by Prue Leith
Although she was relieved no one pressed her to go with them, she felt a little forlorn as she watched the group enter the meadow and saw Karl hand his drink to Eduardo so he could pick up Lorato, settling her easily on his shoulders. The long grass hid Tom from view, and they were almost out of earshot, but Carrie correctly surmised Tom’s outstretched arms and demands for equal treatment: the next minute Tom was on his father’s shoulders. Angelina, skinny with her white blond hair down her back, walked between the two men. As so often, Carrie felt on the outside, looking in.
Left alone with her sister, Carrie was grateful that Poppy said nothing of consequence as they laid the table and brought out the lamb steaks and sausages.
“This fire is altogether too much of a good thing,” said Carrie. “It is going to incinerate everything.”
“I know,” replied Poppy “What is it with men and barbecues? They know nothing about cooking, but make a fire outside and suddenly it’s their domain.”
Carrie laughed. “ ‘Me Tarzan,’ I guess. ‘You Jane, stay in the cave.’”
She peered at the six-inch layer of coals in the great red Weber barbecue. They were covered with a fine gray ash, glowing orange underneath. “There’s enough charcoal in here to cook for the army.”
Poppy shrugged, the indulgent wife. “Two bags of it. And costing more than the lamb and sausages.”
Carrie was right. Eduardo’s first batch of sausages were inedible: black and cracked on the outside and red raw inside. And he was not a happy host. He burned his hand, got smoke in his eyes and kicked over the pan of honey and soy marinade.
Poppy’s attempts at helping and Carrie’s offer to take over irritated him.
So Poppy made two huge mint juleps for her and Carrie and they left him to it. Karl stayed with him, too wise to offer advice or comment. The women sat on the swing-seat and Lorato crawled up between them. She climbed onto Carrie’s lap and said, “No swim in river now.”
Carrie looked into her solemn face and pulled it into her bosom. Her eyes met Poppy’s over Lorato’s head. “Oh Poppy, I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” said Poppy, touching her sister’s wrist. “We’ll get over it eventually. We are already. The thing to remember is you saved her life.”
After that, it was better for both the sisters. Carrie read Poppy’s conciliatory words as the chink in the door. It would all come right. It would just take time, that’s all.
As Poppy saw her sister’s expression go from anxiety to relief, she recognized Carrie’s old ability to shake off gloom and head for the sun. But Poppy knew it would never be the same. How could it be? The sense of betrayal would never leave her. But she smiled at Carrie. What else could she do? And a part of her did want Carrie in her life, a part of her still loved her.
Carrie sprang up, her face cloud-free, and swung down the terrace steps to play croquet with Angelina and make a fuss of Tom’s angora rabbit.
Eduardo, irked by Karl’s gaze and his own incompetence, took it out on Olaf, who was standing immobile, his nose lifted to the smell of charring meat. Eduardo took a run at the startled dog, shouting at him, “Beat it, you great brute. Go on. Off.”
Olaf shambled hastily down the terrace steps, baffled but obedient. This seemed to irritate Eduardo further and he handed his barbecue fork and the tea towel to Karl.
“Here. Do your African Ranger thing then,” he said.
“Sure,” said Karl, putting the fork down and picking up a roasting tin. “Do you mind if I rearrange the fire a bit?” He scooped a few of the hot embers from the barbecue into the tin and set it down on the stone paving. Then, crouching on his haunches, he used this inauspicious little fire to expertly grill the lamb steaks and the rest of the sausages.
Poppy, appearing at the kitchen door, watched him take a sausage from his grill and put it, without benefit of plate, on the terrace floor. He was talking to Lorato.
“Smells good, eh, Lorato?” he said. The child’s eyes, anxious and solemn, flicked from his face to the sausage and back again. Karl took his clasp-knife from his pocket and split the sausage accurately down the middle. He picked up one half, blew on it and handed it to Lorato. Her face opened into relief and pleasure.
An assortment of thoughts streamed through Poppy’s brain. How typical of him to carry that knife, even in England; that grease is going to stain my expensive encaustic tiles; should I care that he’s feeding my daughter food from the floor?
