Caspar had spent the afternoon at the Serpentine Gallery supporting an exhibition organized by a friend of his. He had been plied with wine and invited to a party that night by a tall, spikily elegant PR girl called Babs.
He caught the tube back to Kensington. As he made his way out of the station, he was spotted by one of the tramps he regularly gave money to.
‘Fifty pence for a cup of tea, sir?’ The tramp looked hopeful. Caspar normally bunged him a pound.
Caspar hunted in his pockets. Bugger, no coins. Lucky he was in a good mood.
He winked, gave the tramp a fiver and began to move away.
‘Hang on a sec,’ said the tramp.
When Caspar turned back, four pound coins were pressed into his hand.
The tramp, who had once been a bank teller, said, ‘Your change, sir.’
The phone was ringing as Caspar let himself into the house. It was four thirty; Poppy and Claudia were both still at work. Miraculously, the ringing didn’t stop before he could reach it.
‘Hello?’ said Caspar.
‘Is Poppy there?’ said a quiet voice he didn’t instantly recognize. ‘I’d like to speak to her please. It’s Rita.’
Poppy arrived home an hour later. She burst into the untidy sitting room, hair flying, green eyes alight with happiness.
‘Let me tell you, I have had the most brilliant day,’ she declared with pride. ‘Jake let me bid at Lassiter’s and I got a Goldscheider face mask for seventy pounds! And a Barthelemy bronze for thirteen hundred—is that a bargain or what? Then we went to—’
She stopped abruptly. Caspar’s face was somber. He wasn’t interested in her terrific bargains.
‘What?’ said Poppy, suddenly afraid. Her knees began to tremble of their own accord. ‘What?’
‘Rita phoned.’ Caspar hesitated, then moved towards her. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Alex died this afternoon.’
He cradled her in his arms and let her sob.
Poppy got through half a box of tissues. Every time she thought the tears had stopped, they started again.
She was crying, she realized, for all those years she hadn’t known her father. All the time she had missed.
Caspar stroked her red-gold hair. He kept his arms around her and couldn’t help thinking back to Christmas night when he had so badly wanted to hold her like this.
That feeling hadn’t gone away, but now was hardly the moment. All he could do now was comfort Poppy and pray she couldn’t read his mind.
He made her a mug of tea, heaping in extra sugar.
‘I feel stupid.’ Poppy hiccupped, taking the mug and wiping her eyes with another tissue. ‘Getting this upset over someone I didn’t even know that well.’
‘It isn’t stupid. He was your father.’
‘I got to know Rita better than I got to know him.’ Poppy disconsolately blew her nose. ‘That’s another thing. When I see her at the funeral I can’t be this upset. She’ll think I’m downright weird.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Caspar. ‘People do cry at funerals.’
‘Yes, but not buckets. Not this many buckets.’
The phone rang. Poppy flinched.
‘Oh help, is that her? Did she want me to call her back?’
‘No. She just said she’d let you know when the funeral was.’
‘Look at me. Listen to me.’ Poppy was pale and red-eyed. Her voice was clogged with tears. ‘You answer it.’
It was Babs the elegant PR girl. Not thrilled.
‘I thought you were going to meet me outside Langan’s at seven.’
‘Something else came up. Sorry, I won’t be able to make it.’ Caspar tried not to sound too insincere. He had forgotten all about Babs.
‘Go,’ sighed Poppy, nudging him. ‘Don’t stay in just because of me.’
‘Oh come on, you said you’d come to the party,’ Babs entreated. ‘You promised.’
‘Sorry, I can’t.’
Caspar put the phone down. He turned to Poppy.
‘Now you are being stupid. I’m not leaving you on your own.’
‘But what about whatsername?’ Poppy gestured helplessly at the phone.
‘She had legs like Barry Manilow,’ said Caspar. ‘I’d rather be here with you.’
The phone shrilled again, shortly after Claudia got home.
‘It’s someone from St Clare’s.’ She came into the sitting room looking helpless. ‘I told him you were ill but he isn’t happy. He says he’s got a classful of students waiting for a model and if you were ill you should bloody well have let him know.’
‘Oh hell,’ Poppy mumbled miserably, still on the sofa knee-deep in tissues. ‘Look at the state of me. I can’t do it.’
‘He’s not taking no for an answer. He won’t get off the phone.’
Caspar looked at Claudia.
‘You’ll have to do it.’
‘What? Are you mad?’
‘Someone has to.’ He shrugged. ‘Like you said, they won’t take no for an answer. I mean, come on. It’s not such a big deal—’
‘You bloody go then.’ Claudia was staring at him in horror. ‘I can’t do that! If it’s no big deal, you can strip off your clothes for a classful of students.’
Poppy, whose eyes were by this time so puffy she could hardly see, swiveled her head between the two of them. This was like Wimbledon.
‘I would. But the class is Study of the Female Form.’ Caspar played his trump card. ‘And I’m a man.’
‘You’re a complete bastard,’ wailed Claudia. ‘No, I’m sorry, Poppy, but you cannot ask me to do this.’
‘Please,’ Poppy whispered.
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Okay. Don’t worry. Tell them I’m on my way.’
Claudia watched Poppy sweep a mountain of soggy tissues off her lap. White-faced, frog-eyed and fragile she hauled herself to her feet.
Claudia tried to imagine how she would feel if her father had just died.
Then she tried to imagine how it would feel to be naked in front of a classful of art students, all ogling those bits of her she had spent her entire life trying to keep hidden.
Her most hideous recurring nightmare involved walking into a party and suddenly realizing she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
‘Oh sit down, dammit,’ Claudia blurted out. ‘You can’t go anywhere looking like that. I’ll do it,’ she announced defiantly and with more than a trace of hysteria. ‘Okay? I’ll go.’
***
‘Poor Claudia, I feel terrible,’ said Poppy when she had left. ‘It takes the students six sittings to finish each picture. She’s going to be bamboozled into doing it now for the next fortnight.’
‘She might enjoy it.’
Caspar had picked up a pencil and notepad. He did a lightning sketch of Claudia, spare tires atremble, cowering behind a screen in her overcoat, refusing to come out until every student had his blindfold in place.
‘She won’t enjoy it. She’ll hate every second.’
‘It’ll be character-forming. Anyway,’ Caspar spoke with a casual air, ‘you mustn’t feel terrible. I don’t.’
Poppy was instantly suspicious.
‘Why should you? What have you done?’
‘Nothing much.’ Caspar put the finishing touches to his sketch. This time he was unable to hide his amusement. ‘Just changed the title of the course from Study of the Human Form.’
‘You mean you could have done it? You could have volunteered?’ said Poppy accusingly.
‘What, take my clothes off for a bunch of strangers?’ Caspar looked appalled. ‘No fear.’