by Jill Mansell
But the voice at the other end continued. The laid-back drawl belonged to B.J. but his message was being relayed via an answering machine. Swallowing disappointment, Dina listened.
‘…afraid neither B.J. nor Adam are able to take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, feel free after the tone…’
Right, thought Dina, her eyes bright and her pulse racing, that’s what I’ll do. Just leave a friendly message reminding him he hasn’t called me back—
‘…unless, that is, you’re the slag from Friday night,’ B.J.’s voice went on, evidently amused. ‘Nina or Dina or whatever your name is. The little tart, anyway, who keeps pestering me to phone her. If that’s you, we’d much prefer you to hang up now. And please don’t bother calling this number again.’
Ben, home early from work, came in through the kitchen door and found Daniel alone, strapped into his stroller. He unbuckled him and lifted him out, throwing his son up into the air to make him giggle and swooping him from side to side like an aeroplane. Then, with his elbow, he nudged open the door separating the kitchen from the hallway and aeroplaned Daniel all the way through to the living room.
He found Dina sitting bolt upright on the sofa with tears streaming down her face. She was clutching the phone.
‘What is it, is someone ill? Is someone dead? Oh my God, not Mum—’
‘Nobody’s dead.’
Dina wiped her wet face on her sleeve. She hadn’t heard Ben arrive home. Damn and blast… that bastard B.J.
‘So why are you crying?’
I don’t know, I can’t think of a good reason, Dina thought wearily. She didn’t know if she could even be bothered to come up with one.
Ben, still holding Daniel, stared down at her. ‘Tell me why.’
‘Bloody double-glazing people.’ She found a tissue up her sleeve, the one she’d used earlier to wipe puréed rusk off Daniel’s face. ‘Five calls in the last hour, from different firms, all trying to sell me bloody windows.’ Dina mopped at her eyes with the baby formula–encrusted tissue. ‘I’m sorry, it just gets me down.’
‘Oh, love.’
Ben put Daniel down on the floor and placed an awkward arm around his wife. ‘You can’t let double-glazing salesmen reduce you to this. Maybe you should see the doctor. You could be depressed.’
I am, I’m bloody depressed, thought Dina, beginning to howl again.
Chapter 39
The house wasn’t as much of a tip as Claudia had been expecting. When she arrived home, bronzed and glowing after six heavenly days in the Canaries, the place was actually clean. It was also empty. Poppy and Caspar must both be out. This was a big shame, because she was bursting to show off her glorious tan, but at least it meant she could lie in the bath, give her sun-bleached hair a hot oil treatment, and unpack in peace.
After her bath, feeling extremely efficient, Claudia emptied her suitcases and sorted her washing into whites and coloreds. She loaded the washing machine, chucked her espadrilles into the sink to soak, and lugged the empty cases upstairs. Since getting them back on top of the wardrobe was always a hazardous occupation—so much harder than getting them down—she left that task to Caspar. It was a job for a man.
Spotting Caspar’s camera on her dressing table reminded Claudia that she had a film to be developed. What Caspar’s Olympus was doing in her room was anyone’s guess but that was Caspar for you; the other week she had found his sunglasses in the fridge. Caspar’s film was used up too, Claudia noticed. He was so hopeless it would be months before he got round to doing anything about it. May as well take both rolls down to the chemist together, she thought a trifle smugly. Goodness, doing favors, I must be in a good mood…
***
She picked up both sets of prints two days later. Just to make sure they were Caspar’s, Claudia flipped through the first few—taken at a friend’s exhibition at some new gallery in Soho—and was soon bored. Modern art wasn’t her scene. Shoveling the photos back into their envelope, she ran upstairs and drawing-pinned it to Caspar’s attic door along with the rest of his mail, ready for when he arrived home. Claudia was far more interested in her own photos, the ones of her basking on the terrace by the hotel pool. She had been browner, blonder, and bosomier than Marilyn, and it hadn’t escaped the hotel waiters’ notice. She’d been whistled at nonstop.
Wait until Jake sees me looking like this, Claudia thought happily as she pored over the various pictures of herself, bikini-clad and positively oozing sex appeal. She was going to knock the unappreciative bugger’s socks off.
