Perfect Timing (8 page)

Claudia woke up next morning with a cracking headache. When she rolled over and realized her alarm clock hadn't gone off, and that it was now nine thirty, she groaned aloud.

‘It's okay,' said Poppy, nudging open the bedroom door with her elbow and plonking a tray on the end of Claudia's bed. ‘I turned off the alarm. And I've phoned your office. I said there'd been a car crash outside the house and you'd rescued a little old lady from the wreckage. You had to wrap her severed finger in frozen peas and take it along to the hospital but you'd be back at work this afternoon.'

Claudia nodded, winced, and clutched the side of her head. Getting into a sitting position was worse than climbing Everest. One thing about Poppy, she certainly came up with some inventive reasons for being late for work.

‘Here, drink this.' Poppy passed her a cup of tea. She dropped three asprins into Claudia's trembling outstretched hand. ‘And I've made you some toast if you think you can keep it down.' She hesitated, then went on, ‘And I'm sorry if I was horrible last night.'

‘I'm sorry too.' Claudia looked shamefaced. It had all come hurtling back to her. ‘I didn't behave very well either. I can't believe I threatened not to tell you about the Alex Fitzpatrick thing.' She gulped down the last few mouthfuls of too-hot tea. It singed her tonsils but quenched her raging thirst. ‘I would have told you, of course I would.'

‘I know.'

Poppy had barely slept. She still hadn't been able to get over the hand fate had played in Claudia's revelation. To think, if Ellis Featherstone hadn't phoned up last week she would never have come to the inescapable conclusion that Jake was gay. She wouldn't have told Claudia, Jake wouldn't have overheard, and the ensuing furious row would never have taken place. And if it hadn't, Claudia wouldn't have stomped off to the far end of the gallery and happened to overhear a couple of jazz-buff art dealers chatting amicably about the blues style of the resident pianist at a tucked-away little place called the Cavendish Club.

It was mind-boggling. As far as Poppy was able to work out, she owed it all to Neighborhood Watch. Either that or to the entire criminal fraternity, because if it weren't for them, the Neighborhood Watch scheme would never have been invented.

‘So d'you think he's the one?' ventured Claudia. ‘Could he really be your dad?'

Poppy was sitting on the bed hugging her knees to her chest. No longer tarted up, as Caspar so romantically called it, she looked about sixteen with her red-gold hair flopping into her eyes and the remains of last night's hard-to-get-off mascara clinging to her lashes. She was wearing a yellow sweatshirt and polka-dot leggings, and her feet were bare.

‘I think he really could be.' She nodded, resting her chin on one knee. ‘But there's only one way to find out. I'm going along to the Cavendish Club tonight.'

Hopefully, Claudia thought, she would be over her hangover by then. ‘Would you like me to come with you?'

‘Would you?' The look Poppy gave her was one of amazement mixed with relief. ‘I'd love you to. That'd be such a help.'

Heavens, thought Claudia, startled that she had even suggested it. Looks like we might be going to get along after all.

She glanced at her watch. It was now quarter to ten.

‘Shouldn't you be at work too?'

‘I phoned Jake.' Poppy helped herself to the toast Claudia was too hungover to eat. ‘Said I'd be late.'

‘Did you use the severed finger?'

‘No. He never believes my excuses.' Poppy looked gloomy. ‘It's a waste of time thinking them up.'

‘But he's speaking to you, that's something.' Claudia felt her heart do a small practice flutter. ‘Did he… um, mention me at all?'

‘Actually he did,' said Poppy with a grin. Good old Jake, at least he hadn't borne a grudge. ‘He said he had a hot date for tomorrow night and please could he borrow your little black dress.'

The Cavendish Club, in Covent Garden, was reached by teetering down a flight of steep, ankle-turning steps. Converted from an old wine cellar with arched brick ceilings and uneven flagstone floors, it had a smell all its own—a sweet, pervasive mixture of damp, drink, and nicotine. The regulars were the genuine jazz buffs, but the Cavendish was well-known enough to attract a wide mix of visitors ranging from students to tourists.

Luckily there were no dress rules.

‘We look like The Odd Couple,' Claudia complained as they made their way there. She was wearing a charcoal grey polo-neck cashmere pullover, expensive black trousers, and a discreet amount of gold—very chic if she did say so herself. Poppy had turned out in a miles-too-big white tee-shirt that kept slipping off her shoulders and ancient jeans.

