Poppy had braced herself beforehand, but Alex and Rita’s home still came as a shock when she saw it for the first time. In the dank back streets of Bethnal Green, it stood out like a wolfhound among terriers, a wolfhound with a diamond-studded collar at that.
This was Southfork with sequins, Poppy realized. The house was immense. There was a chandelier the size of a hot-air balloon in the downstairs loo.
She couldn’t help wondering where the money for all this had come from. Was her father a member of the infamous East End underworld? Was he a drug baron? A porn king? Oh help, Poppy thought nervously, I hope it isn’t anything too sordid—
‘Chop-chop,’ said Kenda, in her element as she bustled past. ‘No daydreaming. Poppy, back onto this planet please. Stop wishing your rich friends could adopt you and get on with folding those napkins. Janet, straighten your apron. And Claire, get those ice buckets filled. I said stop daydreaming, Poppy—’
‘Sorry.’ Poppy bent her head and set to work, but there were so many thoughts whizzing around her brain it was hard to concentrate on napkins. Apart from anything else, Kenda had just hit a particularly pointed nail on the head.
Poppy began to wish she hadn’t come here. Seeing for herself just how rich Alex Fitzpatrick really was only made matters more complicated than they were already.
Until today, her reason for not telling him who she really was had been Rita.
Now, Poppy knew she definitely couldn’t say anything. If she did, she would look like a fortune-hunter, desperate to cash in on the fact that the father she had never known had somehow managed to end up rolling in it. Alex would think she had only turned up to demand her rightful share.
If it was rightful. But… how had he made so much?
Behind her, Janet and Claire were discussing British Rail sandwiches. Poppy hoped her father wasn’t one of the Great Train Robbers.
‘There’s a swimming pool outside you wouldn’t believe,’ said one of the other waitresses on her way back from unloading the second van. ‘It’s big enough to float a yacht on.’
Poppy hoped her father wasn’t anything to do with Robert Maxwell. She hoped he wasn’t Robert Maxwell reincarnated.
‘Right now everyone, let’s start carrying the food through to the dining room,’ instructed Kenda. ‘Smoothly and efficiently please, before the guests begin to arrive. And I know I don’t need to remind you of this,’ she added with a steely glimmer in her eyes, ‘but I trust everyone will behave in a professional manner.’
Poppy flushed on Alex’s behalf. What Kenda meant was no behind-the-back smirking at either the decor, the guests, or Alex and Rita themselves. They might not live in Belgravia, but they were paying an arm and a leg for the services of Kenda’s Kitchen tonight. Kenda, who had been battling the recession along with everyone else, could do with a few more like them on her client list. She wasn’t going to risk offending the Fitzpatricks or any one of their less than salubrious guests.
‘Got you slaving, has she?’
Poppy grinned as Rita whispered the words not very subtly into her ear. ‘What’s she like then, this Kenda with the posh voice? Bit of a bossyboots, am I right?’
‘Well, strict,’ said Poppy, ‘but fair.’ Struggling to be loyal, she added, ‘These things need a lot of organizing. Someone has to be in control.’
‘In control.’ Rita rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I can just see her in a leather basque and high heels, going, “You do as I say, you naughty boy,” and beating her hubby with a bloody great whip.’
So much for everyone being on their best behavior and not smirking at the Fitzpatricks, thought Poppy. Poor Kenda, if she knew she was being made fun of by Rita, she would be appalled.
For tonight’s party, Rita was wearing a violet lamé dress with a seriously plunging neckline and high-heeled gold sandals. A couple of extra blasts on the high-velocity sunbed had deepened her tan and yesterday’s trip to the hairdresser had resulted in a baby-pink tint on top of the blondeness. Her eye make-up, a symphony of pinks and mauves, matched her nail polish. Around her brown neck hung a new necklace studded with sapphires.
‘Like it?’ Rita saw Poppy’s gaze linger on the necklace. Proudly, she ran her fingers over the raised stones. ‘Twenty-five sapphires, one for each year we been married. Alex designed it himself, got a jeweler mate of his to make the necklace up.’
