Perfect Timing (9 page)

Caspar wondered idly if it had ever occurred to Claudia that she might be the product of
nouveau riche-
ness herself. After all, Hugo Slade-Welch had struggled as an actor for years before hitting the serious big-time. Thanks to intensive voice training and rather distinguished good looks, he had cornered the market in David Niven-ish roles but he made no secret of having worked during those tough early years as a coal miner, a debt collector, and a bricklayer's mate. Even Angie, before Claudia had been born, was rumored to have been pressed briefly into service as a waitress in a truck stop diner in order to make ends meet.

The difference, Caspar supposed, was that Hugo and Angie both looked and sounded as if they had been born into privileged lifestyles. They had good taste, they always knew which knife and fork to use, and they wore exquisite clothes.

Well, most of the time.

Angie was draped across the bed, her golden body bathed in sunlight. She lay in a semi-reclining position with one arm flung above her head and the other resting on the pile of tasseled pillows beside her. One foot dangled lazily over the side of the bed. As middle-aged bodies went, hers was pretty much flawless. And Angie knew it.

‘What are you thinking?' she purred.

‘I hate that question.'

This was an understatement; it was one of Caspar's least favorite questions in the world. It was what girlfriends always seemed to start saying when they sensed they were on the way out. It was a bad sign and Kate had been asking it for the past fortnight. She had begun complaining wistfully that his mind always seemed to be elsewhere then looking terrified in case she was right. The trouble was, the more she said it, the more Caspar knew she would have to go.

Angie, who didn't fall into the category of about-to-be-discarded girlfriend, simply grinned.

‘In that case,' she said unperturbed, ‘why don't I tell you what I'm thinking instead?'

‘Go on.' Caspar tried to look as if he didn't know what was coming next.

‘I think we've waited long enough.' Mindful of the fact that he was putting the finishing touches to her upper half, Angie didn't move a muscle. All she did was smile. ‘I think it's about time we got to know each other better. I think,' she added with a delicately raised eyebrow, ‘it's time you joined me on this bed.'

To be fair, she had exceeded his expectations. Caspar had expected her to make her move much earlier than this, but here they were, five sittings down and only one to go. He was impressed.

‘Look, thanks, but I can't.'

It was a toss-up which of them looked more surprised. Caspar even had the grace to blush. The dreaded N-word wasn't something that featured too strongly in his vocabulary.

As if realizing that he might have a bit of trouble with it, Angie said, ‘You mean you're turning me down? You're saying
no
?'

‘Mmm.' Caspar frowned and pretended to concentrate on the canvas. Good grief, no wonder he'd never tried it before. Saying no was awful. It was embarrassing.

It was the last time he listened to Poppy too. This was what happened when you listened to a girl whose favorite film was
The Sound of Music
.

‘Why don't you want to?' Angie sounded annoyed. ‘What's wrong; am I the problem? Or is it you?' Her eyes narrowed, her tone grew scathing. ‘What exactly do you mean by can't?'

Caspar gritted his teeth. Having aspersions cast on one's ability to perform was something else new to him.

‘I'm not impotent if that's what you're getting at.'

Angie was really offended now. Rejection was bad enough on its own. To be buck-naked
and
rejected was the complete pits.

‘So it's me,' she said flatly, although she still didn't see how it could be. Not with a body this perfect.

‘Of course it's not you.' Caspar glanced at his paint-splattered watch. ‘It's somebody else.'

‘Not that clingy girlfriend of yours, the one who always looks as if she's just seen a ghost.'

‘Not Kate.' He was damned if he was going to tell her it was Poppy.

‘Who then?'

Thank goodness time was up. Caspar stepped away from the easel and began cleaning his brushes even more thoroughly than usual.

‘Who?' persisted Angie, climbing irritably off the bed and into her discarded clothes. ‘
Who?
'

It was funny how fast you could go off people. In the space of a few minutes, any lingering desire he might have felt for her had simply evaporated.

‘What a coincidence,' said Caspar, wishing she would hurry up and leave, ‘I hate that question too.'