‘You didn't like it when we wore the same thing.'

‘I know. I just thought you might want to look smart… to meet your father…' Claudia began to wish she hadn't raised the issue. ‘…that is, if it
is
him.'

Poppy wasn't going to admit she'd tried on practically every outfit in her meager wardrobe before coming out. She glanced across at Claudia as they approached the Cavendish, already belting out music at only eight o'clock.

‘What's he going to say, “Oh no, sorry, you aren't wearing top-to-toe Armani, I can't possibly acknowledge you as my daughter”? Please,' said Poppy defiantly. ‘If he
is
my father, whatever he's wearing isn't going to make an ounce of difference to me. I daresay he'll forgive me if my tee-shirt isn't haute couture.'

The stage upon which the band played was situated at the far end of the largest of three interconnecting cellars. Their instruments were there, and a lanky youth was setting up mikes, but the music they had heard outside came from a tape deck at the back of the stage. The members of the band were, by the look of it, over at the bar getting a few quick drinks down them in order to sustain them through their set.

‘Is that them?' whispered Claudia as they approached the bar.

Poppy was staring at the backs of their heads. Since the posters outside the club advertised Alex Fitzpatrick and the Cavendish Four, and there were five men talking music at the other end of the bar, it seemed more than likely.

‘Well,' Claudia hissed excitedly, ‘is one of them your dad? Can you tell just by looking? Is it the bald one, d'you think?'

Poppy's heart was flapping like a mad parrot in a cage. Which one of these middle-aged men was Alex Fitzpatrick?

This is crazy, she thought, sinking onto a high stool for support. How
can
I tell if one of these total strangers is my father? How can I possibly know?

Seconds later, she knew.

It happened so fast Poppy was glad she was sitting down. One of the men, the one on the far right with the dark red waistcoat and the hair just below collar-length, turned to speak to the barman. As she caught that first glimpse of his face Poppy felt as if all the air was being vacuumed from her lungs. The thud of recognition was so powerful it could have knocked her off her feet.

This is him, she thought dazedly. It
is
him. I know it, I don't know how I know it, I just do…

‘That one?' squeaked Claudia, intercepting the look on her face. She did a quick double-take, her own eyes registering doubt. ‘You think so? He doesn't look a bit like you. I can't see any resemblance.'

The man they were both studying so intently wasn't particularly tall. He was solidly built with a well-developed paunch. His wavy hair, dark flecked with grey, was swept up at the sides and long at the back—this was clearly no bank manager they were looking at. His eyes were dark brown, his face generously lined. The nose was big, the chin a double. When he laughed, a gold tooth glinted, matching the glittering chains around his neck and wrists, and the matchbox-sized rings on several fingers.

Poppy smiled to herself. Oh dear, Claudia must be horrified. She had been and gone and got herself a father with No Taste.

‘Are you absolutely sure?' Claudia murmured at her side.

Poppy nodded.

‘But I don't… you aren't anything like him.' Claudia was floundering. ‘Maybe it's one of the others…'

He was wearing a white shirt with diamanté buttons and a red velvet waistcoat. His dark green trousers were on the tight side. One of the other members of the band was telling a joke. When he reached the punch line Poppy saw her father throw back his head and roar with laughter. He had a loud, uninhibited gravelly laugh that made her tingle all over. She loved it. She had always adored men who laughed like that.

‘It could be the one on the left,' Claudia suggested hopefully. ‘His hair's kind of reddish. What about him, Poppy? He looks quite nice, don't you think?'

A woman had emerged from the cloakroom. Poppy and Claudia watched her clatter across the flagstones in her high heels and join the group at the bar. She kissed each of them in turn, saving the one in the red waistcoat for last. He got a noisy, enthusiastic, lipstick-loaded kiss on the mouth.

‘Come on then, help me up!' The woman grinned broadly, holding out her arms so he could lift her onto the high stool at his side. When she was in position she leaned forward and kissed him again. ‘Thanks love, and I'll have a gin and orange.' She turned and beamed at the rest of the band. ‘Come on lads, time for one more before you go on. These are on Alex.'

Unable to handle anything stronger, Claudia ordered a bottle of Beck's for Poppy and a Perrier for herself. The band were up on the stage now, playing some clumpy-sounding jazz. The club was packed and everyone else seemed to think it was terrific. As far as Claudia was concerned, it sounded a lot like tuning up.

