by Amy Andrews
This was war.
From the moment Quentin had met Poppy, Julia had been in his way, with her facetious superiority, her high-handed dismissals, and her over-protective suffocating of his girlfriend. It was as clear as it could be that she considered Quentin not good enough for Poppy. Not smart enough, not trustworthy enough, not worthy enough in general. And, worse, she considered him a waste of Poppy’s precious last days. In spite of the fact that Poppy had been pretty clear that she wanted Quentin around.
No grit, she said? Well, today Quentin would show her just what he had in the tank. She had no idea the kind of grit it had taken to defy his father consistently and creatively for the last ten years. Not many men had it in them to stand up to Ray Carmody – his money, his power and his bullish determination. If Julia thought she was going to sashay over the finish line in front of him with that egg in her hand, she had no idea who she was dealing with. Just like if she thought he was going to bow out, drop out of Poppy’s life when she needed him most, to never see her again, she was completely deluded.
Quentin grinned as he realised he had leapt to the front of the pack. The portly gent had already dropped his egg, retreating to clean sticky yolk off an expensive loafer. He heard Poppy squealing and cheering in delight and registered the two blondes, neck and neck in his peripheral vision, making good time behind him as he closed on the first tree. He couldn’t see Julia and was determined not to take his eye off the egg. That was exactly the kind of amateur mistake Julia would expect him to make. No grit. As he reached the tree, his foot connected with a large root, and he stumbled, the egg rolling precariously towards the edge of the spoon. He was forced to stop to right its path, and behind him one of the blondes let out a very bad word as she also ran foul of the root but without the same luck. Her egg smashed messily and she retreated in tears. Too much sangria.
Quentin regained his balance, but the delay had been costly. Julia scooted past him, bumping him viciously with her hip as she rounded the tree, sheltered from the hawk-like gaze of Signora Rosa by the second blonde. Quentin wanted to call foul as his egg rolled perilously again, but he clamped down on his tongue. He’d show her grit. If that was how she wanted to play it, he’d take it right up to her.
The next obstacle was the shallow pond and Quentin reached it a second behind the two women. He smiled to himself, realising his long legs gave him a natural advantage in the knee-high muck. Summoning every ounce of his surfer’s balance, he streaked through the pond, carefully skirting both women, who had slowed considerably in the murky water, and made it to the other side a whisker ahead of them. As he stepped up onto the opposite bank, he kicked back strongly with his other leg, sending Julia a face full of muddy water.
He thought the shock might have been enough to unbalance her and make her lose her egg, but no such luck. Julia swore under her breath but she didn’t appeal to the umpire either. This was the Colosseum, not kindergarten, and neither of them was a crybaby. As the final tree came into sight, Quentin felt both women gaining on him on the firmer ground. He picked up speed, and they matched his stride. He could almost feel their breath on his neck as Poppy screamed encouragement to both him and Julia. He sped up further, and the new pace was too much for the second blonde, who matched her sister’s profanity as she stumbled and her egg bit the dust.
Now it was only the two of them.
The final tree was ringed by a stand of bushes, and as Quentin and Julia entered its sheltered circle, side by side, Julia trod maliciously on his foot. He gritted his teeth and made to shove her with his elbow, but she was already a heartbeat in front of him, rounding the huge tree.
Knowing they couldn’t be seen, he took a chance and reached out to tug her ponytail. She grunted in shock and stopped to right her egg. By the time she recovered, he was out of the bushes and powering down the home stretch Signora Rosa had slung a red ribbon between two trees back near the main group, and it looked to Quentin like a victory beacon. He lengthened his stride, almost tasting triumph in his mouth. He allowed a grin to slip onto his face as he saw Poppy, standing near the finish line, her face alight with excitement, dancing on the spot.
But he had underestimated Julia’s will to win. From god-knows-where, she produced a last desperate burst of speed. He lengthened his stride again, but she matched him, and he knew he couldn’t risk going any faster, lest he lose the precious egg. He basically had to hope she might stumble, or lose steam.
