Perfect Timing

by Jill Mansell

  As for her and Alex having an argument… so what? It was what married couples did, and for the most mundane reasons. Alex had probably left his socks on the bathroom floor… squeezed the toothpaste in the middle… spent too long with his mates in the pub.

  ‘Let’s hear what you’ve been up to then.’ Rita finished the second cigarette in a series of fast, jerky drags. ‘Managed to get yourself another job?’

  Poppy told her about St Clare’s, which had now broken up for Christmas. Then she went on to tell her about the end-of-term party in a pub around the corner from the college, where during the course of the evening, each student in turn had come up to her and said, side-splittingly, ‘Gosh, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’

  ‘They’re a nice enough crowd,’ Poppy sighed, ‘but their idea of humor is to say, “What’s this, cellulite?” And you should see some of the finished drawings. One old dear had me looking like Joyce Grenfell on speed. She’s seventy-three and thinks she’s Picasso, except she wears a black wig. Rita, are you okay?’

  ‘Hmm? Sorry, I missed the last bit. Something about cellulite.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Poppy.

  She watched in horror as Rita’s heavily mascaraed eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘Damn, this is doing my image no good at all.’ Rita’s voice cracked. She fumbled uselessly in her bag for tissues.

  People were beginning to notice and Rita’s make-up was woefully un-waterproof. Poppy led her through the crowded cellar to the exit.

  ‘I hate these sodding steps,’ mumbled Rita. ‘Oh God, we’re going to freeze to death. What do I look like? I swore I wouldn’t let this happen…’

  Poppy had brought her outside because she knew the ladies’ loo would be packed. Now they’d reached the top of the steps, she wondered what to do next.

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Parked round the back.’ Rita sniffed. ‘I haven’t got the keys. They’re with Alex.’

  A black cab turned the corner. Poppy flagged it down.

  ‘Where to, love?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Poppy looked at Rita. ‘Home?’

  ‘Not without Alex. Oh, I get it.’ Rita shook her head. ‘You think we’ve fallen out. It’s not that.’ Wearily she added, ‘I only wish it was.’

  The streets were icy. Poppy’s feet were numb. She started to shiver. The cab driver was beginning to look fed up.

  ‘We don’t want to go anywhere,’ she told him, pulling open the door and jumping inside. ‘Just keep the engine ticking over. And the heater on.’

  Rita sobbed noisily. The cab driver provided a box of Kleenex. Poppy had to wait several minutes before she heard what had happened.

  ‘…you know what men are like, all this macho “I’m okay” stuff, when really all they are is scared out of their wits.’ Rita sighed and blinked back more tears. ‘Well anyway, Alex wasn’t feeling so clever so in the end I made the appointment for him. We went together and the woman checked him out. Dead nice, she was. Kept saying she was sure it wasn’t anything to worry about, but to be on the safe side, he’d better go and have a few tests. So we went along for those this morning. We’ve got to see the specialist tomorrow for the results. Oh Poppy, I know what they’re going to tell us.’

  Rita’s voice began to break again. The floor of the cab was covered with bits of damp shredded tissue. With practically no make-up left she looked quite different. Poppy held her hand.

  Reassurance wasn’t what Rita wanted. Cheer-up-it-might-never-happen speeches would do no good because as far as Rita was concerned, it already had.

  ‘He’s being so brave,’ she told Poppy. ‘Just carrying on as if nothing’s changed. I’m the one embarrassing myself, bawling like a baby. It’s just, I feel so helpless… and so bloody angry… Christ, I’m the one who drinks too much and smokes too much. If something like this has to happen, why can’t it flaming well happen to me?’

  All Poppy could do was sit there and listen while Rita ranted on. By the time the meter had clocked up eight pounds fifty, the tears had pretty much dried up. By ten pounds fifty Rita had renewed most of her make-up. Poppy paid the cab driver while Rita did her lipstick, and realized that she would have to go home now. All she had left was enough money for the bus.