As for poor Poppy, how on earth was she feeling? She wasn't saying much, that was for sure. And no wonder, thought Claudia, who had every sympathy. As if Alex Fitzpatrick wasn't bad enough, there was that dreadful woman with him… wife, lady friend, whatever she was. Either way, Claudia decided, she made Bet Lynch look demure. She sounded like something out of
EastEnders
. And she was downing gin and orange like it was going out of fashion.

Claudia flushed, remembering why she was on Perrier tonight. The difference was, this woman looked as if she drank gin for breakfast.

‘So what happens next?' she said, because the appalling music was showing no sign of grinding to a halt. The band looked as if they could happily play on all night. How was Poppy planning to introduce herself to her father anyway? By leaping up onto the stage, grabbing a mike and doing an impromptu
This Is Your Life
?

‘Excuse me,' said Poppy, ‘but is Alex Fitzpatrick the one at the piano?'

The woman, who was wearing Day-Glo pink nail polish, drew on her Rothmans and nodded.

‘Yes love, that's him.'

‘Um… right. He's good, isn't he?'

Brilliant, just brilliant, thought Poppy, realizing that her wits had inconveniently ran off and deserted her. Oh, but trying to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger
was
hard when your heart was doing a triathlon in your chest.

‘One of the best,' said the woman, blowing a flawless smoke ring.

Her hair was very blonde and fastened into a plait coiled like a snake on top of her head. Long twiddly bits curled in front of her ears, lacquered into place so they couldn't get tangled up with pink earrings the size of Jaffa Cakes. At a guess, she was in her mid-forties. The heavy make-up was very sixties, very Carnaby Street. She was wearing a tight turquoise blouse, a pink skirt and a pair of turquoise stilettos with stupendous heels. She also wore an amazing amount of jewelry, among it an ornate gold wedding ring, an eternity band, and an engagement ring so colossal it couldn't be real.

‘Um, could I borrow your lighter?' said Poppy, realizing too late that she didn't have a cigarette. Didn't even know how to smoke, come to that.

The blonde woman passed across a heavy enameled lighter. Claudia stared at Poppy. Poppy tugged at a loose thread on the side seam of her Levi's and burned it off.

‘There, thank goodness that's done. It's been annoying me all evening.'

The woman smiled slightly. ‘So long as you don't set light to yourself.'

Encouraged by the smile Poppy said, ‘Look, sorry if I'm being rude, but are you Alex Fitzpatrick's wife?'

‘I am, love, for my sins.' The woman began to take notice. Bright blue eyes studied Poppy's face. ‘What's this then, twenty questions? Don't tell me you're his new bit on the side.'

‘Oh no,
no
—'

‘Joke, love. My Alex don't have bits on the side.' She laughed huskily then coughed and lit another cigarette. ‘He wouldn't dare, he knows I'd kill him.'

‘I'm not one, anyway,' said Poppy. ‘I'm just a terrific fan of your husband's. You must be so proud of him… to have a talent like that.'

‘'Course I'm proud of the old bugger. What I don't understand'—his wife gestured in the direction of the stage—‘is how you can be such a fan of his when you didn't even know which one he was.'

Poppy's mind raced.

‘Well, you see, I'd never liked jazzy stuff before. But my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—had a recording of this completely brilliant music, and I fell in love with it. He told me it was Alex Fitzpatrick,' she said brightly, praying that Alex had made a recording at some stage in his career, ‘and I just thought he was the best jazz… um… player I'd ever heard. So that's why I had to come here. I'm sorry, this must be a complete pain for you, I'm sure you must be forever getting hassled by fans.'

‘Not so you'd notice,' the woman said good-naturedly. ‘Well well, so your ex bought a copy of Alex's record. We always wondered where the other one went.'

‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, could I buy you a drink?'

‘Rita, love. Call me Rita.'

‘And my name's Poppy Dun—' Poppy's mouth screeched to a halt; saying Dunbar could be risky. ‘Er… Dunn. Poppy Dunn.' She swiveled round and tapped Claudia on the arm. ‘This is my friend, Claudia Slade-Welch.'

Claudia had been trying to melt into the background. She managed a faint smile and a nod.

‘Not enjoying yourself, love?' Rita evidently thought it was funny. ‘This place not your cup of tea?'

