Claudia nearly fell over backwards when she walked into the living room and found Jake deep in discussion with Caspar.
He looked so different, not nerdy at all. The haircut, no longer manic Worzel Gummidge, was sleekly disheveled in a French film-starry way. Gone, too, were the disastrous Jack Duckworth specs. Even the clothes were… un-nerdy. Normal.
Jake looked great. Claudia, who hadn’t for a moment believed the Mail journalist’s hints that romance could be brewing between Jake and Poppy, felt jealousy slicing through her like a hot knife. It isn’t fair, she thought helplessly, Poppy can’t do him up and then decide to fancy him. Not when I’ve fancied him rotten practically from the word go.
The bad news about the disappearance of the heavy-rimmed Jack Duckworths was being able to see Jake’s long-lashed dark brown eyes that much more clearly. Since they were fantastically sexy eyes, this should have been good news, but Claudia, trying to smile ‘Hi’ at Jake without actually meeting his gaze, found it terribly disconcerting. Damn, she wished she’d known he was here. Especially looking like Olivier Martinez. Now she’d gone all tongue-tied and stupid.
And was it her imagination or had Jake’s confidence grown along with the length of his trousers?
‘Maybe Claudia can help,’ he said, turning to her. ‘We were just talking about this chap from Poppy’s murky past. Tom. The one she met the night before her wedding.’
‘And on that garage forecourt the week before Christmas,’ said Caspar. ‘Well, not met. Saw.’
‘What about him?’
‘Jake wants to have a go at tracking him down.’ Caspar wasn’t wild about the plan. ‘He’s been watching too much Columbo if you ask me. The thing is, even if we could find the bloke, is it a good idea?’
Jake looked at Claudia, willing her to be on his side. He tried not to picture her naked, modeling her glorious body for those lucky, lucky art students at St Clare’s.
He tried so hard not to picture her naked he forgot why he had been willing her onto his side in the first place.
‘Er…’
‘Um…’ said Claudia.
For crying out loud, thought Caspar, what is the matter with the pair of them?
‘I think if she met him again she’d be disappointed.’ Caspar wasn’t examining his own motives too closely. All he knew was, if Poppy were to fall in love with someone, he wouldn’t like it one bit.
‘But what if she isn’t?’ argued Jake. ‘It’s been almost a year now, and she hasn’t been able to get him out of her system. This could be her one chance of happiness.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like one of Claudia’s Harlequins,’ mocked Caspar.
Claudia flushed angrily. She kept her Harlequins well hidden under her bed.
‘And you’re beginning to sound like a killjoy,’ she snapped at Caspar. If it stopped Poppy becoming interested in Jake, she was all in favor. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’
‘She needs cheering up,’ Jake said firmly. ‘She’s been pretty low since the funeral. And since money’s no longer a problem, it seems the least I can do.’
‘How will you?’ Claudia looked interested. Once she got into a conversation with Jake she was okay; the paralyzing shyness abated. Those first couple of minutes were the worst.
‘We’ll take out newspaper ads,’ said Jake. With heroic self-control, he kept all Claudia’s clothes mentally in place. ‘The local press as well as the nationals. If that doesn’t work, we can try radio, maybe even TV. I’ve made out a couple of drafts if you’d like to see them.’
‘I’d love to see them.’ Claudia leaned so far forwards her boobs teetered in their D-cups, on the brink of tumbling out.
Poor Jake’s eyes nearly followed suit.
Grinning, Caspar said, ‘I’d love to see them too.’
‘Will you tell Poppy what you’re doing?’ Hurriedly, Claudia changed the subject.
‘Not until we get a result. If we get a result. No point raising her hopes,’ said Jake.
Caspar had always run a complicated love life but now, as spring approached, even he was beginning to get confused.
Kate was still around, chiefly because he hadn’t had the heart to get rid of her. Caspar knew he was wasting both his time and hers but what could he do? Every time he tried to ease himself out of the relationship Kate gave him one of those puppy-eyed, please-don’t-drown-me-in-a-bucket looks. If he persevered, she dissolved into tears and whispered, ‘I don’t mind you seeing other women. Really, I don’t mind. Just don’t finish with me, please… I couldn’t bear it.’
Feeling trapped and uncomfortable but wondering what else he was supposed to do, Caspar had taken Kate at her word.
