Poppy Jenkins

by Clare Ashton

  “Is she in mourning?”

  “No, Mr Morgan is still very much alive, although I’m not sure if he’s left his armchair since 1998.”

  “So why?” Rosalyn threw her hands in the air. “What compels her to a wear head-to-toe black?”

  “I like to think she’s a lapsed goth.”

  Rosalyn giggled. “So when she’s done with the delphiniums she skulks in the cottage singing Joy Division.” Rosalyn droned, “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”

  “Yes.” Poppy laughed. “Everyone needs a pinch of melancholia, even Mrs Morgan Morgan.”

  “And what about Cerys?” Rosalyn pointed to the bird-like woman scuttling in the direction of the town hall. “How do you account for her dress – complete coverage in woollens every shade of green from sage to moss?”

  “I like to think she does roleplay. SAS commander. She runs around the hills with mud smeared on her face and the green shades are a cunning camouflage. They’re ideal for the Welsh hills as well as enabling her to blend in when retreating to the village.”

  She expected Rosalyn to giggle again. She wanted Rosalyn to laugh. But instead Rosalyn stared at Poppy, motionless, keen interest creasing around her eyes.

  “You sounded exactly like you did at school then.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. In the sixth form.”

  Poppy blushed, surprised Rosalyn had noticed anything about her during those last years.

  “Do you remember when we were studying Pride and Prejudice?” Rosalyn continued. “Mr Griffiths dismissed it as all fluff and tea parties and apologised for the syllabus not including real literature like Hemingway?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “You said ‘I thought it was about love, happiness and finding oneself – all the important things. I think that can be done over a cup of tea just as well as on a fishing boat.’”

  Poppy was speechless.

  “You said it with genuine warmth, because you loved the book. And old Griffiths blustered something about death, man and nature, but he’d already lost us.”

  “I’m surprised,” Poppy stuttered. “I’m surprised you remembered.” And that she’d recalled it so clearly; it could have been word for word.

  “It was quintessentially you, Poppy.” Rosalyn looked at her with genuine admiration. “Intelligence with heart.”

  Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled and a smile curved at her lips. She’d leaned closer and Poppy could admire every detail of her beautiful face.

  It was beguiling looking at someone so familiar made exotic by the passage of time. There were tiny creases around her eyes that made her smile more intriguing. Every expression had more emphasis and character – the raise of an eyebrow, a flicker of pleasure around her mouth. It was captivating.

  Poppy’s cheeks flushed and her breath quickened. Those icy blue eyes seemed to thaw into deep sapphire, hypnotising, enticing, drawing her in. Almost close enough to touch; close enough to feel the warmth of Rosalyn’s cheeks. Poppy licked her lips, her head spun light and she closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” Rosalyn cleared her throat. “I must be keeping you from your work.”

  Poppy snapped her head away. “Yes. Yes. Well, actually no. I don’t expect any more customers and I have plenty of time to tidy. But yes. No. I’d better get on with it.”

  She turned and strode with great purpose all the way to the stairs, when she heard “Poppy?”

  “Yes?” Poppy answered in a pitch too high for composure. Even Rosalyn looked perturbed and Poppy blushed deeper still at her obvious physical response to Rosalyn. It couldn’t have gone unnoticed, surely.

  “Do you mind…?”

  Poppy braced herself. Would Rosalyn request Poppy keep control? Keep her distance? Not speak to her for the next decade?

  “Do you mind if… Could I order something?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’d love to try your food.”

  Poppy breathed out with relief and counted her good fortune that Rosalyn hadn’t detected her interest.

  “Of course. Please do. You must. Have anything. Have everything.” Shut up. Just shut up. “This way please.” And Poppy clenched her fingers by her sides and berated herself every step down the stairs.

  “Here. Have a seat by the window.” Poppy turned briskly, hoping the manner would appear as business-like efficiency. Unfortunately, the movement surprised Rosalyn and Poppy turned straight into her cleavage.

  They stood, breast to ample glorious breast – great soft mounds in an exquisite smooch.

  “Oh,” said Poppy. By which she meant, “That’s the most exquisite sensation”.