  ‘You’re a good girl.’ Rita gave her an awkward hug. ‘And thanks for putting up with me. What a way to spend an evening, eh? You must’ve been bored stupid, having to listen to me droning on and on. God, I’m a selfish cow.’

  ‘You aren’t.’ Poppy hugged her back. ‘Look, I have to go now. Give my love to Alex.’

  At home in bed, Poppy couldn’t sleep. She lay staring up at the ceiling thinking about Alex and going over in her mind everything Rita had said.

  I’ve only just found him, Poppy thought with trepidation. This can’t happen. I can’t lose him again. Not yet.

  Chapter 21

  Poppy caught the coach to Bristol on Christmas Eve. She hadn’t told Dina she was coming down; she wasn’t staying long. This was purely a duty visit.

  When she arrived, she felt even more of a stranger than she had imagined. Beryl Bridges was there, in a pale blue hand-knitted twinset, putting the finishing touches to plates of sandwiches and homemade cakes. There were doilies on the plates. The tea service was one Poppy hadn’t seen before. When Beryl reached for the teapot and said coyly, ‘Shall I be mother?’ Poppy felt a twinge of alarm. Beryl was nudging sixty; surely she hadn’t gone and got herself knocked up?

  ‘We’re getting married,’ Mervyn Dunbar announced when the tea had been poured. He no longer took sugar, Poppy noticed. Beryl was probably behind that too.

  ‘Oh… well, that’s good news.’ Poppy smiled at them both. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Next week,’ said Mervyn. ‘Down at the Register Office. Nothing fancy. No big party or anything.’

  Of course not, Poppy thought. Wouldn’t want to break the habit of a lifetime.

  ‘Just a couple of my friends as witnesses,’ Beryl put in hurriedly. ‘And a spot of lunch afterwards.’

  ‘So don’t worry about having to trek down here from London all over again.’ Mervyn blinked. Poppy turning up like this out of the blue had unsettled him. He had his own life now and Beryl to share it with him. Knowing that Beryl would never sneak off behind his back with another man gave him indescribable peace of mind, whereas seeing Poppy again only served to remind him of all the misery and humiliation his first wife had put him through. ‘There’s no need,’ he went on brusquely. ‘We understand. It’s a long way.’

  It certainly was, Poppy mused. Even longer when you weren’t wanted at the wedding.

  ‘Still, you’ve got your own life to lead, haven’t you?’ Beryl said brightly. ‘Up in the big city! Must be lots going on there, eh love?’

  ‘Oh, lots.’ Poppy nodded in agreement. She had no intention of telling them she had met her real father. She finished her tea and reached down to the raffia bag at her feet, pulling out Mervyn’s wrapped Christmas present. Luckily, gardening books were his passion so he was easy to buy for.

  Lucky too, thought Poppy, that I’m pretty passionate about washing. She thanked Mervyn for her own present, which she knew was Yardley soap. It was wrapped in last year’s paper, which had been kept and recycled.

  ‘Actually,’ said Poppy, ‘I was going to ask a favor.’

  Mervyn looked wary. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘You know that blue spirit bottle, the one on the shelf out in the hall. Was it my mother’s?’

  Bits of old glass were of no interest to Mervyn Dunbar. He nodded.

  ‘She came home with it one day, before you were born. Bought it in Clifton. Waste of money, I told her.’ His eyes flickered. ‘Why? Valuable, is it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Poppy fibbed, because Bristol Blue glass of that age could fetch hundreds of pounds at auction. ‘It’s the same color as the curtains in my bedroom, that’s all. I wondered if I could have it.’

  ***

  Claudia
always enjoyed the idea of going along to her mother’s cocktail parties. Angie invited so many men you never knew who you might meet. It was only when she was there she started wishing she hadn’t come.

  The trouble was, having spent ages looking forward to it, the event itself was bound to be a letdown. As in childbirth, Claudia conveniently forgot the bad bits—like the fact that her mother spent the whole time shamelessly hogging the limelight and always bagged the best men for herself.

  ‘You look gorgeous, like an ice cream,’ one of them told Claudia now. He was spectacularly drunk but so good-looking he could get away with it. ‘Can I lick your shoulder? Do you taste as good as you look?’