Poppy hadn't spoken to anyone from Bristol for months. Finally, testing the water, she posted a birthday card off to Dina with her new phone number written inside. If she didn't hear anything back, she would know she was still persona non grata and about as popular as bubonic plague.

The moment the card dropped through the letter box Dina was on the phone.

‘You didn't even tell me you were leaving!' she screeched. ‘I thought we were friends and all you did was bugger off without a word. Poppy, how
could
you? Did you seriously think I wouldn't be on your side?'

In a word, yes. Poppy looked out of the window at a young girl pushing a pram across the road. She and Dina had got on well enough together but this was largely because of the McBride connection. It wasn't as if they'd been best friends since school or anything dramatic like that.

‘Sorry,' said Poppy. ‘I suppose I didn't imagine anyone would be on my side.'

‘Thanks a lot!' Dina raised her voice to be heard above an infant wail. ‘Shows how much you know. If I hadn't been stuck in that sodding hospital with me legs up in stirrups, I'd have been round like a shot.'

Since Margaret McBride was an intimidating mother-in-law, this sounded a lot like bravado to Poppy.

‘You'd have
been
shot, that's for sure.' She didn't bear any grudges. If she'd been Dina, she'd have taken the easy option and gone into labor too. ‘So, catch me up on all the gossip. How is everyone? How's that noisy baby of yours?'

‘Oh,
he's
all right. I'm the one tearing my hair out.'

Poppy was sympathetic. ‘Is he terribly hard work?'

‘No. I just think I'm going to have to kill Margaret. Margaret-I-know-best-McBride.' Dina heaved a sigh that sounded as if it had been held in for weeks. ‘Poppy, I mean it. You have no idea how lucky you are. You got out in the nick of time. She is the mother-in-law from hell, and if she tells me one more time how I
should
be burping, feeding, changing, washing, and kissing my own child'— Dina's voice rose to a frenzied wail—‘I swear I'll boil the interfering old battle-axe in baby oil.'

Phew. Poppy, sitting in the window seat, hugged her legs and decided she had indeed had a lucky escape.

‘Anyway,' Dina went on, apparently recovered, ‘everyone else is fine. Rob's going steady with a nurse. Her name's Alison. Fat ankles, but she's okay. Ben's all right, but he's working all the time so I hardly see him. Susie and Jen are the same as ever. I'm a bit bored with them, actually. Um, that's about it, there isn't really much else to tell you.'

Poor Dina. Not having a thrilling time, all in all. Poppy wondered idly what Alison looked like apart from the ankles and whether she and Rob would get married. She wondered if he would risk a second attempt and hoped he would.

‘Oh, Mum said she saw your father in Debenhams the other day, arm in arm with Beryl Bridges. They were looking at duvet covers,' Dina related with glee, ‘and they looked dead embarrassed when Mum said hello.'

Beryl had been widowed two years ago. She did tons of volunteer work and was an enthusiastic churchgoer. Maybe, thought Poppy, her father would marry again too, now he had the house to himself.

Except he wasn't her father.

Poppy debated telling Dina that she had tracked down the real one and decided against it. Dina was such a blabbermouth. Besides, it hardly seemed fair when Alex Fitzpatrick wasn't even aware of it himself.

‘You know what I need?' Dina declared with an air of recklessness. ‘I need to get away from here. I need a break, even if it's just a few days.'

Poppy realized where this was leading. Subtlety had never been Dina's strong point.

‘How about that cousin of yours, the one in Blackpool?' she suggested. ‘You and Ben and the baby could have a long weekend up there.'

‘Oh, thanks a bunch,' Dina groaned, ‘why don't I invite Margaret and all the rest of the sodding McBrides along while I'm at it? Poppy, they're the ones I need a break
from
. Ben included! All this happy families stuff is suffocating me. I've got to get out of Bristol…' This was it; this was what she'd been building up to. ‘…pleeease, Poppy, I'm desperate! And we're friends, aren't we? Be a doll. Say I can come and stay with you.'

‘Dina, I would if I could. But I can't,' said Poppy. ‘This isn't my house. I can hardly ask Caspar to put up a friend and a baby—'

‘No baby,' Dina responded like a shot, ‘just me. Margaret'll be in seventh heaven,' she added caustically, ‘having Daniel all to herself for a few days. Bloody old witch.'