  “Oh,” she said again, this time emphasising its “What a surprise” intonation, hoping to persuade Rosalyn that was what she meant all along.

  Rosalyn was so startled she only stared down at their points, and in Poppy’s case increasingly pointed, areas of contact.

  Poppy gulped and, in a manner far from surreptitious, slid a foot back, her body away and released her breasts from the caress of Rosalyn’s bosom.

  “Window table,” Poppy said. “Sit.”

  “Yes,” Rosalyn said, “Good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good.”

  “Menu?”

  “Yes.”

  Poppy scurried across the room as far from Rosalyn as she could, hoping to gather a menu as well as her composure.

  She found the clipboards by the cake counter and before returning to her surprise customer, decided a vigorous fan was in order. She wafted the boards around her cheeks trying to extinguish any trace of excitement.

  What was wrong with her? In the space of a few hours her feelings about Rosalyn had gone through anguish, hurt, lust, indignation, lust, something verging on dislike (a feeling very unusual for Poppy), lust, confusion and desire, which Poppy (for honesty’s sake) thought she should classify as lust. It felt like her body wasn’t her own.

  “Irresistible,” Rosalyn whispered.

  Poppy’s heart leaped into her mouth.

  “These cakes look exquisite.”

  Rosalyn had followed, her eyes large, Poppy presumed for the edible delicacies on display.

  “This antique cake counter as well.” Rosalyn beamed. “Where did you get it? It’s beautiful.”

  “Tea shop. Old. Llanidloes. “

  Rosalyn stroked along the lacquered panels, so smoothly finished you could see the room reflected in them. Her fingers touched the marquetry flowers of box wood and ebony. But she lingered most where a piece had fallen away – a circular hole in the centre of a bloom. Round and round she felt, teasing the petals with her forefinger and dipping inside the hole. The pleasure she took, flicking delicately between the curves of the flower and its centre, it was almost rude.

  Poppy gulped. “It’s not perfect.”

  “Adds to its appeal. Who’d want to touch perfection?”

  Poppy knew what she’d like to touch. “Cake?” Poppy fanned a little faster. “Could I interest you in a cake?”

  Rosalyn swept her fingertip to her bottom lip. She stroked, from side to side, and sighed. The tip of her tongue licked along her top lip, slow and seductive. Her mouth was open and her red lips shone. Beautiful wet lips.

  “Now, let me see,” Rosalyn murmured. “What would I like to eat?”

  The first Poppy knew of the descending menu, was the loud clatter as it hit the floor.

  “Sorry. So clumsy. Sorry.”

  Poppy dropped to the floor and scrabbled for the boards. At least down here she could hide the scarlet of her face.

  When she stood, she stared resolutely at the menus.

  “Ahem,” Poppy said. “We have Mediterranean soup from the lunch menu, fresh herb and parmesan pasta, or seared chicken...”

  “I would love to try all of those,” Rosalyn said, “But I don’t think I can keep my hands off these buns.”

  “Oh.” Poppy felt her buttocks tense. “Cake? You just want cake?” She tried to stretch her face into an oblig
ing smile, but had an inkling she looked as startled and roused as she felt.

  “Would you tell me about them?”

  Poppy rounded the counter and stood inches away from Rosalyn’s exquisite face and lips. She was just a tip of the head from those perfect breasts which beckoned with a gentle rise and fall in Rosalyn’s open shirt.

  Poppy’s gaze lingered on the soft mounds and presently managed to say, “What kind of cake do you like breast?” And she opened her hand to draw Rosalyn’s attention to the selection.

  Wait a minute. Poppy desperately tried to claw back her last sentence. She’d said “best” hadn’t she? Please say it wasn’t “breast”.

  She’d said breast. It was definitely breast. Her cheeks rushed with embarrassment and, at that moment, her face could have heated a small house.

  “I’m so sorry,” and she looked alarmed at Rosalyn.

  But Rosalyn didn’t seem to have noticed. Something about Poppy’s dress had caught her attention. Something on the bodice. Poppy looked down at her own breasts heaving with embarrassment, her blush extending down her neck and cleavage so that she glowed rose from the top of her head to the tip of her nipples.