He looked up at her and said, “Have I broken the rules? Giving her an advance tasting?”
“Of course not,” said Poppy, although in truth she didn’t let the children eat between meals. She watched his brow furrow as he concentrated on wiping Lorato’s greasy cheek with a tea towel and thought: he’ll look like Clint Eastwood one day. Maybe Carrie will marry him and leave Eduardo alone.
For some reason this last thought did not bring her the comfort it should. She pulled herself together and went in search of Tom and Carrie, calling, “Lunchtime, everyone. Lunch.”
*
The next day dawned sunny and Poppy felt, for the first time in months, a flicker of excitement. She found herself singing in the shower. It must be months since she’d done that. Carrie had gone home to London last evening, but Karl had stayed the night and was going with her and the children to Donnington Castle. It would be a half-term treat for Angelina, and give her pony a day’s rest. The child would live at the stables if she could.
As soon as breakfast was over and Eduardo had gone, she began the pleasurable business of assembling a picnic. She sent Angelina to the cellar for the ancient whicker hamper and the quilted bedspread that had been born again as a picnic rug. She sent Karl to the larder for water and orange squash, and then to the orchard to pick the last of the apples. She filled vacuum flasks with coffee, jam jars with sugar, plastic bags with wet J-cloths for jammy faces and sticky fingers.
Poppy had long since abandoned gourmet picnics. She didn’t even make sandwiches. She just packed the hamper with whatever she could find. Today this turned out to be granary bread, butter, tomatoes, Marmite, Cheddar, a packet of salami, fish paste, lemon curd and jam. The freezer contributed a squashy rhubarb cake Carrie had made months ago. Poppy added bread-knife and board, a tray for laying out the spread, and a clutch of buttering knives and spoons.
At the castle they set up camp in Poppy’s favorite spot—a grassy enclosure inside a ruined stone building. Poppy felt guilty relief that Eduardo wasn’t there: he fussed about their picnicking in the castle grounds—you were supposed to use the picnic area. But Poppy hated the rows of wooden benches and strategically placed litterbins. And she liked to be out of sight of other families.
While Poppy set up her sandwich-making operations, Karl took charge of the drinks, pouring half an inch of orange cordial into their glasses and the children’s mugs and topping them up with water. He handed a mug to Angelina, who gulped thirstily. Then suddenly her eyes shot open, wide and horrified, and she sprayed the picnic spread and her mother with a mouthful of orange. Spluttering and gagging, she held the mug out to Poppy.
Poppy smelt it. Orange. She tasted it, and then burst out laughing. She took the bottle from Karl and turned the label to show him.
“It’s gin.”
“Oh God,” he said. “I thought it was water. Oh, Angelina. I am sorry.”
Angelina, enjoying the drama now, said, “But what can we drink?”
Karl gave her money to buy drinks at the castle, and she set off. The two little ones, delighted at the prospect of Coca-Cola, went with her.
As she watched her 10-year-old daughter walking between her two youngest, holding their hands, Poppy was assaulted by a wave of love. She said, “That’s such a lovely girl.”
“It’s in her genes,” said Karl. “You were just like that at l0. You put up with merry hell from Carrie.”
The flattery pleased
her. But she didn’t want to pursue the subject. Smiling, she said,
“And what are we going to drink?”
“Neat gin,” said Karl. “Can’t waste it. And besides, we need warming up. Your idea of a perfect day for a picnic is my idea of a perfect day for log fires and booze.”
It was true. The sky had clouded up and it was breezy and cool. They pulled on their coats—Poppy’s cracked and discolored old Barbour, and Karl’s khaki bush jacket—and sat eating salami sandwiches and slowly sipping gin. The children came back and Poppy made sandwiches to order.
By the time they’d repacked the picnic stuff it was unpleasantly cold, but Poppy’s suggestion of home was loudly countered by Angelina’s clamor for the adventure playground.
They had the playground to themselves, and Angelina undertook to push Tom and Lorato on the swings.