She really was hell-bent on escape.

‘The thing is,' Poppy prevaricated, ‘my room's only tiny.'

‘And who am I, two-ton Tess? All I'm asking for is a bit of floor space.' Dina was wheedling now. ‘I'll sleep under the bed if it makes you happier. In the bath, even.'

‘Well… I'll have to ask Caspar first.'

‘Ask Caspar what?' said Caspar, pushing open the sitting-room door with his knee. His arms were full of canvases as yet unprimed. ‘If it's “I'll have to ask Caspar if he'd like a cup of tea and a Marmite sandwich,” the answer's yes.'

‘Who's that?' Dina was all ears at the other end of the phone. ‘Your landlord? Ask him now. Go on.'

Poppy was torn. Sorry though she felt for Dina, she didn't really want to be the one held responsible for whatever she might get up to. Dina's wild streak, tempered recently by marriage and motherhood, was clearly wrestling its way back to the surface. Poppy dreaded to think what the McBride mafia would have to say if they knew who was putting Dina up.

‘Ask me what?' repeated Caspar, dumping the blank canvases on the sofa.

Dither, dither…

‘I know what I forgot to tell you,' Dina cried, playing her triumphant ace. ‘Guess who I bumped into at the club the other week? That chap of yours, the one with the dark curly hair.'

Saliva turned to sawdust in Poppy's mouth. She stared at her bare toes, pressed against the sash window frame. She wished Caspar wasn't there, shamelessly eavesdropping. She couldn't believe Dina had waited until now to mention it.

‘Which chap?'

‘You know, the dishy doctor who couldn't keep his hands off you.' Dina gurgled raucously down the phone. ‘Well, your foot anyway. Come on, you remember! Couple of dances, couple of snogs, and the next day you canceled your wedding.
That
chap with the dark curly hair—'

‘I did
not
snog him.' Poppy blurted the words out without thinking.

Caspar looked up in amazement.

Dina sounded gleeful. ‘So you do know who I mean.'

‘Did you… um, did you speak to him?'

‘Hang on a sec, how completely weird, I can't remember.'

Dina was smirking, Poppy just knew it.

‘Of course you remember.'

‘Nope, it's gone.' Brightly, Dina said, ‘Mind's a blank, a complete blank…'

Blackmail, how outrageous. Poppy sighed and turned to Caspar.

‘Is it okay if a friend comes to stay for a couple of days?'

‘A few days,' Dina corrected. ‘Make it a few.' She giggled. ‘I'll need time to get over the jet lag.'

‘Of course.' Caspar was still stunned by the earlier mention of snogging. ‘Of course it's okay.'

‘So what's she like?' he asked when Poppy had hung up the phone. ‘My type?'

Poppy wished Dina could have said something a bit more informative than a cheery ‘I'll tell you when I see you.' She wanted to know
now
what Tom had said.

‘Well,' demanded Caspar, ‘
is
she my type?'

Men. Poppy gave him a look. ‘She's got a husband and a baby.'

Privately, she thought that in her present mood, Dina would be anybody's type.

‘Talking of babies, I'll tell you what's really amazing,' said Caspar. ‘Angie Slade-Welch. That woman actually gave birth to Claudia… and I swear she has no stretch marks at all.'

‘Well, you'd know.'

Honestly, Poppy thought, how come everyone else seems to be so much more brazen than me? Am I abnormally repressed?

‘It's my job to know.'

‘And is she as great in bed as you expected her to be?' The words slipped out. She hadn't meant to ask. She didn't even
want
to know, for heaven's sake.

‘No idea.' Caspar looked innocent. Then he grinned. ‘Our relationship is purely professional.'

‘And if you believe that,' said Poppy, ‘you'll believe anything.'

Poppy had braced herself beforehand, but Alex and Rita's home still came as a shock when she saw it for the first time. In the dank back streets of Bethnal Green, it stood out like a wolfhound among terriers, a wolfhound with a diamond-studded collar at that.

This was Southfork with sequins, Poppy realized. The house was immense. There was a chandelier the size of a hot-air balloon in the downstairs loo.