  “I’m so sorry,” Poppy stuttered. “I think I made a bit of a boob.”

  Oh no. Poppy could have cried.

  Rosalyn snapped her gaze to Poppy’s. “Boob?” Now Rosalyn appeared astonished.

  “I’m sorry. I just. I didn’t mean. I mispronounced….”

  Rosalyn fixed her with a stare. Had Poppy got away with it? Rosalyn seemed distracted by something else entirely.

  Relieved, Poppy put on a gracious smile. “Sorry. Don’t worry about tit.” And she stared at the cake counter.

  Oh god.

  Chapter 16.

  Poppy wasn’t sure, but they could have been standing there for minutes. Fortunately, Rosalyn seemed transfixed by the pastries.

  They both twitched when a loud telephone ring broke their reverie.

  “That’s me,” Rosalyn said, and she snatched her phone from her pocket.

  A photo of a handsome man shone from her mobile. His swept-back hair was impeccable and his stubble a well-groomed shadow. He held his chin in an assured pose and to say his look was flirtatious was a naïve understatement.

  Poppy was expecting her to take the call, but Rosalyn swiped it away. “Work,” she said.

  Poppy nodded, thinking the photo hinted at more intimacy than just work.

  “So,” Rosalyn smiled.

  Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by another loud ring. “I’m very sorry,” Rosalyn said. She stared at the picture of a woman with a short dark bob and serious features.

  “My boss and assistant have phoned now. I’d better call in. Sorry.” She smiled at Poppy, then set her expression for business and wandered towards the window.

  Poppy muttered to herself under her breath. She really needed to regain some self-control. A bit of table clearing ought to do the trick – nothing like a half-gnawed piece of toast and a glass of orange juice and milk curdled together to cool ardour. She set about tidying the tables on the second floor and when she had exhausted that, time wasting a little by listening to Rosalyn from the top of the stairs, she cleared the first.

  Poppy couldn’t help observing Rosalyn. The change in her demeanour from the woman entranced by the shop and her memories was fascinating.

  Rosalyn sat, leg crossed over, pen in one hand, mobile in the other, dashing out figures as she talked in that velvety but commanding voice so much like her father’s. “Trustees”, “public benefit objective” and “tax relief” all filtered through to Poppy as if Rosalyn was speaking in another language. It was also strange seeing the transformation of the woman who still resembled the child Rosie into the grown-up executive.

  Rosalyn cut an impressive figure and, if Poppy were honest, she’d always been proud of being Rosalyn’s friend. She was very bright, confident and unforgiving of fools. Being a hopelessly agreeable type, they were traits Poppy had admired until she came on the wrong side of them.

  Would she ever understand her? Poppy used to know the girl as well as herself but Rosalyn had changed overnight into a stranger. And now here she was, a beautiful woman, agreeable and intriguing one moment, remote and condescending the next and profoundly arousing in between.

  Poppy wondered who Rosalyn had called. Had it been the suave handsome boss, with that flirty smirk, or the assistant? Whoever it was, the call remained business-like until the end when Rosalyn started to recount her father’s progress and Poppy thought it delicate to move beyond earshot.

  Rosalyn’s call finished, Poppy approached with two mugs of coffee in one hand and a taster plate of cakes in the other. She hung back as Rosalyn finished making notes and admired her face, which was deep in concentration, blonde hair curled behind an ear and eyebrows crinkled as if finishing an exam.

  Rosalyn looked up and her face softened into a smile. “Sorry. That took longer than I thought.”

  “I took the liberty of choosing for you.” Poppy arranged her offering on the table and sat down. “I don’t know how you take your coffee now, but this is strong and white.”

  Rosalyn curled her fingers round the mug and inhaled the vapours. “That’s perfect. It hasn’t changed.” And the smile she gave Poppy could have melted her into submission.

  Poppy frowned, wanting to keep her head and, for once with Rosalyn Thorn, not be ruled by her heart, or any other more southerly part of her anatomy.

  “Are things all right at work?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you do?”

