Thursday evening hadn’t got off to the greatest of starts as far as Claudia was concerned. Her period was due, which always made her puff up like an blowfish. This meant the dazzling new black dress she’d bought three days earlier—before PMS had struck—was showing the strain.
She began to feel better once she’d organized the narrow crisscross strapping across the back and trained herself not to breathe. Maybe she looked pretty good after all. The dress, from one of the new young designers at Hyper Hyper, had cost a bomb. Claudia gave herself an extra morale-boosting squirt of Arpège, checked her hair and make-up for the fifth time, and sashayed downstairs to the sitting room where Caspar, Poppy, and Kate were having a celebratory first drink.
‘Oh,’ said Claudia, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.
‘Oops,’ said Poppy, looking up.
‘Snap,’ said Caspar with a grin.
Claudia didn’t know whether to stamp her foot or burst into tears. There was only one thing more galling than someone else wearing a dress almost exactly the same as yours, and that was discovering how much better they looked in it than you did. Damn, damn…
‘When did you buy that?’ Claudia blurted out, her tone accusing. More to the point, how could Poppy-the-pauper possibly have been able to afford it?
‘Oh dear.’ Kate was looking worried. ‘I’m sorry, I lent it to her.’
Kate was even harder up than Poppy. Unable to help herself, Claudia declared, ‘My dress cost three hundred and seventy-five pounds from Cher Balakiel at Hyper Hyper.’
‘Blimey,’ said Poppy. She looked at Kate in amazement.
‘Mine was twenty-four ninety-nine,’ Kate confessed nervously. ‘From George at Asda.’
Claudia was unable to join in the cheerful banter in the taxi taking them from Kensington to Cork Street. She wished she hadn’t been so stubborn now. All she would have had to do was run back upstairs and change into something else. It would have taken two minutes and then she could have put the incident out of her mind.
Instead, here she was, looking like half a book-end—the big half—at the beginning of an evening that was bound to end in tears.
‘Come on, cheer up,’ said Caspar as he helped her out of the cab. ‘It doesn’t matter, really it doesn’t.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Imagine what it’s like for men. Is their day ruined if someone else turns up at the office in a grey suit?’
It was Caspar’s big night. Claudia didn’t want to be a party pooper. She watched Poppy and Kate walk into the lit-up gallery ahead of them.
‘I’m sorry, I just…’ She pointed helplessly at Poppy, with her red-gold hair swept up in a dashing topknot. Who needed a tan when you had skin like double cream? Poppy’s coloring was the perfect foil for the intricately crisscrossed back and shoulder straps. Her figure was perfect. She was even wearing sheer stockings and black high heels.
‘Don’t be daft, you both look great,’ said Caspar.
Claudia had spent years feeling inferior to her mother. Now it was happening all over again. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble.
‘Poppy looks better.’
‘Only because we’ve never seen her tarted up before.’ Caspar had been pretty startled himself by the transformation. ‘Whereas you always look smart. Let’s face it, the way Poppy normally goes around she’s hardly likely to be mistaken for Ivana Trump. I really thought she’d turn up tonight in jeans and Doc Martens.’
Claudia pulled herself together. She forced a watery smile.
‘I wish she had.’
By nine o’clock the gallery was heaving. Among the guests were buyers, dealers, journalists, and a sprinkling of rent-a-celebs, the kind who would jet in from Surbiton for the opening of a jam jar.
Claudia was putting a brave face on things, but the fact that she didn’t actually know anyone else there meant she was forced to stick with Poppy and Kate. Extra annoying was the way flashbulbs kept going off, but every time she turned to see if she was included in the picture, the photographer seemed to have been aiming at Poppy instead.
Caspar had been commandeered by the owner of the gallery who was busily introducing him to all the most influential journalists and buyers. Kate, happy to watch from a distance as her future husband was fêted by a Greek billionaire, was dreamily imagining the blissful life she and Caspar would lead when they were married.
Poppy was determined to enjoy herself. Taking an evening off from Kenda’s Kitchen made it doubly important that she should—if you were losing a night’s wages you had to have a good time. She just wished Claudia would lighten up, start smiling a bit. And where was Jake anyway? He’d promised to be here by nine.
Claudia saw Jake first, threading his way quietly towards them through the squashed-together crowds.
‘Good grief, trainspotter alert,’ she crowed. ‘How on earth did he get in?’
Then she cringed, realizing who this must be, as the trainspotter touched Poppy’s bare arm.
It was at moments like these that Poppy felt most protective towards Jake. This must be what it was like for mothers when their child was pushed off the swing by a bully. Dying to punch Claudia on the nose she said brightly, ‘Hooray, you’re here at last. Jake, you’ve met Kate already. This is Claudia, who’s in a stinking mood, so don’t bother speaking to her.’ She beamed up at him. ‘And I’m Poppy, remember me?’
‘Just about.’ Jake smiled slightly. ‘You’ve got makeup on. And you’ve grown a few inches since five o’clock.’
‘Caspar said I had to look smart. These heels are murder. You don’t know how lucky you are…’
Poppy’s voice trailed off. She was somewhat hazy on the subject of gay men. Were they more likely to dress up in women’s clothes than straight men? Was Jake a bit of a closet Lily Savage? Poppy’s mind boggled at the thought. You never knew, maybe he had a suitcase hidden under his bed crammed with suspender belts and stilettos. It would certainly explain his absolute lack of interest in boring old men’s clothes.
‘Yes, I’m glad I’m not wearing high heels,’ Jake said dryly.
Kate was peering at her. ‘Poppy, are you all right?’
Poppy was envisaging Jake in a figure-skimming Shirley Bassey number. She pulled herself together. So what if he was a transvestite in his spare time? He could wear whatever he jolly well liked.
Jake had in fact done that anyway, turning up in threadbare beige cords, his favorite green sweater with the holes in the elbows, and an equally ancient dark blue shirt.
Claudia, clocking each sorry item in turn, marveled at Jake’s nerve. He certainly stood out among the expensive designer suits and arty-farty, natty-cravatty outfits favored by the other men in the gallery.
Nobody else was wearing a windbreaker.