Claudia sounded pained. ‘Oh no, it's fine. Really—'

‘I dragged her along,' said Poppy. ‘That's the trouble with being a girl. Going out to clubs and things isn't something you can do on your own. I mean, I'd love to come here every week but I'd be dead embarrassed, sitting by myself—'

‘No need for that.' Rita Fitzpatrick wiggled an over-here finger at one of the girls behind the bar. ‘I'm always around; you can sit with me. I'm not wild about the music myself, mind, but we can keep each other company.'

‘That's so nice of you,' Poppy said happily.

‘I know.' Rita winked at the barmaid. ‘I'm just an all-round terrific broad. Stand by, Effie. This young lady's about to buy me a drink.'

‘Alex, you've got yourself a fan at last,' crowed Rita. She waved away the pea-soup fog of cigarette smoke swirling around her head and pulled Poppy forward. ‘Meet Poppy Dunn.' Stifling yet another burst of husky laughter she added, ‘The other one's Claudia, but she ain't a fan. She reckons your music's the pits.'

‘Oh but—'

‘Never mind, at least one of them's got taste.' Alex Fitzpatrick grinned, mopping his forehead with a black silk handkerchief and glugging thirstily at the pint of lager Rita had just ordered for him. ‘Poppy. Good to meet you.' He put his drink down and shook her hand because Poppy had hers determinedly outstretched. ‘So, not seen you before. First time, is it, here at the club?'

Poppy's shock of recognition earlier had been so vivid she hadn't been able to help wondering if he would feel it too. Of course, he hadn't. Trying not to feel let down, Poppy concentrated instead on his hand which was actually quite difficult to shake, what with all those thumping great rings in the way.

‘First time.' She nodded in agreement, hoping she didn't look like one of those dogs in the back window of a car. Alex Fitzpatrick's hand was warm, squarish, capable-looking. The handshake was firm and perfectly ordinary. There were no special effects, no thunderbolts or lightning flashes, to startle him into realizing who she really was.

‘Effie, before I forget,' said Rita. She began rummaging through her handbag, a vast pink leather affair with gold elephants appliquéd around the base. ‘Friday the fourth, make sure you get the night off.' She found a wad of invitations, flipped through them and handed Effie hers. ‘Our silver wedding, we're having a bit of a bash,' Rita explained for Poppy's benefit. Gazing proudly across at Alex she went on, ‘Twenty-five years, can you believe it? And we're as happy now as we ever was. I tell you, I wouldn't be without this gorgeous man, not for the world…'

‘She adores him,' Poppy said gloomily.

It was midnight; they had caught a taxi home and met up with Caspar on the doorstep. Caspar had been out to dinner with a leathery Australian heiress called Darlene; since she had bought five of his paintings last night he had felt duty-bound to accept her invitation. The one for dinner, anyway.

‘Darlene the Dingo?' Realizing he'd come out without his key, Caspar waited for Claudia to unlock the front door. ‘I know she adores me. I just don't want to sleep with someone who looks as if she might howl—'

‘Not Darlene,' said Claudia. ‘This woman we met tonight. Her name's Rita.' She paused for effect. ‘She's Alex Fitzpatrick's wife.'

‘Oh dear,' said Caspar when Poppy had run briefly through the events of the evening. ‘I see why you didn't blurt it out. How to wreck twenty-five years of happy marriage in one minute flat.'

‘Can you imagine?' Poppy sighed. ‘The stupid thing is, they're such a… a
couple
, I don't think I could tell just him. They don't seem the type to keep secrets from each other. It wouldn't be fair.'

‘If he's your father,' Caspar pointed out, ‘he kept quiet enough about what he got up to with your mother.'

‘I know, I know. But that was over twenty years ago.' Poppy realized she was instinctively defending Alex Fitzpatrick. ‘Maybe he and Rita were going through a rocky patch. The thing is, they're happy now.'

‘So what are they like?' asked Caspar as the living-room door opened and Claudia came in with a tray of coffee.

Poppy looked at Claudia.

‘Go on. You tell him what they're like.'

‘Oh… nice.'

Claudia did her best to sound as if she meant it. Personally, she would have run a mile, if not several thousand, had Alex and Rita Fitzpatrick turned out to be related to her. But she was damned if she was going to give Poppy the chance to call her a snob.

‘Is that it?' Caspar was waiting for more. ‘Just… nice?'

