Perfect Timing (6 page)

‘You haven't eaten your toast,' he said before she left.

‘Oh… I wasn't hungry…'

When the front door had banged shut behind her, Caspar snatched up the toast he had so heroically resisted earlier. But it was too late, the butter had begun to congeal. The toast was soggy and stone cold. So much, thought Caspar, for being considerate and exerting self-control.

It didn't take much longer for his second good resolution to bite the dust. What had seemed such a great idea last night was—in the cold light of day—becoming an altogether dicier prospect. As he went through the plan again and realized just how fraught with pitfalls it was, Caspar felt his resolve begin to drain away. By the time he'd finished the last piece of horrid toast, he knew for certain he couldn't go through with it. There were heaps of reasons why not.

Poppy was a friend, for a start, a cheerful tenant he'd be sorry to lose should the plan backfire. Also, any kind of goings-on between the two of them would be bound to upset Claudia. She would
hate
it.

The major stumbling block, though, was Poppy herself.
She
might not be interested. She might not want to be won over either. She might say no and mean it, and he would
really
hate that.

He would hate it even more if she laughed.

Damn, thought Caspar, why take the risk? Knowing Poppy she'd laugh her socks off. And even if she didn't, what could ever come of it anyway? He didn't exactly have the greatest track record in the world.

No, Caspar decided, the smart thing to do was to forget all about seducing Poppy, to put the idea completely out of his mind and simply think of her as one of the lads instead.

Far better to stick with the devil you knew.

Caspar sighed. It was seriously unlike him to change his mind like this; in fact, it had to be a first. But some weird inner instinct told him he was right to do so.

Bugger it, he might as well sleep with Angie Slade-Welch after all.

Poppy couldn't help feeling sorry for the women in Caspar's life.

Not Angie, who was quite old enough to take care of herself. But Poppy certainly felt for the girlfriends who so patently adored him and whom he treated so casually in return. Fibbing over the phone to them on Caspar's behalf was one thing; Poppy had had plenty of practice doing that.

But when the girls were nice and you had to deal with them in person—actually face to face, with that awful trusting look in their eyes—it was hard, sometimes, not to interfere.

If you had an ounce of compassion in your soul, it could be downright impossible.

Jake was out on a buying expedition when Kate Mitchell came into the antiques market. She waited patiently for Poppy to finish selling a Staffordshire stirrup cup to a middle-aged Swedish woman in a purple mac.

Poppy liked Kate, who was sweet-natured, friendly, and fragile-looking. When she discovered the purpose of Kate's visit she knew the time had come to start interfering like mad.

‘I know it's only October, but I always buy my Christmas presents early,' Kate explained with an apologetic smile. ‘The thing is, I'm a bit scared of antique shops but I knew if I came here you wouldn't let me be ripped off.'

‘'Course I wouldn't.' Poppy thought what a shame it was that Jake couldn't be here to eavesdrop on such a compliment. ‘And we've got some terrific presenty-type things. Who are you buying for, family?'

‘Caspar actually.' Kate's cheeks went a fetching shade of pink. ‘I don't have much money but I really want to get him something nice. In fact, I spotted something a moment ago while you were with the lady in the mac…'

Poppy's heart sank. Kate was leaning over the glass-topped jewelry cabinet pointing an almost translucent index finger in the direction of a diamond tiepin. The ticket price was four hundred pounds, which she knew perfectly well Kate couldn't afford.

Poppy also knew it didn't matter how nice a person
she
thought Kate was; Caspar was beginning to tire of her puppy-like devotion. A turkey had more chance of lasting until Christmas than this relationship did.

‘A… tiepin?' Poppy hesitated, stalling for time. ‘Um, does Caspar
own
any ties?'

‘It's all right.' Kate blushed again. ‘I know he doesn't. It's kind of a private joke between us. You see, I was teasing Caspar, telling him he'd have to wear a tie one day when he got married.' Throwing caution to the wind she added in a rush, ‘So I thought what a brilliant present it would be… and who knows, it might even prompt him to… well, think weddingy thoughts…'

Poppy felt numb. How embarrassing, and she wasn't even the one saying it.