She couldn't help wondering where the money for all this had come from. Was her father a member of the infamous East End underworld? Was he a drug baron? A porn king? Oh help, Poppy thought nervously, I hope it isn't anything too sordid—

‘Chop-chop,' said Kenda, in her element as she bustled past. ‘No daydreaming. Poppy, back onto this planet please. Stop wishing your rich friends could adopt you and get on with folding those napkins. Janet, straighten your apron. And Claire, get those ice buckets filled. I said stop daydreaming, Poppy—'

‘Sorry.' Poppy bent her head and set to work, but there were so many thoughts whizzing around her brain it was hard to concentrate on napkins. Apart from anything else, Kenda had just hit a particularly pointed nail on the head.

Poppy began to wish she hadn't come here. Seeing for herself just how rich Alex Fitzpatrick really was only made matters more complicated than they were already.

Until today, her reason for not telling him who she really was had been Rita.

Now, Poppy knew she definitely couldn't say anything. If she did, she would look like a fortune-hunter, desperate to cash in on the fact that the father she had never known had somehow managed to end up rolling in it. Alex would think she had only turned up to demand her rightful share.

If it was rightful. But… how
had
he made so much?

Behind her, Janet and Claire were discussing British Rail sandwiches. Poppy hoped her father wasn't one of the Great Train Robbers.

‘There's a swimming pool outside you wouldn't believe,' said one of the other waitresses on her way back from unloading the second van. ‘It's big enough to float a yacht on.'

Poppy hoped her father wasn't anything to do with Robert Maxwell. She hoped he wasn't Robert Maxwell reincarnated.

‘Right now everyone, let's start carrying the food through to the dining room,' instructed Kenda. ‘Smoothly and efficiently please, before the guests begin to arrive. And I know I don't need to remind you of this,' she added with a steely glimmer in her eyes, ‘but I trust everyone will behave in a professional manner.'

Poppy flushed on Alex's behalf. What Kenda meant was no behind-the-back smirking at either the decor, the guests, or Alex and Rita themselves. They might not live in Belgravia, but they were paying an arm and a leg for the services of Kenda's Kitchen tonight. Kenda, who had been battling the recession along with everyone else, could do with a few more like them on her client list. She wasn't going to risk offending the Fitzpatricks or any one of their less than salubrious guests.

‘Got you slaving, has she?'

Poppy grinned as Rita whispered the words not very subtly into her ear. ‘What's she like then, this Kenda with the posh voice? Bit of a bossyboots, am I right?'

‘Well, strict,' said Poppy, ‘but fair.' Struggling to be loyal, she added, ‘These things need a lot of organizing. Someone has to be in control.'

‘In control.' Rita rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I can just see her in a leather basque and high heels, going, “You do as I say, you naughty boy,” and beating her hubby with a bloody great whip.'

So much for everyone being on their best behavior and not smirking at the Fitzpatricks, thought Poppy. Poor Kenda, if she knew she was being made fun of by Rita, she would be appalled.

For tonight's party, Rita was wearing a violet lamé dress with a seriously plunging neckline and high-heeled gold sandals. A couple of extra blasts on the high-velocity sunbed had deepened her tan and yesterday's trip to the hairdresser had resulted in a baby-pink tint on top of the blondeness. Her eye make-up, a symphony of pinks and mauves, matched her nail polish. Around her brown neck hung a new necklace studded with sapphires.

‘Like it?' Rita saw Poppy's gaze linger on the necklace. Proudly, she ran her fingers over the raised stones. ‘Twenty-five sapphires, one for each year we been married. Alex designed it himself, got a jeweler mate of his to make the necklace up.'

Maybe Alex was a diamond smuggler. This possibility rather appealed to Poppy; it had a romantic ring to it. She knew she should be circulating with trays of food, but her curiosity was threatening to get the better of her. She had spent the last two hours eavesdropping as frantically as she could, to no avail. The guests, a wide mix of down-to-earth Cockneys and members of the Cavendish jazz crowd, weren't telling her what she wanted to know.

Poppy had only the haziest of ideas when it came to property valuation but the house alone must have cost a million. Then there was the bright red Rolls Royce with the personalized plates out on the drive… goodness, you'd have to smuggle an awful lot of diamonds to support a lifestyle like this.