Caspar had spent the first half of his holiday doing so much thinking it made his head ache.
Poppy was right; he knew that now. Keeping three girls on the go at one time was ridiculous. Disastrous. He might not be hurting himself, but he was certainly hurting them.
And why? Caspar hadn’t a clue. It wasn’t as if he even enjoyed the subterfuge.
It was all so pointless too. None of them was exactly the romance of the decade. He wasn’t madly in love with any of them.
He thought he was probably in love with Poppy.
He wasn’t sure about this, not completely. It was a pretty bizarre situation, Caspar felt. Could you actually be in love with someone you’d never even kissed?
Anyway, that hardly mattered; it was beside the point. Because Poppy had made it abundantly clear to him that he was just about the least fanciable man on the planet. In her view, any girls interested in him needed their empty heads examined. Or, as Poppy had rather cruelly put it, if their IQs were any lower, they’d need watering.
The situation Caspar found himself in wasn’t an easy one. The time had come, he decided, to put some distance between himself and Poppy.
Over dinner on the fourth night of the holiday he spoke to Babette.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said the other week.’
‘Oh yes?’ Babette knew at once what he meant.
‘Have you ever wondered how it would feel, being married?’
They had parted on the chilliest of terms. Poppy, arriving home from work several days later, saw Caspar’s car parked outside the house and felt a twinge of apprehension. She had never been one for holding a grudge or keeping a feud simmering. It wasn’t in her nature. She hoped it wasn’t in Caspar’s either.
So how do I do this, she thought, loitering nervously at the foot of the steps. Burst into the house, give Caspar a big kiss, and say sorry?
Act as if nothing’s happened?
Or wait and see how Caspar handles it and take it from there?
At that moment Claudia pulled up. As usual, she parked extremely badly and took an age doing it. Much squeaking of tire against pavement ensued.
‘Caspar’s back,’ Claudia exclaimed, having also spotted his car. Climbing out, she flashed a great deal of tanned leg. ‘Come on, let’s see what he’s been up to. I’ll kill him if his tan’s better than mine.’
Poppy felt very much the poor relation. Claudia was brown but Caspar was browner still. And—something she hadn’t been expecting—Babette was with him, all dark-haired and glossy and expensive-looking like something out of Vogue. She was wearing a long silk jersey dress the color of peanut butter and a modest smile. Caspar, in a dark blue tee-shirt and battered jeans, poured Bollinger into four unmatched glasses.
He handed one to Claudia.
‘What are we celebrating,’ she giggled, ‘how glad you are to be back?’
Caspar passed the second glass across to Poppy, who was perched nervously on the arm of the sofa.
‘Not exactly.’ He was speaking to Claudia but his gaze was fixed on Poppy. ‘I was given some advice a little while ago. You’ll be amazed to hear I took it.’
Poppy glanced across at Babette, who was sitting there looking charming. This was the girl who had told her in no uncertain terms how plain she was. Presumably, this meant Caspar had finished with Kate and Jules.
Caspar handed the third glass to Babette.
‘And there we were, thinking
you’d missed us like mad,’ Claudia chirruped. ‘We thought you couldn’t wait to get home.’
‘Actually,’ said Caspar. ‘I’m moving out.’
Claudia did a double-take.
‘What do you mean?’ she said finally. ‘How can you move out? This is your home. You live here.’
‘Like I said, I was given some advice and I took it.’ Caspar couldn’t help turning to look at Poppy again. ‘And no,’ he said coolly, ‘I didn’t go eeny meeny miney mo.’
Poppy felt sick.
‘What are you talking about?’ protested Claudia.
‘I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer.’ Babette smiled and held up her left hand. ‘We got married.’
Poppy drank her drink without noticing. She couldn’t believe Caspar had done something so stupid. She couldn’t believe he was putting the blame for his whim on her.