‘Couldn't you just buy him a tie?'

‘Come on, unlock the cabinet,' pleaded Kate. ‘It's okay, I know how much it costs. That doesn't matter.' Shyly she added, ‘Caspar's worth it.'

He's
not
, Poppy wanted to shout, but all she could do was unlock the cabinet and hand over the tiepin. She could hardly cram it into her mouth secret-agent style and swallow it.

‘Four hundred pounds,' Kate murmured, gazing at the center diamond and turning it this way and that to catch the light. ‘Four hundred pounds…'

This was what people did when they were too nervous to haggle. Normally, to put them out of their misery, Poppy would have said, ‘Well, for you, three fifty.'

‘I know, and I'm afraid I can't drop the price.' She rolled her eyes. ‘Jake can be so
mean
sometimes. If you ask me he's gone way over the top with this one. I doubt if it's worth two hundred, let alone four.'

‘Oh, but it's so beautiful—'

‘In fact,' Poppy had an inspired thought, ‘I'm not even sure Caspar likes diamonds. I've got a feeling he thinks they're naff. What I know he
really
likes is topaz.'

Kate looked startled. ‘Topaz?'

‘Topaz and silver. He was talking about it just the other night. According to Caspar it's a classic combination, like Laurel and Hardy… caviar and vodka… Pearl and Dean…' Poppy waved frantically across to Marlene, whose stock of jewelry was more extensive than Jake's. ‘Hey, Marlene! D'you still have that tiepin, the topaz and silver one I saw yesterday?'

Marlene nodded. Poppy turned triumphantly back to Kate.

‘Take my advice, get him that one. It's a dream, Caspar will love it.'

‘But—'

‘And don't be afraid of Marlene. The ticket says eighty,' Poppy beamed. ‘Be firm. Tell her you won't go a penny over forty-five.'

‘G-goodness,' stammered Kate, backing away in the direction of Marlene's stall. ‘Thanks, Poppy.'

‘Thanks Poppy,' said another quiet voice behind her.

Brimming with guilt she spun round. Jake was back from trawling the auction rooms and had—quite unfairly, she thought—sneaked in the back way rather than through the glass double doors of the main entrance where she could have spotted him at once.

Poppy squirmed and wondered how long he'd been listening.

‘Long enough,' said Jake, since the unspoken question was fairly obvious. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on the elbow of his threadbare black cardigan. It was a habit he resorted to when his patience was tried, usually by Poppy. That and the sorrowful look he gave her—minus the terrible glasses—always made Poppy feel ashamed. It would be so much easier to bear if he'd only yell at her, call her an imbecile, give her a Chinese burn…

‘Jake, I'm sorry, but I
couldn't
sell her the tiepin.' In the nick of time Poppy remembered to lower her voice. ‘The poor thing's crazy about Caspar… she doesn't know he's about to dump her! And she's only an apprentice textile designer so she earns peanuts. Think about it, Jake, you
can't
stand by and let someone spend that much money when you know they're about to be ditched.'

Slowly Jake shook his head. He knew Poppy's intentions were good. He just wished they didn't have to cost him so much.

‘Okay, I see your point. But Poppy, please. I have rent to pay, bills to settle'—he paused for added gravitas—‘your wages to find each week.'

Poppy looked miserable. ‘I really am sorry.'

‘Just remember, we're here to try and make a living. Caspar French's love life isn't my concern—'

He broke off as Kate returned. She was clutching the tiepin, now gift-wrapped.

‘You were right,' she told Poppy happily, ‘this one's perfect, much more Caspar's style.'

Poppy still thought it was like buying a CD for someone who didn't have a CD player, but that was up to Kate.

‘Right, well, I'll see you on Thursday,' Kate went on, ‘for Caspar's preview night. You're going, aren't you?'

Poppy nodded. The Denver Parrish Gallery on Cork Street was showcasing the work of three artists, one of whom was Caspar. The exhibition was attracting a huge amount of interest and the preview night promised to be a glitzy affair.

