief encounter would really have survived.

It was a horrible feeling, like being six again and having to listen to the school bully jubilantly telling you Father Christmas didn't exist.

Poppy had believed unswervingly in Father Christmas, just as she had always believed in love at first sight.

Now, thanks to Neil, she was beginning to wonder if even that existed.

God, this was depressing. She pulled herself together and looked across at the lanky figure perched on the end of the sofa.

‘You'll meet someone. One day it'll happen.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Truly. Loads of girls would kill for a man like you.'

‘Yeah.' His tone was unconvinced.

‘I mean, look at all the bastards out there who run a mile from any kind of commitment.' As she said it, Poppy thought of Caspar.

‘Like B.J.' Neil nodded in agreement. ‘He thinks I'm mad. He says women are only good for two things and one of them's ironing shirts.'

‘I'd iron B.J.'s shirt on one condition,' said Poppy.

‘What?'

‘That he stays in it.'