He had also got himself slightly more involved than he’d planned with an energetic aerobics instructor. Julia—‘call me Jules’—had a super-honed body, rippling white-blonde hair down to her twenty-two inch waist, and a sunbed tan the color of caramel. She also had an insatiable appetite for salad and sex.
Caspar was in favor of the latter but lettuce wasn’t his thing at all. Jules had recently begun to take a distressing interest in his diet. ‘We only have one body, darling. Think of it as an investment for the future.’
Caspar’s idea of investments for the future was buying a scratch-off lotto card. Twice last week Jules had turned up at Cornwallis Crescent with cellophane-wrapped bowls of lollo rosso, frisée, and rocket leaves in a special oil-free dressing, because, ‘No one can say they don’t like salad until they’ve tried my dressing. I defy anyone to say it isn’t out of this world.’
Jules made these pronouncements with missionary zeal. Caspar thought her lovingly prepared salads tasted like grass. He was more interested in her talent for undressing. Jules was wonderfully acrobatic in bed. And he enjoyed driving her to distraction with huge, untidy honey and peanut butter sandwiches, currently his favorite après-sex snack.
Then there was Babette—Babs—the elegant PR consultant he had met at the Serpentine Gallery the other week.
Being stood up by Caspar that first night hadn’t put Babs off. She had simply phoned him again the next day and asked him when he would be free for dinner. When Babette Lawrenson wanted something, she got it. She had sharpened her skills over the years, starting out as a double glazing doorstepper before moving into PR. Three years ago, she had set up her own company. Now she represented a carefully chosen selection of actors, musicians, and artists.
She had already offered to add Caspar to her list.
Babette had very short, glossy dark hair, cool blue eyes, and a taste for expensive, sharply tailored business suits. She never went anywhere without twin mobile phones—sometimes one at each ear—and her PDA. She was the most organized person Caspar had ever met.
She didn’t have time for aerobics classes and she wasn’t wild about salad. She was neither thin nor fat, just average. But she knew how to dress to make the most of herself. She always looked, and smelled, stylish. She also had excellent legs.
‘We’d make a terrific team,’ Babette calmly informed Caspar on their third date. They were eating roast pigeon with wild mushrooms at Neil’s Bistro in Covent Garden. Jules would have shuddered at the sauce and said, ‘Not for me, thanks. A minute on the lips and all that.’
‘Team?’ Caspar watched her neatly spear a mushroom. ‘Sounds like a couple of cart horses pulling a plow.’
‘That’s a typical male ploy,’ said Babette.
Caspar grinned. ‘I said plow.’
‘See, you’re doing it again. As soon as a woman mentions emotional commitment, the man panics. He tries to turn it into a joke.’
‘What d’you mean, emotional commitment? I thought you were talking about business. Me becoming one of your clients.’
‘Oh well,’ said Babette, ‘that too.’
‘Are you serious?’ Caspar was enchanted by her upfront attitude. This was the kind of stuff girls kept to themselves. They might think it, but they would die rather than come out and say it.
‘Of course I’m serious.’ Babette stopped eating. She put down her knife and fork and rested her chin on her hand. Her fingers were strong and capable-looking, French-manicured, and ringless. ‘I know these things. It’s my job to know these things, and I’m good at my job. I’m almost thirty, ready to settle down. So are you.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘Come on,’ she chided humorously. ‘You’ve sown enough wild oats to feed Russia. Be honest, aren’t you bored with all that? It’s time to move on, darling. I’m not saying decide right away, just give it some thought. I’d be perfect for you.’ Her cool eyes appraised him for a second. Then she smiled. ‘You’re certainly perfect for me.’
She had guts, that was for sure. He had to admire her for that.
‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’ Caspar nodded to humor her. He wasn’t entirely certain he knew what he was meant to be thinking about. Had she simply been recommending they carry on seeing each other or was she talking marriage, kids, two point two dogs, and a pension plan?
Talk about efficient. Caspar was surprised she hadn’t whipped out her PDA and keyed in: Neil’s Bistro, 20:25 hrs, proposed to CF. Await decision.
It was an entertaining idea. She was talking about the future and he hadn’t even slept with her yet.
Caspar wondered if she would time him in bed with a stopwatch.
‘Do you like peanut butter and honey sandwiches?’ he asked.
Babette looked amused.
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’