‘…honestly, Antigua’s just so beautiful, such a romantic place,’ Babette chattered on, addressing Claudia rather than Poppy because Claudia was so obviously agog. ‘The scenery is out of this world. Of course, that’s why so many people are getting married out there nowadays. I mean, be honest, where would you rather exchange your vows? On a glorious beach with the sea lapping at your toes and tropical flowers in your hair or in some musty old register office?’
‘Oh well, goes without saying,’ agreed Claudia, who would happily have exchanged her vows in a snake pit up to her neck in anacondas. Anywhere, so long as she got married.
‘This wasn’t planned in advance, you see. We were simply strolling along the beach one morning, and we happened to pass a wedding ceremony in progress.’ Babette dimpled and glanced across at Caspar, sharing the moment. ‘Well, I’d love to be able to say he dropped down on one knee and proposed, but—’
‘But I didn’t.’
Confidingly, Babette told Claudia, ‘He’s not really the dropping down on one knee type. But he asked me to marry him and I said yes. So we made our way back to the hotel and spoke to the manager. He’s an old hand at this kind of thing… he arranged everything.’ Babette shrugged and spread her hands, the narrow gold ring on her third finger catching the light. ‘Three days later it was our turn! What can I say? It was utterly magical. The most perfect day of my life.’
‘It sounds amazing,’ sighed Claudia. ‘What did you wear?’
‘A Liza Bruce swimsuit and an island sarong.’ Babette reached for her bag and drew out an envelope. ‘I’m sure the only reason Caspar went through with it was because he could wear his cut-off jeans. Here, have a look at the photos. See that confetti? Fresh flower petals. And this is the minister who performed the service.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Poppy, when Caspar had finished refilling her glass. It wasn’t true; she simply couldn’t think of anything else to say. Apart from bugger.
‘All thanks to you.’ He gave her a measured look. ‘It was your idea.’
There was definitely no answer to that. Poppy bit the corner of her mouth. She tried to imagine stamping her foot and yelling, ‘Okay, I know it was my idea but I didn’t mean it.’
Caspar said dryly, ‘And there was me thinking you’d approve.’
Poppy, all of a sudden dangerously close to tears, changed the subject.
‘You still haven’t explained why you’re moving out. Isn’t that a bit stupid? Claudia and I are the ones who should be doing that.’
‘Doesn’t seem fair, turfing you out.’ Caspar shrugged, unconcerned. ‘And Babs doesn’t want to move. Her flat’s her business base. It’s easier for me to move in with her.’
Babette’s flat, Poppy dimly recalled, was in Soho.
‘What about your painting?’
‘We’ll be living together at the flat. I’ll still have to come here to paint. If that’s okay with you,’ he added with a cool smile.
Poppy didn’t smile back. She wanted to hit him. She still couldn’t believe he had actually gone and got married.
‘Poppy, you aren’t looking.’ Claudia passed the first handful of photographs across. Numbly, Poppy took them. Caspar and Babette, on the beach, grinned up at her. Their arms were around each other. The minister who had performed the ceremony beamed for the camera. In the second photograph, two small girls in white dresses and flower garland headdresses stood proudly on either side of them.
‘Our bridesmaids,’ said Babette, leaning across to see which one she was looking at. ‘They’re the hotel manager’s daughters… aren’t they simply angelic?’
Poppy turned to the next picture, taken in the hotel’s beachfront bar. Caspar was kissing Babette on the mouth. Around them, a crowd of fellow holidaymakers clapped and cheered them on.
Jealousy, like bile, rose in Poppy’s throat.
‘Our wedding reception,’ Babette explained smugly. ‘Goodness, that was a party and a half. We drank some booze, I can tell you. Isn’t it amazing, how a happy event brings people together? At breakfast we didn’t know this crowd from Adam, and by nightfall we were practically best friends.’
‘Talking of parties,’ said Caspar, ‘have we missed any good ones? What have you been getting up to while we’ve been away?’
Patronizing bastard. Poppy handed the photographs back to Babette.
‘Nothing. No parties.’ She stood up. ‘Actually, I think I’ll have a bath.’
Claudia and Babette were wittering happily away to each other like new best friends. Caspar left them to it. As he went upstairs, he passed the bathroom. The door was shut. Inside, hot water was running, and Bruce Springsteen was belting out ‘Born to Run.’ For once, Poppy wasn’t singing along to the tape.