‘And you too?' Kate turned and smiled at Jake, who looked uncomfortable.

‘Oh no, I haven't been—'

‘Yes!' exclaimed Poppy, seizing the opportunity to make things up to him. ‘Of course you must come! You can be my partner. It'll be great, free champagne and all the pistachios you can peel—'

‘I can't.' Jake cut across her frenzied babbling. ‘I'm meeting someone on Thursday night.'

‘He wasn't happy with me,' Poppy confided later on that afternoon. Jake had popped out to the bank and Marlene had wandered over for a gossip. They were sharing a bag of Lemonheads. ‘Poor old Kate, she doesn't have much luck with men. I even caught her discreetly giving Jake the once-over. Didn't have the heart to tell her he was gay.'

‘Probably gay,' Marlene corrected. ‘We don't know for sure.'

‘Bet you fifty pence he is. Damn' —Poppy looked dismayed—‘is that the last one? We'll have to break it in half.'

The phone rang while Marlene was sawing energetically at the last Lemonhead with an Edwardian letter opener.

‘Hello?' said Poppy, picking it up.

‘Oh, hi.' A male voice sounded surprised. ‘Um… Jake not there?'

‘I'm afraid he's popped out. Can I help you?'

‘Okey-doke. If you could just pass a message on to him.' It was, Poppy realized, an extremely camp male voice. Like Bruno on helium. ‘Tell him Ellis called and I'm ever so sorry but I can't make it on Thursday night after all. Something's come up'—he tittered—‘so we're going to have to get together some other time.'

‘Gosh, this is a terrible line,' said Poppy, before pressing the phone triumphantly against Marlene's ear, ‘could you say that last bit again?'

‘Okay, okay,' Marlene grumbled two minutes later, ‘you were right and I was wrong, Jake's gay and I owe you fifty pence.'

‘Not to mention half a lemon sherbet.'

‘Consolation prize.' Marlene popped both halves into her own mouth.

‘Poor Jake, stood up by Ellis. Never mind.' Poppy brightened. ‘Now he can come along to Caspar's opening night after all.'

Thursday evening hadn't got off to the greatest of starts as far as Claudia was concerned. Her period was due, which always made her puff up like an blowfish. This meant the dazzling new black dress she'd bought three days earlier—before PMS had struck—was showing the strain.

She began to feel better once she'd organized the narrow crisscross strapping across the back and trained herself not to breathe. Maybe she looked pretty good after all. The dress, from one of the new young designers at Hyper Hyper, had cost a bomb. Claudia gave herself an extra morale-boosting squirt of Arpège, checked her hair and make-up for the fifth time, and sashayed downstairs to the sitting room where Caspar, Poppy, and Kate were having a celebratory first drink.

‘Oh,' said Claudia, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

‘Oops,' said Poppy, looking up.

‘Snap,' said Caspar with a grin.

Claudia didn't know whether to stamp her foot or burst into tears. There was only one thing more galling than someone else wearing a dress almost exactly the same as yours, and that was discovering how much better they looked in it than you did. Damn,
damn
…

‘When did you buy that?' Claudia blurted out, her tone accusing. More to the point, how could Poppy-the-pauper possibly have been able to afford it?

‘Oh dear.' Kate was looking worried. ‘I'm sorry, I lent it to her.'

Kate was even harder up than Poppy. Unable to help herself, Claudia declared, ‘My dress cost three hundred and seventy-five pounds from Cher Balakiel at Hyper Hyper.'

‘Blimey,' said Poppy. She looked at Kate in amazement.

‘Mine was twenty-four ninety-nine,' Kate confessed nervously. ‘From George at Asda.'

Claudia was unable to join in the cheerful banter in the taxi taking them from Kensington to Cork Street. She wished she hadn't been so stubborn now. All she would have had to do was run back upstairs and change into something else. It would have taken two minutes and then she could have put the incident out of her mind.

Instead, here she was, looking like half a book-end—the
big
half—at the beginning of an evening that was bound to end in tears.

