Claudia woke up next morning with a cracking headache. When she rolled over and realized her alarm clock hadn’t gone off, and that it was now nine thirty, she groaned aloud.
‘It’s okay,’ said Poppy, nudging open the bedroom door with her elbow and plonking a tray on the end of Claudia’s bed. ‘I turned off the alarm. And I’ve phoned your office. I said there’d been a car crash outside the house and you’d rescued a little old lady from the wreckage. You had to wrap her severed finger in frozen peas and take it along to the hospital but you’d be back at work this afternoon.’
Claudia nodded, winced, and clutched the side of her head. Getting into a sitting position was worse than climbing Everest. One thing about Poppy, she certainly came up with some inventive reasons for being late for work.
‘Here, drink this.’ Poppy passed her a cup of tea. She dropped three asprins into Claudia’s trembling outstretched hand. ‘And I’ve made you some toast if you think you can keep it down.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘And I’m sorry if I was horrible last night.’
‘I’m sorry too.’ Claudia looked shamefaced. It had all come hurtling back to her. ‘I didn’t behave very well either. I can’t believe I threatened not to tell you about the Alex Fitzpatrick thing.’ She gulped down the last few mouthfuls of too-hot tea. It singed her tonsils but quenched her raging thirst. ‘I would have told you, of course I would.’
‘I know.’
Poppy had barely slept. She still hadn’t been able to get over the hand fate had played in Claudia’s revelation. To think, if Ellis Featherstone hadn’t phoned up last week she would never have come to the inescapable conclusion that Jake was gay. She wouldn’t have told Claudia, Jake wouldn’t have overheard, and the ensuing furious row would never have taken place. And if it hadn’t, Claudia wouldn’t have stomped off to the far end of the gallery and happened to overhear a couple of jazz-buff art dealers chatting amicably about the blues style of the resident pianist at a tucked-away little place called the Cavendish Club.
It was mind-boggling. As far as Poppy was able to work out, she owed it all to Neighborhood Watch. Either that or to the entire criminal fraternity, because if it weren’t for them, the Neighborhood Watch scheme would never have been invented.
‘So d’you think he’s the one?’ ventured Claudia. ‘Could he really be your dad?’
Poppy was sitting on the bed hugging her knees to her chest. No longer tarted up, as Caspar so romantically called it, she looked about sixteen with her red-gold hair flopping into her eyes and the remains of last night’s hard-to-get-off mascara clinging to her lashes. She was wearing a yellow sweatshirt and polka-dot leggings, and her feet were bare.
‘I think he really could be.’ She nodded, resting her chin on one knee. ‘But there’s only one way to find out. I’m going along to the Cavendish Club tonight.’
Hopefully, Claudia thought, she would be over her hangover by then. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Would you?’ The look Poppy gave her was one of amazement mixed with relief. ‘I’d love you to. That’d be such a help.’
Heavens, thought Claudia, startled that she had even suggested it. Looks like we might be going to get along after all.
She glanced at her watch. It was now quarter to ten.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work too?’
‘I phoned Jake.’ Poppy helped herself to the toast Claudia was too hungover to eat. ‘Said I’d be late.’
‘Did you use the severed finger?’
‘No. He never believes my excuses.’ Poppy looked gloomy. ‘It’s a waste of time thinking them up.’
‘But he’s speaking to you, that’s something.’ Claudia felt her heart do a small practice flutter. ‘Did he… um, mention me at all?’
‘Actually he did,’ said Poppy with a grin. Good old Jake, at least he hadn’t borne a grudge. ‘He said he had a hot date for tomorrow night and please could he borrow your little black dress.’
The Cavendish Club, in Covent Garden, was reached by teetering down a flight of steep, ankle-turning steps. Converted from an old wine cellar with arched brick ceilings and uneven flagstone floors, it had a smell all its own—a sweet, pervasive mixture of damp, drink, and nicotine. The regulars were the genuine jazz buffs, but the Cavendish was well-known enough to attract a wide mix of visitors ranging from students to tourists.
Luckily there were no dress rules.
‘We look like The Odd Couple,’ Claudia complained as they made their way there. She was wearing a charcoal grey polo-neck cashmere pullover, expensive black trousers, and a discreet amount of gold—very chic if she did say so herself. Poppy had turned out in a miles-too-big white tee-shirt that kept slipping off her shoulders and ancient jeans.
‘You didn’t like it when we wore the same thing.’
‘I know. I just thought you might want to look smart… to meet your father…’ Claudia began to wish she hadn’t raised the issue. ‘…that is, if it is him.’
Poppy wasn’t going to admit she’d tried on practically every outfit in her meager wardrobe before coming out. She glanced across at Claudia as they approached the Cavendish, already belting out music at only eight o’clock.