‘Well, charming,' Claudia floundered. ‘And friendly… yes, friendly. Um…'

‘Common as muck,' Poppy added, to be helpful. ‘It's okay, you can say it. Dripping with the kind of jewelry you buy on market stalls. Loud. Liberace meets
EastEnders
, you know the kind of thing. And they know how to drink. He doesn't look like me but he definitely is the one. When he laughs—no, just
before
he laughs—he reminds me of me.' She swallowed, looking away as her eyes welled with unexpected tears. ‘It feels so strange. He's my dad. I really have found him at last.'

‘The thing is,' said Caspar, ‘is he going to find you?'

‘Bleeding caterers,' Rita grumbled the following Monday. ‘Been and had a bust-up, haven't we? I told 'em last week I wanted one of them hollow cakes with a girl jumping out the top and they said no problem, they was all “Yes modom, no modom.” Then this afternoon this poncy woman phones up and tells me they can't do it after all.' She lit a cigarette and heaved a sigh. ‘So I told them to stuff their vol-au-vents, we'd get another firm to do the job. Boy, was Alex mad with me. He says serve me right if I end up having to do the bleeding lot meself.'

‘It's short notice.' Poppy's brain was working overtime. This big bash of Alex and Rita's was being held at their home in the East End of London. Poppy had a vivid mental image of the house, a modest two-up, two-down bulging with sixties' memorabilia to match Rita's clothes. Nothing exotic, that was for sure. Rita didn't go out to work and Alex played at the Cavendish because he loved it, not for the money it brought him. It was a standing joke in the club that the bar staff earned more than the band.

Poppy didn't care about that but she was burning with curiosity to see her father's home for herself. This could be my big chance, she thought. So long as Kenda's Kitchen didn't turn its delicate nose up at the idea of bridge rolls and bits-on-sticks for fifty in not-very-glamorous Bethnal Green.

‘I work for a firm of caterers.' Poppy searched her jacket pockets and by some miracle came across one of Kenda's elegant dark blue and gold business cards. They were forever being urged to press them upon likely customers. Well, now she was. ‘I know it sounds a bit posh but they're all right really. And there's a chance they may be able to fit you in. Shall I give them a quick ring and ask?'

Kenda answered the phone herself. She had a fluty, upmarket voice that sounded like panpipes. Poppy asked if they could take on a booking for this Friday, raising her own voice to make herself heard above the music in the club.

‘You'll have to speak up,' twittered Kenda, ‘goodness, what a racket. But yes, we can manage Friday… there's been a cancellation. What would the client's requirements be?'

‘She can do it.' Poppy turned with relief to Rita. ‘She wants to know the kind of food you need.'

‘Here, let me have a word.' Rita took over the phone and began to bellow down it. Poppy imagined Kenda cringing genteelly at the other end. ‘Okay love? Top of the range we're after. Best you've got. Forty quid a head? Yeah, sounds about right. And numbers… ooh, to be on the safe side, make it two hundred and fifty.'

Caspar arrived at the club at eleven o'clock to give Poppy a lift home. He found her still shell-shocked.

‘Two hundred and fifty times forty,' Poppy said numbly before Rita teetered back from the loo in her fake leopard-skin high heels. ‘I keep getting my zeros crossed. Is it…?'

‘Ten grand.'

‘Ten grand,' echoed Poppy. ‘Hell's bells.'

‘Why?' He looked amused. ‘Have you been betting on the horses? Is this money you've lost or won? Careful how you answer that—I may have to ask you to marry me.'

‘Sshh, can't tell you now.' Poppy elbowed him in the ribs. Rita was heading towards them. ‘Here she is. And Alex is over there… up on the stage, purple waistcoat…'

‘Honestly, Poppy,' Caspar chided as he drove her home, ‘you are hopeless. You
and
Claudia. Couldn't you tell those diamonds were real?'

‘Just don't tell Jake.' Poppy pulled a face. Jake had spent countless hours patiently teaching her the difference between clever imitations and the real McCoy. How stupid of her to assume that such vast chunks of gold and such super-sparkly stones had to be fakes.

Caspar grinned. ‘You know what this means, don't you? All the evidence points to it.'

As far as Claudia was concerned it was the greatest sin of all. Her lip invariably curled in disdain whenever she uttered the dreaded words.

‘Aaargh,' gasped Poppy, clutching her mouth in horror, ‘
nouveau riche
.'