‘Come on, cheer up,' said Caspar as he helped her out of the cab. ‘It doesn't matter, really it doesn't.' He gave her a squeeze. ‘Imagine what it's like for men. Is their day ruined if someone else turns up at the office in a grey suit?'

It was Caspar's big night. Claudia didn't want to be a party pooper. She watched Poppy and Kate walk into the lit-up gallery ahead of them.

‘I'm sorry, I just…' She pointed helplessly at Poppy, with her red-gold hair swept up in a dashing topknot. Who needed a tan when you had skin like double cream? Poppy's coloring was the perfect foil for the intricately crisscrossed back and shoulder straps. Her figure was perfect. She was even wearing sheer stockings and black high heels.

‘Don't be daft, you both look great,' said Caspar.

Claudia had spent years feeling inferior to her mother. Now it was happening all over again. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble.

‘Poppy looks better.'

‘Only because we've never seen her tarted up before.' Caspar had been pretty startled himself by the transformation. ‘Whereas you always look smart. Let's face it, the way Poppy normally goes around she's hardly likely to be mistaken for Ivana Trump. I really thought she'd turn up tonight in jeans and Doc Martens.'

Claudia pulled herself together. She forced a watery smile.

‘I wish she had.'

By nine o'clock the gallery was heaving. Among the guests were buyers, dealers, journalists, and a sprinkling of rent-a-celebs, the kind who would jet in from Surbiton for the opening of a jam jar.

Claudia was putting a brave face on things, but the fact that she didn't actually know anyone else there meant she was forced to stick with Poppy and Kate. Extra annoying was the way flashbulbs kept going off, but every time she turned to see if she was included in the picture, the photographer seemed to have been aiming at Poppy instead.

Caspar had been commandeered by the owner of the gallery who was busily introducing him to all the most influential journalists and buyers. Kate, happy to watch from a distance as her future husband was fêted by a Greek billionaire, was dreamily imagining the blissful life she and Caspar would lead when they were married.

Poppy was determined to enjoy herself. Taking an evening off from Kenda's Kitchen made it doubly important that she should—if you were losing a night's wages you
had
to have a good time. She just wished Claudia would lighten up, start smiling a bit. And where was Jake anyway? He'd promised to be here by nine.

Claudia saw Jake first, threading his way quietly towards them through the squashed-together crowds.

‘Good grief, trainspotter alert,' she crowed. ‘How on earth did
he
get in?'

Then she cringed, realizing who this must be, as the trainspotter touched Poppy's bare arm.

It was at moments like these that Poppy felt most protective towards Jake. This must be what it was like for mothers when their child was pushed off the swing by a bully. Dying to punch Claudia on the nose she said brightly, ‘Hooray, you're here at last. Jake, you've met Kate already. This is Claudia, who's in a stinking mood, so don't bother speaking to her.' She beamed up at him. ‘And I'm Poppy, remember me?'

‘Just about.' Jake smiled slightly. ‘You've got makeup on. And you've grown a few inches since five o'clock.'

‘Caspar said I had to look smart. These heels are murder. You don't know how lucky you are…'

Poppy's voice trailed off. She was somewhat hazy on the subject of gay men. Were they more likely to dress up in women's clothes than straight men? Was Jake a bit of a closet Lily Savage? Poppy's mind boggled at the thought. You never knew, maybe he had a suitcase hidden under his bed crammed with suspender belts and stilettos. It would certainly explain his absolute lack of interest in boring old men's clothes.

‘Yes, I'm glad I'm not wearing high heels,' Jake said dryly.

Kate was peering at her. ‘Poppy, are you all right?'

Poppy was envisaging Jake in a figure-skimming Shirley Bassey number. She pulled herself together. So what if he was a transvestite in his spare time? He could wear whatever he jolly well liked.

Jake had in fact done that anyway, turning up in threadbare beige cords, his favorite green sweater with the holes in the elbows, and an equally ancient dark blue shirt.

Claudia, clocking each sorry item in turn, marveled at Jake's nerve. He certainly stood out among the expensive designer suits and arty-farty, natty-cravatty outfits favored by the other men in the gallery.

Nobody else was wearing a windbreaker.