It was no good; she had to ask.

‘Rita… I hope this isn't an incredibly rude question…'

‘Mmm?' Rita's attention was being drawn elsewhere. At the other end of the room, Alex and his band had launched into a rousing, jazzed-up version of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown.' Suddenly everyone was dancing. Rita was clearly dying to rush over and join in.

‘It's just, this house.' Having started, Poppy felt compelled to finish. ‘Um… I couldn't help wondering where the money… I mean, it must have cost a fortune…'

Alex was belting out the chorus on his Bechstein. Everyone sang along. Rita, gazing in adoration at him, said, ‘Sorry, what?'

‘You and Alex,' Poppy shouted above the noise of the music. ‘How did you GET SO RICH?'

‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, I'm so sorry,' murmured Kenda, gripping Poppy's elbow with such force she felt her funny bone start to go. Smiling fixedly at Rita, Kenda wheeled Poppy round and propelled her in the direction of the kitchen.

‘What in heaven's name do you think you're playing at?' She hissed the words, bullet-like, into Poppy's ear, as shocked as if Poppy had been asking how they'd caught syphilis. ‘What did I say earlier about professional behavior? I warn you, Poppy, you're treading a very fine line. Anymore of this nonsense and you are
out
.'

Poppy did as she was told. She returned to the kitchen, armed herself with two fresh trays of prosciutto wrapped dates, and spent the next twenty minutes dutifully offering them around.

Then she watched one of the other musicians take over at the piano. Alex, kissing Rita's hand, led her into the center of the room. Cheered on by the noisier guests, he made a short speech thanking everyone for being with them tonight and Rita in particular for marrying him in the first place. Then they danced together to ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World.' Everyone whistled and applauded before piling back onto the dance floor themselves.

‘What did you
do
?' whispered Janet as she passed Poppy going in the other direction. ‘Kenda's blowing a gasket. She asked me if you were on drugs.'

‘Honestly.' Poppy sighed. ‘From the way she's going on, you'd think I'd been spitting in the soup.'

Janet said, ‘If you had, you wouldn't be the first.'

Poppy carried on serving. Physically she was doing her job, but mentally she was checking out every detail of the house. As much as she dared anyway; she was going to get some pretty funny looks if she started rummaging through the cupboards under the stairs.

Still, she was seeing enough to get the idea. At a guess, a team of top-class interior designers had been called in. They had organized, amongst other things, the elegant pleated curtains, the concealed lighting, the chair rails, and the white Italian marble kitchen. Rita and Alex had said how lovely, so as not to hurt the design team's fragile feelings. Then the moment they'd left, they had set to work putting their own personal stamp on the place.

Brightly patterned rugs were strewn around, probably to cheer up the tasteful taupe carpet. Even brighter lampshades, frilled and fringed to distraction, were perched on imitation Oscar lampstands. Ornaments thronged every available surface. There was enough Capo di Monte china to stock a factory. Huge gilt-framed photographs of Alex and Rita hung on every wall.

One of the doors off the wood-paneled hall led into a library with no books but plenty of videos in imitation leather covers. There was also a cinema-sized television screen. The black leather sofa in front of it was piled high with fluffy toys. An oil painting of a liquid-eyed spaniel hung over the fireplace. Another, of Elvis, adorned the opposite wall.

Goodness, Claudia would sneer if she could see this. Poppy glanced down at the shag pile carpet, deep enough to need mowing. It wasn't her own taste, but she felt oddly comfortable in the room. Alex and Rita had furnished it to suit no one but themselves. Which was, really, how homes should be furnished.

The door swung open behind her and Poppy jumped, guiltily aware that she had no business being in here.

‘Aha,' purred a male voice, ‘caught you.'

A stray remote control had been buried in the depths of the shag pile at Poppy's feet. When she jumped, she unwittingly turned the video recorder on. A naked couple romping together in bed appeared up on the giant television screen. Poppy went scarlet, dumped her tray of canapés on the gilt-embossed coffee table and grabbed the remote control. A million buttons later she managed to find Off.