No cigar.
They crashed through the red ribbon together to Poppy’s excited screech of ‘Tie!’ It hurt, but not as badly as the look on Poppy’s face as Julia plucked her egg from her spoon, took aim, and threw it right at Quentin, smiling like a mad person as sticky yellow yolk dribbled down his face.
It should have felt like a consolation prize. After all, Poppy’s expression of stunned horror as she regarded Julia made it pretty clear who the loser was. But it didn’t. It just hurt, some place high and awkward in Quentin’s chest. He wanted to wipe away Poppy’s wounded look. He wanted to tell her it was okay, all part of the fun. He took a breath to summon the right words, but Poppy had already turned and fled in the direction of the villa. Julia stood open-mouthed and red-faced for a second before she dashed after her. ‘Oh dear,’ Signora Rosa said, putting a restraining hand on his arm as he made to follow them. ‘I zink zis one is for zem to sort out, sí?’
* * *
Quentin waited an hour before he sought Poppy out. It was a very long hour. His inclination was to run after her, find a way to make her happy again. Shame filled him as he did penance in the kitchen, helping Rosa wash up all the big pots from lunch. The suds were therapeutic, and he even offered to mop the floor for her afterwards. She rewarded him by promising her cannoli recipe, but even that didn’t make him feel better. Sure, a lot of this had been Julia’s fault, but he was equally to blame. Poppy had just wanted them to get along, have some fun, and they’d turned it into a pissing contest, like primary schoolers fighting over a best friend. He swallowed nervously as he ran through all the ways he could make it right.
The problem was, everything seemed so important when it came to Poppy, and he was having a bloody hard time working out why. Try as he might to be objective, he kept drawing a blank. Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world?
This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl. It wasn’t like they had a future. He wouldn’t be marrying her; he wouldn’t be having babies with her. As that thought landed, something horrible poked into his brain. Was that what this was about? A sudden chill skittered down his spine.
Was this some kind of sick want-her-because-I-can’t-have-her problem?
Oh fuck.
Quentin’s father had accused him of being a screw-up, and maybe he really was. Maybe everything he’d ever really wanted had come so easily to him – girls, music, more girls – that this one was the most desirable because he knew he could never have her, not really.
He stood in the middle of Rosa’s kitchen, looking out over the valley spread out below her big picture window, and examined the thought, checking its provenance. He thought about how he had felt when Poppy had stood in his line at the cafeteria and asked for that ridiculous sandwich. He remembered the way his heart had raced as she had launched herself at him after the skydive. And then he recalled how he had heard the voices of angels after the first
time she had come like some kind of ancient goddess in his bed a few hours later.
No, this had nothing to do with hard-to-get. Goddammit, it was all to do with the mysterious bundle of energy and whimsical creature that was Poppy Devine. Even her name made him shiver. She was some kind of witch, and it was time to go find her and make it right.
He hurried to their room in the villa.
Even the sight of her door made him feel better. It meant that in a short moment he would be talking to her, explaining, saying sorry. His skin itched to be in there as he raised his hand to knock.
But then he heard Julia’s voice.
‘I know, Pop, I do.’ Quentin had never heard the redhead sound so contrite. ‘And I’ve been able to hack all of it. Well, you know …’ Quentin heard the petulance in her voice and could imagine the mulish look on her face. ‘A bit, anyway.’
There was a pause, and Quentin was decent enough to realise he should go.
And curious enough to stay rooted to the spot.
Julia went on. ‘But the trip to the Dalai Lama?’
Poppy mumbled something Quentin couldn’t quite make out.
‘I know, Poppy, but that’s our gig. It’s always been our gig, remember? It was on your list but we always said we’d go together.’ Julia’s voice took on a reciting quality. ‘I can still remember you writing that: Sit at the feet of Dalai Lama in Dharamsala and work out what the fuck it’s all about.’ Julia paused again. ‘Remember?’