‘What’s he going to say, “Oh no, sorry, you aren’t wearing top-to-toe Armani, I can’t possibly acknowledge you as my daughter”? Please,’ said Poppy defiantly. ‘If he is my father, whatever he’s wearing isn’t going to make an ounce of difference to me. I daresay he’ll forgive me if my tee-shirt isn’t haute couture.’
The stage upon which the band played was situated at the far end of the largest of three interconnecting cellars. Their instruments were there, and a lanky youth was setting up mikes, but the music they had heard outside came from a tape deck at the back of the stage. The members of the band were, by the look of it, over at the bar getting a few quick drinks down them in order to sustain them through their set.
‘Is that them?’ whispered Claudia as they approached the bar.
Poppy was staring at the backs of their heads. Since the posters outside the club advertised Alex Fitzpatrick and the Cavendish Four, and there were five men talking music at the other end of the bar, it seemed more than likely.
‘Well,’ Claudia hissed excitedly, ‘is one of them your dad? Can you tell just by looking? Is it the bald one, d’you think?’
Poppy’s heart was flapping like a mad parrot in a cage. Which one of these middle-aged men was Alex Fitzpatrick?
This is crazy, she thought, sinking onto a high stool for support. How can I tell if one of these total strangers is my father? How can I possibly know?
Seconds later, she knew.
It happened so fast Poppy was glad she was sitting down. One of the men, the one on the far right with the dark red waistcoat and the hair just below collar-length, turned to speak to the barman. As she caught that first glimpse of his face Poppy felt as if all the air was being vacuumed from her lungs. The thud of recognition was so powerful it could have knocked her off her feet.
This is him, she thought dazedly. It is him. I know it, I don’t know how I know it, I just do…
‘That one?’ squeaked Claudia, intercepting the look on her face. She did a quick double-take, her own eyes registering doubt. ‘You think so? He doesn’t look a bit like you. I can’t see any resemblance.’
The man they were both studying so intently wasn’t particularly tall. He was solidly built with a well-developed paunch. His wavy hair, dark flecked with grey, was swept up at the sides and long at the back—this was clearly no bank manager they were looking at. His eyes were dark brown, his face generously lined. The nose was big, the chin a double. When he laughed, a gold tooth glinted, matching the glittering chains around his neck and wrists, and the matchbox-sized rings on several fingers.
Poppy smiled to herself. Oh dear, Claudia must be horrified. She had been and gone and got herself a father with No Taste.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Claudia murmured at her side.
Poppy nodded.
‘But I don’t… you aren’t anything like him.’ Claudia was floundering. ‘Maybe it’s one of the others…’
He was wearing a white shirt with diamanté buttons and a red velvet waistcoat. His dark green trousers were on the tight side. One of the other members of the band was telling a joke. When he reached the punch line Poppy saw her father throw back his head and roar with laughter. He had a loud, uninhibited gravelly laugh that made her tingle all over. She loved it. She had always adored men who laughed like that.
‘It could be the one on the left,’ Claudia suggested hopefully. ‘His hair’s kind of reddish. What about him, Poppy? He looks quite nice, don’t you think?’
A woman had emerged from the cloakroom. Poppy and Claudia watched her clatter across the flagstones in her high heels and join the group at the bar. She kissed each of them in turn, saving the one in the red waistcoat for last. He got a noisy, enthusiastic, lipstick-loaded kiss on the mouth.
‘Come on then, help me up!’ The woman grinned broadly, holding out her arms so he could lift her onto the high stool at his side. When she was in position she leaned forward and kissed him again. ‘Thanks love, and I’ll have a gin and orange.’ She turned and beamed at the rest of the band. ‘Come on lads, time for one more before you go on. These are on Alex.’
Unable to handle anything stronger, Claudia ordered a bottle of Beck’s for Poppy and a Perrier for herself. The band were up on the stage now, playing some clumpy-sounding jazz. The club was packed and everyone else seemed to think it was terrific. As far as Claudia was concerned, it sounded a lot like tuning up.
As for poor Poppy, how on earth was she feeling? She wasn’t saying much, that was for sure. And no wonder, thought Claudia, who had every sympathy. As if Alex Fitzpatrick wasn’t bad enough, there was that dreadful woman with him… wife, lady friend, whatever she was. Either way, Claudia decided, she made Bet Lynch look demure. She sounded like something out of EastEnders. And she was downing gin and orange like it was going out of fashion.
Claudia flushed, remembering why she was on Perrier tonight. The difference was, this woman looked as if she drank gin for breakfast.
‘So what happens next?’ she said, because the appalling music was showing no sign of grinding to a halt. The band looked as if they could happily play on all night. How was Poppy planning to introduce herself to her father anyway? By leaping up onto the stage, grabbing a mike and doing an impromptu This Is Your Life?