‘No need to look so shocked.' Her male intruder was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of nookie between consenting adults. All in favor of it, myself.'

Poppy remembered serving him earlier when she had been passing round the smoked salmon parcels. He was in his thirties, she guessed, with gelled-back hair, a reddish complexion, and a confident, wide-boy smile. He was wearing a well-cut grey suit, the jacket lined with bright blue silk. A mobile phone stuck out of his pocket. He was well-built but not particularly tall and spoke rapidly, like a stock market trader, with a slight London accent.

‘Hey, hey, not so fast,' he said as Poppy seized her tray and attempted to breeze past him. He put out an arm to stop her. ‘We can carry on watching together. Come on, sit down, take the weight off your feet. Let me have that remote control… hey,
relax
, I said…'

Poppy gave up on breezing. Breezing wasn't going to do the trick. This chap was one of those take-what-you-want types and his arm was tightening around her waist like a boa constrictor. Now she remembered he was the one who'd been drinking champagne out of a half-pint glass. He was drunker than he looked. Grinning triumphantly, he flipped Poppy's silver tray over, catapulting two dozen bacon-wrapped oysters in all directions. She felt his hot breath on her face as he yanked her towards him. There were bits of spit at the corners of his mouth. At such close quarters, the smell of hair gel was overpowering.

‘Let go of me,' said Poppy. Feeling wimpish, she added, ‘Please.'

‘Whoa, no need to panic! Nobody else is coming in here. I noticed you earlier, y'know. I like redheads. Sweetheart, sweetheart, stop fighting it! I fancy you, you fancy me. How about a little kiss to get us warmed up?'

‘No.' Poppy hesitated. What would Kenda want her to say? ‘No… thank you very much.'

He grew more insistent. The grip around her waist tightened another couple of notches. ‘Just a little kiss. Don't be a spoilsport. This is what parties are all about, a bit of fun—'

Breezing was by this time out of the question. Poppy was hemmed in, pinned firmly against a black and gold lacquered sideboard with a heavy crystal whisky decanter on it, together with six matching tumblers. She felt behind her, located the neck of the decanter and picked it up. Heavens, it was even heavier than she'd thought.

‘Please let me go.'

‘Are you kidding?' He laughed, his mouth approaching hers, his left hand zooming in on her right breast. ‘Just as we're getting to know each other at last? Baby, don't you know how to
have
fun—?'

It seemed an awful waste of whisky. It was bound to be a blended malt. Still, Poppy decided, better this way than a whack over the head with several hundred quid's worth of lead crystal. Less brain-damaging at least.

She tipped the contents of the decanter over his ultra-gelled hair. Glug, glug, glug… within seconds he was drenched from head to foot.

‘Sorry,' said Poppy as he let out a bellow of rage. Next moment, the library door was pushed open and Alex appeared. He stared at Poppy with the empty decanter still in her hand. He looked at his whisky-soaked guest. Then he examined the sole of his left shoe and discovered one of the scattered bacon-wrapped oysters clinging to his heel.

‘Hmm.' Alex glanced with regret at the puddle of whisky sinking into the carpet around the other man's feet.

‘Sorry.' This time Poppy meant it.

‘No need. I can guess what happened. Derek been up to his usual tricks, has he?'

‘She was begging for it,' Derek said irritably. ‘I'm telling you, begging for it.'

‘You always say that. You always
think
that.' Alex sounded resigned. He turned to Poppy. ‘He's just a lech. Predictable too. As soon as I heard the racket I guessed he'd done it again. Are you all right, pet?'

Poppy nodded. Moments later, she stopped being all right. Like a traffic warden turning up just when you'd parked somewhere clampable, Kenda loomed in the doorway.

‘Right,' she said, taking in the scene far more swiftly than Alex had done and drawing her own tight-lipped conclusions, ‘that is IT, Poppy. You have brought disgrace upon Kenda's Kitchen. I warned you earlier. I gave you every chance.' She paused. The performance was as much for Alex's sake as Poppy's. Clients who spent, spent, spent like the Fitzpatricks deserved nothing but the best. ‘Your behavior tonight has been abysmal,' she concluded rigidly. ‘You are fired.'