“When you are sick of them, darling,” said Poppy, “bring them back to us, and you can ride the mini-bikes.”
“Where will you be?”
Poppy’s eyes searched for somewhere out of the wind. “In the Wendy house,” she said.
She and Karl crawled into the little cabin, and Poppy spread the quilt on the floor. They sat cross-legged upon it, facing each other with the undrunk mugs of orangey gin between them.
I mustn’t drink too much, thought Poppy, I’m driving.
There was something both cozy and daring about sitting knee to knee with Karl. She felt insulated from the world and safe. At first they talked of Kaia Moya, of Lorato’s progress, of Lucille.
Then suddenly Poppy found herself telling Karl about Eduardo’s affair with Carrie.
“It’s so awful,” said Poppy, “it’s screwed things up with both of them. I want to trust Eduardo again but I can’t. And I want to forgive Carrie and I can’t do that either.”
Karl put out a hand and gently shook Poppy’s jean-clad knee. “You will, Poppy. Give it time.”
Poppy, once started, couldn’t stop.
“And then I get furious with Eduardo for wanting to cut out Carrie. I keep thinking he wants to keep her at bay because he’s in love with her. You saw them yesterday. Is he in love with her?” Poppy pushed her finger up under her glasses to rub out incipient tears.
Karl held her gaze and shook his head. “No. He’s not. No question.”
Poppy sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand,
“If he wanted to see her I’d kill him, I think. But when he refuses I give him hell too.” She tried to fish a tissue out of her jeans pocket, but it was difficult to extract sitting down, and it emerged in bits.
“Here.” Karl handed her a red spotted handkerchief. It smelt clean and soapy. She blew her nose and said, “And it’s all my fault. I . . . I just thought he’d love me forever, even though we hardly ever . . . I’ve just taken him for granted. I got so absorbed in Lorato. And I kept acting, left his mother to do the chores . . .”
Karl put his mug down and reached forward between his knees to take both Poppy’s wrists in his hands. “Stop, Popps. What you need to keep in your head is that there are no villains in this story. You are the same beautiful, wonderful woman Eduardo married . . .”
“Beautiful?” Poppy shook her head.
“Yes, beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as Carrie. She’s stunning, of course. But you are lovely too.” He scrutinized her features as he described them: “Huge eyes, hidden behind glasses, but so what? Nice straight nose, wide high cheekbones, perfect even teeth, big smile, square jaw, dimples, wonderful pink and perfect skin . . .”
Poppy shook her head, pleased but disbelieving. “Stop, stop.” But she wanted more. Eduardo had never said she was beautiful. Sexy yes, but not beautiful.
“And apart from all that, you have the sexiest, richest voice, and you are generous, warm, loving. So you are not to blame. OK?” Karl dropped her wrists, and handed her one of the mugs between his feet. “Here.”
She took a gulp, allowing the thought that she should go in search of the children to glance, unrecognized, off her mind.
Karl went on, “You could blame Eduardo. But only for weakness, or for being stupid. He doesn’t love Carrie. He loves you.”
The words were like balm. “Oh Karl, thank you,” she said “thank you.”
Feeling restored and only very slightly drunk, she said, “And Carrie isn’t to blame either?”
Karl said, “No. Poor Carrie. She loves you, but jealousy gets in the way.”
“Jealous? Carrie jealous of me?” Poppy’s voice rose and her eyes were wide with disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
“You’ve got everything she wants. Security, career, fame, house in the country, children, marriage.”
Poppy shook her head vigorously. “No, no. Carrie doesn’t want any of that. She wants excitement, fun, all-night parties.”
“C’mon Popps. Carrie’s never been able to live up to you. You were better at school than her, better at coping, better at acting. Now you are kinder, steadier, nicer. It’s tough for her.”
“But she’s so vivacious. And everyone loves her.”
“Just as well,” said Karl. “Since I don’t think she loves herself too much.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Poppy feeling curiously content, as if a boil had been lanced. Then a small boy plummeted through the door, and stopped in horror. He turned tail and ran, shouting, “Ma, Ma, there’s witches in the Wendy house.”