  Claudia began to perk up. How lucky she’d chosen to wear the ivory satin dress and not the blue wool one, and how right she’d been to keep up those sessions on the sunbed. She preened a bit, then squirmed with pleasure as the man began to drop nibbling little kisses along her collarbone.

  With a whoosh of Chanel Number 5, Angie materialized beside them like an unwanted genie out of a lamp.

  Her smile was provocative.

  ‘Why bother with Wall’s economy-sized vanilla,’ she purred, ‘when you could be enjoying Häagen-Dazs?’

  She slipped out of her jacket and offered the man her own bare shoulder. ‘Go on, try me. And be honest, which would you prefer? A dollop of plain old vanilla or a little taste of heavenly Caramel Cone Explosion?’

  ‘Honestly darling, I don’t know why you have to be so touchy.’ Mindful of the perils of dehydration, Angie poured herself another glass of mineral water and yawned. ‘It was just a bit of fun. You’re lucky Carlo only nibbled your shoulder.’

  Claudia had managed to contain herself until the party was over. By the time the last of the guests had drifted off into the frosty night, she’d had a good three hours in which to seethe.

  ‘I’m not talking about my shoulder being nibbled,’ Claudia howled. ‘Having my shoulder nibbled doesn’t shock me… what I can’t bear is the way you always have to barge your way in and start showing off.’

  Angie began to laugh.

  ‘Oh dear, you mean the bit about economy blocks of ice cream? Sweetheart, you are so sensitive about your size! It was a joke, that’s all.’

  ‘You couldn’t bear to think that someone like Carlo might have been more interested in me than in you.’ Claudia glared at her accusingly. ‘You had to shimmy up and start diverting his attention.’

  ‘Fairly easily accomplished,’ Angie retaliated. ‘I mean, he hardly had to be pried off you, did he?’

  ‘Now you’re being spiteful.’

  All the pent-up resentment of the past months was on the brink of spilling out. Having Angie back on the scene must have been more of a strain than she’d realized. Claudia gave her mother a measured look. ‘And you’re embarrassing yourself,’ she said coldly. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that some people might be watching the way you carry on and laughing at you behind your back? Not everyone thinks you’re completely irresistible, you know. You aren’t that perfect.’

  Angie was no longer looking amused. If there was one thing she really couldn’t bear, it was the thought that she was being laughed at. It was only a cheap jibe of course—nobody was laughing—but the fact that Claudia could even make such a snide remark… well, it really pissed her off.

  ‘I didn’t say I was perfect,’ she bristled. ‘Or irresistible. Not that I can recall any complaints—’

  ‘For God’s sake, there you go again.’

  ‘Oh please, can I help it if men find me attractive?’

  ‘Not all men,’ Claudia repeated through gritted teeth. This evening’s episode had really bugged her. This time her mother wasn’t going to get away with it. ‘Not all men. Not Carlo, And,’ she added for good measure, ‘not Caspar either.’

  Right. That was it. Mockingly Angie said, ‘Caspar? Oh, you mean the Caspar you’ve had such spectacular success with? Dear me, so what you’re saying is, if I were to make myself available to Caspar French, he wouldn’t be the teeniest bit interested. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Claudia looked triumphant. Inwardly, she thought: If I have to bribe him with every last penny I own, Caspar is never going to sleep with you.

  Angie uncurled herself and rose from the sofa. She crossed the room to where the Christmas tree stood. It was an impressive ten-footer smothered in Victorian lace and beeswax candles. A mountain of exquisitely wrapped gifts was piled around the base. Angie reached for a large flat rectangular package done up in tartan paper. She handed it to Claudia with a tight little smile.

  ‘Go on, open it.’

  ‘Why? It’s not mine.’ Claudia looked at the label, which bore her father’s name. Hugo was flying over from Los Angeles on Boxing Day.

  ‘Just open it.’