Maybe Alex was a diamond smuggler. This possibility rather appealed to Poppy; it had a romantic ring to it. She knew she should be circulating with trays of food, but her curiosity was threatening to get the better of her. She had spent the last two hours eavesdropping as frantically as she could, to no avail. The guests, a wide mix of down-to-earth Cockneys and members of the Cavendish jazz crowd, weren’t telling her what she wanted to know.
Poppy had only the haziest of ideas when it came to property valuation but the house alone must have cost a million. Then there was the bright red Rolls Royce with the personalized plates out on the drive… goodness, you’d have to smuggle an awful lot of diamonds to support a lifestyle like this.
It was no good; she had to ask.
‘Rita… I hope this isn’t an incredibly rude question…’
‘Mmm?’ Rita’s attention was being drawn elsewhere. At the other end of the room, Alex and his band had launched into a rousing, jazzed-up version of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown.’ Suddenly everyone was dancing. Rita was clearly dying to rush over and join in.
‘It’s just, this house.’ Having started, Poppy felt compelled to finish. ‘Um… I couldn’t help wondering where the money… I mean, it must have cost a fortune…’
Alex was belting out the chorus on his Bechstein. Everyone sang along. Rita, gazing in adoration at him, said, ‘Sorry, what?’
‘You and Alex,’ Poppy shouted above the noise of the music. ‘How did you GET SO RICH?’
‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Kenda, gripping Poppy’s elbow with such force she felt her funny bone start to go. Smiling fixedly at Rita, Kenda wheeled Poppy round and propelled her in the direction of the kitchen.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ She hissed the words, bullet-like, into Poppy’s ear, as shocked as if Poppy had been asking how they’d caught syphilis. ‘What did I say earlier about professional behavior? I warn you, Poppy, you’re treading a very fine line. Anymore of this nonsense and you are out.’
Poppy did as she was told. She returned to the kitchen, armed herself with two fresh trays of prosciutto wrapped dates, and spent the next twenty minutes dutifully offering them around.
Then she watched one of the other musicians take over at the piano. Alex, kissing Rita’s hand, led her into the center of the room. Cheered on by the noisier guests, he made a short speech thanking everyone for being with them tonight and Rita in particular for marrying him in the first place. Then they danced together to ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World.’ Everyone whistled and applauded before piling back onto the dance floor themselves.
‘What did you do?’ whispered Janet as she passed Poppy going in the other direction. ‘Kenda’s blowing a gasket. She asked me if you were on drugs.’
‘Honestly.’ Poppy sighed. ‘From the way she’s going on, you’d think I’d been spitting in the soup.’
Janet said, ‘If you had, you wouldn’t be the first.’
Poppy carried on serving. Physically she was doing her job, but mentally she was checking out every detail of the house. As much as she dared anyway; she was going to get some pretty funny looks if she started rummaging through the cupboards under the stairs.
Still, she was seeing enough to get the idea. At a guess, a team of top-class interior designers had been called in. They had organized, amongst other things, the elegant pleated curtains, the concealed lighting, the chair rails, and the white Italian marble kitchen. Rita and Alex had said how lovely, so as not to hurt the design team’s fragile feelings. Then the moment they’d left, they had set to work putting their own personal stamp on the place.
Brightly patterned rugs were strewn around, probably to cheer up the tasteful taupe carpet. Even brighter lampshades, frilled and fringed to distraction, were perched on imitation Oscar lampstands. Ornaments thronged every available surface. There was enough Capo di Monte china to stock a factory. Huge gilt-framed photographs of Alex and Rita hung on every wall.
One of the doors off the wood-paneled hall led into a library with no books but plenty of videos in imitation leather covers. There was also a cinema-sized television screen. The black leather sofa in front of it was piled high with fluffy toys. An oil painting of a liquid-eyed spaniel hung over the fireplace. Another, of Elvis, adorned the opposite wall.