“So much for your beauty,” laughed Karl. “He thinks you’re a witch.”
Chapter 21
For the next four days Poppy saw Karl every day. At first he’d wanted to include Carrie, but Carrie was working. And anyway, Poppy said it was too soon—she’d made an effort on Sunday, but she did not feel easy with her sister. So Karl would have supper with one sister and spend his days with the other. Poppy, for so long stoical and brisk with herself, enjoyed the days spent out of her usual groove. Karl managed to give the simplest activity, like riding on a bus, a charge. Being with him felt like bunking off, illicit and exciting.
On the Tuesday she left Lorato and Tom with Guillia, dropped Angelina at school and was at Karl’s hotel by 9 a.m.
As he bounced down the steps she was conscious of two young women, out for a quick puff in the porch, eyeing him. He turns heads like Carrie does, she thought, feeling childishly proud that it was she he kissed when he landed on the pavement.
They went down the Thames for Karl to see the riverfront changes. They looked at Canary Wharf and the Dome from the water, then took another river-bus upstream to Bankside.
After an hour in Tate Modern—only long enough to be bowled over by the spaces—they did the guided tour of Shakespeare’s Globe. The tour guide, an out-of-work actor, recognized Poppy and persuaded her to demonstrate the acoustics with a speech from the stage. At first Poppy had protested, but gave in when Karl said, “Go on, Poppy. Today has been a revelation. It will be the icing on the cake.”
So Poppy recited “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
When she stopped there was that moment of silence, the tribute of an audience to something magical—as if no one can bear to break the spell.
Then everyone was clapping and asking for her autograph.
Poppy felt proud and proprietary that Karl was so knocked out by the new buildings. As if she was responsible for the regeneration of her adopted city.
And then at the Pont de la Tour, Poppy knew the manager and he gave them free champagne. Poppy wondered if he thought Karl was a lover or a movie director.
It was a wonderful day, right outside Poppy’s normal life.
On Wednesday Karl went to Poppy’s matinee. Afterward Poppy stopped to sign half a dozen autographs for some drama students at the stage door and then they walked to the Ritz.
“Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?” The doorman’s eyes ran up from Karl’s soft
veldskoen to his collarless neck and down again.
“No, I’m not. Is there a problem?”
They were saved by an American couple who descended on Poppy, brandishing their Filumena programs. Embarrassed but determined, they gushed their congratulations and Poppy smiled and signed.
The doorman waved them through, followed them in, and whispered to the headwaiter. They were bowed to the table.
“I like you being so famous,” said Karl. “That grandee on the door was squaring up to put me back on the pavement.”
But Poppy thought Karl had the sort of authority and style that would have won the battle, tie or no tie. He also had an unabashed appetite, accepting a succession of sandwiches, scones and fancy French cakes.
Poppy watched him with admiration. “You’ll be sick,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’m not paying £32 for a cup of tea and a biscuit.”
The 40 minutes in the gilded prettiness of the Ritz foyer went too fast, and Poppy had slight back-to-school blues as Karl left her back at the theater.
On Thursday they took Lorato and Tom to the zoo. Karl had discovered you could get a barge a few hundred feet from the Santolini flat right to Regent’s Park. The canal trip was fun with its strange views from water level. At first there were rearing buildings, then the picture-postcard barges in Little Venice, self-consciously sporting bargee-painted watering cans, buckets and pottery gnomes on their roofs, then the anxious dark of the tunnel under Edgware road, and at last the weedy overgrowth of Regent’s Park. And all along the towpath ran alongside, snaking round bends, plunging under bridges, re-emerging reliable and unscathed. On arrival, they climbed up into the autumn sunshine. The leaves were a fandango of yellow and orange and the bright light and deep shadows disguised the tattiness of the old zoo.
“Don’t you find zoos depressing?” asked Poppy, looking at a solitary bear pacing on the rocky terraces.
“Sometimes. But it’s sentimental nonsense to think zoos, anyway good zoos, are cruel. The wild’s much worse.”