  The crimson ribbons unraveled, the paper fell open and the layers of tissue paper seemed to peel back of their own accord. Claudia sat gazing down at the picture on her lap. Her mother, naked and golden, sleepy-eyed and smiling, gazed back up at her. As if the carved wooden headboard of the rumpled bed on which she lay wasn’t enough, there was the signature in the bottom right-hand corner to dispel any last lingering doubts.

  ‘What a talented boy he is.’ Smiling at the look on Claudia’s face, Angie heaved a pleasurable sigh. ‘And what fun we had! No wonder you’re so keen to get to know him better,’ she added in a taunting whisper. ‘He even exceeded my expectations! Darling, you simply must give Caspar a try. I do recommend him. You’re missing out on a treat.’

  Chapter 22

  With the proceeds of the Angie Slade-Welch portrait Caspar had sent his parents on a Mediterranean cruise. On Christmas night, his mother, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of the ship and two unaccustomed glasses of Amontillado, phoned to tell him there had been a choice of seventeen different vegetables served with lunch. There was also a waterfall—yes, an actual waterfall—inside—yes, actually inside—the boat.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life,’ she gasped happily. ‘Talk about grand! Caspar, you should see it… this whole trip’s like a dream come true. Oh, I do wish you could’ve come with us. You’d have had such fun—’

  ‘I’m just glad you and Dad are enjoying yourselves.’ Much as he loved his parents, the prospect of going away on holiday with them filled Caspar with alarm. ‘And we’re having fun here. We cooked a pretty mean lunch between us.’

  ‘Not with seventeen different kinds of vegetables.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘And I’m not doing the washing-up,’ his mother boasted.

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘Oh Caspar! You haven’t left the girls to do it all.’

  ‘Would I?’ He grinned.

  ‘You are naughty.’

  ‘I am not. We used paper plates.’

  ***

  People had been dropping in and out all day. Friends not caught up in the family-visiting routine had called by, staying for lunch or for a few drinks, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and informal hospitality. At six o’clock, Kate left to spend the evening with her parents. Claudia disappeared into the kitchen to deal with the washing-up.

  ‘What washing-up?’ Caspar protested.

  ‘We didn’t cook with paper saucepans, stupid.’

  ‘Come on, leave all that. We’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  Caspar leaned against the kitchen door. He watched Claudia push up her sleeves in businesslike fashion and run a torrent of hot water into the bowl. He wondered if she’d had some kind of upset with her mother. She hadn’t been in a bad mood today, but there had been a definite edge about her. He sensed something wasn’t right.

  Caspar wondered if it was him.

  ‘Claudie, have I done something wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? You?’ Claudia was whipping up a mountain of bubbles. She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t suppose you have.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
r />   ‘It means you’re the same now as you’ve always been. And I don’t suppose you’ll ever change.’ She plunged her hands into the soapy water and began trawling for cutlery. ‘After all, why should you?’

  Claudia knew she shouldn’t snipe, but she was fed up. It just seemed so unfair, Caspar and his endless capacity for sex, her with no sex life at all…

  Caspar looked closely at her, but Claudia was busy looking closely at the washing-up. He assumed this was some veiled reference to the fact that he never did any.

  It was Christmas. He experienced a pang of guilt.

  ‘Okay, point taken. We’ll go shopping next week. Get a machine to do the dirty work for us.’ He gave her an encouraging nod. ‘How about it, would that cheer you up?’

  Claudia turned and stared. Surely he wasn’t offering to buy her a vibrator! She went bright pink.

  ‘Caspar, are you drunk?’

  ‘No.’ Well, not plastered.

  ‘So what in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

  He looked perplexed. ‘A dishwasher.’

  Despite herself, Claudia began to giggle. This was why she could never stay angry with Caspar for long. Okay, so he had slept with her mother. But Angie was the one she was unable to forgive.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Caspar.

  Claudia had no intention of bringing up the subject of his fling with Angie.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said.

  She was damned if she’d let Caspar think she cared.

  The doorbell rang. They heard the clatter of footsteps as Poppy raced across the hall.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Claudia.

  ‘Could be Jake. She mentioned he might drop by.’