  “I’m a campaign manager at the Clean Water charity. Unfortunately, it’s a busy time at the moment. We have a big campaign running jointly with UNICEF and I could do with being back at the office.” She shrugged. “Luckily people have been very accommodating and I had a meeting in Telford instead of London today. Which is why…” she lifted her arms and looked to the smart clothes that Poppy had admired.

  “Gosh,” Poppy sat up straighter. “That sounds very impressive.”

  “Oh, I’ve been lucky. I worked for the charity straight out of university and opportunities for promotion came at the right times.”

  “I imagine you’re very good at your job though.”

  “Thank you. I like to think so. But,” she sighed, “it’s difficult at the moment. My boss has been great, allowing me to work away these weeks, but it can’t go on forever.”

  “How’s your dad been?” Poppy asked quietly.

  Concern rippled across Rosalyn’s features and she looked away. “Very bad.” And she paused to maintain her composure. “It was a severe stroke.” Her voice cracked and she shut her lips tight as if to contain the emotions. The Rosalyn that Poppy remembered wasn’t the kind to let her grief show and Poppy allowed her to recover. She was gentle when she spoke.

  “And now? How is his recovery?”

  Rosalyn blinked away the tears that threatened. “Actually, better this last day or two.” And a glimmer of a smile brightened her face. “I was worried when he came home. He could only just speak and was in a perpetual foul mood. He was very belligerent with my mother and quite – I don’t know how to describe it – almost clingy with me. And I haven’t handled it very well.”

  “It’s a difficult thing for anyone to cope with.” Poppy wanted to reach for Rosalyn’s hand, but didn’t know how she’d be received.

  Rosalyn looked uncomfortable and for once struggled to find the right words. “I’m not used to being home. Or spending this much time with them. I’ve kept them at arm’s length for so long, I’ve forgotten how to be close to them.”

  “Really? But you…” But you were so close to David, is what Poppy wanted to say. “You’re here now,” she said instead. “You’ve come home and you’re trying.”

  Rosalyn laughed sharply. “Thank you. But I’m not like you, Poppy. I’m not a good daughter.”

  Poppy hadn’t considered Rosalyn’s relationship with her parents these la
st few years. She’d assumed they’d been cordial. Although Poppy found Rosalyn’s mother frosty, she had great respect for David and always thought his relationship with his daughter a warm one.

  “How’s your mother been?” she asked.

  Rosalyn smiled. “Only you could be so generous as to ask after someone so icy. But,” Rosalyn nodded, “she’s fine. She’s found it an ordeal, and it’s been terrifying seeing Dad in this condition. But things are looking up I believe.”

  She leaned on the table, closer to Poppy. “Dad seemed to gain some peace yesterday. I dropped Mum at Welshpool station, and by the time I came back Dad was asleep on the sofa in the west sitting room. He was basking in sunshine and when he woke he was much more upbeat.”

  Poppy blushed, realising the timing coincided with their walk together. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad. I hope it continues.”

  “Me too,” Rosalyn said, and she caught Poppy’s eye with a poignant expression full of pain and desperate hope. For a moment, it seemed Rosalyn would say more, but she gathered herself and sat straight. “Anyway. Enough about me and my family. Let’s have a look at these cakes.” And she smiled away her grief.

  “You can tell me anything,” Poppy said gently. “If you need someone to talk to, or talk at, and get things off your chest, please come and see me. Any time. You’re very welcome.”

  Rosalyn nodded. “This. This looks… What is it?” She pointed to the selection of cakes and Poppy let the subject drop.

  “Well.” Poppy pointed to a small triangle of pastry. “This is rose water and cardamom baklava. We’re quite proud of it. Derek and I make our own filo pastry because it tastes fresher.”

  She grinned as she noticed Rosalyn’s eyebrows rise. “And this is our almond and orange-oil brownie.” She pointed to the small square. “It’s a nugget of chocolate heaven. And this is more traditional perhaps.” She pointed to the golden cake, with pale lilac icing and a scatter of tiny purple petals on top. “This is honey and lavender cake.”

  “Wow,” Rosalyn said. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.” She pinched the baklava delicately between her finger and thumb and took a tentative bite. “Mmm.” Her face lit up with delight. “That’s even better than I anticipated.”