This time Quentin did hear Poppy’s reply, and her voice sounded so small and sad Quentin wanted to bash the door down and scoop her out of there. ‘I remember.’
‘Well,’ Julia went on. ‘I get that you wanted him at the cooking class. I’ll admit he can cook, okay?’
Poppy laughed at the grudging concession. ‘And play guitar,’ she said.
Julia grunted.
‘And sing,’ Poppy went on.
‘Okay, okay, enough,’ Julia said loudly. ‘I’ve already said sorry about the egg incident; don’t make me start singing his praises.’
Poppy mumbled something and Quentin pressed his ear closer to the door, knowing he should be ashamed of himself and also knowing there was no way he was stopping now. In for a penny …
‘And the northern lights, okay. Fine to both of those. But, Pop,’ Julia’s tone turned from petulant to pleading, ‘not Dharamsala.’
When Poppy spoke, her voice was so clear but so sad it almost burned Quentin’s eavesdropping ear. ‘I’m sorry, Juju. I love you, you know that. To the moon and back.’ She paused. ‘But he’s coming. Or I’m not.’
Quentin’s insides jumped up and did a victory dance. He hadn’t known exactly what the plan was; Poppy had been pretty secretive about it all. More games. And he hadn’t really cared. She had just said they were going on a trip and he had said yes I’m in. But to hear her stand up to the indomitable Julia, for him. It took his breath away. He knew right then that he did not want to be away from her for a second of whatever was to come over the next few weeks.
And now he knew she felt the same.
She hadn’t said it to him, she never said it to him, but he had heard it. He had heard her saying it to her very best friend.
He didn’t deserve it after the performance he and Julia had put on during the race, and after all the hopeless and screwy things he’d done in his life to date. But the gods were somehow smiling on him anyway. Poppy wanted him with her. And he wanted to be with her. The knowledge of how badly he wanted to be there for her settled in his bones like the chorus of a well-known and much-loved song. Something slow and sexy.
And he knew in that moment that he was in deep, deep trouble.
* * *
Quentin licked his fingers decadently, and clucked his tongue at Poppy.
‘Is there anything you can’t do?’
Poppy grinned over her tiramisu. ‘It was pretty good, wasn’t it?’
There was a chorus of agreement from around the table. ‘Top marks, I’d say,’ the portly guy from the egg-and-spoon race said, scraping his spoon against his plate.
All around the long antique table diners scraped and licked in the candlelight. Quentin looked around at them all. The tiramisu was good, for sure. Poppy was a quick study and she had hung from Signora Rosa’s skirts like an avid schoolgirl, not wanting to miss a trick. But this was more than that, and Quentin knew it. He saw the way the assembled students lavished attention on Poppy. They knew she was sick, but they also loved her already. One by one she had laughed with them, tasted their goodies, made jokes about her situation, asked about their kids, and gradually wormed her way into each of their hearts. Like she had into his.
Like he said, she was a magician.
But right now, he noticed, glancing over at her, she looked like one very tired magician. A hot poker of guilt stabbed at him as he thought about how tumultuous the day had been for her – the stupid race and the scene with Julia, on top of her illness.
‘You two go for a walk,’ one of the blonde Californians said, standing up to gather plates. ‘It’s a gorgeous night out there. We’ll do the dishes.’ The girl appealed to her fellow gluttons, rolling around in their chairs on a coffee-and-chocolate high. ‘Won’t we?’ They all murmured agreement. Julia hadn’t showed for dinner, and Quentin hadn’t asked. But he needed to talk to Poppy now.
‘Well, okay,’ he said, greedily taking the chance to walk in the warm night with Poppy. ‘I’ll take you good people up on that.’ He stood, pushed back his chair, bowed grandly to all of them, and stood behind Poppy. She blushed sweetly as he pulled her chair back. He leaned down and scooped her out of her chair. ‘Someone who can cook tiramisu that well should never have to walk,’ he joked.
Poppy began to protest but then sagged against him, and he realised just how tired she must be. ‘Okay, then,’ she agreed, nestling against his chest. ‘You’re right, a master chef like me deserves a free ride.’