Goodness, Claudia would sneer if she could see this. Poppy glanced down at the shag pile carpet, deep enough to need mowing. It wasn’t her own taste, but she felt oddly comfortable in the room. Alex and Rita had furnished it to suit no one but themselves. Which was, really, how homes should be furnished.
The door swung open behind her and Poppy jumped, guiltily aware that she had no business being in here.
‘Aha,’ purred a male voice, ‘caught you.’
A stray remote control had been buried in the depths of the shag pile at Poppy’s feet. When she jumped, she unwittingly turned the video recorder on. A naked couple romping together in bed appeared up on the giant television screen. Poppy went scarlet, dumped her tray of canapés on the gilt-embossed coffee table and grabbed the remote control. A million buttons later she managed to find Off.
‘No need to look so shocked.’ Her male intruder was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of nookie between consenting adults. All in favor of it, myself.’
Poppy remembered serving him earlier when she had been passing round the smoked salmon parcels. He was in his thirties, she guessed, with gelled-back hair, a reddish complexion, and a confident, wide-boy smile. He was wearing a well-cut grey suit, the jacket lined with bright blue silk. A mobile phone stuck out of his pocket. He was well-built but not particularly tall and spoke rapidly, like a stock market trader, with a slight London accent.
‘Hey, hey, not so fast,’ he said as Poppy seized her tray and attempted to breeze past him. He put out an arm to stop her. ‘We can carry on watching together. Come on, sit down, take the weight off your feet. Let me have that remote control… hey, relax, I said…’
Poppy gave up on breezing. Breezing wasn’t going to do the trick. This chap was one of those take-what-you-want types and his arm was tightening around her waist like a boa constrictor. Now she remembered he was the one who’d been drinking champagne out of a half-pint glass. He was drunker than he looked. Grinning triumphantly, he flipped Poppy’s silver tray over, catapulting two dozen bacon-wrapped oysters in all directions. She felt his hot breath on her face as he yanked her towards him. There were bits of spit at the corners of his mouth. At such close quarters, the smell of hair gel was overpowering.
‘Let go of me,’ said Poppy. Feeling wimpish, she added, ‘Please.’
‘Whoa, no need to panic! Nobody else is coming in here. I noticed you earlier, y’know. I like redheads. Sweetheart, sweetheart, stop fighting it! I fancy you, you fancy me. How about a little kiss to get us warmed up?’
‘No.’ Poppy hesitated. What would Kenda want her to say? ‘No… thank you very much.’
He grew more insistent. The grip around her waist tightened another couple of notches. ‘Just a little kiss. Don’t be a spoilsport. This is what parties are all about, a bit of fun—’
Breezing was by this time out of the question. Poppy was hemmed in, pinned firmly against a black and gold lacquered sideboard with a heavy crystal whisky decanter on it, together with six matching tumblers. She felt behind her, located the neck of the decanter and picked it up. Heavens, it was even heavier than she’d thought.
‘Please let me go.’
‘Are you kidding?’ He laughed, his mouth approaching hers, his left hand zooming in on her right breast. ‘Just as we’re getting to know each other at last? Baby, don’t you know how to have fun—?’
It seemed an awful waste of whisky. It was bound to be a blended malt. Still, Poppy decided, better this way than a whack over the head with several hundred quid’s worth of lead crystal. Less brain-damaging at least.
She tipped the contents of the decanter over his ultra-gelled hair. Glug, glug, glug… within seconds he was drenched from head to foot.
‘Sorry,’ said Poppy as he let out a bellow of rage. Next moment, the library door was pushed open and Alex appeared. He stared at Poppy with the empty decanter still in her hand. He looked at his whisky-soaked guest. Then he examined the sole of his left shoe and discovered one of the scattered bacon-wrapped oysters clinging to his heel.
‘Hmm.’ Alex glanced with regret at the puddle of whisky sinking into the carpet around the other man’s feet.
‘Sorry.’ This time Poppy meant it.