He wondered if what he had done was the right thing. Poppy had looked quite shaken when he and Babette had broken their news.
For the first time, Caspar experienced a twinge of doubt.
When he reached the studio, the door was festooned with messages and post. Caspar unpinned a dozen or so envelopes and a folder of photographs, and opened the door. The brown bills he didn’t bother to look at. He skimmed through the more interesting envelopes—invitations to exhibitions and parties—then opened the folder. The first fifteen or so photographs had been taken at the Edison gallery. Not exactly riveting stuff.
Then he came to one of Poppy, though for a couple of seconds he wondered if it was really her.
Feeling odd, Caspar flipped through the rest of the photographs.
Looking as he had never seen her look before, Poppy was hoisted Gladiator-style onto the shoulders of some bloke. Her hair was wild, her eyes heavily made up. Her mouth was plastered with dark red lipstick. She looked like something out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and she was laughing uproariously, clearly having the time of her life.
In my house, thought Caspar, realizing that the picture had been taken in the sitting room.
The rest of the photographs revealed more. Poppy and Dina, dancing with two men he didn’t know. A couple of blonde girls kissing a dark-haired chap with a tea towel on his head and a bottle of vodka in each hand. Poppy again, in a wheelbarrow race around the sofa, flashing her knickers into the bargain. Dina, caught unawares, snogging in the kitchen with some muscle-bound hulk. And another one of Poppy lying on the floor shrieking with laughter as a blond guy in a torn tee-shirt tickled the soles of her bare feet.
The last photograph, taken in Claudia’s bedroom, was of Dina fast asleep in Claudia’s bed, flanked on one side by Mr Muscle and on the other by the blond guy. At the foot of the bed lay a tangled heap of clothes and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
So this was Poppy’s idea of a quiet time. Caspar flipped through the relevant photographs again. By a process of elimination, he worked out who must have shared Poppy’s bed; either him or him. Or maybe they both had. Her bed was only a single, but would that have stopped them? Bitterly, he thought, they could have taken it in turns.
Caspar realized he couldn’t look at the photographs anymore. He shoveled them back into the envelope, wondering if Poppy had used his camera on purpose
to make her point. He also wondered if Claudia knew what Dina had been getting up to in her bed.
So much for wondering if he had done the right thing.
There was no going back now, Caspar thought grimly. He would move out tonight.
Chapter 40
Jake didn’t care that the adverts he had placed in all the papers had cost him a fortune, but it annoyed him intensely that he wasn’t getting a result.
Not the kind of result he wanted anyway. Just more weirdos and practical jokers and hopeful lonely hearts offering themselves in Tom’s place.
On his way into work the next morning, he stopped off at his local newsstand for Lifesavers and a ballpoint pen and the latest edition of Antiques Monthly. He waited to be served behind an old lady with a shopping basket on wheels, who was counting out change for a Daily Mirror.
‘And you can take my card out of the window,’ she told the newsagent, whom she evidently knew. ‘Deirdre’s back, safe and sound. Some kind soul rang me last night to say he thought he’d spotted her in Lavender Gardens. I rushed straight over, and there she was! Heaven knows what possessed her, but never mind, she’s home with Mummy again now. Aren’t you, my precious?’
The old woman lifted the lid of her shopping basket and devotedly stroked the pink nose of an ugly tortoiseshell cat.
‘That’s good news, Maud,’ said the newsagent. ‘Mission accomplished, eh?’
Jake looked at the cat. He had noticed the card in the window himself. Privately, he had assumed Deirdre must have been run over by a bus.
But luck had been on Deirdre’s side. The forlorn little message in the newsstand’s window had done the trick.
Jake paid for his magazine and Biro and forgot all about the Polos. He had seen Maud’s card; so had the person who had spotted Deirdre in Lavender Gardens; so must practically everyone who came into the little corner shop.
That was it, he thought with rising excitement. People bought newspapers but they didn’t necessarily read the personal columns.
Just about everyone, on the other hand, had a newsstand they visited on a regular basis.