He squeezed her in his arms. There was less of her every day; it was as if he could feel her slipping through his fingers. ‘Onward, to the moonlight,’ he joked to the others as they left the room.
And then, to her, ‘But hang on a tic. I have to organise something.’
‘Something’ was his guitar. Jerry Hall had a job to do tonight. And he had to get a blanket. He had stashed them earlier and now he needed to quickly set up.
Five minutes later, Quentin had settled a sleepy Poppy on a blanket under an old olive tree a short distance from the villa, down by the sparkling blue pool. She was bathed in moonlight, her beautiful face turned up to him expectantly. ‘Well?’
She always knew when he was a man on a mission.
He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to say sorry,’ he started, feeling his way. ‘About today.’ He stopped, watching for a signal, but she was waiting, those brown eyes urging him on. No way would she give him a free pass. ‘For all of it really, with Julia. We’ve—’ He shut his eyes momentarily, realising he needed to do better than that. ‘What I mean is, I’ve been childish.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ A slight pause. ‘This is hard for her. Not just the cancer. The sharing. Julia’s not used to sharing me. Not with anyone, really.’ Poppy patted the place next to her on the blanket and Quentin eased himself down, picking up her hand. His always felt so much better when hers was nestled inside it. ‘We’re all each other ever had, really.’
Quentin nodded. He knew by now that there had been a few boyfriends for Poppy – but no-one serious. She had been too busy, and (he suspected) too different. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘She loves you so much.’ He had avoided asking; it never seemed like Poppy really wanted to discuss it, and god knew Quentin was almost positive he wouldn’t know what to say if she decided she did want to. But now seemed like the right time; the right opening. ‘What happened, Poppy? Between you and your ma?’
Poppy snorted, wrinkling her delicate nose and wriggling her body down to stretch out like a kitten on the blanket. ‘Nothing ev
er had a chance to happen,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t there. I was in boarding school, and she was in India.’
Quentin tried to work out the right words to say. He knew it hurt Poppy, the stuff with her mother, but on the other hand, it didn’t seem as if she liked her very much when she was around. ‘How old were you when you started boarding school?’
‘Eleven.’ Poppy sighed, and something about the noise tugged at his heart. ‘And from then on, it’s been Julia and me.’
Quentin murmured something non-committal while he thought it through. Scarlett sure seemed interested in Poppy now. ‘What was it like, before that?’ He wriggled down next to her on the blanket and she hauled herself up somewhat on one elbow and lay her head on his chest. He could smell wild basil and rich earth and the ever-enticing smells of Poppy – chocolate and watermelon. They were having a serious discussion, but his senses leapt to life as she trailed a hand across his tummy.
‘Hard,’ she said, fiddling with his belt buckle in a way that made it difficult to decide if he wanted her to stop or keep going. ‘She never really liked me.’
Quentin laughed, thinking about the people around the table tonight. He imagined how much more appealing Poppy would be if she was your kid. ‘Now that’s impossible,’ he said, rubbing his hand across the scalp she had shaved bald of its wispy regrowth that morning. The skin was soft and smooth, and already his fingers had found a new favourite place. ‘Everyone loves you.’
‘Oh she loves me well enough,’ Poppy agreed, lifting his t-shirt so she could trace the outer lip of his belly button. ‘She just doesn’t like me very much. Different issue.’
Quentin sucked in a breath and tried to focus. ‘Why not?’
Poppy’s face got all businesslike as she sat up and ignored his question. He had the sudden feeling there was something he needed to know, but the look on her face said she was done talking. ‘So why did Jerry Hall come along for the ride?’
Quentin really liked how Poppy always gave his guitar her full name. It always seemed kind of impertinent when people took the liberty of calling her Jerry. Like they knew her as intimately as he did. He reached over and picked up his guitar, stroking her silky skin. ‘Ah,’ he said, shifting up so he was kneeling and flicking the strap over his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you asked that.’