‘No need. I can guess what happened. Derek been up to his usual tricks, has he?’
‘She was begging for it,’ Derek said irritably. ‘I’m telling you, begging for it.’
‘You always say that. You always think that.’ Alex sounded resigned. He turned to Poppy. ‘He’s just a lech. Predictable too. As soon as I heard the racket I guessed he’d done it again. Are you all right, pet?’
Poppy nodded. Moments later, she stopped being all right. Like a traffic warden turning up just when you’d parked somewhere clampable, Kenda loomed in the doorway.
‘Right,’ she said, taking in the scene far more swiftly than Alex had done and drawing her own tight-lipped conclusions, ‘that is IT, Poppy. You have brought disgrace upon Kenda’s Kitchen. I warned you earlier. I gave you every chance.’ She paused. The performance was as much for Alex’s sake as Poppy’s. Clients who spent, spent, spent like the Fitzpatricks deserved nothing but the best. ‘Your behavior tonight has been abysmal,’ she concluded rigidly. ‘You are fired.’
Bugger, thought Poppy.
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Derek, even though nobody was. ‘It ain’t my fault. She asked for it. Look at the state of my flamin’ suit.’
‘Please,’ Alex said reasonably, turning to Kenda, ‘there’s no need to sack anyone. Derek’s pretty tanked. He got carried away, that’s all. Polly had to defend herself. She couldn’t let herself be slobbered over, could she, without putting up a bit of a fight?’
‘Poppy,’ said Poppy, feeling hurt that he hadn’t even remembered her name. ‘Not Polly. It’s Poppy.’
‘Sorry love.’ Alex winked, then returned his attention to Kenda. ‘Come on, give the girl a break. You don’t really want to kick her out into the snow.’
‘I’m afraid I have no other choice,’ Kenda replied with an air of finality. She looked at Poppy. ‘And before you leave you can clear up this appalling mess.’
There were hors d’oeuvres everywhere. Bits of oysters and strips of smoked bacon were strewn across the shag pile. One oyster had landed on top of the framed painting of Elvis.
It was an appalling mess. Poppy prayed the carpet wasn’t ruined beyond repair. She picked up the silver tray, bent down, and began picking the oysters out of the carpet.
‘Stop it.’ Alex reached down, seizing her by the elbow. He pulled Poppy to her feet and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘You don’t have to do that. If you ask me, this woman here’s been bloody rude to you. Well out of order.’
‘I… I…’ stammered Poppy.
‘And if she’s giving you the boot anyway, I reckon you ought to let her pick up her own sodding oysters. Why should you do it,’ Alex demanded, ‘if she’s already sacked you? Tell the old cow to get stuffed.’
Poppy hadn’t cried when she’d canceled her wedding. She hadn’t cried when she’d made the discovery that her father wasn’t her father. She hadn’t even cried the other night when Caspar had raided the freezer and pinched her last ice cream bar.
‘There. Now see what you’ve done.’ Alex pointed an accusing finger at Kenda. His identity bracelet glittered in the light. ‘And you wouldn’t even listen to her side of the story.’
Poppy wasn’t crying because she’d lost her job. She was crying because her father had his arm around her. He was comforting her, defending her, just as a real father should. It was a feeling Poppy had never experienced before, and she’d never realized until now how much she had been missing out on.
Since she didn’t have a cold, Poppy didn’t have a hanky. Alex whisked a red and white spotted one out of his waistcoat pocket and shoved it into her hand.
Derek, still dripping whisky, grunted something about a change of clothes and disappeared.
‘Good riddance to him,’ said Alex. ‘Silly sod. His old lady’ll give him what for when she sees the state of him.’
‘I’ll send one of the other girls in,’ Kenda announced coldly. ‘To clear up.’
‘It’s all right.’ Poppy sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes with the spotted hanky. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Are you going to give this girl her job back?’ demanded Alex.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Right then,’ Alex said as he turned Poppy in the direction of the door, ‘you’re coming with me. What you need is a drink.’